Blessed is the man who can assign promptly everything which is not in
harmony with himself to a devil, and so get rid of it. The pitiful
case is that of the distracted mortal who knows not what is the
degree of authority which his thoughts and impulses possess; who is
constantly bewildered by contrary messages, and has no evidence as to
their authenticity. Zachariah had his rule still; the suggestion in
the street was tried by it; found to be false; was labelled
accordingly, and he was relieved.
The dread of the real, obvious danger was not so horrible as a vague,
shapeless fear which haunted him. It was a coward enemy, for it
seized him when he was most tired and most depressed. What is that
nameless terror? Is it a momentary revelation of the infinite abyss
which surrounds us; from the sight of which we are mercifully
protected by a painted vapour, by an illusion that unspeakable
darkness which we all of us know to exist, but which we
hypocritically deny, and determine never to confess to one another?
Here again, however, Zachariah had his advantage over others. He had
his precedent. He remembered that quagmire in the immortal Progress
into which, if even a good man falls, he can find no bottom; he
remembered that gloom so profound "that ofttimes, when he lifted up
his foot to set forward, he knew not where or upon what he should set
it next;" he remembered the flame and smoke, the sparks and hideous
noises, the things that cared not for Christian's sword, so that he
was forced to betake himself to another weapon called All-prayer; he
remembered how that Christian "was so confounded that he did not know
his own voice;" he remembered the voice of a man as going before,
saying, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I
will fear none ill, for Thou art with me.
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