They made the special
      effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid by special impulses, the
      subject of exact calculation—so that it became easy to determine
      in what precise period an impulse of given extent would engirdle
      the orb, and impress (for ever) every atom of the atmosphere
      circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty, from a
      given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
      the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the
      results of any given impulse were absolutely endless—and who saw
      that a portion of these results were accurately traceable through
      the agency of algebraic analysis—who saw, too, the facility of
      the retrogradation—these men saw, at the same time, that this
      species of analysis itself, had within itself a capacity for
      indefinite progress—that there were no bounds conceivable to its
      advancement and applicability, except within the intellect of him
      who advanced or applied it. But at this point our mathematicians
      paused. OINOS. And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded? AGATHOS. Because there were some considerations of deep interest
      beyond. It was deducible from what they knew, that to a being of
      infinite understanding—one to whom the perfection of the
      algebraic analysis lay unfolded—there could be no difficulty in
      tracing every impulse given the air—and the ether through the
      air—to the remotest consequences at any even infinitely remote
      epoch of time. It is indeed demonstrable that every such impulse
      given the air, must, in the end, impress every individual thing
      that exists within the universe;—and the being of infinite
      understanding—the being whom we have imagined—might trace the
      remote undulations of the impulse—trace them upward and onward in
      their influences upon all particles of an matter—upward and
      onward for ever in their modifications of old forms—or, in other
      words, in their creation of new—until he found them
      reflected—unimpressive at last—back from the throne of the
      Godhead. And not only could such a thing do this, but at any
      epoch, should a given result be afforded him—should one of these
      numberless comets, for example, be presented to his inspection—he
      could have no difficulty in determining, by the analytic
      retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This power
      of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection—this
      faculty of referring at all epochs, all effects to all causes—is
      of course the prerogative of the Deity alone—but in every variety
      of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power itself
      exercised by the whole host of the Angelic intelligences. OINOS. But you speak merely of impulses upon the air. AGATHOS. In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth;
      but the general proposition has reference to impulses upon the
      ether—which, since it pervades, and alone pervades all space, is
      thus the great medium of creation. OINOS. Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates? AGATHOS. It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the
      source of all motion is thought—and the source of all thought is—

      OINOS. God. AGATHOS. I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child of the fair
      Earth which lately perished—of impulses upon the atmosphere of
      the Earth. OINOS. You did. AGATHOS. And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind
      some thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an
      impulse on the air? OINOS. But why, Agathos, do you weep—and why, oh why do your
      wings droop as we hover above this fair star—which is the
      greenest and yet most terrible of all we have encountered in our
      flight? Its brilliant flowers look like a fairy dream—but its
      fierce volcanoes like the passions of a turbulent heart. AGATHOS. They are!—they are! This wild star—it is now three
      centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at
      the feet of my beloved—I spoke it—with a few passionate
      sentences—into birth. Its brilliant flowers are the dearest of
      all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the passions
      of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts. THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA


Μελλοντα ταυτα.—SOPHOCLES—_Antig._
     “These things are in the near future.”

      _ Una._ “Born again?”

      _ Monos._ Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These
      were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long
      pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until
      Death himself resolved for me the secret. _Una._ Death! _Monos._ How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe,
      too, a vacillation in your step—a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the
      Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how
      singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror
      to all hearts—throwing a mildew upon all pleasures! _Una._ Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How
      often, Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its
      nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human
      bliss—saying unto it “thus far, and no farther!” That earnest
      mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our bosoms—how
      vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first
      up-springing, that our happiness would strengthen with its
      strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of
      that evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus,
      in time, it became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy
      then. _Monos._ Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine,
      forever now! _ Una._ But the memory of past sorrow—is it not present joy? I
      have much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I
      burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the dark
      Valley and Shadow. _ Monos._ And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos
      in vain? I will be minute in relating all—but at what point shall
      the weird narrative begin? _Una._ At what point? _Monos._ You have said. _Una._ Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the
      propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say,
      then, commence with the moment of life’s cessation—but commence
      with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you,
      you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed
      down your pallid eyelids with the passionate fingers of love. _ Monos._ One word first, my Una, in regard to man’s general
      condition at this epoch.