There could
be nothing now before him but that same dull duty, duty to the dull,
duty without enthusiasm. He had no example for his consolation. The
Bible is the record of heroic suffering: there is no story there of a
martyrdom to monotony and life-weariness. He was a pious man, but loved
prescription and form: he loved to think of himself as a member of the
great Catholic Church and not as an isolated individual, and he found
more relief in praying the prayers which millions had before him than in
extempore effusion; humbly trusting that what he was seeking in
consecrated petitions was all that he really needed. "In proportion as
your prayers are peculiar," he once told his congregation in a course of
sermons on Dissent, "they are worthless." There was nothing, though, in
the prayer-book which met his case. He was in no danger from
temptation, nor had he trespassed. He was not in want of his daily
bread, and although he desired like all good men to see the Kingdom of
God, the advent of that celestial kingdom which had for an instant been
disclosed to him was for ever impossible.
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