ulty 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!--t