Diogenes of London (collection)/'The Voice of Strange Command'
'THE VOICE OF STRANGE COMMAND'
THERE is a call in that white star luminous in the south this midnight. In it, hanging silent over Africa, I hear the still voices of the world ringing from zone to zone to invoke the sleeper from his dreams. Its clear, pellucid light is a reproach against the indolent round of my life. It was not wont of old time thus to be regarded by a contemplative race of men; not as a pleasant problem for the philosopher, not as the darling figure of the rhymer, nor for the signal awe of the worshipper. It was a lure and a bait then to our fathers' zeal of adventure, an incessant trumpet in the placid heaven, calling to exploration of the earth's mysteries. Serene, benignant, it yet holds for me to-night an echo of those voices. Four-square to the four quarters of the world I seem to see it from my drowsy street, erect, vigilant, the spy of God's handiwork, the sentinel of a roaring earth. Heaven! what voices cry in my blood this night! How the new time fades and vanishes, leaving me the plain, bold guest of the past! Rude, ungenerous Nature screams for my life, and I greet her claim with blows and laughter. The thunderous surge is booming in my ears and the ethereal touch of the mists is on my face; shall I not shake my fist at the sky? I hear the pulse of feet, and the wrack drives about me; dry clashes my harness; there is champing of horses: let me engage with a watchword on my lips. Here is the splendour of battle; charge home for chivalry. The drowsy villas pass from my sight; and lo! the broad moon over a barren waste and wide confusion. Are not the roaring and the yelling as music? O the fever of those noises, the glory of those spirits, rampant and clamorous! I have set the winds to shriek. I am betwixt the devil and the blasts. Stars and glories float before me out of the illimitable. My soul sings at the approach of peril; my heart is the heart of the universe—at one with it. I am afire to sail the world around, and fall upon the most golden adventures.
These are sounds and visions of the romance of the earth, the madness of yonder falling star, in the eye of which is no peace. Yet is the potency of its invitation paling. Generation by generation does Nature swagger less and her vaunted prospect dwindle. When the earth was young and gallant her legions were indomitable, our will was a poor reed to hers. She had no pity for us then, as now she has not, and was unsparing in her cruel attentions. At that time to appear in bravery before her was to disappear in a twinkling. Beyond all question she was a villainous acquaintance then; and would be so now but that her times are accomplished. She has retained her rancours but can only spit them at us, for we have put her to the dust and ride roughshod over her body. She is nothing less vicious, nothing less wanton than of old, but indubitably her dominion has been curtailed, the sphere of her barbarous rule has shrunk. In her youth the world had one neck for her, so supreme was her outrageous sovereignty. Man had then no need of an incitement to confront her, for she leered at him hourly in his daily emprises. It would have been as impossible to step out of her way as to deny her authority; she dogged the poor wretch persistently, played with him a little, jeered or frowned at him upon her pleasure, and in the end despatched him evilly. There has been no mark upon time so notable, so deplorable, as this of our unnatural stepmother; and, if you view our attainments in this connection, how shall we appear to you 'a little breed'? To have tamed this monster, now for the better part within blinkers, is no unworthy service, and comes of good blood. In what quarter is she not worsted, though fighting still? The sons of those that perished by her are scattered abroad to their vengeance, choking her back upon her haunches, maiming and lacerating her in a thousand places. The reverse is so complete, indeed, that I have it in my mind to commiserate her; there is some sort of tragedy in her case. Upon all sides have they risen against her, penetrating to the hinder-parts of the north, to the womb of the east where the day is born, to the white bones of the south, to the red west, to the hot and palpitant heart of the earth. In arms cap-a-pie they have raided all her quarters. Who can stand against this new power of darkness, Man? Weaklings, the virgin forests yield him their honour. Mountain and plain and their swarming tenants are to him sullen captives. He is a ravisher of the fairest, a thief, a cut-purse on old Earth's highway, a pirate, a most indefensible and monstrous libertine. He is putting all things under his feet, and it is but now and then his abjects break away for a passage of freedom; as when the main snaps its bridle and rolls over him. It is thus he atones for his ancient servitude; it is thus he is become regnant over all.
But Nature takes long a-dying; in a hundred parts she still disputes the end with all her old virulence, and it is a summons to the closing struggle I hear in yonder star. In a little the voices will have ceased and dreamful ease be our only portion: that is why the call rings so clearly to-night, mingling with all the sounds of time departed. But has, then, Nature really no further hope? Has she no surprises for us? Having slain and coffined her, shall we have taken the measure of the universe? Or, infinite as Fate, will she ever hold strange facts to which from age to age we must adjust ourselves? Shall there never be peace? And will the gross creature rise and confound us with greater wonders, and fight with her claws to the end? At least for our lessening romance shall be left man's wayward soul and his wicked imaginings. These shall go to the tourney.