When Edward spoke to me of establishing family prayers in our house, I tremblingly objected. I went to church as often as he did; but always let him draw near to the altar alone; for, unforgiven, unabsolved, unreconciled, I dared not approach it. On the Sunday which we spent at Hampstead, and on which this occurred, I wandered about the churchyard in solitary wretchedness, as if a spirit of evil had possession of me, and kept me away "From Mercy's inmost shrine." When Edward joined me again, he was low and depressed; there was a struggle in his countenance, and we walked home in silence. In the evening, as I was sitting writing in my own room, he came in; there was a deep shade of gloom in his face; and when I knelt by his side, and threw my arms round his neck he disengaged himself from me, and, leaning his head on his hand, said, with a voice of emotion, "I little thought when we married, that on the most sacred of all subjects, we felt so differently." I drew from my bosom a paper, on which I had been writing the following lines, and held it out to him:-- "Self-banished, self-condemned, I stand alone, And the closed doors between us seem to rise In judgment and in wrath: a dull hard stone Is in my breast; a cloud before my eyes. I kneel; but my clasped hands are raised in vain; They sink, weighed down by mem'ry's spell again. My soul is mute, no melodies arise; No sacred accents, from her shattered chords; And speechless prayers alone, in broken sighs, Struggle for utterance, and find no words. But is there not a strange mysterious cry, A mute appeal in each unconscious sigh-- A silent prayer in every secret tear, Which man discerns not, but which God will hear?" Edward gave me back the paper, and said coldly, "Poetry is not religion; and sentiment is not piety." "But they may lead to them, Edward." "They _mislead_ you, I fear." He turned away and took up a book; so did I: it was the Bible; and as I opened it, my eyes fell on the following passage:-- "Hadst thou know, even thou, in this thy day the things which belong to thy peace, but now they are hid from thy sight." How long? my God, how long? Upon our return to town, I found how much truth there had been in Henry's remark, that for the present London would suit me better than any other place. He had foreseen and calculated upon what, in fact, did happen.