him,---God, that singled him out in such a family, from his infancy and that gave him a spirit and courage to withstand, and reprove the profaneness even of his own mother, will secure him from any temptation; he will be rather a means to do good to them, than let them hurt him.

Fath. I know God can protect him,---but can it be my duty to leave him under the government of those who have no government of themselves?

Lady. Sir, be pleased to make such provision for him, that they may not wrong him of what you leave for his subsistence; and for the rest, I do not see how you can rea sonably take him out of the hands of his mother.

Fath. Alas! his mother! she is the worst enemy the child can have,--she hates him already for those little turns and reproofs he has given her, which I told you of,--and in short, because he will not be as wicked as the rest of them.

Lady. But God may turn her heart; and then she will bate herself and love the child; and still she is his mother; I would leave him to her, and trust his soul in the hands of God.

Fath. I shall have no peace in leaving him to her,---there is a tenderness in the child's temper, and they, like the men of Sodom to Lot, will vex his righteous soul from day to day; they will be an early affliction, if not a temptation to him.

Lady. Well, sir, there is a middle way still,---leave, as I said, what you will give him, out of their reach, that they may not wrong him,—and impower some particular friends to take care of him so far, that if the child is ill used and desires to be removed, it may be done; but let it be a religious conscientious person, or none at all.

Fath. But where is there such a friend to be found? Lady. Who can be fitter than his maid Margy, seeing she lives so well, and is married to one who you say is so honest and religious a man.

Fath. That very proposal revives my heart,-and I thank

God that put it into your thoughts to move it to me; I will certainly do so.

The father lived not above half a year after this, but made a very Christian and religious end; being a most sincerely humbled penitent for his past life,-frequently blessing God for the first alarms he received in his wicked courses, by the reproof of that little child. But neither his reformed life, or his religious death, had any immediate influence upon his wife,-nay, when his will was opened and read, she was rather enraged than affected with a clause in it, which took the disposal of his youngest son John out of her hands, and left him to be disposed of by Margy,that was the Captain's wife, formerly the child's maid, and by the Lady Barbara————————, that was the lodger, with whom he had the dicourse above, about the disposing of the child and it was thus expressed in his will, I do hereby empower them to inquire into the treatment my said child meets with under his own relations, and to remove him if he is willing to be removed, and that they see cause; according to a written paper of directions, signed and sealed by my own hand and seal, declaring what shall be esteemed a sufficient cause for removing my child; which paper I have left in the hands of the said Mrs. Margaret and the Lady Barbara The mother

was exceedingly uneasy at this clause about the child,and it rather increased than abated her aversion to him: and this made her the willinger to leave him in the country, where it seems his father bad got a school for him and the black boy, a little before he died, recommending him earnestly to the pious Lady in the house, and who promised to take care of him as if he was her own.

And indeed there was no need to recommend him to her; for the child recommended himself to her, by the sweetness of his disposition, the sobriety of his carriage, and his continual banging about her to ask religious questions, and talk of serious things with ber,-which as it was exceeding delightful to her, so it was all his diversion,-for

when other boys were at play, this was his recreation, and he drunk in knowledge like water, and no instruction was lost upon him.

It pleased God so to order things for the early furnishing instruction to this child, that 1. This lady who was a person of very good quality, was without any family but two servants, and so was perfectly at leisure to give, as it were, her whole time to the advantage of his education. 2. That she was a lady of vast knowledge and capacity, joined with admirable experience, and a most excellent Christian. And 3. That she took so much delight in the child, that it: was an unspeakable affliction to her, when he was taken away from the school by his mother,—which was not however, till somewhat more than two years.

In this time he had acquired a knowledge, and experience in religious matters above his years; and as he received instruction himself from this pious lady, so he brought up under him his negro boy, in the knowledge of religion, and the practise of it too. Nor did the good lady spare any pains, or think it below her to instruct the poor negro, and her favourite boy would often desire her to do it, when any thing the negro asked was too hard for him; by which she was a means at least, to make the poor savage creature an example of God's wonderful grace, in bringing him from darkness to light. Among the many discourses which happened between her and the child, I think one more than ordinarily worth recording, which happened soon after the child was come back from the burial of his father.

She had been up in her chamber, something longer than her usual time, and as she came down stairs, she saw her little scholar sitting alone in one of the parlours, looking very melancholy; and as she thought, he either was, or had been crying, she presently imagined, as was most natural to his case, that the child was thinking of his father, and perhaps cast down to be left alone among strangers, and no father to have recourse to as usual,—so she thought

she would speak cheerfully to him. My Jacky, says she (so she had called him for some time) what is the matter my dear? Come, you must not be cast down, child, what have you been crying for?

The boy made her no answer, but cried again; for he was not crying, when she called to him, though he had been crying some time before.

Lady. Come, my dear, you must not grieve yourself, you will make yourself sick did not you and I talk the other day before your father died, of the great duty of resignation to the will of God,-do you remember it?

Boy. Yes, madam,

Lady. Well, my dear, then practise it now. You must not only resign your father, but yourself; for you know, my dear, you must die too, as well as your father.

Boy. Yes, madam.

Lady. Well, and how do you think any one can die with comfort? There is no temper in the world fit to die in, or that we can die comfortably in, but that of penitence and resignation.

Boy. I do not cry for my father, madam, 1 believe he is gone to heaven; he told me he should go to heaven, and bid me not cry for him.

Lady. What do you cry for then, child?

Boy. I cry for my mother.

Lady. Why do you cry for your mother, my dear? Boy. Do folks go to heaven, that do as my dear mother does?

Lady. Why, my dear, what does she do?

Boy. O! she says such words, it frights me.

Lady. My dear, if your mother says bad words, you must not learn them, or think they are not bad words, because it is your mother.

Boy. But sure if it was so wicked a thing to say such words, my mother would not do it.

Lady. It may be she might, my dear, in a passion.

Boy. What, my dear mother?

Lady. It may be she was in a passion, when she did so ; folks say words sometimes when they are angry, which they would not say at another time.

Boy. O then, it is not a wicked thing to say bad words, if they are in a passion, is it?

[The boy looked a little cheerful at that, as if he had gotten an excuse for his mother.]

Lady. Nay, child, do not mistake me, I do not say so neither, passion may be a cause, but it is far from being an excuse; it is rather making two sins of one.

Boy. You said she might be in a passion.

Lady. I said so, child, because many people in a passion, or when they are provoked, will say words, and do things, which they are sorry for after.

Boy. But why do they do so, if it be not that it be less a sin then, than at another time?

Lady. Child, they do it, because passion transports them to do they know not what.

Boy. Why then the passion makes it a greater sin, not a less, do not it?

Lady. Yes it does so: but what do you cry for again, was thy mother in a passion?

[The boy cries again.]

Boy. My mother is always in a passion then, for she always uses these sad words.

Lady. Well, but may be she is sorry for it afterwards, my dear, and repents.

Boy. No, no, my mother does not repent.

Lady. How do you know, that, child?

Boy. Because she does it again every day; and I remember Margy told me a great while ago, that to repent of my sins, was to be sorry for them, and forsake them,and that if I did not forsake them, I might be sure I had not repented.

Lady. And do you remember that so long ago?

Boy. Yes, and I shall never forget it as long as I live;