And now that I am about to trace, as far as I can, the course of that 
great revolution of mind, which led me to leave my own home, to which I 
was bound by so many strong and tender ties, I feel overcome with the 
difficulty of satisfying myself in the account of it, and have recoiled 
from doing so, till the near approach of the day, on which these lines 
must be given to the world, forces me to set about the task. For who can 
know himself, and the multitude of subtle influences which act upon him? 
and who can recollect, at the distance of twenty-five years, all that he 
once knew about his thoughts and his deeds, and that, during a portion 
of his life, when even at the time his observation, whether of himself 
or of the external world, was less than before or after, by very reason 
of the perplexity and dismay which weighed upon him,—when, though it 
would be most unthankful to seem to imply that he had not all-sufficient 
light amid his darkness, yet a darkness it emphatically was? And who can 
gird himself suddenly to a new and anxious undertaking, which he might 
be able indeed to perform well, had he full and calm leisure to look 
through everything that he has written, whether in published works or 
private letters? but, on the other hand, as to that calm contemplation 
of the past, in itself so desirable, who can afford to be leisurely and 
deliberate, while he practises on himself a cruel operation, the ripping 
up of old griefs, and the venturing again upon the “infandum dolorem” of 
years, in which the stars of this lower heaven were one by one going 
out? I could not in cool blood, nor except upon the imperious call of 
duty, attempt what I have set myself to do. It is both to head and heart 
an extreme trial, thus to analyze what has so long gone by, and to bring 
out the results of that examination. I have done various bold things in 
my life: this is the boldest: and, were I not sure I should after all 
succeed in my object, it would be madness to set about it.
