'Truly,' said Christian,
'I do not know.'--No work of man is perfect, not even the all-but-perfect
_Pilgrim's Progress_. Christian was bound to fall sooner or later into a
slough filled with his own despondency about himself, his past guilt, his
present sinfulness, and his anxious future. But Pliable had not
knowledge enough of himself to make him ever despond. He was always
ready and able to mend his pace. He had no burden on his back, and
therefore no doubt in his heart. But Christian had enough of both for
any ten men, and it was Christian's overflowing despondency and doubt at
this point of the road that suddenly filled his own slough, and, I
suppose, overflowed into a slough for Pliable also. Had Pliable only had
a genuine and original slough of his own to so sink and be bedaubed in,
he would have got out of it at the right side of it, and been a tender-
stepping pilgrim all his days.--'Is this the happiness you have told me
all this while of? May I get out of this with my life, you may possess
the brave country alone for me.' And with that he gave a desperate
struggle or two, and got out of the mire on that side of the slough which
was next his own house; so he went away, and Christian saw him no more.
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