Πυρ σοι προσοισω.
I will bring fire to thee.
—EURIPIDES—_Androm._
EIROS.
Why do you call me Eiros?
CHARMION.
So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget too,
my earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.
EIROS.
This is indeed no dream!
CHARMION.
Dreams are with us no more; but of these mysteries anon. I
rejoice to see you looking life-like and rational. The film of
the shadow has already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart and
fear nothing. Your allotted days of stupor have expired and,
to-morrow, I will myself induct you into the full joys and
wonders of your novel existence.
EIROS.
True—I feel no stupor—none at all. The wild sickness and the
terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
rushing, horrible sound, like the “voice of many waters.” Yet my
senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their
perception of the new.
CHARMION.
A few days will remove all this;—but I fully understand you, and
feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what
you undergo—yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have
now suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in
Aidenn.
EIROS.
In Aidenn?
CHARMION.
In Aidenn.
EIROS.
Oh God!—pity me, Charmion!—I am overburthened with the majesty of
all things—of the unknown now known—of the speculative Future
merged in the august and certain Present.
CHARMION.
Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of
this. Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the
exercise of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward—but
back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the details of that
stupendous event which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us
converse of familiar things, in the old familiar language of the
world which has so fearfully perished.
EIROS.
Most fearfully, fearfully!—this is indeed no dream.
CHARMION.
Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?
EIROS.
Mourned, Charmion?—oh deeply. To that last hour of all, there
hung a cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your
household.
CHARMION.
And that last hour—speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked
fact of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out
from among mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave—at that
period, if I remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you
was utterly unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the
speculative philosophy of the day.
EIROS.
The individual calamity was as you say entirely unanticipated;
but analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion
with astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even
when you left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in
the most holy writings which speak of the final destruction of
all things by fire, as having reference to the orb of the earth
alone. But in regard to the immediate agency of the ruin,
speculation had been at fault from that epoch in astronomical
knowledge in which the comets were divested of the terrors of
flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had been well
established. They had been observed to pass among the satellites
of Jupiter, without bringing about any sensible alteration either
in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We had
long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was
not in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets
were accurately known. That among them we should look for the
agency of the threatened fiery destruction had been for many
years considered an inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild
fancies had been, of late days, strangely rife among mankind;
and, although it was only with a few of the ignorant that actual
apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement by astronomers of a
new comet, yet this announcement was generally received with I
know not what of agitation and mistrust.
The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and
it was at once conceded by all observers, that its path, at
perihelion, would bring it into very close proximity with the
earth. There were two or three astronomers, of secondary note,
who resolutely maintained that a contact was inevitable. I cannot
very well express to you the effect of this intelligence upon the
people. For a few short days they would not believe an assertion
which their intellect so long employed among worldly
considerations could not in any manner grasp. But the truth of a
vitally important fact soon makes its way into the understanding
of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that astronomical
knowledge lied not, and they awaited the comet. Its approach was
not, at first, seemingly rapid; nor was its appearance of very
unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material
increase in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration
in its color. Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were
discarded and all interests absorbed in a growing discussion,
instituted by the philosophic, in respect to the cometary nature.
Even the grossly ignorant aroused their sluggish capacities to
such considerations. The learned now gave their intellect—their
soul—to no such points as the allaying of fear, or to the
sustenance of loved theory. They sought—they panted for right
views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. Truth arose in the
purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise bowed
down and adored.
That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would
result from the apprehended contact, was an opinion which hourly
lost ground among the wise; and the wise were now freely
permitted to rule the reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was
demonstrated, that the density of the comet’s nucleus was far
less than that of our rarest gas; and the harmless passage of a
similar visitor among the satellites of Jupiter was a point
strongly insisted upon, and which served greatly to allay terror.
Theologists with an earnestness fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the
biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the people with a
directness and simplicity of which no previous instance had been
known. That the final destruction of the earth must be brought
about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
enforced every where conviction; and that the comets were of no
fiery nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved
all, in a great measure, from the apprehension of the great
calamity foretold. It is noticeable that the popular prejudices
and vulgar errors in regard to pestilences and wars—errors which
were wont to prevail upon every appearance of a comet—were now
altogether unknown. As if by some sudden convulsive exertion,
reason had at once hurled superstition from her throne. The
feeblest intellect had derived vigor from excessive interest.
What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of
elaborate question. The learned spoke of slight geological
disturbances, of probable alterations in climate, and
consequently in vegetation, of possible magnetic and electric
influences. Many held that no visible or perceptible effect would
in any manner be produced. While such discussions were going on,
their subject gradually approached, growing larger in apparent
diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as
it came. All human operations were suspended.
There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when
the comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all
the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was
gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently
within their bosoms. A very few days sufficed, however, to merge
even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable We could no
longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its
historical attributes had disappeared. It oppressed us with a
hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical
phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts, and
a shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with inconceivable
rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame,
extending from horizon to horizon.
Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear
that we were already within the influence of the comet; yet we
lived. We even felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity
of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was
apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible through
it. Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we
gained faith, from this predicted circumstance, in the foresight
of the wise. A wild luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown
before, burst out upon every vegetable thing.
Yet another day—and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was
now evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change
had come over all men; and the first sense of pain was the wild
signal for general lamentation and horror. This first sense of
pain lay in a rigorous constriction of the breast and lungs, and
an insufferable dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that
our atmosphere was radically affected; the conformation of this
atmosphere and the possible modifications to which it might be
subjected, were now the topics of discussion. The result of
investigation sent an electric thrill of the intensest terror
through the universal heart of man.
It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a
compound of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of
twenty-one measures of oxygen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen in
every one hundred of the atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the
principle of combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was absolutely
necessary to the support of animal life, and was the most
powerful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the
contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal life or
flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
ascertained in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we
had latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of
the idea, which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a
total extraction of the nitrogen? A combustion irresistible,
all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate;—the entire fulfilment,
in all their minute and terrible details, of the fiery and
horror-inspiring denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy
Book.
Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of
mankind? That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired
us with hope, was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In
its impalpable gaseous character we clearly perceived the
consummation of Fate. Meantime a day again passed—bearing away
with it the last shadow of Hope. We gasped in the rapid
modification of the air. The red blood bounded tumultuously
through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed all
men; and, with arms rigidly outstretched towards the threatening
heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus of the
destroyer was now upon us; even here in Aidenn, I shudder while I
speak. Let me be brief—brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and
penetrating all things. Then—let us bow down, Charmion, before
the excessive majesty of the great God!—then, there came a
shouting and pervading sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM;
while the whole incumbent mass of ether in which we existed,
burst at once into a species of intense flame, for whose
surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat even the angels in the
high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name. Thus ended all.