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it, when, on a short tour westward with some friends, I visited the large establishment for the insane, at U- As I looked through the building the thought of Susan did not enter my mind; but, on going through the grounds, I noticed, in a retired corner, seated on a garden chair, with her face half averted from me, a woman. the bend of whose neck and whose profile were strikingly familiar. I approached her. She turned, and it was Susan. O, how changed! so haggard and gray at her age! She sprang toward me as if involuntarily, while a smile lighted her face, then paused, and dropped her eyes with a shamefacedness which was pitiful.

I addressed her pleasantly, "Mrs.

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Susan West that used to

'Ah, yes! How do you do, P. ?" she said, in her old tone, as she regained her self-possession. "Won't you sit down with me? Have you time?"

I sat down with her. "I hear you are in bad health, Susan," I said.

"My health is bad; but how did you hear it? It is now long years since we have met."

"Yes, long years; and time has done a great deal of work in them," I answered; also mentioning who had told me of her.

"Ah! then you know all! Yet you met me kindly. How you recall the beautiful old days of school, when we were so happy! But I am so changed now !

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I hardly knew what to say that would not be painful to her, and answered, "We have all changed." "But none so much as I have. who would believe it possible?" wan cheeks.

Who could have changed so, and
Here the tears flowed down her

I had now no answer to make. I said, "You have children, Susan; how many?"

"Two little girls and a boy,- beautiful children,-- but, O, that I had died at the birth of the last! To live to be their shame! That they should be ashamed of their mother! and they will be, they must be !"

"You may yet live to be honored and loved by them; why not?"

"How little you know, P., of sin,— of such sin as mine! I can

not give it up. The will is all gone. I am bound hand and foot.

I am in a charm, and I cannot break it. The spell was woven, thread by thread, till I'm wrapped in it completely. There is nothing before me but shame and death, and both I dread. How can my proud husband endure my presence after this confinement, even could I reform? and I know there is not enough strength left in me to resist the temptations beyond these walls!"'

"God gives strength to all who ask it.”

"Yes, He is good; but I have no right to hope in Him. The blackness of darkness is mine!"

She wept bitterly; and how could I restrain my tears? I left her. Alas, poor Susan!

Who may tamper with wine unharmed? Who may sip the poison, and defy its hurt? Who has strength or art to resist its spell? It has a snare for beautiful and refined womanhood, as well as for hilarious youth and worn and weary manhood; and that snare is spread, not only at the banquet and the board, but wherever it is red," wherever "it giveth color to the cup, and moveth itself aright." "Look not on it" then.

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"Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? I have never seen more touching woe, or more hopeless sorrow, than in the poor victim of wine, my once school-mate, Susan West.

This is not a sketch of the imagination. Would God it were! And, as I say it, there comes back the echo, deep and heavy-toned with agony, from many bleeding and broken hearts which cannot be healed, "Would God that it were !

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WEALTH AND FAME.

BY MARY GRACE HALPINE.

I'VE seen the wealthy and the proudly great,
The poor and humble in their low estate;
Have trod the halls where wealth, but love is not,
And blessed the light that gilds the lowly lot.
O! could ye feel what they are doomed to bear,
The shafts of envy and the thorns of care,
Ye would not envy fortune's fickle ray,
Nor think the path of fame a thornless way;
High 'bove the head a gorgeous wreath they raise,
The world with acclamations loudly praise;
But, ah! those flowers dark envy's thorns conceal,
Whose points are sharper than the sharpest steel.
'Mid all the fair and gorgeous light they fling,
We shrink from slander's keen envenomed sting.

CHRISTIAN CONSOLATION.

BY M. J. MERWIN.

"HE that believeth in me shall never die." How beautiful and sublime this declaration! One mighter than the King of Terrors has despoiled the victor of his proud trophies, and henceforth he shall be led captive by the glorious Redeemer. Now does the believer rest in hope; life and immortality are brought to light in the gospel; and when the great change takes place, then only can the Christian be said to begin to live. One sigh, one groan, and the fettered, earth-bound soul bursts from its thraldom, and enters into the joy of its Lord. Then farewell, a long, an eternal farewell, to sorrow and pain, to weakness, to frailty and sin.

Is there, then, no joy, no consolation in this blessed truth to bereaved ones? The fond wife, in whom the heart of her husband trusted safely; the devoted, praying mother; the kind, sympathizing friend, and the active Christian, has been removed from our midst. But here can all bring their sorrowing hearts; for "earth has no sorrows Heaven cannot heal."

The hand of affection gathered the fairest flowers of departing summer; and, as sad mourners assembled to her burial, calmly did the peaceful sleeper repose among the sweet perfumes she had loved so well. How beautiful, at such a grave, to plant the simple white cross, were it not that it has almost become a symbol of idolatrous worship! But still it would speak of Him who died for sinners; and around it should the ivy twine its tendrils, thus beautifully would a life of faith be typified, which rendered her so dear who has gone. "He that believeth in me shall never die." No, she is not dead; she treads the streets of the New Jerusalem to-day, that blest city of our God, which is watered by the river of life, and "in the midst of the streets thereof, and on either side of the river, is the tree of life." O, there is no death there; but all is light and joy and life!

Here we have highways for the busy throng to pass along in their hurried course, and for the funeral procession, too; but there are trees in the midst of those golden streets, and partings there are never known.

Said one in deep affliction, like that we contemplate, "I envy that man who can say, 'My daughter.' And is it not often that the

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bereaved husband can find in his desolated home some darling child who bears her mother's image and temper, and whose pleasant converse shall beguile her father in many a weary hour? But the sweet music of a daughter's voice has never gladdened his heart who is now so deeply bereaved.

He shall weep in his loneliness, as he remembers the sweet counsel and intercourse which has now been closed by death. May the prayers of that beloved partner be answered; and he who is now lost upon the tempest of trial and affliction be enabled to hear, above all, the still small voice of his Saviour, saying, "It is I; be not afraid!"' Verily, "whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth;" and it is in hours like this, when the best of our earthly comforts are removed, that our minds should be directed to Him who can fill the aching void, which in kindness has been made. "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you, rest," is the free and gracious invitation to all those who feel their need of a friend and comforter. O, how earnestly did she long that the valley of tears, through which her death would lead the cherished objects of her affection, might be the place where should spring up the waters of salvation, of which, if a man drink, he shall never thirst again!

"He that believeth in me shall never die." Filial piety may cover a mother's grave with the mute emblems of purity and love; ay, it may bring from her deserted garden the flowers she has reared and watered, and thus render the spot doubly sacred; but well do they know, who perform this mournfully pleasant labor, that "she is not there, she is risen." The sons of such a mother can never become sceptical, or forget their mother's God. They may go into the world, and, amid its cares or pleasures, seem well-nigh wrecked in its dread whirlpool; but the image of a sainted one will rise between them and threatened destruction, and soft accents, like those which soothed them in infancy, shall be heard, saying, "Turn ye, for why will ye die!"

Should memory

"Forget their mother's God!"- No, never. ever for a moment slumber, let but the head throb with pain, or the sudden cold cause the fevered pulse to beat, and quicker than lightning's speed shall thought go back to the spot called home, and, links of the same chain mother and heaven.

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The church of Christ joins in the sad lament which ascends from wounded, bleeding hearts; but they sorrow not without hope. They

rejoice that she girded on the armor of their Lord, and fought a good fight, glorifying the Captain of their salvation; and, now that she has left the church-militant, Christian faith can see her among the redeemed, in the church-triumphant. But, who shall fill her place? "Who shall be baptized for the dead?" Who shall enter the ranks of Immanuel in her stead? Who shall visit the sons and daughters of sorrow and want, ministering to and relieving their necessities? Who shall hasten to watch by the bed-side of the sick, and whisper words of holy cheer to the dying? How does the spirit of Christian benevolence which she exhibited rebuke those who recognize not the ties of "kindred in Christ" beyond the pale of their own communion! "Ye are all one in Christ Jesus" was the motto of her life. "Go work to-day in my vineyard" was the command she heard from her Master, and her course was made up of each day's labors. Well has she shown us what woman's glory is in woman's true sphere of usefulness.

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"He that believeth in me shall never die." Blest sister! thou dost indeed live; for engraved on our hearts is the remembrance of thy meek and lowly graces. Thy pleasant smile and cheerful voice do we miss; but, when those little circles meet for prayer, where thou wast wont to go, we seem to catch the sound of thy golden harp, and the chantings of the spirit-land. Thoughts of thee shall come over us in life's busy scenes; and thy cheerful, self-sacrificing spirit, thy faithfulness to more than maternal trust, shall teach us how a kind influence, sanctified by grace, may shed the perpetual sunlight of a happy home. We will think of thee, too, at the table of our Lord, and prepare to drink with thee the new wine in our Father's kingdom; as thou hast followed thy Master, so may we follow thee. "May we die the death of the righteous, and may our last end be like thine!"

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MORAL DARKNESS.

BY MARY GRACE HALPINE.

O! IT is sad too look abroad and see
So much of guilt and fearful misery;
To view the many snares that lead astray,
The hands that beckon to the downward way.

O, Lord of right and justice, Prince of peace!

Will wrong and dark oppression never cease?
Dispense to darkened minds thy truth and light,

Stay Thou the tyrant's hand, make vain the oppressor's might!

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