and so I sat down to write a letter to
Crofton, explaining the reasons of my sudden departure, and enclosing
him Father Dyke's epistle, which I had carried away with me. I began
this letter with the most firm resolve to be truthful and accurate. I
wrote down, not only the date, but the day. "'Goat,' Milford," followed,
and then, "My dear Crofton,--It would ill become one who has partaken
of your generous hospitality, and who, from an unknown stranger, was
admitted to the privilege of your intimacy, to quit the roof beneath
which the happiest hours of his life were passed without expressing the
deep shame and sorrow such a step has cost him, while he bespeaks your
indulgence to hear the reason." This was my first sentence, and it gave
me uncommon trouble. I desired to be dignified, yet grateful, proud in
my humility, grieved over an abrupt departure, but sustained by a manly
confidence in the strength of my own motives. If I read it over once, I
read it twenty times; now deeming it too diffuse, now fearing lest I had
compressed my meaning too narrowly. Might it not be better to open thus:
"Strike, but hear me, dear Crofton, or, before condemning the unhappy
creature whose abject cry for mercy may seem but to increase the
presumption of his guilt, and in whose faltering accents may appear the
signs of a stricken conscience, read over, dear friend, the entire of
this letter, weigh well the difficulties and dangers of him who wrote
it, and say, is he not rather a subject for pity than rebuke? Is not
this more a case for a tearful forgiveness than for chastisement and
reproach?"

Like most men who have little habit of composition, my difficulties
increased with every new attempt, and I became bewildered and puzzled
what to choose. It was vitally important that the first lines of my
letter should secure the favorable opinion of the reader; by one unhappy
word, one ill-selected expression, a whole case might be prejudiced. I
imagined Crofton angrily throwing the epistle from him with an impatient
"Stuff and nonsense! a practised hum-bugger!" or, worse again, calling
out, "Listen to this, Mary. Is not Master Potts a cool hand? Is not this
brazening it out with a vengeance?" Such a thought was agony to me; the
very essence of my theory about life was to secure the esteem and regard
of others. I yearned after the good opinion of my fellow-men, and there
was no amount of falsehood I would not incur to obtain it. No, come what
woul