to think. In Alma’s name, receive my homage.”
And she flung flowers before the god.
But Fauna, the hale matron, turning upon Pani, exclaimed, “Receive more gifts, oh guide.” And again she showered them upon him.
Upon this, the willful boy who would not have Pani for his guide, entered the Morai; and perceiving the group before the image, walked rapidly to where they were. And beholding the idol, he regarded it attentively, and said:—“This must be the image of Doleema; but I am not sure.”
“Nay,” cried the blind pilgrim, “it is the holy tree Ananna, thou wayward boy.”
“A tree? whatever it may be, it is not that; thou art blind, old man.”
“But though blind, I have that which thou lackest.”
Then said Pani, turning upon the boy, “Depart from the holy Morai, and corrupt not the hearts of these pilgrims. Depart, I say; and, in the sacred name of Alma, perish in thy endeavors to climb the Peak.”
“I may perish there in truth,” said the boy, with sadness; “but it shall be in the path revealed to me in my dream. And think not, oh guide, that I perfectly rely upon gaining that lofty summit. I will climb high Ofo with hope, not faith; Oh, mighty Oro, help me!”
“Be not impious,” said Pani; “pronounce not Oro’s sacred name too lightly.”
“Oro is but a sound,” said the boy. “They call the supreme god, Ati, in my native isle; it is the soundless thought of him, oh guide, that is in me.”
“Hark to his rhapsodies! Hark, how he prates of mysteries, that not even Hivohitee can fathom.”
“Nor he, nor thou, nor I, nor any; Oro, to all, is Oro the unknown.”
“Why claim to know Oro, then, better than others?”
“I am not so vain; and I have little to substitute for what I can not receive. I but feel Oro in me, yet can not declare the thought.”
“Proud boy! thy humility is a pretense; at heart, thou deemest thyself wiser than Mardi.”
“Not near so wise. To believe is a haughty thing; my very doubts humiliate me. I weep and doubt; all Mardi may be light; and I too 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.
CHAPTER 6
THEY DISCOURSE OF THE GODS OF MARDI, AND BRAID–BEARD TELLS OF ONE FONI
Walking from the sacred inclosure, Mohi discoursed of the plurality of gods in the land, a subject suggested by the multitudinous idols we had just been beholding.
Said Mohi, “These gods of wood and of stone are nothing in number to the gods in the air. You breathe not a breath without inhaling, you touch not a leaf without ruffling a spirit. There are gods of heaven, and gods of earth; gods of sea and of land; gods of peace and of war; gods of rook and of fell; gods of ghosts and of thieves; of singers and dancers; of lean men and of house-thatchers. Gods glance in the eyes of birds, and sparkle in the crests of the waves; gods merrily swing in the boughs of the trees, and merrily sing in the brook. Gods are here, and there, and every where; you are never alone for them.”
“If this be so, Braid–Beard,” said Babbalanja, “our inmost thoughts are overheard; but not by eaves-droppers. However, my lord, these gods to whom he alludes, merely belong to the semi-intelligibles, the divided unities in unity, thin side of the First Adyta.”
“Indeed?” said Media.
“Semi-intelligible, say you, philosopher?” cried Mohi. “Then, prithee, make it appear so; for what you say, seems gibberish to me.”
“Babbalanja,” said Media, “no more of your abstrusities; what know you mortals of us gods and demi-gods? But tell me, Mohi, how many of your deities of rock and fen think you there are? Have you no statistical table?”
“My lord, at the lowest computation, there must be at least three billion trillion of quintillions.”
“A mere unit!” said Babbalanja. “Old
