Oh! Eternity, Eternity! how shall I grapple with the misery I must meet with in eternity?"

Oh, Dear B

never let us have to take up

this thrice awful lamentation, nor any longer refuse the claims of the gospel, or turn away from the voice of the spirit, which says "to-day if ye will hear his voice, harden not your heart." Will old age be the most proper time to give God what he requires of us now? You know he says, "Son, give me thine heart." Will he accept the remains of our broken and shattered affections, which have so long been lavished upon objects which our better judgments despise? If we will not repent now, have we any warrant that the Holy Spirit shall still continue to strive. But who has promised that we shall ever reach old age, that much wished for, but when possessed, little enjoyed state? Who has forecast the future, and seen us alive in coming time? Are we not as liable to fall suddenly as those around us who have already fallen? Oh, dear B, do now be persuaded to seek earnestly the kingdom of God, and you will joyfully fold the pinions of death to your bosom when he comes to take you home, and exclaim, "Hail, messenger of God. My Saviour has destroyed thy power. He has nerved

my soul for this hour.' Do not let me urge you in vain, my dear; but listen to Mary's voice, and be determined steadfastly to seek religion now in the freshness of youthful days. It is always interesting to contemplate a young person, but doubly so one who walks in the fear of God and reflects honor upon the throne of Christ. Such a scene must attract the attention and admiration of the angels of heaven. If you are ever joined to a companion in life who loves God, how much would your bliss be augmented if your bosom glowed with the same emotion. How would it soften the pangs of separation in death to know that you would again be united in a happier clime, where the wild sound of parting should never be heard. I know of no sight more interesting than to see a young married pair erect their family altar, and say we will serve the Lord. All your young friends would rejoice to see your feet turned towards Mount Zion; and I need not tell you that it is the most anxious wish of my heart. But if you will not heed Mary's appeal, listen, I beseech you, to the voice of your friends, and the mandate of the everlasting Jehovah, who calls and says, "Son, give me thy heart."

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YOUR OWN MARY.

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About this time Mary became a "factory girl." For a number of years she had supported herself by her own labor, and now she chose this new sphere for reasons unknown to the author. She hired out in a factory which stands on the banks of the Housetonic River, near the western border of the town of Stockbridge, by the base of a range of mountains which divides Massachusetts and New-York.

It seems a strange dispensation which awarded her such a lot. But the God of Christians is influenced by wise and benevolent considerations in all his dispensations. While she was engaged in this employment, she made rapid advances in holiness, and appears to have been happy and contented. For she had been inured to hardship, and she was happy in situations which others would scarcely have tolerated. Here she labored twelve hours each day, and for a long time could have had no leisure for prosecuting her literary pursuits, unless it was stolen from the night. This she often did; and after the toils of the day were over, she wrote some of the most beautiful letters that ever came from her pen.

It is a pity that so few of them are preserved, for they were all of them worthy of a place, and

would have adorned these pages.

The novelty

of the fact renders these letters interesting, aside from the character of Mary; for it is so seldom that the writings of " factory girls" are brought before the world.

CHAPTER XVI.

"This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet."

DEAR B.

Stockbridge,

ROMEO AND JULIET.

1831.

I have not forgotten you, though I dare not flatter myself that I am still remembered by him I love, else why does he not write to me? Or is the Post to blame? or, &c. &c.?? It is painful to think that one we value, no longer cherishes us "in the innermost shrine of the heart." Well, be it so! If you have ceased to think of me, I hope your affections are placed upon some object that may awaken more bliss in your bosom than the love of Mary. You may find many more worthy of your regard, but none who loves you more fervently, or is more deeply interested in your happiness.

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I have longed for a letter from you. You have written to your sisters, and before I came back to the factory the last time, when E