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God grant it may be a sanctified affliction to me! I do to bear it, uncomplainingly, and submissively. But, Oh! 'tis hard -- 'tis very hard.

May you never know what it is to be numbered with the insane, within the walls of an asylum, not knowing your friends will ever regard you as a fit companion or associate for them again.

Oh! the bitter, bitter cup, I have been called to drink, even to its very dregs, just because I choose to obey God rather than man! But, as my Saviour said, "the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?" Oh! yes, for thy sake, kind Saviour, I rejoice, that I am counted worthy to suffer the loss of all things. And thou hast made me worthy, by thine own free and sovereign grace. Yes, dear Jesus, I am trying to learn the lesson thou art teaching me, that "in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content."

Yes, content, to sit at a table with twenty-four maniacs, three times a day, and eat my bread and meat, and drink my milk and water, while I remember, almost each time, how many vegetables and berries are upon my own dear table at home, and I not allowed to taste, because my husband counts me unworthy, or unfit, or unsafe, to be an inmate at his fireside and table. I eat, and retire, and pray God to keep me from complaining. My fare does not agree with my health, and so I have begged of our kind attendants, to furnish me some poor, shriveled wheat, to eat raw, in order to promote digestion. This morning, after asking a blessing at the table, I retired to my own room, to eat my raw, hard wheat alone, with my pine-apple to soften it, or rather to moisten it going down.

Yes, the berries I toiled so very hard to get for our health and comfort, I only must be deprived of them at my husband's appointment.

The past -- Oh! the sad past! together with the present, and the unknown future! Let oblivion cover the past -- let no record of my wrongs be ever made, for posterity to see, for your sake, my own lawful husband.

Oh! my dear precious children! how I pity you! My heart aches for you. But I can do nothing for you. I am your father's victim, and cannot escape from my prison to help you, even you -- my own flesh and blood -- my heart's treasure, my jewels, my honor and rejoicing.

For I do believe you remain true to the mother who loves you so tenderly, that she would die to save you from the disgrace your father has brought upon your fair names, by being stigmatised as the children of an insane mother, whom he said he regarded as unsafe, as an inmate of your own quiet home, and, therefore, has confined me within these awful enclosures!

May you never know what it is to go to sleep within the hearing of such unearthly sounds as can be heard here almost at any hour of the night! I can sleep in the hearing of it, for "so he giveth his beloved sleep."

Children dear, do not be discouraged at my sad fate, for well doing; but be assured that, although you may suffer in this world for it, you may be sure your reward will come in the next. "For, if we suffer with him, we shall also reign with him."

Do commit your souls to him in well-doing for my sake, if you dare not for your own sake, for I do entreat you to let me be with you in heaven, if your father prevents it on earth.

I may not have much longer to suffer here on earth. Several in our ward are now sick in bed, and I give them more of my fruit than I eat myself, hoping that, when my turn comes to be sick, some one may thus serve me. But if not, I can bear it, perhaps better than they can, to be without any solace or comfort in sickness here, such as a friend needs.

Do be kind to your father, and make him as happy as possible. Yes, honor your father, if he has brought such dishonor upon your name and reputation.

I will devote my energies to these distressed objects around me, instead of attending to your wants, as a mother should be allowed to do, at least, so long as she could do so, as well as I could, and did, when I was taken from you. I know I could not, for lack of physical strength, do as much for you as I once could, still I was willing, and did do all I could for you. Indeed, I find I am almost worn out by my sufferings. I am very weak and feeble. Still I make no complaints, for I am so much better off than many others here.

Do bring my poor lifeless body home when my spirit has fled to Jesus' arms for protection, and lay me by my asparagus bed so you can visit my grave and weep over my sad fate in this world. I do not wish to be buried in Shelburne, but let me rise where I suffered so much for Christ's sake.

Oh! do not, do not, be weary in well-doing, for, did I not hope to meet you in heaven, it seems as though my heart would break!

I am useful here, I hope. Some of our patients say, it is a paradise here now, compared with what it was before I came. The authorities assure me, that I am doing a great work for the institution.

When I had the prospect of returning home in a few days, as I told you, I begged with tears not to send me, as my husband would have the same reason for sending me back as he had for bringing me here. For the will of God is still my law and guide, so I cannot do wrong, and until I become insane, I can take no other guide for my conduct. Here I can exercise my rights of conscience, without offending any one.