conversion that were regeneration--that were a great deliverance-that were eternal life, and full of joy!

And are there not moments when we catch a glimpse of such a possibility? when brain and heart stand still, thoughtless, breathless? when life itself pauses in the transient revelation of such unsufferable light? And we know that some have entered in and lived this light all the days of their lives. To many of us, alas! and in most of our moods, they seem to live in an unknown world-to speak in an unknown tongue.

Who of us has not occasionally experienced these thoughts and emotions, in reading and meditating on the lives and characters of Christians of any name?—it matters little what; for there is a unity of spirit in all regenerated children of God, of every nation, rank, or sect. Fenelon and George Whitefield-the Frenchman and the Briton-the mitred archbishop and the poor field preacher-the Roman Catholic and the Methodist, dwelt in the same light, spoke the same language, because both were one in spirit. What if through the medium of each separate brain, the theology look different? The heart is greater than the brain; or, in other words, the affections are higher than the intellect. "Out of the heart are the issues of life;" and "this is life eternal, that we should know the true God, and Jesus Christ whom he hath sent." With their hearts, their affections, they discerned Him. And in love they were one with each other, and one with Christ and God. And who, in communing with their fervent souls-in meditating on their perfect faith and love-perfect devotion to God.

has not been startled by some such light as this let in upon the mind?" Why, if this unfailing love-this unwavering faith-this unreserved devotion-this total self-surrender-be the worship we owe to our Creator, then have we been idolaters; for all this instinct and power, and necessity of loving, sacrificing, and worshipping has been ours, and has been lavished, wasted, only on the creature."

Akin to this was the feeling that impelled the dying Wolsey to exclaim, "Had I but served God as diligently as I have served the king, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs."

And as Mark Sutherland stood gazing in bitterness of spirit upon the beautiful scene of his love and joy, the maddening scene of his trial and suffering, these words escaped from his bursting heart: "Oh, God! if I had worshipped thee as I worshipped her, Thy beautiful work, I had not been now alonealone in my sorrow."

It was the sincere, earnest cry of a stricken, penitent, suffering heart.

Around him fell

It was answered then and there. an influence sober and more genial than sunshinemore refreshing than dew-a spiritual influence, warming, renewing, supporting-a Divine influence, kindling and strengthening the soul within him.

The Comforter had come, and was acknowledged. With uncovered head, and uplifted heart, then and there Mark Sutherland consecrated his life to the service of God, and His work on earth.

From the beautiful vale he turned, and, inspired by new strength and courage, put spurs to his horse, and galloped rapidly on towards the road leading to

the town of C—, where, six weeks since, he had parted with Lauderdale. He reached C in time for an early breakfast. Here-not wishing to leave his family in ignorance of his fate, and by his departure thus to cut down the bridge of communication between them and himself-he addressed a letter to his bachelor uncle, Paul Sutherland, informing him that his destination was some north-western town, whence, as soon as he should become settled, he should write. He gave this letter in charge of the landlord, to be forwarded as soon as his uncle should return from the North. He then mounted his horse, and took the road to Natchez, whence he intended to embark in a steamboat up the Mississippi. He reached the city by nightfall, and found his baggage, sent by the stage-coach, had arrived in safety. He took the boat that passed that night; and the next morning he found himself many miles on his way up the river.

"The world was all before him, where to choose
His place of rest, and Providence his guide."

And to a young, adventurous, hopeful spirit, this uncertainty, joined to liberty, was not without its peculiar charm. During the greater part of the day he remained on deck, with a spy-glass in his hand, examining the face of the country on either side of the river. The lawns and villages on the Lower Mississippi did not attract him in the least degree. Their situations were low-their beach sluggishly washed by the thick and murky water-their thoroughfare wet and muddy-their general aspect unwholesome to the last degree.

But, farther up the river, and above the mouth of the

OLO, the country and the colour of the water began to change. High bluffs, gray old rocks, and gigantic woods, diversified the shores-crystal creeks and verdant islets varied the river. He approached the fine "Rock River country."

Beautiful as a poetic vision of Elysium, had seemed the luxurious valley of the Pearl.

But this gigantic scene-Rock River, Rock Island, with the opposite shores of the Mississippi, widening here into a lake-like expanse-had a breadth of grandeur, a Titanic vigour and vitality of beauty, the most consonant, the most imposing and encouraging, to his own young energetic spirit.

The boat stopped opposite the village of S-, just as the morning mist was rolling away before the sun, and revealing the scene in all its picturesque beauty, and fresh life. The young city was but two years old -yet, infant of the Titaness West, it was growing and thriving most vigorously. Here, then, Mark Sutherland determined to take up his abode-here to live and labour. He ordered his baggage into the boat, and stepped in after it, and was swiftly rowed to the shore. Here, too, in order to begin aright and betimes, he shouldered his own trunk, while a porter followed with his box of books, and wended his way to the hotel on the hill.

10

CHAPTER IX.

THE FATAL MARRIAGE.

"Isabella-'Tis a babbling world."-Fatal Marriage.
"Mr. Graves.-Oh! 'tis an atrocious world!

(It will be burnt up one day—that's a comfort.)”—Money.

EIGHTEEN months have passed since Mark Sutherland left his home. Eighteen months of persevering study, of unsuccessful effort, and of varied wanderings, find him, at the close, in Cincinnati, quite penniless, and nearly hopeless. His efforts to find employment here are unavailing. He has not even the means to pay his board-a situation in which many a worthy and promising young man has found himself, who has afterwards nevertheless risen to fame or fortune. Embarrassing and discouraging enough is the position while occupied, however piquant to look back upon.

In a listless and disappointed mood, Mark Sutherland entered the reading-room of the hotel, and, taking up the daily papers, began to look over their columns, to see if any new want of a clerk or an agent had been advertised, which might hold out the hope of employ ment to him. At last, in the Intelligencer, his eye lighted upon an advertisement for a classical and mathematical teacher. The candidate was required to produce the highest testimonials of character and competency, and requested to apply through the office of that paper. Mr. Sutherland's classical and mathematical attainments were far above mediocrity, and