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| 1 | It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the
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| 2 | ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, many
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| 3 | unavailing sorrows and regrets.
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| 4 | I went away from England; not knowing, even then, how great the
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| 5 | shock was, that I had to bear. I left all who were dear to me, and
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| 6 | went away; and believed that I had borne it, and it was past. As
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| 7 | a man upon a field of battle will receive a mortal hurt, and
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| 8 | scarcely know that he is struck, so I, when I was left alone with
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| 9 | my undisciplined heart, had no conception of the wound with which
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| 10 | it had to strive.
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| 11 | The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by little, and
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| 12 | grain by grain. The desolate feeling with which I went abroad,
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| 13 | deepened and widened hourly. At first it was a heavy sense of loss
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| 14 | and sorrow, wherein I could distinguish little else. By
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| 15 | imperceptible degrees, it became a hopeless consciousness of all
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| 16 | that I had lost - love, friendship, interest; of all that had been
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| 17 | shattered - my first trust, my first affection, the whole airy
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| 18 | castle of my life; of all that remained - a ruined blank and waste,
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| 19 | lying wide around me, unbroken, to the dark horizon.
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| 20 | If my grief were selfish, I did not know it to be so. I mourned
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| 21 | for my child-wife, taken from her blooming world, so young. I
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| 22 | mourned for him who might have won the love and admiration of
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| 23 | thousands, as he had won mine long ago. I mourned for the broken
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| 24 | heart that had found rest in the stormy sea; and for the wandering
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| 25 | remnants of the simple home, where I had heard the night-wind
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| 26 | blowing, when I was a child.
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| 27 | From the accumulated sadness into which I fell, I had at length no
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| 28 | hope of ever issuing again. I roamed from place to place, carrying
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| 29 | my burden with me everywhere. I felt its whole weight now; and I
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| 30 | drooped beneath it, and I said in my heart that it could never be
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| 31 | lightened.
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| 32 | When this despondency was at its worst, I believed that I should
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| 33 | die. Sometimes, I thought that I would like to die at home; and
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| 34 | actually turned back on my road, that I might get there soon. At
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| 35 | other times, I passed on farther away, -from city to city, seeking
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| 36 | I know not what, and trying to leave I know not what behind.
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| 37 | It is not in my power to retrace, one by one, all the weary phases
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| 38 | of distress of mind through which I passed. There are some dreams
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| 39 | that can only be imperfectly and vaguely described; and when I
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| 40 | oblige myself to look back on this time of my life, I seem to be
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| 41 | recalling such a dream. I see myself passing on among the
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| 42 | novelties of foreign towns, palaces, cathedrals, temples, pictures,
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| 43 | castles, tombs, fantastic streets - the old abiding places of
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| 44 | History and Fancy - as a dreamer might; bearing my painful load
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| 45 | through all, and hardly conscious of the objects as they fade
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| 46 | before me. Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was
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| 47 | the night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from
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| 48 | it - as at last I did, thank Heaven! - and from its long, sad,
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| 49 | wretched dream, to dawn.
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| 50 | For many months I travelled with this ever-darkening cloud upon my
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| 51 | mind. Some blind reasons that I had for not returning home -
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| 52 | reasons then struggling within me, vainly, for more distinct
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| 53 | expression - kept me on my pilgrimage. Sometimes, I had proceeded
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| 54 | restlessly from place to place, stopping nowhere; sometimes, I had
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| 55 | lingered long in one spot. I had had no purpose, no sustaining
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| 56 | soul within me, anywhere.
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| 57 | I was in Switzerland. I had come out of Italy, over one of the
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| 58 | great passes of the Alps, and had since wandered with a guide among
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| 59 | the by-ways of the mountains. If those awful solitudes had spoken
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| 60 | to my heart, I did not know it. I had found sublimity and wonder
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| 61 | in the dread heights and precipices, in the roaring torrents, and
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| 62 | the wastes of ice and snow; but as yet, they had taught me nothing
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| 63 | else.
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| 64 | I came, one evening before sunset, down into a valley, where I was
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| 65 | to rest. In the course of my descent to it, by the winding track
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| 66 | along the mountain-side, from which I saw it shining far below, I
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| 67 | think some long-unwonted sense of beauty and tranquillity, some
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| 68 | softening influence awakened by its peace, moved faintly in my
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| 69 | breast. I remember pausing once, with a kind of sorrow that was
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| 70 | not all oppressive, not quite despairing. I remember almost hoping
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| 71 | that some better change was possible within me.
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| 72 | I came into the valley, as the evening sun was shining on the
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| 73 | remote heights of snow, that closed it in, like eternal clouds.
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| 74 | The bases of the mountains forming the gorge in which the little
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| 75 | village lay, were richly green; and high above this gentler
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| 76 | vegetation, grew forests of dark fir, cleaving the wintry
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| 77 | snow-drift, wedge-like, and stemming the avalanche. Above these,
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| 78 | were range upon range of craggy steeps, grey rock, bright ice, and
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| 79 | smooth verdure-specks of pasture, all gradually blending with the
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| 80 | crowning snow. Dotted here and there on the mountain's-side, each
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| 81 | tiny dot a home, were lonely wooden cottages, so dwarfed by the
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| 82 | towering heights that they appeared too small for toys. So did
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| 83 | even the clustered village in the valley, with its wooden bridge
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| 84 | across the stream, where the stream tumbled over broken rocks, and
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| 85 | roared away among the trees. In the quiet air, there was a sound
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| 86 | of distant singing - shepherd voices; but, as one bright evening
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| 87 | cloud floated midway along the mountain's-side, I could almost have
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| 88 | believed it came from there, and was not earthly music. All at
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| 89 | once, in this serenity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothed me to
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| 90 | lay down my weary head upon the grass, and weep as I had not wept
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| 91 | yet, since Dora died!
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| 92 | I had found a packet of letters awaiting me but a few minutes
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| 93 | before, and had strolled out of the village to read them while my
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| 94 | supper was making ready. Other packets had missed me, and I had
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| 95 | received none for a long time. Beyond a line or two, to say that
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| 96 | I was well, and had arrived at such a place, I had not had
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| 97 | fortitude or constancy to write a letter since I left home.
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| 98 | The packet was in my hand. I opened it, and read the writing of
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| 99 | Agnes.
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| 100 | She was happy and useful, was prospering as she had hoped. That
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| 101 | was all she told me of herself. The rest referred to me.
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| 102 | She gave me no advice; she urged no duty on me; she only told me,
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| 103 | in her own fervent manner, what her trust in me was. She knew (she
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| 104 | said) how such a nature as mine would turn affliction to good. She
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| 105 | knew how trial and emotion would exalt and strengthen it. She was
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| 106 | sure that in my every purpose I should gain a firmer and a higher
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| 107 | tendency, through the grief I had undergone. She, who so gloried
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| 108 | in my fame, and so looked forward to its augmentation, well knew
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| 109 | that I would labour on. She knew that in me, sorrow could not be
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| 110 | weakness, but must be strength. As the endurance of my childish
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| 111 | days had done its part to make me what I was, so greater calamities
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| 112 | would nerve me on, to be yet better than I was; and so, as they had
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| 113 | taught me, would I teach others. She commended me to God, who had
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| 114 | taken my innocent darling to His rest; and in her sisterly
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| 115 | affection cherished me always, and was always at my side go where
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| 116 | I would; proud of what I had done, but infinitely prouder yet of
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| 117 | what I was reserved to do.
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| 118 | I put the letter in my breast, and thought what had I been an hour
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| 119 | ago! When I heard the voices die away, and saw the quiet evening
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| 120 | cloud grow dim, and all the colours in the valley fade, and the
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| 121 | golden snow upon the mountain-tops become a remote part of the pale
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| 122 | night sky, yet felt that the night was passing from my mind, and
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| 123 | all its shadows clearing, there was no name for the love I bore
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| 124 | her, dearer to me, henceforward, than ever until then.
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| 125 | I read her letter many times. I wrote to her before I slept. I
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| 126 | told her that I had been in sore need of her help; that without her
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| 127 | I was not, and I never had been, what she thought me; but that she
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| 128 | inspired me to be that, and I would try.
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| 129 | I did try. In three months more, a year would have passed since
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| 130 | the beginning of my sorrow. I determined to make no resolutions
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| 131 | until the expiration of those three months, but to try. I lived in
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| 132 | that valley, and its neighbourhood, all the time.
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| 133 | The three months gone, I resolved to remain away from home for some
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| 134 | time longer; to settle myself for the present in Switzerland, which
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| 135 | was growing dear to me in the remembrance of that evening; to
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| 136 | resume my pen; to work.
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| 137 | I resorted humbly whither Agnes had commended me; I sought out
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| 138 | Nature, never sought in vain; and I admitted to my breast the human
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| 139 | interest I had lately shrunk from. It was not long, before I had
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| 140 | almost as many friends in the valley as in Yarmouth: and when I
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| 141 | left it, before the winter set in, for Geneva, and came back in the
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| 142 | spring, their cordial greetings had a homely sound to me, although
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| 143 | they were not conveyed in English words.
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| 144 | I worked early and late, patiently and hard. I wrote a Story, with
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| 145 | a purpose growing, not remotely, out of my experience, and sent it
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| 146 | to Traddles, and he arranged for its publication very
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| 147 | advantageously for me; and the tidings of my growing reputation
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| 148 | began to reach me from travellers whom I encountered by chance.
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| 149 | After some rest and change, I fell to work, in my old ardent way,
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| 150 | on a new fancy, which took strong possession of me. As I advanced
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| 151 | in the execution of this task, I felt it more and more, and roused
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| 152 | my utmost energies to do it well. This was my third work of
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| 153 | fiction. It was not half written, when, in an interval of rest, I
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| 154 | thought of returning home.
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| 155 | For a long time, though studying and working patiently, I had
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| 156 | accustomed myself to robust exercise. My health, severely impaired
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| 157 | when I left England, was quite restored. I had seen much. I had
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| 158 | been in many countries, and I hope I had improved my store of
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| 159 | knowledge.
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| 160 | I have now recalled all that I think it needful to recall here, of
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| 161 | this term of absence - with one reservation. I have made it, thus
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| 162 | far, with no purpose of suppressing any of my thoughts; for, as I
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| 163 | have elsewhere said, this narrative is my written memory. I have
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| 164 | desired to keep the most secret current of my mind apart, and to
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| 165 | the last. I enter on it now. I cannot so completely penetrate the
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| 166 | mystery of my own heart, as to know when I began to think that I
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| 167 | might have set its earliest and brightest hopes on Agnes. I cannot
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| 168 | say at what stage of my grief it first became associated with the
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| 169 | reflection, that, in my wayward boyhood, I had thrown away the
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| 170 | treasure of her love. I believe I may have heard some whisper of
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| 171 | that distant thought, in the old unhappy loss or want of something
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| 172 | never to be realized, of which I had been sensible. But the
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| 173 | thought came into my mind as a new reproach and new regret, when I
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| 174 | was left so sad and lonely in the world.
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| 175 | If, at that time, I had been much with her, I should, in the
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| 176 | weakness of my desolation, have betrayed this. It was what I
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| 177 | remotely dreaded when I was first impelled to stay away from
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| 178 | England. I could not have borne to lose the smallest portion of
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| 179 | her sisterly affection; yet, in that betrayal, I should have set a
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| 180 | constraint between us hitherto unknown.
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| 181 | I could not forget that the feeling with which she now regarded me
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| 182 | had grown up in my own free choice and course. That if she had
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| 183 | ever loved me with another love - and I sometimes thought the time
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| 184 | was when she might have done so - I had cast it away. It was
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| 185 | nothing, now, that I had accustomed myself to think of her, when we
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| 186 | were both mere children, as one who was far removed from my wild
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| 187 | fancies. I had bestowed my passionate tenderness upon another
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| 188 | object; and what I might have done, I had not done; and what Agnes
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| 189 | was to me, I and her own noble heart had made her.
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| 190 | In the beginning of the change that gradually worked in me, when I
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| 191 | tried to get a better understanding of myself and be a better man,
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| 192 | I did glance, through some indefinite probation, to a period when
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| 193 | I might possibly hope to cancel the mistaken past, and to be so
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| 194 | blessed as to marry her. But, as time wore on, this shadowy
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| 195 | prospect faded, and departed from me. If she had ever loved me,
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| 196 | then, I should hold her the more sacred; remembering the
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| 197 | confidences I had reposed in her, her knowledge of my errant heart,
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| 198 | the sacrifice she must have made to be my friend and sister, and
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| 199 | the victory she had won. If she had never loved me, could I
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| 200 | believe that she would love me now?
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| 201 | I had always felt my weakness, in comparison with her constancy and
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| 202 | fortitude; and now I felt it more and more. Whatever I might have
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| 203 | been to her, or she to me, if I had been more worthy of her long
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| 204 | ago, I was not now, and she was not. The time was past. I had let
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| 205 | it go by, and had deservedly lost her.
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| 206 | That I suffered much in these contentions, that they filled me with
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| 207 | unhappiness and remorse, and yet that I had a sustaining sense that
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| 208 | it was required of me, in right and honour, to keep away from
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| 209 | myself, with shame, the thought of turning to the dear girl in the
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| 210 | withering of my hopes, from whom I had frivolously turned when they
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| 211 | were bright and fresh - which consideration was at the root of
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| 212 | every thought I had concerning her - is all equally true. I made
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| 213 | no effort to conceal from myself, now, that I loved her, that I was
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| 214 | devoted to her; but I brought the assurance home to myself, that it
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| 215 | was now too late, and that our long-subsisting relation must be
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| 216 | undisturbed.
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| 217 | I had thought, much and often, of my Dora's shadowing out to me
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| 218 | what might have happened, in those years that were destined not to
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| 219 | try us; I had considered how the things that never happen, are
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| 220 | often as much realities to us, in their effects, as those that are
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| 221 | accomplished. The very years she spoke of, were realities now, for
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| 222 | my correction; and would have been, one day, a little later
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| 223 | perhaps, though we had parted in our earliest folly. I endeavoured
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| 224 | to convert what might have been between myself and Agnes, into a
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| 225 | means of making me more self-denying, more resolved, more conscious
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| 226 | of myself, and my defects and errors. Thus, through the reflection
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| 227 | that it might have been, I arrived at the conviction that it could
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| 228 | never be.
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| 229 | These, with their perplexities and inconsistencies, were the
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| 230 | shifting quicksands of my mind, from the time of my departure to
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| 231 | the time of my return home, three years afterwards. Three years
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| 232 | had elapsed since the sailing of the emigrant ship; when, at that
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| 233 | same hour of sunset, and in the same place, I stood on the deck of
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| 234 | the packet vessel that brought me home, looking on the rosy water
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| 235 | where I had seen the image of that ship reflected.
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| 236 | Three years. Long in the aggregate, though short as they went by.
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| 237 | And home was very dear to me, and Agnes too - but she was not mine
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| 238 | - she was never to be mine. She might have been, but that was
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| 239 | past!
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