undulations of the impulse--trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all particles of all 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 reflectedunimpressive at last-back from the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being 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 inhallowed of hearts. 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! 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 pleas ures! 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 blisssaying 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 upspringing, 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, 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, 1 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 cessationbut 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. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our forefathers-wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem-had ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious-principles which should have taught our race to submit to the guidance of the natural laws, rather than attempt their control. At long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance in practical science as a retro-gradation in the true utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect-that intellect which we now feel to have been the most exalted of all-since those truths which to us were of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that analogy which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to the unaided reason bears no weight-occasionally did this poetic intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague ilea of the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition of his soul. And these men-the poets-living and perishing amid the scorn of the "utilitarians”of rough pedants, who arrogated to themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the scorned—these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple than our enjoyments were keen-days when mirth was a word unknown, so solomnly deep-toned was happiness-holy, august and blissful days, when blue rivers an undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest solitudes, primæval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil days. The great "movement❞—that was the cant term-went on: a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art-the Arts-arose supreme, and, once enthronea, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and in the face of analogy and of God-in despite of the loud warning voice of the laws of gradation so visibly pervading all things in Earth and Heaven-wild attempts at an omni-prevalent Democracy were made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil, Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own destruction in the perversion of our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of its culture in the |