not all the buds of pinks could smell so sweet as his quick panting breath when, with his arms round her neck, and his flaxen locks floating on her bosom, he did hug and kiss his mother.

Well then, come mother, let me hug and kiss you again.

God bless my sweet little son for ever, cried Mrs Penu, pressing him to her snowy bosom, and smothering him with kisses. Soon as the delicious transport was over, little William, with cheeks and eyes glowing with vermilion and diamonds, called out, well, mother, now tell me what I must do for you again, and see how I will run and do it.

There now, William, cried Mrs. Penn, there now! didn't I tell you so? Did'nt I tell you that if you love any body very much, you will be so happy to do every thing for them? Then, O my son, how readily will you do every thing to please God, if you do but love him?

What will I do to please him, mother?

Why, my son, you will be good, and that's the way to please him.

But what is it that makes any body good, mother? Why, to be always praising God, my son, to be always praising God, that's the first and great thing, to be good, to be always praising God. And there's nothing in the world my son, but God, who deserves to be praised. He alone, William, is GREAT, and therefore he alone is to be praised. He alone is GOOD, and therefore he alone is to be praised. He alone is from EVERLASTING to EVERLASTING, and therefore he alone is to be praised. He alone made all the worlds, and all the people, with all the riches, and beauties, and glories that are in them, and therefore he alone is to be praised.

Here, little William, sensibly affected with his mother's eloquence on this great subject, made a pause;

at-length he said to her, But, mother, is praising God, all that is to make me good?

O no, my son, there's another blessed thing you must do you must not only praise God for all the great things he has done for you, but you must also every day pray to him that he will give you a continual sense of this; so that you may feel such gratitude and love for him as always to do what you know will please him. And from constantly doing this, my dear son, you will feel such a joy and sweetness in your heart as will make you love every body. And then, William, you will be sure never to do them any harm -you will never tell stories upon them-never take any thing from them-never quarrel nor fight with them, but will always do them good as God is always doing you good.

Well, mother, replied William, looking at her with great tenderness, "and will God love me then, and be always good to me like you?"

O yes, my dear child, that he will love you like me; and ten thousand thousand times better. And then, though father and mother die and leave you, yet God will never die and leave you, but will be with you all your days long, to bless you in every thing. And when the time comes for you to die, he will send his Great Angels to bring you to himself in his own glorious heaven, where you will see all the millions of beautiful angels. And there perhaps, my son, you may see me, your mother-but, I hope, not as now, pale, and sickly, and often shedding tears for you-but ten thousand times beyond what I could ever deserve; even like one of his own angels, the first to embrace and welcome you to that happy place.

As the Parent Eagle calling her young to his native skies, when she sees the breaking forth of the sun over all his golden clouds, thus did this tender mother improve the precious hours of the nursery to sow the seeds of religion in the soul of her son. The reader

will see in due season that this, her labour of love was not in vain. The seed fell on good ground. The dews of heaven came down and the happy mother lived to feast on fruits, the richest that God can bestow on a parent this side of eternity, the sweet fruits of a dear child's virtues.

CHAPTER V.

Little William going to school.

MANY a tender mother, after having reared her son to be the sweet companion of her solitude, looks forward, with an aching heart, to the day when he is to be taken from her to go to school. "How can she live without him, whose love-glistening eyes were always dearer to her soul than the rising-sun, and his gay prattling tongue than the song of morning birds." Not so our wiser Mrs. Penn. With her, the blossom had all its charm: but still her thoughts were on the richer fruit. William, 'tis true, was lovely as a child; but she longed to see him glorious as a man-she longed to see him brilliant in conversation-noble in action-and always approached by his friends with that mingled affection and respect so gratifying to a parent's feelings. Soon therefore, as he had attained his ninth year, he was sent to a grammar school at Chigwell. The preference was given to this academy, not so much because it was somewhat convenient to one of the admiral's estates, but because of the teacher, a worthy CLERGYMAN, who had the reputation of taking great pains with his pupils to raise the fair fabrick of their education on the solid basis of PIETY and morals. Prayers, morning and evening, with reading a chapter from the gospels, with short

and affectionate comments, was the constant practice in his school. This was a great recommendation with Mrs. Penn, who had seen so many promising young men suddenly lost to all virtue and character in life, merely for lack of religious principles. But though Mrs. Penn had herself chosen this situation for her son, yet when the time came to make preparations for his leaving her, she could not help feeling a tender melancholy. Nor could William, notwithstanding the sprightliness of youth, entirely escape the soft infection. For several days before he was to go away, it was observed that he seemed to have lost his spirits. In the midst of his play, he would break off and come and sit by her side, in silence, reposing his cheeks on her bosom. And often, when he lifted his eyes to look at his mother, they were seen watery and sad. But, stifling her own sighs, she would press him to her breast, and kissing away his tears, would say, "never mind, my son, never: mind; our parting is unpleasant, but it is for good, for great good both of your honour and my joy. But still I am pleased to see you so sad at parting from your mother. It shows that you remember how much I have loved you. But though we part, William, it is only in the body; which is but small cause of grief. The mind is all, my son, the mind is all; and we can be together in the mind. And so, though I shall not see you, every day, with these bodily eyes, I shall see you with my mind's eye, which is a great deal better. And, O, how often, and how sweetly shall I see my son; every morning coming out from his chamber in dress so neat and clean-and with such sweetness of countenance saluting his school-mates— and so respectfully approaching his teacher! And then the looks of his teacher so bright with pleasure and approbation of his graceful manners and rapid progress! in his studies!—and the eyes of all the boys shining: upon him with such brotherly affection!"

Here William looked at his mother and heaved a sigh, as if he secretly feared he should hardly attain

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such honours; when Mrs. Penn, in a livelier tone, thus went on:-"Yes, William, it is often delightful to my thoughts to see my son in such company: but I often see him in higher company still. I see him every morning and evening on his knees, with placid countenance and meekly beaming eyes, lifted in devotion to his Creator."

Marking William's looks, as with redoubled attention he hung upon her words, she still went on:

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Aye, William, there's the true grandeur and glory of all! O, to think that I should ever have a son to CONVERSE WITH GOD!"

"Well, mother," said William, "Don't I always pray with you night and morning, as you taught me?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Penn, "that you do, William ; and that gives me good hope you will continue that pious practice at school. But lest the company of so many boys, and some of them perhaps giddy, should divert you from it, I want to make a bargain with you, my son."

"What's that, mother?" said William, eagerly.

"Why, here's a handsome watch, William," said she, taking one from her bosom; "that I have bought for you. It keeps good time, just like my own. Now, William, I give you this watch, that at a particular hour of the day, no matter what company or business is before you, you will retire to your chamber, and there spend one quarter of an hour in devotion. I will also, at the same moment, retire to my closet, for the same important purpose. And O, what joy will it be to my heart to think that while I am in the act of adoring God, my son is adoring him also; that while others are making their court to dying worms, my son is bowing before the Eternal King, and seeking those honours that will last for ever."

William took the watch from his mother, giving her at the same time the most solemn promise that he would meet her every day at the appointed hour of