And now I shall seek her once more,
    On some Mississippi’s vast tide
  That flows the whole universe through,
    Than earth’s widest rivers more wide.

  Evangeline I shall not miss
    Though we wander the dim starry sheen,
  On opposite sides of rivers so vast
    That islands of worlds intervene.

But what is there in space?  There is the great ceaseless force of gravitation.  Though the weakest of natural forces, yet when displayed in world-masses its might is measureless by man’s arithmetic.  Tie an apple or a stone to one end of a string, and taking the other end whirl it around your finger, noting its pull.  That depends on the weight of the whirling ball, the length of the string, and the swiftness of the whirl.  The stone let loose from David’s finger flies crashing into the head of Goliath.  But suppose the stone is eight thousand miles in diameter, the string ninety-two million five hundred thousand miles long, and the swiftness one thousand miles a minute, what needs be the tensile strength of the string?  If we covered the whole side of the earth next the sun, from pole to pole and from side to side, with steel wires attaching the earth to the sun, thus representing the tension of gravitation, the wires would need to be so many that a mouse could not run around among them.

There swings the moon above us.  Its best service is not its light, though lovers prize that highly.  Its gravitative work is its best.  It lifts the sea and pours it into every river and fiord of the coast.  Our universal tug-boat is in the sky.  It saves millions of dollars in towage to London alone every year.  And this world would not be habitable without the moon to wash out every festering swamp and deposit of sewage along the shore.

Gravitation reaches every place, whether worlds be there or not.  This force is universally present and effective.  In the possibilities of a no-world condition a spirit may be able to so relate itself to matter that gravitation would impart its incredible swiftness of transference to a soul thus temporarily relating itself to matter.  What gravitation does in the absence of the kind of matter we know it is difficult to assert.  But as will be seen in our second division there is still ample room for its exercise when worlds as such have ceased to be.

In space empty of worlds there is light.  It flies or runs one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second.  There must be somewhat on which its wing-beat shall fall, stepping stones for its hurrying feet.  We call it ether, not knowing what we mean.  But in this space is the play of intensest force and quickest activity.  There are hundreds of millions of millions of wing-beats or footfalls in a second.  Mathematical necessities surpass mental conceptions.  In a cubic mile of space there are demonstrably seventy millions of foot tons of power.  Steam and lightning have nothing comparable to the activity and power of the celestial ether.  Sir William Thompson thinks he has proved that a cubic mile of celestial ether may have as little as one billionth of a pound of ponderable matter.  It is too fine for our experimentation, too strong for our measurement.  We must get rid of our thumby fingers first.