What perversion of ideas! What confusion in the heart,
the brain, in all my little being, intelligent and moral!- let any
one, I say, if possible, imagine all this, for I am incapable of
giving the least idea of what passed in my mind at that period.
My reason was not sufficiently established to enable me to put
myself in the place of others, and judge how much appearances
condemned me, I only beheld the rigor of a dreadful chastisement,
inflicted for a crime I had not committed; yet I can truly affirm, the
smart I suffered, though violent, was inconsiderable to what I felt
from indignation, rage, and despair. My cousin, who was almost in
similar circumstances, having been punished for an involuntary
fault, as guilty of a premeditated crime, became furious by my
example. Both in the same bed, we embraced each other with
convulsive transport; we were almost suffocated; and when our young
hearts found sufficient relief to breathe out our indignation, we
sat up in the bed, and with all our force, repeated a hundred times,
Carnifex! Carnifex! Carnifex! Executioner, tormentor.
Even while I write this I feel my pulse quicken, and should I live a
hundred thousand years, the agitation of that moment would still be
fresh in my memory. The first instance of violence and oppression is
so deeply engraven on my soul, that every relative idea renews my
emotion: the sentiment of indignation, which in its origin had
reference only to myself, has acquired such strength, and is at
present so completely detached from personal motives, that my heart is
as much inflamed at the sight or relation of any act of injustice
(whatever may be the object, or wheresoever it may be perpetrated)
as if I was the immediate sufferer.
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