He sees the vapour, as it whirls, condensing through slow
eternities to a plastic fluidity. He notes ring after ring part from the
circumference of the mass, break, rush together into a globe, and the
glowing ball keep on through space with the speed of its parent bulk. It
cools and still cools and condenses, but still fiercely glows.
Presently--after tens of thousands of years is the creative
_presently_--arises fierce contention betwixt the glowing heart and its
accompanying atmosphere. The latter invades the former with antagonistic
element. He listens in his soul, and hears the rush of ever descending
torrent rains, with the continuous roaring shock of their evanishment in
vapour--to turn again to water in the higher regions, and again rush to
the attack upon the citadel of fire. He beholds the slow victory of the
water at last, and the great globe, now glooming in a cloak of darkness,
covered with a wildly boiling sea--not boiling by figure of speech,
under contending forces of wind and tide, but boiling high as the hills
to come, with veritable heat. He sees the rise of the wrinkles we call
hills and mountains, and from their sides the avalanches of water to the
lower levels.
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