promise to his mother, and daily read his Bible; but the sneers of the wicked crew called his mind from reviewing the instructions of his pious mother, and he placed his Bible in the bottom of his chest, to slumber with his conscience. During a severe storm, indeed, when it seemed as if destruction was yawning to receive every soul on board, he thought of his mother, his home, and his promises; and, in the anguish of his heart, resolved to mend, should his life be spared. But when the storm had subsided, the seas were smooth, and the clear sun brought joy and gladness over the great waters, he forgot all his promises, and it now seemed as if the last throb of conscience was stifled. No one of the crew could be more profane-no one more ready to scoff at that religion which, in his childhood, he had been taught to love and revere.

After an absence of several years, this youth found himself once more drawing near his native land. He had traversed the globe over, but during all this time he had neither written to his mother nor heard from her. Though he had thrown off restraint, and blunted the finer feelings of his nature, yet his bosom thrilled with pleasure at the thought of once more meeting his parent and brother. It was in the fall of the year he returned, and, on a lovely eve

in September, walked towards his long-deserted home. Those only are acquainted with the pleasures of the country who have spent their youth in rural retirement. As the young Sailor drew near the spot where he spent his early days-as he ascended the last sloping hill, which hid from his sight the place where he had acted the first scenes of his life, his memory recalled to his mind all the scenes of his "happier days;" while fancy whispered, deceitfully, that hours equally pleasant would again be his. He now saw the rising hills over which he had so often roamed—the grove through which he had so often wandered while it echoed with the music of the feathered tribe; the gentle stream on whose banks he had so often sported; and the rising spire of the temple of Jehovahall tended to excite the most interesting feelings. He drew near the cottage of his mother, and found all was stillness: nothing was to be heard, save the gentlest murmurs of the unruffled waves, or the distant barking of a village dog. A solemnity seemed to be breathed around him; and, as he rapt at his mother's door, his heart misgave him, though he knew not why. He knocked, but no one bid him enter: he called, but no answer was returned, save the echo of his own voice. It seemed like knocking at the door of a tomb. The nearest neighbour,

hearing the noise, came, and found the youth sitting and sobbing on the steps of the door. "Where," cried he with eagerness, "where is my mother and my brother?-O, I hope they are not"—" If," said the stranI can ger, “you enquire for widow.

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only pity you. I have known her but a short time; but she was the best woman I ever knew. Her little boy died of a fever about a year ago; and in consequence of fatigue in taking care of him, and anxiety for a long absent son at sea, the good widow herself was buried yesterday." "O dear!"

cried the youth, "have I staid only long enough to kill my mother! Wretch that I am show me the grave-I have a knife in my bundle-let me die with my mothermy poor broken-hearted parent!" "Hold, my friend," said the astonished neighbour : "if you are this woman's eldest son, I have a letter for you, which she wrote a few days before she died, and desired you might receive it, should you ever return."

They both turned from the cottage, and went to the house of the neighbour. A light being produced, the young man threw down his bundle and hat, and read the following short letter, while his manly cheeks were covered with tears :

"My dearest only Son,- When this reaches you I shall be no more. Your little brother

has gone before me, and I cannot but hope and believe he was prepared. I had fondly hoped I should have once more seen you on the shores of mortality, but the hope is now at an end. I have followed you by my prayers through all your wanderings : often, when you little suspected it, even in the dark cold nights of winter, have I knelt for my lost son. There is but one thing which gives me pain at dying, and that is, my dear William, that 1 must leave you in this wicked world, as I fear, unreconciled to your Maker! I am too low to say more. My glass is run. As you visit the sods which cover my dust, oh remember that you too, must soon follow. Farewell-the last breath of your mother will be spent in praying for you that we may meet above "

The young man's heart was melted on reading these few words from the parent whom he so tenderly loved; and I will only add, that this letter was the means, in the hands of God, of bringing this youth to a saving knowledge of the truth" as it is in Jesus;" that he is now a very respectable and pious man; and that we may learn from scripture, and from daily experience, that "praying breath" shall never be spent in vain.

B.

Balaam was a wicked man, who was led to transgress the command of God, and sin against his own conscience, by the love of this evil world. Balak the king of Moab was afraid of the children of Israel, and he wanted Balaam to go and curse them for him. It was strange that such a request should be made to Balaam, who, it might be supposed, must have known better than to eurse God's people; and it was still more strange, that Balaam should for a moment think it needful to ask God what he should do in such a case. He tells Balak's messengers, that God would not give him leave to go with them. They go and tell Balak, who sends again with much more tempting offers to Balaam; and instead of acting a decided