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.
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