light of thy eyes and the pulse of thy heart might not be put aside,--
yet wherefore was it that thou mightest not drink it up in the natural
peace which belongs to a sinless heart?

But these are murmurings, you will say, rebellious murmurings against
the proclamations of God. Not so: I have long since submitted myself,
resigned myself, nay, even reconciled myself, perhaps, to the great
wreck of my life, in so far as it was the will of God, and according to
the weakness of my imperfect nature. But my wrath still rises, like a
towering flame, against all the earthly instruments of this ruin; I am
still at times as unresigned as ever to this tragedy, in so far as it
was the work of human malice. Vengeance, as a mission for _me_, as
a task for _my_ hands in particular, is no longer possible; the
thunderbolts of retribution have been long since launched by other
hands; and yet still it happens that at times I do--I must--I shall
perhaps to the hour of death, rise in maniac fury, and seek, in the
very impotence of vindictive madness, groping as it were in blindness
of heart, for that tiger from hell-gates that tore away my darling from
my heart. Let me pause, and interrupt this painful strain, to say a
word or two upon what she was--and how far worthy of a love more
honorable to her (that was possible) and deeper (but that was not
possible) than mine. When first I saw her, she--my Agnes--was merely a
child, not much (if anything) above sixteen. But, as in perfect
womanhood she retained a most childlike expression of countenance, so
even then in absolute childhood she put forward the blossoms and the
dignity of a woman. Never yet did my eye light upon creature that was
born of woman, nor could it enter my heart to conceive one, possessing
a figure more matchless in its proportions, more statuesque, and more
deliberately and advisedly to be characterized by no adequate word but
the word _magnificent_, (a word too often and lightly abused.) In