The answer was brought with my coffee. I welcomed Tremerello, and, embracing him, exclaimed, “May God reward you for this goodness!” My suspicions had fled, because they were hateful to me; and because, making a point of never speaking imprudently upon politics, they appeared equally useless; and because, with all my admiration for the genius of Tacitus, I had never much faith in the justice of tacitising as he does, and of looking upon every object on the dark side. Giuliano (as the writer signed himself), began his letter with the usual compliments, and informed me that he felt not the least anxiety in entering upon the correspondence. He rallied me upon my hesitation; occasionally assumed a tone of irony; and then more seriously declared that it had given him no little pain to observe in me “a certain scrupulous wavering, and a subtilty of conscience, which, however Christian-like, was little in accordance with true philosophy.” “I shall continue to esteem you,” he added, “though we should not agree upon that point; for I am bound, in all sincerity, to inform you, that I have no religion, that I abhor all creeds, and that I assume from a feeling of modesty the name of Julian, from the circumstance of that good emperor having been so decided an enemy of the Christians, though, in fact, I go much further than he ever did. The sceptred Julian believed in God, and had his own little superstitions. I have none; I believe not in a God, but refer all virtue to the love of truth, and the hatred of such as do not please me.” There was no reasoning in what he said. He inveighed bitterly against Christianity, made an idol of worldly honour and virtue; and in a half serious and jocular vein took on himself to pronounce the Emperor Julian’s eulogium for his apostasy, and his philanthropic efforts to eradicate all traces of the gospel from the face of the earth.

Apprehending that he had thus given too severe a shock to my opinions, he then asked my pardon, attempting to excuse himself upon the ground of perfect sincerity. Reiterating his extreme wish to enter into more friendly relations with me, he then bade me farewell.

In a postscript he added:—“I have no sort of scruples, except a fear of not having made myself sufficiently understood. I ought not to conceal that to me the Christian language which you employ, appears a mere mask to conceal your real opinions. I wish it may be so; and in this case, throw off your cloak, as I have set you an example.”

I cannot describe the effect this letter had upon me. I had opened it full of hope and ardour. Suddenly an icy hand seemed to chill the life-blood of my heart. That sarcasm on my conscientiousness hurt me extremely. I repented having formed any acquaintance with such a man, I who so much detest the doctrine of the cynics, who consider it so wholly unphilosophical, and the most injurious in its tendency: I who despise all kind of arrogance as it deserves.

Having read the last word it contained, I took the letter in both my hands, and tearing it directly down the middle, I held up a half in each like an executioner, employed in exposing it to public scorn.