| 2the benign influence of affection on my dispo-
sition, which it restored to cheerfulness and activity.
But this renovated felicity was not of long
duration. My child was seized with a sudden
illness which threatened its life. During five
nights and five days, I never closed my eyes, or
withdrew them from the face of the precious
sufferer.
Every morning before my husband went out,
every night before he retired to his chamber,
he would come and stand beside her, feel her
pulse, inquire what prescriptions had been made,
then bidding me good night, advise me to be
calm and control my feelings. How strange was
the contrast offered by Edward's unwearying
solicitude and attention. A spectator, ignorant
of the truth, would have taken him for the fa-
ther of the dear little creature. For hours
would he kneel by her bedside and soothe her
restlessness—administer her medicine, and
smooth her pillow.
During her convalescence, she, like all chil-
dren, was wayward and fretful. With what
gentleness, what patience and kindness, did
this amiable friend attend on her. For hours
and hours would he carry her in his arms, and
caress and amuse her. It was not in human
nature to resist the influence of such goodness.
It was a brother's love—at least, it was with a
sister's purity! I will acknowledge that the
comparison of his to my husband's conduct at
this period, often forced itself on my mind,
greatly to the disadvantage of the latter. I
should have controlled my thoughts, and not
allowed them to dwell on this painful subject.
Such a comparison was worse than useless. It
excited too much irritation against one—too
grateful a tenderness for the other. I struggled
against these feelings and argued against my
own convictions. But facts were stronger than
arguments, and feelings were stronger than either.
Let no human being, but woman least of all,
depend on their own strength of resolution to
resist temptation—especially when it comes
clothed in the garb of innocence—assuming the
form of friendship, and accompanied with qua-
lities congenial with our own dispositions, or
such as we respect and admire. Were vice to
appear in its own hideous form, it would never
be dangerous. It is, when wearing the sem-
blance of virtue, that we yield to its allurements.
With what specious pretences and seductive
motives does the deceitful heart excuse its wan-
derings from the strait and narrow way of duty.
The diverging paths are strewed with such fair
flowers that we respect not the snares that lurk
beneath.
Of all the petitions contained in the prayer
taught us by the blessed Jesus, there is none
we should oftener repeat than deliver us from
temptation. He knew our nature, and wherein
our greatest danger consisted.
Oh, guard against temptation, however sweet
its voice, or lovely its form. In avoidance alone
is safety. The strongest are sometimes weak—
the bravest have quailed before danger—the
most determined, at times, have been irreso-
lute—the most virtuous have erred.
No one knows himself until he is tried.
Peter denied his Lord. With all the fervent
zeal, the daring intrepidity, that impelled him
to risk his life in his master's defence, he
could not resist the imputed shame of being the
follower of the insulted and persecuted Jesus.
After such an example of frailty, who dare con-
fide in themselves?
For a long while I suspected not that I or
my young friend were in any danger; and when
the suspicion was awakened, I felt a pride in
braving it, recollecting what I had both heard
and read, that no woman could be called virtu-
ous, until her virtue had been tried. I rejoiced
that mind should be put to the test, in order
to enjoy the pride of triumph.
Dangerous experiment! Seldom made with
impunity, and never without suffering. But I
did gain the victory—thanks, most humble
thanks to that superintending providence who
watched over, and guided me through the perils
which I had so rashly dared. Not to me—not
to me is the merit due.
In the dreadful conflict between passion and
duty, I must have fallen, had not the felt pre-
sence of a heart-searching and all-seeing God re-
strained and governed my own secret actions—
governed them, when human laws and human
motives ad lost their controlling influence.
Yes, I came off conqueror; but it was a con-
quest that cost me my peace—my health—al-
most my life—for I was brought to the very
verge of the grave.
And my poor, unhappy friend!—But for me
he might have been happy and affluent. His
sole dependence was on his benefactor, and in
leaving him, he sacrificed all his bright pros-
pects, and went forth from a sheltering roof,
into a cold, unfriendly world. But duty required
the sacrifice, and he did not hestitate to make it.
Would that I could deter others from running
the same risk I did. To accomplish such a
purpose, I would tear open the wounds that
time has long since healed—I would describe
the restless hours—the wakful nights—the
dark purposes—the stormy feelings—the acute
anguish I endured. I would, in short, describe
the conflicts that distracted me, and compared
to which, the state in which I had long lan-
guished, might have been deemed happiness.
Grievances inflicted by the faults of others, are
light in comparison with those inflicted by our
own errors. Conscious purity and rectitude
afford the mind a strong support under the
pressure of injustice or unkindness, and diffuse
a self-complacency, an inward peace, without
which there can be no true enjoyment, however
splendid the condition, or luxurious the plea
sures, or various the amusements in the world can
bestow.
There is a bitterness in guilt that mingles
with the sweetest draught she ever administers
to her votaries—while in that virtue, there
is a sweetness which overpowers the bitterest
drop that human sorrow can infuse in the cup
of life.
Yea, the indulgence of any dominant passion,
though it lead not to actual guilt, is fatal to the
bosom's peace. But where there is an accusing | 2the benign influence of affection on my dispo-
sition, which it restored to cheerfulness and activity.
But this renovated felicity was not of long
duration. My child was seized with a sudden
illness which threatened its life. During five
nights and five days, I never closed my eyes, or
withdrew them from the face of the precious
sufferer.
Every morning before my husband went out,
every night before he retired to his chamber,
he would come and stand beside her, feel her
pulse, inquire what prescriptions had been made,
then bidding me good night, advise me to be
calm and control my feelings. How strange was
the contrast offered by Edward's unwearying
solicitude and attention. A spectator, ignorant
of the truth, would have taken him for the fa-
ther of the dear little creature. For hours
would he kneel by her bedside and soothe her
restlessness—administer her medicine, and
smooth her pillow.
During her convalescence, she, like all chil-
dren, was wayward and fretful. With what
gentleness, what patience and kindness, did
this amiable friend attend on her. For hours
and hours would he carry her in his arms, and
caress and amuse her. It was not in human
nature to resist the influence of such goodness.
It was a brother's love—at least, it was with a
sister's purity! I will acknowledge that the
comparison of his to my husband's conduct at
this period, often forced itself on my mind,
greatly to the disadvantage of the latter. I
should have controlled my thoughts, and not
allowed them to dwell on this painful subject.
Such a comparison was worse than useless. It
excited too much irritation against one—too
grateful a tenderness for the other. I struggled
against these feelings and argued against my
own convictions. But facts were stronger than
arguments, and feelings were stronger than either.
Let no human being, but woman least of all,
depend on their own strength of resolution to
resist temptation—especially when it comes
clothed in the garb of innocence—assuming the
form of friendship, and accompanied with qua-
lities congenial with our own dispositions, or
such as we respect and admire. Were vice to
appear in its own hideous form, it would never
be dangerous. It is, when wearing the sem-
blance of virtue, that we yield to its allurements.
With what specious pretences and seductive
motives does the deceitful heart excuse its wan-
derings from the strait and narrow way of duty.
The diverging paths are strewed with such fair
flowers that we respect not the snares that lurk
beneath.
Of all the petitions contained in the prayer
taught us by the blessed Jesus, there is none
we should oftener repeat than deliver us from
temptation. He knew our nature, and wherein
our greatest danger consisted.
Oh, guard against temptation, however sweet
its voice, or lovely its form. In avoidance alone
is safety. The strongest are sometimes weak—
the bravest have quailed before danger—the
most determined, at times, have been irreso-
lute—the most virtuous have erred.
No one knows himself until he is tried.
Peter denied his Lord. With all the fervent
zeal, the daring intrepidity, that impelled him
to risk his life in his master's defence, he
could not resist the imputed shame of being the
follower of the insulted and persecuted Jesus.
After such an example of frailty, who dare con-
fide in themselves?
For a long while I suspected not that I or
my young friend were in any danger; and when
the suspicion was awakened, I felt a pride in
braving it, recollecting what I had both heard
and read, that no woman could be called virtu-
ous, until her virtue had been tried. I rejoiced
that mind should be put to the test, in order
to enjoy the pride of triumph.
Dangerous experiment! Seldom made with
impunity, and never without suffering. But I
did gain the victory—thanks, most humble
thanks to that superintending providence who
watched over, and guided me through the perils
which I had so rashly dared. Not to me—not
to me is the merit due.
In the dreadful conflict between passion and
duty, I must have fallen, had not the felt pre-
sence of a heart-searching and all-seeing God re-
strained and governed my own secret actions—
governed them, when human laws and human
motives ad lost their controlling influence.
Yes, I came off conqueror; but it was a con-
quest that cost me my peace—my health—al-
most my life—for I was brought to the very
verge of the grave.
And my poor, unhappy friend!—But for me
he might have been happy and affluent. His
sole dependence was on his benefactor, and in
leaving him, he sacrificed all his bright pros-
pects, and went forth from a sheltering roof,
into a cold, unfriendly world. But duty required
the sacrifice, and he did not hestitate to make it.
Would that I could deter others from running
the same risk I did. To accomplish such a
purpose, I would tear open the wounds that
time has long since healed—I would describe
the restless hours—the wakful nights—the
dark purposes—the stormy feelings—the acute
anguish I endured. I would, in short, describe
the conflicts that distracted me, and compared
to which, the state in which I had long lan-
guished, might have been deemed happiness.
Grievances inflicted by the faults of others, are
light in comparison with those inflicted by our
own errors. Conscious purity and rectitude
afford the mind a strong support under the
pressure of injustice or unkindness, and diffuse
a self-complacency, an inward peace, without
which there can be no true enjoyment, however
splendid the condition, or luxurious the plea
sures, or various the amusements in the world can
bestow.
There is a bitterness in guilt that mingles
with the sweetest draught she ever administers
to her votaries—while in that virtue, there
is a sweetness which overpowers the bitterest
drop that human sorrow can infuse in the cup
of life.
Yea, the indulgence of any dominant passion,
though it lead not to actual guilt, is fatal to the
bosom's peace. But where there is an accusing |
EN