ARE THE PLANETS INHABITED? Original. BY JAMES INGLIS. ARE the planets inhabited? is a question which naturally presents itself to the human mind, and for a solution of which we as naturally look to the science of Astronomy. But when the immense distance which separates us even from the nearest of the planets is remembered, it can scarcely be a matter of surprise, when the telescope affords no direct evidence of the question, whether the planets, like the earth, are inhabited globes. Yet though it gives no direct answer to the inquiry, modern Astronomy has collected together a mass of facts, connected by the positions and motions, the physical character and condition, and the parts played in the solar system is composed, which form a vast body of analogy, leading the intelligent mind to the conclusion, that the planets are worlds, fulfilling in the economy of the universe the same functions, created by the same Divine hand, for the same moral purposes, and with the same destinies, as the earth. Thus, for example, we find that those orbs, like our own, roll in regulated periods round the sun that they have nights and days, and successions of seasons, that they are provided with atmosphere, supporting clouds and agitated by winds; and thus, also, their climates and seasons are modified by evaporation, and that showers refresh their surfaces. For we know that wherever the existence of clouds is made manifest, there water must exist; there evaporation must go on; there electricity, with its train of phenomena, must reign; there rain must fall; there hail and snow must descend. Notwithstanding the dense atmosphere and thick clouds with which Venus and Mercury are constantly enveloped, the telescope has exhibited to us great irregularities on their surfaces; and thus proves the existence of mountains and valleys. But it is upon the planet Mars, which approaches nearest to he earth, that the greatest advances have been made in this department of inquiry. Under favorable circumstances, its disc is seen to be mapped out by a varied outline, some portions being less reflective than others, just as water would be less reflective than land. Baer and Meadler, two Prussian astronomers, have devoted many years' labor to the examination of Mars, and the result has put us in possession of a map of the geography of that planet, almost as exact and defined as that which we possess of our own; in fact the geographical outline of land and water have been made apparent upon it. But a still more extraordinary fact, in relation to this planet, remains to be considered. Among the shaded markings which have been noted by the telescope. upon its disc, a remarkable region of brilliant white light, standing out in bold relief, has been observed surrounding the visible pole. This highly illuminated spot is to be seen most plainly when it emerges from the long nights of the winter season; but when it has passed slowly beneath the heat of the solar beams, it is found to have gradually contracted its dimensions; and at last before it has plunged into light on the opposite side, to have entirely disappeared. But the opposite pole, then coming into similar relations, is found to be furnished with a like luminous spot, which in its turn dissolves as it becomes heated by the summer sun. Now these facts prove to us incontestably, that the very geographical regions of Mars are facsimiles of our own. In its long polar winters the snows accumulate in the desolation of its high northern and southern latitudes, until they become visible to us in consequence of their reflective properties; that these are slowly melted as the sun's rays gather power in the advancing season, until they cease to be appreciable to terrestrial eyes. The fact is a most striking one in reference to the present question. If the moon has proved to us, incontrovertibly, that one of the celestial luminaries is a solid sphere, carved into elevations and depressions, analogous to those familiar to us, as the mountains and valleys of the terrestrial surfaces; Mars teaches us emphatically that another among them is a world, filled with its rains and snows, and clouds and seasons suited to the purposes and wants of organic life, which is intimately dependent upon such adaptations for its being. ETYMOLOGY OF "EDUCATION." Original. BY THE EDITOR. As common consent has appointed the word Education as an arbitrary sign to embody in phraseology a certain idea, let its etymology and appropriateness be here considered and analyzed. It is derived from the Latin verb "educo." This verb has, in that language, two forms; the one of the first, and the other of the third conjugation. It varies, too, in signification as well as in form, yet both forms are compounded alike of "e" and "duco," and both have, therefore, the same root. But it is immaterial to our purpose whether the word education be derived from either the first or the third conjugations of the Latin verb, or from both alike. For, in either or in both cases, it would be fitly chosen, and equally expressive of the ideas intended to be conveyed by it. The principal definitions of the first conjugation are, according to Ainsworth, "to foster, maintain, or feed continually." This, now, is precisely what a proper education does for the mind. It "fosters" kindly the first germinations of infant thought, "maintains" it, as it were, in the progress of its expansion and growth to manhood, and "feasts" it continually, so that it may not, like a starving body, grow sickly, pine away, and lose its vital energies. Again, the definitions of the third conjugation are equally significant, if we derive it from that. The principal meanings according to Ainsworth, are, "to lead forth, draw out, raise, build, or train up." This, too, is just what a proper education does. It "leads forth" the infantile intellect, for limited flights and limited surveys of the surrounding expanse of knowledge, while its pinions are, as it were, still unfledged, as the bird does her unfledged brood; carefully instructs it to put forth its energies to the best advantage, and to plume its wings for wider and loftier, and still wider and loftier excursions; and cultivates the inherent powers of thought, until that thought gains strength by well regulated exertion, to sustain its flight with unwearied and unfaltering wing, as it roams far abroad, and soars away through creation, marking out new pathways among its interminable wilder ness of inexhaustible wonders. Education "draws forth" latent energies, which would, without its arousing and stimulating power, lie forever dormant; raises up the noble purposes of the soul to a high standard of elevation, and trains every sprouting and expanding branch of thought with vigilant care, and in an appropriate direction, as the skilful gardener trains the tendrils of the vine. So, now, whether we derive the word education from either the first or the third conjugations of the Latin verb "educo," or from both alike, it is equally expressive. As Addison most beautifully and most graphically illustrates the thought: "Education is to the human soul, what the sculptor is to the block of marble." As the one brings forth to view the statue, in all its symmetrical proportions, which lies hidden in the rude, unpolished block," and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein, which runs through the body of it," so the other, "when it works upon a noble mind," unfolds every latent perfection in that mind, which would, otherwise, have lain forever entombed in a deep and undeveloped obscurity. Yes, it is education which brings up the pearl from its hidden depths in the wild, chaotic ocean of untutored thought, and reveals to the daylight and to the rapt gaze of the admirer, all its beauties. It bursts open its rocky encasement, and lets forth the imprisoned brilliancy of the mental diamond upon the world. It, in short, throws wide open the capacious storehouses of the intellect, and brings out to light and to use, all its precious and priceless treasures. This is no overwrought picture of the effects and the value of education. The truth of this assertion will stand out prominently and with forcible impressiveness, in the clear and strong light of contrast. "It is a great error," says Hall, "and it has an extensive and baleful influence on sound learning, the common opinion-entertained oftener than it is expressed, and yet, often expressed in places polished and refined, that, as many are rich, and prosperous, and caressed, and honored, who are without even the rudiments of education, therefore the discipline of the schools and of learning is not essential. And this opinion, like a thousand other falsities, gains strength from the unguarded remarks of pettishness and disappointment, in the welleducated themselves." I once knew a young man who had made great proficiency in learning, give expression to his regret that he had ever seen a book, because he had happened to be unsuccessful in several business enterprises, while some of his acquaintance, notoriously ignorant, had been prosperous. Instead, however, of charging education with the blame, he should have reflected that his habits of life, and the consequent want of the knowledge of the true value and use of money and credit, unfitted him for such enterprises, and was the cause of his failure. His education was not as well balanced as it should have been. He had acquired too much uncommon, mingled with too little of that very essential ingredient, good, substantial common sense. It is none the less true, then, that this picture which I have drawn of the effects and the value of education is not overwrought. The truth of this will be evident, I say, in the strong light of contrast. Compare, for instance, an aboriginal inhabitant of the North American forests with some of the educated sons of civilization and refinement. The wants of the former are, almost all, those of a mere animal. "His soul, proud Science never taught to stray, Far as the solar walk or milky way." The desires and the aspirations of his mind scarcely rise above the irrational creation. Almost all his anxieties are limited to a mere provision against hunger, cold, and thirst, and for the protection of his physical frame from harm. The sensible horizon may be said almost to bound the vision even of the mind itself, as well as the organ of physical vision; and, if the thoughts be ever permitted to venture into the dim, uncertain future, and pass beyond that "bourne from which no traveller e'er returns," it is with shrinking and doubtful timidity, and the very acme of the hope of the savage is, that he shall there triumph over his foe, and proudly string to his war-belt the scalp, the badge of victory,—that he shall there enjoy his own hunting ground, unmolested by the encroachments of the avaricious paleface, and, with his dog and his gun, chase the bounding deer in the forest, or lay low in the dust some of its more ferocious tenants; and that |