expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband was
very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when
inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten
her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness,
and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a
match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart
through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's
faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her
own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she
was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly
painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and
impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse.

Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional
sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of
praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or
pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the
gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen
to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she
imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and
confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just
notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and
goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned
her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new
world.

Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth
it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the
apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite
pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness