To Her in Minnesota, 1914

15th September, 1914
San Francisco, California

My Dearest, Most Beloved Margaret,

How my trembling hand hesitates upon this page, for I fear that no words in the English tongue could adequately convey the torment that has consumed my very soul since my abrupt departure from your fair Minnesota. Each sunrise that greets me in this distant California brings with it a fresh wave of anguish, as I am reminded anew of the grievous wrong I have committed against the most precious heart that ever beat within mortal breast.

Oh, Margaret! How can you ever forgive such a wretch as I? In my foolish pursuit of fortune and advancement, I have torn myself from your side like some manner of beast, abandoning the very garden of Eden that was our love for the false promise of gold and prosperity in these western lands. What folly! What unforgivable madness! I am Icarus, having flown too close to the sun of ambition, and now I find myself cast down into the depths of despair, my wings of happiness burnt to mere ash and memory.

The business ventures that called me hither have proven themselves naught but mirages in this desert of separation. Each telegraph I receive from my associates, each ledger I examine, each contract I sign—all of it turns to dust in my hands when measured against the treasure I have left behind. For what profit is there in a man’s success if he loses his very soul? And you, my darling Margaret, you are the soul of my existence, the very breath in my lungs, the beating heart within my chest.

I walk these San Francisco streets like a phantom, haunting the fog-shrouded hills whilst my spirit remains forever tethered to that blessed plot of earth where you dwell. The Golden Gate may be magnificent, the Pacific may stretch endlessly before me, but they are as shadows compared to the radiance of your smile, as whispers compared to the symphony of your laughter.

The newspapers speak of troubles brewing across the Atlantic, of nations girding themselves for war, and I cannot help but think that the very world reflects my inner turmoil. For am I not at war with myself? Have I not committed an act of such treachery against love itself that the heavens themselves must surely weep?

I have secured lodgings in a boarding house near the wharf, where the sound of ships’ horns serves as a constant reminder of journeys and departures, of souls cast adrift upon uncertain seas. How apt this metaphor seems for my current state! Each night I retire to my modest chamber and gaze eastward through the small window, knowing that thousands of miles away, you may be looking westward from your window in Duluth, and perhaps—oh, dare I hope?—thinking of your wretched James.

I have enclosed within this letter a pressed flower, a California poppy that I plucked from the hillside overlooking the bay. It is a poor substitute for the wildflowers we gathered together in the meadows outside your father’s farm, but I pray it might serve as a token of my undying devotion, even in the face of my inexcusable behaviour.

Margaret, my beloved, my north star, my guiding light in this wilderness of regret—can you find it within your generous heart to forgive me? I know I have no right to ask such a thing. I know that my actions have spoken louder than any protestations of love I might now pen. But if there remains even the smallest ember of affection for me in your breast, I beseech you to keep it burning, for I swear upon my honour as a gentleman that I shall return to you.

This separation was meant to be temporary, a brief sojourn to establish myself in business before sending for you to join me in wedded bliss. But each day that passes convinces me more thoroughly that no amount of material success could justify another moment apart from you. I am preparing even now to liquidate my interests here and book passage on the first eastbound train. The rails that carried me away from you shall be the very means of my redemption.

Until that blessed day when I can once again gaze upon your face, when I can hear your sweet voice call my name, when I can feel the touch of your hand in mine, I remain your most devoted, most penitent, and most ardent admirer.

Should you find it impossible to forgive such a fool as I have proven myself to be, I shall understand, though it will surely mean the death of all happiness for your

Most wretchedly repentant and eternally devoted,

James Whitmore Collins

P.S. I have arranged for Mr. Peterson at the general store to forward any correspondence you might deign to send. A single word from you would be as balm to my wounded spirit.

2 responses to “To Her in Minnesota, 1914”

S.Bechtold

08/07/2025

Mark 8 and Otis Redding all in one letter. These are lovely to read

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1. Bob Lynn
  
  08/07/2025
  
  What a perceptive observation! You’ve caught the deliberate weaving of that timeless biblical wisdom into James’s tormented confession – that profound question of what profit there is in gaining the world whilst losing one’s soul proved as relevant to a lovesick businessman in 1914 as it does today.The Otis Redding comparison is wonderfully apt. There’s something about the raw, pleading emotion of a man laid bare by his own folly that transcends both time and medium, isn’t there? Whether it’s the ache in Redding’s voice or the desperate flourishes of James’s pen, both capture that universal human experience of realising you’ve thrown away something precious for something worthless.I’m delighted that the melodramatic earnestness of the piece comes across to you. There’s such joy in crafting these historical voices – finding that sweet spot where period authenticity meets timeless emotional truth. Poor James may be a wretch, but at least he’s an articulate one!
  
  Thank you for reading so thoughtfully. Comments like yours remind me why these historical love letters are such a pleasure to write.
  
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