I was weak, from the toils of the previous day, and from the want of{182} food and rest; and had been so little concerned about my appearance, that I had not yet washed the blood from my garments.

I was an object of horror, even to myself.

Life, in Baltimore, when most oppressive, was a paradise to this.

What had I done, what had my parents done, that such a life as this should be mine?
That day, in the woods, I would have exchanged my manhood for the brutehood of an ox.
Night came.

I was still in the woods, unresolved what to do.