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Frontispiece.

Curiosities of Heat.

BY
Rev. LYMAN B. TEFFT.

PHILADELPHIA:
THE BIBLE AND PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
530 Arch Street.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
THE BIBLE AND PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

Westcott & Thomson,
Stereotypers, Philada.

CONTENTS.

Curiosities of Heat.

CHAPTER I.

MR. WILTON’S BIBLE CLASS.

he book of Nature is my Bible. I agree with old Cicero: I count Nature the best guide, and follow her as if she were a god, and wish for no other.”

These were the words of Mr. Hume, an infidel, spoken in the village store. It was Monday evening. By some strange freak, or led by a divine impulse, he had determined, the previous Sunday afternoon, to go to church and hear what the minister had to say. So the Christian people were all surprised to see Mr. Hume walk into their assembly—a thing which had not been seen before in a twelvemonth. Mr. Hume did not shun the church from a dislike of the minister. He believed Mr. Wilton to be a good man, and he knew him to be kind and earnest, well instructed in every kind of knowledge and mighty in the Scriptures. He kept aloof because he hated the Bible. He had been instructed in the Scriptures when a boy, and many Bible truths still clung to his memory which he would have been glad to banish. He could not forget those stirring words which have come down to us from the Lord Jesus, and from prophets and apostles, and they sorely troubled his conscience. He counted the Bible an enemy, and determined that he would not believe it.

At that time there was an increasing religious interest in the church. Mr. Wilton had seen many an eye grow tearful as he unfolded the love of Christ and urged upon his hearers the claims of the exalted Redeemer. He found an increasing readiness to listen when he talked with the young people of his congregation. The prayer-meetings were filling up, and becoming more interesting and solemn. The impenitent dropped in to these meetings more frequently than was their wont. Mr. Wilton himself felt the power of Christ coming upon him and girding him as if for some great spiritual conflict. His heart was filled with an unspeakable yearning to see sinners converted and Christ glorified. He seemed to himself to work without fatigue. His sermons came to him as if by inspiration of the Holy Spirit. He felt a new sense of his call from God to preach the gospel to men, and spoke as an ambassador of Christ, praying men tenderly, persuadingly, to be reconciled to God, yet as one that has a right to speak, and the authority to announce to man the conditions of salvation.

A few of the spiritual-minded saw this little cloud rising, but the people in general knew nothing of it. Least of all did Mr. Hume suspect such an undercurrent of religious interest; yet for some reason, he hardly knew what, he felt inclined to go to church.

That afternoon the preacher spoke as if his soul were awed, yet lifted to heavenly heights, by the presence of God and Christ. Reading as his text the words, “Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself” (Ps. l. 21), he showed, first, the false notions which men form of God, and then unfolded, with great power and pungency, the Scripture revelation of the one infinite, personal, living, holy, just, and gracious Jehovah. This was the very theme which Mr. Hume wished most of all not to hear. That very name, Jehovah, of all the names applied to God, was most disagreeable; it suggested the idea of the living God who manifested himself in olden time and wrought wonders before the eyes of men. But the infidel, with his active mind, could not help listening, nor could he loosen his conscience from the grasp of the truth. Yet he could fight against it, and this he did, determined that he would not believe in such a God—a God who held him accountable, and would bring him into judgment in the last great day. In this state of mind he dropped into Deacon Gregory’s store.

Deacon Gregory was accustomed to obey Paul’s injunction to Timothy: “Be instant in season, out of season; reprove, rebuke, exhort with all long suffering and doctrine.” Having taken Mr. Hume’s orders for groceries, he said, “I was glad to see you at church yesterday, Mr. Hume. How were you interested in the sermon?”

“I like Mr. Wilton,” answered Mr. Hume; “I think him a very earnest and good man.”

“But were you not interested and pleased with the discourse? It seems to me that I shall never lose the impression of God’s existence and character which that discourse made upon me. I almost felt that Mr. Wilton spoke from inspiration.”

“I suppose he was inspired just as much as the writers of that book which men call ‘the Bible.’”

“But can you wholly get rid of the conviction that the Bible is the word of God, written by holy men inspired by the Holy Spirit?”

“You know, Deacon Gregory, that I do not believe what you profess to believe. The book of Nature is my Bible. I agree with old Cicero: I count Nature the best guide, and follow her as if she were a god, and wish no other.”

Deacon Gregory had never read Cicero, and of course did not attempt to show, as he might otherwise have done, that Cicero did not mean to deny the existence of a living, personal God, who governs the world.

“But,” said he, “does not the book of Nature—your Bible, as you call it—have something to say of God? Does it not speak of an infinitely wise and good Creator and Governor? Do not the works of Nature tell of the same God whose being and character were preached to us yesterday from the Holy Scriptures?”

“Nature has never spoken to me of any God except herself. What need is there of a creator? Who can prove that the universe did not exist from eternity? Nature has her laws of development, and under those laws all the operations of nature go on. You had better read Darwin. If one must find the character of God in nature, he may as well picture an evil creator and governor as one that is good and righteous. Does Nature punish those whom you call the wicked? Does Nature reward the righteous? Do not the laws of Nature bring suffering to the good and the bad alike, and happiness also to all classes of men? Would you, if you had power, create a world like this—a world in which danger, pain, and death, in every shape, lie in ambush against its inhabitants every hour of their poor existence? But I must go.” Pausing a moment, however, as if reluctant to go, with a voice sad and almost tremulous, which revealed a great deal more of his heart than he designed to express, he added: “God knows, deacon, if there be a God, how I wish I knew the truth about these matters. The world and myself are to me great and dreadful mysteries.”

“‘He that will do his will shall know of the doctrine,’” answered Deacon Gregory; and inviting him to come to church again, they separated.

This conversation with the pious deacon, though he had himself done most of the talking and had his say almost unopposed, did not tend at all to bring rest to Mr. Hume’s conscience. He saw that the deacon’s faith in God did for him more than belief in Nature and worship at the altar of Science could do for unbelievers. He felt also that he had spoken a little too freely, especially in revealing, at the last, his unrest of spirit from the want of fixed convictions in regard to religious truth. Deacon Gregory, by the sincerity and manliness of his address, was accustomed to draw out the hearts of men so that they expressed them more freely than they designed.

Upon a bench in a shaded corner of the store sat a lad of sixteen or seventeen years, unnoticed for the time being by either Mr. Hume or Deacon Gregory. His name was Ansel, and he was the son of the senior deacon of the church. He was in the village academy, and had there been nearly fitted for college. He stood at the head of his class, and, with his sharp intelligence, his impetuous energy, and high ambition, every one was predicting for him a distinguished life. He had grown up thus far in the bosom of a family where piety was no pretence. Earnest prayer had gone up for him by day and by night. He had been well trained in the Sunday-school, and for a year had been a member of the small class of young men taught by Mr. Wilton. He had always shown a ready interest in all Bible studies and a quick understanding of Scripture doctrine, so that some thought him not far from the kingdom of God. But Deacon Arnold little thought what was in the heart of his son. He might have known, for to read his son’s heart he had only to recall his own early manhood. For years he had hung trembling upon the brink of ruin, swept, at times, by his self-will and turbulent youthful passions, to the very verge of the precipice, and had been preserved only by singular grace from falling over. Now Ansel was following in his father’s early footsteps—self-willed, and stubborn against the Spirit of God, and, at times, almost persuaded to cast off all religious restraint, that he might carve out his worldly fortunes untrammeled by religious or conscientious scruples. He had rarely heard infidel sentiments expressed, but the little that he had heard had attracted him, and had encouraged him to give loose reins to his own unbelieving disposition. It had not escaped his notice that the two or three men whom he had heard spoken of as infidels were among the most respectable and shrewdest business-men in the village. The idea, moreover, of rejecting all authoritative doctrine, and believing whatever should please him, carried with it so free and independent an air, and harmonized so well with his natural disposition, that he easily drifted in the direction of unbelief.

Sitting this evening unobserved, he drank in every word which Mr. Hume uttered. Some of the notions thrown out were quite new to him. “The book of Nature my Bible”—“Nature reveals no God but her own laws”—“No proof that the matter of the universe has not existed from eternity uncreated”—“Nature has her laws of development”—“No need of a God to govern the world,”—these were seed-thoughts in Ansel’s mind. He had before thought of the only alternative to be set over against belief in the sacred Scriptures as simply unbelief—bare, blank denial of their truth. He had not dreamed of building up a set of proud, rationalistic notions, and denying the truths of religion in the character of a young philosopher. He kept his thoughts to himself, and turned them over and over in his mind during the week, and when again he met his pastor in the Bible class his head was full of his new notions. The lesson went on, however, and closed as usual. It so happened that this was the last in a series of lessons upon the Gospel of John. It was necessary, therefore, that another course of lessons should be decided upon.

Mr. Wilton proposed the question to the class: “What shall be our next course of lessons? Would you like to study one of the Epistles—the Epistle to the Romans or that to the Hebrews?” And he briefly stated the subject discussed in these Epistles of Paul. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you would prefer to study one of the historic books of the Old Testament?” The class had no opinion. They wavered between an Epistle and a historic book and topical lessons which should confine them to no one book of the Bible. Then Ansel spoke up:

“Mr. Wilton, why can we not study something which we know to be true?”

Ansel meant to be very cautious as well as very respectful, and did not design to commit himself by suggesting his own thoughts. He was respectful, but in the confusion of the moment he had brought out the very thoughts which he meant to conceal.

Mr. Wilton was startled, though he did not fully understand the drift of Ansel’s question.

“What do you mean, Ansel?” he asked; “do you think Genesis less trustworthy than the Epistle of Paul?”

Ansel saw that he had committed himself and must now make the best of his situation. He therefore answered cautiously:

“Some persons, I have heard said, do not believe the Bible to be inspired, and they say that we have no evidence that it is true.”

“What have you been reading, Ansel, that has put such thoughts into your mind?”

“I have never read a book that said anything against the Bible.”

“But what did you mean? Do you wish to study the evidences of the truth and inspiration of the Holy Scriptures?”

“I should indeed like a course of lessons upon that subject, but that was not quite what I was thinking of.”

“What book can you find which is true if the Bible is not true?”

“I do not know, sir, but I heard Mr. Hume say that the book of Nature is his Bible, and that we do not need any other, and that, whether the Bible be true or not, we know that the teachings of Nature must be true.”

“But we should find,” said Mr. Wilton, “that the teachings of Nature and the Bible would perfectly agree. Did Mr. Hume say that what he calls ‘The book of Nature’ contradicts the sacred Scriptures?”

Now that Ansel could give the thoughts which filled his mind, not as his own, but as Mr. Hume’s, he showed no farther hesitation in speaking.

“Yes, sir,” he answered; “he said that Nature teaches us that there is no God, because there is no need of any. He said that we cannot prove that God created the universe, but that matter has existed from eternity uncreated, and that all the changes in nature go on by certain laws of development, and that a certain Mr. Darwin had written a book and proved this.”

The reader will notice that in the report of Mr. Hume’s language the scholar went somewhat farther than his master had done. Mr. Wilton was well acquainted with the present shape of scientific infidelity, and saw that Ansel’s statements were somewhat exaggerated, but he understood in a moment the drift of Ansel’s thoughts, though he could not tell as yet how deep and fixed an impression had been made upon his mind. But he did not care to probe Ansel’s conscience just then and there, in order to learn the exact state of the case.

“If I understand you, then,” he said, “you would like a course of lessons in the teachings of Nature?”

“Of course, I did not suppose that you would allow us to have a course of lessons in the works of Nature instead of the Bible.”

“But if I were willing to give you a course of lessons showing the footprints of the Creator, so to speak, in the physical world, how would it please you?”

“I should like it very much.”

“How would such a plan please the other members of the class?”

The idea was entirely new; no one of them had ever dreamed of studying in a Bible class anything except the Bible; but young people are not averse to novelties, and they readily gave their assent. Yet I should do the class injustice by leaving the impression that they were influenced simply by the love of something new. They were of just that age when one hardly knows whether to call them lads or young men; they had been well instructed, and were just beginning to think independently. They were rapidly becoming conscious of their own mental power, and were eager to try their strength upon every line of thought. Their own weakness they had hardly begun to learn. Perhaps they were all the more ready to undertake such a course of study because they knew nothing of the difficulties attending it.

The tinkling of the superintendent’s bell warned them to close their conversation.

“We have not time to-day,” said Mr. Wilton, “to fix on the particular line of study which we shall follow. Of course we cannot examine all the works of Nature, and study every science, and trace the footprints of the Creator in every place where he has walked; we must fix on some small part of the works of God, and direct our attention closely to that. We shall find this course more profitable than roaming carelessly over a much larger space. Our next lesson will have to be a general one—a kind of preface to what shall come after. In the mean while, you can be collecting your thoughts upon the subject, and calling to mind anything that you have read bearing upon the handiwork of God manifest in Nature.”

The school closed, and as the scholars pass out let me introduce to you the members of the pastor’s class. This class was small for several reasons. The church to which Mr. Wilton preached was not the popular church. The fashionable people and all who loved popularity and drifted with the tide went to another church. Careless, thoughtless young people naturally went with the crowd, and of those who attended his church some did not care to join his class. He was too much in earnest to please them. He made religion a reality, and his instruction compelled them to think, and of course those who did not like to think were not well pleased with him. But there were a few of the young men who were greatly interested in his instructions. They were earnest readers of instructive books; they liked conversation which called out thought; they were most of all pleased with questions and themes which gave them new ideas. Indeed, in the community, there were two classes of persons who held Mr. Wilton in the highest esteem and regard: one of these was composed of men and women of earnest, intelligent piety, experienced Christians; the other, of those who were not Christians, but who respected sincerity and disinterested godliness, and liked sermons filled with meat and marrow.

Thus, at the present time, we find his class composed of but three young men. With Ansel you are already acquainted. The second is Peter Thornton, the son of a master-carpenter. He was frank, outspoken, quick in the acquisition of almost every kind of knowledge, but very little given to silent reflection. He listened to his pastor’s instruction as he would go to a well-filled library, to draw out its stores of information. Morals and moralizing he did not like. He was not pious, and gave no indication of serious impressions. The third was Samuel Ledyard, the son of a poor widow. By painful industry and economy his pious mother was giving him the best advantages for education which the village afforded, praying the Lord to give him a part in the blessed work of preaching the gospel and winning sinners to Christ and salvation. When but twelve years of age he gave himself to Christ, and had been trying faithfully to follow his Lord. The long winter evenings were spent in reading books of history and science—books fitted to furnish and strengthen his mind—and long ere the light dimmed the morning star he was poring over his Bible, alternately reading the word and praying that his mind might be opened to understand the truth in its beauty and greatness, and that the truth might be wrought in him by vital experiences.

With such habits it was no wonder that he grew in grace—it was no wonder that he grew in all manly qualities. He was silent, meditative, and retiring, as gentle in his ways as a quiet girl, yet all who knew him recognized in him a singular weight and worth of character. Those to whom the Lord revealed his secrets began to say that Samuel was appointed of God to preach the gospel, and his mother felt the assurance growing strong in her heart that her prayer was granted, and that the Lord was preparing her only son and only child for a place in the gospel ministry. If only she might train up a son to such a work, and when she should go to her rest leave in her place a man working for Christ in his harvest-field, gathering sheaves unto everlasting life, she felt that her cup would be full. She was ready to say with Simeon: “Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.” How unlike she was to those mothers who lay all hindrances in the way of their sons entering the work of the Christian ministry, willing that they should do anything but this! and how different from those who declare that their daughters shall never wed ministers of the gospel, teaching them to despise the service of a pastor’s wife! How often God gives over such sons and daughters—children consecrated from their birth to worldliness—to be entangled and lost in worldly snares! As such mothers sow, thus also do they reap.

These were the three lads, just growing into young manhood, at this time under the instruction of Mr. Wilton. He was not ashamed of his class, though it was small. As he saw them expanding in thought and taking shape under his hand, he felt that in them he was perpetuating his influence in coming generations. He believed that in one or more of them he should preach the gospel after his body was sleeping in the earth awaiting the resurrection.

I trust the kind reader will be interested in following the course of study through which their pastor shall lead them.

CHAPTER II.

NEW THOUGHTS FOR THE SCHOLARS.

he little class which has been introduced to the reader came together the next Lord’s Day interested and expectant, yet not knowing what to expect. They had chosen a course of study, yet they could not tell what that course was to be. They had tried to think of something definite about it, but could fix their minds upon nothing. In fact, the whole subject was new, and they could not decide where or how to take hold of it. They came together, therefore, with no more knowledge of the subject than when they separated.

Mr. Wilton himself came before his class in a state of doubt. He had given the subject many hours of thought, and had carried it to his closet and besought the guidance of the Holy Spirit, for he believed the divine Spirit to be the best guide in understanding the works as well as the word of God. He felt that his prayer had been heard and answered. He was prepared, therefore, to speak with the force of clear understanding and positive convictions. But the precise line of study he had left to be determined by circumstances, perhaps by the previous studies of his class in their academic course. This was to be decided by further consultation.

“Since no lesson was assigned upon which you could prepare yourselves,” Mr. Wilton said, after the opening exercises of the school were finished, “I shall spend the half hour to-day in a kind of conversational lecture. You may call this the preface or introduction to the lessons which will follow. I shall try to make plain some general principles which we must keep in mind, whatever department of God’s works we shall attempt to examine. I wish you to feel entirely free to interrupt me at any time, and ask any question or present any objection which may strike your minds. We must, if possible, have no prowling bands of enemies in the rear. I wish to make everything as plain as the case will admit.

“One thing let me remind you of in the beginning: I shall not try to prove to you that there is a God. I shall not try to prove that the world had a creator. There are some things which men do not believe merely on account of good evidence, nor disbelieve for want of proof. Men believe in their own existence, but not from a course of argument. Most men believe in the real existence of the outward world—the earth, the hills, the rivers, the trees, everything which we see and hear and feel—but not on account of proof. Here and there a strange man is found who professes to disbelieve the real existence of all material things, but he disbelieves not for want of proof. Men believe that their sight and hearing and touch do not deceive them, but their confidence in them is not the result of a course of reasoning. To believe in our own existence, and in the existence of the world outside of us, and in the truthfulness of our senses, is natural; to disbelieve these things is unnatural: it shows a state of disordered mental action. When such disbelief is not practically corrected by a man’s understanding he is counted insane, and is treated accordingly.

“Belief in the existence of God is also a natural belief. A denial of God’s existence shows, not disordered mental action, but a disordered moral and spiritual state. It shows the absence of that spiritual faculty by which we receive spiritual impressions, and are brought into contact with the spiritual world, and hold intercourse with God and Christ and the Holy Spirit. Men must be convinced of the existence of God through their conscience, their moral and spiritual nature. Do not misunderstand me. I do not say that good evidence cannot be brought to prove to one’s reason the existence of God, but God has not left his existence to be proved: he has revealed himself to men’s consciences and to their faith; and those in whom conscience and faith are well developed, sound, and right do not need an elaborate argument to prove the divine existence. I shall simply try to show that the works of creation exhibit the wisdom and goodness of God. If any man, looking at such indications of wisdom and kindness, can believe that it all comes by chance or is the work of some evil agency, and that no Being of boundless intelligence, wisdom, power, and goodness has anything to do with the making and governing the world, he certainly shows great prejudice: he does not want to recognize God’s existence. He must be one of those spoken of by the Psalmist who say, ‘no God.’

“During my recent visit to Greenville I visited a mill, the largest of its kind in the country. In one room was a machine, something like a huge straw-cutter, working with great power. In another room was a large steam boiler hung upon a shaft and made slowly to revolve while filled with steam. In a third room were large oval tanks, or cisterns, which might be filled with water. Across each tank was a heavy shaft carrying a drum set with steel blades, and as the drum revolved these blades passed other blades in the bottom of the tank, cutting whatever came between like scissors. In a fourth room were certain long and complicated machines. Each machine was composed mostly of rollers. There were large rollers and small rollers, solid rollers of enormous weight, and hollow rollers to be heated by steam within. Over and around a portion of these rollers passed a broad wirecloth belt. Over others passed a like belt of felted cloth. With these machines before you, could you tell me whether the inventor were a wise and skillful machinist?”

“How could we tell,” asked Peter, “without knowing what kind of work the machine was designed to do?”

“You could not tell,” answered Mr. Wilton; “you would need to know both what the machine was designed to do and all the processes by which the work was to be carried on. This brings out the first point which I wish you to fix in mind. It is this: To judge of the wisdom of any contrivance, we must understand the purpose, or object, which the inventor had in view; we must understand the work to be accomplished, and also the difficulties to be overcome. An ordinary locomotive steam-engine is admirably fitted to run on iron rails, but he would be a foolish man who should purchase such an engine to draw a train of loaded wagons over a common road of earth. On such a road it could not even move itself. It is good for that for which it was made, and for nothing else. How would you apply this principle to the subject we are now considering? You may answer, Samuel.”

“I think you mean,” said Samuel, “that, in order to judge of the wisdom and goodness of God in creating and governing this world, we must know the object he had in view in making such a world.”

“That is my meaning, and I am glad that you understand me so perfectly. If this world were created with no other object than to be the grazing-field for herds of cattle, which see no difference between the beauty of the violet and the dull shapelessness of the cold earth upon which it grows, and never lift their eyes above the horizon, then all the beauty of earth and sky would be useless; there would be no wisdom or goodness in the creation of this beauty. There would be no wisdom or goodness in laying up in store beds of coal, buried deep beneath the surface of the earth, if God designed the world to be inhabited only by savages too rude and ignorant ever to mine it, and turn it to some practical use.

“But let me give you another illustration, which can better be applied to the condition of things in this world. Just in the outskirts of one of our inland cities I once saw a large and elegant building, whether a private dwelling or a public institution I could not at first tell. It stood high and airy, commanding the most pleasing prospect that all the region presented. We will follow a visitor as he goes to examine that noble establishment.

“As he comes nearer, he sees that the edifice is simple and classic in its style and chaste in its architectural adornment. It is a pleasure for the eye to rest upon its graceful symmetry. But in place of the light and graceful fence which he expects to find enclosing its grounds, he sees a stockade strong and high. The janitor turns the heavy key, the rusty bolt flies back, and the visitor enters the enclosure. Within the stockade he finds a portion of the ground laid out with taste and cultivated with choice and beautiful flowers; another part is devoted to the culture of garden vegetables. He finds workshops also for the manufacture of pails and tubs, brooms and mattresses. The visitor is ushered into the mansion itself. He finds everything more than comfortable; the rooms are heated from furnaces below; every part is perfectly ventilated; the windows command a view of the country around which must please the most cultivated eye; a school-room is provided with all needed apparatus for the most thorough instruction. ‘Surely,’ says the visitor, ‘the founder of this institution must have been both wise and good. He must have loved the young in order to study and supply all their needs so completely.’ But some things strike the visitor painfully. The windows are grated with iron, and some of the rooms are almost like prison cells. ‘Can it be possible,’ he thinks within himself, ‘that the young need to be confined by a stockade in so pleasant a place and shut in by grates of iron for the enjoyment of such advantages?’ The master as he teaches his pupils seems as kind and gentle as a mother, yet there is a firmness and authority in his tones and a rigidity in his training, as if his government were kept braced against a mutinous spirit. The means of punishment also are provided, and, when occasion requires, stern chastisement is employed. All this seems to the visitor like an enigma. The institution appears to him like a bundle of contradictions. A father could not have provided a pleasanter home or larger advantages for his children, but fathers do not commonly surround their homes with stockades, and cover their windows with bars of iron, and train their obedient children with a hand of such firm, unyielding force. ‘Pray, sir,’ he says to the master, ‘what is this strange contradictory institution?’ ‘It is the State Reform School,’ the master answers. ‘And who are these lads and young men for whom all this work and wisdom is expended?’ ‘They are those who have taken the first steps in crime, but have not as yet become hardened and fixed in wickedness, and are sent here with the hope of overcoming their vicious propensities and training them to virtue and an honorable manhood.’

“Everything is now made plain. The need of the stockade, and the grated windows, and the rigid government, as well as of the pure air, the garniture of beauty, and the kind loving care, is manifest. It is a place unsuited to a family of obedient children, and equally unsuitable as a place of confinement for confirmed criminals, shut up, not for reform, but for punishment. It is wisely adapted to the work designed to be accomplished, and to no other.

“In like manner, if we would judge of the wisdom and goodness of God in the creation and government of this world, we must understand the use for which the world was designed. Is this plain to you, Ansel, and does it seem reasonable?”

“Yes, sir; I think I understand it, and I can see no objection to the principle. I think even Mr. Hume could find no fault with that. But how shall we know the object for which God made and governs the world?”

“That is the next point to be considered. Perhaps you will tell us what seems to you to be that object? Young people sometimes have thoughts and opinions upon the greatest questions.”

“I have never formed an opinion of my own,” Ansel replied, “but I have always heard it said that God designed to show how perfect and good and beautiful a world he could make. But many things in the world seem to me neither perfect, nor good, nor beautiful.”

“Why, Ansel!” exclaimed Samuel; “the Bible says that ‘God saw everything that he had made, and behold it was very good.’”

“And, Mr. Wilton,” asked Peter, “does not the Bible say that ‘God created all things for his own glory’?”

“Before answering any of these questions, let me ask Samuel a question. What do you understand to be the meaning of the words you quoted from the last verse of the first chapter of Genesis?—‘God saw everything that he had made, and behold it was very good.’”

“I suppose it means,” answered Samuel, “that God made everything just as good and beautiful as it can be, so that any change must be a change for the worse. The lecturer last winter said that if men could entirely destroy any one of the most troublesome species of insects, their destruction would be a great loss to the world, and that if a single atom of matter belonging to the earth were annihilated, it might throw the solar system out of balance, so that it would finally be destroyed.”

“I remember,” said Mr. Wilton, “that some lecturer last winter made statements of that kind, and I have heard other people declare that the least possible change in the world would be injurious, if not destructive, to the interests of man, and that the most troublesome beasts and insects and the most loathsome reptiles are necessary to human happiness. Does that seem to you to be true, Samuel?”

“I have always tried to believe it, because I thought I ought to believe it. It has seemed to me to be dishonoring God to believe that he did not make the best possible world.”

“You are right in trying to believe what seems to be right and true, even though difficulties do lie in the way. Difficulties do not by any means show that an opinion is false. We must certainly believe that God made this world perfect for the object which he had in view in making it. But not a few skeptics deny the existence of a good, wise, righteous Creator and Governor, because they have a wrong idea of the end for which the world was created, and, consequently, a wrong idea of that in which its perfection must consist. Let me ask you a few questions which will lead your minds in the right direction. Do not men produce by cultivation better fruits and vegetables than Nature ever grows when left to herself?”

“Yes, sir,” said Ansel; “the peach and apple and potato have been brought up to their present state of excellence by great care and exertion. Originally, they were almost worthless.”

“And not only that,” said Mr. Wilton, “but when once that careful culture is relaxed they begin to return to their former badness. Again, do we not improve upon Nature by drainage and improve upon the climate by irrigation?—in fact, do not men by drainage and irrigation and all manner of culture greatly improve the natural climate of a country?”

“I think that is true,” said Ansel.

“I never thought of that before,” said Peter.

“Moreover, do you not suppose that heaven will be more beautiful than the earth, and that a thousand troublesome things besides sin—loathsome sights, discordant and jarring noises, disgusting and nauseous odors—will be absent from that ‘better land’?”

“And I never thought of that before,” said Samuel. “I am sure that many unpleasant things besides those which sin has brought into the world will not be found in heaven. I see that this world might be changed and not be made worse for holy beings to live in.”

“The world is very good,” said Mr. Wilton, “for the purpose for which it was created, but we need not look upon it as designed for a specimen of the most beautiful, pleasant, and desirable world which the Creator could produce.”

“But you have not told us,” said Peter, “what the Bible means when it says that God created all things for his own glory. Does it not mean that he made the world so good and perfect that all creatures ought to praise him on account of it?”

“We ought,” said Mr. Wilton, “to praise God for the wisdom and goodness displayed in the works of creation. That is the teaching of the Bible in many places; it is also the sentiment of the Bible that God created the world and carries on all things for his own glory, but it nowhere uses the exact language which you have employed. In Isa. xliii. 7, speaking of ‘every one that is called by my name,’ the Lord says, ‘I have created him for my glory.’ In Prov. xvi. 4 it is written, ‘The Lord hath made all things for himself; yea, even the wicked for the day of evil;’ and the four and twenty elders fell before the throne of God saying: ‘Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honor and power; for thou hast created all things, and for thy pleasure they are’—that is, exist—‘and were created.’ I might quote other texts of similar meaning. We are taught also that our first and supreme aim in all our conduct should be the glory of God. ‘Whatever ye do, do it all to the glory of God.’ But here two questions arise: What is the glory of God? and, What is it for God to glorify himself by his works of creation and government? Who will tell us?”

All were silent, and Mr. Wilton went on speaking: “The word glory means, first and literally, a halo of light. The glory of God is the radiance, or halo, so to speak, of his infinite attributes and holy character. God glorifies himself when he reveals himself, and makes known his character, and causes the uncreated splendor of his attributes to break forth, so that his creatures recognize them and adore him. This, you see, is very different from the idea of glory among ambitious men. God glorified himself in the creation of the physical world, because from that creation his wisdom, power, and goodness are manifest. He glorified himself in the creation of angels and men, because they were created in the image of God and are finite pictures, so to speak, of the infinite Creator—a revelation of his spiritual being and personality. He glorifies himself in his government of the world, because his administration of affairs exhibits his justice, mercy, and holiness. This is what we mean by the glory of God and his working all things for his own glory. This is somewhat difficult for persons of your age, so we will leave it and return to the exact subject of discussion. Admitting that God created the world and governs it for his own glory—that is, to reveal himself—for what specific purpose did he design this earth?”

“I don’t know,” said Peter, “that we understand what you mean by ‘specific purpose.’”

“Very well, then,” said Mr. Wilton; “I will suggest the answer. Does the world seem as if fitted up to be the dwelling-place of holy beings?”

“I have never thought of the question before,” said Ansel; “but it seems to me that many things in this world would give pain even to angels if they lived here with bodies like ours.”

“I agree with you, Ansel. If men were sinless and holy as the angels of heaven, many things in this world would bring them distress. But does it seem reasonable that the world was designed merely as a place of punishment for men by reason of their wickedness?”

“Some men are not wicked,” replied Samuel. “There have always been men willing to die rather than disobey God. Surely, God does not punish such men. And many beautiful and pleasant things are found in the world—arrangements plainly designed for the welfare and happiness of men.”

“I think you are right, Samuel. But, without asking further questions, I will give you the conclusions to which my study upon this subject has brought me, and some of the reasons for those conclusions.

“This world was made chiefly as the dwelling-place of man. The world was not planned merely as the abode of brute animals. Men are nobler than the brutes. Men have permanent interests and advantages. Aside from the glory of God, men are an end unto themselves. To become and be men is the noblest object of human life, but the animal tribes exist for the use and benefit of others. To be an end to itself, a creature must be immortal; but the brutes exist for the use and advantage of man, live out their transient life, and exist no more. This is the view presented in the sacred Scriptures. God gave to man lordship over the earth—not only over the soil to subdue it, and over the great forces of Nature to bring them into subjection for human advantage, but also over the brute creation, ‘over the fish of the sea, the fowls of the air, and every living thing that moveth upon the earth.’ I conclude also that God did not prepare this world as a prison-house and place of punishment for rebels against his government. Too many pleasant things abound for me to believe that. The pleasant breezy air, the glorious sunlight, the refreshing showers, the treasures of mineral wealth stored up in the earth, the fertile land and golden wheat, the beauty spread over all nature, the sweet consciousness of existence, so that just to live and act is joy, and the comfort and hope of immortal pleasure enjoyed by truly Christian men,—all these things, and many more, assure me that not the subtle shrewdness of a tormentor nor the unmingled justice of an inexorable judge, but the heart of a kind and loving Father, planned our earthly dwelling-place. You said, Samuel, with truth, that there are many pious men in the world who are dear to God, and Paul says, ‘We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.’ For those dear ones Christ has such love that he counts everything—whether good or bad—that is done to them as if done to himself. ‘Inasmuch,’ he says, ‘as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’ Moreover, Jesus said: ‘For God so loved the world, that he sent his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ From these words of Jesus we see that there is love manifested in the dealings of God with the inhabitants of our world. Were it not so, there would nothing remain but a ‘fearful looking-for of judgment and fiery indignation, which shall devour the adversaries.’

“On the other hand, I conclude that God made the world as the dwelling-place, not of obedient, holy children, but of those who are disobedient, fallen, and alienated. These disobedient and alienated ones he holds under discipline and chastisement, in order to keep their wickedness in check, to recover them from their sins, and train them up in virtue and holiness, or to remove from the obstinate and incorrigible all excuse for their sins and all plea against their final condemnation. In doing this he glorifies himself by manifesting his wisdom, goodness, mercy, and holiness.

“This opinion seems probable from the fact that this is the purpose for which God has actually used and is now using the world. Here he keeps and governs the human race. This race is made up neither of holy beings nor of hopeless reprobates. They are the creatures of God; fallen indeed, yet loved; sinful, but objects of divine compassion; deserving of righteous wrath, but the recipients of the offers of salvation through Christ. Even penitent believers in Christ and devoted servants of God are not free from evil propensities, but need to be kept under constant training and discipline. This is the use to which the Creator has actually put the world. Is it not reasonable to believe that he designed it for their use? Ought we to believe that God planned the world for an object for which it never has been and never will be employed?

“If sin were removed from the world, the chief part of human suffering would be removed. This no man can deny. Wars would cease; the want, disease, and woe resulting from selfishness, idleness, and vice would disappear, and nothing would stand between man and his Maker. What new life and joy would fill the world if free communication were restored between man and God, and the divine smile were again to enlighten the world! It would seem that heaven had enlarged her borders to embrace this earthly ball. But the fact would still remain that this physical world is unfitted to be the dwelling-place of sinless beings. The constitution of the world would bring upon them pains and evils which would seem a most unworthy heritage for loving and obedient children of our heavenly Father. Let sin be taken away, and wearisome toil in subduing the earth would remain. The soil of the earth is hard and clogged with stones, and clammy with stagnant waters, and sown well with the seeds of noxious weeds, and overgrown with thorns and thistles. Endless watchfulness and toil is the price of a livelihood. With the sweat of his face man must eat his bread. An army of enemies have pre-empted the soil which man must till. This state of things the word of God refers to sin: ‘Cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life. Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.’ The necessity of toiling as we do now for our daily bread, God denounced upon man as a curse on account of sin. We cannot, therefore, regard this as a suitable condition for sinless beings.

“This burden of toil is lightened by the progress of modern sciences and inventions much less than some men think. Every step of progress has been made by the sacrifice of hecatombs of human lives. From our laboratories and workshops products of human skill, rich and rare, are sent forth; but what are they but smelted and hammered and graven and woven human bones and sinews, the health and life of men? No means have been discovered by which the most necessary processes of the arts can be made otherwise than dangerous to health. Only when thousands of miserable workmen had perished was Sir Humphrey Davy’s safety-lamp invented; and now the danger, to say nothing of the hard toil, of the collier’s life is only lessened, but not removed. Still, our furnaces roar and the whole tide of civilization goes on by the health-destroying servitude of men, buried alive as it were in the dark bosom of the earth. Would that seem to be a fitting employment for the sinless children of the all-loving Father? Employés in many kinds of manufacture slowly sink under the accumulated evils of daily toil, and no means of making their employments healthful have been discovered. The friction-match, which has become so nearly a necessity, is made by a process so destructive to health that only a certain class of laborers can be prevailed upon to do the work. I might go on to speak of other painful circumstances in which men find themselves by the almost antagonistic attitude of Nature. But if we reject these dangerous processes of manufacture and art, we go back at once to the wooden plough, the distaff and tinder-box of primitive times, and also to primitive poverty and primitive toil, and, I may also add, to primitive exposure to the hostile and pitiless forces and inclemencies of Nature. Purge the earth of sin, and wearisome toil would still remain. Nature must be nursed and cultivated or she yields no bread. Her hostile attitude must be overcome; the thorns and thistles must be rooted out; and every step of progress, won by suffering, must be held by painful work and watchfulness; otherwise Nature returns to the wild and savage state. Relax the culture of the choicest fruit, and it begins to deteriorate; leave the best-blooded breed of cattle to itself, and it returns again to the level of native, uncultured stock.

“The inhabitants of this world are also liable at all times to diseases and destructive accidents. This condition of things could not be changed without changing the entire structure and plan of the world. Is that a fit dwelling-place for a sinless being where chilling winds one day shrivel his skin and fill his bones with rheumatic pains, and the next, sweltering heats pervade all his system with languid lassitude—where miasma lies in wait unseen to poison his blood, kindle the malignant fever, and bring him to the shades of death, and every form of accident crouches in ambush, ready to spring upon his victim unawares and tear him limb from limb? We cannot see that the absence of sin would dissipate this liability to disease and the danger of accidents. Nay, this liability and danger are written upon the very constitution of the human body. The finger of God has engraved it upon every muscle and bone and life-cell. The Creator gave the body that wonderful power called the vis medicatrix—the power of recovering from injuries and repairing damage done to itself. Pull a leg from a grasshopper and another grows in its place. By this we know that the Creator understood the liability of this little insect to lose a limb, and prepared him for it. In like manner the power in man’s body to heal a wound or join a broken bone gives us to understand that the Creator expected man to live in the midst of danger. The precaution proves the risk.

“These accidents are such as no possible carefulness could guard against. To say nothing of the fact that all our knowledge of these perils comes from a painful experience of danger and death, what care, even after ages of sad experience, could ward off the thunderbolt? What carefulness could guard against the tornado on the land, or the hurricane and the cyclone upon the sea? Who should stand sentinel against the unseen poison borne upon the wings of the wind? What power should save him from the bursting of the volcano and the jaws of the earthquake? What care could give him knowledge of the qualities of all natural substances, that he might avoid their dangerous properties? We can suppose a divine care over man that should do all this and save men from harm, but it would be a providence superseding all human knowledge and exertion—it must be a providence to which the human race is now a stranger; miracles would then be the rule, and the undisturbed course of Nature the exception.

“If, however, we suppose that God designed the world as a training-school, so to speak, of fallen beings, such as the word of God declares the human race to be, all is plain, everything is suitable and harmonious. We can see the fitness of at least the chief outlines of man’s earthly condition, and can perceive God’s wisdom and goodness in the constitution of the world.

“The pain and woe-producing agencies of Nature are seen to be not at all contradictory to goodness, but on the other hand eminently wise and righteous. The whole sum of human misery expresses God’s displeasure at sin. By their sufferings men learn how abhorrent is sin in God’s sight. By the consequences of evil-doing they learn not to transgress. As none are free from the taint of depravity, none are free from pains. The necessity of labor—one of the elements of the primal curse—is a check to sin on the part of the vicious, and a discipline and trial to virtue on the part of the penitent. The multiform trials of life—which can indeed be borne well only by the grace of God—while they teach the evil of sin and keep the heart chastened and subdued, nourish heroic and dauntless virtue in the faithful. ‘Daily cares’ become ‘a heavenly discipline.’ Dangers and calamities startle the stupid conscience, and keep alive the sense of responsibility to God on the part of the wicked; they quicken the sense of weakness and dependence in the believing and educate their faith in God. The more sudden and overwhelming these evils, and the more these dangers are placed beyond the possibility of being warded off by human care, the more do they awaken in men a sense of the divine presence and of responsibility to God.

“But would not all these natural agencies subserve essentially the same ends in the discipline of unfallen and sinless beings? By no means. If sufferings came upon a sinless being, he could not feel that they came as chastisements; he could not feel them to be deserved. They would be to him a ‘curse causeless,’ and hence would bring no advantage. He could only cry out in astonishment, ‘Father, why am I, thine obedient son, thus smitten?’ Calamity falling upon the innocent would be an anomaly in the universe. But now the sufferer, pierced through and through with a sense of ill desert, meekly bows his head, murmuring, ‘Father, all thy judgments are just and right.’

“One very important feature of the world we live in is its moral symbolism. The world is full of most suggestive symbols and emblems of moral good and evil. There are all beautiful and glorious things, to stand as types of goodness, truth, and righteousness; there are all loathsome, malignant, and hideous things, to serve as the types of folly and wickedness. Was it merely an accident that the dove was fitted to become the emblem of purity and of the Holy Spirit? the lamb, to be the emblem of gentleness, of Christ the gentle Sufferer, and of his suffering people? the ant, to be the type of prudent industry? the horse, of spirit and daring? and the lion, of strength and regal state? Was it only an accident that prepared cruel beasts and disgusting, poisonous reptiles as the types of evil passions and sins—that made the venom of the viper, the cunning of the fox, the blood-thirstiness of the wolf, the folly of the ape, and the filth of the swine, symbols of foul, subtle, malignant sin and folly? Nature is full of these emblems. The palm tree with its crown of glory, the cedar of Lebanon, the fading flower and withering grass, the early dew and the morning mist, the thorn hidden among the leaves of the fragrant rose, poisons sweet to the taste, and medicines bitter as gall,—how all these natural things preach to men sermons concerning spiritual verities! There is no virtue or grace which is not commended to man by its image of beauty in the animal tribes; there is no vice against which men are not warned by its loathsome, disgusting form shadowed out in the instinctive baseness of irresponsible brutes.

“Thus we find earth, air, and sky to be full of silent voices proclaiming in the ears of man that which he most of all needs to remember. These types and symbols of virtue and vice are specially needed by fallen beings. They seem fitted for beings whose spiritual eyes are blinded and all their spiritual senses blunted—beings with whom there is no longer ‘open vision’ of spiritual realities. These pictures of evil are most impressive to men who see in them the reflection of their own base passions. How the fetid goat and the swine wallowing in the mire speak to the lecherous man and the drunkard! In a world of sinless beings these mimic vices would seem rather to mar God’s handiwork.

“Set the human race, fallen as it is, in a world where the patience of daily industrious toil would not be needed, and the race would rot with putrid, festering vice. Remove all danger, and men would forget and deny that the Creator holds them responsible. Let no evil consequences follow evil-doing, and men would cease to make a distinction between right and wrong. Take away death, and they would deny the existence of a spiritual world. But in this world God has hedged men around with checks and penalties and painful discipline, such as are of use only in dealing with sinners.

“I conclude, therefore, that God prepared this world as it now is as a place of discipline for a fallen race. This is the use to which he has devoted it in the past; and when there is no longer need of such a world for the discipline of men, we learn from the word of God that a ‘new heaven and a new earth’ shall be provided. This world is thus declared to be an unfit abode for the glorified saints. To judge, then, of the wisdom and goodness of God in the works of nature, we must keep in mind the object for which the Creator prepared the world. Ansel, tell us how this strikes you.”

“I never thought of it in this way before,” he answered; “indeed I have thought very little of this subject, but—” Tinkle, tinkle went the bell upon the superintendent’s desk. This was the second time the superintendent had struck his bell, but Mr. Wilton had been so intent upon his subject that he did not hear the first ringing.

The school was dismissed, but Mr. Wilton remained with his class to fix upon the particular department of nature which they would study. He found that all were studying natural philosophy, and had recently gone over the subject of heat. At his recommendation, therefore, they agreed to examine, as a specimen of God’s works, his management of heat in the world. Mr. Wilton requested them to review the subject during the week, and be prepared to state and apply the general principles touching the nature, phenomena, and laws of heat which they had already learned. This work they will enter upon next Lord’s Day.

CHAPTER III.

A DIFFICULT QUESTION.

uring the week, Ansel, Peter, and Samuel were busy reviewing and fixing in memory what they had already learned of the nature and laws of heat. They were not only interested in the new line of study, and desirous of pleasing Mr. Wilton, but they also felt that their scholarship was to be tested, and each one was ambitious of standing equal to the best.

Ansel, of course, was busy and ambitious. The lesson was coming somewhat upon his own ground, and he felt in no wise unwilling to show how well he had mastered the subject. He entered upon it with feelings a little different, however, from his anticipations. The explanation which Mr. Wilton had given of the purpose of the Creator in making such a world seemed to him very reasonable. He could make no objection to it. But that explanation had taken away at one sweep a whole store of objections to God’s goodness which he was waiting to bring out as soon as a good opportunity was presented. A world designed for the dwelling-place of sinners—sinners not already given over and doomed to final wrath, but to be recovered from sin and trained in virtue and holiness, or, if incorrigible, to be held in check and used as helps in the discipline of the righteous—he plainly saw must be as unlike a world fitted up for holy beings as a reform school is different from a home for kind and obedient children. Those arrangements which he had thought the most painful and objectionable might, after all, be the wisest and best. He did not see where to put in a reasonable objection to Mr. Wilton’s unexpected argument, yet he did not feel quite satisfied to confess to himself that he was so soon and so easily defeated.

In this state of mind, on Saturday morning he met Mr. Hume upon the street.

“Good-morning, Ansel,” said Mr. Hume.

“Good-morning,” returned Ansel.

“I hear,” said Mr. Hume, “that you have given up studying the Bible in your Bible class, and have begun the study of natural philosophy. Is that so?”

“Not quite true, Mr. Hume. We are to examine some department of the works of Nature, and see what indications appear of the Creator’s wisdom and goodness.”

“That is a little different from the report which came to me. But what did you learn last Sunday?”

“Mr. Wilton told us that in order to judge of the wisdom and goodness of God in any of the affairs of this world we must consider the object for which that arrangement was designed. He said that if a man examine a cotton-gin, supposing it to be a threshing-machine, he would be likely to pronounce it a foolish and worthless contrivance; and that the fine edge of a razor would be worse than useless upon the cutter of a breaking-up plough. He told us that the earth was not prepared as the dwelling-place of sinless beings, but as a place of discipline for the fallen human race, and that we ought not to look upon it as the choicest specimen of workmanship which the Creator could construct.”

“I have heard that Mr. Wilton believes something of that kind. Ansel, have you studied geology?”

“I have read a little upon that subject and have heard some lectures.”

“Can you tell me, then, whether or not the natural laws which prevailed on the earth ages and ages ago, before the earth was fit for men to live upon it, are the same as those which have been in operation in these later ages, since men have inhabited it?”

“I suppose that the same laws have prevailed from the beginning of the geologic periods. I think that geology makes that very evident.”

“If that were not so,” said Mr. Hume, “the past history of the globe would be a riddle to us; it would be confusion worse confounded. In regard to those early ages we could not reason from cause to effect, for we should know nothing of the forces and principles then in existence. In geologic studies we judge the past from the present, and if that be not a trustworthy method of reasoning, all the conclusions of geologists are as worthless as dreams. Have you any reason to suppose, from what you have read on this subject, that a curse changed the character of the earth as a dwelling-place for man some six thousand years ago? Is it true, as Milton says, that then

‘The sun
Had first his precept so to move, so shine,
As might affect the earth with cold and heat
Scarce tolerable, and from the north call
Decrepit winter—from the south to bring
Solstitial summer’s heat’?

Did the Creator then

‘Bid his angels turn askance
The poles of earth twice ten degrees and more
From the sun’s axle’?

Or was death then first introduced among the brute creation, as Milton fancies?—

‘But Discord first,
Daughter of sin, among the irrational
Death introduced through fierce antipathy;
Beast now with beast ’gan war, and fowl with fowl,
And fish with fish; to graze the herb all leaving,
Devoured each other.’”

“Animals must have died,” said Ansel, “for their remains lie imbedded in rock which certainly existed before man lived on the earth.”

“I wish you would ask Mr. Wilton one question for me.”

“I am willing to ask him any proper question, and I suppose you would not wish me to ask any other.”

“I certainly would not. Will you ask him how it was possible for man not to sin and fall if God created the world for a sinful race myriads of ages before man was brought into existence? It would seem that if man had remained obedient he could not have lived pleasantly in a world prepared for sinners, and at the same time, by man’s obedience, all the Creator’s plans touching this world would have been dislocated and disappointed.”

“I will ask him, sir,” said Ansel, “at the first good opportunity.”

This good opportunity occurred sooner than Ansel expected, for, before entering upon the proposed lesson the next Lord’s Day, Mr. Wilton said to the class:

“I wish in these lessons to advance carefully and safely, and, as far as possible, have everything well understood. For that reason I invite you to speak freely of any difficulties or objections which may suggest themselves to your own minds or which you may hear presented by others. At the close of the last lesson the views which I had presented to you seemed very reasonable, but it is possible that, as you have thought upon the subject during the week, objections may have arisen in your minds. If so, I should be glad to hear them now.”

“There are many things,” said Peter, “of which I cannot see the use, even if we suppose that the earth was designed as the dwelling-place of sinners.”

“It would be very surprising indeed if you could unravel all the mysteries of creation in a week’s time. Wiser men than any of us have spent a lifetime in searching out the meaning of God’s works, and died still in the dark upon many points. We need not expect to unravel and understand all the deep, complex, and delicately-interwoven contrivances in a world so vast and curious as this. The world is a great mystery—mysterious as a whole, and mysterious in all its parts—upon any supposition. But the explanation which I gave of its design furnishes a sufficient reason for the great outline of creation. This gives a reason for the pains and miseries which dog man at every step. This gives a reason for the earth’s being left rugged and sluggish, bringing forth thorns and thistles, and requiring to be subdued by patient industry. It shows a ground for the necessity of exhausting toil under a frowning sky and mid miasmatic airs—for the liability to diseases and accidents, and the hard necessity of death. These great elements of divine providence are not stripped of their halo of mystery, but with this explanation they are seen to form a harmonious whole for the accomplishment of a great and glorious purpose.”

Mr. Wilton paused. Then Ansel said, “Mr. Hume wished me to ask you a question.”

“Very well, I should be glad to hear it. I hope, indeed, that he sends his question from interest in the subject, and not with the design of perplexing us. I wish also that he were here to ask the question and hear the answer for himself. But what is the question?”

“He wished me to ask how it was possible for man not to sin and fall if God placed him in a world prepared for a race of sinners and unfitted for a sinless race. He said that in such a case, if man had remained obedient, the plans of God would have been disarranged.”

“What answer did you try to give him, Ansel?”

“I did not try to make any explanation. It seemed to me a very great objection. I did not see how such a course was consistent with God’s righteousness.”

“And you are not the first person who has objected to this as a great inconsistency. I am afraid the discussion will take more time than we ought to spare, but now that the question has been asked and the objection presented, I must take time to answer it, even if it consume the whole half hour.

“In considering this subject, as well as many others, we need to remember that the existence of difficulties is no objection to a principle or a fact. Difficulties wholly inexplicable by man attend facts and principles which must be true. A fact may be incomprehensible, though undeniable. The great Doctor Johnson said, ‘There are insuperable objections against a plenum, and insuperable objections against a vacuum, yet one of these must be true.’ What did he mean by that, Samuel?”

“He meant, I suppose, that we could not explain the possibility that any space should be wholly empty of matter, and could no more explain the possibility that any space should be filled with matter, but that all space must be filled, or else there must be empty space. Whether we can explain the possibility or not, one of them must be true.”

“That is right. The same is true of many other facts besides a plenum and a vacuum. We cannot conceive of infinite space; we cannot conceive that space should not be infinite, but bounded. We cannot conceive of the creation of the world from nothing, and no more can we conceive of its eternal existence. The truth is that the mind of man cannot grasp such subjects so as to reason upon them correctly. No sooner do we attempt to reason about the infinite things of God than we run into absurdities and reach the most contradictory conclusions. And in this respect it makes no difference with what principle or proposition we start if it only contain some infinite element. Let me give you a simple illustration from geometry—an illustration which, very likely, is familiar to you: the larger a circle, the less is the curvature of the line which bounds it; that is, the more nearly does that line approach a straight line. An infinite circle must be bounded by a straight line, because with any degree of curvature the circle would be less than infinite. But a straight line cannot bound a circle. The attempt to reason about an infinite circle brings us at once to the most palpable absurdities and contradictions. Or take this illustration: the whole of a thing is greater than any of its parts. But divide a line of infinite length in the middle, and each part is infinite. We reach the conclusion either that the half is equal to the whole or that other wholly incomprehensible proposition, that one infinity is twice as great as another infinity. I have made these statements to show you that the existence of difficulties does not indicate, much less prove, that a fact is not real and true.

“Mr. Hume thinks the fact that the earth existed in its present condition before men sinned an insuperable objection to the view that this world was prepared as a place for the discipline of a fallen race. But let us look at the other side, and see if equal objections do not exist. The Creator foresaw the fall of man; is there no objection to the supposition that, knowing that man would sin, God made no provision for it? On the one supposition he foresees the evil and makes no provision; on the other, he foresees it and provides for the catastrophe. The former supposition certainly involves the greater difficulties.

“The objector may reply that the plan of God, by embracing the fall of man and including it as one of its essential elements, made that fall necessary. But why should not God embrace in his plan that great event, the fall of man, which he foresaw in the future? Would it have been wiser and better to leave out of account that most stupendous fact in the history of the human race? This same objection, which Mr. Hume and many others have brought forward, lies with equal force against the great central fact of the gospel, the death of Christ. God’s plan touching this world included the incarnation and death of his Son. Jesus, the ‘Lamb of God,’ is spoken of as ‘slain from the foundation of the world.’ Rev. xiii. 8. But the incarnation and death of Christ presuppose the apostasy of the human race. Did this plan touching Christ make the apostasy of man a necessity? If preparing a world—fallen, so to speak, beforehand—for a race which God foresaw would fall, be inconsistent with his righteousness, it must be equally inconsistent to prepare a Saviour beforehand for that same race.

“Again, the divine plan touching the death of his Son included his betrayal by Judas and his crucifixion by the Jews. If Judas had known that God had poised the salvation of man upon the pivot of his treachery, he would doubtless have argued as Mr. Hume and others are accustomed to do. But did God’s plan excuse his treason against his Lord? His own conscience, piercing and rending his soul with remorse, drove him to self-destruction, and Christ confirmed the sentence of his conscience and called him the ‘son of perdition.’ The fact that God weaves the foreseen crimes of men into his plans is no palliation of their guilt.

“Would it be wise and well to take no account of foreseen events? Jesus has gone to prepare mansions for those who will, as he foresees, believe in him: why not make provision for foreseen evils also? Our civil government, knowing the liability to crime among men—a liability which the experience of man has shown to be a practical certainty—makes provision for those crimes by maintaining a police, reform schools, prisons, and armies. The Governor of the universe, knowing the liability of man to sin and fall—a liability which by his foreknowledge was to him a certainty—made provision for that foreseen apostasy. He made provision, both by the creation of a world suited to a sinful race kept under a probation of mercy, and by appointing a Redeemer, the ‘Lamb of God,’ slain, in the eternal purpose, before the foundation of the world. If Mr. Hume’s objection has force at all, it has force against every wise provision of God to meet the consequences of man’s foreseen wickedness. It is wise, forsooth, on man’s part, to foresee coming evil and prepare for it; but if God do this, men count it worse than folly: they declare it to be an endorsement of the evil! So foolishly do men reason about the high things of God! My answer to Mr. Hume, then, has four parts:

“1. The existence of unexplainable difficulties does not disprove the truth and reality of any fact or principle.

“2. The supposition that God made provision for the present apostasy of the human race is burdened with fewer and smaller difficulties than its denial.

“3. The word of God declares that he did make provision for the fall of man by the pre-appointment of a Redeemer.

“4. That style of reasoning which seeks to justify or palliate man’s first sin because God prepared this world for a fallen race would palliate and justify all wickedness, because the sins of men are woven into every figure of the web of divine providence. Not the treason of Judas alone, but the whole sum of man’s evil-doing, is embraced in the far-reaching plan of God. How this magnifies the wisdom of God! He binds together in one bundle his own righteousness and the sins of men, in a most intricate interlacing, yet without blending the two and without staining the glory of his holiness.

“I hope I have made this plain. Do you think, Ansel, that you can repeat the substance of this answer to Mr. Hume?”

“I will try, sir, if he asks.”

“You will all notice,” added Mr. Wilton, “that I have not denied that there is a deep mystery in this preparation for the sins of men not yet created, and that I have not attempted to explain this mystery. I have only tried to show that the admission of the view I have given you is more satisfactory to reason than its denial, and that the mysteries of this view are not unreasonable and self-contradictory, for the greatest mysteries are often the most reasonable things in the world.

“My introduction has become much longer than I designed, but now let us turn our attention to the subject of the lesson.

“To aid us in understanding God’s wise arrangements in the management of heat, we need, first, to consider what heat is and to review the laws of its action. Without this, we could look on and wonder at God’s working in nature, but could not explain that which we saw.

“Ansel, will you state the theories which have been held touching the nature of heat?”

“I will do it as well as I can. The ancient philosophers supposed fire to be one of the four elements of which all bodies were composed. The three other elements were earth, air, and water. These four elements were mingled in various proportions. Of these, fire was esteemed the purest and most ethereal; this constantly tended upward to the empyrean, the highest heaven, where the element of fire and light was supposed to exist unmingled and pure. In the seventeenth century, Beccher and Stahl, two German chemists, brought forward what is known as the phlogistic hypothesis. They supposed that every combustible body held in composition a pure, ethereal substance which they called phlogiston, a Greek word which signifies burned, and that in combustion this phlogiston escaped. Flame was supposed to be this escaping phlogiston. These were the notions held about fire and combustion, but they are hardly worthy to be called theories of heat. The discovery of oxygen by Dr. Priestley of England, in 1774, and the introduction of the balance by Lavoisier of France, joined with the ever-enlarging circle of facts to be explained, rendered the phlogistic hypothesis untenable, and it was thrown aside.

“Until a few years since the caloric theory was generally received. According to this theory, heat is a substance, a subtle ether, diffused through all bodies and surrounding their atoms. This ether has been supposed to have a strong attraction for the atoms of every other substance, while between its own atoms a strong repulsion exists. In solid bodies each atom of matter, or in compound bodies each cluster of atoms, has been supposed to be surrounded by a little atmosphere, so to speak, of caloric, which prevented the atoms from coming into absolute contact. According to this theory, heat expands bodies by increasing and deepening these minute atmospheres, thus pressing the atoms farther from each other.”

“You need not explain this theory farther,” said Mr. Wilton; “we have hardly time to go into the history of theories. Tell us the latest received theory.”

“The theory now commonly believed is called the mechanical or dynamic theory. According to this theory, the essence of heat is motion. A hot body is one whose atoms are in a state of rapid and intense motion or vibration; and the sensation of heat on touching a hot body arises from the impact, or rapid blows, of the agitated atoms, communicating the same atomic vibration to the flesh and nerves of the hand.”

“Very well stated, Ansel. This is the theory now more commonly received. The caloric theory, like the crude notions of the old Greek philosophers about fire, and like the phlogistic hypothesis, has been rejected because it failed to explain the phenomena of heat. Whether the dynamic theory is destined to share the same fate remains to be seen. It seems, however, to have a better foundation than its predecessors. The dynamic theory, though recently made popular, is by no means a recent conception. It was advocated by such men as Bacon, Newton, Rumford, Davy, Locke, and others. Locke, the distinguished intellectual philosopher who lived in the latter half of the seventeenth century (born 1632, died 1704), said, ‘Heat is a very brisk agitation of the insensible parts of an object, which produces in us that sensation from which we denominate the object hot, so that what in our sensations is heat in the object is nothing but motion.’ Benjamin Thompson, an American gentleman who went to Europe in the time of our revolution, and for his scientific fame was made Count Rumford, and became the founder of the Royal Institution of England, declared that he could form no conception of the nature of heat generated by friction unless it were motion.

“A beautiful generalization has been made to show how well this idea of heat harmonizes with the entire plan of the universe. In the whole boundless universe each system of worlds, like our solar system, may be regarded as a molecule, or complex atom. These cosmical molecules, or complex atoms of the universe, are in motion through unmeasured space. In these systems of worlds the planets, with their satellites, are the molecules, and they are in motion—indeed, they commonly have several motions. Our earth, for example, rotates upon its axis once each day; it revolves in its orbit around the sun once each year, and the axis of the earth has a slow wabbling motion which produces the precession of the equinoxes, requiring 25,868 years for a complete revolution. The earth also is made up of parts, and all these are in ceaseless motion. As said the old Greek philosopher, ‘All things flow’—that is, everything is in a state of change. Solomon has well described this perpetual movement and change: ‘One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place whence he arose. The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north. It whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth according to his circuits. All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither do they return again. All things are full of labor; man cannot utter it. The eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done, and there is no new thing under the sun.’ Eccles. i. 4-9. It is certainly in harmony with this universal movement that the atoms of matter, though they seem so closely packed, should in their inconceivable smallness through inconceivably minute spaces vibrate, or rotate, or revolve through an orbit, never at rest. Intensity of heat we may think of as intensity of this atomic motion—a wider swing, so to speak, in their vibration or revolution. This, of course, requires a wider separation of the atoms and a consequent expansion of bodies. A feebler atomic motion permits the atoms to approach each other. In this manner we explain the enlargement of bodies by heat and their contraction by decrease of temperature. ‘The ideas of the best-informed philosophers are as yet uncertain regarding the exact nature of the motion of heat, but the great point at present is to regard it as a motion of some kind, leaving its more precise character to be dealt with in future investigation.’ This is the most we can do at present.”

“What is the evidence,” asked Samuel, “that the dynamic theory of heat is true?”

“The evidence that any theory is true is its ability to explain the facts or phenomena with which it has to do. If it explains all the facts and contradicts no known principles, it is regarded as true, or at least no objection can be made to it. Let me illustrate. Astronomers had long inquired what force or law controlled the movements of the heavenly bodies. At length Newton answered, A force of attraction between bodies which decreases in proportion as the square of the distance between them increases. This explanation has been found sufficient to explain all the known facts in the working of the heavenly bodies. Upon the basis of this theory astronomers calculate the positions of planets and comets for years and centuries to come.

“This theory led to the discovery of the planet Neptune, the last discovered of the primary planets. For thirty years irregularities in the motion of Uranus had been noticed. These variations were so slight that if another planet had revolved in the proper orbit of Uranus they would have seemed to the naked eye, throughout their course, one and the same star. This slight irregularity of motion was so nicely measured that the place of the unseen planet which caused it was almost exactly calculated from the estimated force and direction of its attraction. This theory of a universal attraction of gravitation so well explains all the facts in the case, and has become so universally received, that we are liable to forget that, after all, it is nothing but a theory.

“Our idea of the structure of the solar system was at first only a theory. The astronomer does not see the planets revolving in regular circles through the heavens and moving around the sun. He only sees the shining points moving back and forth upon the concave vault, doubling and crossing their tracks apparently in the greatest disorder. How shall their motions be explained? Astronomers have found that the motions of planets revolving around a central sun, when seen from one of the planets, must present just these apparent irregularities. This explanation is so full and complete that it is now counted not a theory, but an established fact. The same may be said of the shape of the earth.

“The dynamic theory of heat explains the phenomena of heat better than any other explanation that has been proposed. It explains the radiation of heat from the sun or from any other hot body: vibrations or impulses are propagated through that ether which is supposed to fill all space. It explains the conduction of heat through solid bodies in the same manner. It explains the expansion of bodies: the atomic motion forces the atoms of bodies farther apart. It explains the production of heat by friction or collision, which no other theory is able to do: the shock of the collision generates this atomic vibration. It explains the production of heat by combustion: the atoms of oxygen and carbon or hydrogen dash against each other and generate heat by the collision. This theory explains the transmutation of motion, or living force, and electricity, into heat, and the transmutation of heat into electric or mechanical force. These points will come up again, and I now only refer to them in answering Samuel’s question. The dynamic theory explains the phenomena of heat and its relations to force, light, and electricity exceedingly well, and for this reason men look upon it with favor and count it as probably true. If in the progress of scientific investigation it shall be found to explain all the new facts discovered and meet well all the demands made upon it, it will at length be received as an admitted principle in physical science. The wave theory of light and the vibratory theory of sound may be looked upon as thus established.

“At our next lesson we shall take a rapid review of the effects and laws of heat.”

CHAPTER IV.

HEAT A GIFT OF GOD.

he class is again promptly in place and ready for work.

“As I announced a week ago,” said Mr. Wilton, “we will to-day take a rapid review of the effects and laws of heat. Will you tell us, Peter, the first and chief of these effects?”

“Yes, sir: combustion.”

“What is combustion?”

“Commonly the rapid union of oxygen with some combustible substance, attended with the evolution of heat.”

“Was your answer correct, then?”

“No, sir,” said Peter, blushing; “I spoke before I thought.”

“Will you correct your answer?”

“The first and chief effect of heat is expansion.”

“That is right. Our sensation of heat is of course only a sensation—merely the feeling which results from the effects of heat upon our nerves—but the chief physical effect of heat is the expansion of bodies. The chemical qualities of bodies are not changed: they are not made either heavier or lighter. A sufficiently high temperature renders bodies luminous, and then we call them red hot or white hot. Solid bodies begin to be luminous at a temperature of about one thousand degrees. But the one invariable effect of heat, with two or three apparent exceptions, is expansion. You may mention, Samuel, some familiar illustrations of the effect of heat in expanding bodies.”

“The blacksmith heats the wagon-tire in order that it may easily slip over the wheel. If a kettle be filled with cold water, by heating it the water is expanded and runs over. I have noticed that the spaces between the ends of the successive iron rails upon the railroad are larger in winter than in summer, showing that the rails are shorter in winter than in summer. While skating during the cold winter evenings upon the mill-pond, I have seen cracks in the thick ice start and run across the mill-pond with a roar almost like thunder. The ice was contracted by the cold till it could no longer fill the whole space between the banks, and being frozen fast to the banks, it was torn asunder. The mercury in the tube of a thermometer is constantly expanding or contracting by every change of temperature.”

“Yes, those are all good illustrations, and we might go on to mention others equally good by the score. In cold countries, during the intense cold of winter, the surface of the earth cracks by shrinkage, just as you have seen the ice upon the mill-pond torn in two. The Britannia iron tubular bridge over the St. Lawrence at Montreal rises and falls two and one-half inches on account of greater expansion of the upper surface when exposed to the heat of the sun, while a loaded freight train causes a depression of but one-fourth of an inch. A few years since, in order to make some philosophical experiments connected with the rotation of the earth upon its axis, a ball was suspended by a wire in the interior of Bunker Hill monument. By this means it was accidentally discovered that the heat of the sun, expanding the sides of the monument exposed to its rays, caused the whole monument to sway back and forth daily.”

Here Ansel raised his hand.

“What is it, Ansel?”

“I was going to mention the belief of geologists that the mountain ranges were thrown up by the contracting of the earth’s crust on account of cooling.”

“That is an illustration of contraction by loss of heat on an enormous scale. The materials which form our globe may have existed in the beginning in a nebulous or gaseous state. There is certainly very good reason for believing that the earth was once in a fluid state, the whole of its substance molten by intense heat. It is certain that the interior is now hot, and portions of it molten. It is by very many believed that the whole interior is molten. The crust of the earth may have been formed by cooling. If after an outer crust had been formed, and its temperature had fallen so low as to become nearly stationary, the interior mass continued to cool, the molten mass would tend to sink away from the crust and the crust would sink in upon it by wrinkling. Thus mountains may have been formed. Along the line of fracture the easiest vents would be formed for volcanoes. But this carries us somewhat aside from our subject, and as the expansion of bodies by heat has been sufficiently illustrated, we will leave it. Will some one now state the manner in which the dynamic theory of heat explains this expansion?”

Samuel answered: “I think you have already given us the explanation.”

“I have briefly referred to it, but you may give it again.”

“The atomic motion which is supposed to constitute what we call heat, whatever that motion be, whether a vibration or rotation or revolution, requires that the atoms of bodies shall not be packed in absolute contact, and the more intense the agitation or the wider the swing of the vibration or revolution, the greater must be their separation. Hence heat expands bodies by thrusting their atoms farther apart.”

“That will do,” said Mr. Wilton. “Let us look now at some of the secondary effects of heat. You may mention some of them, Ansel.”

“Heat relaxes or overpowers the cohesive attraction of bodies.”

“What is cohesive attraction?”

“It is that force which binds together the atoms of matter in simple substances, that is, bodies like iron or copper or silver, composed of but one kind of substance, or in compound bodies it is the force which unites the compound molecules of matter.”

“Give us now some illustrations of the effect of heat in overcoming cohesive attraction.”

“The blacksmith heats his iron in order to overcome its cohesive attraction and render it soft, that he may easily hammer it. The founder heats his metal till its cohesion is so far destroyed that it becomes fluid and can be poured into the mould. Heat relaxes the cohesive force of ice and changes it to water, and by farther heating its cohesion is entirely overcome and the water is changed to a gas.”

“We use heat also in cooking our food,” spoke up Peter: “is it not because heat destroys the cohesive attraction, and thus softens it?”

“If that were the only effect of heat upon food,” said Mr. Wilton, “we should be obliged to eat our food hot, for as soon as it cooled the cohesion would return and the food would be raw again. The operation of heat in cooking is various, and part of the effect is commonly to be ascribed to the water in which the food is cooked or to that which is contained in it. By the combined agency of heat and water starch swells to twenty or thirty times its original bulk and the minute starch grains burst open. In cooking potatoes the starch of the potato absorbs a portion of the water that is in it, and thus renders it dry and mealy. The action of heat and water upon rice, wheat, and other grains is similar to their operation upon starch. In the baking of bread the starch is converted into gum. In boiling flesh the effect is partly due to the solvent powers of water: the juices of the flesh are extracted, the gelatin is dissolved, the fat is liquefied, and the cells in which the fatty matter is held more or less burst, the albumen is solidified, and by long boiling the texture and fibre of the flesh are destroyed. The albumen of an egg, that is, the white, coagulates by heat. But in most of these processes the action of heat cannot be separated from that of water.

“But there is another effect of heat very important both in nature and in the arts. What is that?”

“The quickening of chemical affinity,” answered Samuel.

“That is right: heat is necessary for the operation of chemical affinity. Perhaps this is only a weakening of the cohesive force, thus allowing the chemical attractions to assert their strength. But the fact is that, while in many cases the chemical affinities act with great energy at ordinary temperatures, in other cases they slumber, however closely the substances are brought into contact, till their temperature is raised. Samuel, you may mention some illustrations of this principle.”

“A few months ago I visited Hazard’s powder mills, in Enfield, Connecticut, and there learned how gunpowder is made. The charcoal, the sulphur, and the nitre are first finely pulverized, then ground together for hours till thoroughly mixed, and afterward pressed together. This mass is then broken into grains and the grains polished. But though these elements are brought into so close contact, yet they do not combine and explode till heat is applied. The same is true of the combustion of wood and coal. The carbon and the hydrogen of the fuel are constantly surrounded with the oxygen of the air, but they do not take fire and burn, that is, they do not combine with the oxygen, till they are raised to a red heat, or perhaps even to a higher temperature. If a stove filled with burning coal be cooled down to a low temperature by applying ice, the combustion will cease, the fire will go out. Our teacher at the academy on one occasion heated a steel watch-spring red hot and plunged it into a jar of oxygen, and the steel spring began quickly to burn with great fury.”

“You have given us good illustrations, Samuel, and that which is true of carbon and hydrogen and oxygen is true of substances in general. The effect of heat in producing chemical changes is very important everywhere. It is seen not only in the chemist’s laboratory and in the artisan’s shop, but also in the laboratory of Nature. Plant a grain of corn in midwinter: why does it not germinate and grow? Nothing is needed but the requisite heat to quicken the chemical affinities into action. Earth and air furnish the needed material for the growth of forest trees in winter as well as in summer, but the cold holds in check the chemical forces and prevents the requisite chemical combinations. No sooner does the sun quicken that atomic vibration or revolution which we call heat than vegetable growth begins. Heat is necessary for those chemical changes by which food is digested in the stomach and the processes of nutrition carried on in every part of the body. If a man finish his dinner with ice cream or ice water, the process of digestion is delayed till the contents of the stomach recover their proper temperature. This is one chief reason why warm, comfortable clothing is so very important, especially for children. All the vital processes are chemical processes: they are carried on through chemical affinities. Unless the body be kept at a suitable temperature, these processes are feeble and imperfect, nutrition and vital combustion are hindered, and diseases are engendered.

“These, then, are the chief effects of heat. It expands bodies, weakens cohesive attraction, and quickens the chemical affinities into activity.”

Ansel again raised his hand.

“What do you wish?”

“Will you please tell us, Mr. Wilton, how this weakening of cohesive attraction is explained upon the dynamic theory of heat?”

“I will do so with pleasure. The increased atomic motion in the heated body throws the atoms farther apart, as we have already learned, and by this increase of distance their attraction is diminished. If the earth were twice its present distance from the sun, their attraction for each other would be four times less than it now is; if its distance were three times as great, their attraction for each other would be nine times less. The attraction of gravitation diminishes in proportion as the square of the distance through which it must act increases. Perhaps cohesive attraction diminishes according to the same law, though the spaces are so small that this cannot be demonstrated, but it is certainly weakened by the expansion of bodies through the agency of heat.”

Here Peter raised his hand.

“What will you say, Peter?”

“Do not men heat and burn bricks, not to soften them, but to harden them?”

“That is true,” said Mr. Wilton; “but in this there is a process of drying as well as of heating, and the hardening is due chiefly to the complete drying by the intense heat. Too great heat will melt bricks while in the process of burning. I once heard a brick-burner say that he could melt the brick around the arches in his kiln in half an hour, if he pleased to put in fuel and let the fire burn. Indeed, almost every known solid substance has been fused by heat. Whether carbon has ever been melted is an unsettled question.”

“I would like to inquire,” said Samuel, “why water will not burn. Is it because it evaporates before it reaches a sufficiently high temperature?”

“This is a little aside from our subject, but the incombustibility of water is a provision of the Creator so very important that we will stop to notice it. I think, however, that by a little thought you yourself can answer the question. Tell me again what combustion is.”

“Combustion is commonly the combining of oxygen with some other substance called a combustible. The rusting of iron and the decay of organic bodies are forms of slow combustion.”

“Now tell us the composition of water.”

“Water is composed of oxygen and hydrogen—eight parts of oxygen to one of hydrogen, by weight, or two parts of hydrogen to one of oxygen, by measure.”

“How is water formed from these two gases? Are they mixed together as oxygen and nitrogen are mingled in the air, or are they chemically united?”

“They are chemically united: they are burned together. When hydrogen burns, the product is water.”

“Water is then a product of combustion. Can you not now tell why water is incombustible?”

“I think I now see the reason. The oxygen, being itself the supporter of combustion, will not burn, and the hydrogen has been already once burned in the formation of water.”

“And that which is true of water is true, in a greater or less degree, of other products of combustion. The burning of charcoal produces carbonic acid, and carbonic acid will not burn because it is the production of combustion. A candle is extinguished by it as quickly as by water. By a recent invention carbonic acid is used to extinguish conflagrations. The carbon has once united with oxygen, and a second combination with an additional amount, or, as a chemist would say, with another equivalent, of oxygen is much more difficult.”

“I think,” said Samuel, “I now understand why water will not burn, but will you please also to tell us why water puts out fire better than almost anything else?”

“In order to extinguish fire one of two things must be done: either the supply of oxygen must be cut off or the combustible must be cooled down to a temperature below the burning point, when the combustion will cease of itself. When we shut the draught of an air-tight stove, we check the combustion by shutting off the full supply of oxygen. If we could wholly prevent the access of oxygen to the fuel, the fire would at once be extinguished. If oxygen should then be admitted again before the fuel had cooled down below the burning point, combustion would at once begin again. A blazing brand is extinguished by being thrust into ashes, because it is shut away from oxygen. In the same way we extinguish the flame of a candle with a tin extinguisher. On the other hand, fires often go out because the necessary temperature is not maintained. Water puts out fire in both these ways, but especially by the second. Water poured in torrents from a fire engine upon a fire forms a film of water, and the burning material shuts out the oxygen. But the water acts chiefly by lowering the temperature. No other known substance except hydrogen gas requires so much heat to raise it through a given number of degrees of temperature as water. As much heat is required to heat one pound of water as thirty pounds of mercury. Hence, water poured upon burning timber cools it to so low a temperature that it ceases to burn.

“In addition to this, we may notice that wood saturated with water cannot be heated above the boiling point of water till the water is evaporated. As fast as the wood and the water rise or tend to rise above two hundred and twelve degrees, the water changes into steam and carries away the additional heat. The consumption of heat in the formation of vapor we must look at more carefully in a future lesson. We will suppose that a house is in flames. A fire engine throws a stream of cold water into the midst of the conflagration. The cold water, dashing against the burning wood, cools the heated surface; it is absorbed into the pores of the wood and hinders its rapid heating; a portion of the water, being changed into steam, carries off the heat; the steam, mingling with the flame, lowers the temperature of the burning gas, and in proportion as steam fills the surrounding space oxygen is driven away. A burning coal mine in England was once extinguished by forcing steam into it, thus driving out the air which supported the combustion and cooling down the burning coal.

“The advantages which men receive from these agencies of heat are so manifest that we cannot help noticing them. I do not refer to the comfort of a pleasant temperature, nor the impossibility of living in a temperature extremely low, but to all those processes by which man subdues nature, provides for himself food, clothing, and dwelling-places, and builds up civilization. Heat is that force which enables man to accomplish his ends. Heat brings the iron from the native ore, and heat renders it malleable and plastic to be shaped for man’s uses. Heat quickens the chemical affinities and renders the arts of civilized life a possibility. Heat brings together oxygen and carbon in ten thousand furnaces, and the heat engendered by the combustion, changed to force, drives the ponderous or nimble machinery which carries on the work of the world. Heat quickens the chemical affinities and causes the wheat to grow; heat prepares the wheat for man’s food; and by the aid of heat that food is changed in man’s body, nutrition goes on, the body is built up, waste matter is removed, and all the vital processes are supported. Without these agencies of heat—softening and subduing stubborn matter on the one side, and quickening its forces on the other—man could not exist.

“Let me remind you that these agencies of heat are of God’s devising. If the operations of heat are beneficent to man, it is because God wished to bless his creatures. I am not much given to moralizing, but when I see how completely these simple effects of heat meet man’s wants, I cannot help remembering and admiring the wisdom of the great Designer. It is God and not blind, unconscious Nature that is working.”

“This reminds me,” said Samuel, “of the tradition in Greek mythology that Prometheus stole fire from Jupiter and brought it down to man in a reed as a precious treasure. It seems to me like a gift from heaven.”

“This mythological tradition has, however, one falsehood: there was no need that men should steal fire from the gods; God freely gave it. Heat is indeed a gift from heaven.”

CHAPTER V.

CONVEYANCE AND VARIETIES OF HEAT.

o-day we review the modes in which heat passes or is conveyed from place to place. It is evident that if heat were confined to the very place or point where it is generated, it could subserve none of those uses to which it is now applied in the economy of Nature or in the works and arts of man. But heat passes from place to place with great facility, and by one method, with the speed of light, it tends to diffuse itself evenly through all; it seeks an equilibrium. The modes of its diffusion, or conveyance, are three in number. Ansel may name them.”

“Heat passes from place to place and from body to body by ‘conduction,’ by ‘radiation,’ and by ‘convection.’”

“What is meant, Ansel, by the ‘conduction’ of heat?”

“The passing of heat from atom to atom and from particle to particle through a body is called conduction.”

“That is right. I will call upon Peter to give some illustrations of the conduction of heat.”

“The examples are so many,” Peter answered, “that I hardly know what to mention first. If I hold a pin in the flame of a lamp, the part of the pin that touches the flame is first heated, but soon the heat runs along the whole length of the pin and burns my fingers. The parts of a stove which touch the fire are first heated, and from them the heat spreads through the whole stove. A pine-wood shaving, kindled at one end, is heated by conduction, but the heat passes through it very little faster than the flame follows. Heat escapes from our bodies by being slowly conducted through our clothing. There is no end to the examples of conduction which one might give.”

“We must not think of the conduction of heat,” said Mr. Wilton, “as if it were a fluid slowly absorbed by a porous body, as water poured upon the ground soaks into it, or as water percolates through a lump of sugar and moistens the whole of it. We must remember that the transfer of heat is not a transfer of any substance, but a transfer of motion. One atom is set in motion, and strikes against another atom and sets that in motion, and thus motion is communicated from atom to atom and from molecule to molecule through the whole mass of matter till every atom is agitated with the heat vibrations. Do all bodies conduct heat with equal rapidity?”

“No, sir,” replied Ansel; “there is the greatest possible difference. Some substances are called good conductors, because heat permeates them so readily and rapidly; others conduct heat very slowly, and are called poor conductors or bad conductors.”

“That is right. Every child soon learns by experience to make a practical distinction of this kind. He very soon understands that he can hold a stick of wood without burning his hand, even though it be blazing at the other end, but that when a piece of iron is red hot at one end he must not take hold of it at the other. The child very soon learns to know the different feeling of a cotton night-gown from one of flannel, and the difference in apparent warmth between a linen pillow-case and a woolen blanket. After a room has been heated for a considerable time the various objects in it all become of the same temperature, and the same is true in a cold room; but how great the difference in the sensations produced by touching the oil-cloth and a woolen carpet in a cold room! Good conductors of heat, if hot, feel very hot; or if cold, feel very cold; while poor conductors make a much less decided impression. Why is this, Samuel?”

“The good conductors receive heat or part with it very readily. If the good conductor be hotter than our bodies, it imparts its heat rapidly to our hand, and because we receive heat rapidly from it, it feels to us very hot. Or if it be colder than our bodies, it takes heat from our hands very rapidly, and gives the impression of being very cold. Poor conductors impart heat to the skin or take it away more slowly, and hence feel as if their temperature were more nearly like that of the body.”

“The conducting qualities of bodies,” said Mr. Wilton, “seem to depend chiefly upon their structure or the arrangement of their atoms. Bodies which are compact and solid in their structure convey heat more rapidly than those which are loose and porous. Hence solids are better conductors than fluids, and fluids are better conductors than gases, and among solids the metals are better conductors than organized bodies, like wood or flesh, and better than the loose and porous minerals. In bodies of loose, porous, or fibrous texture, the continuity of the conductory substance is constantly broken. The particles in a mass of sawdust touch only at a few points, leaving frequent spaces. In woolen and cotton fabrics the points of junction of the fibres are very few, comparatively. For this reason the motion is not readily communicated from atom to atom.

“The crystalline arrangement of atoms has an influence upon conduction of heat. Heat is conducted more rapidly in a direction parallel with the axis of crystallization than across that axis. Wood conducts heat more rapidly in the direction of the grain. This arrangement seems to be well adapted for keeping trees warm in winter. Their roots reach down into the earth, which remains warm in the coldest weather. This heat of the earth travels along the fibres up through the tree, while the heat conducted across the fibres escapes much more slowly into the open air. The bark also, being a very bad conductor, hinders the escape of heat. Of metals, silver is the best conductor. I will give you a brief table which will show the great difference in the conducting qualities of some of the metals. Counting the conducting qualities of silver as 100, the table is: ‘Silver, 100; Gold, 53; Copper, 74; Iron, 12; Platinum, 8; German Silver, 6; Bismuth, 2.’—Youmans.

“What is the second method by which heat passes from place to place?”

“It is radiated,” replied Ansel.

“And what is radiation?”

“It is motion in straight lines or rays diverging from a centre. From a hot body heat is passing off in straight lines in every direction. As a lamp radiates light, so does a hot body radiate heat.”

“Radiant heat,” said Mr. Wilton, “moves with the same velocity as light, that is, one hundred and ninety-two thousand miles per second. It also follows the same general principles as light in all its motions. It is absorbed, reflected, or transmitted in the same manner as light. And this is true of either luminous heat—that is, heat radiated from a body which is red hot—or obscure, or dark heat.

“As there are good and poor conductors, so there are good and bad radiators of heat. The radiation of heat depends upon three conditions:

“1. Upon the temperature of the body. The higher the temperature, the more rapid and energetic is its radiation.

“2. Upon the surface of the radiating body. A dull, rough surface radiates heat more rapidly than a surface bright and polished.

“3. Upon the substance of the radiating surface. With surfaces equally smooth and bright, some substances radiate heat much better than others. A surface of varnish radiates heat much more powerfully than a surface of gold or silver.

“Ansel, you may, if you can, explain the radiation of heat.”

“I can give no other explanation than that radiation is conduction through that subtle ether which is supposed to pervade all space.”

“Very well; perhaps that is as good an explanation as can be given. But it seems rather like the propagation of an impulse than the spreading of atomic vibrations in every direction. The motion is propagated in straight lines. If it be conduction, it must be carried on by different vibrations from those of ponderable substances. Heat, light, and electricity are supposed to be all propagated through the same theoretical ether. Sir Isaac Newton estimated the density of the ether as seventy thousand times less than the density of our atmosphere, and its elasticity in proportion to its density as four hundred and ninety millions times greater. But the very existence of this universally-diffused ether is a supposition made to account for the phenomena of light, heat, and electricity; and, of course, all its qualities must be theoretical also. Radiation is believed to be the propagation of a motion or impulse through an inconceivably rare and elastic ether.

“Peter, what is the third method by which heat passes from place to place?”

“Convection,” was his reply.