I had no society--knew nothing of society--saw it at a distance,

under suspicious circumstances, and was myself an object of

its suspicion. Its attractions were desirable to me, but seemed

unattainable. It required some sacrifices to obtain its entrée,

and these sacrifices were the very ones which my independence would

not allow me to make. My independence was my treasure, duly valued

in proportion to the constant strife by which it was assailed. I

had that! THAT could not be taken from me. THAT kept me from sinking

into the slave the tool, the sycophant, perhaps the brute; THAT

prompted me to hard study in secret places; THAT strengthened my

heart, when, desolate and striving against necessity, I saw nothing

of the smiles of society, and felt nothing of the bounties of

life. Then came my final emancipation--my success--my triumph!

My independence was assailed no longer. My talents were no longer

doubted or denied. My reluctant neighbors sent in their adhesion.

My uncle forbore his sneers. Lastly, and now--Julia was mine!

My heart's desires were all gratified as completely as my mind's

ambition!

Was I happy? The inconsiderate mind will suppose this very

probable--will say, I should be. But evil seeds that are planted

in the young heart grow up with years--not so rapidly or openly as

to offend--and grow to be poisonous weeds with maturity. My feelings

were too devoted, too concentrative, too all-absorbing, to leave me

happy, even when they seemed gratified. The man who has but a single

jewel in the world, is very apt to labor under a constant apprehension

of its loss. He who knows but one object of attachment--whose

heart's devotion turns evermore but to one star of all the countless

thousands in the heavens--wo is he, if that star be shrouded from

his gaze in the sudden overflow of storms!--still more wo is he,

when that star withdraws, or seems to withdraw, its corresponding

gaze, or turns it elsewhere upon another worshipper! See you not

the danger which threatened me? See you not that, never having been

beloved before--never having loved but the one--I loved that one

with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength; and

required from that one the equal love of heart, soul, strength?

See you not that my love--linked with impatient mind, imperious

blood, impetuous enthusiasm, and suspicious fear--was a devotion

exacting as the grave--searching as fever--as jealous of the thing

whose worship it demands as God is said to be of ours?

Mine was eminently a jealous heart! On this subject of jealousy, men

rarely judge correctly. They speak of Othello as jealous--Othello,

one of the least jealous of all human natures! Jealousy is a

quality that needs no cause. It makes its own cause. It will find

or make occasion for its exercise, in the most innocent circumstances.

The PROOFS that made Othello wretched and revengeful, were sufficient

to have deceived any jury under the sun. He had proofs. He had

a strong case to go upon. It would have influenced any judgment.

He did not seek or find these proofs for himself. He did not wish

to find them. He was slow to see them. His was not jealousy. His

error was that of pride and self-esteem. He was outraged in both.

His mistake was in being too prompt of action in a case which

admitted of deliberation. This was the error of a proud man, a

soldier, prompt to decide, prompt to act, and to punish if necessary.

But never was human character less marked by a jealous mood than

that of Othello. His great self-esteem was, of itself, a sufficient

security against jealousy. Mine might have been, had it not been

so terribly diseased by ill-training.




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