nothing to fear from it. Not a single passion did he cherish which the
laws of another world would have condemned. Add to this, what I have
observed before, that he was not a man fond of the display of intellect,
nor one that brought to the discussions of wisdom the artillery of wit.
He was grave, humble, and self-diffident, beyond all beings. I would
have given a kingdom to have found something in the advocate by which I
could have condemned the cause: I could not, and I was wretched.

I spent the whole of the next week among my books. I ransacked whatever
in my scanty library the theologians had written or the philosophers had
bequeathed upon that mighty secret. I arranged their arguments in my
mind. I armed myself with their weapons. I felt my heart spring
joyously within me as I felt the strength I had acquired, and I sent to
the philosopher to visit me, that I might conquer and confute him. He
came; but he spoke with pain and reluctance. He saw that I had taken
the matter far more deeply to heart than he could have supposed it
possible in a courtier and a man of fortune and the world. Little did
he know of me or my secret soul. I broke down his reserve at last. I
unrolled my arguments. I answered his, and we spent the whole night in
controversy. He left me, and I was more bewildered than ever.

To speak truth, he had devoted years to the subject: I had devoted only
a week. He had come to his conclusions step by step; he had reached the
great ultimatum with slowness, with care, and, he confessed, with
anguish and with reluctance. What a match was I, who brought a hasty
temper, and a limited reflection on that subject to a reasoner like
this? His candour staggered and chilled me even more than his logic.
Arguments that occurred not to me, upon my side of the question, /he/
stated at length and with force; I heard, and, till he replied to them,
I deemed they were unanswerable: the reply came, and I had no