And even so the lesson is a hard one, because it has been the lot
of so few of the great conquerors of humanity ever to see the hour of
their triumph, which comes long after and late, when they have breathed
out their ardent spirit in agony and despair.
But, after all, however much we may philosophise about sin or attempt
to analyse its essence, there is some dark secret there, of which from
time to time we are grievously conscious. Who does not know the sense
of failure to overcome, of lapsing from a hope or a purpose, the burden
of the thought of some cowardice or unkindness which we cannot undo and
which we need not have committed? No resolute determinism can ever
avail us against the stern verdict of that inner tribunal of the soul,
which decides, too, by some instinct that we cannot divine, to sting
and torture us with the memory of deeds, the momentousness and
importance of which we should utterly fail to explain to others. There
are things in my own past, which would be met with laughter and
ridicule if I attempted to describe them, that still make me blush to
recollect with a sense of guilt and shame, and seem indelibly branded
upon the mind. There are things, too, of which I do not feel ashamed,
which, if I were to describe them to others, would be received with a
sort of incredulous consternation, to think that I could have performed
them.
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