Armed with his glass, Charney now extended his field of botanical
discovery; and, at every step, his enthusiasm increased. It must be
owned, however, that inexperienced as he was in the method of scientific
inquiry, devoid of first principles and appropriate instruments, he often
found himself defeated; and the spirit of paradox became insensibly
roused to existence by the cavilling temper of his mind.
He invented half a hundred theories on the circulation of the sap; on
the coloration of the various parts of the flower; on the secretion of
different kinds of aroma by different organs of the stem, the leaves, the
flowers; on the nature of the gum and resin emitted by vegetables, and
the wax and honey extracted by bees from the nectary. At first, ready
answers suggested themselves to all his inquiries; but new systems arose,
to confute on the morrow those of the preceding day. Nay, Charney seemed
to take delight in the impotence of his own judgment, as if affording
wider scope to the efforts of his imagination, and an indefinite term to
the duration of his experiments and inferences.
A day of joy and triumph for the enthusiast was now approaching! He
had formerly heard, and heard with a smile of incredulity, allusion to
the loves of plants, and the sublime discoveries of Linnæus concerning
vegetable generation. It was now his pleasing task to watch the gradual
accomplishment of maternity in Picciola; and when, with his glass fixed
on the stamens and pistils of the flower, he beheld them suddenly endowed
with sensibility and action, the mind of the sceptic became paralyzed
with wonder and admiration! By analogical comparison, his perceptions
rose till they embraced the vast scale of the vegetable and animal
creation. He recognised with a glance the mightiness, the immensity,
the harmony of the whole. The mysteries of the universe seemed suddenly
developed before him. His eyes grew dim with emotion—the microscope
escaped his hand. The atheist sinks back overpowered on his rustic bench,
and after nearly an hour of profound meditation, the following apostrophe
burst from the lips of Charney:—
“_Picciola!_” said he, in a tone of deep emotion—“I had once the whole
earth for my wanderings—I was surrounded by those who called themselves
my friends—by men of letters and science: and not one of the learned ever
bestowed upon me as much instruction as I have received from thee!—not
one of the friendly ever rendered me such good offices as thine! In
this miserable courtyard, between the stones of whose rugged pavement
thou hast sprung to life, I have reflected more, and experienced more
profound emotions, than while traversing in freedom all the countries of
Europe! Blind mortal that I have been!—When first I beheld thee, pale,
feeble, puny, I looked on thee with contempt! And it was a companion
that was vouchsafed to me—a book that was opened for my instruction—a
world that was revealing itself to my wondering eyes! The COMPANION
solaces my daily cares—attaching me to the existence restored me by her
aid, and reconciling me with mankind, whom I had unfairly condemned.
The BOOK teaches me to despise all works of human invention, convicting
my ignorance, and rebuking my pride—instructing me that science, like
virtue, is to be acquired through lowliness of mind. Inscribed in
the living characters of a tongue so long unknown to me, it contains
a thousand enigmas, of which every solution is a word of hope. The
WORLD is the region of the soul—the abstract and criterion of celestial
and eternal nature—the revelation of the organic law of love, from
which results the order of the universe, the gravitation of atoms, the
attraction of suns, and the electric union of all created things, from
the highest star to the hyssop on the wall—from the crawling insect to
man, who walks the earth with his brows elevated towards heaven—perhaps
in search of the omnipotent Author of his being!”
The breast of Charney swelled with irrepressible emotion as he spoke.
Thought succeeded thought in his brain; feeling after feeling arose in
his heart—till, starting from his seat, he began to traverse the court
with hurried footsteps. At length, his agitation exhausted, he returned
towards his Picciola, gazed upon her with ineffable tenderness, raised
his eyes to heaven, and faintly articulated—“Oh! mighty and unseen GOD!
the clouds of learning have too much confused my understanding—the
sophistries of human reason too much hardened my heart, for thy divine
truths to penetrate at once into my understanding. In my unworthiness to
comprehend thy glorious revelations, I can yet only call upon thy name,
and humbly seek thy infinite but invisible protection.”
And with grave demeanour, Charney retraced his steps to his chamber;
where the first sentence that met his eyes, inscribed with his own hand
upon the wall, was—
“GOD is but a word!”
In another moment he had superadded to the inscription—“a word, which
serves perhaps to solve the great enigma of creation!”
“_Perhaps_”—the master word of doubts, still disfigured the phrase! But
it was something for the arrogant Charney to have arrived at _doubt_,
from the extreme of absolute _negation_. He was recoiling in the path
of falsehood he had so long pursued. He no longer pretended to rely
for support upon his own strength—his own faculties. He is willing now
to learn, eager to perpetuate the soft emotions by which his pride has
been subdued, and it is still to the insignificant Picciola he turns for
instruction—for a creed—a GOD—an immortality.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]