It was on the 25th day of March, 1704, when I had
just entered the eighteenth year of my age. Whether it behoves
me to bless God for the events of that day, or to deplore them, has
been hid from my discernment, though I have inquired into it
with fear and trembling; and I have now lost all hopes of ever
discovering the true import of these events until that day when
my accounts are to make up and reckon for in another world.
When I came home, I went straight into the parlour, where my
mother was sitting by herself. She started to her feet, and uttered
a smothered scream. "What ails you, Robert?" cried she. "My
dear son, what is the matter with you?"
"Do you see anything the matter with me?" said I. "It appears that
the ailment is with yourself and either in your crazed head or your
dim eyes, for there is nothing the matter with me."
"Ah, Robert, you are ill!" cried she. "You are very ill, my dear
boy; you are quite changed; your very voice and manner are
changed. Ah, Jane, haste you up to the study, and tell Mr.
Wringhim to come here on the instant and speak to Robert."
"I beseech you, woman, to restrain yourself," said I.
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