And a constrained silence ensued.
Soon afterwards, something which had been circling overhead suddenly alighted on the foliage of the plant; a greenish insect, of which the narrow corslet was undulated with whitish stripes.
“Sir!” cried Charney, “behold in good time a new text enabling you to enlarge upon the mysteries of creation.”
Girardi took the insect with due precaution: examined it carefully; paused for reflection; and suddenly an expression of triumph developed itself in his countenance. An irresistible argument seemed to have fallen from heaven in his hands. Commencing in his usual professional tone, he gradually assumed a more sublime expression, as the secret object of his lesson penetrated through his language.
“Mere fly-catcher as I am,” he began with an arch smile, “I must restrict myself to my humble attributions, and not presume to affect the pedantry of the scholar.”
“The most enlightened mind,” said Charney, “the mind which has profited most largely by the acquirement of knowledge, is that which soonest discovers the limitation of its own powers, after vainly attempting to penetrate into the hidden mysteries of things. Genius itself breaks its wings against such obstacles, without having extracted from the wall of flints, by which it is obstructed, one spark of the light of truth.”
“We ignoramuses,” observed Girardi, “arrive sooner at our object by taking the most direct road. If we do but open our eyes, God deigns to reveal himself in the august sublimity of his works.”
“On that point we are agreed,” interrupted Charney.