The weather is an exact emblem of
my mind in its present state. A thick fog envelopes everything, and at
the same time it freezes intensely. You will tell me that this cold
gloom will be succeeded by a cheerful spring, and endeavour to
encourage me to hope for a spiritual change resembling it;--but it will
be lost labour. Nature revives again; but a soul once slain lives no
more. The hedge that has been apparently dead, is not so; it will
burst into leaf and blossom at the appointed time; but no such time is
appointed for the stake that stands in it. It is as dead as it seems,
and will prove itself no dissembler. The latter end of next month will
complete a period of eleven years in which I have spoken no other
language. It is a long time for a man whose eyes were once opened, to
spend in darkness; long enough to make despair an inveterate habit; and
such it is in me. My friends, I know, expect that I shall see yet
again. They think it necessary to the existence of divine truth, that
he who once had possession of it should never finally lose it.
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