He had seen men of all creeds,
and had found in all alike (so he held) the many rogues, and the few
honest men. All religions were, in his eyes, equally true and equally
false. Superior morality was owing principally to the influences of
race and climate; and devotional experiences (to judge, at least, from
American camp-meetings and popish-cities) the results of a diseased
nervous system.
Upon a man so hard and strong this fearful blow had fallen, and, to do
him justice, he took it like a man. He wandered on and on for an hour
or more, up the hills, and into the forest, talking to himself.
"Poor old Willy! I should have liked to have looked into his honest
face before he went, if only to make sure that we were good friends.
I used to plague him sadly with my tricks. But what is the use of
wishing for what cannot be? I recollect I had just the same feeling
when John died; and yet I got over it after a time, and was as
cheerful as if he were alive again, or had never lived at all. And so
I shall get over this. Why should I give way to what I know will pass,
and is meant to pass? It is my father I feel for. But I couldn't be
there; and it is no fault of mine that I was not there. No one told me
what was going to happen; and no one could know: so again,--why grieve
over what can't be helped?"
And then, to give the lie to all his cool arguments, he sat down among
the fern, and burst into a violent fit of crying.
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