e ground as she walked to her carriage. For a while
everything fatigued her. The bustle of the people around her seemed
"flat, dull, and unprofitable." The civilities by which she was
overwhelmed, and the endeavors of the people she met to amuse her, were
fatiguing. Nothing, for a while, could lighten her deadly weight of
sorrow. But by degrees, as her letters show, she improved. Pure air, long
walks, and rides on horseback, rowing and bathing, and days in the
country had their beneficial effect, and she wrote to Imlay on July 4,
"The rosy fingers of health already streak my cheeks; and I have seen a
physical life in my eyes, after I have been climbing the rocks, that
resembled the fond, credulous hopes of youth."

But even a sound body cannot heal a broken heart. Mary could not throw
off her troubles in a day. She after a time tried to distract her mind by
entering into the amusements she had at first scorned, but it was often
in vain. "I have endeavored to fly from myself," she said in one letter,
"and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel keener
anguish when alone with my child." There was a change for the better,
however, in her mental state, for though her grief was not completely
cured, she at least voluntarily sought to recover her emotional
equilibrium. Self-examination showed her where her weakness lay, and she
resolved to conquer it. With but too much truth, she told Imlay:--

"Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with
more care than formerly, and find that to deaden is not to calm the
mind. Aiming at tranquillity I have almost destroyed all the energy
of my soul, almost rooted out what renders it estimable. Yes, I
have damped that enthusiasm of character, which converts the
grossest materials into a fuel that imperceptibly feeds hopes which
aspire above common enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my
child, has rendered me stupid; soul and body seemed to be fading
away before the withering touch of disappointment."

Despite her endeavors, her spiritual recovery was slow. A cry of agony
still rang through her letters. But she had at least one pleasure that
helped to soften her cares. This was her love for her child, which,
always great, was increased by Imlay's cruelty. The tenderness which he
by his indifference repulsed, she now lavished upon Fanny. She seemed to
feel that she ought to make amends for the fact that he