Again was I on my way
southwards, as lonely, hopeless, and degraded a being as was to
be found on life's weary round. As I limped out the way, I wept,
thinking of what I might have been, and what I really had
become: of my high and flourishing hopes when I set out as the
avenger of God on the sinful children of men; of all that I had
dared for the exaltation and progress of the truth; and it was with
great difficulty that my faith remained unshaken, yet was I
preserved from that sin, and comforted myself with the certainty
that the believer's progress through life is one of warfare and
suffering.
My case was indeed a pitiable one. I was lame, hungry, fatigued,
and my resources on the very eve of being exhausted. Yet these
were but secondary miseries, and hardly worthy of a thought
compared with those I suffered inwardly. I not only looked
around me with terror at every one that approached, but I was
become a terror to myself, or, rather, my body and soul were
become terrors to each other; and, had it been possible, I felt as if
they would have gone to war. I dared not look at my face in a
glass, for I shuddered at my own image and likeness.
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