I _do_ wish to be better than I am. I pray fervently
sometimes to be made so. I have stings of conscience, visitings of
remorse, glimpses of holy, of inexpressible things, which formerly I
used to be a stranger to; it may all die away, and I may be in utter
midnight, but I implore a merciful Redeemer, that, if this be the dawn
of the gospel, it may still brighten to perfect day. Do not mistake
me--do not think I am good; I only wish to be so. I only hate my
former flippancy and forwardness. Oh! I am no better than ever I was.
I am in that state of horrid, gloomy uncertainty that, at this moment,
I would submit to be old, grey-haired, to have passed all my youthful
days of enjoyment, and to be settling on the verge of the grave, if I
could only thereby ensure the prospect of reconciliation to God, and
redemption through his Son's merits. I never was exactly careless of
these matters, but I have always taken a clouded and repulsive view of
them; and now, if possible, the clouds are gathering darker, and a
more oppressive despondency weighs on my spirits. You have cheered
me, my darling; for one moment, for an atom of time, I thought I might
call you my own sister in the spirit; but the excitement is past, and
I am now as wretched and hopeless as ever.
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