 | Tales |  |
THE
CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION.
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
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;
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
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
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
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.
| Tales | |