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- 775
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z
- extracted_by
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- start_line
- 708
- text
- simple to discern.”
“He is mad,” said the chief Divino; “never before heard I such words.”
“They are thoughts,” muttered the guide.
“Poor fool!” cried Fauna.
“Lost youth!” sighed the maiden.
“He is but a child,” said the beggar. These whims will soon depart;
once I was like him; but, praise be to Alma, in the hour of sickness I
repented, feeble old man that I am!”
“It is because I am young and in health,” said the boy, “that I more
nourish the thoughts, that are born of my youth and my health. I am
fresh from my Maker, soul and body unwrinkled. On thy sick couch, old
man, they took thee at advantage.”
“Turn from the blasphemer,” cried Pani. “Hence! thou evil one, to the
perdition in store.”
“I will go my ways,” said the boy, “but Oro will shape the end.”
And he quitted the Morai.
After conducting the party round the sacred inclosure, assisting his
way with his staff, for his child had left him, Pani seated himself on
a low, mossy stone, grimly surrounded by idols; and directed the
pilgrims to return to his habitation; where, ere long he would rejoin
them.
The pilgrims departed, he remained in profound meditation; while,
backward and forward, an invisible ploughshare turned up the long
furrows on his brow.
Long he was silent; then muttered to himself, “That boy, that wild,
wise boy, has stabbed me to the heart. His thoughts are my suspicions.
But he is honest. Yet I harm none. Multitudes must have unspoken
meditations as well as I. Do we then mutually deceive? Off masks,
mankind, that I may know what warranty of fellowship with others, my
own thoughts possess. Why, upon this one theme, oh Oro! must all
dissemble? Our thoughts are not our own. Whate’er it be, an honest
thought must have some germ of truth. But we must set, as flows the
general stream; I blindly follow, where I seem to lead; the crowd of
pilgrims is so great, they see not there is none to guide.—It hinges
upon this: Have we angelic spirits? But in vain, in vain, oh Oro! I
essay to live out of this poor, blind body, fit dwelling for my
sightless soul. Death, death:—blind, am I dead? for blindness seems a
consciousness of death. Will my grave be more dark, than all is now?—
From dark to dark!—What is this subtle something that is in me, and
eludes me? Will it have no end? When, then, did it begin? All, all is
chaos! What is this shining light in heaven, this sun they tell me of?
Or, do they lie? Methinks, it might blaze convictions; but I brood and
grope in blackness; I am dumb with doubt; yet, ’tis not doubt, but
worse: I doubt my doubt. Oh, ye all-wise spirits in the air, how can ye
witness all this woe, and give no sign? Would, would that mine were a
settled doubt, like that wild boy’s, who without faith, seems full of
it. The undoubting doubter believes the most. Oh! that I were he.
Methinks that daring boy hath Alma in him, struggling to be free. But
those pilgrims: that trusting girl.—What, if they saw me as I am?
Peace, peace, my soul; on, mask, again.”
And he staggered from the Morai.
- title
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