I shall have some melancholy scenes with him; I feel that.  Do you remember, when we were in Switzerland together, how, as we wound down the Susten and the Grimsel passes, with the perpendicular cliffs some thousand feet above us, and a torrent as many feet below, we used to shudder at the thought of two men, wrestling upon that dizzy verge, and striving to throw each other over!  I almost imagine that I am about to engage in such a strife now, with the additional horror that the contest is (as one may say) between father and son.  Nay, it is yet more terrible; for in such a contest there, I almost feel as if I could be contented to employ only a passive resistance.  But I must here learn to school my heart and mind to an active and desperate conflict.  I fear lest I should do more harm than good; and I am sure I shall if I suffer impatience and irascibility to prevail.  I shall, perhaps, also hear from those lips which once addressed me only in the accents of respect and kindness, language indicative of that alienation which is the inevitable result of marked dissimilarity of sentiment and character, and which, according to Aristotle’s most just description, will often dissolve the truest friendship, at all events, extinguish (just as prolonged absence will) all its vividness.  So impossible is it for the full sympathies of the heart to coexist with absolute antipathy of the intellect!  Nay, I shall, perhaps, have to listen to the language which I cannot but consider as “impiety” and “blasphemy,” and yet keep my temper.  I half feel, however, that I am doing him injustice in much of this; and I will not “judge before the time.”  It cannot be that he will ever cease to regard me with affection, though, perhaps, no longer with reverence; and I am confident that not even scepticism can chill the natural kindness of his disposition.  I am persuaded that, even as a sceptic, he is very different from most sceptics.  They cherish doubts; he will be impatient of them.  Scepticism is, with them, a welcome guest, and has entered their hearts by an open door; I am sure that it must have stormed his, and entered it by a breach.

“No,” my heart whispers, “I shall still find you sincere, Harrington; scorning to take any unfair advantage in argument, and impatient of all sophistry, as I have ever found you.  You will be fully aware of the moral significance of the conclusion at which you have arrived, —­even that there is no conclusion to be arrived at; and you will be miserable,—­as all must be who have your power to comprehend it.”

Accept this, my dear brother, as a truer delineation of my wanderer than my first thoughts prompted.  But then all this will only make it the more sad to see him.  Still it is a duty, and it must be done.