Neither memory of pain that is past, nor apprehension of
pain to come, once arises to give him the smallest concern. In some way,
doubtless very vague, for his being itself is a border-land of awful
mystery, he is aware of being surrounded, enfolded with an atmosphere of
love; the sky over him is his mother's face; the earth that nourishes
him is his mother's bosom. The source, the sustentation, the defence of
his being, the endless mediation betwixt his needs and the things that
supply them, are all one. There is no type so near the highest idea of
relation to a God, as that of the child to his mother. Her face is God,
her bosom Nature, her arms are Providence--all love--one love--to him an
undivided bliss.
The region beyond him he regards from this vantage-ground of
unquestioned security. There things may come and go, rise and vanish--he
neither desires nor bemoans them. Change may grow swift, its swiftness
grow fierce, and pass into storm: to him storm is calm; his haven is
secure; his rest cannot be broken: he is accountable for nothing, knows
no responsibility. Conscience is not yet awake, and there is no
conflict.
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