Sublime ideas filled her young mind—­always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer.  She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant.  The wandering spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and confidants.  She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and goodness.  Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new world.

Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found:  her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain—­produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress.

She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion.  She then concluded animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice of man; but what was the soul of man or beast?  In this style year after year rolled on, her mother still vegetating.

A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick.  Mary paid her great attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child while she earned her daily bread.  The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the first began to slumber.  Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every part of it.  The impression that this accident made was indelible.

As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to exert herself, her health would soon be re-established.  In general he treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly harassed the invalid.  Mary would then assiduously try to turn his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could not rest.  Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose:  her mother’s luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father’s vices, the unbidden tears would flow.  She was miserable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger.