THE MINISTRY OF SUFFERING.
You must know, Mr. Wilton,” said Mr. Hume, “that my mind is full of objections, whether I speak them out or keep silence. I have looked so long upon one side only that I find it hard to look upon other sides also; and if there be a Satan, as the Bible teaches, I think he must be marshaling all his legions to overwhelm me by the force of his impetuous assaults. I cannot disguise the fact—I do not attempt to disguise it—that my mind is not at ease. It used to be at rest, at least comparatively so—not happy, yet not agitated and distressed. My heart was not satisfied, but I believed that my position of unbelief was logically impregnable. But I confess it, my unbelief has of late been shaken. I am no longer contented. How I came intothis state, I do not know. I am certain that my present unrest was not produced by the force of arguments which I had heard. It seems to me as if it sprang up uncaused. The old arguments which I have thought impregnable do not now satisfy me. Why, I cannot tell. I think this statement is due to you to explain my position in your Bible class, and also to prepare the way for a question which I wish very much to propose. I have no objections to make to the marks of wisdom and benevolent design seen in the works of creation which I cannot myself answer and remove. Good-will and goodness to the inhabitants of the earth lie on the very surface of things; or, if I go beneath the surface, I find them no less manifest in the profoundest and subtlest arrangements of the universe. If I say, ‘This is all the work of chance,’ my very language is self-contradictory and looks me out of countenance, for the very idea of chance is the opposite of wise and orderly arrangement. The difference between design and chance is that the one works by orderly arrangements adapted to the accomplishment of a foreseen end, while the other shows itself in chaotic disorder, with no adaptationto the accomplishment of a purpose. To say that a universe like this, filled in every part with order and beauty, with subtle and unseen elements and agencies working out into the boldest relief in the accomplishment of beneficent ends, all minute elements blending in the sublime sweep of the universal plan,—to say that such a universe is the work of chance is to use language without meaning.
“If I deny a providential plan in the creation and government of the world, and attribute to brute matter a nature that, by its own inherent force, spontaneously develops into all these contrivances of use and beauty, I see that the wisdom of the whole universe is concentrated in the nature of matter, and, if it be possible, infinite subtlety of design is doubly manifest. To create a machine which, upon its elements being thrown into an indiscriminate pile, shall arrange itself, adapt part to part, and set itself in motion; which shall repair all its breaks, produce other machines as curious as itself, and thus reproduce itself and perpetuate its existence for ever—that would certainly be the acme of intelligent design.
“Or if I go farther and deny a Creator,ascribing to the universe an eternal, uncreated existence, I see that I only entangle myself in a complication of difficulties. I find myself standing face to face with the best-established facts of geology. If the fact that the animal tribes which inhabit the earth, and especially the human race, had a beginning be not well established, then no fact in geological science can be reckoned as fixed. Geology has overturned the idea of an infinite series of generations of animals and men. Nor do I see that I gain any advantage or give any explanation of the universe by attributing to matter everything which others refer to an intelligent and almighty Creator. The distinction between mind and matter is that mind is endowed with intelligence and will, while matter has neither intelligence nor will, but only blind forces, blind attractions and repulsions. If I attribute the order, beauty, design, and benevolence of the universe to mere matter, I clothe matter with the attributes of spirit. In fact, I only set up another God and ascribe to the universe a true divinity. I make myself a kind of pantheist, investing all matter with the attributes of mind and spirit. All this I have pondered over for many a day, and Icannot deny that a belief in an intelligent Creator of the universe is logically more satisfactory. But there is one question which confronts me at every turn. I suppose that I might at length work out an answer for myself and that I should now see the explanation if all my thinking for so many years had not been upon the other side.”
“I am afraid that I shall not be able to give you satisfaction,” replied Mr. Wilton, “but I shall be glad to hear your question. I can at least appreciate your state, and sympathize with you in your groping and struggling. I am glad that you are walking the road you have just described. You say that you do not know what has brought you to your present state. I can easily tell you: your experience at this point is not singular; I think the Holy Spirit of God has been leading you and has brought you to your present position. I trust in God that he will lead you still farther. You have great cause for thankfulness and great cause for trembling. Let me caution you: be careful how you treat the divine Spirit; walk softly; be honest, sincere, and simple-hearted as a little child. ‘Except a man become as a little child,he cannot see the kingdom of God.’ Above all things, be sincere and straightforward. Deal truly and frankly with the Spirit. If you will only be honest and frank,—honest and frank to yourself, honest and frank to all men, honest and frank with God,—God will soon give you cause to praise him and love him for ever and ever. But what is the question which you wished to propose?”
“My difficulty is this: Along with the many arrangements for conferring enjoyment and promoting the well-being of man are other arrangements for suffering. Man is made as capable of suffering as of enjoyment, and there are appliances provided which are certain to inflict that pain of which man is capable. How is this provision for suffering in man and in all sentient creatures consistent with the benevolence elsewhere shown? How are we to combine these two sets of arrangements in our thinking?”
“A full unfolding of the ministry of pain in the good providence of God would lead us entirely aside from our course of study.”
“But for me,” said Mr. Hume, earnestly, “it would be not at all aside; for if I can once see that the provision for suffering made in theconstitution of man and of Nature is not repugnant to the idea of a wise and good Creator and Disposer of human affairs, I will admit whatever you shall have to say afterward, and I shall feel that the gospel of Christ comes to man and comes to me with a moral force which ought not to be resisted. I know that I have no right to come into your class and ask you to turn aside from your course of study, and the gospel certainly owes nothing to me, yet I do hope you will give the opinions which you hold upon this subject, if you have formed any positive opinions.”
“I am sure,” exclaimed Peter, “that we shall all be very glad to have you spend the time of this lesson in speaking of this subject.”
“But how would it please you if my talk upon the ministry of pain should prove to be very much like a sermon?”
“I think we like your sermons. I know that we were never so much interested in them as now.”
“Very well, then; I will give you, as Mr. Hume says, some of my conclusions touching this matter of pain and suffering; and if my opinions are not satisfactory or do not cover thefacts in the case, it will not be because I have given the subject little thought or have had little experience of suffering. The Lord has led me by a rugged road; he has given me tears to drink and mingled my cup with weeping. But for this I thank him, and I expect, when I shall look back from the life to come upon my earthly course, to see my days of pain and grief shining more brightly than the hours of radiant sunshine.
“First of all, then, I believe that with the clear exhibition of benevolent design which we see in this world we ought not to doubt the goodness of the Creator, even if we can give no rational explanation of the suffering which abounds. We ought not to believe, we cannot believe, that the Creator’s own attributes are self-contradictory and antagonistic, that the same infinite Being is both good and evil, partly benevolent and partly malignant. If God is good at all, he is wholly good. Nor can we believe that a good being and an evil being—God and Satan—hold joint sway over the universe and co-operated in the work of creation, and that the good is to be ascribed to the one, and the pain and suffering to the other.Whether we can explain it or not, we must believe that there is a good reason for the existence of suffering; unless, indeed, we count the infliction of pain the chief end of the creation, and refer the happiness which men enjoy to some incidental arrangements not contemplated as important in the work of creation. But no sane man can think that this world is the work of a demon seeking to fill the earth with groans and wretchedness. Our consciences and our reason alike require us to believe in the supremacy of goodness.
“In presenting my views, I of course cannot attempt to prove everything from the beginning: I must take some things for granted between us. We must start with the admission that there is a God, and that he is a righteous, moral governor. We must at least believe what Paul declares to be needful: ‘He that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.’ We must also believe our own consciences when they testify that men are responsible, free moral actors, and that sin and guilt are not false notions arising from diseased and morbid mental conditions, but realities, true ideas which arise in the mind when it works asGod designed. Do you freely admit these points of belief, Mr. Hume?”
“Yes, sir; I could not ask you to prove every point touched upon in the argument, for that would require half a score of volumes, nor will I deny the testimony of my own conscience that there is a God, and that men are rightly responsible to him.”
“Starting, then, with these fundamental principles, we will look first at the provision made for physical pain. Men and, I suppose, all living creatures are created with the capacity of suffering. The same nerves of sensation which if excited naturally give rise to pleasure may be excited unnaturally and inflict pain. But why not endow living creatures with nerves of sensation which could experience pleasure, but could not feel pain? Is this possible? Perhaps so, but no man can affirm it with certainty. I do not think that any man can clearly conceive such a thing. To us the capacity of enjoying and that of suffering seem inseparable. But there is no need of insisting upon this point, for the capacity of feeling pain is a most benevolent provision of the Creator for the benefit of living creatures. It is designed to save life and limb.Pain is the sentinel set to guard the outposts of the citadel of life. If there were no pain, men would thrust their hands into flames without knowing it. They would indulge in all manner of destructive excesses, and no sufferings would warn them of danger. They would drink poison, and no pain would bid them make haste to take the antidote. Tear men limb from limb, hew them in pieces with the sword, and no painful sensations would rouse them to self-defence. Without this benevolent provision of pain the race of man could hardly be saved from extinction. How much more would this be true of the animal tribes, which are wholly dependent on instinct for guidance and impulse to action! We accordingly find pain possible in those parts of the body where pain can subserve the purpose of protection; elsewhere no provision is made for pain. Nerves of sensation abound in those parts which require especial care or are especially exposed. The skin is exposed, therefore the skin is well supplied with nerves. The parts beneath the skin are less exposed, and are injured only by first wounding the skin; they are therefore less sensitive. The heart, though so very important, is almost insensible to pain,because the capacity of suffering at that point would confer no protection. The eye is delicate and requires the greatest care, and to secure that needed care the Creator has made it delicately susceptible of pain. The sole of the foot, as its work demanded, was made capable of bearing the roughest usage, and hence the sole of the foot is but little supplied with nerves of sensation. Still farther, when on account of injury any part of the body requires unwonted care, provision is made that the injured part shall become especially sensitive. A bone when well and sound may be cut or sawed almost without pain, but when the bone is injured it becomes inflamed and feels pain most keenly. When a limb for the sake of its own safety ought to be kept quiet, Nature makes it painful to move it. For the benevolent object of preserving life and guarding the well-being of living creatures pain is given. The provision for pain shows the presence of danger, the liability of receiving injury, and the kind design of putting men on their guard. It is the automatic guardian of our happiness. This is all that I have to say about bodily pain.
“Mental suffering and pain of conscience aredesigned, first of all, to subserve the same purpose. The sense of guilt when a man commits a wicked act is designed, first, to lead him to repentance. It is the divine alarum placed within the soul to remind men that they have done evil and received moral damage which must be repaired. It is the moral goad which pricks men to warn them to turn from wickedness. If evil-doing were as pleasant as well-doing, men would see no difference between right and wrong; all moral ideas would be subverted and the glory and beauty of man would be trailed in the dust.
“But a guilty conscience continues to trouble wicked men after the day of repentance has passed; Remorse indeed seems to rise up with preternatural power when Mercy has withdrawn for ever from the sight of Hope. What is the meaning of this? It means that which we admitted in the beginning, that sinners are guilty in God’s sight, that guilt is a real thing and deserves punishment, and that God, the holy and righteous King of men, does actually punish the guilty. God is holy and abhors sin. Remorse of conscience is the shadow of the Creator’s frown, the voice of his eternal indignationechoing and re-echoing in the soul of man. It is the divine wrath penetrating the human spirit and making itself felt. As the holy God abhors sin for ever, the wicked must expect to feel that abhorrence for ever. He who puts himself into a rebellious position toward his Creator must stand in that unnatural attitude guilty and suffering. We can conceive that this should be otherwise only by subverting the foundations of the moral world. Beings created in the image of God, created with a conscience and moral affections, created with moral freedom, can attain blessedness only by aspiring to heavenly things and becoming God-like. If they break away from the divine will and order, they must suffer the divine frown, they must feel that frown. How can God make his frown felt except by looking pain, so to speak, into the sinner’s conscience?
“But this whole subject of pain and suffering derives a double significance from the fact that the human race is a fallen race, alienated from God by wicked works, yet under a merciful dispensation in which they are called to return to obedience. There is no moral quality good and beautiful to our eyes or pleasing to Godin which men are not altogether lacking, and what is still worse, men grow in evil; their last state is worse than the first. There is no healing power in the man which can renovate his heart and bring him back to holiness. It would seem as if some satanic power were hurrying the human race along the road to ruin. If men are to be saved, it must be by a force of renovation outside of themselves, which shall reverse the evil bias of their nature. You say that the world seems fitted to develop man’s capacity for suffering, and that this appears to be as much a part of the divine plan as the impartation of happiness. What, think you, would be the result if the human race were planted in a world where nothing could give pain, where everything would afford gratification? What, Mr. Hume, do you think the effect would be upon creatures such as we all know men to be?”
“I hardly dare answer with the little thought I have given to the subject. I would rather listen than speak.”
“I have noticed,” exclaimed Ansel, “that those boys who have everything done to suit them at home are the most unmanageable inschool and the most disagreeable to play with.”
“Picture to yourselves,” continued Mr. Wilton, “a man who from childhood should have nothing to suffer, no pain or weariness or hardness to bear. From childhood he has no bodily pain, and the comforts of life are so carefully and bountifully provided that he receives no unpleasant sensation. Winter never chills him, summer never heats him. His slightest wants are all anticipated. All his sensations are pleasure. Let the same be true of his mind. His will is never crossed; whatever he wishes is given him; there is no call for self-denial or self-control or abstinence or patience. He feels no pressure of need spurring him to exertion. His whole life is enjoyment. His very body would grow up, not strengthened and compacted for exertion, but fitted only for the softness of indolence and ease. His will would be the selfishness of self-will rather than an intelligent, reasonable self-control. There would be no tenderness and power of love, no endurance and patience in labor, no strength of moral purpose under temptation, no self-denial and self-sacrifice of love for the good of others orfor the attainment of a higher blessedness, no faith in God nurtured in darkness and trial. We should have a mushroom growth of luxurious tastes and indolent ease, impulsiveness and impatience, strength only in selfish, passionate self-will and rampant, luxuriant vices. No other result would be possible with creatures like us. Strength is developed only under circumstances which call for the exercise of strength. A certain hardness and hardihood of living is needed to develop a manly body. Resolute intellectual exertion in the face of difficulties is demanded to educate the mental faculties. An earthly life not wholly satisfactory is needed to awaken in faithless men a longing for a better land. We may look upon the sufferings of this world, taken as a whole, as an expression of God’s displeasure at sin. How very much is such an expression needed! If life were nothing but pleasure, how completely men would forget sin and duty and God and heaven! All the varied experiences of joy and sorrow, of good and ill, of trial and triumph, are needed for man’s spiritual discipline. I think you will bear me witness that the noblest, sweetest, most beautiful characters are found in thosewho have drunk the cup of sorrow to the dregs.”
“I cannot deny it, Mr. Wilton. There is old Deacon Smith. We all know something of his history, I suppose. He was a poor boy; when he was twelve years of age his father died, and his mother died four years later. But he worked his way, first to a good education, and then to an honorable position and ample fortune. Then the dishonesty of a partner brought him back to poverty too late in life for him to recover himself. Now in his old age he works for a small salary in the office of another. But he is as cheerful and as grateful as if he had all that heart could wish, and had never in his life suffered a pang. I think he verily believes that everything which has befallen him has been an expression of God’s love for him. He sheds no tears except for the griefs of others. I think he truly rejoices with those that rejoice and weeps with those that weep. As for faith in God, I suppose he would go into a lion’s den as calmly as did Daniel. If every professor of religion were like him, I am sure that nobody could say a word against the gospel. I freely confess that Deacon Smith’s character has affected me morethan all the arguments I have heard in favor of Christianity.”
“As to that, Mr. Hume,” replied Mr. Wilton, “we have both of us, doubtless, seen men who would hate a man the more bitterly in proportion as he should show himself Christlike. And as to every church-member being like Deacon Smith, we could hardly expect such a character to be nurtured in a day or a year. Deacon Smith has become what he is by a lifetime of severest spiritual discipline and patient endeavor. Such characters are wrought out only by a discipline of every form of trial. This world is constituted as it is for the purpose of giving just such a discipline of effort and patience.
“This explanation brings us, however, only to the vestibule of the great mystery of suffering in the work of recovering man from the Fall. The Captain of our salvation, who put himself in man’s place and took upon himself all human conditions, was made perfect through suffering. The full preparation for his work as the Saviour of man called for a discipline of pain. I shall not attempt to explain this experience of Christ, but salvation brings the believer into a state of profoundest and most mysterious union withChrist. The believer must walk in the footsteps of Jesus. As Christ first came into a condition of sympathy with man, so must man come into a condition of sympathy with him. The believer must share and repeat, in a feebler way, of course, the experiences of the Lord Jesus. He must fill up that which is behind of the sufferings of his Saviour. By this union with Christ in the discipline of pain the Christian is prepared for a union of blessedness. ‘If we suffer, we shall also reign with him.’ How broad and deep this union of the believer with Christ may be, I cannot tell. I am not able to measure this idea. It seems to me like one of God’s infinite thoughts, revealed in its dimness to overawe the souls of men by its shadowy sublimity—seen only enough to suggest how much vaster is that which remains unseen—an iceberg, one part standing out and nine parts sunk in the unfathomed sea. It is a thought to be felt and experienced rather than weighed and measured by human logic. This is all that I have to say upon this subject. Do these views commend themselves to you, Mr. Hume?”
“I do not know,” was the reply; “I want to revolve the subject in my own mind. I havereceived some new ideas, but I judge that a man needs experience in this matter as well as thinking. If I had Deacon Smith’s experience of life, I could form a better opinion. As much as this I can see to be true—that provision for bodily pain is a safeguard to the happiness and life of men, and that a world which should anticipate every human want, leaving nothing to be struggled after and nothing to be endured, would have a disastrous influence upon human character. I will admit that the provision for pain is wise and good.”
“One other point,” continued Mr. Wilton, “we ought to notice before leaving this subject. The word of God says, ‘We know that all things work together for good to them which love God,’ but it says no such thing of those who do not love him. The afflictions of this life work out for the righteous ‘a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.’ The ministry of pain is a ministry of love only to those who submit to Christ. To those who kick at God’s mercies the best blessings turn to evils and curses; to the faithful in Christ the greatest griefs and calamities become choice blessings. A submissive heart and the agencyof the Holy Spirit are needed to sanctify pain. It is a great mistake to think that all men are made better by afflictions. Only the few get good from the discipline of life. With many persons troubles only stir up the worst passions till they rage like caged tigers.”
“This last remark, Mr. Wilton, has thrown a flood of light upon this subject. But it seems strange to me to find myself saying this. I see how it is that so large a part of the pains of life is found in the end to accomplish no good. The evil remains evil. Do you think that my long trial of doubt and unrest and pain of heart can ever be blessed to my good?”
“That it can be so blessed to your good and to the good of many others I have no doubt; but whether it will be, I cannot tell. That depends upon yourself, upon your coming through Christ to God as your heavenly Father. It is my earnest prayer that from your unrest of spirit deep peace in Christ may break forth; and many others unite in the same.”
“I certainly hope,” said Mr. Hume, “that my life may not come to nothing. It seems as if something better than a few years of mingled pain and pleasure, overshadowed by most painfuldoubt and darkness and followed by a plunge into nothingness, must be possible for me.”
“God give you grace,” said Mr. Wilton, earnestly, “to forget the things which are behind, and reach out your hands toward the worthiest destiny! But remember that there is a destiny more terrible than to cease to be, there is a death deeper and darker than the grave.
‘There is a death whose pangOutlasts the fleeting breath;Oh, what eternal terrors hangAround the second death!’”
Mr. Wilton did not think it best to attempt to draw out Mr. Hume farther at that time. He saw that he appeared to be under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and hoped that he would soon experience the new birth by which old things pass away and all things become new. He knew that time is an element even in the operations of the Spirit, and he feared to shake the bough too roughly lest the fruit should fall untimely only to wither in his hand. Happily, the superintendent’s bell brought the conversation at that point to a natural conclusion.
TRANSPORTATION OF HEAT.
To-day we come to that subject which we should have looked at a week ago, if that I hope not unprofitable discussion of the uses of trials and the ministry of pain had not prevented. We must now examine the arrangement for softening the rigors of winter and toning down the heat of summer. The general principle is that in summer the earth receives an excess of heat, while in winter the opposite is true. These extremes are mitigated by transferring heat from summer to winter. How is this accomplished? Any one who has thoughts upon this subject may answer.”
“I have some thoughts,” said Ansel, “but whether right or wrong, I cannot tell. I should think heat might be carried from summer to winter in the same way as from day to night.”
“What are some of those means for transferring heat which seem to you to operate the same in the annual as in the daily changes of temperature?”
“One is the absorption and radiation of heat, and another is the evaporation of water and the condensation of vapor.”
“You are right,” said Mr. Wilton. “The effect of these operations in the equalization of the annual extremes of heat is in no wise different from their effect upon the temperature of day and night, but from summer to winter their effect is vaster and more impressive. During the summer, sea and land, and ‘all that in them is,’ are receiving heat and rising in temperature. The heat of summer penetrates and warms the earth nearly a hundred feet in depth. Into the sea heat penetrates still deeper. How vast the amount of heat required to warm the whole surface of the earth and sea to such depths! By withdrawing so much heat from active use the intensity of the summer temperature is softened. During the colder months the land and sea slowly radiate their heat. We can hardly over-estimate the effect of this alternate absorption and radiation of heat. Sogreat is the effect of this stored up heat that the sea and the great lakes never freeze even in the coldest winter weather, except in the polar regions, and the temperature must fall far below freezing and continue for a long time below the freezing point before the earth begins to freeze. The great bodies of water, remaining always at a temperature above thirty-two degrees, are especially important in warming the wintry air. In the coldest weather they seem like steaming caldrons throwing up their warm vapor. It is the absorption and radiation of heat alone which prevent the temperature of the atmosphere from rising or falling suddenly to the highest or lowest point possible. The sun breaks forth in all its splendor at noonday in summer: what if the sun were to remain stationary, shining thus in his strength for days and months? Everything would be consumed with heat. But why do not the glowing rays of the sun raise the temperature at once to the highest possible point? Because the earth and sea and every object upon the earth absorb the heat, storing it up and holding it in reserve. On the other hand, when the sun sets and his heat is withdrawn, why does not the temperaturefall suddenly to the lowest possible point? Because the heat held in store is slowly radiated and the change of temperature rendered gradual.
“In this work of absorbing and radiating heat every object, earth, air, and sea, does its appropriate share. But water stands chief, and performs the largest service. Its high specific heat enables it to hold in store the largest calorific treasure, and causes it to change its temperature more slowly.
“The formation and condensation of vapor also operate in the same manner as in the transitions of day and night. During the summer the higher average temperature makes it possible for a much larger amount of vapor to be formed than in winter. You remember that at eighty degrees vapor equal to thirteen inches of water can sustain itself, while at thirty-six degrees the elastic force of vapor is equal to the pressure of only two inches and two-fifths of water, and at four degrees to three-fifths of an inch. If the mean summer temperature at any place were eighty degrees, it would be possible for more than one foot of water to be held in the form of vapor. In the formation of this vapor heatwould be consumed sufficient to boil more than five and a half feet of ice water. If the mean winter temperature at the same place be thirty-six degrees, more than three-fourths of this vapor must be condensed and give out its latent heat to warm the air. It is not to be supposed that the full amount of vapor which can support itself does commonly exist, but the difference between the average amount of vapor in summer and in winter must be very great. I suppose this difference often amounts to four or six inches of water. If we suppose it to be four inches, an amount of heat is transferred from summer to winter sufficient to boil twenty-two inches of ice water. In estimating the effect of this we must consider that this heat is not given out gradually and regularly for three months, but whenever there is a sudden fall of temperature vapor is condensed, latent heat becomes sensible, and the suddenness and intensity of the fall are diminished. We need also to bear in mind that every open body of water is sending up its clouds of vapor constantly. The open lakes, and especially the sea, are like a seething caldron; and thus immensely more vapor is condensed during the winter months than isbrought over from summer to winter. Much of the vapor formed in winter is to be set to the account of summer, for it is the summer’s heat absorbed by the water, which maintains its temperature and enables it to throw up such clouds of vapor, even in midwinter. But this comes in more properly at another place, and we will leave it for the present.
“There is another transition experienced by water by which heat treasured up in summer is made available for softening the rigors of winter. Who will suggest it?”
“It is the freezing of water,” said Mr. Hume. “In the process of crystallization one hundred and forty degrees of latent heat become sensible.”
“And this,” continued Mr. Wilton, “is no inconsiderable matter. Every pound of water frozen upon the surface of our lakes and rivers, every pound of water frozen in the wet earth, every pound of water frozen as snow or sleet in the air, gives out as much heat as would boil an equal amount of water at seventy-two degrees. Have you never heard of setting tubs of water in cellars to keep vegetables from freezing?”
“I have,” replied Peter. “I visited mygrandfather two years ago, and his cellar sometimes froze. I asked him why he put tubs of water in his cellar, but he could not tell me, only he said that he knew that tubs of water in his cellar did keep his vegetables from being nipped with the frost.”
“Can you tell us, Peter, why tubs of water set in a cellar should have this effect?”
“I suppose that when the water begins to freeze it begins to give out its latent heat.”
“That is one part of the reason. The water is drawn from the well at perhaps fifty degrees; it must lose eighteen degrees of heat before it begins to freeze, and all the heat which the water loses the air of the cellar gains. And then, as you said, as soon as the water begins to freeze latent heat begins to become sensible. Every pound of water frozen sets free heat enough to raise a pound of water through one hundred and forty degrees. But why do not the vegetables begin to freeze as soon as the water?”
“I don’t know.”
“Water holding salt or other minerals in solution freezes at a lower temperature than pure water. For this reason the juices of vegetables and fruits and the sap of trees may becooled below thirty-two degrees without freezing. On this account the water set in cellars tends to prevent vegetables from freezing; the water begins to freeze at thirty-two degrees, while potatoes and turnips may be cooled a little lower than thirty-two degrees without harm. In this manner the buds of trees are sometimes warmed and protected by the coating of ice which forms around them. The drops of water, falling through the sleety air, touch upon the twigs of trees and freeze upon them, an icy coat embracing them all around. In freezing, the water gives out one hundred and forty degrees of heat, a part of which goes to the air and a part to the twig.”
“This reminds me,” said Ansel, “of what the Irishman said on being told that snow contains heat, that ‘it would be a blessed thing for the poor if one could tell how many snowballs it would take to boil a tea-kettle.’”
“It might be difficult to use snowballs to boil the tea-kettle, but the heat given out in the formation of the snowflakes is doubtless employed quite as usefully for the poor as if used in preparing their tea. You have all noticed that before a snow-storm, or perhaps during the earlypart of the storm, the temperature generally becomes milder, and you have often heard the remark, ‘It is too cold to snow.’ Men have learned that the coming of a snow-storm is attended by a warming of the air. This popular impression is philosophical, yet few understand its philosophy. A foot of snow falls, equal to two or three inches of water. In the condensation of the vapor which formed this snow one thousand degrees of latent heat become sensible, and then in the congelation of the clouds into snowflakes one hundred and forty degrees of heat are evolved. This softening of the rigors of winter is, I think, as great a blessing to the poor as the heating of the tea-kettle. Let us make an estimate of the amount of heat set free in the production of one great snow-storm. Two feet of snow falls, equal, we will suppose, to five inches of water. In the condensation of the watery vapor one thousand degrees of heat are evolved, and in the congelation one hundred and forty degrees—an amount of heat which would boil three feet of cold spring water. In every square mile there are 27,878,400 square feet, and a square mile of water three feet in depth would contain 83,625,200 cubic feet. Theproduction of such a snow-storm sets free for every square mile of surface heat which would boil more than 80,000,000 of cubic feet of spring water. Such a storm sometimes extends over a region of country a thousand miles square, that is, over a million of square miles. In the production of one such storm—a very heavy and extensive storm, I have supposed—heat is generated which would boil eighty millions of millions (80,000,000,000,000) of cubic feet of spring water—an amount altogether too vast for our comprehension. To accomplish this result by combustion would require more than 500,000,000 of tons of anthracite coal—an amount at least three times as great as the yearly product of all the coal-mines of the world. And this is but one heavy storm. The amount of rainfall in the United States may be thirty-six inches or forty or forty-five inches. Supposing the average rainfall of the whole earth to be twenty-four inches—an estimate very far below the truth—we have this result: There are, in round numbers, two hundred millions of square miles of surface, more than five and a half quadrillions (5,575,680,000,000,000) of square feet and more than eleven quadrillions of cubic feet of water.The condensation of this amount of vapor would boil more than sixty quadrillions of cubic feet of ice water. One pound of anthracite coal burned under the most favorable circumstances will boil sixty pounds of ice water. To boil sixty quadrillions of cubic feet of ice water would require sixty quadrillions of pounds of coal—thirty billions of tons—not less than twenty-five tons to every inhabitant of the globe. At this rate a very few years would exhaust the coal-fields of the world. Calculations like these are useful in showing upon how stupendous a scale the Creator carries on his operations. But we must remember that these works are carried on, not to amaze men, but to benefit them. The works go on silently and unseen, challenging no attention from fools, receiving no thought except from the patient student of Nature, and eliciting no thankful recognition save from a few reverent worshipers.
“But I have been led away from a point which I had in mind. While considering the effect of heat in expanding bodies, I reminded you that water presents a marked peculiarity, and promised to speak of it more fully. This is the place for us to look at this singular andbeautiful peculiarity of water. What is the general principle touching the effect of heat upon bodies?”
“Heat expands bodies and cold contracts them,” answered Ansel.
“Water both illustrates this rule and presents some very interesting apparent exceptions. It contracts by cold like other bodies till it reaches the temperature of thirty-nine and a half degrees; it then begins to expand, and expands regularly till it falls to thirty-two degrees; at that point it freezes, and in freezing it expands at once about one-ninth of its bulk. If the cooling process be continued, the ice produced contracts like any other solid. This peculiarity of the interrupted and unequal expansion of water is of the utmost importance in the affairs of our world. Consider the result if the water were to contract by cold as do other bodies down to the freezing point and below it. Water is cooled from the top by contact with the cold air. As the upper film of water cooled it would sink and a new stratum be brought to the surface; that in turn would be cooled and sink, and thus the cooling process would go on with the utmost rapidity till the whole body of water should be reduced to thefreezing temperature. Then congelation would begin, and the first particles of ice formed would sink to the bottom, and as fast as the water became frozen at the top the ice would sink. In this manner a solid body of ice would be formed at the bottom of our lakes and rivers, while the surface would remain unfrozen in contact with the cold air till the whole body of water became a compact mass of ice. Great lakes turned to solid ice would not be thawed during the whole of the summer, for the water warmed from the top would not sink, but would form a warm stratum of water upon the surface, while, below, the solid ice would lie hardly feeling the summer heat. Nay, more; in the higher latitudes it would seem as if the very ocean must be turned to solid ice, never to be melted till the end of time. By the singular expansion of water below thirty-nine and half degrees and its great expansion in congelation, these disastrous consequences are prevented. Our lakes are cooled even in winter only to thirty-nine and a half degrees; below this temperature the colder water is lighter and remains upon the surface; ice floats upon the surface. The top becomes ice, but the great mass of the water remains at thirty-ninedegrees, and the inhabitants of the waters live on unharmed. Spring comes, and the ice, being upon the surface, is soon melted, and the unbound waves begin again to ripple forth their unconscious joy.”
“Do you look upon this irregular expansion and contraction of water,” asked Mr. Hume, “as a real exception to the rule that heat expands bodies?”
“Not at all. In freezing, a new force comes in and asserts itself—the force of crystallization; or, more exactly, as the force of heat diminishes the force of crystallization becomes predominant, and throws the atoms into new positions and new relationships. To this new arrangement of atoms is due the expansion in freezing. Ice contracts and expands by cold and heat the same as any other solid. The attraction of crystallization begins, doubtless, to throw the atoms into their new and crystalline arrangement at the temperature of thirty-nine and a half degrees.
“We must remember that the heat which is set free in the condensation of vapor and in the freezing of water is absorbed in the formation of vapor and the melting of water. As muchheat is taken from summer as is conferred upon winter. The summer is cooled as much as winter is warmed. The formation of vapor is a cooling process. Water is prevented from rising above the boiling point by the formation of vapor. Perspiration cools us by the evaporation to which it gives rise from the whole surface of our bodies. And the higher the temperature, the more rapid the evaporation, and the more vigorous the cooling process.
“We might look at other appliances for transferring heat from summer to winter, but they belong in principle to another department. We have now looked at some of the means for transferring heat in time. The heat is treasured up at the heated noonday, to be brought out for use during the cool hours of night; it is garnered from the excessive heats of summer to supply the deficiencies of winter. It is laid up in store to-day to be expended at any future time when needed. The transfer is a transfer not in space, but in time. We must hereafter examine those arrangements by which heat is transported through space. Some of these arrangements exert an influence upon day and night and upon summer and winter, and thus throwfurther light upon the subjects already discussed. Already more than once topics have been suggested and their full consideration put off till some more fitting time. In our next lesson we must begin the examination of these new principles. We have before spoken of the vicissitudes of days and seasons and years. We shall now have to do with the vicissitudes of zones and lands and seas, of deserts and mountain ranges. The elements become vaster, the stage is broader, and the movements more sublime.
“I am glad that you are so well interested in these great and beautiful works of God’s wisdom and power, but I hope that you do not forget that the crucified Christ is pre-eminently the power of God and the wisdom of God. These natural works are but the husk of which salvation from sin by Christ is the kernel. These outward things are wonderful and beautiful for the setting, but the gem, the royal precious stone, the Koh-i-noor, the ‘mountain of light,’ for which the setting was made, is the true knowledge of the true God and of his Son Jesus Christ. During the past few weeks you have heard others asking, ‘What shall we do to besaved?’ I should be greatly guilty if I allowed you to think earth, air, and sea, with all their silent and solemn movements, more important than our spiritual attitude toward God the Father and Christ the Saviour. Are you, Samuel, in your interest in studying Nature, forgetting Christ and the souls of men?”
“I hope not, and I think not. During the three years since my baptism I have never felt so much my obligation to Christ as now. I never felt before so deep a desire that my friends should repent and believe in Jesus. I think the love of Christ constrains me. I have not felt before that my work was very important; I have been expecting to work more earnestly by and by; but lately I have felt that Christ gives me something to do now for which he holds me responsible.”
“What have you tried to do for Christ?”
“I have been praying for some of my young friends, and especially for Ansel and Peter. And then I felt that I must talk with them as well as pray for them.”
“And can you, my young friends, be careless about your own salvation while Samuel is so anxious for you? Are you contented to live‘having no hope and without God in the world’? Is your happiness here and hereafter more important to Samuel than to yourselves?”
“We are interested,” said Ansel. “We have been talking together about being Christians, but we don’t know what to do.”
“They said,” broke in Samuel, “that they wished I would ask you to preach a sermon and tell them what they must do to be saved. They wished to go on with these lessons, but they thought that perhaps you would be willing to preach a sermon just upon that subject.”
“You know that I often speak of that subject, and when persons have come to the inquiry-meeting I have told them what they must do. But I know that there must needs be ‘line upon line.’ If Ansel and Peter wish it, I will devote a sermon to the subject, and make it as plain as I can. Hardly anything gives me more pleasure than to explain the way of salvation when I know that my hearers are interested.”
“We do wish to have you preach upon that subject, and I am sure that you will have a great many interested hearers besides Ansel and myself.”
“But, Samuel, did you not pray for Mr. Hume also, and talk with him?”
“I prayed for him, but I was afraid to speak with him. I have tried to pray for him a double portion because I could not speak with him.”
Tears gathered in Mr. Hume’s eyes; the thought came to him that his unbelief had raised a barrier between himself and both God and his people. This pious young man was afraid to come to him lest he should meet the scornful arguments and cold derision of a proud unbeliever. He felt humbled—he, a subtle, well-read unbeliever, and Samuel a pious lad yearning for the salvation of his soul, but daring only to pray in secret for him.
“Have not you, Mr. Hume, been treating Christ and the Holy Spirit as Samuel feared that you would treat him?”
“Perhaps so,” he answered. “I am sorry that Samuel did not come to me freely. I think he need not be afraid of me now. I also hope you will preach the sermon which Ansel and Peter wish to hear.”
Mr. Wilton assured them that he would do as they wished unless the Spirit clearly drew him to some other subject. “I always look,” he said,“to the Holy Spirit for direction in my preaching. ‘When he, the Spirit of truth, is come,’ said Jesus, ‘he will lead you into all truth.’ This was fulfilled pre-eminently, I suppose, in the inspired men who laid the foundation of the Church, but the Spirit still dwells in believers and leads those who love and follow Christ. The preacher of the gospel can do nothing without the power of the Spirit of God.”
And I, kind reader, will give you the outline of the sermon if the Spirit bids him preach it.