ation upon which
those ethics are built! Well, it really is to me the most astonishing
thing that I have seen in my short earthly pilgrimage, that so many
able men, deep philosophers, astute lawyers, and clear-headed men of
the world should accept such an explanation of the facts of life. In the
face of their apparent concurrence my own poor little opinion would not
dare to do more than lurk at the back of my soul, were it not that
I take courage when I reflect that the equally eminent lawyers and
philosophers of Rome and Greece were all agreed that Jupiter had
numerous wives and was fond of a glass of good wine.

Mind, my dear Bertie, I do not wish to run down your view or that of any
other man. We who claim toleration should be the first to extend it
to others. I am only indicating my own position, as I have often done
before. And I know your reply so well. Can't I hear your grave voice
saying "Have faith!" Your conscience allows you to. Well, mine won't
allow me. I see so clearly that faith is not a virtue, but a vice. It is
a goat which has been herded with the sheep. If a man deliberately shut
his physical eyes and refused to use them, you would be as quick as any
one in seeing that it was immoral and a treason to Nature. And yet you
would counsel a man to shut that far more precious gift, the reason, and
to refuse to use it in the most intimate question of life.

"The reason cannot help in such a matter," you reply. I answer that to
say so is to give up a battle before it is fought. My reason SHALL help
me, and when it can help no longer I shall do without help.

It's late, Bertie, and the fire's out, and I'm shivering; and you, I'm
very sure, are heartily weary of my gossip and my heresies, so adieu
until my next.

II. HOME, 10th April, 1881.

Well, my dear Bertie, here I am again in your postbox. It's not a
fortnight since I wrote you that great long letter, and yet you see I
have news enough to make another formidable budget. They say that the
art of letter-writing has been lost; but if quantity may atone for
quality, you must confess that (for your sins) you have a friend who has
retained it.

When I wrote to you last I was on the eve of going down to join the
Cullingworths at Avonmouth, with every hope that he had found some
opening for me. I must tell you at some length the particulars of that
expedition.

I travelled down part of the way with young Leslie Duncan, whom I think
you know. He was