“Though I do not remember to have ever been very strong, yet I do not think that I had at the first any disease in my constitution. Yet what was the course pursued in my training? It was unfortunately discovered that I was _a genius_, and so I was early put to study—my young brain stimulated into unhealthy action, the warm blood driven from my cheek and lip, the childish light quenched in my eye, by a thoughtful and sedentary life. I wasted long bright mornings over books, when I should have been riding over the hills, or frolicking with the waves—rambling through the healthful pine-woods, or fishing from the rocks, inhaling the invigorating ocean breezes. And sweet evenings, instead of strolling abroad in the summer moonlight, I sat within doors, alone, wrapt in deep, vague reveries; and on winter nights, I read and wrote, or pored over Euclid, or Virgil, in my close, dull chamber, instead of joining the laughing, chatting circle below, mingling in the dance and merry game. “Yet, it was not alone my passion for study which prevented me from taking that vigorous exercise, and indulging in those out-door amusements so absolutely necessary for both physical and mental health, but ideas of propriety and feminine delicacy carefully inculcated and wrought into my character. I have since seen their folly, but too late. Habit and old associations were too strong for the new principles. “Ah, had my early training been different—had I been suffered to remain a child, a simple, natural child, through the appointed season of childhood—had my girlhood been more free and careless—less proper, and studious, and poetic, I might now have been in my happiest season, the prime of a rich and useful life. But as it is, now, when my husband is at last returning home for his life-rest—when my son is soon to take his first step into the world—when my daughters need me most, at _thirty-five_, my course is already run! Oh, Frederic, see that our little pale-faced Louise does not pursue her mother’s mistaken course—does not re-live her mother’s imperfect existence. Take her out into the fields, on to the beach—teach her to ride, to row, to clamber—to fear neither sunshine nor rain—let fresh air in upon her life, get her young heart in love with nature, and all will be well with the child, I doubt not. “Your own dear mother has promised to take home our children when I am gone, and have charge of them, with your consent, for some years to come. The education of our daughters you should direct, for you alone know my plans and wishes. As to their marriage, that seems so far in the future that you will scarcely expect me to speak on the subject. I can only say, dearest, teach our children in the coming years, never to be content with a union which promises less of love, harmony and trust, than have made the blessedness of ours.” * * * * *