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.