CHAPTER XIII.

"He is the happy man, whose life e'en now
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come;
Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state,
Is pleased with it, and were he free to choose,
Would make his fate his choice; whom peace the fruit
Of virtue, and whom virtue fruit of faith,
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one
Content indeed to sojourn, while he must,
Below the skies, but having there his home."

THE TASK.

ABOUT the close of the year 1830, Mary's ardent desire for moral culture prompted her to address a letter to Mr. O, a worthy and intelligent member of the Rev. Mr. W's church, on the subject of personal holiness. The correspondence became mutual, and continued for a considerable time. It is all published in this work, for it is so rich and luminous that I could not omit any portion of it. She was now nineteen years of age, but these letters would honor a more eminent source. She had spent a considerable time in Mr. O's house, and having become very much attached to his family, she re

vealed to them her feelings without any reserve. It was one of those families where loveliness and virtue are always appreciated and beloved. It is perfectly evident that the thought never entered her mind for a moment that any of her letters would be read by any but those to whom they were addressed, much less that they would ever be published.

Austerlitz, Sabbath eve. Dec. 12, 1830.

MR. and MRS. O

Dear Friends,

I trust you will pardon me for visiting, in this silent manner, friends endeared to me by the strongest ties; who will ever seem very dear to me from a consideration of their kindness to me while a resident under their roof, and the deep anxiety they have always evinced for my spiritual as well as temporal interests. Yes, my dear friends (for such I consider you, and such I presume you will permit me to call you), the recollection of your family is associated with feelings and scenes which deeply concern the future well-being as well as the present felicity of Mary. It well becomes me to remember the impressions made upon my mind while a member

of your family, for they are essential to my happiness.

But oh, how will "the gold become dim, and the fine gold be changed!" How different have been my feelings since, from what they were then. Oh Mrs. O- -, you know not what a death-like apathy has overspread my soul. I am in bondage to sin, and oppressed with a weight of guilt; and chains I have tried in vain to throw off. My fears have been sadly realized; I feared if I made a profession of religion, I should not live agreeably to it, and thus bring dishonor upon the cause I have espoused. What do I more than others? Alas! nothing, nothing, I answer with heart-felt sorrow; nothing for His kingdom who died to redeem us from sin. Ah! how can I remain dead to the remembrance of His lovingkindness! My heart bleeds for its hardness, stupidity, and ingratitude. Oh that the Omnipotent Spirit, that breathed upon the dry bones and they lived, would wake me from this sleep. Awake! Oh sleeper! and arise, for the night of death soon cometh when no man can do probation work. O that I might feel this before it is too late to act under its impulse.

My example must have exerted a powerful

influence in prejudicing others against the religion I have dishonored. It is a fearful thing, too, to bring odium upon the cross in the world. Men are unwilling enough to heed the mild precepts of Christianity, without seeing those who profess to obey them more guilty than themselves.

My association with the thoughtless has led me to wander from my covenant path. It is astonishing that I should for a moment forget the vows there I made; but it is evident from the levity I display, that "God is not in all my thoughts." O that I might hereafter be mindful of my accountability to Him who sealed my covenant engagements in heaven.

How often in moments of thoughtlessness and levity, in which I have too often indulged, has the remembrance of your family altar rose up before me, and I have sighed for its enjoyments, and felt that I could not there find greater happiness than in the gay circles I have sometimes visited during the past season. I remember with delight that hallowed altar, and all the fond affection of my bosom cling to it still.

I suppose while I am engaged in writing to you at this still and solemn hour, you have gone up

to the house of him that heareth prayer, with those who keep holy time; you have assembled on that spot where we first entered into covenant VOWS. Can we for a moment forget what the recording angel did not fail to notice, what will augment our joy or grief "when time shall be no longer?" O that I might continually walk in the fear of him whose loving-kindness changeth not; who follows me with mercy through the day, and watches with guardian care over my sleeping pillow.

Oh thou

"Who spreads the evening veil, and keeps
The silent hours while Israel sleeps,"

guide me to the still waters of Siloam. O, thou fount of every blessing, inspire my heart with gratitude and my lips with praise to thee, who thus crowneth my days with favor and tender mercy; and, above all, make me truly thankful for the amazing gift of thine only Son, our righteousness, our redemption, and our hope. Give me, O my Father! if thou wilt permit the veriest child of sin on earth to call thee Father, vile as I am—if I may not, I am truly desolate-give me a heart that is willing to accept of a Saviour in the way