December 25th. - Last Christmas I was a bride, with a heartoverflowing with present bliss, and full of ardent hopes for thefuture, though not unmingled with foreboding fears. Now I am awife: my bliss is sobered, but not destroyed; my hopes diminished,but not departed; my fears increased, but not yet thoroughlyconfirmed; and, thank heaven, I am a mother too. God has sent me asoul to educate for heaven, and give me a new and calmer bliss, andstronger hopes to comfort me.

Dec. 25th, 1823. - Another year is gone. My little Arthur livesand thrives. He is healthy, but not robust, full of gentleplayfulness and vivacity, already affectionate, and susceptible ofpassions and emotions it will be long ere he can find words toexpress. He has won his father's heart at last; and now myconstant terror is, lest he should be ruined by that father'sthoughtless indulgence. But I must beware of my own weakness too,for I never knew till now how strong are a parent's temptations tospoil an only child.

I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper Imay confess it) I have but little in my husband. I love him still;and he loves me, in his own way - but oh, how different from thelove I could have given, and once had hoped to receive! How littlereal sympathy there exists between us; how many of my thoughts andfeelings are gloomily cloistered within my own mind; how much of myhigher and better self is indeed unmarried - doomed either toharden and sour in the sunless shade of solitude, or to quitedegenerate and fall away for lack of nutriment in this unwholesomesoil! But, I repeat, I have no right to complain; only let mestate the truth - some of the truth, at least, - and see hereafterif any darker truths will blot these pages. We have now been fulltwo years united; the 'romance' of our attachment must be wornaway. Surely I have now got down to the lowest gradation inArthur's affection, and discovered all the evils of his nature: ifthere be any further change, it must be for the better, as webecome still more accustomed to each other; surely we shall find nolower depth than this. And, if so, I can bear it well - as well,at least, as I have borne it hitherto.

Arthur is not what is commonly called a bad man: he has many goodqualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or loftyaspirations, a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments:he is not a bad husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties andcomforts are not my notions. Judging from appearances, his idea ofa wife is a thing to love one devotedly, and to stay at home towait upon her husband, and amuse him and minister to his comfort inevery possible way, while he chooses to stay with her; and, when heis absent, to attend to his interests, domestic or otherwise, andpatiently wait his return, no matter how he may be occupied in themeantime.

Early in spring he announced his intention of going to London: hisaffairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuseit no longer. He expressed his regret at having to leave me, buthoped I would amuse myself with the baby till he returned.

'But why leave me?' I said. 'I can go with you: I can be ready atany time.'

'You would not take that child to town?'

'Yes; why not?'

The thing was absurd: the air of the town would be certain todisagree with him, and with me as a nurse; the late hours andLondon habits would not suit me under such circumstances; andaltogether he assured me that it would be excessively troublesome,injurious, and unsafe. I over-ruled his objections as well as Icould, for I trembled at the thoughts of his going alone, and wouldsacrifice almost anything for myself, much even for my child, toprevent it; but at length he told me, plainly, and somewhattestily, that he could not do with me: he was worn out with thebaby's restless nights, and must have some repose. I proposedseparate apartments; but it would not do.

'The truth is, Arthur,' I said at last, 'you are weary of mycompany, and determined not to have me with you. You might as wellhave said so at once.'

He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to thenursery, to hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them, there.

I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with hisplans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for thenecessary arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct ofaffairs during his absence, till the day before he went, when Iearnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and keep out of theway of temptation. He laughed at my anxiety, but assured me therewas no cause for it, and promised to attend to my advice.

'I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?'said I.

'Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured,love, I shall not be long away.'

'I don't wish to keep you a prisoner at home,' I replied; 'I shouldnot grumble at your staying whole months away - if you can be happyso long without me - provided I knew you were safe; but I don'tlike the idea of your being there among your friends, as you callthem.'

'Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can't take care ofmyself?'

'You didn't last time. But THIS time, Arthur,' I added, earnestly,'show me that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trustyou!'

He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe achild. And did he keep his promise? No; and henceforth I cannever trust his word. Bitter, bitter confession! Tears blind mewhile I write. It was early in March that he went, and he did notreturn till July. This time he did not trouble himself to makeexcuses as before, and his letters were less frequent, and shorterand less affectionate, especially after the first few weeks: theycame slower and slower, and more terse and careless every time.But still, when I omitted writing, he complained of my neglect.When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I frequently did atthe last, he blamed my harshness, and said it was enough to scarehim from his home: when I tried mild persuasion, he was a littlemore gentle in his replies, and promised to return; but I hadlearnt, at last, to disregard his promises.