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

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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

C

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 devotio to his Creator."

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

"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!"

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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.

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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

devotion; and assuring her, too, what pleasure it would give him to think he was worshipping God at the same moment with his dear mother.

Having discharged this high duty to her son, and the hour being come for his departure, Mrs. Penn took leave of her little William with that dignified kind of sorrow which alone can reach the heart of real piety. While William, having on this, as on all other occasions, such good cause to glory in his mother as his dear guardian angel, took leave of her with a joy mingled with his tears that made them delicious.

CHAPTER VI.

WILLIAM, now in his ninth year, is at Chigwell school, among a crowd of strangers. But though innocence like his feels not the bitterness of grief, yet the separation, and for the first time too, from a mother so dear, must wring some drops from his youthful heart. it is visible to every eye, nor least of all to his worthy preceptor. And if this amiable man, at first sight, felt such respect for him, as the son of the brave admiral Penn, that respect was mellowed into the kindest sympathy, when he saw his cheeks of youth shrouded with sorrow. This melancholy was of advantage to William. It caused him to think so dearly of his mother's last command, that every day, punctually as the appointed hour arrived, he would retire to his chamber to pray. But although, as he himself candidly acknowledged, this pious act was at first performed principally on account of his mother's request and his own promise; yet he soon began to find a delight in it. He soon found, on entering his chamber, a crowd of precious ideas pressing upon his mind.—He felt that "he was acting the dutiful child to a beloved mother-that beloved mo

ther was at the same moment in her chamber to meet him and both of them engaged in the most ennobling of all services-the worship of God."

Christ has said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me." And some are of opinion that, in uncorrupted minds, like those of children, it requires nothing but a little consideration to bring them to be religious and that if young people, who are yet tolerably innocent, would but retire awhile, every day, into some secret place, and indulge a few serious thoughts, such ashow they came into existence-where they are nowand where they soon must be-they could not but be startled into a solemn conviction of the being and attributes of God; their dependence on him; and the great wisdom of devotion. This appears to have been remarkably verified in the case of young Penn. It appears from all his biographers, that he had not been long engaged in this pious work of daily retiring by himself, like the youthful Samuel, to meditate and pray, before he was met, like that holy child, with a wonderful answer. One day, while alone in his chamber, he was suddenly surprised by a light of a most extraordinary lustre, which he called "AN EXTERNAL GLORY." And at the same time he experienced in his heart a LIGHTSOMENESS and JOY which he had never felt before. And though he could not define either this internal or external something; yet to his dying day, he spoke of it as A VISITATION FROM GOD," who had thus lovingly condescended to invite him to the "HONOURS of a PIOUS

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Some gentlemen, and those too so modest as to think themselves the only wits in the world, will probably laugh at this as a mere childish weakness in young William Penn. But such persons ought to remember that William Penn is not the first nor the last who has been affected in this way in their devotions. Thousands and millions of souls, especially at first turning their backs on a false and wicked world, and coming