stimulant to incite
ourselves to moral revolt. Atheism was thus for us a mere intoxication.

For these reasons educated men then fell mainly into two classes. One
class would be always thrusting themselves forward with unprovoked
argumentation to cut to pieces all belief in God. Like the hunter whose
hands itch, no sooner he spies a living creature on the top or at the
foot of a tree, to kill it, whenever these came to learn of a harmless
belief lurking anywhere in fancied security, they felt stirred up to
sally forth and demolish it. We had for a short time a tutor of whom
this was a pet diversion. Though I was a mere boy, even I could not
escape his onslaughts. Not that his attainments were of any account, or
that his opinions were the result of any enthusiastic search for the
truth, being mostly gathered from others' lips. But though I fought him
with all my strength, unequally matched in age as we were, I suffered
many a bitter defeat. Sometimes I felt so mortified I almost wanted to
cry.

The other class consisted not of believers, but religious epicureans,
who found comfort and solace in gathering together, and steeping
themselves in pleasing sights, sounds and scents galore, under the garb
of religious ceremonial; they luxuriated in the paraphernalia of
worship. In neither of these classes was doubt or denial the outcome of
the travail of their quest.

Though these religious aberrations pained me, I cannot say I was not at
all influenced by them. With the intellectual impudence of budding youth
this revolt also found a place. The religious services which were held
in our family I would have nothing to do with, I had not accepted them
for my own. I was busy blowing up a raging flame with the bellows of my
emotions. It was only the worship of fire, the giving of oblations to
increase its flame--with no other aim. And because my endeavour had no
end in view it was measureless, always reaching beyond any assigned
limit.

As with religion, so with my emotions, I felt no need for any underlying
truth, my excitement being an end in itself. I call to mind some lines
of a poet of that time:

My heart is mine
I have sold it to none,
Be it tattered and torn and worn away,
My heart is mine!

From the standpoint of truth the heart need not worry itself so; for
nothing compels it to wear itself to tatters. In truth sorrow is not
desirable, but taken apart its pungency may appear savoury. Thi