he
plaything of a villain. At any time he could exert his power and make
me his slave. But I might be worse than that. I might, with my own hand,
have sent a man into eternity. How did I know it was Voltaire's power
that made me do the deed? Might not my blind passion have swept me on to
this dark deed? But that could not be. No, no; I could not believe that.
Besides, Voltaire had told me it was because of him. Still, I was not
fit to be her husband.

Then her words came back to me, and her pure influence gave me strength.
She, so pure, so true, had seemed to understand my position, had bid me
hope and be brave. She had told me she loved me--she, whom hundreds of
brave men would love to call their own. I would try again. I _would_
brake the chains Voltaire had forged; I WOULD hurl from me the incubus
that would otherwise crush me.

I tried again, and again; and again, and again I failed.

I did not pray. I could not. If God cared, I thought, He would help the
innocent. I was innocent in thought, and still I was not helped. God did
not care, for He helped me not. Months had passed away, and I had taken
no forward step. I was still enslaved. The preachers were wrong; God did
not care for the beings He had made.

There was no God.

God meant "the good one." "God is eternally good, all-powerful, if there
is a God. But there is not," I said. Evil was rampant. Every day vice
triumphed, every day virtue suffered. Goodness was not the strongest
force. Vice was conquering; evil powers were triumphant. Why should any
exception be made for me? If there is a God, evil would be checked,
destroyed; instead of which, it was conquering every day. There could be
no God; and if no God, good and evil were little more than names. We
were the sport of chance, and chance meant the destruction of anything
like moral responsibility. I could not help being constituted as I was,
neither could Voltaire help his nature. One set of circumstances had
surrounded his life, another mine, and our image and shape were
according to the force of these circumstances. As for a God who loved
us, it was absurd.

And yet who gave us love--made us capable of loving? Was love the result
of chance, which was in reality nothing? And again, whence the idea of
God, whence the longing for Him? Besides, did not the longing for Him
give evidence of His being?

But I will not weary the reader with my mental wanderings; they are
doubtless wearisome enough, and ye