The thrushes and the blackbirds were
singing in the surrounding groves and thickets, and the larks were
pouring forth their melody in the air. Yet all was dark and sorrowful
within. I felt the misery of unbelief, yet felt myself unable to free
myself from its horrible and tormenting power. I had a growing
conviction that I was the slave of a vicious method of reasoning, and of
an inveterate habit of unreasonable or excessive doubt, and that I had
not the power to do God and Christianity justice. I felt as if I ought
to pray, but something whispered, "It is irrational." No matter, I could
refrain no longer: and lifting up my tearful eyes to heaven I exclaimed,
"God help me." He did help me. He strengthened my struggling soul from
that hour, and gave to the good within me a growing power over the evil.
I dried my tears and returned to my party. I spoke at the poor young
Atheist's grave, and concluded my address with the following prayer,
"May trust in God, and the hope of a better life, and the love of truth
and virtue, and delight in doing good, remain with all who have them,
and come to all who have them not. Amen."
The gentleman with whom I had lived at Burnley had said to me on the
morning of that very day, that if I prayed at the funeral he should
never think well of me more.
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