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I know how to get rid of my ill-humour. If you knew how hard it was
to be in good humour, when left so long alone, and when you hear me
singing and talking like a madman, you would not call this a great
ugly book."



CHAPTER XXV.



The boy left me, and I felt a sort of pleasure at having taken the
Bible again in my hands, more especially at having owned I had been
worse for having neglected it. It seemed as if I had made atonement
to a generous friend whom I had unjustly offended, but had now
become reconciled to. Yes! I had even forgotten my God! I
exclaimed, and perverted my better nature. Could I have been led to
believe that the vile mockery of the cynic was applicable to one in
my forlorn and desperate situation?

I felt an indescribable emotion on asking myself this question; I
placed the Bible upon a chair, and, falling on my knees, I burst
into tears of remorse: I who ever found it so difficult to shed
even a tear. These tears were far more delightful to me than any
physical enjoyment I had ever felt. I felt I was restored to God, I
loved him, I repented of having outraged religion by degrading
myself; and I made a vow never, never more to forget, to separate
myself from, my God.

How truly a sincere return to faith, and love, and hope, consoles
and elevates the mind. I read and continued to weep for upwards of
an hour. I rose with renewed confidence that God had not abandoned
me, but had forgiven my every fault and folly. It was then that my
misfortunes, the horrors of my continued examinations, and the
probable death which awaited me, appeared of little account. I
rejoiced in suffering, since I was thus afforded an occasion to
perform some duty, and that, by submitting with a resigned mind, I
was obeying my Divine Master. I was enabled, thanks be to Heaven,
to read my Bible. I no longer estimated it by the wretched,
critical subterfuges of a Voltaire, heaping ridicule upon mere
expressions, in themselves neither false nor ridiculous, except to
gross ignorance or malice, which cannot penetrate their meaning. I
became clearly convinced how indisputably it was the code of
sanctity, and hence of truth itself; how really unphilosophical it
was to take offence at a few little imperfections of style, not less
absurd than the vanity of one who despises everything that wears not
the gloss of elegant forms; what still greater absurdity to imagine
that such a collection of books, so long held in religious
veneration, should not possess an authentic origin, boasting, as
they do, such a vast superiority over the Koran, and the old
theology of the Indies.

Many, doubtless, abused its excellence, many wished to turn it into
a code of injustice, and a sanction of all their bad passions. But
the triumphant answer to these is, that every thing is liable to
abuse; and when did the abuse of the most precious and best of

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