CHAPTER XI.
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! Thecompanionsolaces 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 beacquired 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. Theworldis 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 unseenGod! 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—
“Godis 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 atdoubt, from the extreme of absolutenegation. He was recoiling in the path of falsehood he had solong 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—aGod—an immortality.