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 It so fell out upon a day, that, having taken my usual seat before a copy of the marvelous crayon previously alluded to, and which I had rudely sketched, I became impatient at my continual failures to comprehend the subject it represented. Generally this had not been the case. My mind, on that morning, was unusually clear and vigorous; and yet, despite all efforts, I found it utterly impossible to comprehend the stupendous conception—the Birth, of a Universe. At last, heart-faint and sick at my failure, I abruptly rose from the chair, resumed my walking apparel, left the room, and strolled carelessly and mechanically up the street, and continued listlessly onward, until I found myself beyond the outskirts of the city, and entering the open country. It was a bright, sunshiny day; and after wandering about for nearly an hour, and beginning to feel a double oppression—fatigue of body, for it was very weak and slender—and despondency of spirits—it struck me that I would turn short to the right, and lie down for a while beneath the grateful shade of a natural bower, on the borders of a forest clump, hard by. This I did; and having reclined upon the rich, green turf, under the leafy canopy afforded by the trees—rare and stately old elms they were—abandoned myself at once to meditation, speculation and repose. How long I thus lay it is impossible to tell; it may have been one hour—it may have been two or three: all that I remember of the outer world of wakefulness is the framing of a series of questions, and, amongst others wherewith I interrogated my deepest soul for responses, were these: "What is the immortality of man? What is God? Where does He dwell? Is the life hereafter a continuance of this, or is it entirely different? Can it be only a