of various
dark and light tints, so the electric portrait of the Moon contains
various degrees of electric force--which, coming in contact with the
electricity of the Earth's atmosphere, produces different effects on us
and on the natural scenes amid which we dwell. As for eclipses--if you
slowly pass a round screen between yourself and a blazing fire, you
will only see the edges of the fire. In the same way the electrograph
of the Moon passes at stated intervals between the Earth and the
burning world of the Sun."

"Yet surely," I said, "the telescope has enabled us to see the Moon as
a solid globe--we have discerned mountains and valleys on its surface;
and then it revolves round us regularly--how do you account for these
facts?"

"The telescope," returned Heliobas, "is merely an aid to the human eye;
and, as I told you before, nothing is so easily deceived as our sense
of vision, even when assisted by mechanical appliances. The telescope,
like the stereoscope, simply enables us to see the portrait of the Moon
more clearly; but all the same, the Moon, as a world, does not exist.
Her likeness, taken by electricity, may last some thousands of years,
and as long as it lasts it must revolve around us, because everything
in the universe moves, and moves in a circle. Besides which, this
portrait of the moon being composed of pure electricity, is attracted
and forced to follow the Earth by the compelling influence of the
Earth's own electric power. Therefore, till the picture fades, it must
attend the Earth like the haunting spectre of a dead joy. You can
understand now why we never see what we imagine to be the OTHER SIDE of
the Moon. It simply has NO other side, except space. Space is the
canvas--the Moon is a sketch. How interested we are when a discovery is
made of some rare old painting, of which the subject is a perfectly
beautiful woman! It bears no name--perhaps no date--but the face that
smiles at us is exquisite--the lips yet pout for kisses--the eyes brim
over, with love! And we admire it tenderly and reverently--we mark it
'Portrait of a lady,' and give it an honoured place among our art
collections. With how much more reverence and tenderness ought we to
look up at the 'Portrait of a Fair Lost Sphere,' circling yonder in
that dense ever-moving gallery of wonders where the hurrying throng of
spectators are living and dying worlds!"

I had followed the speaker's words with fascinated attention, but now I
said: