Could I live over again the first year of my wedded life, with the experience that now enlightens me, I would pursue a very different course of action. A passion so wild and strong as that which darkened my domestic happiness, should be resisted with the energy of reason, instead of being indulged with the weakness of fear. Every sacrifice made to appease its violence only paved the way for a greater. Every act of my life had reference to this one master-passion. I scarcely ever spoke without watching the countenance of Ernest to see the effect of my words. If it was overcast or saddened, I feared I had given utterance to an improper sentiment, and then I blushed in silence. Very unfortunate was it for him, that I thus fed and strengthened the serpent that should have been strangled in the cradle of our love; and his mother unconsciously did the same. She believed him afflicted by a hereditary malady which should inspire pity, and be treated with gentleness rather than resistance. Edith, too,--if a cloud passed over his brow, she exerted every winning and endearing sisterly art to chase the gloom. The history of man for six thousand years shows, that in the exercise of unlimited power he becomes a despot. Kingly annals confirm the truth of this, and domestic records proclaim it with a thundering tongue. There must be a restraining influence on human passion, or its turbulent waves swell higher and higher, till they sweep over the landmarks of reason, honor and love. The mighty hand of God is alone powerful enough to curb the raging billows. He alone can say, "peace, be still." But he has ministers on earth appointed to do his pleasure, and if they fulfil their task He may not be compelled to reveal himself in flaming fire as the God of retributive justice. I know that Ernest loved me, with all his heart, soul, and strength; but mingled with this deep, strong love, there was the alloy of selfishness,--the iron of a despotic will. There was the jealousy of power, as well as the jealousy of love, unconsciously exercised and acquiring by indulgence a growing strength. My happiness was the first desire of his heart, the first aim of his life; but I must be made happy in _his_ way, and by his means. His hand, fair, soft, and delicate as a woman's,--that hand, with its gentle, warm, heart-thrilling pressure, was nevertheless the hand of Procrustes; and though he covered the iron bed with the flowers of love, the spirit sometimes writhed under the coercion it endured. "You are not well," said Dr. Harlowe, as we met him during an evening walk. "I do not like that fluctuating color, or that quick, irregular breathing." Ernest started as if he had heard my death-warrant; and, taking my hand, he began to count my quickly throbbing pulse. "That will never do," said the doctor, smiling. "Her pulse will beat three times as fast under your fingers as mine, if you have been married nearly a year. It is not a good pulse. You had better take care of her."