“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.
