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danger of thus exposing herself, she would sometimes respond with
“I'll praise my Maker wbile I've breath;
And when my voice is lost in death,
Or immortality erdures." What a lesson for Sunday-scbool teachers who are in health, that one so weak should be found so patiently and earnestly striving to cast her bread upon the waters, which she hoped would be seen after many days.
When an amiable lady established a female class-meeting, in connexion with the Sunday-school, Annie availed herself of the privilege of becoming a member of the class. She saw it was her duty to become united with the visible Church. She felt her unworthiness, and owned her utter inability to do anything without the blessing of God. There is not the least doubt but that it was in the Sunday-school that she received those impressions of her depraved nature, and that knowledge of a personal interest in Christ's blood and atonement, which led her to give her heart to God, and start afresh in the race of Christian holiness and love; which gave her such blessed assurances of being a participator in the blessings of redemption while living; and, when dying, made her “the calm expectant of a glorious immortality.” When in health, the religion which she possessed stimulated to vigorous action; and in sickness and death, enabled her to look to Jesus for succour and support. When she saw the great realities of Eternity spreading out before her, she was enabled to rejoice in hope of the glory of God. By affliction, she was to be “tried as gold, and to be purified as silver.” She was "saved through faith," and "made perfect through suffering."
About the fall of the year 1850 she was first attacked with that illness which terminated in her death. From that time to tie autumn of the past year, she had to endure great bodily pain. During her long illness, she was so much supported by that Omnipotent arm upon which she
relied, that words of murmuring and discontent never fell from her lips. The God of Abraham comforted her under all her afflictions; and she often consoled herself with the thought that He was with her, and would be with her unto the end. She was very conscious of the sympathy felt by our Saviour for his suffering and afflicted disciples; and could heartily join in repeating that impressive verse :-
Touched with a sympathy within,
He knows our feeble frame;
For he has felt the same." She was often asked if she felt much pain? to which she would sometimes reply, “Yes, but
" What are all my sufferings here,
If Lord thou count'st me meet,
And worship at thy feet?” On the night of her death she was asked the same question by a friend who visited her; and, laying her hand on her side—which caused her great pain,-with her eyes upturned to heaven, she exclaimed, “ Yes.” Then added, " Jesus support me!”
Her mother asked her during her last illness, “Do you “wish to get better, and live a little longer in this vale of tears'?” To which she answered, “Oh, mother, let God's will, not mine, be done!” She then repeated, with evident composure, that beautiful interrogation of the poet
" What is there here to court my stay,
Aud keep me back from home,
And Jesus bids me come.” On Wednesday, Oct. 5th, she decidedly changed for the worse ; and on Thursday afternoon she was evidently drawing near to the close of her earthly pilgrimage. She knew that God's appointed time was at hand, when she should be called hence; and she calmly and patiently prepared to obey the summons.
A few minutes before her death she was asked, “Shall your father
pray with you?” “Yes,” she answered, “now." After engaging in earnest supplication to her Heavenly Father, to take her blest spirit to the home he had prepared for her, she calmly and resignedly exclaimed, “Lord, Jesus, receive my spirit!” Then, breathing a few words of prayer, she sweetly “fell asleep in Jesus.” Her “warfare” was accomplished at half-past eleven, on the evening of Oct. 6th, 1853, after a lingering illness of about three years, in the twentieth year of her age.
Her blessed spirit has taken its departure for a far better country, where the inhabitants “never say they are sick," but where
“Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,
Are felt and feared no more." That bright land where angelic hosts ever sing Jehovah's praises in sweetest strains: and drink purest joys from that fountain of living waters gushing from before the Throne:—that land of rest, where all who trust in God, and believe in Christ, will be triumphantly and joyfully received; there to dwell in endless bliss with all the sanctified host “that have finished the work which was given them to do”—with that glorified company “for ever present with the Lord." " And the Lamb which is in the midst of the Throne shall feed them, and shall lead them to living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.” Darlington.
THE PRISON-CHILD'S APPEAL. Two kindred societies are now labouring efficiently in behalf of the poor children of New York city. The following sketch, from the pen of one of their visitors, reminds us of much that we have witnessed of a similar characterduring the last twelve years—within those same gloomy walls. The wrongs of this
German girl present a picture, sad but true, of the wrongs and exposures of hundreds in our midst, who, for the want of a Christian home, and
Christian care, become in early youth “the victims of circumstances," and who end their days in the den of the spoiler.
The TOMBS.—Mrs. Foster, the excellent matron of the female department of the prison, had told us of an interesting young German girl, committed for vagrancy, who might just at this crisis be rescued. We entered those soiled and gloomy Egyptian archways, so appropriate and depressing, that the sight of the low columns and lotus capitals, is to me now inevitably associated with the sombre and miserable histories of the place. After a short waiting the girl was brought in—a German girl apparently about fourteen, very thinly but neatly dressed, slight figure, and a face intelligent and old for her years, the eye passionate and shrewd. I give details, because the conversation which followed was remarkable. The poor feel, but they can seldom speak. The story she told with a wonderful eloquence thrilled to all our hearts; it seemed to us then like the first articulate voice from the great poor class of the city. It may jar our refined sensibilities, but we ought to hear it. Her
eye had a hard look at first, but softened when I spoke to her in her own language. “Have you been long here?" "Only two days, sir.” "Why are you here?"
“I will tell you, sir. I was working out with a lady. I had to get up early and go to bed late, and I never had rest. She worked me always; and finally, because I could not do everything, she beat me—she beat me like a dog, and I ran away. I could not bear it.”
The manner of this was wonderfully passionate and eloquent.
“But I thought you were arrested for being near a place of bad character,” said I.
"I am going to tell you, sir. The next day I and my father went to get some clothes I left there, and the lady wouldn't give them up—and what could we do? What can the poor do? My father is a poor old man who picks rags in the streets, and I have never picked rags yet. He said, 'I don't want you to be a rag picker. You are not a child now-people will look at you-you will come to harm. And I said, No, father, I will help you. We must do something now I am out of a place, and so I went out. I picked all day, and didn't make much, and I was cold and hungry. Towards night a gentleman met me, a very fine, well-dressed gen tlman an American -- and he said, “Will you go home with me?' and I said 'No.' He said, “I will give you twenty shillings, and I told him I would
go. And the next morning I was taken up outside by the officer.
“Poor girl!” said some one, “had you forgotten your mother? and what a sin it was?”
“No, sir, I did remember her. She had no clothes and I had no shoes, and I have only this (she shivered in her thin dress), and winter is coming on.
I know what money is, sir. I am only fourteen, but I am old enough. I have had to take care of myself ever since I was ten years old, and I never had a cent given me. It may be a sin, sir (and the tears rained down her cheeks, which she did not deign to wipe away), I do not ask you to forgive it. Men cannot forgive, but God will forgive. I know about men. The rich do such things, and worse, and no one says anything against them. But I, sir-I am poor!-(this she said with a tone which struck the very heart-strings.) I have never had any one to take care of me. Many is the day I have gone hungry from morning till night, because I did not dare spend a cent or two, the only ones I had. Oh, I have wished sometimes to die! Why does God not kill me?"
She was choked by her sobs. We let her calm herself a moment, and then told her our plan of finding her a good home, where she could make an honest living. She was mistrustful. “I will tell you, said Meine Herrn, I know men, and I do not believe any one. I havewbeen cheated so often. There is no trust in any one. I am not a child. I have lived as long as people twice as old.”
“But you surely do not wish to stay in prison ?"
“Oh, God, no! Oh, there is such a weight on my heart here. There is nothing but bad to learn in a prison. Here are