For a very
long period of time I was accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It
afforded me more real delight than all the mere worldly advantages
accruing from my sin. But there arrived at length an epoch, from which
the pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations, into
a haunting and harassing thought. It harassed because it haunted. I
could scarcely get rid of it for an instant. It is quite a common
thing to be thus annoyed with the ringing in our ears, or rather in
our memories, of the burthen of some ordinary song, or some
unimpressive snatches from an opera. Nor will we be the less tormented
if the song in itself be good, or the opera air meritorious. In this
manner, at last, I would perpetually catch myself pondering upon my
security, and repeating, in a low undertone, the phrase, "I am safe."
One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in
the act of murmuring, half aloud, these customary syllables. In a
fit of petulance, I remodelled them thus; "I am safe- I am safe-
yes- if I be not fool enough to make open confession!"
No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep
to my heart.
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