'The world,' he resumed after a short pause, 'has no faith in any man's
conversion; it never forgets what he was, it never believes him anything
better, it is an inexorable and stupid judge. What I was I will describe in
blacker terms, and with more heartfelt detestation, than my traducers--a
reckless prodigal, a godless profligate. Such I was; what I am, I am. If
I had no hope beyond this world, of all men most miserable; but with that
hope, a sinner saved.'
Then he waxed eloquent and mystical. I think his Swedenborgian studies had
crossed his notions of religion with strange lights. I never could follow
him quite in these excursions into the region of symbolism. I only
recollect that he talked of the deluge and the waters of Mara, and said, 'I
am washed--I am sprinkled,' and then, pausing, bathed his thin temples and
forehead with eau de Cologne; a process which was, perhaps, suggested by
his imagery of sprinkling and so forth.
Thus refreshed, he sighed and smiled, and passed to the subject of Doctor
Bryerly.
'Of Doctor Bryerly, I know that he is sly, that he loves money, was born
poor, and makes nothing by his profession.
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