University of Virginia Library

“Dear Miss Thurston:—I know how much I have asked
of you in begging permission to write, for your eye, the story
which follows. Therefore I have not allowed myself to stand

shivering on the brink of a plunge which I have determined
to make, or to postpone it, from the fear that the venture of
confidence which I now send out will come to shipwreck.
Since I have learned to appreciate the truth and nobleness of
your nature—since I have dared to hope that you honor me
with a friendly regard—most of all, since I find that the feelings
which I recognize as the most intimate and sacred portion
of myself seek expression in your presence, I am forced to
make you a participant in the knowledge of my life. Whether
it be that melancholy knowledge which a tender human charity
takes under its protecting wing and which thenceforward
sleeps calmly in some shadowy corner of memory, or that evil
knowledge which torments because it cannot be forgotten, I
am not able to foresee. I will say nothing, in advance, to
secure a single feeling of sympathy or consideration which
your own nature would not spontaneously prompt you to give.
I know that in this step I may not be acting the part of a
friend; but, whatever consequences may follow it, I entreat
you to believe that there is no trouble which I would not
voluntarily take upon myself, rather than inflict upon you a
moment's unnecessary pain.

“Have you ever, in some impartial scrutiny of self, discovered
to what extent your views of Woman, and your aspirations
in her behalf, were drawn from your own nature? Are
you not inclined to listen to your own voice as if it were the
collective voice of your sex? If so, you may to some extent,
accept me as an interpretation of Man. I am neither better
nor worse than the general average of men. My principal advantages
are, that I was most carefully and judiciously
educated, and that my opportunities of knowing mankind have
been greater than is usual. A conscientious study of human
nature ought to be the basis of all theories of reform. I think
you will agree with me, thus far; and therefore, however my
present confession may change your future relations towards
me, I shall have, at least, the partial consolation of knowing
that I have added something to your knowledge.

“Let me add only this, before I commence my narrative—
that it treats entirely of the occurrences of my life, which have
brought me near to woman through my emotions. It is my
experience of the sex, so far as that experience has taken a
deeper hold on my heart. You are not so cold and unsympathetic
as to repel the subject. The instinct which has led me
to choose you as the recipient of my confidence cannot be
false. That same instinct tells me that I shall neither withhold
nor seek to extenuate whatever directly concerns myself. I
dare not do either.

“My nature was once not so calm and self-subdued as it
may seem to you now. As a youth I was ardent, impetuous,
and easily controlled by my feelings. In the heart of almost
and boy, from seventeen to twenty, there is a train laid, and
waiting for the match. As I approached the latter age, mine
was kindled by a girl two years younger than myself, the
daughter of a friend of my father. I suppose all early passions
have very much the same character: they are intense, absorbing,
unreasoning, but generally shallow, not from want of sincerity
but from want of development. The mutual attachment
necessarily showed itself, and was tacitly permitted, but without
any express engagement. I had never surprised her with
any sudden declaration of love: our relation had gradually
grown into existence, and we were both so happy therein that
we did not need to question and discuss our feelings. In fact,
we were rarely sufficiently alone to have allowed of such confidences;
but we sought each other in society or in our respective
family circles and created for ourselves a half-privacy
in the presence of others. Nothing seemed more certain to
either of us than that our fates were already united, for we
accepted the tolerance of our attachment as a sanction of its
future seal upon our lives.

“After my father's failure and death, however, I discovered,
with bitterness of heart, that it was not alone my pecuniary
prospects which had changed. Her father, a shrewd, hard
man of business, was one of the very few who prospered in a

season of general ruin—who perhaps foresaw the crash and
prepared himself to take advantage of the splendid opportunities
which it offered. His wealth was doubled, probably
trebled, in a year: he won advantages which compelled the
most exclusive circles to receive him, and his family dropped
their old associations as fast as they familiarized themselves
with the new. I saw this change, at first, without the slightest
misgiving: my faith in human nature was warm and fresh,
and the satisfied bliss of my affections disposed me to judge
all men kindly. I only refrained from asking the father's assistance
in my straits, from a feeling of delicacy, not because
I had any suspicion that it would not be given. Little by
little, however, the conviction forced itself upon my mind that
I was no longer a welcome visitor at the house: I was dropped
from the list of guests invited to dinners and entertainments,
and my reception became cold and constrained. From the
sadness and uneasiness on the face of my beloved, I saw that
she was suffering for my sake, and on questioning her she did
not deny that she had been urged to give me up. She assured
me, nevertheless, of her own constancy, and exhorted me to
have patience until my prospects should improve.

“It was at this juncture that Miss Remington (Mrs. Blake,
you will remember) became a comforting angel to both of us.
She had remarked our attachment from its first stage, and with
her profound scorn of the pretensions of wealth, she determined
to assist the course of true love. We met, as if by
accident, at her father's house, and she generally contrived that
we should have a few minutes alone. Thus, several months
passed away. My position had not advanced, because I had
every thing to learn when I first took it, but I began to have
more confidence in myself, and remained cheerful and hopeful.
I was not disturbed by the fact that my beloved sometimes
failed to keep her appointments, but I could not help remarking,
now, that when she did appear, she seemed ill at ease and
strove to make the interviews as short as possible.

“There was something in Miss Remington's manner, also,

which I could not understand. I missed the frank, hearty
sympathy with faithful and persecuted love, which she had
given me. A restless anxiety, pointing to one thing or
another, but never towards the truth, took possession of me.
One day on making my pre-arranged call, I found Miss Remington
alone. Her face was grave and sad. She saw my look
of disappointment: she allowed me to walk impatiently up and
down the room three or four times, then she arose and seized
me by both hands. `Am I mistaken in you?' she asked:
`Are you yet a man?' `I am trying to prove it,' I answered.
`Then,' she said, `prove it to me. If you were to have a
tooth drawn, would you turn back a dozen times from
the dentist's door and bear the ache a day longer, or would
you go in at once and have it out?' I sat down, chilled to
the heart, and said, desperately: `I am ready for the operation!'
She smiled, but there were tears of pity in her eyes.
She told me as kindly and tenderly as possible, all she had
learned: that the girl who possessed my unquestioning faith
was unworthy of the gift: that the splendors of the new circle
into which she had ascended had become indispensable to her:
that her attachment to me was now a simple embarrassment:
that her beauty had attracted wealthy admirers, one of whom,
a shallow-brained egotist, was reported to be especially favored
by her, and that any hope I might have of her constancy
to me must be uprooted as a delusion.

“I tried to reject this revelation, but the evidence was
too clear to be discredited. Nevertheless, I insisted on seeing
the girl once more, and Miss Remington brought about the
interview. I was too deeply disappointed to be indignant:
she showed a restless impatience to be gone, as if some remnant
of conscience still spoke in her heart. I told her, sadly,
that I saw she was changed. If her attachment for me had
faded, as I feared, I would not despotically press mine upon
her, but would release her from the mockery of a duty which
her heart no longer acknowledged. I expected a penitent
confession of the truth, in return, and was therefore wholly

unprepared for the angry reproaches she heaped upon me.
`Very fine!' she cried; `I always thought there was no suspicion
where there was love! I am to be accused of falsehood,
from a jealous whim. It's very easy for you to give up an
attachment that died out long ago!' But I will not repeat
her expressions further. I should never have comprehended
them without Miss Remington's assistance. She was vexed
that I should have discovered her want of faith and given her
back her freedom: she should have been the first to break the
bonds. I laughed, in bitterness of heart, at her words; I
could give her no other answer.

“The shock my affections received was deeper than I cared
to show. It was renewed, when, three months afterwards,
the faithless girl married the rich fool whom she had preferred
to me. I should have become moody and cynical but for the
admirable tact with which Miss Remington, in her perfect
friendship, softened the blow. Many persons suppose that a
pure and exalted relation of this kind cannot exist between
man and woman, without growing into love—in other words,
that friendship seeks its fulfilment in the same sex and love
in the opposite. I do not agree with this view. The thought
of loving Julia Remington never entered my mind, and she
would have considered me as wanting in sanity if I had intimated
such a thing, but there was a happy and perfect confidence
between us, which was my chief support in those days
of misery.

“I accepted, eagerly, the proposition to become the Calcutta
agent of the mercantile house in which I was employed. The
shadow of my disappointment still hung over me, and there
were now but few associations of my life in New York to
make the parting difficult. I went, and in the excitement of
new scenes, in the absorbing duties of my new situation, in
the more masculine strength that came with maturity, I gradually
forgot the blow which had been struck—or, if I did not
forget, the sight of the scar no longer recalled the pain of the
wound. Nevertheless, it had made me suspicious and fearful.

I questioned every rising inclination of my heart, and suppressed
the whispers of incipient affection, determined that
no woman should ever again deceive me as the first had done.
The years glided away, one by one; I had slowly acquired the
habit of self-control, on which I relied as a natural and sufficient
guard for my heart, and the longing for woman's partnership
in life, which no man can ever wholly suppress, again began
to make itself heard. I did not expect a recurrence of the
passion of youth. I knew that I had changed, and that love,
therefore, must come to me in a different form. I remembered
what I heard at home, as a boy, that when the original forest
is cleared away, a new forest of different trees is developed
from the naked soil. But I still suspected that there must be
a family likeness in the growth, and that I should recognize its
sprouting germs.

“Between five and six years ago, it was necessary that I
should visit Europe, in the interest of the house. I was absent
from India nearly a year, and during that time made my
first acquaintance with Switzerland, the memory of which is
now indissolubly connected, in my mind, with that song which
I have heard you sing. But it is not of this that I would
speak. I find myself shrinking from the new revelation which
must be made. The story is not one of guilt—not even of
serious blame, in the eyes of the world. If it were necessary,
I could tell it to any man, without reluctance for my own sake.
Men, in certain respects, have broader and truer views of life
than women; they are more tender in their judgment, more
guarded in their condemnation. I am not justifying myself,
in advance, for I can acquit myself of any intentional wrong.
I only feel that the venture, embodied in my confession, is about
to be sent forth—either to pitying gales that shall waft it safely
back to me, or to storms in which it shall go down. Recollect,
dear Miss Thurston, that whatever of strength I may possess
you have seen. I am now about to show you, voluntarily, my
weakness.

“Among the passengers on board the steamer by which I

returned to India, there was a lady who had been recommended
to my care by some mutual acquaintance in England.
She was the wife of a physician in the Company's Service, who
was stationed at Benares, and who had sent her home with
her children a year and a half before. The latter were left in
England, while she returned to share the exile of her husband
until he should be entitled to a pension. She was a thoroughly
refined and cultivated woman, of almost my own age, and
shrank from contact with the young cubs of cadets and the ostentatious
indigo-planters, with their beer-drinking wives, who
were almost the only other passengers. We were thus thrown
continually together, and the isolation of ocean-life contributed
to hasten our intimacy. Little by little that intimacy grew
deep, tender, and powerful. I told her the humiliating story
of my early love which you have just read, and she described
to me, with tearful reluctance, the unhappiness of her married
life. Her husband had gone to England eight years before, on
leave of absence, on purpose to marry. She had been found
to answer his requirements, and ignorant of life as she was at
that time, ignorant of her own heart, had been hurried into
the marriage by her own family. Her father was in moderate
circumstances, and he had many daughters to provide with
husbands; this was too good a chance to let slip, and, as it
was known that she had no other attachment, her hesitation
was peremptorily overruled. She discovered, too late, that
there was not only no point of sympathy between her husband
and herself, but an absolute repulsion. He was bold and
steady-handed as a surgeon, and had performed some daring
operations which had distinguished him in his profession; but
he was hard, selfish, and tyrannical in his domestic relations,
and his unfortunate wife could only look forward with dread
to the continual companionship which was her doom.

“I had been sure of recognizing any symptom of returning
love in my heart—but I was mistaken. It took the form of
pity, and so lulled my suspicions to sleep that my power of
will was drugged before I knew it. Her own heart was not

more merciful towards her. Poor woman! if she had ever
dreamed of love the dream had been forgotten. She was ignorant
of the fatal spell which had come upon us, and I did
not detect my own passion until its reflection was thrown
back to me from her innocent face. When I had discovered
the truth, it was too late—too late, I mean, for her happiness,
not too late for the honor of both our lives. I could not explain
to her a danger which she did not suspect, nor could I
embitter, by an enforced coldness, her few remaining happy
days of our voyage. With a horrible fascination, I saw her
drawing nearer and nearer the brink of knowledge, and my
lips were sealed, that only could have uttered the warning cry.

“Again I was called upon to suffer, but in a way I had
never anticipated. The grief of betrayed love is tame, beside
the despair of forbidden love. This new experience showed
me how light was the load which I had already borne. On
the one side, two hearts that recognized each other and would
have been faithful to the end of time; on the other, a monstrous
bond, which had only the sanction of human laws. I
rebelled, in my very soul, against the mockery of that legal
marriage, which is the basis of social virtue, forgetting that
Good must voluntarily bind itself in order that Evil may not
go free. The boundless tenderness towards her which had
suddenly revealed itself must be stifled. I could not even
press her hand warmly, lest some unguarded pulse should betray
the secret; I scarcely dared look in her eyes, lest mine
might stab her with the sharpness of my love and my sorrow
in the same glance.

“It was all in vain. Some glance, some word, or touch of
hand, on either side, did come, and the thin disguise was
torn away forever. Then we spoke, for the consolation of
speech seemed less guilty than the agony of silence. In the
moonless nights of the Indian Ocean we walked the deck with
hands secretly clasped, with silent tears on our cheeks, with
a pang in our souls only softened by the knowledge that it
was mutual. Neither of us, I think, then thought of disputing

our fate. But as the voyage drew near its end, I was haunted
by wild fancies of escape. I could not subdue my nature
to forego a fulfilment that seemed possible. We might find
a refuge, I thought, in Java, or Celebes, or some of the Indian
Isles, and once beyond the reach of pursuit what was the rest
of the world to us? What was wealth, or name, or station?
—they were hollow sounds to us now, they were selfish cheats,
always. In the perverted logic of passion all was clear and
fair.

“This idea so grew upon me that I was base enough to
propose it to her—I who should have given reverence to that
ignorance of the heart which made her love doubly sacred,
strove to turn it into the instrument of her ruin! She heard
me, in fear, not in indignation. `Do not tempt me!' she
cried, with a pitiful supplication; `think of my children, and
help me to stand up against my own heart!' Thank God I
was not deaf to that cry of weakness; I was armed to meet
resistance, but I was powerless against her own despairing
fear of surrender. Thank God, I overcame the relentless selfishness
of my sex! She took from my lips, that night, the only
kiss I ever gave her—the kiss of repentance, not of triumph.
It left no stain on the purity of her marriage vow. That was
our true parting from each other. There were still two days
of our voyage left, but we looked at each other as if through
the bars of opposite prisons, with a double wall between. Our
renunciation was complete, and any further words would have
been an unnecessary pang. We had a melancholy pleasure in
still being near each other, in walking side by side, in the
formal touch of hands that dared not clasp and be clasped.
This poor consolation soon ceased. The husband was waiting
for her at Calcutta, and I purposely kept my state-room when
we arrived, in order that I might not see him. I was not yet
sure of myself.

“She went to Benares, and afterwards to Meerut, and I
never saw her again. In a little more than a year I heard she
was dead: `the fever of the country,' they said. I was glad

of it—death was better for her than her life had been—now,
at least, when that life had become a perpetual infidelity to her
heart. Death purified the memory of my passion, and gave
me, perhaps, a sweeter resignation than if she had first yielded
to my madness. Sad and hopeless as was this episode of my
life, it contained an element of comfort, and restored the
balance which my first disappointment had destroyed. My
grief for her was gentle, tender and consoling, and I never
turned aside from its approaches. It has now withdrawn into
the past, but its influence still remains, in this—that the desire
for that fulfilment of passion, of which life has thus far cheated
me, has not grown cold in my heart.

“There are some natures which resemble those plants that
die after a single blossoming—natures in which one passion
seems to exhaust the capacities for affection. I am not one of
them, yet I know that I possess the virtue of fidelity. I know
that I still wait for the fortune that shall enable me to manifest
it. Do you, as a woman, judge me unworthy to expect that fortune?
You are now acquainted with my history; try me by
the sacred instincts of your own nature, and according to them,
pardon or condemn me. I have revealed to you my dream of
the true marriage that is possible—a dream that prevents me
from stooping to a union not hallowed by perfect love and
faith. Have I forfeited the right to indulge this dream longer?
Would I be guilty of treason towards the virgin confidence of
some noble woman whom God may yet send me, in offering
her a heart which is not fresh in its knowledge, though fresh
in its immortal desires? I pray you to answer me these questions?
Do not blame your own truth and nobility of nature,
which have brought you this task. Blame, if you please, my
selfishness in taking advantage of them.

“I have now told you all I meant to confess, and might here
close. But one thought occurs to me, suggested by the sudden
recollection of the reform to which you have devoted
yourself. I fear that all reformers are too much disposed to
measure the actions and outward habits of the human race,

without examining the hidden causes of those actions. There
is some basis in our nature for all general customs, both of
body and mind. The mutual relation of man and woman, in
Society, is determined not by a conscious exercise of tyranny
on the one side, or subjection on the other. Each sex has its
peculiar mental and moral laws, the differences between which
are perhaps too subtle and indefinable to be distinctly drawn,
but they are as palpable in life as the white and red which
neighboring roses draw from the self-same soil. When we
have differed in regard to Woman, I have meant to speak sincerely
and earnestly, out of the knowledge gained by an unfortunate
experience, which, nevertheless, has not touched the
honor and reverence in which I hold the sex. I ask you to
remember this, in case the confidence I have forced upon you
should hereafter set a gulf between us.

“I have deprived myself of the right to make any request,
but whatever your judgment may be, will you let me hear it
from your own lips? Will you allow me to see you once
more? I write to you now, not because I should shrink from
speaking the same words, but because a history like mine is
not always easily or clearly told, and I wish your mind to be
uninfluenced by the sympathy which a living voice might
inspire.

“On Tuesday next you will be free to take your accustomed
walk. May I be your companion again, beside the stream?
But, no: do not write: you will find me there if you consent
to see me. If you do not come, I shall expect the written evidence,
if not of your continued respect, at least of your forgiveness.
But, in any case, think of me always as one man who,
having known you, will never cease to honor Woman.