Well, when I first broke through the shackles of the old childish faith, Percy Bysshe Shelley was my high-priest.  Through him I thought I had come into a beautiful light of nature, vague, shadowy, and grand, filling vast conceptions of the indefinite.  He discarded the God of the Hebrews, who was fashioned after their own narrow, revengeful passions; a Being of wrath and war.  And a brooding spirit, an indefinite indwelling life of nature, was a new revelation to me.  I grew mystical and sublime and sentimental, in this new mental perception.  But I wearied of that.  I could not walk on stilts always, and I descended to the earth and read Voltaire, and laughed and sneered at all the old forms and superstitions of man.  But this does not afford me any enjoyment now—­the unhappy do not feel like laughing at a ribald wit; but, alas! this rubbish is stored here, and here I must live with it.  It blackened and blurred the pictures of the angels, that adorned my childish memories.  It wiped out all heavenly visions, and left only the earthly life.

But the human heart cannot live without a God; and I tried hard to make one, for myself, through German pantheism.  But I turn this rubbish over disconsolately, for it is a material God, and does not respond to one spiritual nature.  It seems rather to react against it.  Alas! alas!  I sink down into a Cimmerian darkness here; it seems as if the Stygian pools of blackness had closed over me, and a cry of anguish goes forth from my inmost soul, piercing the dark depths to learn what is spirit? and what is God?  What manner of existence or unity of Being is He?  Who is He?  Where is He?  And how can I attain to a knowledge of Him?  But through the echoing halls of my dark mind, there is only a wailing sound of woe, of misery, of disappointment, of a yearning anguish of spirit for a something higher and better than I have ever yet conceived of or known.

But there is yet more of this mental rubbish.  Ah! here is a whole chapter of stuff—­and I once thought it was so wise.  I called it the “progressive chain of being,” and wove it out of the Pythagorean philosophy.  I said man’s nature begins from the lowest, and ascends to the highest. Nature gives the impulse to life; and the flower that blooms in South America may die, and its inner spirit may clothe itself in a donkey born in Greece! and so it goes on transfusing itself from clime to clime, in ever new and higher forms, until man is developed.  Well, was there ever such stuff concocted before?  I almost hear the bray of that donkey, who originated in a flower.  And pray, most sapient self! what is nature?  It seems now, to me, a form, a mere dead incubus of matter.  And could this inert tangible matter, sublimate in its hard, dead bosom, an essence so subtle, as to be freer of the bonds of time and space?  At such a preposterous suggestion even a donkey might bow his ears with shame.  So I will hand this “progressive chain of being” over to a deeper darkness, and pass on.