He offered her
a guinea, and she agreed to post a letter. Oh the hapiness it was to the
poor prisoner to write it, and unburden his heart and tell his wrongs. He
kept his manhood for his enemies; his tears fell on the paper he sent to
his forlorn bride. He had no misgivings of her truth; he judged her by
himself: gave her credit for anxiety, but not for doubt. He concluded a
long, ardent, tender letter by begging her to come and see him, and, if
refused admission, to publish his case in the newspapers, and employ a
lawyer to proceed against all the parties concerned in his detention. Day
after day he waited for an answer to his letter; none came. Then he began
to be sore perplexed, and torn with agonising doubts. What if her mind
was poisoned too! What if she thought him mad! What if some misfortune
had befallen her! What if she had believed him dead, and her heart had
broken! Hitherto he had seen his own trouble chiefly; but now he began to
think day and night on hers; and though he ground on for his degree not
to waste time, and not to be driven mad, yet it was almost superhuman
labour; sighs issued from his labouring breast while his hard,
indomitable brain laboured away, all uphill, at Aristotle's Divisions and
Definitions.
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