FIRST MEMORY.

Childhood has its secrets and its mysteries; but who can tell or who
can explain them! We have all roamed through this silent
wonder-wood--we have all once opened our eyes in blissful astonishment,
as the beautiful reality of life overflowed our souls. We knew not
where, or who, we were--the whole world was ours and we were the whole
world's. That was an infinite life--without beginning and without end,
without rest and without pain. In the heart, it was as clear as the
spring heavens, fresh as the violet's perfume--hushed and holy as a
Sabbath morning.

What disturbs this God's-peace of the child? How can this unconscious
and innocent existence ever cease? What dissipates the rapture of this
individuality and universality, and suddenly leaves us solitary and
alone in a clouded life?

Say not, with serious face. It is sin! Can even a child sin? Say
rather, we know not, and must only resign ourselves to it.

Is it sin, which makes the bud a blossom, and the blossom fruit, and
the fruit dust?

Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, and the chrysalis a
butterfly, and the butterfly dust?

And is it sin, which makes the child a man, and the man a gray-haired
man, and the gray-haired man dust? And what is dust?