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little prattler, after a few moments' silence. These words effected, as if by some mysterious power, what other appliances failed to accomplish; the mother opened her eyes, and slowly stretching out her hand, beckoned for her son. He was placed in her arms in a low voice, she commended her offspring to God, and prayed that he might meet her in heaven. That was her last prayer: in a few hours that son was motherless.

The scene now changes. We pass the interval of twenty years, and find that son in college. The noble and commanding form of William L., his urbanity of manners and diligence in study, soon won him the esteem of faculty and students. During the first year, he held a high rank in his class, and gave promise of eminent usefulness. But college life puts a young man's principles to a severe test. It is a state of exposure and trial, during which no youth is safe, without devoted piety; a security which William L. did not possess. He formed unfortunate connexions with several idle students, the effects of which were soon apparent in his recitations. He was admonished of his danger, but seemed as if spell-bound by some fascination, from which he could not escape. It has been justly said that idleness is the parent of many vices; so it proved in the present instance. Idleness led on to dissipation; and, after repeated admonitions and fruitless efforts to reclaim him, William L. was expelled from college, a drunkard! Small, indeed, did the probability seem that his mother's last prayer would be answered.

William returned to his home. The report of his expulsion from college, and the cause of it, blasted the high-raised expectations of his friends, and sounded in their ears like the knell of all his prospects and hopes. Still they endeavoured to throw around him such influences and associations as would restore his self-respect; and, with all the eloquence of pure affection, they besought him to abandon at once and forever the intoxicating bowl. Their earnest entreaties led him to moderate, in some degree, his excesses, but produced no radical reformation; and his friends, wearied with unavailing efforts, were beginning to conclude that they must give up his case as hopeless.

One dark, cloudy evening, William was sitting alone in his chamber, musing upon the great change that had, within a few years, come over his prospects, when his uncle entered his room, and proposed a walk. William put on his hat, and accompanied him. Whether by accident or design, they walked in the direction of the grave-yard, and soon found themselves by the grave of Mrs. L. The white tombstones around, scarcely less visible in the darkness, read a silent but impressive lesson on the frailty of man. As they were leaning on the gravestone of Mrs. L., the uncle gave William a description of her character, and of the circumstances attending her death, particularly her dying prayer, that he might meet her in heaven: "and now," said he, taking William by the hand, "will you meet her in heaven, or will you die a drunkard ?”

William burst into tears, and sank down upon his mother's grave overwhelmed with emotion. The darkness without was but a faint emblem of the darkness and horror within. Guilt, remorse, shame, stung him to an intensity of anguish, such as he had never known before. His life passed in rapid review his talents wasted-his time misspent-reputation blasted hopes crushed-the hearts of friends bleeding over his degradation-a mother's last, fond desire unheeded-her last prayer unanswered-these, and kindred reflections, came crowding upon his thoughts, and death itself seemed preferable to his present degradation and wretchedness. He retired to his chamber, and to a sleepless pillow. The next morning, when the family had gathered around the breakfast-table, they found upon it a temperance pledge, drawn up in strictest form, and signed by William L. From that time may be dated, not only reformation of external character, but also, as is believed, an internal and spiritual renovation of the heart.

He now resolved to resume his studies, and prepare for some useful station; but before he could put his purpose into operation, he was seized with a fever, which left no hope of his recovery. He bore his protracted illness without a murmur, and seemed desirous of recovery only that he might counteract, in some degree, the evil he had already done. On one occasion, when his father told him the physician had recommended him a little wine, he said: "Father, if you insist upon it, I will take wine, though I

should greatly prefer not to do it. I must die, and let me die without being polluted by what has wellnigh wrought my ruin." This request was granted. A few days after, a long and silent procession was seen moving to the church-yard, preceded by the mortal remains of William L. His body slumbers by the side of his mother; but where is the spirit? We believe that the mother's last prayer was answered, and that her son has gone to meet her in heaven.

MRS. SAVAGE.

THE Diary of Mrs. Savage abounds with expressions of concern for her children. At one time she writes: "I read in course, in my closet, Isaiah liv, with the exposition. I was much affected with the 13th verse, 'And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord.' Though it is spoken of the Church's children, I would apply it to my own children, in particular, and desire to act faith on it. I am caring and endeavouring that they may be taught and instructed in the good way. This is the inward desire of my soul. Now, saith God, they shall be taught of me, and all thy children shall-a sweet promise, it much satisfies me; Lord, set in with poor parents, who desire nothing in the world so much, as to see their children walk in the narrow way that leads to life!"

MOTHER OF DOCTOR A. CLARKE.

DR. ADAM CLARKE, when a boy, having one day disobeyed his mother, she took the Bible, and read and commented on Prov. xxx, 17, in a very serious manner. The poor culprit was cut to the heart, believing the words had been sent immediately from heaven. He went out into the field with a troubled spirit, and was musing on the awful denunciation of Divine displeasure, when the hoarse croak of a raven sounded in his conscience an alarm more terrible than the cry of fire at midnight. He looked up, and soon perceived this most ominous bird, and, actually supposing it to be the raven of which the text spoke, coming to pick out his eyes, he clapped his hands on them, and, with the utmost speed, ran home, to escape the impending danger.

A SCENE IN THE PHILADELPHIA PENI

TENTIARY.

WE passed out to the ante-room again, where we encountered a new-comer, who had just reached the prison as we re-entered.

He had been sent up for

five years, on a charge of embezzlement.

He was elegantly attired in the latest style of fashion, and possessed all the nonchalance and appearance of a genteel rowdy. He twirled his watchchain, looked particularly knowing at a couple of ladies who chanced to be present, and seemed utterly indifferent about himself or the predicament he was

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