“Dear mother, _you_ are a lady—_I_, a man! And loss of fortune has now no terrors for me; and birth and education, so far from rendering me more helpless, shall make me stronger to conquer my difficulties. I have no fear of wanting any of the comforts of life from the very onset. And as for being shut out, or rather shut _in_, from nature—mother, do you think I shall be? Do you think I shall keep away from nature because I cannot call on her in a coach, with a groom on horseback to take in my card? No, indeed. On the contrary, I purpose to live with nature. She’s an old intimate friend of mine, and no summer friend either—nor shall I be a summer friend of hers, and shrink from her boisterous winds and rattling sleet. And as for society, mother—oh, let me quote to you the words of Dr. Channing, whose lips, indeed, seemed touched with fire: ‘No matter though the prosperous of my own time will not enter my obscure dwelling. If the Sacred Writers will enter and take up their abode under my roof, if Milton will cross my threshold to sing to me of paradise, and Shakspeare to open to me the worlds of imagination and the workings of the human heart, and Franklin to enrich me with his practical wisdom, I shall not pine for want of intellectual companionship.’ So, dearest mother, with industry that will procure me all the necessaries of life, health that will enable me to enjoy or endure nature in all her moods, and a mind dependent on itself for its enjoyment, what have I to dread from loss of fortune?” “It may be very well for _you_, at least tolerable; but for _India_! You would not bring Miss Sutherland down to such a state?” Mark paused, and then answered— “Yes, mother, yes; if the only other alternative is to be a separation of many years, I would bring India down to this state.” “Oh, Mark! that is very, very selfish!” “I do not think so, madam.” “Mark! Just now, when I told you of the nameless miseries of the well-born poor, you did not deny them, but said, ‘Mother, _you_ are a lady—_I_, a man.’ Mark! out of your own mouth I will condemn you. India—Miss Sutherland—‘is a _lady_,’ Mark! Are you not selfish?” “No, mother! not if India feels as I do—as I know she does; not if our separation would be to her, as it would be to me, a greater evil than all the early struggles our union may bring upon us.” “My dear son, your sanguine confidence gives me deep pain. Dear Mark, be not too sure! Not for worlds would I speak a word against your India. Nor do I know that, under her circumstances, I speak much evil of her when I say that she is haughty, self-willed, indolent, and fastidious! But are those the elements of self-sacrifice?” “Mother, I would not hear another soul breathe aught against India but you; but to answer your question—and granting, what I am unwilling to grant, that these faults of her station may be also hers—affection will conquer them! My _life_ upon India’s magnanimity!”