The Earth's Beginning

by Robert S. Ball

It was at the commencement of Kant’s career, and before his great lifework in metaphysics was undertaken, that he was led to his nebular theory of the solar system. In the case of Laplace, on the other hand, the nebular theory was not advanced until the close of the great work of his life. The Mécanique Céleste had been written, and the fame of its author had been established for all time; and then in a few pages of a subsequent volume, called the Système du Monde, he laid down his famous nebular theory. In that small space he gave a wonderful outline of the history of the solar system. He had not read that history in any books or manuscripts; he had not learned it from any ancient inscriptions; he had taken it direct from the great book of Nature.

Influenced by the caution so characteristic of one whose life had been devoted entirely to the pursuit of the most accurate of all the sciences, Laplace accompanied his announcement of the nebular theory with becoming words of warning. The great philosopher pointed out that there are two methods of discovering the truths of astronomy. Some truths may be discovered by observing the heavenly bodies with telescopes, by measuring with every care their dimensions and their positions, and by following their movements with assiduous watchfulness. But there is another totally different method which has enabled many remarkable discoveries to be made in astronomy; for discoveries may be made by mathematical calculations which have as their basis the numerical facts obtained by actual observation. This mathematical method often yields results far more profound than any which can be obtained by the astronomer’s telescope. The pen of the mathematician is indeed an instrument which sometimes anticipates revelations that are subsequently confirmed by actual observation. It is an instrument which frequently performs the highly useful task of checking the deductions that might too hastily be drawn from telescopic observations. It is an instrument the scope of whose discoveries embraces regions immeasurably beyond the reach of the greatest telescope. The pen of the mathematician can give us information as to events which took place long before telescopes came into existence—nay, even unnumbered ages prior to the advent of man on this earth.

Laplace was careful to say that the nebular theory which he sketched must necessarily be judged by a standard different from that which we apply to astronomical truths revealed by telescopic observation or ascertained by actual calculation. The nebular theory, said the great French mathematician, has to be received with caution, inasmuch as from the nature of the case it cannot be verified by observation, nor does it admit of proof possessing mathematical certainty.

A large part of these lectures will be devoted to the evidence bearing upon this famous doctrine. Let it suffice here to remark that the quantity of evidence now available is vastly greater than it was a hundred years ago, and furthermore, that there are lines of evidence which can now be followed which were wholly undreamt of in the days of Kant and Laplace. The particular canons laid down by Laplace, to which we have just referred, are perhaps not regarded as so absolutely binding in modern days. If we were to reject belief in everything which cannot be proved either by the testimony of actual eye-witnesses or by strict mathematical deductions, it would, I fear, fare badly with not a few great departments of modern science. It will not be necessary to do more at present than just to mention, in illustration of this, the great doctrine of the evolution of life, which accounts for the existing races of plants and animals, including even man himself. I need hardly say that the Darwinian theory, which claims that man has come by lineal descent from animals of a lower type, admits of no proof by mathematics; it receives assuredly no direct testimony from eye witnesses; and yet the fact that man has so descended is, I suppose, now almost universally admitted.

In the case of the great German philosopher, as well as in the case of the great French mathematician, the enunciation and the promulgation of their nebular theories were merely incidental to the important scientific undertakings with which their respective lives were mainly occupied. The relation of the nebular theory to the main lifework of the third philosopher I have named, has been somewhat different. When William Herschel constructed the telescopes with which, in conjunction with his illustrious sister, he conducted his long night-watches, he discovered thousands of new nebulæ; he may, in fact, be said to have created nebular astronomy as we now know it. Ever meditating on the objects which his telescopes brought to light, ever striving to sound the mysteries of the universe, Herschel perceived that between a nebula which was merely a diffused stain of light on the sky, and an object which was hardly distinguishable from a star with a slight haze around it, every intermediate grade could be found. In this way he was led to the splendid discovery which announced the gradual transformation of nebulæ into stars. We have already noted how the profound mathematician was conducted to a view of the origin of the solar system which was substantially identical with that which had been arrived at by the consummate metaphysician. The interest is greatly increased when we find that similar conclusions were drawn independently from the telescopic work of the most diligent and most famous astronomical observer who has ever lived. Not from abstract speculation like Kant, not from mathematical suggestion like Laplace, but from accurate and laborious study of the heavens was the great William Herschel led to the conception of the nebular theory of evolution.

That three different men of science, approaching the study of perhaps the greatest problem which Nature offers us from points of view so fundamentally different, should have been led substantially to the same result, is a remarkable incident in the history of knowledge. Surely the theory introduced under such auspices and sustained by such a weight of testimony has the very strongest claim on our attention and respect.

In the discussion on which we are about to enter in these lectures we must often be prepared to make a special effort of the imagination to help us to realise how greatly the scale of the operations on which the attention is fixed transcends that of the phenomena with which our ordinary affairs are concerned. Our eyes can explore a region of space which, however vast, must still be only infinitesimal in comparison with the extent of space itself. Notwithstanding all that telescopes can do for us, our knowledge of the universe must be necessarily restricted to a mere speck in space, a speck which bears to the whole of space a ratio less—we might perhaps say infinitely less—than that which the area of a single daisy bears to the area of the continent where that daisy blooms. But we need not repine at this limitation; a whole life devoted to the study of a daisy would not be long enough to explore all the mysteries of its life. In like manner the duration of the human race would not be long enough to explore adequately even that small part of space which is submitted for our examination.

But it is not merely the necessary limits of our senses which restrict our opportunities for the study of the great phenomena of the universe. Man’s life is too short for the purpose. That our days are but a span is the commonplace of the preacher. But it is a commonplace specially brought home to us in the study of the nebular theory. A man of fourscore will allude to his life as a long one, and no doubt it may be considered long in relation to the ordinary affairs of our abode on earth; but what is a period of eighty years in the history of the formation of a solar system in the great laboratory of the universe? Such a period then seems to be but a trifle—it is nothing. Eighty years may be long enough to witness the growth of children and grandchildren; but it is too short for a single heartbeat in the great life of Nature. Even the longest lifetime is far too brief to witness a perceptible advance in the grand transformation. The periods of time demanded in the great evolution shadowed forth by the nebular theory utterly transcend our ordinary notions of chronology. The dates at which supreme events occurred in the celestial evolution are immeasurably more remote than any other dates which we are ever called upon to consider in other departments of science. The time of the story on which we are to be engaged is earlier, far earlier, than any date we have ever learned at school, or have ever forgotten since. The incidents of that period took place long before any date was written in figures—earlier than any of those very ancient dates which the geologists indicate not by figures indeed, but by creatures whose remains imbedded in the rocks suffice to give a character to the period referred to. The geologist will specify one epoch as that in which the fossilized bone of some huge extinct reptile was part of a living animal; he may specify another by the statement that the shell of some beautiful ammonite was then inhabited by a living form which swam in the warm primæval seas. The date of our story has at least this much certainty: that it is prior—immeasurably prior—to the time when that marvellous thing which we call life first came into being.

Voltaire has an instructive fable which I cannot resist repeating. It will serve, at all events, to bring before us the way in which the lapse of time ought to be regarded by one who desires to view the great operations of Nature in their proper proportions. He tells how an inhabitant of the star Sirius went forth on a voyage of exploration through the remote depths of space. In the course of his travels he visited many other worlds, and at length reached Saturn, that majestic orb, which revolved upon the frontier of the solar system, as then known. Alighting on the ringed globe for rest and investigation, the Sirian wanderer, in quest of knowledge, was successful in obtaining an interview with a stately inhabitant of Saturn who enjoyed the reputation of exceptional learning and wisdom. The Sirian hoped to have some improving conversation with this sage who dwelt on a globe so utterly unlike his own, and who had such opportunities of studying the majestic processes of Nature in remote parts of the universe. He thought perhaps they might be able to compare instructive notes about the constitution of the suns and systems in their respective neighbourhoods. The visitor accordingly prattled away gaily. He opened all his little store of knowledge about the Milky Way, about the Great Bear, and about the great Nebula in Orion; and then pausing, he asked what the Saturnian had to communicate in reply. But the philosopher remained silent. Eagerly pressed to make some response, the grave student who dwelt on the frontier globe at last said in effect: “Sirian, I can tell you but little of Nature. I can tell you indeed nothing that is really worthy of the great theme which Nature proposes; for the grand operations of Nature are very slow; they are so slow that the great transformations in progress around us would have to be watched for a very long time before they could be properly understood. To observe Nature so as to perceive what is really happening, it would be necessary to have a long life; but the lives of the inhabitants of Saturn are not long; none of us ever lives more than fifteen thousand years.”

Change is the order of Nature. Many changes no doubt take place rapidly, but the great changes by which the system has been wrought into its present form, those profound changes which have produced results of the greatest magnificence in celestial architecture are extremely slow. We should make a huge mistake if we imagined that changes—even immense changes—are not in progress, merely because our brief day is too short a period wherein to perceive them.