For now to that which clearly separates
This action of my darling, (nay, of him
Whose name should be, in ordinary use,
A malediction), from all common sins;
That to themselves their union is no less
Than actual marriage; can I think on mine
And not be sadly tempted to confess

The larger share of truth upon their side?
Nor this alone, but widely to the world

(Although, it seems, your name was overlooked,)
They have proclaimed that union, in such terms
As well may serve to cover scandal up,
And hide their only error. Can it be

That what so late was lawful on one side

The Tweed and Cheviots, justly may be made Upon the other an enduring badge

Of social outlawry? Think not, dear friend,
That my own daughter's trespass drives me on

To make excuse for license to lose hold
Of what is woman's glory and chief gift;

But think of me in this wise circumstanced ;—

My best loved child, whose soul was alway pure, Purer than most, has given her fame away,

And placed herself, so would the world declare, Upon the outcast's level; am I then,

When thus confronted with such opposite creeds, To hold my own, and call my child still pure,

And by that estimation seem to fall

Into like condemnation; or must I

(You know I could not!) treat her as the vile, And cast her from my sight for evermore?

I have not done so ; I have written her

More than one letter (here you must not blame)

As to a daughter living in His sight

To whom the purest is but as the vile;

As to a woman chaste in thought and will,

But whose misguided action (for I feel

That somewhere there is evil, though in vain

Seems often all endeavour to describe

Its proper limits) will not fail to bear

Some dreadful fruit of inward misery,

And, it may well be, outward pain or death.

Think well before you answer; vex me not
(This one request I make, and you will heed it,)
With moaning for my sorrow; for I stand

So near the line where every sorrow ends
In comprehension of the ways of God,

That my own grief seems nothing; rather far
Would I that some reprover pointed out
The faults in me that now are visited;
But, if you can, give counsel for my child.

I think of her, and think I could not die
And leave the problem of her life unsolved;
And oft my lips have formed themselves in prayer
For her redemption through some sudden pang,
Even of death, before my time shall come.

I could not leave her to the world's cold care;
For if, as greatly to my grief she does,

Her sister even mistrusts her, what should be

Looked for from those who know her heart still

less?

I know there have been cases,-there are now,

(How strange it seems to look for comfort, where Nothing but horror used of old to dwell!)

Of women who have lived in good repute

In spite of like divergencies; but these

Were much more men than women, in whose

minds

Lived a far stronger individual sense

Than women have or should, methinks, desire.
This, therefore, brings no comfort; Eucharis

Is not of these; except in trivial points

Of outside manner, she was always true

To woman's chief distinctive character;

And much I fear, from hints but vaguely dropped,

That she even now is learning from herself

The ground for such distinctions, which the more

Leads me to add some counsel to my own.

And now farewell; I read my letter through,
And almost dread to send it. You will think

I seem to countenance what the world reproves
And justly visits; yet, if but for once,

And if I never were sincere again,

I must at this time, if I seek for help,

Lay bare my thoughts to you, as if to God,
And trust your love, as I would trust in His.
One thing I think of; almost I resolved

To write to him, accepting him as one

Whose will is toward goodness, asking him

To think of her who loves him, whom he loves ;

To bring his knowledge of the world to bear

Upon her future; asking him to give,

Even now, while not too late (her child not born,)

Some form of outward sanction for its sake.

But I will wait until I hear from you.