OINOS. Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
immortality!
AGATHOS. You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is
to be demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition.
For wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may be given!
OINOS. But in this existence, I dreamed that I should be at once
cognizant of all things, and thus at once be happy in being
cognizant of all.
AGATHOS. Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the
acquisition of knowledge! In for ever knowing, we are for ever
blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend.
OINOS. But does not The Most High know all?
AGATHOS. That (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the one
thing unknown even to Him.
OINOS. But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last
all things be known?
AGATHOS. Look down into the abysmal distances!—attempt to force
the gaze down the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep
slowly through them thus—and thus—and thus! Even the spiritual
vision, is it not at all points arrested by the continuous golden
walls of the universe?—the walls of the myriads of the shining
bodies that mere number has appeared to blend into unity?
OINOS. I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no
dream.
AGATHOS. There are _no_ dreams in Aidenn—but it is here whispered
that, of this infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford
infinite springs, at which the soul may allay the thirst _to
know_, which is for ever unquenchable within it—since to quench
it, would be to extinguish the soul’s self. Question me then, my
Oinos, freely and without fear. Come! we will leave to the left
the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and swoop outward from the
throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion, where, for pansies
and violets, and heart’s-ease, are the beds of the triplicate and
triple-tinted suns.
OINOS. And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!—speak to me
in the earth’s familiar tones. I understand not what you hinted
to me, just now, of the modes or of the method of what, during
mortality, we were accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to
say that the Creator is not God?
AGATHOS. I mean to say that the Deity does not create.
OINOS. Explain.
AGATHOS. In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures
which are now, throughout the universe, so perpetually springing
into being, can only be considered as the mediate or indirect,
not as the direct or immediate results of the Divine creative
power.
OINOS. Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered
heretical in the extreme.
AGATHOS. Among angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.
OINOS. I can comprehend you thus far—that certain operations of
what we term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain
conditions, give rise to that which has all the _appearance_ of
creation. Shortly before the final overthrow of the earth, there
were, I well remember, many very successful experiments in what
some philosophers were weak enough to denominate the creation of
animalculæ.
AGATHOS. The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of
the secondary creation—and of the only species of creation which
has ever been, since the first word spoke into existence the
first law.
OINOS. Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of
nonentity, burst hourly forth into the heavens—are not these
stars, Agathos, the immediate handiwork of the King?
AGATHOS. Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to
the conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought
can perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our
hands, for example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and, in
so doing, gave vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it.
This vibration was indefinitely extended, till it gave impulse to
every particle of the earth’s air, which thenceforward, and for
ever, was actuated by the one movement of the hand. This fact the
mathematicians of our globe well knew. 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.