paths and to the infirmity of our steps--which, once
extinguished, never more on this side the gates of Paradise can any man hope
to see re-illumined for himself. Amongst these I may mention an intellect,
whether powerful or not in itself, at any rate most elaborately cultivated;
and, to say the truth, I had little other business before me in this life
than to pursue this lofty and delightful task. I may add, as a blessing, not
in the same _positive_ sense as that which I have just mentioned, because
not of a nature to contribute so hourly to the employment of the thoughts,
but yet in this sense equal, that the absence of either would have been an
equal affliction,--namely, a conscience void of all offence. It was little
indeed that I, drawn by no necessities of situation into temptations of that
nature, had done no injury to any man. That was fortunate; but I could not
much value myself upon what was so much an accident of my situation.
Something, however, I might pretend to beyond this _negative_ merit; for I
had originally a benign nature; and, as I advanced in years and
thoughtfulness, the gratitude which possessed me for my own exceeding
happiness led me to do that by principle and system which I had already
done upon blind impulse; and thus upon a double argument I was incapable of
turning away from the prayer of the afflicted, whatever had been the
sacrifice to myself. Hardly, perhaps, could it have been said in a
sufficient sense at that time that I was a religious man: yet undoubtedly I
had all the foundations within me upon which religion might hereafter have
grown. My heart overflowed with thankfulness to Providence: I had a natural
tone of unaffected piety; and thus far at least I might have been called a
religious man, that in the simplicity of truth I could have exclaimed,

'O, Abner, I fear God, and I fear none beside.'

But wherefore seek to delay ascending by a natural climax to that final
consummation and perfect crown of my felicity--that almighty blessing which
ratified their value to all the rest? Wherefore, oh! wherefore do I shrink
in miserable weakness from----what? Is it from reviving, from calling up
again into fierce and insufferable light the images and features of a
long-buried happiness? That would be a natural shrinking and a reasonable
weakness. But how escape from reviving, whether I give it utterance or not,
that which is for ever vividly before me? What need to call into artificial