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the benign influence of affection on my disposition, 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 father 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 children, 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 qualities 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 semblance of virtue, that we yield to its allurements. With what specious pretences and seductive movives does the deceitful heart excuse its wanderings 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 [i] deliver us from temptation.[/i] 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 irresolute—the most virtuous have erred.

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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 confide 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, [i] that no woman could be called virtuous, until her virtue had been tried.[/i] 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 presence of a heart-searching and all-seeing God restrained 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 conquest that cost me my peace—my health—almost 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 prospects, 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 languished, 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 pleasures, 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.

Yeah, 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

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the benign influence of affection on my disposition, 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 father 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 children, 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 qualities 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 semblance of virtue, that we yield to its allurements With what specious pretences and seductive movives does the deceitful heart excuse its wanderings 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 [i] deliver us from temptation.[/i] 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 irresolute—the most virtuous have erred.

[right column]

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 confide 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, [i] that no woman could be called virtuous, until her virtue had been tried.[/i] 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 presence of a heart-searching and all-seeing God restrained 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 conquest that cost me my peace—my health—almost 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 prospects, 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 languished, 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 pleasures, 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.

Yeah, 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