To his Wife Date: YORK, July 15, 1774. MY DEAR, 1. I think it needful to write one letter more in order to state the case between you and me from the beginning. I can't, indeed, do this so exactly as I would, because I have not either those letters or those parts of my Journal which give a particular account of all circumstances just as they occurred. I have therefore only my memory to depend on; and that is not very retentive of evil. So that it is probable I shall omit abundance of things which might have thrown still more fight on the subject. However, I will do as well as I can, simply relating the fact to the best of my memory and judgement. 2. Before we married I saw you was a well-bred woman of great address and a middling understanding; at the same time I believed you to be of a mild, sweet, even temper. By conversing with you twenty days after we were married I was confirmed in the belief. Full of this, I wrote to you soon after our first parting in the openness and simplicity of my heart. And in this belief I continued after my return till we went down to Kingswood. 3. Here, as I came one morning into your room, I saw a sight which I little expected. You was all thunder and lightning: I stared and listened; said little, and retired. You quickly followed me into the other room, fell upon your knees, and asked my pardon. I desired you to think of it no more, saying, It is with me as if it had never been. In two or three weeks you relapsed again and again, and as often owned your fault, only with less and less concern. You first found we were both in fault, and then all the fault was on my side.

4. We returned to London, and your natural temper appeared more and more. In order to soften it as I could, I tried every method I could devise. Sometimes I reasoned with you at large, sometimes in few words. At other times I declined argument, and tried what persuasion would do. And many times I heard all you said, and answered only by silence. But argument and persuasion, many words and few, speaking and silence, were all one. They made no impression at all. One might as well attempt to convince or persuade the north wind. 5. Finding there was no prevailing upon you by speaking, I tried what writing would do. And I wrote with all plainness; yet in as mild a manner as I could, and with all the softness and tenderness I was master of. But what effect did it produce Just none at all; you construed it all into ill-nature, and was not easily prevailed upon to forgive so high an affront. 6. I think your quarrel with my brother was near this time, which continued about seven years; during two or three of which it was more or less a constant bone of contention between us, till I told you plainly, 'I dare not sit and hear my brother spoken against. Therefore, whenever you begin to talk of him, I must rise and leave the room.' 7. In the midst of this you drew new matter of offence from my acquaintance with Mrs. Lefevre, a dove-like woman, full of faith and humble love and harmless as a little child. I should have rejoiced to converse with her frequently and largely; but for your sake I abstained. I did not often talk with her at all, and visited her but twice or thrice in two years. Notwithstanding which, though you sometimes said you thought her a good woman, yet at other times you did not scruple to say you 'questioned if I did not lie with her.' And afterward you seemed to make no question of it.

8. Some time after you took offence at my being so much with Mrs. Blackwell, and was 'sure she did me no good.' But this blew over, and you was often in a good humor for a week together, till October 1757. Sarah Ryan, the housekeeper at Bristol, then put a period to the quarrel between my brother and you. Meantime she asked me once and again, 'Sir, should I sit and hear Mrs. Wesley talk against you by the hour together' I said, 'Hear her, if you can thereby do her any good.' A while after, she came to me and said, 'Indeed, sir, I can bear it no longer. It would wound my own soul.' Immediately you was violently jealous of her, and required me not to speak or write to her. At the same time you insisted on the 'liberty of opening and reading all letters directed to me.' This you had often done before: but I still insisted on my own liberty of speaking and writing to whom I judged proper; and of seeing my own letters first, and letting you read only those I saw fit. 9. Sunday, February 25, 1758, you went into my study, opened my bureau, and took many of my letters and papers. But on your restoring most of them two days after, I said, 'Now, my dear, let all that is past be forgotten; and if either of us find any fresh ground of complaint, let us tell it to Mr. Blackwell, or Jo. Jones, or Tho. Walsh, but to no other person whatever.' You agreed; and on Monday, March 6, when I took my leave of you to set out for Ireland, I thought we had as tender a parting as we had had for several years.

10. To confirm this good understanding, I wrote to you a few days after all that was in my heart. But from your answer I learned it had a quite contrary effect: you resented it deeply; so that for ten or twelve weeks together, though I wrote letter after letter, I received not one line. Meantime you told Mrs. Vigor and twenty more, 'Mr. Wesley never writes to me. You must inquire concerning him of Sarah Ryan; he writes to her every week.' So far from it, that I did not write to her at all for above twelve weeks before I left Ireland. Yet I really thought you would not tell a willful lie at least, not in cool blood; till poor, dying T. Walsh asked me at Limerick, 'How did you part with Mrs. W. the last time' On my saying 'Very affectionately,' he replied, 'Why, what a woman is this! She told me your parting words were, "I hope to see your wicked face no more." I now saw you was resolved to blacken me at all events, and would stick at no means to accomplish it. Nevertheless I labored for peace; and at my return to Bristol, to avoid grieving you, did not converse with Sarah Ryan (though we were in the same house) twenty minutes in ten days' time. I returned to London. Soon after, you grew jealous of Sarah Crosby, and led me a weary life, unless I told you every place to which I went and every person I saw there. 11. Perceiving you still rose in your demands, I resolved to break through at once, and to show you I would be my own master, and go where I pleased, without asking any one's leave. Accordingly on Monday, December 18, I set out for Norwich; the first journey I had taken since we were married without telling you where I was going.

I cannot but add a few words: not by way of reproach, but of advice. God has used many means to curb your stubborn will and break the impetuosity of your temper. He has given you a dutiful but sickly daughter; He has taken away one of your sons. Another has been a grievous cross; as the third probably will be. He has suffered you to be defrauded of much money; He has chastened you with strong pain. And still He may say, 'How long liftest thou up thyself against Me 'Are you more humble, more gentle, more patient, more placable than you was I fear quite the reverse; I fear your natural tempers are rather increased than diminished. O beware lest God give you up to your own heart's lusts, and let you follow your own imaginations! Under all these conflicts it might be an unspeakable blessing that you have an husband who knows your temper and can bear with it; who, after you have tried him numberless ways, laid to his charge things that he knew not, robbed him, betrayed his confidence, revealed his secrets, given him a thousand treacherous wounds, purposely aspersed and murdered his character, and made it your business so to do, under the poor pretence of vindicating your own character (whereas of what importance is your character to mankind, if you was buried just now Or if you had never lived, what loss would it be to the cause of God) ; who, I say, after all these provocations, is still willing to forgive you all; to overlook what is past, as if it had not been, and to receive you with open arms; only not while you have a sword in your hand, with which you are continually striking at me, though you cannot hurt me. If, notwithstanding, you continue striking at me still, what can I, what can all reasonable men think, but that either you are utterly out of your senses or your eye is not single; that you married me only for my money; that, being disappointed, you was almost always out of humor; that this laid you open to a thousand suspicions, which, once awakened, could sleep no more

My dear Molly, let the time past suffice. If you have not (to prevent my giving it to bad women) robbed me of my substance too; if you do not blacken me, on purpose that when this breaks out, no one may believe it, stop, and consider what you do. As yet the breach may be repaired; you have wronged me much, but not beyond forgiveness. I love you still, and am as clear from all other women as the day I was born. At length know me, and know yourself. Your enemy I cannot be; but let me be your friend. Suspect me no more; asperse me no more; provoke me no more. Do not any longer contend for mastery, for power, money, or praise. Be content to be a private, insignificant person, known and loved by God and me. Attempt no more to abridge me of the liberty which I claim by the laws of God and man. Leave me to be governed by God and my own conscience. Then shall I govern you with gentle sway, and show that I do indeed love you, even as Christ the Church.