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I think not indeed, is it not the same expectation or its allied motive, the desire to escape punishment, which prompts the actions of all of us? We do good, I fear, more for the sake of the promised recompense, than for any love of the thing itself. Light rain has fallen all day. AUGUST 20th. I halt at Atchibul.
I put to myself the question that was asked Ezekiel. "Can these dry bones live," and have no other answer than his to make. These are some of my birthday thoughts. Pray, forgive, excuse me if I have wearied you. AUGUST 19th. Back to Atchibul, twelve miles, the road for the most part level, but there was one mile of very hard work, over the ridge I crossed yesterday.
I approached Atchibul from the hill I mentioned as standing at the head of the garden, and from the top of it a very pretty view of the place is obtained. I found the pavilion unoccupied, and again took possession of it, set the fountains playing, and imagined myself the Great Mogul. I have had a cage made for it, and it is now feeding at my side, and is apparently very happy.
I am now convinced I came the wrong road from Atchibul to Nowboog, as I had to march back over a great portion of it this morning; however, with the exception of a mile or two, it was all down hill, and as I knew when I started that I had twelve miles to go, I was not tired.
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