And when I got to my journey's end, my
lungs lacked power to utter words; my brain lacked energy to supply
thoughts; and lecturing and preaching became a weariness. When I sat
down to write, my pen seemed reluctant to touch the paper. My mind
shrank back from its task. In my ignorance of the laws of life, I
charged myself with idleness, and tried to spur myself on to renewed
activity. The attempt was vain. One afternoon I ventured to lie down and
treat myself to an after-dinner nap. I slept three hours. I had no
engagement that night, and feeling still unaccountably sleepy, I
slipped off to bed about eight o'clock. I slept till nearly nine next
morning. I slept an hour or two more after dinner. At night I slept
about ten hours more. Next day I felt as if my strength was running
over. I could do anything. My pen seemed to point to the paper of
itself, as if anxious to be writing. Walking was a pleasure. I could
preach or lecture without effort. Words, thoughts, and feelings were all
at hand to do my bidding. What I had charged on myself as idleness, was
strengthlessness, the result of sheer exhaustion.
I had suffered so much from the intolerance of my old colleagues, that I
now resolved to be subject to no authority whatever but God and my own
conscience.
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