That night, as I sat in my study, very thoughtful and very mournful, I
resolved all that Julius Faber had said; and the impression his words had
produced became gradually weaker and weaker, as my reason, naturally
combative, rose up with all the replies which my philosophy suggested.
No; if my imagination had really seduced and betrayed me into monstrous
credulities, it was clear that the best remedy to such morbid tendencies
towards the Superstitious was in the severe exercise of the faculties most
opposed to Superstition,--in the culture of pure reasoning, in the science
of absolute fact. Accordingly, I placed before me the very book which
Julius Faber had advised me to burn; I forced all my powers of
mind to go again over the passages which contained the doctrines that his
admonition had censured; and before daybreak, I had stated the substance
of his argument, and the logical reply to it, in an elaborate addition to
my chapter on "Sentimental Philosophers." While thus rejecting the
purport of his parting counsels, I embodied in another portion of my work
his views on my own "illusions;" and as here my commonsense was in concord
with his, I disposed of all my own previous doubts in an addition to my
favourite chapter "On the Cheats of the Imagination." And when the pen
dropped from my hand, and the day-star gleamed through the window, my
heart escaped from the labour of my mind, and flew back to the image of
Lilian. The pride of the philosopher died out of me, the sorrow of the
man reigned supreme, and I shrank from the coming of the sun, despondent.