When viewed with a telescope, the surface of the Moon is perceived to consist of lofty mountain chains with rugged peaks, numerous extinct volcanoes called crater mountains, hills, clefts, chasms, valleys, and level plains—a region of desolation, presenting to our gaze the shattered and upturned fragments of the Moon's crust, convulsed by forces of a volcanic nature which have long since expended their energies and died out. The mountain ranges on the Moon resemble those of the Earth, but they have a more rugged outline, and their peaks are more precipitous, some of them rising to a height of 20,000 feet. They are called the Lunar Alps, Apennines, and Cordilleras, and embrace every variety of hill, cliff, mound, and ridge of comparatively low elevation. The plains are large level areas, which are situated on various parts of the lunar surface; they are of a darker hue than the mountainous regions by which they are surrounded, and were at one time believed to be seas. They are analogous to the prairies, steppes, and deserts of the Earth.

Valleys.—Some of these are of spacious dimensions; others are narrow, and contract into gorges and chasms. Clefts or rills are long cracks or fissures of considerable depth, which extend sometimes for hundreds of miles across the various strata of which the Moon's crust is composed.

The characteristic features of the Moon's surface are the crater mountains: they are very numerous on certain portions of the lunar disc, and give the Moon the freckled appearance which it presents in the telescope, and which Galileo likened to the eyes in the feathers of a peacock's tail. They are believed to be of volcanic origin, and have been classified as follows: 'Walled plains, mountain rings, ring plains, crater plains, craters, craterlets, and crater cones.' Upwards of 13,000 of these mountains have been enumerated, and 1,000 are known to have a diameter exceeding nine miles. Walled plains consist of circular areas which have a width varying from 150 miles to a few hundred yards. They are enclosed by rocky ramparts, whilst the centre is occupied by an elevated peak. The depth of these formations, which are often far below the level of the Moon's surface, ranges from 10,000 to 20,000 feet. Mountain rings, ring plains, and crater plains resemble those already described, but are on a smaller scale; the floors of the larger ones are frequently occupied by craters and craterlets. The latter exist in large numbers, and some portions of the Moon's surface appear honeycombed with them, the smaller craters resting on the sides of larger ones and occupying the bottoms of the more extensive areas. There is no kind of formation on the Earth's surface that can be compared with these crater mountains, which indicate that the Moon was at one time a fiery globe convulsed by internal forces which found an outlet in the numerous volcanoes scattered over her surface.

The most remarkable of these volcanic mountains have been named after distinguished men. (1) Copernicus is one of the most imposing; its crater is 56 miles in diameter, and situated at its centre is a mountain with six peaks 2,400 feet in height. The ring by which it is surrounded rises 11,000 feet above the floor of the crater, and consists of terraces believed to have been created by the partial congelation and periodic subsidence of a lake of molten lava which occupied the enclosed area.

(2) Tycho is one of the most magnificent and perfect of lunar volcanoes, and is also remarkable as being a centre from which, when the Moon is full, there radiates a number of bright streaks which extend across the lunar surface, over mountain and valley, through ring and crater, for many hundreds of miles. Their nature is unknown, and nothing resembling them is found on the Earth. Tycho has a diameter of 50 miles and a depth of 17,000 feet. The peak which rises from the floor of the crater attains a height of 6,000 feet, and the rampart consists of a series of terraces which give variety to the appearance of the inner wall. The surface of the Moon round Tycho is honeycombed with small volcanoes.

(3) Clavius is one of the most extensive of the walled plains; it has a diameter of 142 miles and an area of 16,500 square miles. The rocky annulus which surrounds it is very lofty and precipitous, and at one point reaches a height of 17,300 feet. Upwards of 90 craters have been counted within this space, one of the peaks attaining to an elevation of 24,000 feet above the level floor of the plain. It is believed that the lowest depths of this wild and precipitous region are never penetrated by sunlight, they are so overshadowed by towering crag and fell which intercept the solar rays; and, as there is no atmosphere to cause reflection, they are consequently enveloped in perpetual darkness.

(4) Plato has a diameter of about 60 miles and an area of 2,700 square miles; its central peak rises to a height of 7,300 feet. It has an irregular rampart which is broken up into terraces averaging about 4,000 feet high; three cones, each with an elevation of from 7,000 to 9,000 feet, rest on its western border.

(5) Theophilus is the deepest of the visible craters on the Moon. It has a diameter of 64 miles, and the inner edge of the ring rises from the level floor to a height ranging from 14,000 to 18,000 feet. A group of mountains occupies the centre of the area, the highest peak of which reaches an elevation of 5,200 feet. Cyrillus and Catharina, two adjacent craters, are each about 16,000 feet deep and connected by a wide valley.

(6) Aristarchus is the brightest spot on the Moon, and appears almost dazzling in the telescope. The crater has a diameter of 42 miles, the centre of which is occupied by a steep mountain. The rampart on the western side rises to a height of 7,500 feet, on the east it becomes a plateau which connects it with a smaller crater called Herodotus. Bright streaks radiate from Aristarchus when there is full moon, and extend for a considerable distance over the surface of the orb.

Though the face of the Moon has been carefully scanned for two centuries and a half, and selenographers have mapped and delineated her features with the utmost accuracy and precision, yet no perceptible change of a reliable character has been perceived to occur on any part of the orb. The surface of the hemisphere directed towards the Earth appears to be an alternation of desert plains, craggy wildernesses, and extinct volcanoes—a region of desolation unoccupied by any living thing, and 'upon which the light of life has never dawned.' Owing to the absence of an atmosphere, there is neither diffuse daylight nor twilight on the Moon. Every portion of the lunar surface not exposed to the Sun's rays is shrouded in darkness, and black shadows can be observed fringing prominences of silvery whiteness. If the Moon were enveloped in an atmosphere similar to that which surrounds the Earth, the reflection and diffusion of light among the minute particles of watery vapour which permeate it would give rise to a gradual transition from light to darkness; the lunar surface would be visible when not illumined by the direct rays of the Sun, and before sunrise and after sunset, dawn and twilight would occur as upon the Earth. But upon the Moon there is no dawn, and the darkness of night envelops the orb until the appearance of the edge of the Sun's disc above the horizon, then his dazzling rays illumine the summits and loftiest peaks of the lunar mountains whilst yet their sides and bases are wrapped in deep gloom. Since the pace of the Sun across the lunar heavens is 28 times slower than it is with us, there is continuous sunshine on the Moon for 304 hours, and this long day—equal to about a fortnight of our time—is succeeded by a night of similar duration. As there is no atmosphere overhead to diffuse or reflect the light, the Sun shines in a pitch-black sky, and at lunar noonday the planets and constellations can be seen displaying a brilliancy of greater intensity than can be perceived on Earth during the darkest night. Every portion of the Moon's surface is bleak, bare, and untouched by any softening influences. No gentle gale ever sweeps down her valleys or disturbs the dead calm that hangs over this world; no cloud ever tempers the fierce glare of the Sun that pours down his unmitigated rays from a sky of inky blackness; no refreshing shower ever falls upon her arid mountains and plains; no sound ever breaks the profound stillness that reigns over this realm of solitude and desolation.



As might be expected, Milton makes frequent allusion to the Moon in 'Paradise Lost,' and does not fail to set forth the distinctive charms associated with the unrivalled queen of the firmament. The majority of poets would most likely regard a description of evening as incomplete without an allusion to the Moon. Milton has adhered to this sentiment, as may be perceived in the following lines:—

till the Moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.—iv. 606-609.

now reigns Full-orbed the Moon, and with more pleasing light, Shadowy sets off the face of things.—v. 41-43.

The association of the Moon with the nocturnal revels and dances of elves and fairies is felicitously expressed in the following passage:—

or faery elves, Whose midnight revels, by a forest side Or fountain, some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the Moon Sits arbitress, and nearer to the Earth Wheels her pale course.—i. 781-86.

In contrast with this, we have Milton's description of the Moon when affected by the demoniacal practices of the 'night-hag' who was believed to destroy infants for the sake of drinking their blood, and applying their mangled limbs to the purposes of incantation. The legend is of Scandinavian origin and the locality Lapland:—

Nor uglier follow the night-hag, when called In secret, riding through the air she comes, Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance With Lapland witches, while the labouring Moon Eclipses at their charms.—ii. 662-66.

In his description of the massive shield carried by Satan, the poet compares it with the full moon:—

his ponderous shield Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, Behind him cast. The broad circumference Hung on his shoulders like the Moon.—i. 284-87.

The phases displayed by the Moon in her monthly journey round the Earth, and which lend a variety of charm to the appearances presented by the orb, are poetically described by Milton in the following lines:—

but there the neighbouring Moon (So call that opposite fair star) her aid Timely interposes, and her monthly round Still ending, still renewing, through mid-Heaven With borrowed light her countenance triform Hence fills and empties, to enlighten the Earth, And in her pale dominion checks the night.—iii. 726-32.

It is interesting to observe how aptly Milton describes the subdued illumination of the Moon's reflected light, as compared with the brilliant radiance of the blazing Sun, and how the distinguishing glory peculiar to each orb is appropriately set forth in the various passages in which they are described; their contrasted splendour enhancing rather than detracting from the grandeur and beauty belonging to each.

THE PLANET EARTH[14]

No lovelier planet circles round the Sun than the planet Earth, with her oceans and continents, her mountains, valleys, rivers, lakes, and plains; surrounded by heaven's azure, radiant with the sunlight of her day and adorned by night with countless sparkling points of gold. This beautiful world, the abode of MAN, is of paramount importance to us, and is the only part of the universe of which we have any direct knowledge.

The Earth may be regarded as one of the Sun's numerous family, and is situated third in order from the refulgent orb, round which it revolves in an elliptical orbit at a mean distance of 92,800,000 miles. The Earth is nearest to the Sun at the end of December, and furthest away at the beginning of July; the difference between those distances is 3,250,000 miles—the extent of the eccentricity of the planet's orbit. The figure of the Earth is that of an oblate spheroid; it is slightly flattened at the poles and bulges at the equator. Its polar or shortest diameter is 7,899 miles, its equatorial diameter is 7,926 miles—greater than the other by 27 miles. The circumference of the Earth at the equator is 24,899 miles, and the total area of its surface is 197,000,000 square miles. Its mean density is 5-1/2 times greater than that of water.

The two principal motions performed by the Earth are: (1) Rotation on its axis; (2) its annual revolution round the Sun. The Earth always rotates in the same manner, and in the same direction, from west to east. As the axis of rotation corresponds with the shortest diameter of the planet, it affords strong evidence that the Earth assumed its present shape whilst rapidly rotating round its axis when in a fluid or plastic condition. This would accord with the nebular hypothesis. The ends of the Earth's axis are called the poles of the Earth; one is the north, the other the south pole. The north pole is directed towards a star in the Lesser Bear called the Pole Star. The south pole is directed to a corresponding opposite part of the heavens. The Earth's axis is inclined 63 deg. 33' to the plane of the ecliptic, and is always directed to the same point in the heavens. The Earth accomplishes a revolution on its axis in 23 hours 56 minutes 4 seconds mean solar time, which is the length of the sidereal day. This rate of rotation is invariable. At the equator, where the circumference of the globe exceeds 24,000 miles, the velocity of a point on its surface is upwards of 1,000 miles an hour, but, as the poles are approached, the tangential velocity diminishes, and at those points it is entirely absent. The Earth accomplishes a revolution of her orbit in 365 days 6 hours 9 minutes; in her journey round the Sun she travels a circuit of 580,000,000 miles at an average pace of 66,000 miles an hour. The Earth has other slight motions called perturbations, which are produced by the gravitational attraction of other members of the solar system. The most important of these is Precession of the Equinoxes, which is caused by the attraction of the Sun, Moon, and planets, on the protuberant equatorial region of the globe. This attraction has a tendency to turn the Earth's axis at right angles to her orbit, but it only results in the slow rotation of the pole of the equator round that of the ecliptic, which is occurring at the rate of 1 deg. in 70 years, and will require a period of 25,868 years to complete an entire revolution of the heavens.

The spot on Earth round which is centred the chief interest in Milton's poem is Paradise, which was situated in the east of Eden, a district of Central Asia. It was here where God ordained that man should first dwell—a place created for his enjoyment and delight. Satan, after his soliloquy on Mount Niphates, directs his way to Paradise, and arrives first in Eden, where he beholds from a distance the Happy Garden—

So on he fares, and to the border comes Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, As with a rural mound, the champain head Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, Access denied; and overhead upgrew Insuperable highth of loftiest shade, Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend, Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops The verdurous wall of Paradise up-sprung; Which to our general sire gave prospect large Into his nether empire neighbouring round. And higher than that wall, a circling row Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed; On which the Sun more glad impressed his beams Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, When God hath showered the Earth: so lovely seemed That landskip. And of pure now purer air Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All sadness but despair. Now gentle gales, Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole Those balmy spoils.—iv. 131-59.

Satan, having gained admission to the Garden by overleaping the tangled thicket of shrubs and bushes which formed an impenetrable barrier and prevented any access to the enclosure within, he flew up on to the Tree of Life—

Beneath him, with new wonder, now he views, To all delight of human sense exposed, In narrow room Nature's whole wealth; yea, more!— A Heaven on Earth: for blissful Paradise Of God the garden was, by Him in the east Of Eden planted, Eden stretched her line From Auran eastward to the royal towers Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings, Or where the sons of Eden long before Dwelt in Telassar. In this pleasant soil His far more pleasant garden God ordained. Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste; And all amid them stood the Tree of Life, High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit Of vegetable gold; and next to life, Our death, the Tree of Knowledge, grew fast by— Knowledge of good, bought dear by knowing ill. Southward through Eden went a river large, Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown That mountain, as his garden mould, high raised Upon the rapid current, which, through veins Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn, Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill Watered the garden; thence united fell Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, Which from his darksome passage now appears, And now, divided into four main streams, Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm And country whereof here needs no account; But rather to tell how, if Art could tell How, from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks, Boiling on orient-pearl and sands of gold, With mazy error under pendent shades Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, Both where the morning Sun first warmly smote The open field, and where the unpierced shade Imbrowned the noontide bowers.—iv. 205-46.

Milton's description of Paradise is not less remarkable in its way than the lurid scenes depicted by him in Pandemonium. The versatility of his poetic genius is nowhere more apparent than in the charming pastoral verse contained in this part of his poem. The poet has lavished the whole wealth of his luxuriant imagination in his description of Eden and blissful Paradise with its 'vernal airs' and 'gentle gales,' its verdant meads, and murmuring streams, 'rolling on orient-pearl and sands of gold;' its stately trees laden with blossom and fruit; its spicy groves and shady bowers, over which there breathed the eternal Spring.

In Book IX. Satan expresses himself in an eloquent apostrophe to the primitive Earth, over which he previously wandered for seven days—

O Earth, how like to Heaven, if not preferred More justly, seat worthier of gods, as built With second thoughts, reforming what was old! For what God, after better, worse would build? Terrestrial Heaven, danced round by other Heavens, That shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps, Light above light, for thee alone, as seems, In thee concentring all their precious beams Of sacred influence! As God in Heaven Is centre, yet extends to all, so thou Centring receiv'st from all those orbs; in thee, Not in themselves, all their known virtue appears, Productive in herb, plant, and nobler birth Of creatures animate with gradual life Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in Man, With what delight I could have walked thee round, If I could joy in aught—sweet interchange Of hill and valley, rivers, woods, and plains, Now land, now sea, and shores with forest crowned, Rocks, dens, and caves.—ix. 99-118.

Though it is impossible to regard the Earth as possessing the importance ascribed to it by the ancient Ptolemaists; nevertheless, our globe is a great and mighty world, and appears to be one of the most favourably situated of all the planets, being neither near the Sun nor yet very far distant from the orb; and although, when compared with the universe, it is no more than a leaf on a tree in the midst of a vast forest; still, it is not the least important among other circling worlds, and unfailingly fulfils the part allotted to it in the great scheme of creation.

THE PLANET HESPERUS

This is the beautiful morning and evening star, the peerless planet that ushers in the twilight and the dawn, the harbinger of day and unrivalled queen of the evening. Venus, called after the Roman goddess of Love, and also identified with the Greek Aphrodite of ideal beauty, is the name by which the planet is popularly known; but Milton does not so designate it, and the name 'Venus' is not found in 'Paradise Lost.' The ancients called it Lucifer and Phosphor when it shone as a morning star before sunrise, and Hesperus and Vesper when it became visible after sunset. It is the most lustrous of all the planets, and at times its brilliancy is so marked as to throw a distinct shadow at night.

Venus is the second planet in order from the Sun. Its orbit lies between that of Mercury and the Earth, and in form approaches nearer to a circle than that of any of the other planets. It travels round the Sun in 224.7 days, at a mean distance of 67,000,000 miles, and with an average velocity of 80,000 miles an hour. Its period of rotation is unknown. By the observation of dusky spots on its surface, it has been surmised that the planet completes a revolution on its axis in 23-1/4 hours; but other observers doubt this and are inclined to believe that it always presents the same face to the Sun. When at inferior conjunction Venus approaches nearer to the Earth than any other planet, its distance then being 27,000,000 miles. Its greatest elongation varies from 45 deg. to 47 deg. 12'; it therefore can never be much more than three hours above the horizon before sunrise, or after sunset. Venus is a morning star when passing from inferior to superior conjunction, and during the other half of its synodical period it is an evening star. The planet attains its greatest brilliancy at an elongation 40 deg. west or east of the Sun—five weeks before and after inferior conjunction. It is at these periods, when at its greatest brilliancy, that it casts a shadow at night.

Though so pleasing an object to the unaided eye, Venus, when observed with the telescope, is often a source of disappointment—this is on account of its dazzling brilliancy, which renders any accurate definition of its surface impossible. Sir John Herschel writes: 'The intense lustre of its illuminated part dazzles the sight, and exaggerates every imperfection of the telescope; yet we see clearly that its surface is not mottled over with permanent spots like the Moon; we notice in it neither mountains nor shadows, but a uniform brightness, in which sometimes we may indeed fancy, or perhaps more than fancy, brighter or obscurer portions, but can seldom or never rest fully satisfied of the fact.' It is believed that the surface of the planet is invisible on account of the existence of a cloud-laden atmosphere by which it is enveloped, and which may serve as a protection against the intense glare of the sunshine and heat poured down by the not far-distant Sun. Schroeter, a German astronomer, believed that he saw lofty mountains on the surface of the planet, but their existence has not been confirmed by any other observer. The Sun if viewed from Venus would have a diameter nearly half as large again as when seen from the Earth; it is therefore probable that the planet is subjected to a much higher temperature than what is experienced on our globe.

The phases of Venus are similar to those exhibited by the Moon, and are caused by a change in position of the illumined hemisphere of the planet with regard to the Earth. At superior conjunction the whole enlightened disc of the planet is turned towards the Earth, but is invisible by being lost in the Sun's rays. Shortly before or after it arrives at this point, its form is gibbous, the illumined portion being less than a circle but greater than a semi-circle. At its greatest elongation west or east of the Sun the planet resembles the Moon in quadrature—a half moon—and between those points and inferior conjunction it is visible as a beautiful crescent. It becomes narrower and sharper as it approaches inferior conjunction, until it resembles a curved luminous thread prior to its disappearance at the conjunction. After having passed this point it reappears on the other side of the Sun as the morning star.

It would be only natural to imagine that this peerless orb, the most beautiful and lustrous of the planets, upon which men have gazed with longing admiration, and designated the emblem of 'all beauty and all love,' should have impressed Milton's poetical imagination with its charming appearance, and stimulated the flow of his captivating muse. He addresses the orb as

Fairest of Stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.—v. 166-70.

In these lines the poet alludes to Venus as the morning star.

In the other passages in his poem Milton associates the planet sometimes with the morning and at other times with the evening—

His countenance, as the Morning Star that guides The starry flock.—v. 708-709.

Or if the Star of Evening and the Moon Haste to thy audience, Night with her will bring Silence, and Sleep listening to thee will watch.—vii. 104-106.

And hence the morning planet gilds her horns.—vii. 366.

The Sun was sunk and after him the Star Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring Twilight upon the Earth, short arbiter Twixt day and night.—ix. 47-50.

and bid haste the Evening Star On his hill top to light the bridal lamp.—viii. 519-20.

Milton knew of the phases of Venus and was aware that at certain times the planet was visible in the telescope as a beautiful crescent. The line in which he mentions her as gilding her horns is an allusion to this appearance of Venus.

THE PLEIADES

The beautiful cluster of the Pleiades or Seven Sisters has been regarded with hallowed veneration from time immemorial. The happy influences believed to be shed down upon the Earth by those stars and their close association with human destinies have rendered them objects of almost sacred interest among the different races of mankind. In every region of the globe and in every clime, among civilised nations and savage fetish-worshipping tribes, the same benign influences were ascribed to the stars which form this interesting group.

In Greek mythology they were known as the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione. Different versions are given of their fate. By some writers it is said they died from grief in consequence of the death of their sisters, the Hyades, or on account of the fate of their father, who, for treason, was condemned by Zeus to bear on his head and hands the vault of heaven, on the mountains of north-west Africa which bear his name. According to others they were the companions of Diana, and, in order to escape from Orion, by whom they were pursued, the gods translated them to the sky.

All writers agree in saying that after their death or translation they were transformed into stars. Their names are Alcyone, Electra, Maia, Merope, Sterope, Taygeta, and Celaeno. The seventh Atlantid is said to be the 'lost Pleiad,' but it can be perceived without difficulty by a person possessing good eyesight. In the book of Job there is a beautiful allusion to the Pleiades (chap. xxxviii.) when God speaks out of the whirlwind and asks the patriarch to answer Him—

Canst thou bind the sweet influences of the Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion? Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season? or canst thou guide Arcturus with his sons? Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven? canst thou set the dominion thereof in the earth?

Admiral Smyth says that this noble passage is more correctly rendered as follows:

Canst thou bind the delightful teemings of Cheemah? Or the contractions of Chesil canst thou open? Canst thou draw forth Mazzaroth in his season Or Ayeesh and his sons canst thou guide?

He writes: 'In this very early description of the cardinal constellations, Cheemah denotes Taurus with the Pleiades; Chesil is Scorpio; Mazzaroth is Sirius in "the chambers of the south;" and Ayeesh the Greater Bear, the Hebrew word signifying a bier, which was shaped by the four well-known bright stars, while the three forming the tail were considered as children attending a funeral.' The Greeks at an early period were attracted by this cluster of stars, and Hesiod alludes to them in his writings. One passage converted into rhyme reads as follows:

There is a time when forty days they lie, And forty nights, conceal'd from human eye; But in the course of the revolving year, When the swain sharps the scythe, again appear.

Their heliacal rising was considered a favourable time for setting out on a voyage, and their midnight culmination, which occurred shortly after the middle of November, was celebrated by some nations with festivals and public ceremonies. Considerable diversity of opinion existed among the ancients with regard to the number of stars which constitute this group. It was affirmed by some that only six were visible, whilst others maintained that seven could be seen. Ovid writes:

Quae septem dici, sex tamen esse solent.

Homer and Attalus mention six; Hipparchus and Aratus seven. The legend with regard to the lost Pleiad would seem to indicate that, during a period in the past, the star possessed a superior brilliancy and was more distinctly visible than it is at the present time. This may have been so, for, should it belong to the class of variable stars, there would be a periodic ebb and flow of its light, by which its fluctuating brilliance could be explained. When looked at directly only six stars can be seen in the group, but should the eye be turned sideways more than this number become visible. Several observers have counted as many as ten or twelve, and it is stated by Kepler that his tutor, Maestlin, was able to enumerate fourteen stars and mapped eleven in their relative positions. With telescopic aid the number is largely increased—Galileo observed thirty-six with his instrument and Hooke, in 1664, counted seventy-eight. Large modern telescopes bring into view several thousand stars in this region.

The Pleiades are situated at a profound distance in space. Their light period is estimated at 250 years, indicating a distance of 1,500 billions of miles. Our Sun if thus far removed would be reduced to a tenth-magnitude star. 'There can be little doubt,' says Miss Agnes Clerke, 'that the solar brilliancy is surpassed by sixty to seventy of the Pleiades. And it must be in some cases enormously surpassed; by Alcyone 1,000, by Electra 480, by Maia nearly 400 times. Sirius itself takes a subordinate rank when compared with the five most brilliant members of a group, the real magnificence of which we can thus in some degree apprehend.' This is the only star cluster which can be perceived to be moving in space, or which has an ascertained common proper motion. Its constituents form a magnificent system in which the stars bear a mutual relationship to each other, and perform intricate internal revolutions, whilst they in systemic union drift along through the depths of space. There are two allusions to the Pleiades in 'Paradise Lost.' In describing the path of the newly created Sun, Milton introduces them as indicative of the joyfulness associated with the birth of the Universe—

First in his east the glorious lamp was seen, Regent of day, and all the horizon round Invested with bright rays, jocund to run His longitude through heaven's high road; the grey Dawn, and the Pleiades before him danced, Shedding sweet influence.—vii. 370-75.

It was believed that the Earth was created in the spring; and towards the end of April this group rises a little before the Sun and precedes him in his course, 'shedding sweet influences.' The ancients believed that the good or evil influences of the stars were exercised not in the night but during the day, when their rays mingled with those of the Sun. The pernicious influence of the Dog-star is mentioned by Latin writers as being most pronounced during the dog-days, at the end of summer and commencement of autumn, the time of the heliacal rising of this star.

The other allusion to the Pleiades is in Book X., line 673, where Milton, in describing the altered path of the Sun consequent upon the Fall, mentions how the orb travels through Taurus with the Seven Atlantic Sisters—the seven daughters of Atlas, the Pleiades, which are situated on the shoulder of the animal representing this zodiacal constellation.

THE GALAXY

The Galaxy or Milky Way is the great luminous zone encircling the heavens, which can be seen extending across the sky from horizon to horizon. Its diffused nebulous appearance caused the ancients much perplexity, and many quaint opinions were hazarded as to the nature of this celestial highway; but the mystery associated with it was not solved until Galileo directed his newly invented telescope to this lucent object, when, to his intense delight, he discovered that it consists of myriads of stars—millions upon millions of suns so distant as to be individually indistinguishable to ordinary vision, and so closely aggregated, that their blended light gives rise to the milky luminosity signified by its name. This stelliferous zone almost completely encircles the sphere, which it divides into two nearly equal parts, and is inclined at an angle of 63 deg. to the celestial equator. In Centaurus it divides into two portions, one indistinct and of interrupted continuity, the other bright and well defined; these, after remaining apart for 120 deg., reunite in Cygnus. The Milky Way is of irregular outline and varies in breadth from 5 deg. to 16 deg.; it intersects the equinoctial in the constellations Monoceros and Aquila, and approaches in Cassiopeia to within 27 deg. of the north pole of the heavens; an equal distance intervenes between it and the south pole. Its poles are in Coma Bernices and Cetus. The stars in the galactic tract are very unevenly distributed; in some of its richest regions as many stars as are visible to the naked eye on a clear night have been counted within the space of a square degree. In other parts they are much less numerous, and there have been observed besides, adjacent to the most luminous portions of the zone, dark intervals and winding channels almost entirely devoid of stars. An instance of this kind occurs in the constellation of the Southern Cross, where there exists in a rich stellar region a large oval-shaped dark vacuity, 8 deg. by 5 deg. in extent, that appears to be almost entirely denuded of stars. In looking at it, an impression is created that one is gazing into an empty void of space far beyond the Milky Way. This gulf of Cimmerian darkness was called by early navigators the Coal Sack. Similar dark spaces, though not of such magnitude, are seen in Ophiuchus, Scorpio, and Cygnus.

The Galaxy, when viewed with a powerful telescope, is found to consist of congeries of stars, vast stellar aggregations, great luminous tracts resolvable into clouds of stars of overpowering magnificence, superb clusters of various orders, and convoluted nebulous streams wandering 'with mazy error' among 'islands of light and lakes of darkness,' resolved by the telescope into banks of shining worlds. The concourses of stars which enter into the formation of this wonderful zone exhibit in a marvellous degree the amazing profusion in which these orbs exist in certain regions of space; yet those multitudes of stars perform their motions in harmonious unison and in orderly array, and by their mutual attraction sustain the dynamical equilibrium of this stupendous galactic ring, the diameter of which, according to one authority, is not traversed by light in less than 13,000 years.



Sir William Herschel, to whom we are indebted for most of what we know of the Milky Way, commenced a series of observations in 1785 with the object of acquiring a knowledge of the structure of the sidereal heavens. In the accomplishment of this object, to which he devoted a considerable part of his life, he undertook a systematic survey of that portion of the Galaxy which is visible in the Northern Hemisphere. By a method called star-gauging, which consisted in the enumeration of the stars in each successive telescopic field as the instrument moved slowly over the region under observation, he found that the depth of the star strata could be approximately ascertained by counting the stars along the line of vision; those were most numerous where the visual line appeared of the greatest length and fewest in number where it was shortest. Herschel perceived the internal structure of the Galaxy to be exceedingly intricate and complex, and that it embraced within its confines an endless variety of systems, clusters, and groups, branches, sprays, arches, loops, and streaming filaments of stars, all of which combined to form this luminous zone. 'It is indeed,' says a well-known astronomer, 'only to the most careless glance, or when viewed through an atmosphere of imperfect transparency, that the Milky Way seems a continuous zone. Let the naked eye rest thoughtfully on any part of it, and, if circumstances be favourable, it will stand out rather as an accumulation of patches and streams of light of every conceivable variety of form and brightness, now side by side, now heaped on each other; again spanning across dark spaces, intertwining and forming a most curious and complex network; and at other times darting off into the neighbouring skies in branches of capricious length and shape which gradually thin away and disappear.' Sir John Herschel, who was occupied for four years at the Cape of Good Hope in exploring the celestial regions of the Southern Hemisphere, describes the coming on of the Milky Way as seen in his 20-foot reflector. He first remarks 'that all the stars visible to us, whether by unassisted vision or through the best telescopes, belong to and form part of a vast stratum or considerably flattened and unsymmetrical congeries of stars in which our system is deeply and eccentrically plunged; and, moreover, situated near a point where the stratum bifurcates or spreads itself out into two sheets.' 'As the main body of the Milky Way comes on the frequency and variety of those masses (nebulous) increases; here the Milky Way is composed of separate or slight or strongly connected clouds of semi-nebulous light, and, as the telescope moves, the appearance is that of clouds passing in a scud, as sailors call it.' The Milky Way is like sand, not strewed evenly as with a sieve, but as if flung down by handfuls (and both hands at once), leaving dark intervals, and all consisting of stars of the fourteenth, sixteenth, twentieth magnitudes down to nebulosity, in a most astonishing manner. After an interval of comparative poverty, the same phenomenon, and even more remarkable, I cannot say it is nebulous, it is all resolved, but the stars are inconceivably numerous and minute; there must be millions and all almost equally massed together. Yet they nowhere run to nuclei or clusters much brighter in the middle. Towards the end of the seventeenth hour (Right Ascension) the globular clusters begin to come in; they consist of stars of excessive minuteness, but yet not more so than the ground of the Milky Way, on which not only they appear projected, but of which it is very probable they form a part. 'From the foregoing analysis of the telescopic aspect of the Milky Way in this interesting region, I think it can hardly be doubted that it consists of portions differing exceedingly in distance, but brought by the effect of projection into the same, or nearly the same, visual line; in particular, that at the anterior edge of what we have called the main stream, we see foreshortened a vast and illimitable area scattered over with discontinuous masses and aggregates of stars in the manner of the cumuli of a mackerel sky, rather than of a stratum of regular thickness and homogeneous formation.'

The profound distance at which the stars of the Galaxy are situated in space precludes the possibility of our obtaining any definite knowledge of their magnitude and of the extent of the intervals by which they are separated from each other, nor can we learn anything of the details associated with the systems and combinations into which they enter. It is believed that the majority of the stars in the Milky Way equal or surpass the Sun in brilliancy and splendour. They are tenth to fifteenth magnitude stars; now, the Sun at the distance indicated by these magnitudes would in the telescope appear a much fainter object; he would not reach the fifteenth magnitude. Consequently, the galactic stars are regarded as his peers or superiors in magnitude and brilliancy. Those myriads of suns are all in motion—in nature a stationary body is unknown—and they are sufficiently far apart so as not to be unduly influenced by their mutual gravitational attraction; a distance perhaps equal to that which separates our Sun from the nearest fixed star may intervene between each of those orbs. In the deepest recesses of the Milky Way, Sir William Herschel was able to count 500 stars receding in regular order behind each other; between each there existed an interval of space, probably not less extensive than the interstellar spaces among the stars by which we are surrounded.

The richest galactic regions in the Northern Hemisphere are found in Perseus, Cygnus, and Aquila. Night after night could be spent in sweeping the telescope over fields where the stars can be seen in amazing profusion. In the interval of a quarter of an hour, Sir William Herschel observed 116,000 stars pass before him in the telescope, and on another occasion he perceived 258,000 stars in the space of forty-one minutes. In the constellation of the Swan there is a region about 5 deg. in breadth which contains 331,000 stars. Photography reveals in a remarkable manner the amazing richness of this stelliferous zone; the impress of the stars on the sensitive plate of the camera, in some instances, resembles a shower of descending snowflakes.

Though Sir William Herschel was able to fathom the Galaxy in most of its tracts, yet there were regions which his great telescopes were unable to penetrate entirely through. In Cepheus there is a spot where he observed the stars become 'gradually less till they escape the eye so that appearances here favour the idea of a succeeding more distant clustering part.' He perceived another in Scorpio 'where, through the hollows and deep recesses of its complicated structure, we behold what has all the appearance of a wide and indefinitely prolonged area strewed over with discontinuous masses and clouds of stars which the telescope at length refuses to analyse.' The Great Cluster in Perseus, which lies in the Milky Way, also baffled the penetrative capacity of Herschel's instruments. We cannot help quoting Professor Nichol's description of Herschel's observation of this remarkable object. He says: 'In the Milky Way, thronged all over with splendours, there is one portion not unnoticed by the general observer, the spot in the sword-hand of Perseus. That spot shows no stars to the naked eye; the milky light which glorifies it comes from regions to which unaided we cannot pierce. But to a telescope of considerable power the space appears lighted up with unnumbered orbs; and these pass on through the depths of the infinite, until, even to that penetrating glass, they escape all scrutiny, withdrawing into regions unvisited by its power. Shall we adventure into these deeper retirements? Then, assume an instrument of higher efficacy, and lo! the change is only repeated; those scarce observed before appear as large orbs, and, behind, a new series begins, shading gradually away, leading towards farther mysteries! The illustrious Herschel penetrated on one occasion into this spot, until he found himself among depths whose light could not have reached him in much less than 4,000 years; no marvel that he withdrew from the pursuit, conceiving that such abysses must be endless!' The Milky Way may be regarded as a universe by itself, and our Sun as one of its myriad stars.

Milton was aware of the stellar constitution of the Milky Way, which was one of Galileo's discoveries. The poet gives a singularly accurate description of this luminous path, which he glorifies as the way by which the Deity returned up to the Heaven of Heavens after He finished His great work of creation—

So sung The glorious train ascending: He through Heaven, That opened wide her blazing portals, led To God's eternal house direct the way— A broad and ample road, whose dust is gold, And pavement stars, as stars to thee appear Seen in the Galaxy, that Milky Way Which nightly as a circling zone thou seest Powdered with stars.—vii. 573-81.

COMETS

Records of the appearance of these remarkable objects have been handed down from earliest times; and when one of those mysterious visitors, travelling from out the depths of space, became visible in our skies, it was regarded with apprehension and dread as betokening the occurrence of calamities and direful events among the nations of the Earth.

The word comet is derived from the Greek {kome}, signifying 'hair,' to which the hazy, luminous appearance of those objects bears some resemblance. A comet consists of a bright central part called the nucleus; this is surrounded by layers of nebulous matter called the coma, and both combined form the head, from which a long appendage extends called the tail. The nucleus and tail are not essential parts of a comet, for many have been observed in which both have been wanting. The tail is frequently very conspicuous, and presents considerable diversity both as regards its appearance and length. In some comets it is entirely absent, and in others it has been observed to stretch over an arc of sixty or seventy degrees, indicating a length of 100 to 150 million miles. Sometimes it is straight, and at other times it is curved at the extremity; it has been observed bifurcated into two branches; and, on rare occasions, comets have been seen with two or more tails. The tail of a comet is always directed away from the Sun; it increases in size as the comet approaches the orb, and diminishes as it recedes from him. This depends upon the degree of heat to which the comet is exposed, which has the effect of driving off or evaporating some of the matter composing the head. During the time the comet is travelling round the Sun there is a continuous emission of this highly attenuated matter, which is visible as the tail, but when the comet begins to recede from the orb and reaches cooler regions of space the tail diminishes in size as the temperature becomes reduced, and ultimately it disappears.

The appearance of a comet in the sky is often sudden and unexpected, and one of those erratic wanderers may become visible at any time and in any part of the heavens. It was remarked by Kepler that there are as many comets in the sky as there are fishes in the ocean. This may or may not be true, for they only become visible when they approach the Sun, and the time during which they remain so does not usually exceed a few weeks or months. Ancient astronomers were much perplexed with the motions of comets, which appeared to be much more irregular than those of other celestial bodies and unconformed to any known laws. Tycho Brahe believed that comets moved in circular orbits, and Kepler imagined that they travelled in straight lines outwards from the Sun. Newton, however, was able to demonstrate that any conic section can be described about the Sun consistent with the law of gravitation, and that the orbits of comets correspond with three of the four sections into which a cone can be divided. Consequently, they obey the laws of planetary motion. Comets which move in ellipses of known eccentricity and return with periodical regularity may be regarded as belonging to the solar system. Twenty of these are known, and eleven of them have more than once passed their perihelion. Those most familiarly known complete their periods in years as follows:—Encke's 3.3; Swift's, 5.5; Winnecke's, 5.6; Tempel's, 6; Brorsen's, 5.5; Faye's, 7.4; Tuttle's, 13.8, and Halley's, 76. Comets with parabolic and hyperbolic orbits may be regarded as stray objects which visit our system once, and depart never to return again. Besides those already mentioned there are many comets with orbits of such marked eccentricity that their ellipses when near perihelion cannot be distinguished from parabolae. The great comets of 1780, 1811, 1843, 1858, 1861, and 1882 traverse orbits approaching this form, and some of them require hundreds and thousands of years to accomplish a circuit of their paths.

Numerous instances of the appearance of remarkable comets have been recorded in the annals of ancient nations. The earliest records of comets are by the Chinese, who were careful observers of celestial phenomena. A comet is said to have appeared at the time of the birth of Mithridates (134 B.C.), which had a disc as large as that of the Sun; a great comet also became visible in the heavens about the time of the death of Julius Caesar (44 B.C.), and another was seen in the reign of Justinian (531 A.D.). A remarkable comet was observed in 1106, and in 1456, the year in which the Turks obtained possession of Constantinople and threatened to overrun Europe, a great comet appeared, which was regarded by Christendom with ominous forebodings. The celebrated astronomer Halley was the first to predict the return of a comet. Having become acquainted with Newton's investigations, which showed that the forms of the orbits of comets were either parabolae or extremely elongated ellipses, he subjected the next great comet, which appeared in 1682, to a series of observations, calculated its orbit, and predicted that it would return to perihelion in seventy-five or seventy-six years. On referring to past records he discovered that a great comet appeared in 1607, which pursued a path similar to the one traced out for his comet, another was seen in 1531, and one in 1456. Halley perceived that the intervals between those dates corresponded to a period of about seventy-six years, the time which he calculated would be required for his comet to complete a revolution of its orbit. He therefore had no hesitation in predicting that the comet would appear again in 1758. Halley knew that he would not be alive to witness the event, and alludes to it in the following sentence: 'Wherefore if it should return according to our prediction about the year 1758, impartial posterity will not refuse to acknowledge that this was first discovered by an Englishman.' As the time approached when the comet should be drawing near to our system, much interest was excited among astronomers, who would have an opportunity afforded them of testing the accuracy of Halley's prediction. An eminent French mathematician named Clairaut computed anew, by a method rather different to that adopted by Halley, the retarding effect of the attraction of the planets upon the speed of the comet, and arrived at the conclusion that it would reach perihelion about the middle of April 1759; but, owing to unknown influences—Uranus and Neptune not having been discovered—it might be a month before or behind the calculated time. Clairaut made this announcement on November 14, 1758. Astronomers were now intently on the look-out for the comet, and night after night the sky was swept by telescopes in search of the expected visitor, which for upwards of seventy years had been pursuing its solitary path invisible to mortal eyes. But the mental vision of the mathematician did not fail to follow this celestial object, which was now announced as being on the confines of our system. The comet was first observed on December 25, 1758, it soon became conspicuous in the heavens, and reached perihelion on March 12, 1759, a month before the time assigned to it by Clairaut but within the limit of error allowed for unknown influences. Halley's comet returned again in 1835, and may be expected about the year 1911. The periodic appearance of this comet has been traced back to the year 1305.

The celebrated comet of 1680 was noted as having been the one which afforded Newton an opportunity of making observations which led to his discovery that comets describe orbits round the Sun in conformity with the different sections of a cone. The comet of 1811 was observed for many weeks in the northern heavens as a brilliant object with a beautiful fan-shaped tail; it completes a revolution of its orbit in about 3,000 years. The comet of 1843 was also a splendid object. It possessed a tail 200 million miles in length, and approached within 32,000 miles of the Sun. The heat to which it was exposed was sufficient to volatilize the most infusible substances known to exist. Donati's comet of 1858 will be long remembered as one of the most impressive of celestial spectacles: its tail extended over an area of forty degrees, and enveloped the star Arcturus, which could be seen shining through it with undiminished brilliancy. Its period is estimated to be 2,100 years. A great comet appeared in 1861, through the tail of which the Earth passed without any perceptible effect having resulted. No remarkable comets have appeared during recent years. In 1880, 1881, and 1882, several were observed, and that of 1881 was the first successfully photographed.

Comets consist of cosmical matter which exists in a condition of extreme tenuity, and especially so in the coma and tail. Sir John Herschel described them as almost spiritual in texture, and small stars have been seen shining through their densest parts without any perceptible diminution of their light. The nucleus is believed to be composed of a congeries of meteoric fragments, and these, when exposed to the Sun's heat, throw off luminous nebulous particles that are swept by some repulsive force into space and form the appendage known as the tail. Comets may be regarded as celestial objects that are perfectly innocuous. Neither fear nor dread need be apprehended from their visits; they come to please and instruct, not to injure or destroy.

Milton does not fail to introduce into his poem several allusions to comets, and in doing so expresses the ideas and sentiments which in his time were associated with those objects.

In describing the hostile meeting between Satan and Death before the Gates of Hell, he writes:

On the other side, Incensed with indignation, Satan stood Unterrified, and like a comet burned, That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war.—ii. 706-11.

This passage is eminently descriptive of the appearance of a great comet, and the occasion on which it is introduced adds to the intensity of the lurid imaginings and feelings of terror and dismay with which these objects have always been regarded. The comparison of the enraged Prince of Hell with one of those mysterious and fiery looking visitors to our skies was a grand conception of the poet's, and one worthy of the mighty combatant. Ophiuchus (the Serpent-bearer) is a large constellation which occupies a rather barren region of the heavens to the south of Hercules. It has a length of about forty degrees, and is represented by the figure of a man bearing a serpent in both hands. It is not easy to imagine why Milton should have assigned the comet to this uninteresting constellation; he may possibly have seen one in this part of the sky, or his poetical ear may have perceived that the expression 'Ophiuchus huge,' which has about it a ponderous rhythm, was well adapted for the poetic description of a comet.

The only other allusion in the poem to a comet is near its conclusion, when the Cherubim descend to take possession of the Garden, prior to the removal of Adam and Eve—

High in front advanced, The brandished sword of God before them blazed, Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat, And vapour as the Lybian air adust Began to parch that temperate clime.—xii. 632-36.

FALLING STARS

On any clear night an observer can, by attentively watching the heavens, perceive a few of those objects which become visible for a moment as a streak of light and then vanish. They are the result of the combustion of small meteoric masses having a celestial origin, and travelling with cosmical velocity, and which, in their headlong flight, become so heated by contact with the Earth's atmosphere that they are converted into glowing vapour. This vapour when it cools condenses into fine powder or dust, and gradually descends upon the Earth's surface, where it can be detected.

Shooting stars become visible at a height varying between twenty and one hundred and thirty miles, and their average velocity has been estimated at about thirty miles a second. Though casual falling stars can be seen at all times in every part of the heavens, yet there are certain periods at which they appear in large numbers, and have been observed to radiate from certain well-defined parts of the sky. When the radiant point is overhead, the falling stars spread out and resemble a parachute of fire; but when it is below the horizon, the stars ascend upwards like rockets into the sky. The radiant point is fixed among the stars, so that at the commencement of a shower it may be overhead, and before the termination of the display it may have travelled below the horizon. The radiant is usually named after the constellation in which it is observed.

The November meteors are called Leonids, because they radiate from a point in the constellation Leo; those in Taurus are called Taurids; in Perseus, Perseids; in Lyra, Lyraids; and in Andromeda, Andromedes, because their radiant points are situated in those constellations.

The falling stars that have attracted most attention are those which appear on or about November 13. Every year at this period they can be seen in greater or less numbers, and on referring to numerous past records it has been ascertained that a magnificent display of those objects occurs every thirty-three years. The earliest historical allusion to this meteoric shower is by Theophanes, who wrote that in the year 472 A.D. the sky at Constantinople appeared to be on fire with falling stars. In the year 902 A.D. another remarkable display took place, and from that time until 1833 twelve conspicuous displays are recorded as having occurred at recurring intervals of thirty-three years. The grandest display of this kind that was ever witnessed occurred in 1833. It was visible over nearly the whole of the American continent, and, having commenced at midnight, lasted for four or five hours. The falling stars were so numerous that they appeared to rain upon the Earth, and caused the utmost consternation and terror among those who witnessed the phenomenon, many persons having imagined that the end of the world was at hand. The regular recurrence of these meteoric displays has been satisfactorily explained by the assumption that round the Sun there travels in an elliptical orbit with planetary velocity a vast shoal of meteoric bodies some millions of miles in length and several hundred thousand miles in breadth. The nearest point of their orbit to the Sun coincides with the Earth's orbit, and the most distant part extends beyond the orbit of Uranus. These bodies accomplish a circuit of their orbit in 33-1/4 years. The Earth in her annual revolution intersects the path of the meteors, and when this occurs some falling stars can always be seen; but when the intersection happens at the time the shoal is passing, then there results a grand meteoric display. Numerous other meteoric swarms travel in orbital paths round the Sun.

Milton, in his poem, alludes to falling stars upon two occasions. In describing the fall of Mulciber from Heaven he says:—

from morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, A summer's day; and with the setting sun Dropt from the zenith like a falling star, On Lemnos the AEgaean isle.—i. 742-46.

The rapid flight of the archangel Uriel from the Sun to the Earth is described in the following lines:—

Thither came Uriel, gliding through the even On a sunbeam, swift as a shooting star In autumn thwarts the night, when vapours fired Impress the air, and shows the mariner From what point of his compass to beware Impetuous winds.—iv. 555-60.

Milton mentions the season of the year in which those stars are most frequently seen, and refers to an ancient belief by which they were regarded as the precursors of stormy weather. A translation from Virgil contains a similar allusion to them—

Oft shalt thou see ere brooding storms arise, Star after star glide headlong down the skies.

The standard borne by the Cherub Azazel is described as having—

Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind.—i. 537.



CHAPTER IX

MILTON'S IMAGINATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE ASTRONOMY

The theme chosen by Milton for his great epic, viz. the Fall of Man and his expulsion from Paradise—perhaps the most momentous incident in the history of the human race—was one worthy of the genius of a great poet and in the treatment of which Milton has been sublimely successful. The newly created Earth; the untainted loveliness of the Paradise in which our first parents dwelt during their innocence; their temptation; their fall and removal from the happy garden, furnished a theme which afforded him an opportunity for the display of his unrivalled poetic genius.

Though the chief interest in the poem is centred in the Garden of Eden and its occupants, yet Milton was enabled, by the comprehensive manner in which he treated his subject, to introduce into his work a cosmology which embraced not only the system to which our globe belongs, but the entire starry heavens by which we are surrounded. But the universality of his genius did not rest here. In the utterance of his sacred song he soared beyond the starry sphere, describing himself as wrapt above the pole—the starry pole—up to the Empyrean, or Heaven of Heavens, the ineffable abode of the Deity and the blissful habitation of angelic beings who, in adoration and worship, surround the throne of the Most High.

Descending to that nether world at the opposite pole of the universe, in the lowest depth of Chaos, the place prepared by Eternal Justice for the rebellious, he unfolds to our horror-stricken gaze the terrors of this infernal region; its fiery deluge of ever-burning sulphur; its 'regions of sorrow;' its 'doleful shades'—the unhappy abode of fallen angels who 'in floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,' alternated by exposure to unendurable cold and icy torment, experience the direful consequences of their apostacy.

Milton's 'Paradise Lost' may be regarded as the loftiest intellectual effort in the whole range of literature. In it we find all that was known of science, philosophy, and theology. The theme, founded upon a Bible narrative, itself written under divine inspiration, embraces the entire system of Christian doctrine as revealed in the Scriptures, and many of the noblest passages in the sacred volume are introduced into the poem expressed in the lofty utterance of flowing and harmonious verse. The choicest classical writings of Greek and Latin authors; the mythological and traditional beliefs of ancient nations; historical incidents of valour and renown and all that was great and good in the annals of mankind were laid under contribution by Milton in the illustration and embellishment of his poem.

In order to obtain a basis or foundation upon which to construct his great epic, Milton found it necessary to localise the regions of space in which the principal events mentioned in his poem are described as having occurred. The unfathomable abyss of space may be regarded as an uncircumscribed sphere boundless on all sides round, and so far as we can comprehend of infinite extent. This sphere Milton divided into two hemispheres—an upper and a lower. The upper was called Heaven, or the Empyrean—a glorified region of boundless dimensions; the lower hemisphere embraced Chaos—a dark, fathomless abyss in which the elements of matter existed in a state of perpetual tumult and wild uproar. The occurrence of a rebellion in Heaven necessitated a further division of the sphere. The revolt, headed by Lucifer, one of the highest archangels, afterwards known as Satan, who drew after him a third of the angelic host, contested the supremacy of Heaven with Michael and the angels which kept their loyalty. After two days' battle—

Him the Almighty Power Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition; there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire.—i. 44-48.

Having been precipitated over the crystal wall of Heaven into the deep abyss, Milton says:—

Nine days they fell; confounded Chaos roared, And felt tenfold confusion in their fall Through his wild Anarchy; so huge a rout Encumbered him with ruin. Hell at last, Yawning, received them whole, and on them closed.—vi. 871-75.

Hell, Milton locates in the lowest depth of Chaos, a region cut off from the body of Chaos, through which the expelled angels fell for nine days before reaching their destined habitation. There are now three divisions of space: HEAVEN, CHAOS, and HELL. But a fourth is required to enable Milton to complete his scheme for the delineation of his poem. The Earth and starry universe were not as yet called into existence, but after the overthrow of the rebellious angels, God, by circumscribing a portion of Chaos situated immediately underneath the Empyrean, created the Mundane Universe, or the 'Heavens and the Earth.'[15] This new universe He reclaimed from Chaos, and with the embryo elements of matter—

His dark materials to create new worlds.—ii. 916.

He formed the Earth and all the countless shining orbs visible overhead, and the myriads more which the telescope reveals, scattered in apparently endless profusion over the circular immensity of space. It is this new universe—the Earth and Starry Heavens—that claims our chief attention, and in the delineation of Milton's imaginative and descriptive powers it is to this latest manifestation of Divine wisdom and might that our remarks shall principally apply. After the expulsion of the rebel angels from Heaven, God sent His Son, the Messiah to create the new universe—a work of omnipotence described by Milton in a manner worthy of so magnificent a display of almighty power—

Meanwhile the Son On his great expedition now appeared, Girt with omnipotence, with radiance crowned Of majesty divine: sapience and love Immense; and all his Father in Him shone. About his chariot numberless were poured Cherub and Seraph, Potentates and Thrones, And Virtues, winged Spirits, and chariots winged From the armoury of God, where stand of old Myriads, between two brazen mountains lodged Against a solemn day, harnessed at hand, Celestial equipage; and now came forth Spontaneous, for within them Spirit lived, Attendant on their Lord. Heaven opened wide Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound! On golden hinges moving, to let forth The King of Glory, in his powerful Word And Spirit, coming to create new worlds. On Heavenly ground they stood, and from the shore They viewed the vast immeasurable abyss Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild, Up from the bottom turned by furious winds And surging waves, as mountains to assault Heaven's highth, and with the centre mix the pole. 'Silence, ye troubled Waves, and thou Deep, peace!' Said then the omnific Word: 'your discord end!' Nor stayed; but on the wings of Cherubim Uplifted, in paternal glory rode Far into Chaos, and the World unborn; For Chaos heard his voice. Him all his train Followed in bright procession, to behold Creation, and the wonders of his might. Then stayed the fervid wheels, and in his hand He took the golden compasses, prepared In God's eternal store, to circumscribe This Universe, and all created things. One foot he centred, and the other turned Round through the vast profundity obscure; And said, 'Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds; This be thy just circumference, O World!' Thus God the Heaven created, thus the Earth, Matter unformed and void. Darkness profound Covered the abyss; but on the watery calm His brooding wings the Spirit of God outspread, And vital virtue infused, and vital warmth, Throughout the fluid mass; but downward purged The black, tartareous, cold, infernal dregs, Adverse to life; then founded, then conglobed Like things to like; the rest to several place Disparted, and between spun out the Air; And Earth self balanced on her centre hung.—vii. 192-242.

Milton begins his narrative of the Creation by describing the progress of the Deity on His great expedition, accompanied by hosts of angels and surrounded with all the solemn pomp and splendour of Heaven. The brilliant throng having passed through Heaven's gates, which opened wide their portals, they beheld in front of them the dark abyss of Chaos—a tempest-tossed sea of warring elements upturned in wild confusion. At God's instant command silence and peace reigned over the deep, and tranquil calm succeeded noisy discord. Then on the wings of Cherubim He rode far into Chaos, and with His golden compasses decreed the dimensions of the universe by circumscribing the vast vacuity of space. Into the elements which hasted to their several places, His Spirit infused vital warmth and caused the formless mass of matter to assume the figure of a sphere, and thus the Earth poised on her axis unsupported, and in darkness shrouded hung suspended in space. The placing of the golden compasses in the hands of the Creator, with which He measured out the heavens, is a noble conception on the part of Milton, and one most appropriate, since the construction of the universe is based upon the principles of geometrical science.

'Let there be Light!' said God; and forthwith Light Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure, Sprung from the Deep; and from her native east To journey through the aery gloom began, Sphered in a radiant cloud; for yet the Sun Was not; she in a cloudy tabernacle Sojourned the while. God saw the light was good; And light from darkness by the hemisphere Divided; light the day, and darkness night He named. Thus was the first day even and morn: Nor passed uncelebrated, nor unsung By the celestial quires, when orient light Exhaling first from darkness they beheld; Birthday of Heaven and Earth; with joy and shout The hollow universal orb they filled, And touched their golden harps, and hymning praised God and his works: Creator Him they sung, Both when first evening was, and when first morn.—vii. 243-60.

The appearance of Light, which sprung into existence at the fiat of the Creator, was the next great event witnessed by beholding angels—birthday of Heaven and Earth, first morning and first evening, which the celestial choirs celebrated with praise and shouts of joy. The creation of the firmament was the great work of the second day.

Again God said, 'Let there be firmament Amid the waters, and let it divide The waters from the waters!' And God made The firmament, expanse of liquid, pure, Transparent, elemental air, diffused In circuit to the uttermost convex Of this great round—partition firm and sure, The waters underneath from those above Dividing; for as the Earth, so He the World Built on circumfluous waters calm, in wide Crystalline ocean, and the loud misrule Of Chaos far removed, lest fierce extremes Contiguous might distemper the whole frame: And Heaven he named the Firmament. So even And morning chorus sung the second day.—vii. 261-275.

After describing the gathering of the waters off the face of the globe into seas, causing the dry land to appear, which at the word of God became clothed with vegetation, rendering the Earth a habitable abode, Milton proceeds to describe the creation of the heavenly bodies—

Again the Almighty spake: 'Let there be Lights High in the expanse of Heaven, to divide The day from night; and let them be for signs, For seasons, and for days, and circling years; And let them be for lights, as I ordain Their office in the firmament of Heaven, To give light on the Earth!' and it was so. And God made two great Lights, great for their use To Man, the greater to have rule by day, The less by night, altern; and made the Stars, And set them in the firmament of Heaven To illuminate the Earth, and rule the day In their vicissitude, and rule the night, And light from darkness to divide. God saw, Surveying his great work, that it was good: For, of celestial bodies, first, the Sun, A mighty sphere He framed, unlightsome first, Though of ethereal mould; then formed the Moon Globose, and every magnitude of Stars, And sowed with stars the Heaven thick as a field. Of light by far the greater part he took, Transplanted from her cloudy shrine, and placed In the Sun's orb, made porous to receive And drink the liquid light; firm to retain Her gathered beams, great palace now of Light. Hither, as to their fountain, other stars Repairing, in their golden urns draw light, And hence the morning planet gilds her horns; By tincture or reflection they augment Their small peculiar, though, from human sight So far remote, with diminution seen. First in his east the glorious lamp was seen, Regent of day, and all the horizon round Invested with bright rays, jocund to run His longitude through Heaven's high road; the grey Dawn, and the Pleiades before him danced, Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the Moon, But opposite in levelled west was set His mirror, with full face borrowing her light From him; for other light she needed none In that aspect, and still that distance keeps Till night; then in the east her turn she shines, Revolved on Heaven's great axle, and her reign With thousand lesser lights dividual holds, With thousand thousand stars that then appeared Spangling the hemisphere. Then first adorned With their bright luminaries, that set and rose, Glad evening and glad morn crowned the fourth day.—vii. 339-86.

The first creation was Light, and Milton, according to Scriptural testimony, ascribes its origin to the bidding of the Creator. 'God said, Let there be light; and there was light!' The Sun he describes as a mighty sphere, but at first non-luminous. There was light, but no sun. The reason usually given in explanation of this phenomenon is, that the heavenly bodies were created at the same time as the Earth, but were rendered invisible by a canopy of vapour and cloud which enveloped the newly-formed globe; and that afterwards, when it dispersed, they appeared in the firmament, shining in all their pristine splendour. Milton does not, however, adhere to this view of things, but says that light for the first three days sojourned in a cloudy shrine or tabernacle, and was afterwards transplanted in the Sun, which became a great palace of light.

He expresses himself in a somewhat similar manner in Book III., which opens with an address to Light—one of the most beautiful passages in the poem, in which he alludes to his blindness when expressing his thoughts and sentiments with regard to this ethereal medium, which conveys to us the pleasurable sensation of vision—

Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven first-born! Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam, May I express thee unblamed? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity—dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate! Or hear'st thou rather, pure Ethereal stream, Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the Sun, Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless Infinite.—iii. 1-12.

The Sun having become a lucent orb, Milton poetically describes how the planets repair to him as to a fountain, and in their golden urns draw light; and how the morning planet Venus gilds her horns illumined by his rays. The poet associates joyous ideas with the new-born universe. The Sun, now the glorious regent of day, begins his journey in the east, lighting up the horizon with his beams; whilst before him danced the grey dawn, and the Pleiades shedding sweet influences. There existed an ancient belief that the Earth was created in the spring, and in April the Sun is in the zodiacal constellation Taurus, in which are also situated the Pleiades; they rise a little before the orb, and precede him in his path through the heavens. The stars of this group have always been regarded with a peculiar sacredness, and their rays, mingling with those of the Sun, were believed to shed sweet influences upon the Earth. The Moon, less bright, with borrowed light, in her turn shines in the east, and, with the thousand thousand luminaries that spangle the firmament, reigns over the night.

We learn in Book III. that the archangel Uriel, who was beguiled by Satan, witnessed the Creation, and described how the heavenly bodies were brought into existence, he having perceived what we should call the gaseous elements of matter rolled into whorls and vortices which became condensed into suns and systems of worlds. This mighty angel says:—

I saw when, at his word the formless mass, This World's material mould, came to a heap: Confusion heard his voice, and wild Uproar Stood ruled, stood vast Infinitude confined; Till at his second bidding darkness fled, Light shone, and order from disorder sprung. Swift to their several quarters hasted then The cumbrous elements, Earth, Flood, Air, Fire; And this ethereal quintessence of Heaven Flew upward, spirited with various forms, That rolled orbicular, and turned to stars Numberless, as thou seest, and how they move; Each had his place appointed, each his course; The rest in circuit walls this Universe.—iii. 708-21.

In his sublime description of the Creation Milton has adhered with marked fidelity to the Mosaic version, as narrated in the first two chapters of Genesis, when God, by specific acts in certain stated periods of time, created the visible universe and all that it contains.

The successive acts of creation are described in words almost identical with those of Scripture, embellished and adorned with all the wealth of expression which our language is capable of affording. The several scenes presented to the imagination, and witnessed by hosts of admiring angels as each portion of the magnificent work was accomplished, are full of a grandeur and majesty worthy of the loftiest conceivable effort of Divine power and might.

The return of the Creator after the completion of His great work is described by Milton in a manner worthy of the progress of Deity through the celestial regions. The whole creation rang with jubilant delight, and the bright throng which witnessed the wonders of His might followed Him with acclamation, ascending by the glorified path of the Milky Way up to His high abode—the Heaven of Heavens—

Here finished He, and all that He had made Viewed, and behold! all was entirely good. So even and morn accomplished the sixth day: Yet not till the Creator from his work Desisting, though unwearied, up returned, Up to the Heaven of Heavens, His high abode, Thence to behold this new created World, The addition of his empire, how it showed In prospect from His throne, how good, how fair, Answering his great idea. Up He rode, Followed with acclamation, and the sound Symphonious of ten thousand harps, that tuned Angelic harmonies: The Earth, the Air Resounded (thou remember'st, for thou heard'st) The Heavens and all the constellations rung, The planets in their stations listening stood, While the bright pomp ascended jubilant. 'Open ye everlasting gates!' they sung; 'Open ye Heavens! your living doors; let in The great Creator, from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a World; Open, and henceforth oft; for God will deign To visit oft the dwellings of just men, Delighted; and with frequent intercourse Thither will send his winged messengers On errands of supernal grace.' So sung The glorious train ascending: He through Heaven, That opened wide her blazing portals, led To God's eternal house direct the way— A broad and ample road, whose dust is gold, And pavement stars, as stars to thee appear Seen in the Galaxy, that Milky Way Which nightly as a circling zone thou seest Powdered with stars.—vii. 548-81.

Milton, throughout his description of the Creation, sustains with lofty eloquence his sublime conception of this latest display of almighty power; and invests with becoming majesty all the acts of the Creator, who, when He finished His great work, saw that all was entirely good.

Shortly after the creation of the new universe, Satan, having escaped from Hell, plunged into the abyss of Chaos, and, after a long and arduous journey upwards, in which he had to fight his way through the surging elements that raged around him like a tempestuous sea, he reached the upper confines of this region where less confusion prevailed, and where a glimmering dawn of light penetrated its darkness and gloom, indicating that the limit of the empire of Chaos and ancient Night had been reached by the adventurous fiend. Pursuing his way with greater ease, he leisurely beholds the sight which is opening to his eyes—a sight rendered more glorious by his long sojourn in darkness. He sees:—

Far off the empyreal Heaven, extended wide In circuit, undetermined square or round, With opal towers and battlements adorned Of living sapphire, once his native seat, And, fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent World, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude close by the Moon.—ii. 1047-53.

He gazes upon his native Heaven where once he dwelt, and observes the pendent world in quest of which he journeyed hither—hung by a golden chain from the Empyrean and no larger than a star of the smallest magnitude when close by the Moon. In this passage Milton does not allude to the Earth, which was invisible, but to the entire starry heavens—the newly created universe reclaimed from Chaos, which, when contrasted with the Empyrean, appeared in size no larger than the minutest star when compared with the full moon. Pursuing his journey, the new universe as it is approached expands into a globe of vast dimensions; its convex surface—round which the chaotic elements in stormy aspect lowered—seemed a boundless continent, dark, desolate, and starless, except on the side next to the wall of Heaven, which though far-distant afforded it some illumination by its reflected light. Satan, having alighted on this convex shell which enclosed the universe, wandered long over its bleak and dismal surface, until his attention was attracted by a gleam of light which appeared through an opening at its zenith right underneath the Empyrean. Thither he directed his steps, and perceived a structure resembling a staircase, or ladder, which formed the only means of communication between Heaven and the new creation, and upon which angels descended and ascended—

Far distant he descries, Ascending by degrees magnificent Up to the wall of Heaven, a structure high; At top whereof, but far more rich, appeared The work as of a kingly palace gate, With frontispiece of diamond and gold Embellished; thick with sparkling orient gems The portal shone, inimitable on Earth By model, or by shading pencil drawn. The stairs were such as whereon Jacob saw Angels ascending and descending, bands Of Guardians bright, when he from Esau fled To Padan Aram, in the field of Luz Dreaming by night under the open sky, And waking cried, 'This is the gate of Heaven.'—iii. 501-15.

Sometimes this mysterious structure was drawn up to Heaven and invisible. At the time that Satan reached the opening, the stairs were lowered, and standing at their base he looked down with wonder upon the entire starry universe—

Such wonder seized, though after Heaven seen, The Spirit malign, but much more envy seized, At sight of all this World beheld so fair, Round he surveys (and well might, where he stood So high above the circling canopy Of night's extended shade) from eastern point Of Libra to the fleecy star that bears Andromeda far off Atlantic seas Beyond the horizon; then from pole to pole He views in breadth, and without longer pause, Down right into the World's first region throws His flight precipitant, and winds with ease Through the pure marble air his oblique way Amongst innumerable stars, that shone Stars distant, but nigh hand seemed other worlds, Or other worlds they seemed, or happy isles, Like those Hesperian Gardens famed of old, Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales; Thrice happy isles! But who dwelt happy there He staid not to inquire: above them all The golden Sun, in splendour likest Heaven Allured his eye: thither his course he bends Through the calm firmament, (but up or down By centre or eccentric hard to tell Or longitude) where the great luminary, Aloof the vulgar constellations thick, That from his lordly eye keep distance due, Dispenses light from far. They, as they move Their starry dance in numbers that compute Days, months, and years, towards his all-cheering lamp Turn swift their various motions, or are turned By his magnetic beam, that gently warms The Universe, and to each inward part With gentle penetration, though unseen, Shoots invisible virtue even to the Deep; So wondrously was set his station bright.—iii. 552-87.

The Ptolemaic cosmology having been adopted by Milton in the elaboration of his poem, he describes the universe in conformity with the doctrines associated with this form of astronomical belief. To each of the first seven spheres which revolved round the steadfast Earth there was attached a heavenly body; the eighth sphere embraced all the fixed stars, a countless multitude; the ninth the crystalline; and enclosing all the other spheres as if in a shell was the tenth sphere, or Primum Mobile, which in its diurnal revolution carried round with it all the other spheres. The nine inner spheres were transparent, but the tenth was an opaque solid shell-like structure, which enclosed the new universe and constituted the boundary between it and Chaos underneath and the Empyrean above. It was on the surface of this sphere that Satan wandered until he discovered the opening at its zenith, where, by means of a staircase or ladder, communication was maintained with the Empyrean. Standing on the lower steps of this structure he paused for a moment to look down into the glorious universe which lay beneath him—

another Heaven From Heaven-gate not far, founded in view On the clear hyaline the glassy sea.—vii. 617-19.

He beholds it in all its dimensions, from pole to pole, and longitudinally from Libra to Aries, then without hesitation precipitates himself down into the world's first region, and winds his way with ease among the fixed stars. Around him he sees innumerable shining worlds, sparkling and glittering in endless profusion over the circumscribed immensity of space—mighty constellations that shone from afar; clustering aggregations of stars; floating islands of light; twinkling systems rising out of depths still more profound, and a zone luminous with the light of myriads of lucid orbs verging on the confines of the universe. All these worlds the fiend passed unheeded, nor stayed he to inquire who dwelt happy there. In splendour above them all the Sun attracted his attention and, directing his course towards the great luminary of our system, he alights on the surface of the orb.

Milton now makes a digression in order to describe what Satan observed in the Sun after having landed there. The poet embraces an opportunity for exercising his imaginative and descriptive powers by giving an ideal description of what, judging from the appearance of the orb, might be the natural condition of things existing on his surface—

There lands the Fiend, a spot like which perhaps Astronomer in the Sun's lucent orb Through his glazed optic tube, yet never saw. The place he found beyond expression bright, Compared with aught on Earth, metal or stone; Not all parts like, but all alike informed With radiant light, as glowing iron with fire; If metal, part seemed gold, part silver clear; If stone, carbuncle most or chrysolite, Ruby or topaz, to the twelve that shone In Aaron's breastplate, and a stone besides, Imagined rather oft than elsewhere seen; That stone, or like to that, which here below Philosophers in vain so long have sought, In vain, though by their powerful art they bind Volatile Hermes, and call up unbound In various shapes old Proteus from the sea, Drained through a limbec to his native form. What wonder then if fields and regions here Breathe forth elixir pure, and rivers run Potable gold, when, with one virtuous touch, The arch-chemic Sun, so far from us remote, Produces, with terrestrial humour mixed, Here in the dark so many precious things Of colour glorious, and effect so rare? Here matter new to gaze the Devil met Undazzled; far and wide his eye commands; For sight no obstacle found here, nor shade, But all sunshine, as when his beams at noon Culminate from the equator, as they now Shot upward still direct, whence no way round Shadow from body opaque can fall; and the air, Nowhere so clear sharpened his visual ray To objects distant far, whereby he soon Saw within here a glorious Angel stand.—iii. 588-622.

The physical structure of the interior of the Sun is unknown; all that we see of the orb is the photosphere—the dazzling luminous envelope which indicates to the eye the boundary of the solar disc, and which is the source of light and heat. Milton, in his imaginative and beautifully poetical description of the Sun, is not more fanciful in his conception of the nature of the refulgent orb than a renowned astronomer (Sir William Herschel) who writes in the following strain: 'A cool, dark, solid globe, its surface diversified with mountains and valleys, clothed in luxuriant vegetation and richly stored with inhabitants, protected by a heavy cloud-canopy from the intolerable glare of the upper luminous region, where the dazzling coruscations of a solar aurora some thousands of miles in depth evolved the stores of light and heat which vivify our world.' Satan, disguised as a cherub, makes himself known to Uriel, Regent of the Sun. The upright Seraph in response to his request directs him to the Earth, the abode of Man—

Look downward on that Globe, whose hither side With light from hence, though but reflected, shines, That place is Earth, the seat of Man; that light His day, which else, as the other hemisphere, Night would invade; but there neighbouring Moon (So call that opposite fair star) her aid Timely interposes, and her monthly round Still ending, still renewing, through mid-Heaven, With borrowed light her countenance triform Hence fills and empties, to enlighten the Earth, And in her pale dominion checks the night.—iii. 722-32.

It would be impossible not to feel impressed with the accuracy and comprehensiveness of Milton's astronomical knowledge; and how he has united in charming poetic expression the dry details of science with the divine inspiration of the heavenly muse. The distinctive appearances of the Sun, Moon, planets, and stars; their functional importance as regards this terrestrial sphere; the splendour and lustre peculiar to each; and the glory displayed in the entire created heavens, are portrayed with a skill indicative of a masterly knowledge of the science of astronomy.

Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine Following, above the Olympian hill I soar, Above the flight of Pegasean wing! The meaning, not the name, I call; for thou Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top Of old Olympus dwell'st; but heavenly-born, Before the hills appeared or fountain flowed, Thou with Eternal Wisdom didst converse, Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play In presence of the Almighty Father, pleased With thy celestial song. Up led by thee, Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed, An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air, Thy tempering. With like safety guided down, Return me to my native element; Lest, from this flying steed unreined, (as once Belerophon, though from a lower clime) Dismounted, on the Aleian field I fall, Erroneous there to wander, and forlorn. Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound Within the visible diurnal sphere. Standing on Earth, not rapt above the pole, More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days, On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues, In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, And solitude; yet not alone, while thou Visit'st my slumbers nightly, or when morn Purples the east. Still govern thou my song, Urania, and fit audience find though few.—vii. 1-32.

The Muses were Greek mythological divinities who possessed the power of inspiring song, and were the patrons of poets and musicians. According to Hesiod they were nine in number and presided over the arts. Urania was the Goddess of Astronomy, and Calliope the Goddess of Epic Poetry. They are described as the daughters of Zeus, and Homer alludes to them as the goddesses of song who dwelt on the summit of Mount Olympus. They were the companions of Apollo, and accompanied with song his playing on the lyre at the banquets of the Immortals. Milton does not invoke the mythological goddess, but Urania the Heavenly Muse, whose aid he also implores at the commencement of his poem prior to his flight above the Aonian Mount. Under her divine guidance he ascended to the Heaven of Heavens and breathed empyreal air, her tempering; in like manner he requests her to lead him down to his native element lest he should meet with a fate similar to what befell Bellerophon. Half his task he has completed, the other half, confined to narrower bounds within the visible diurnal sphere, remains unsung, and in its fulfilment he still implores his celestial patroness to govern his song.