do not argue”, said I, “though I love you, madam;

But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod.

And this age shows to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam,

Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God.

“Yet, O God”, I said, “O grave”, I said, “O mother’s heart and bosom,

With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child!

We are fools to your deductions, in these figments of heart-closing!

We are traitors to your causes, in these sympathies defiled!

“Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or wealth, — that needs no learning;

That comes quickly — quick as sin does, ay, and culminates to sin;

But for Adam’s seed, MAN! Trust me, ’tis a clay above your scorning,

With God’s image stamped upon it, and God’s kindling breath within.

“What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace-mirror daily,

Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must adore,

While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gayly

You will wed no man that’s only good to God, — and nothing more?

“Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God, — the sweetest woman

Of all women He has fashioned, — with your lovely spirit-face,

Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human,

And your voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace,

“What right can you have, God’s other works to scorn, despise, revile them

In the gross, as mere men, broadly, — not as noble men, forsooth,—

As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbidden to assoil them

In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetness of your mouth?

“Have you any answer, madam? If my spirit were less earthly,

If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string,

I would kneel down where I stand, and say, — Behold me! I am worthy

Of thy loving, for I love thee! I am worthy as a king.

“As it is, — your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her,—

That I, poor, weak, tost with passion, scorned by me and you again,

Love you, Madam, — dare to love you, — to my grief and your dishonor,—

To my endless desolation, and your impotent disdain!”

More mad words like these, — more madness! friend, I need not write them fuller;

And I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears—

Oh, a woman! friend, a woman! Why, a beast had scarce been duller

Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of the spheres.

But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder

Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a call.

Could you guess what word she uttered? She looked up, as if in wonder,

With tears beaded on her lashes, and said “Bertram!” it was all.

If she had cursed me, — and she might have, — or if even, with queenly bearing

Which at needs is used by women, she had risen up and said,

“Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing,—

Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting somewhat less instead”,—

I had borne it! — but that “Bertram”—why it lies there on the paper,

A mere word, without her accent, — and you cannot judge the weight

Of the calm which crushed my passion! I seemed drowning in a vapor,—

And her gentleness destroyed me whom her scorn made desolate.

So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion

Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth,

With a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstration,

And with youth’s own anguish turning grimly gray the hairs of youth,—

By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely,

I spake basely, — using truth, — if what I spake indeed was true,—

To avenge wrong on a woman, — her, who sat there weighing nicely

A full manhood’s worth, found guilty of such deeds as I could do!—

With such wrong and woe exhausted — what I suffered and occasioned,—

As a wild horse through a city runs with lightning in his eyes,

And then dashing at a church’s cold and passive wall, impassioned,

Strikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies,—

So I fell, struck down before her! Do you blame me friend, for weakness?

’Twas my strength of passion slew me! — fell before her like a stone;

Fast the dreadful world rolled from me, on its roaring wheels of blackness!

When the light came I was lying in this chamber — and alone.

Oh, of course, she charged her lackeys to bear out the sickly burden,

And to cast it from her scornful sight, — but not beyond the gate—

She was too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon

Such a man as I, — ’twere something to be level to her hate.

But for me, — you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter,

How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone!

I shall leave her house at dawn;—I would to-night, if I were better;—

And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened