burst into tears. Her sister turned to me and said: 'Sir, she is in great distress of mind; mental agony has kept her awake nearly all night. She has wanted very much to see you, that you might converse with her.'

"I feared her agitation might seriously injure her health, and did all I consistently could to soothe and quiet her. But,' said Louisa, 'I am sick, and may die. I know I am not a Christian; and, O! if I die in this state of mind, what will become of me? And again she burst into tears.

"What could I say? Every word she said was true. Her eyes were opened to her danger. There was cause for alarm. Delirium might soon ensue. Death might be near, and she was unprepared to appear before God. She saw it all, she felt it all. Fever was burning in her veins; but she forgot her pains in view of the terrors of approaching judgment.

"I told her God was good; that he was more ready to forgive than we to ask forgiveness. But, sir,' said she, 'I have known my duty long, and have not done it. I have been ashamed of the Saviour, and grieved away the Spirit, and now I am upon a sick-bed, and perhaps must die. O, if I were but a Christian, I should be willing to die!'

"I told her of the Saviour's love. I pointed to many of God's precious promises to the penitent. I endeavoured to induce her to resign her soul calmly to the Saviour. But all seemed in vain. Trembling and agitated, she was looking forward to the dark future. The Spirit of the Lord had opened her eyes. I knelt by her bed-side, and fervently prayed that the Holy Spirit would guide her, and that the Saviour would speak peace to her troubled soul. O, could they who are postponing repentance to a sick-bed, have witnessed the sufferings of this once merry girl, they would shudder at the thought of trusting to a dying hour!

"The next day I called again. Her fever was still raging, and its fires were fanned by mental suffering.

"And can you not, Louisa,' said I, 'trust your soul with the Saviour who died for you? He has said, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” ”

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"O, sir, I know the Saviour is merciful; but somehow I cannot go to him; I know not why. O, I am miserable indeed!'

"I opened the Bible, and read the parable of the Prodigal Son. I particularly directed her attention to the twentieth verse: When he was a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him, and ran, and fell upon his neck, and kissed him.' 'O sir,' said she, 'none of these promises are for me. I find no peace to my troubled spirit. I have long been sinning against God, and now he is summoning me to render up my account. O, what an account have I to render! Even if I were perfectly well, I could hardly endure the view God has given me of my sins. If they were forgiven, how happy I should be! but now, O-' Her voice was stopped by a fit of shuddering, which agitated those around her with the fear she might be dying. Soon, however, her nerves were more quiet, and I kneeled to commend her spirit to the Lord.

"I rode home; and as I kneeled with my family at evening prayer, I bore Louisa upon my heart to the throne of grace. Another morning came. As I knocked at the door I felt a painful solicitude as to the answer I might receive. How is Louisa this morning?'

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'Failing fast, sir; the doctor thinks she cannot re

cover.'

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Is her mind more composed?'

"O no, sir; she has had a dreadful night. She says she is lost, and that there is no hope for her.'

"I went to her chamber. Despair was pictured more

deeply than ever upon her countenance. A few 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 enduring, and of the heavier woes which were thickly
scattered through that endless career on which she was
about to enter. She said she knew God was ready to
forgive the sincerely penitent; but that her sorrow was
not sorrow for sin, but dread of its awful penalty.
"I had already said all I could say to lead her to the
Saviour. Nothing more could be said.

'By many a death-bed I had been,
And many a sinner's parting scene;
But never aught like this.'

Every eye in Louisa saw not,

At

"Late in the afternoon I called again. the room was filled with tears, but poor and heeded not their weeping. Her reason was gone. For some time I lingered round the solemn scene. 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 restless form, the swollen veins, the hectic, burning cheek, the eyes rolling wildly around the room, and the weeping friends. In silence I had entered the room, and in silence and sadness I turned away.

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

"She is dead, sir.'

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666

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.'

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Did she seem more peaceful in her mind?' "Her friends thought 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 feelings with any clearness.'

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

'Be wise to-day, 'tis madness to defer.'"

19. MADAME DE POMPADOUR.

"Ah! fleeting spirit! wand'ring fire,

That long hast warm'd my tender breast,
Must thou no more this frame inspire-
No more a pleasing cheerful guest?
Whither, ah! whither art thou flying?

To what dark undiscover'd shore?
Thou seem'st all trembling, shiv'ring, dying;
And wit and humour are no more."

MADAME DE POMPADOUR before her death became a victim of ennui and disgust at the world. The objects for which she had sacrificed honour and virtue in the court of Louis XV., had lost their charms, and one of her last letters describes, in most affecting terms, her abject wretchedness.

"What a situation," she writes, "is that of the great! They only live in the future, and are only happy in hope; there is no peace in ambition! I am always gloomy, and often so unreasonably. The kindness of the king, the regards of courtiers, the attachment of my domestics, and the fidelity of a large number of friends-motives like these, which ought to make me happy, affect me no longer.. I have no longer an inclination for all which once pleased me. I have caused my house at Paris to be magnificently furnished; well, that pleased me for two days. My residence at Bellevue is charming; and I alone cannot endure it. Benevolent people

relate to me all the news and adventures of Paris; they think I listen, but, when they have done, I ask them what they said. In a word, I do not live, I am dead before my time. I have no interest in the world. Everything conspires to embitter my life. I have imputed to me the public misery, the misfortunes of war, and the triumphs of my enemies. I am accused of selling everything, of disposing of everything, of governing everything. This hatred and this general exasperation of the nation grieve me exceedingly; my life is a continued death."

Oppressed by such sentiments, she died, probably of a broken heart, occasioned by the sense of deserved public hatred. She but reaped the fruit of what she had sown; affording a melancholy example of the retribution her conduct had merited. As a proof of the heartlessness which habits of vice engender, it is related that, on the day of her funeral, the king, walking on the terrace at Versailles, and thinking, as he took out his watch, that it was the moment for the interment of her whom he had professed to love so well, said, with great unconcern, "The countess will have a fine day!"