Louisa's despair.

Her advice to her young friends.

agitated those around her with the fear that she might be dying. Soon, however, her nerves were more quiet, and I kneeled to commend her spirit to the Lord.

As I rode home, her despairing countenance was unceasingly before me. Her lamentations, her mournful groans, were continually crying in my ears. As I kneeled with my family at evening, I bore Louisa upon my heart to the throne of grace. All night I was restlessly upon my pillow dreaming of unavailing efforts at this sick bed. Another morning came. As I knocked at the door of her dwelling I felt a most painful solicitude as to the answer I might receive.

"How is Louisa this morning?" said I to the person who opened the door.

"She is fast failing, sir, and the doctor thinks she cannot recover. We have just sent for her friends to come and see her before she dies."

"Is her mind more composed than it has been?" "O no, sir. She has had a dreadful night. She says that she is lost, and that there is no hope for her."

I went into her chamber. Despair was pictured more deeply than ever upon her flushed and fevered countenance. I was surprised at the strength she still manifested as she tossed from side to side. Death was evidently drawing near. She knew it. She had lived without God, and felt that she was unprepared to appear before him. A few of her young friends were standing by her bedside. She warned them in the most affecting terms to prepare for death while in health. She told them of the mental agony she was then enduring, and of the heavier woes which were thickly scattered through that endless career she was about to enter. All her conversation was interspersed with the most heart-rending exclamations of despair. She said she knew that God was ready to forgive the sincerely penitent, but that her sorrow was not sorrow for sin, but dread of its awful penalty.

Last visit.

Her sufferings.

I had already said all that I could to lead her to the Savior-but no Savior cast his love on this dying bed— no ray of peace cheered the departing soul. Youth and beauty were struggling with death; and as that eye which but a few days before had sparkled with gaiety, now gazed on to eternity, it was fixed in an expression of despair. By many a death-bed I had been,

"And many a sinner's parting seen,
"But never aught like this."

There was nothing that could be said. The moanings of the sufferer mingled with the prayer, which was almost inarticulately uttered, from the emotions which the scene inspired.

Late in the afternoon I called again. But her reason was gone, and in restless agony she was grappling with death. Her friends were standing around her, but she did not recognize them. Every eye in the room was filled with tears, but poor Louisa saw not, and heeded not their weeping. It was a scene which neither pen nor pencil can portray. At the present moment that chamber of death is as vividly present to my mind as it was when I looked upon it through irrepressible tears. I can now see the disorder of the dying bed-the restless form-the swollen veins--the hectic burning cheek-the eyes rolling wildly around the room-and the weeping friends. Who can describe such a scene? And who can imagine the emotions which one must feel who knew her history, and who knew that this delirium succeeded temporal, and perhaps preceded eternal despair. Louisa could no longer listen to my prayers; she could no longer receive the precious instructions of God's word. And what could be said to console her friends? Nothing. "Be still, and know that I am God," was all that could be said. I could only look and listen with reverence, inwardly praying that the sad spectacle might not be lost upon any of us. For some time I lingered around the solemn scene in

She dies at midnight. Her feelings at last. Almost a Christian.

silence. Not a word was spoken. All knew that death was near. The friends who were most deeply affected struggled hard to restrain the audible expression of grief. In silence I had entered the room, and in silence and sadness I went away.

Early the next morning I called at the door to inquire for Louisa.

"She is dead, sir," was the reply to my question. "At what time did she die?"

"About midnight, sir."

"Was her reason restored before her death?”

"It appeared partially to return a few moments before she breathed her last, but she was almost gone, and we could hardly understand what she said."

"Did she seem any more peaceful in her mind?”

"Her friends thought, sir, that she did express a willingness to depart, but she was so weak and so far gone that it was impossible for her to express her mind with any clearness."

This is all that can be said of the eternal prospects of one who "wished to live a gay and merry life till just before death, and then to become pious and die happy." Reader!

"Be wise TO-DAY-'tis madness to defer."

THE melancholy story related in the last chapter is not an uncommon one. It is the story of thousands. All that is necessary, reader, to make the case your own, is that vou should feel such a degree of interest in religious du

Louisa's case a common one. Neglecting duty when it is pointed out. ties as to open your eyes clearly to their demands, but yet not enough to induce you cordially to comply with them, and then that death should approach you while you are thus unprepared. The gloomy forebodings and the dreadful remorse which darkened Louisa's last hours, must in such a case be yours.

It was not my intention, when forming the plan of this work, to have it present religious truth and duty in gloomy or melancholy aspects. Religion is a most cheerful and happy thing to practise, but a most sad and melancholy thing to neglect, and as undoubtedly some who read this book will read it only to understand their duty, without at all setting their hearts upon the performance of it, I ought to devote one or two chapters particularly to them. The case of Louisa, though it was a melancholy one, was real. And what has once occurred, may occur again. You will observe too, that all the suffering which she manifested in her dying hour was the work of conscience. The minister did all he could to soothe and calm her. Examine all the conversation he had with her at her bedside, and you will find that it was the language of kind invitation.

Sometimes such a dying scene as this is the portion of an individual who has lived a life of open and unbridled wickedness. But, generally, continued impiety and vice lulls the conscience into a slumber which it requires a stronger power than that of sickness or approaching death to awaken. Louisa was ALMOST A CHRISTIAN. She was nearly persuaded to begin a life of piety. In just such a state of mind, my reader, it is very probable you may be Perhaps since you have been reading this book, you have been thinking more and more seriously of your Christian duty, and felt a stronger and stronger intention of doing it, at least at some future time. You ought, after having read the first chapter, to have gone at once and fully confessed all your sins to God. When you read the

How to begin your duty.

Design of this chapter

second, you should have cordially welcomed the Savior as your friend, and chosen him as your Redeemer and portion. You ought to have been induced by the third to begin immediately a life of prayer, and to have been constant and ardent at the throne of Grace since you read it. But perhaps you neglected all this. You understand very clearly what Christian duty is. It is plain to you that there is a Being above, with whom you ought to live in constant communion. You understand clearly how you are to begin your duty, if you have neglected it heretofore, by coming and confessing all your sins, and seeking forgiveness through Jesus Christ, who has died for you. Thus you know what duty is. The solitary difficulty is, that you will not do it.

But why? What can be the cause of that apparent infatuation which consists in continually neglecting a duty which you acknowledge to be a duty, and which you know it would increase your happiness to perform? Were I to ask you, it is very probable you would say what I have known a great many others to say in your situation-it would be this:

"I know I am a sinner against God, and I wish to repent and be forgiven, and to love and serve my Maker, but I do not see how I can."

My reader, is this your state of mind? Many persons do use this language, and use it honestly. That is, they use it honestly, if they mean by it what the language properly does mean, that they see the propriety, and duty, and happiness of a new life, so that in some sense they desire it, but that some secret cause, which they have not yet discovered, prevents their obedience. I design in this chapter to help you to discover what that cause is. If you really wish to discover and to remove it, you will read the chapter carefully, with a willingness to be convinced, and you will often pause to apply what is said to your own case.