colors? Is it not strange, that we can recall that one particular feeling
of hatred toward a fellow-man which, rankled in the heart twenty years
ago; that we can now eye it, and see it as plainly as if it were still
throbbing within us; that we can feel guilty for it once more, as if we
were still cherishing it? If it were not so common, would it not be
surprising, that we can reflect upon acts of disobedience toward God
which we committed in the days of childhood, and far back in the dim
twilights of moral agency; that we can re-act them, as it were, in our
memory, and fill ourselves again with the shame and distress that
attended their original commission? Is it not one of those mysteries
which overhang human existence, and from which that of the brute is
wholly free, that man can live his life, and act his agency, over,
and over, and over again, indefinitely and forever, in his
self-consciousness; that he can cause all his deeds to pass and re-pass
before his self-reflection, and be filled through and through with the
agony of self-knowledge? Truly _such_ knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is high, I cannot attain unto it. Whither shall I _go_ from my _own_
spirit, and whither shall I flee from my _own_ presence. If I ascend up
into heaven, it is there looking at me. If I make my bed in hell, behold
it is there torturing me. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in
the uttermost parts of the sea, even there must I know myself, and acquit
or condemn myself.

But if that knowledge whereby man knows himself is mysterious, then
certainly that whereby God knows him is far more so. That act whereby
_another_ being knows my secret thoughts, and inmost feelings, is most
certainly inexplicable. That cognition whereby _another_ person
understands what takes place in the corners of my heart, and sees the
minutest movements of my spirit, is surely high; most surely I cannot
attain unto it.