"You know my weaknesses; I would not conceal from you a single
one,--even to win you. I can offer nothing to you which will bear
comparison in value with what is yours to bestow. I can only offer this
feeble hand of mine--to guard you; and this poor heart--to love you!
"Am I rash? Am I extravagant, in word, or in hope? Forgive it then, dear
Madge, for the sake of our old childish affection; and believe me, when
I say, that what is here written--is written honestly and tearfully.
Adieu."
* * * * *
It is with no fervor of boyish passion that you fold this letter: it is
with the trembling hand of eager and earnest manhood. They tell you that
man is not capable of love: so the September sun is not capable of
warmth! It may not indeed be so fierce as that of July; but it is
steadier. It does not force great flaunting leaves into breadth and
succulence, but it matures whole harvests of plenty!
There is a deep and earnest soul pervading the reply of Madge that makes
it sacred; it is full of delicacy, and full of hope. Yet it is not
final. Her heart lies intrenched within the ramparts of Duty and of
Devotion. It is a citadel of strength in the middle of the city of her
affections.
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