some future period become the child of a fallen race, there is nothing as yet discovered by science which would make the chances very great against our world being selected as the theatre of this great event.

But as this argument will occupy a number of chapters, it is not necessary here to do more than indicate its general nature. First, It can be shewn that science does not give us any reason to conclude that any great proportion of the celestial bodies are capable of sustaining animal or vegetable life; Second, That out of those which are capable of supporting animal and vegetable life there is reason to believe that not one in a million is inhabited by a race of intelligent and moral beings; and, Third, That out of this extremely minute proportion, another unknown and probably only very small number is inhabited by fallen intelligences, to whom alone the incarnation would be necessary or desirable.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MOON.

WHEN Robinson Crusoe was wrecked upon the desert island, we are told that it was a matter of deep interest to him to ascertain whether it was inhabited or not; and if other islands had been in sight, he would no doubt have been anxious to know whether they also were peopled, or whether he was a solitary man, without companions, or neighbours, or friends. In like manner, to us, when looking out from this island world upon the thousands of other worlds around us, the question becomes deeply interesting, Are there in these distant stars fellow-beings like ourselves, who think and feel, and love and worship, as we do? or are we alone in the universe, wandering along its silent solitudes and is each star no more than a desert world, a bleak and naked rock left floating in the wide wilderness of heaven?

This has long been a favourite subject of speculation, and of late years a good deal of interest has been excited by the views which have been adopted on both sides of the question. One writer endeavours to shew that the earth, in all probability, is the only world that is inhabited; and another, after establishing, by deduction, that every star must be inhabited, brings forward very strong arguments to shew that we have no proof that they are

not.

It is difficult to believe that either of these extreme

views is the right one; for although it could be proved, on the one hand, that our planet alone, in the solar system, is capable of supporting vegetable and animal. life, still there are thousands of millions of other systems among which there may be millions of planets as habitable as our own; and, it may be, the abodes of happier and better beings than ourselves. Let us therefore examine the celestial orbs, one by one, and class by class, to endeavour to ascertain what kind of worlds they are, and what kind of probability there is that they are inhabited.

Our first voyage of discovery will be directed to the moon, the nearest of all the heavenly bodies to this earth. Astronomers inform us that the moon is about 240,000 miles distant from the earth-a great distance indeed, but yet nothing compared with the vast distances of other worlds. A cannon-ball, shot from the earth to the moon, and flying at the rate of a thousand miles an hour, would hit it only at the end of ten days; and yet a ray of light, reflected from the moon, will reach our earth in two seconds. As to its size, although it is much smaller than our own world, it measures 2160 miles in diameter; so that a railway train, running at the rate of forty miles an hour, would require a whole week to travel round it. Perhaps the diagram on the next page will give a better idea of the size of the moon, by shewing how much of it would be occupied by the British Isles, if they were laid down upon its surface.

In some of our future chapters, we shall have occasion to shew that not only the angels, but the resurrection bodies of the saints, will be able to travel from star to star with great velocity, and that we shall be able to visit not only the planets and satellites of the solar system, but the distant stars and nebulæ that hang out their glories in

the midnight sky. We shall anticipate the privilege in imagination, and on the wings of science take our flight for a season to see what is to be seen.

We spring upwards from the earth, and with a gentle

flight, at the rate say of ten miles per second, attain in one hour the distance of 36,000 miles. Let us stay our flight for a few seconds to look upon the strange scene that now presents itself. We turn our eyes downwards upon the earth below. Is that the earth? We expected to look down upon land and water, continent and island, spread out as on a map beneath us: what we see, is a great orb wrapped in a gauzy envelope of bright azure

blue. We look in vain for the great outlines of Europe, or Asia, or Africa, or America: they are all lying covered beneath that sea of air, which, though it is full forty miles in thickness, presents at this distance a sharp outline as of a very distant cloud. We look around, and oh, how strange! the heavens are black-blacker than night; although the sun, unchanged in disc, pours his cool light in rays of terrible intensity. O for the softening influence of the earth's blue atmosphere! The heavens are black, but the stars are shining with tenfold brilliancy. Sirius is sending his streaming rays towards us, as if the sun himself were shining out from behind some chink of heaven. Venus, and Jupiter, and Saturn, and Mars, are each of them projected with a milder radiance upon the black vault of night, and, though with discs no larger than before, with a distinctness of feature and outline that even surpasses the dim visions of the telescope.

As yet the moon appears not greatly larger than before; we therefore resume our flight, and in other five short hours have neared the surface of our well-known satellite. Having selected a landing-place, we gradually slacken our speed, and within seven hours from the commencement of our flight, we stand upon the summit of one of the lunar mountains.

Everything here is upon a gigantic scale, far beyond any scenery to be found on earth. We are looking from a height of 17,000 feet far down into a circular valley of magnificent extent, stretching away over rock, and gulf, and mountain, for upwards of fifty miles, where at last the opposite barrier rises in sheer precipice, towering up to the heavens thousands upon thousands of feet in height. In the centre of the valley stands a mountain,