To the utter astonishment of every one and disclosing an unparalleled revolting case of parental heartlessness, William B. Mead, the father of Olivia, induced his daughter to quit the path of virtue, and to enter a fashionable house of prostitution in Rochester, then kept by Madame Annie Eagan; and, as the beautiful but frail defendant states, the paternal originator of her being told her that as she was inclined to be "gay" she might as well live in a "gay" house as not; and he took her there, making arrangements with the proprietress for her stay, and she became one of the inmates, conforming to the requirements and regulations of the situation.
The plaintiff, hearing this heart-breaking intelligence, made every effort to induce the defendant to leave her life of debauchery, and portrayed the misery, disease, and prospects of early death consequent upon such a life; but it appeared to be time wasted to talk to her, as she was evidently too far gone to become awakened to any desire for reformation.
Subsequently, learning that her devoted and much injured husband had determined to avail himself of the law to get free from the legal obligation which bound him to one lost past redemption, the defendant addressed to the plaintiff two letters, of which the following are copies, and which but too plainly admit the extent of the degradation and crime into which the unhappy, and lost, abandoned wife had plunged herself:
"Rochester, . . . . .
"My dear husband,—With a sad and breaking heart I sit down to communicate my thoughts and feelings to you; but oh, if I could tell you how I feel I should be happy, but words can never express or tongue tell. I believe that I am at present one of the most unhappy, as well as unfortunate and miserable beings, that ever existed, but I can only feel to say that it was God's curse upon me, and that I know that I am deserving all, so I do not murmur. But, oh! the tears I have shed for my past follies would make an ocean; and to-night, if I was only laid in my grave, is my wish. John, what shall I say? In the first place, can you ever forgive me? for God alone knows that I am penitent if there ever was one in the world. I can hardly hope to be forgiven, for my sins are almost beyond redemption, but God will forgive at the eleventh hour, and I want to be forgiven and reform. I will reform. I have seen enough, and now I want to settle down and live a virtuous and respectable life the rest of my days and die a happy death, for I have spent many an hour of late in deep thought, and it is not an impulse of the moment, but I have spent hours and days and months, and conclude that this is no life for me to lead. I am cured of my follies and I want to reform. Now, John, I have used you like a dog. I can say nothing for myself only that I am sorry, and have suffered enough, and have had my just dues. But, oh, John, forgive me! I could never do enough for you, and though I should live for years I could never wash out the stain which I have brought upon your name, but I am willing to end my days in your service. I am willing to do anything for you, if you are only willing to forgive me and live with me again, for I am your wife the same as ever, although I never filled that position or deserved the name. I am now willing to steady down and be a wife to you the remainder of my days. I think it was God's will that things should have been as they have; for my part, I know that it has been the making of me. I do not think that I could ever have settled down, and have been a woman and true wife, if I had not passed through what I have, for now I have seen not only the ways of the world, but the follies of my ways, and am cured, and now I am willing to go anywhere, and live with my husband, and be to him a true wife the rest of my days. That I am penitent and want to be forgiven by you and all of the rest, 'though I can never expect that,' and that the words come right from my heart, God alone knows. John, I would have written to you long before, but my pride forbade it, for I thought I would wait and see if you loved or cared anything for me, for I thought if you did that you would write or send for me, but when I saw that you did not, it worried me, too, but still I felt that I would not humble myself enough to write. I thought if you did not care anything for me I would not let you know I cared enough for you to write; but it was pride and pride alone; but it had a fall, and I felt as if I had passed through a fiery furnace and came out cleansed, for I feel like a different person. Everybody says it has been the making of me to pass through what I have. Many and many a time have I repented of the step I took in the month of August, when I left the city of Brooklyn. Many a time I have prayed that I might once again be placed back to that time. Oh! how differently would I act. Now I can see that I was wholly to blame—alas! when too late, I am afraid. John, you know all, you know everything that has transpired from the time I left you up to the present time, therefore it would be useless to say anything concerning my life for the past six months, only that I am not past reformation, but have steadied down and want to live a virtuous life the rest of my days, and the only one I want to spend them with is my husband, for we are the same to each other as on that October morning when we were pronounced man and wife. Then let us forgive as we hope to be forgiven by that Higher One. Now, John, I know that your mother or any of your family would never speak to me or forgive me, but if my future life will ever be the means of restoring the peace again that once existed between your folks and me, I am willing to do anything, sacrifice everything to live so that they will once more recognize me and term me their daughter and sister. I love them all; but, oh! what hellish spirit ever took possession of me I know not; but, oh! John, forgive me, take me back, and though they discard me, remember I am your wife.
"Now, John, write to me, for God's sake; write for the love you once bore me; write, let me know if you are done with me forever or not, for suspense is killing; but, oh, if you ever hope to be forgiven by God, forgive your wife, and let us once more live together and dwell in harmony and peace.
"Now, John, I send my love to you, and 'Oh, forgive me!' is my prayer.
"John, forgive! But you will have to follow the directions, as no one knows me by any other name. Nevertheless I am your wife. Good-by!
"From your wife,
"Olivia.