In my well-founded self-distrust the only thing that I ask of God, or rather expect from his justice, is to correct my error if I go astray, if that error is dangerous to me.  To be honest I need not think myself infallible; my opinions, which seem to me true, may be so many lies; for what man is there who does not cling to his own beliefs; and how many men are agreed in everything?  The illusion which deceives me may indeed have its source in myself, but it is God alone who can remove it.  I have done all I can to attain to truth; but its source is beyond my reach; is it my fault if my strength fails me and I can go no further; it is for Truth to draw near to me.

The good priest had spoken with passion; he and I were overcome with emotion.  It seemed to me as if I were listening to the divine Orpheus when he sang the earliest hymns and taught men the worship of the gods.  I saw any number of objections which might be raised; yet I raised none, for I perceived that they were more perplexing than serious, and that my inclination took his part.  When he spoke to me according to his conscience, my own seemed to confirm what he said.

“The novelty of the sentiments you have made known to me,” said I, “strikes me all the more because of what you confess you do not know, than because of what you say you believe.  They seem to be very like that theism or natural religion, which Christians profess to confound with atheism or irreligion which is their exact opposite.  But in the present state of my faith I should have to ascend rather than descend to accept your views, and I find it difficult to remain just where you are unless I were as wise as you.  That I may be at least as honest, I want time to take counsel with myself.  By your own showing, the inner voice must be my guide, and you have yourself told me that when it has long been silenced it cannot be recalled in a moment.  I take what you have said to heart, and I must consider it.  If after I have thought things out, I am as convinced as you are, you will be my final teacher, and I will be your disciple till death.  Continue your teaching however; you have only told me half what I must know.  Speak to me of revelation, of the Scriptures, of those difficult doctrines among which I have strayed ever since I was a child, incapable either of understanding or believing them, unable to adopt or reject them.”

“Yes, my child,” said he, embracing me, “I will tell you all I think; I will not open my heart to you by halves; but the desire you express was necessary before I could cast aside all reserve.  So far I have told you nothing but what I thought would be of service to you, nothing but what I was quite convinced of.  The inquiry which remains to be made is very difficult.  It seems to me full of perplexity, mystery, and darkness; I bring to it only doubt and distrust.  I make up my mind with trembling, and I tell you my doubts rather than my convictions.  If your own opinions were more settled