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Maria Templeton to Margaret Bayard Smith, 2 November 1800

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of her mother & sisters. You know the interest I take in that family and may easily imagine with what pleasure I listened to Fanny's details. Oh Margaret! how closely we cling to some remembrances, and when they are no longer accompanied by anguish how we love to cherish them. It is good for me to do so, such reflections teach the vanity of all earthly possession, and when by their not satisfying the mind then we were designed for a better state.-- and -- but I will not moralize just now.

Wednesday November 5th

When I was writing to you I thought Maria Nicholan had left town, but I found she had not, and was obliged to leave my letter to attend to her. She [st..?] with me till the next day at noon, and came to town early on Tuesday morning so that almost all my time has been passed with her. Mrs Brown too had charm upon me, she was sick, out of spirits, so I have been to see her every day now. Yesterday when Maria left me I was going to write to you, but I expected company, and I like to write to you at my ease, and not to hurry througha letter when you are so far from me.

I had a letter from Maria yesterday and am [?] rejoiced to hear that that your property arrived in safety, and that by this time you are probably in your own house. There is an idea of comfort attached to home which we can never feel in any other place, and good housewifery has been so long your favorite subject of investigation that you must be delighted by an opportunity of putting your long established theory into practice. Do not forget that I am to have the [first?] appearance of the prison [?]. Has Mr Smith's newspaper appeared yet? and has he many subscribers for it? You I know will not consider this question as impertinent for you well know how solicitous I am for the welfare of you both.

Mr Brown is in Philad: still, Mr [Shassless?] told me that he had heard Mr Brown had fallen in love with a lady in Philad and that occasioned his staying there. I seldom, however, credit reports and conjectures. It is not in the least unlikely that he has fallen in love, but I do not believe with Mr S-- that he is going to be married. Robert Barker has visited me twice since I came to town. What kind of a mind has this young man, and what are his favorite subjects of conversation?--?

I have been to see Mrs [Sert?]. I called in the morning, and dined with her, her little daughter has grown quite pretty; -- What vile ink this is, but I have no better at present, and cannot dely writing till mine becomes good. --

Mr Miller has returned from Boston in proper excellent health. His brother is suffering under a heavy cold, and is really sick. I wish he would try the effect an European climate, for ours seems not to agree with him, and I dread the consequences of these frequent attacks.--.--

I do not yet feel settled for the winter. I have formed no plan as to the way in which I shall spend it. Much depends on Eliza. I shall follow her inclinations rather than my own. Last winter passed entirely to my satisfaction, but I do not expect to be as domestic this. I shall mingle more in general society, though this change will not contribute to my social pleasures, yet it may be adven-

Last edit about 1 month ago by chickadee

Maria Templeton to Margaret Bayard Smith, 8 November [1798]

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Novem [?](1798)

Well, my dear Margaret, here I am comfortably seated in Sister Ierne's chamber, enjoying the benefit of a good fire. It was a great disappointment to me, that you should pass through Princeton without my seeing you. I would have joyfully relinquished twenty four hours of my life, to have seen you alone for two. I wanted to show you a letterwhich I think would give you entire satisfaction, and convince you that I might continue my correspondence, without the most distant apprehensions. I suppose he is by this time in Philad. I saw him in Princeton,the greater part of two days. I passed my time veryagreeably while there the latter part particularly. The day after I arrived D Blackwell & his wife & daughter came to spend a week with Mr Morganand while Mrs B_ remained she would not allow me to do a simple thing I liked. If I went to my room to write, she would send up halfa dozen times to tell me that writing was very prejudicial to my health, & if I resisted these friendly admonitions, would finally oblige me to discontinue the exercise of the pen, by insisting ifwriting were really indispensible that I should accept of her as an amanuensis. If I were going to walk, she would immediatly offer to accompany me & then I could not choose my own path,

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but must follow where she led. Let me however in the midstof my [invectries], make my acknowledgements to her for increas-ing my pleasure by procuring me the aquaintance of MsRegal. Her address is very [preposessing] & far removed from theflippancy of a french woman, yet she appeared to me more likea native of France than of Holland. Indeed, I have often heard thatthe most respectable class of people of the latter place, greatly resem-ble those of the former. There is a degree of gravity, sometimes vergingtowards melancholy in her department that greatly interested me.I fancy she has received some lessons in school of adversity whichthe [ameliorating] hand of time has not yet deprived of their severity.In her apparel, she an emblem of neatness & purity, & the effect producedby her imperfect pronunciation, is not at all unpleasant. You haveseen her once, & perhaps may think that I have superflous, but thenI have formed my, I like to hear other people's opinions, & in thisease have judged you by myself. Besides when I began I did recollect your having seen her. After this apology, and before I know yourmind about these things, it would be transgressing all the rulesof propriety to give you my opinion of Ms Bradwell, who you knowso much better than I do. All I will venture to say is, that I thinkher a charming woman, that I shall seige with avidity everyopportunity of rendering our acquantance more permanent

Last edit 5 months ago by DJ Read

Diary_1804-1807_part_one

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bearing effect on him. Of all the past 24 hours most sweet to me is that of evening. It is of a winter's evening, that I am more capable of being happy than in any other portion of life, & thus has it been since my earliest recollection.

During the day, while I sewed Susan read to me, many a pleasant stormy day did we pass in the course of this winter, seated by a blazing fire, the storm that passed without, but made us more sensible of our comfort when Julia's disposition was so sweet, & cheerful, that she was easily amused, & whole days have we read aloud, while she & Maty were playing on the carpet without our being interrupted by them. She had a table & a set of pewter tea cups, these afforded inexhaustible amusement after drinking a day cups of tea, every thing would be washed up, the table cleared &c all for the sake of my again setting it out in a different corner, or in a different manner, besides she had cards, & blocks of wood with large letters marked on, which used to be built up in every possible form--She is a remarkably active child, always in motion, always intently occupied, whatever she does is done with all her heart & soul. I never had to come at her, I required however the most absolute obedience, but this was not often. I left her as much as possible to herself & indulged her in every thing which was not hurtful to her, or troublesome to others. She was between 2 & 3 years old, but she could not speak a single word. Her intelligent countenance & expressive gestures, made us ac - quainted with all her wants.-- She was very fat & robust, full face, broadened cheeks, fair complexion & sparkling eyes. She had little hair, but wore cap on.

In the spring, my situation making exercise necessary my kind & attentive husband, used to make me ride almost every afternoon - many were the pleasant walks we had about the city, & which derived an interest from another object we had in view. We were in search of a small farm, to which we might retreat in the sickly season. For this purpose we explored all the cross roads & lanes - for a long while our search was vain.

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having effect on him. Of the past 24 hours most sweet to me in that of evening. of a winter's evening, that I [feel scrached through] am more capabale of being happy than in my other portion of life, & thus has it been since my earliest recollection. During the day, while I sewed Susan read to me, many a pleasant stormy day did we pass in the course of this winter, seated by a blazing fire, the storm that passed without, but, made us more sensible of our comforts within. Julia's disposition was so sweet, & cheerful, that she was easily amused, & whole days have we read aloud, while she & [Marty?] were playing on the carpet without being interrupted by them. She had a table & a set of pewter tea cups, there and afforded inexhaustible amusement, after drinking a dozen cups of tea, every thing would be washed up, the table cleaned a cup all for the pastime of again setting it out in a different corner, or in a different manner, besides she had cards & clocks of wood work large letters marked on,which need to be built up in every possible form. She is a remarkably active child, always in motion, always intently accepted, situation, she does, is done with all her heart & soul. I never had to correct her, & she requied however the most absolute obedience, but this was not often, I left her as much as possible to herself & indulged her in every thing which was not hurtful to her, or troublesome to others. She was between 2 & 3 years old, but a [?] she could not speak a single word her intelligent countenance & expressive gestures made us ac- quainted with all her wants. - She was very fat and robust, her face broadened cheeks, fair complexion & sparkling eyes. She had little hair, but wore cap on.

In the spring, my situation making exercise necessary my kind & attentive husband, tried to make me ride almost every afternoon -- many were the [alemant ?] walks we [show?] about the city & which derived an interest from another object we had in view. We were in search of a small farm, which we might retreat in the sickly season. For this purpose we explored all the crop roads & lanes for a long while our search was in vain

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me not only grateful for the talents thou hast commitedto my charge, but enable me to use them so asto benefit others, bless myself & glorify thee,--WhereverI am placed, I find myself blest beyond thosewho surround me; shall I know this & not [crossed out]love thee, who has thus covered me with thyloving kindness & shall I love Thee [underlined] without tryingto express my love? & how can I express it, but byimparting to others, of those good things thou hastgiven me; but by improving the talents commitedto my charge. Oh my Creator, enable me so to do,that one day I may recieved that blest award"Come then faithful servant, thou hast been [??]of thy few talents, come & I will make the masterover many.--I have several poor neighbours,& among them one poor family in which are5 helpless & ignorant children; may I be enabledto do for them all that my heart now [??]

Last edit 3 months ago by Joanne Freeman

Fiction: The Young Wife

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to use her best endeavours to restore his health and cheerfulness. The faults of his character and errors of his life, if not totally concealed, were at least so palliated by the partial affection of his mother and the generous nature of her husband, that she looked upon him as "more sinned against than sinning," and pitied, more than she blamed the frailties of a too impetuous, too ardent temper. His apearance was more than pleasing--it was interesting--it did not elicit admiration, but excited sympathy, the most irresistible of all attractions. The exuberance of his imagination--the quickness of his perceptions had at College obtained him the reputation of genius--but his deficiency in sound judgment and practical common sense, had deprived him of the advantages such a reputation might have gained, and left him the sport of his passions and his fancies. Mary had hitherto been the inseparable companion of her children; she was not only their instructress, but their playmate. As their noise and restlessness evidently disturbed the shattered nerves of the invalid, after giving them their lessons, Mary consigned them to the care of their nurse, while with her work-stand placed beside the cushioned chair in which Charles reclined, she passed most of the day in reading to or conversing with him, whilst his fond mother sat by, proud of the talent her son displayed. She dared to make no enquiries into late occurrences, nor indulge herself in reminiscences of the past, and therefore said little herself, but watched with delight the kind attentions lavished on him by Mary. When she read, Charles leaning back in his chair, and shading his eyes with his hands, would gaze on her sweet, expressive face, that mirrored every emotion described by the poet or the novelist. And then her voice! How soothingly did its soft tones fall on the perturbed spirits of the invalid! What power has the voice! Can the forms or colours of beauty so sway the soul-exalting, exciting, soothing its every emotion? Charles Lovel had known woman only in her most frail and frivolous aspect. The daughters of fashion and folly and frailty. He had admired, loved and followed, but never respected them. He looked on the whole sex as alike weak and vain--the slaves of caprice and inclination, and thought virtue but a name. The endearing attentions Mary bestowed, with all the frankness of a sister, he mistook for evidences of less pure and holy feelins, and therefore yielded unresistingly to the delightful sensations such tender cares excited. To the infinite gratification of his mother his health rapidly improved. The dejection of his spirits had fled, and been succeeded by the most animating cheerfulness. His dimmed eye regained all its sparkling intelligence, and spoke more eloquently than his tongue. Mrs. Murray had feared that with renovated health his desire for company and amusement would have revived, and she saw with surprise her restless, pleasure-seeking son contentedly passing days and weeks in their quiet family circle without even evincing a wish for change or variety. Mr. Murray, buried in his office among his dusty books and papers, wholly engrossed with his professional duties, seldom or ever joined his family except at meals. The tea-table detained him longest; he would then sometimes forget business, and linger to talk over with his friend the scenes of their boyhood, always recalling such incidents as exhibited the character of Charles in the fairest point of view. "I never envied you but once," said he one evening, "though you so often bore off from me the College honours, and that was the moment when you fearlessly plunged into the water to rescue a poor boy who had fallen through the ice. Yes, when you brought him ashore and was hailed by the acclamations of our companions, a sensation of bitter envy stung my bosom. But thank God it was short-lived. I loved you too well for it to last long. But once did I say? Alas! I remember one other rash, weak and criminal moment. It was on an occasion when you were unjustly accused at school, and rather than betray the real culprit, you bore a severe flogging to save the poor little fellow. I felt every stroke in my heart's core, and wept bitterly, but when I witnessed the enthusiastic admiration of the scholars, who were aware of the truth, and the passionate gratitude of the real offender, I envied you the strokes, for which I had before wept, and was jealous of the popularity you acquired. Charles I am still your debtor," continued he, stretching out his hand and cordially grasping that of his friend. "But, my dear fellow, you forget all the shocking tricks I played you--all my mad frolics, in which you suffered much more than your share, were the account fairly cast up. It is I, who ever was, and ever must remain your debtor." The candour and frankness of his confessions, added to the traits of courage and generosity, related by her husband, could not fail of charming and interesting Mary. As Mr. Lovel's health returned, walks and rides through the beautiful country which surrounded the village where they lived, most pleasantly diversified their quiet lives. The innocent and artless Mary, sincerely attached as she was to her worthy husband, continued long unconscious of the new feelings awakened in her bosom. She never dreamed that too much tenderness could be felt by a wife or mother, for one she called her brother. Her intuitive delicacy made her shrink from the liberties which, under this title, Charles sometimes attempted to take. Free as were his opinions and habits respecting the sex, her unpretending simplicity and purity had a restraining influence which secured her from any avowal of the unhallowed sentiments he cherished, and thus unconscious of the danger that lurked beneath the flowery path she trod, she pursued her way, delighting and delighted. Her sense of duty, however, was [unimpaired]; and when she perceived that her constant cares and attendance were no longer necessary, now that Mr. Lovel's health was perfectly restored, she determined to resume her usual occupations. But she was surprised to find that they no longer had the interest that they once had; surprised that her thoughts often wandered from her book--that she felt an impatience she had never before felt while instructing her children--that she was annoyed by their prattle when,

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with her book lying in her lap, she sat lost in reverie. She felt astonished at the pleasure she experienced when called to the parlour, as formerly it had been with regret that she quitted the retirement of her own apartment. But the fact was so--and a startling fact it was. She became conscious that her most agreeable hours were those passed with their interesting inmate. She felt bewildered for a while by the opposition of her duties--the newness of her sensations--the change in her mind, which no longer found any satisfaction in solitary study--she was alarmed by her growing indifference for those things that had once constituted her whole of happiness. This anxious, disturbing consciousness haunted her solitary hours--yet why or wherefore she could not define. She tried to explain herself to her husband, who she looked on as her best and truest, as well as dearest friend; and accused herself to him of finding more pleasure in the company of his friend, Charles Lovel, than she found in that of her children. Her husband smiled at what he called her scrupulosity, and asked her what could be more natural than for a mind cultivated like her's, to find more enjoyment in an intercourse with a congenial mind, than in the prattle of children. Was not Charles the same as a brother, and had she ever reproached herself with the preference she had given to her brother Henry's society when he visited them. Had Mr. Murray known more of the world, or of human nature--had his own experience taught him the dangerous force of the passions--the deceitfulness of the human heart, he would not have argued thus, nor would he have introduced such an inmate into his family. Virtuous and dispassionate himself--calm and constant in his affections, he never conceived of the possibility, nay, of the existence of a sentiment in the bosom of his wife, inimical to the sacred tie by which they were united. Would that this possibility did not exist--would that the affections were as unalienable, as unchangeable as the marriagae bond. But as the common experience of mankind--the annals of human life--the records of courts of justice abound in fatal examples of the inconstancy of the affections, let religion and reason, let prudence and vigilance, guard this sacred fountain of domestic happiness and virtue. Neither ignorance or innocence afford sufficient protection against this insidious foe, which must be known in order to be guarded against. Temptation must be avoided--exposure to danger prevented. But is this done? On the contrary, have we not daily examples in the most virtuous and prudent families, of inmates being admitted, sometimes of one, sometimes the other sex, whose domestication has proved fatal to the peace, and too often the virtue of the husband or the wife. Miss Edgeworth, in her story of Leonora, has given a powerful and affecting exposition of the fatal consequences resulting from the admission of an artful woman into a happy family. Doubtless her experience might have furnished many examples, where young and undesigning female friends have unintentionally wrought the same mischief--that of alienating the affections of a husband from his wife. My observation of human life, though far more restricted, would afford many sad instances of the fallibility and inconstancy of the human heart, and it is a warning to those who are not aware of the danger of domesticating young and attractive guests in the bosoms of their families, that I have been induced to write this narrative and disclose facts made known to me by one now released from suffering and sorrow. But to return from this long digression. As we have said, though a good and kind husband, Mr. Murray was no fit counsellor for a tender and inexperienced creature like his Mary. Left then solely to her own guidance, what would have been the consequence of the perilous situation in which she was now placed, if her native purity had not guarded her simplicity, if she had not habitually regulated her thoughts and feelings by the highest of all standards, that of the gospel! Educated by her pious parents in the strictest principles of our holy religion, constantly had her mother from her earliest childhood impressed on her mind the omnipotence of God, from which there was no escape; his omniscience from which there could be no concealment. That the darkness and solitude of midnight could not veil any action--nor the deepest recesses of the heart conceal any feeling. Often had she emphatically pointed out to her the difference between the human and divind tribunal to which men are amenable. The first can take cognizance only of actions. And as action may be concealed, its laws may be evaded--its punishment escaped. But not so with that divine tribunal, before which thought is action. Thus "the felt presence of Deity" had always exercised a controlling and purifying influence--guarding her in the hour of temptation--supporting her in the hour of affliction. Oh, ye wise men of the world--ye Legislators and Philosophers, compared with this divine aegis, what are all your laws, your prison walls, bars and bolts, your theories, your maxims and restrictions? The sternest and most sanguinary decrees ever passed by Constantine and other sovereigns, were less effective in the preservation of conjugal fidelity and virgini purity than this sublime sentiment--"The felt presence of Deity." Actual, personal guilt, was an idea that never entered the mind of Mary--to her the violation of the seventh commandment seemed as impossible as that of the sixth, and there is no virtuous woman, to whom, I presume, the commission of murder does not feel like an impossibility. No, the preference she felt for the society of Charles over that of her children--the growing indifference to her duties and former occupations, were the only causes of the alarm and uneasiness she suffered. But now since she had disclosed the state of her mind to her husband, and he had dissipated her scruples, she felt relieved. "No longer," thought she, "shall his good mother reproach me with unkindness to her son." As instinctive sense of propriety had induced the virtuous Mary to seclude herself from the too pleasing society of Charles Lovel. A sense of duty now made her resolve to resume her late intimate intercourse. Ah, her instinct was the safest guide! She had not only pained, but if

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repeatedly kissing his sweet; dear mamma, he crept up coldly and timidly, and held up his little mouth, which Mary as coldly kissed. At this moment she caught her husband's eye fixed on her. What a look! It was one of reproach, almost of anger. She felt it chill her very heart. He did not say a word, but coming forward took the little boy in his arms, and carried him, himself, to the nursery. Not a volume of words could more fully have expressed the displeasure of her husband. That night Mary's pillow was drenched in tears--bitter tears. Her conscience smote her--but she suppressed its monitions, by aggravating what she called (not what she felt) the undeserved displeasure of her husband. The next morning when they met at table the looks and manners of each were cold, and as Mary handed the large cup to Mr. Murray, she coloured and trembled, and he, instead of his usual pleased and bland manner on receiving any little kind attention, took it silently as if not noticing the change. Through the day Mary's spirits were much dejected--to her children, particularly, her manner was unkind. Charles marked her disturbance, and rallied her on what he called a matrimonial fracas. "Your lord and master has been a little spoiled, my good lady, or he never would be so easily out of temper. The way to break him of these freaks is not to humor him as you have done. Had I been you he should not have had his favourite cup for a month to come." "I have been the spoiled child," replied Mary, her eyes swimming in tears. "Oh, Charles!" exclaimed she, "unkindness would soon break my heart!" She clasped her hands over her eyes and wept with unrestrained emotion. Charles took these hands, wiped the tears from them and looking fondly in her face.-- "How cruel," said he, "thus to distress you. Come, my dear sister, let us walk--the air will revive you. This husband of yours wants tutoring; remmber what I say, do not spoil him by concession, or you will become a very slave to his caprices." Mary's spirits were revived by air and exercise, until again dejected by the presence of her husband, who still looked thoughtful and absent. She felt glad when he left the house--she felt as if a dark, heavy cloud had passed away, and the sun shone forth. Mr. Murray's affection lay at the very bottom of his heart, and seldom overflowed in words or caresses, except to his children. Of an evening when he came home they would spring to his arms, cling round his neck, and sit on his knees. It was only with them his quietude and placidity yielded to any thing like gaiety. But their mirth was contagious, and he often found himself romping and playing with them in a manner litle accordant with his natural gravity. Tutored by their gentle mother they were never obstreperous or rude; though nothing less than her continual restraining influence could so have regulated their exuberant spirits and hasty tempers. "I often think, Mary," said her husband to her on one occasion, "that were it not for your training, Henry would be a sad little tyrant; he has a terrible temper." Too soon this good father found this opinion verified. Often when he now came home he found the child quarrelling with his little sister; her play-things broken--her frock torn--her face streaming with tears. One day, particularly, he felt really shocked at the condition in which he found the children. Henry in his passion had thrown a piece of broken china at his sister,--it had cut her cheek, and the blood was streaming from the wound. After ascertaining the cause, he hastily enquired for their mother, and how they came to be left alone. "She has gone to walk with uncle Charles," said Meta. "But has she not given you your lessons this morning." "She gave us holiday," said Henry, gruffly, not yet recovered from his father's correction. "Holiday!" said his father; "I did not know you had holidays." "Oh yes," said the little Meta, "Mamma gives us holidays very often--she is very good, she lets us play almost all day long." Mr. Murray said nothing. But after reproving and reconciling the children, and giving them in charge to his mother, he took his hat and walked out. Doubts, dreadful doubts, flashed across his mind--flashed like lightning from a dark cloud, then left it in obscurity. No it could not be. His good, his lovely, his pure-minded wife--the hitherto dotingly fond mother of his precious children. No it could not be. And his friend, his grateful, obliged friend! The thing was impossible! He would dismiss it from his mind. But what could it be that had thus changed his wife? Doubtless some household matter had disturbed her. He had observed that of late their servants had been several times changed--this of course had given her more care--taken up more of her time, and might have produced considerable vexation, and consequently diverted her attention from her children, and made her temper more irritable. This was so natural that he could not blame her--she was to be excused for her little negligences to him and the children--he must try by increased kindness on his part to sooth this irritation--to compensate her for her domestic troubles. Women had trying duties to perform--it was no wonder their gentleness and patience sometimes gave way. He accused himself of not having been sufficiently kind and attentive--and after a long, lonely walk returned home full of resolutions by increased kindness to dissipate the disturbance under which he perceived his wife laboured. Every now and then in spite of himself the same dreadful doubts would shoot through his mind--but he as quickly banished them. Still they so far affected him as to make him watch more than he ever had before the looks and manners of both Mary and Charles. There was nothing he could find fault with in either. When he was present Mary appeared entirely engaged with her work, whilst he and Charles coversed with little interruption from either of the ladies. As he was absent all day, he knew not how his family passed their time. He knew not that whole mornings were spent together by Charles and Mary, while the household cares were devolved on his mother,--that of afternoons they rambled until near the time of his return. But what most distressed and perplexed him was Mary's altered manner

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to himself, and the sadness that seemed settled on her spirits. Where now was the frank and cordial manner with which she used to welcome him back--the glad and joyous countenance--the gay and tender voice--the elastic step--the kind vigilance and activity--the alacrity for every duty which had made his home so happy, his wife so dear? And his children! Ah, there was the keenest pang! there was the strangest effect of Mary's altered disposition! Surely she must be sick--some insidious disease was preying on her health and spirits--change of air and scene would certainly prove beneficial. The quiet and monotony of home had become wearisome. It was the constant activity of his life, the variety of places to which his business called him, that doubtless had preserved his health and spirits. The last excursion Mary had made, he now recollected, had had a delightfully animating effect, and as she observed at the time, had made home more agreeable to her. She was always delighted in accompanying him on his distant circuits. The court he was soon to attend was in a charming part of the country, where he had some kind friends, and though the autumn was far advanced, the season was still delightful for travelling, and the country still beautiful. He made his arrangements accordingly, and wishing to give Mary an agreeable surprise, did not tell her of his design until a day or two previous to setting out. Poor Mary, she looked any thing but pleased--she looked troubled, distressed, and after some hesitation said she felt no inclination to leave home--that having just hired a man servant she could not leave home. This objection was quickly overruled by Mrs. Murrary's offering to take charge of the family. "But the children," said Mary, hesitatingly; "how can I leave them--I should be so anxious I could not enjoy myself." She caught her husband's scrutinizing glance, and blushed--blushed all over--then got up and went to the window to hide the embarrassment her internal consciousness produced. And has it come to this--the artless, the ingenuous Mary is guilty of equivocation. She is conscious of feelings which she wishes to conceal from her husband! Aye, of feelings she dare not acknowledge to herself! How certain is the progression of evil--it is never stationary. One drop of poison can diffuse itself through the whole body, and destroy life itself. So can one vicious sentiment spread its deleterious and fatal influence through the whole moral system. How vigilantly then should the avenues of access be guarded, and the endeavour be, to keep the heart with all diligence, since out of it are the issues of life! Mr. Murray checked the harsh reply he was about to make. He did not say, as his feelings impelled him to say, "talk not of anxiety about children whom you so sadly neglect." No, he did not speak, but he deeply felt it. He was silent until he had mastered his angry emotion, and then mildly, but firmly, said--"Mary, I am persuaded a change of scene will do you good. I insist on your making the experiment, and shall expect you to be in readiness the day after to-morrow." she did no reply, and he left the room, again to wander forth and think his own sad thoughts--to wrestle with doubts that would intrude themselves, and to ponder on the best method of restoring his dear Mary to her former self, and of recovering his own peace of mind. Arduous and futile task! Unknown to himself he had been swayed in his scheme of removing her from home, by the suspicions which he believed he had crushed--but they lurked in his bosom, and prompted the wish of separating her from Charles, and in spite of his endeavours to behave with unchanged frankness to his friend, he had thrown a reserve into his manner which had betrayed to that interested observer the real state of his feelings. Perhaps it was the natural effect of such a discovery, and not any peculiar malignancy of disposition in Charles, to make him feel irritated and angry at the suspected jealousy of his friend, and feelings akin to revenge sprung up in his breast. The gratitude and affection he had felt for years was changed into the gall of bitterness. It is no less true that we hate those whom we injure, than that we love those whom we benefit--for such are the natural fruits of the malignant or benevolent dispositions of the heart. In the present case this new born malevolence prompted Charles to add injury to injury, and when he met Mary, soon after her husband had left her, and learned the project that had been formed, of carrying her from home, he would have given vent to his evil passion had he not feared he might thus frustrate his own wishes. The words had almost escaped him--"Pho! Mary, he is only jealous." Had he done so, he would have torn the bandage off her eyes, and she would have discovered it was not a brother's love he felt, nor a sister's affection she indulged. His effort had been to blindfold her as to this dangerous truth. Hitherto he had succeeded--while too effectually he had chilled her maternal and conjugal affections. "Why do you not refuse at once? you are too tame and yielding. Come, my sister, summon up courage, and tell this lordly husband of yours that you are a free agent--show a little proper spirit and you will soon see the tables reversed, and instead of obeying you will be obeyed." Mary shook her head. "It is too late to learn that lesson, even had I the disposition to do so. No, Charles, I am too feeble to stand alone, I need support, and must cling to that support, or perish." "Oh, Mary, cling then to your brother." He pressed the hand he held in his, and would have drawn her to him, had she not shrunk from his arm and snatched away her hand. "Do not talk thus--I entreat you do not. You known not how unhappy you make me. It is my duty to obey my husband." "Your duty--yes, your duty, but not your pleasure--and is inclination never to be followed? This, indeed, is slavery. Tell him at once, Mary, that you will not take this journey." "I cannot--indeed I cannot, Charles--so let me go and prepare to obey my husband." "Detestable phrase," muttered Charles--but seeing her resolute he no longer detained her. Mary retired to her room, but instead of hurrying herself with preparations, she threw herself on her bed, and covering her head with a

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