Chapter 1

PART I.

I.

WHAT am I now about to write?

The history of little more than the events of one year, out of the
twenty-four years of my life.

Why do I undertake such an employment as this?

Perhaps, because I think that my narrative may do good; because I hope
that, one day, it may be put to some warning use. I am now about to
relate the story of an error, innocent in its beginning, guilty in its
progress, fatal in its results; and I would fain hope that my plain
and true record will show that this error was not committed altogether
without excuse. When these pages are found after my death, they will
perhaps be calmly read and gently judged, as relics solemnized by the
atoning shadows of the grave. Then, the hard sentence against me may
be repented of; the children of the next generation of our house may
be taught to speak charitably of my memory, and may often, of their
own accord, think of me kindly in the thoughtful watches of the night.

Prompted by these motives, and by others which I feel, but cannot
analyse, I now begin my self-imposed occupation. Hidden amid the far
hills of the far West of England, surrounded only by the few simple
inhabitants of a fishing hamlet on the Cornish coast, there is little
fear that my attention will be distracted from my task; and as little
chance that any indolence on my part will delay its speedy
accomplishment. I live under a threat of impending hostility, which
may descend and overwhelm me, I know not how soon, or in what manner.
An enemy, determined and deadly, patient alike to wait days or years
for his opportunity, is ever lurking after me in the dark. In entering
on my new employment, I cannot say of my time, that it may be mine for
another hour; of my life, that it may last till evening.

Thus it is as no leisure work that I begin my narrative--and begin it,
too, on my birthday! On this day I complete my twenty-fourth year; the
first new year of my life which has not been greeted by a single kind
word, or a single loving wish. But one look of welcome can still find
me in my solitude--the lovely morning look of nature, as I now see it
from the casement of my room. Brighter and brighter shines out the
lusty sun from banks of purple, rainy cloud; fishermen are spreading
their nets to dry on the lower declivities of the rocks; children are
playing round the boats drawn up on the beach; the sea-breeze blows
fresh and pure towards the shore----all objects are brilliant to look
on, all sounds are pleasant to hear, as my pen traces the first lines
which open the story of my life.