“Chelsea, December 26, 1842.—­BROTHERS:  I want to write to you, but what is the use of scrawling on paper if I write what I do not feel—­intend?  It is worse than not writing.  And yet why I should be backward I don’t know.  The change that I have undergone has been so rapid and of such a kind; that may be the reason.  I feel that as I now am perhaps you cannot understand me.  I am afraid lest your conduct would be such that under present circumstances I could not stand under it.  Do not misunderstand me.  If I have ever appreciated anything in my life, it is the favor and indulgent treatment you have shown me in our business.  I know that I have never done an equal share in the work which was for us all to do.  I have always been conscious of this.  I hope you will receive this as it is written, for I am open.  Daily am I losing that disposition which was attributed to me of self-approval. . . .  There is no reason why I should distrust your dispositions toward me but my own feelings, and it is these that have kept me back, that and the change my mind is undergoing.  This is so continuous, and at the same time so firmly fixed, that I am unable to keep back any longer.  I had hopes that my former life would return, so that I would be able to go on as usual, although this tendency has always been growing in me.  But I find more and more that it is not possible.  I would go back if I could, but the impossibility of that I cannot express.  To continue as I am now would keep me constantly in an unsettled state of health, especially as my future appears to be opening before me with clearness.  I say sincerely that I have lost all but this one thing, and how shall I speak it?  My mind has lost all disposition to business; my hopes, life, existence, are all in another direction.  No one knows how I tried to exert myself to work, or the cause of my inability.  I was conscious of the cause, but as it was supposed to be a physical one, the reason of it was sought for, but to no purpose.  In the same circumstances now I should be worse.  When I say my mind cannot be occupied as formerly, do not attribute it to my wishes.  This is what I fear; it makes me almost despair, makes me feel that I would rather die than live under such thoughts.  I never could be happy if you thought so.  My future will be my only evidence. My experience, which is now my own evidence, I cannot give you. To keep company with females—­you know what I mean—­I have no desire.  I have no thought of marrying, and I feel an aversion to company for such an end.  In my whole life I have never felt less inclined to it.  If my disposition ran that way, marrying might lead me back to my old life, but oh! that is impossible.  To give up, as I have to do, a life which has often been my highest aim and hope, is done with a sense of responsibility I never imagined before.  This, I am conscious, is no light thought.  It lies deeper than myself, and I have not the power to control it.  I do not