grown-up man, with some imagination, tenderness of heart, and integrity of conscience, go back step by step, taking some time to it,—­at a new year, say, or a birthday, or on some such suitable occasion:  let him go over his past life back to his youth and childhood—­and what an intolerable burden will be laid on his heart before he is done!  What a panorama of scarlet pictures will pass before his inward eye!  What a forest of accusing fingers will be pointed at him!  What hissing curses will be spat at him both by the lips of the living and the dead!  What untold pains he will see that he has caused to the innocent and the helpless!  What desolating disappointments, what shipwrecks of hope to this man and to that woman!  What a stone of stumbling he has been to many who on that stone have been for ever broken and lost!  What a rock of offence even his mere innocent existence, all unknown to himself till afterwards, has been!  Swarms, said Christiana.  Swarms of hornets armed, said Samson.  And many of us understand what that bitter word means better than any commentator on Bunyan or on Milton can tell us.  One of the holiest men the Church of England ever produced, and one of her best devotional writers, used to shut his door on the night of every first day of the week, and on his knees spread out a prayer which always contained this passage:  “I worship Thee, O God, on my face.  I smite my breast and say with the publican, God be merciful to me a sinner; the chief of sinners; a sinner far above the publican.  Despise me not—­an unclean worm, a dead dog, a putrid corpse.  Despise me not, despise me not, O Lord.  But look upon me with those eyes with which Thou didst look upon Magdalene at the feast, Peter in the hall, and the thief on the cross.  O that mine eyes were a fountain of tears that I might weep night and day before Thee!  I despise and bruise myself that my penitence is not deeper, is not fuller.  Help Thou mine impenitence, and more and more pierce, rend, and crush my heart.  My sins are more in number than the sand.  My iniquities are multiplied, and I have no relief.”  Perish your Puritanism, and your prayer-books too!  I hear some high-minded and indignant man saying.  Perish your Celestial City and all my desire after it, before I say the like of that about myself!  Brave words, my brother; brave words!  But there have been men as blameless as you are, and as brave-hearted over it, who, when the scales fell off their eyes, were heard crying out ever after:  O wretched man that I am!  And:  Have mercy on me, the chief of sinners!  And so, if it so please God, will it yet be with you.