APPENDIX.
THE MOON AS KNOWN AT THE PRESENT TIME.
"Ye sacred muses, with whose beauty fir'd,
My soul is ravish'd, and my brain inspir'd.
Whose priest I am, whose holy fillets wear;
Would you your poet's first petition hear;
Give me the ways of wandering stars to know:
The depths of heav'n above, and earth below.
Teach me the various labours of the moon,
And whence proceed th' eclipses of the sun.
Why flowing tides prevail upon the main,
And in what dark recess they shrink again.
What shakes the solid earth, what cause delays
The summer nights, and shortens winter days."
Virgil.
The picture on the title-page is probably the best and minutest view of the moon, that has ever been laid before the public. Most of our readers are aware that the mountains and hollows of the moon have been accurately and thoroughly mapped by astronomers, and baptized by appropriate names. For the benefit of meritorious students of astronomical geography, we subjoin the names of all those which have been christened. At the present season it will amply repay the possessor of a small telescope to identify the several localities with the aid of the map.
In olden time the moon was a goddess. Whatever the ignorant mind of the time was incapable of grasping was supernatural. Thus arose the pale, chaste Deity of the Night, robed in virgin white, roaming dreamily under the partial shade of trees, loving to see her fair image reflected in streams, and shedding a complacent light on tender meetings. We are not heathens—far from it: but who among us has not at some time or other paid homage to the Queen of Night[1], and thanked her for the gentle light which has shown the way to some fair hand.
We say, in blunt scientific terms, that she—or it—is a satellite of the earth, suspended in her—or its—present position by the contrasted attraction of the sun and the earth. This is the unromantic version of the naked fact.
There was a time when the earth was an uncomfortable semi-incandescent mass, in the act of cooling off for practical purposes. The atmosphere was tropical throughout the globe. All things were intensely impregnated—or, as the philosophers say, supersaturated—with carbon. Between the dry land and the waters there was no division. There was no ocean, and consequently no continents. All was hot mud, with here and there a lake or a short river, and here and there a dry, parched, torrid eminence. In those days there were animals and plants, but no human beings. Both animals and plants were like the age in which they flourished—to our notions monstrous. Monsters were the rule, both in the vegetable and the animated world. Creatures were born, and grew to sizes which dwarf the elephant. Plants thrust their heads above the mud, and, in that carboniferous atmosphere, attained heights which would have towered above the tallest trees of our forests. But in proportion to the rapidity of their growth was the brevity of their life; for these were the days of earthquakes and terrestrial convulsions. Probably no day elapsed without some earthquake or volcanic eruption.