I rose one morning, before six, to write letters, and hastened to put
them into the post-office before breakfast. It was a dark, lowery
morning, not very inviting abroad, for an April shower was then falling.

I had the privilege of depositing my letters in a box kept by Mr. D., a
thriving merchant, not very remote from my dwelling. As I entered the
store, Mr. D. expressed surprise to see me out from home at so early an
hour, remarking that he was sure but few ladies were even up at that
time, and much less abroad.

I told him in reply, that I had been accustomed from my childhood to
strive to "do with my might whatsoever my hand found to do." That
persons often expressed surprise that one so far advanced in life could
do so much, and endure so much fatigue and labor, and still preserve
health. I told Mr. D. that I had myself often reflected upon the fact
that I could do more in one day, with ease and comfort to myself, and
could endure more hardships, than most others. And when I came to
analyze the subject, and go back to first principles, I could readily
perceive all this had grown out of an irrepressible desire to please and
honor my parents.

My love towards them, coupled with fear, was perfectly unbounded, and
became the guiding and governing principles of my whole life. I could
not bear, when a very young child, to have either of my parents even
raise a finger, accompanied by a look of disapprobation, and whenever
they did, I would, as soon as I could, unperceived, seek out some
retired place where I could give vent to my sorrowful feelings and
troubled conscience.