A friend from Washington writes me (Feb. 6th), on the same topic; “Whether matrimony has stripped you of your erratic notions and habits, ‘and brought you within narrower limits,’ or whether the geography of the earth is no longer of interest to you, I cannot, of course, pretend to say.  But considering you, as I do, a devotee to science, I had thought it possible that you might feel a desire to engage in her cause to the South, by occupying some eminent station in the expedition.”

The reasons which I have mentioned, at the opening of the year, have inclined me to seek repose from further travel.  Besides which, my position as a married man, and the peculiar relations I have thereby assumed, impress me, very deeply, with the opinion that my sphere of duty, whatever may be my ambition, lies nearer at home than the proposed and very attractive field of discovery.  I therefore wrote declining the offer.

April 7th, A DOMESTIC CURTAIN LIFTED.—­My sister Helen Margaret writes, from New York:  “This afternoon, as I was sitting by the fire, having become the prey of ill health, a thought struck my mind to write a few lines to you, not, however, to give you much news, but merely to acquaint you that we are still in the land of the living, and that, though our friends are far removed, we still live among them in imagination.  Yes, dear brother, believe me, my imagination has often wandered, and passed hours with you—­hours, during the silence of the night, which should have been sacred to sleep.

“I have been out of health about five weeks; the complaint under which I labor is chronic inflammation of the liver, but I have, under the pain of sickness, forced my mind to forget its troubles.  Most of my time, last winter, has been spent with Debby; while at home, my time has been devoted to reading, mapping, and the study of philosophy.

“Probably James has acquainted you of the illness of Margaret.  She is now very low, and is, to all human appearance, soon to leave this world for a better, ’where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.’  Her sufferings are great; she has not been able to sit up, more than nine minutes at one time, for two months.  Her mind is calm.  She is ready and willing to leave this vain world, whenever it is the will of God to take her.

“Mother’s health is poor, and has been during all last winter; yet notwithstanding her daily sufferings, in her harassed body, she vigorously wrestles with ill luck.  As it pains me to write, I must close with a few words.  I have frequently thought, should I be bereft of my mother, what other friend, like her, would watch over the uneasy hours of sickness?  What other friend would bear its petulance, and smooth its feverish pillow?”

This proved to be her last earthly message to me.  She died on the 12th of April, 1829, aged twenty-three.