The haunting thought that occasionally, notwithstanding his strong will,
would perplex the soul and agitate the heart of Tancred; the haunting
thought that, all this time, he was perhaps the dupe of boyish
fantasies, was laid to-day. Sometimes he had felt, Why does no one
sympathise with my views; why, though they treat them with conventional
respect, is it clear that all I have addressed hold them to be absurd?
My parents are pious and instructed; they are predisposed to view
everything I say, or do, or think, with an even excessive favour.
They think me moonstruck. Lord Eskdale is a perfect man of the world;
proverbially shrewd, and celebrated for his judgment; he looks upon me
as a raw boy, and believes that, if my father had kept me at Eton and
sent me to Paris, I should by this time have exhausted my crudities. The
bishop is what the world calls a great scholar; he is a statesman
who, aloof from faction, ought to be accustomed to take just and
comprehensive views; and a priest who ought to be under the immediate
influence of the Holy Spirit. He says I am a visionary. All this might
well be disheartening; but now comes one whom no circumstances impel to
judge my project with indulgence; who would, at the first glance, appear
to have many prejudices arrayed against it, who knows more of the world
than Lord Eskdale, and who appears to me to be more learned than
the whole bench of bishops, and he welcomes my ideas, approves my
conclusions, sympathises with my suggestions; develops, illustrates,
enforces them; plainly intimates that I am only on the threshold of
initiation, and would aid me to advance to the innermost mysteries.
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