Such solemnity is affianced to the vastness of man's eternal interests; for life, after all, is a solemn reality; its interests are momentous; their grandeur eternity only can disclose. When man awakes to his existence, he strikes a chord which will vibrate through endless ages, thrilling the heart with bliss, or sweeping the bosom with the wild cadence of woe. He embarks on the ocean, but he embarks but once, and eternity is suspended on the issue. He may weather the storm, and gain his wished-for haven, and he may lose his all. Perhaps he may hail from the deep as he ploughs the rough billows of a bottomless and shoreless sea, "the star of Bethlehem," and be guided "to the Port of Peace," and perhaps the darkness of the storm may quench its light for ever. But man is not the sport of a blind destiny; then he might resign himself to its chains. But man is the lord of his own destiny: he is omnipotent to live or die. Yes, thanks to God, man is free, and the arbiter of his own fortunes in futurity; he is not a careless passenger over the deep, he is the pilot of his own bark, and sleepless must be his vigils. Should he be gay? Should he be thoughtless? He should be so lemn, for then only is he preparing for eternity ; he should be thoughtful, for then only is he making his calling and election sure. But it is not wrong to embark sometimes on the tide of emotion and joyance of soul which sweeps by the lonely heart; it is not wrong sometimes to yield to those delightful notes of pleasure which awake the soul to the marred vestiges of earthly bliss which have survived the fall. He whose heart beats with the benevolence of the cross, and lavishes his richest affections around it, is best prepared to pluck the rose of earthly happiness and leave the thorn. Christianity is not a gloomy but a solemn religion, and she delights in encircling the heart of the child of God with the halo of happiness, and lays the words of nature and grace under tribute to form it; as the beauties of two worlds mingle to produce the various hues of the bow on the cloud. Religion dwells not in the heart of gloom, with all her train of gracious influences; but she delights in making her votaries entirely blessed, and when a beam of joy gladdens the heart, she loves to see it radiate the countenance and enliven the social circle. Mary's was a solemn but a cheerful piety, and she always wore a smile upon her countenance. Even her wayward fortunes could not chill the warm current of her social feelings, and misanthropy found no covert in her heart. : "The storm was loud, the night was dark" around her; but the light of religion illumined her bosom as its rays broke through the storm. We do not ask the world to contemplate religion in the palace of wealth, for then worldliness strips her of her charms in so cold an atmosphere they cannot be fully developed. But we do ask them to enter the humble dwelling of obscure and indigent piety, which opens its thatched roof to the storms and winds of heaven, and see a mother, whose heart has been made desolate by accumulated sorrow, gather her fatherless children around her scanty board and the family altar, as she sends her notes of thanksgiving, wreathing up to the skies with the smoke of her cottage-that she is not entirely desolate--that she and her babes are sheltered from the bleak winds of heaven by so kind a covert-that she can satisfy their cries of hunger by a crust of bread, and quench their thirst with pure water—that God has loved her too well to suffer her to lay up her treasure on earth-that the light of the everlasting Gospel illumines her dwelling; and finally, that when the gay and the opulent shall be cast houseless and homeless to wander through the long winter of eternity, that she humbly trusts, "after life's fitful fever," she will clasp her babes to her heart with the pearl of great price, as she takes her stand by the throne of God, complete in righteousness. Kindred to this was the triumph of Christianity in Mary's history. Mr. Bise has told me that the religion of Christ always seemed infinitely lovely to him, for it more than atoned to Mary for her desolate lot; for she was always cheerful, always happy, CHAPTER XVII. "Go, forget me; why should sorrow Brightly smile and sweetly sing." THERE is one of Mary's letters in my possession which I have thought best to publish, although it will prove the truth of Shakspeare's sentiment "The current of true love never did run smooth." Perhaps nothing better developes the character than this "gentle passion." It often discovers in those who are under its sway the littleness of jealousy, and sometimes the degeneracy of lust; in others, a vanity of winning affection only to render the heart desolate by disappointment. But there is no feature in man's depravity that excites more disgust in a generous bosom, or degrades its subjects to such a contemptible scale, as the mean vice of coquetry. An intelligent lady once remarked to me, "the heart of a coquette is |