written that his heart may be changed, and that he may be prepared to live or die; but, above all, that he may be prepared to live in heaven eternally. G. W. A FIRESIDE STORY ABOUT A MOTHER'S LOVE. A HIGHLAND widow left her home early one morning, in order to reach, before evening, the residence of a kinsman who had promised to assist her to pay her rent. She carried on her back her only child, a boy two years old. The journey was a long one. I was following the same wild and lonely path when I first heard the story I am going to tell you. The mountain-track, after leaving the small village by the sea-shore where the widow lived, passes through a green valley, watered by a peaceful stream which flows from a neighbouring lake, until, near its further end, it suddenly turns into an 'extensive copse-wood of oak and birch. From this it emerges half-way up a rugged mountain side; and, entering a dark glen, through which a torrent rushes amidst great masses of granite, it, at last, conducts the traveller, by a zig-zag ascent, to a narrow gorge, which is hemmed in upon every side by giant precipices ;overhead is a strip of blue sky, while all below is dark and gloomy. From this mountain pass, the widow's dwelling was ten miles off, and no human habitation was nearer than her own. She had undertaken a long journey indeed! But the rent was due some weeks before, and the sub-factor threatened to dispossess her, as the village in which she lived, and in which her family had lived for two generations, was about to be swept away, in order to enlarge a sheep-farm. Indeed, along the margin of the quiet stream which watered the green valley, and along the shore of the lake, might even then be traced the ruins of many a hamlet, where happy and contented people once lived; but where no sound is now heard, except the bleat of a solitary sheep, or the scream of the eagle, as he wheels his flight among the dizzy precipices. The morning when the widow left her home, gave promise of a lovely day. But, before noon, a sudden change took place in the weather. Northward, the sky became black and lowering. Masses of clouds rested upon the hills. Sudden gusts of wind began to whistle among the rocks, and to ruffle, with black squalls, the surface of the loch. The wind was succeeded by rain, and the rain by sleet, and sleet by a heavy fall of snow. It was the month of May,-for that storm is yet remembered as the 'great May storm.' The wildest day of winter never beheld flakes of snow falling heavier or faster, or whirling with more fury through the mountain-pass, filling every hollow and whitening every rock! Weary, and wet, and cold, the widow reached that pass with her child. She knew, that a mile beyond it there was a mountain shieling which could give shelter; but the moment she attempted to face the storm of snow which was rushing through the gorge, all hope failed of proceeding in that direction. To return home was equally impossible. She must find shelter. The wild cat's or fox's den would be welcome. After wandering for some time among the huge fragments of granite which skirted the base of the overhanging precipices, she at last found a more sheltered nook. She crouched beneath a projecting ledge of rock, and pressed her child to her trembling bosom. The storm continued to rage. The snow was accumulating over head. Hour after hour passed. It became bitterly cold. The evening approached. The widow's heart was sick with fear and anxiety. Her child-her only childwas all she thought of. She wrapt him in her shawl. But the poor thing had been scantily clad, and the shawl was thin and worn. The widow was poor, and her clothing could hardly defend herself from the piercing cold of such a night as this. But whatever was to become of herself, her child must be preserved. The snow, in whirling eddies, entered the recess, which afforded them, at best, but miserable shelter. The night came on. The wretched mother stripped off almost all her own clothing and wrapped it round her child, whom, at last, in despair, she put into a deep crevice of the rock, among some dried heather and fern. And now she re solves to brave the storm, and return home, in order to get assistance for her babe, or to perish in the attempt! Clasping her infant to her heart, and covering his face with tears and kisses, she laid him softly down in sleep, and rushed in. to the snowy drift. That night of storm was succeeded by a peaceful morning. The sun shone from a clear blue sky, and wreathes of mist hung along the mountain-tops, while a thousand waterfalls poured down their sides. Dark figures, made visible at a distance on the white ground, might be seen with long poles, examining every hollow near the mountain path. They are people from the village, who are searching for the widow and her son. They have reached the pass. A cry is heard by one of the shepherds, as he sees a bit of a Tartan cloak among the snow. They have found the widow -dead; her arms stretched forth, as if imploring for assistance! Before noon, they discovered her child by his cries. He was safe in the crevice of the rock. The story of that woman's affection for her child was soon read in language which all understood. Her almost naked body revealed her love. Many a tear was shed, many an exclamation expressive of admiration and affection was uttered, from enthusiastic sorrowing Highland hearts, when on that evening the aged pastor gathered the villagers in the deserted house of mourning, and by prayer and fatherly exhortation, sought to improve, for their souls' good, an event so sorrowful. More than half a century passed away! That aged and faithful pastor was long dead, though his memory still lingers in many a retired glen, among the children's children, of parents whom he baptized. His son, whose locks were white with age, was preaching to a congregation of Highlanders in one of our great cities. It was on a communion Sabbath. The subject of his discourse was the love of Christ. In illustrating the self-sacrificing nature of that 'love which seeketh not her own,' he narrated the above story of the Highland widow, whom he had himself known in his boyhood. And he asked, 'If that child is now alive, what would you think of his heart, if he did not cherish an affection for his mother's memory, and if the sight of her poor tattered cloak, which she had wrapt round him, in order to save his life at the cost of her own, did not fill him with gratitude and love too deep for words? Yet what hearts have you, my hearers, if, over those memorials of your Saviour's sacrifice of himself, you do not feel them glow with deeper love, and with adoring gratitude?' A few days after this, a message was sent by a dying man requesting to sce this clergyman. The request was speedily complied with. The sick man seizing the minister by the hand, and gazing intently on his face, said, 'You do not, you cannot recognize me. But I know you, and knew your father before you. I have been a wanderer in many lands. I have visited every quarter of the globe, and fought and bled for my king and country. I came to this town a few weeks ago in bad health. Last Sabbath I entered your church,— the church of my countrymen,-where I could once more hear, in the language of my youth and of my heart, the gospel preached. I heard you tell the story of the widow and her son,'-here the voice of the old soldier faltered, his emotion almost choked his utterance; but recovering himself for a moment, he cried, I am that son!' and burst into a flood of tears. 'Yes,' he continued, 'I am that son! Never, never, did I forget my mother's love. Well might you ask what a heart should mine have been if she had been forgotten by me! Though I never saw her, dear to me is her memory, and my only desire now is, to lay my bones beside hers in the old church yard among the hills. But, sir, what breaks my heart, and covers me with shame, is this,-until now I never saw, with the eyes of the soul, the love of my Saviour in giving himself for me, a poor, lost, hell-deserving sinner. I confess it! I confess it!' he cried, looking up to heaven, his eyes streaming with tears; and, pressing the minister's hand close to his breast he added, 'It was God made you tell that story. Praise be to his holy name, that my dear mother has not died in vain, and that the prayers which, I was told, she used to offer for me, have been at last answered; for the love of my mother has been blest by the Holy Spirit, for making me see, as I never saw before, the love of the Saviour. I see it, I believe it; I have found deliverance in old age where I found it in my childhood,-in the cleft of the rock; but it is the Rock of Ages!' and, clasping his THE DROWNING OF SIX HUNDRED (A Thrilling Sketch.) In the year 1830, there was hovering on the African coast a large clipper-brig, called the Brilliante, commanded by a desperado named Homans, who was an Englishman by birth, and was known along the whole coast and in Cuba as the most successful slaver of his day. The brig was owned by two men resid. ing in Havanna, one an Englishman, the other a Spaniard. She was built to carry six hundred negroes, and in her, Homans had made ten successful voyages, actually landing in Cuba five thousand negroes! The brig carried ten guns, had thirty sweeps and a crew of sixty Spaniards, the most of them old pirates as desperate as their commander. An English brig of war which attacked her, was so cut up in hull and rigging, that she was abandoned and soon after sunk; an English sloop of war attempt ed to carry the Brilliante with boats, which were beaten of with great slaughter. Now that it was known that Homan was again on the coast, it was resolved to make another attempt to take him, with the evidence of his guilt on board. The arrangements for this purpose were well made. He was allowed to take in his cargo of negroes and set sail. The Brilliante had not lost sight of the coast when the quick eye of her commander discovered that he was entrapped. Four cruisers, three of them English, and one American, had been laying in wait for him, and escape was hopeless. In running away from one he would come within reach of another. Night was coming on, and he was silently regarding his pursuers, when suddenly the huge sails of the brig flapped idly-the wind died away, and the slaver was motionless on the waters. 'This will not do,' Homans muttered, knocking away the ashes from his cigar -'their boats will come down upon me before I am ready for their visit,' and as he said this, his stern face lit up with a smile, the expression of which was diabolical. It was evident enough that he meditated some desperate plan. A dozen sweeps were got out, and the vessel moved slowly through the water. Meantime the darkness having deepened, Homans proceeded to carry out his design. The cable, attached to the heaviest anchor, was taken outside of the hawse hole, and carried round the rail of the brig extending from the bow, aft and round the stern, and then forward on the other side. The hatches were then taken off, and the negroes passed up, each securely ironed by the wrists. As the miserable wretches came up from the hot hold, into the fresh air, they expressed by their looks a gratitude which would have softened the heart of any but the fiend in whose power they were. Without a word they were led to the side and made to bend over the rail, outside of which the chain ran. The irons which clasped their wrists were then fastened by smaller chains to the links of the cable. It was slow work, but at the end of four hours, six hundred Africans, male and female, were bending over the rail of the brig, in a painful position, holding by their chained hands the huge cable, which was attached to a heavy anchor, supended by a single sling from the bow. Homans himself examined the fasten. ings to see that every negro was strongly bound to the chain. This done, he ordered the pen work of the hold to be broken up, brought on deck, bound up in matting, and filled with shot, and thrown overboard. The work was completed an hour before day break, and now the only witnesses to Homans' guilt were attached to that fatal chain. Homans turned to the mate, and with a smile full of meaning, said in Spanish 'Harro, take an axe and go forward. The wind will come off to us soon. Listen for the word, and when you hear it, cut the sling.' The man went forward, and Homans turned and in vain endeavoured to penetrate the darkness. I don't want to lose the niggers,' he said, speaking aloud, and yet I dare not wait till daylight. I wish I knew where the hounds were.' At that instant the report of a gun reached his ear, then another and another in different directions. The cruisers were firing signals. 'That's enough,' exclaimed Homans, 'I know where you are.' Then raising his voice, he cried, Harro, are you ready? the wind will reach us soon.' Ay, ay, sir,' was the response. In a few minutes the sails began to fill, and the vessel moved slowly through the water. 'How much water do you suppose we have here?' asked Homans, turning to the man at the wheel. 'Fifty fathoms at least,' was the reply. That will do,' the slaver muttered, and he walked forward and examined carefully the chain gang,' as he brutally termed his diabolical invention. The negroes sent up piteous groans. For many hours they had bent over in this unnatural position, by which they were suffering the keenest torture. The breeze strengthened, and the Brilliante dashed like a racer over the deep. Homans hailed from the quarter deck, while his men collected in groups, witnessed unmoved the consummation of the plan. Are you ready, Harro?' Homans looked around, and out into the darkness, which was fast giving way to the morn. Then he thundered out 'Strike !' There was the sound of a single blow, a heavy plunge, and as the cable fell off the side, a crash, above which rose one terrible shriek-it was the last cry of the murdered Africans. One moment more, and all was still. Six hundred human beings had gone down with anchor and chain to the bottom of the ocean! Two hours after daybreak, the Brilliante was overhauled. There was no evidence that she was a slaver, and her captors were obliged to let her pass. The instructions to cruisers at that time did not allow a vessel to be captured unless negroes were found on board. ROWLAND HILL'S VISITORS. SURROUNDED as he was by persons of every description, it was necessary that he should be somewhat reserved, except to a few individuals who possessed his confidence. Numbers fancied they knew him well, because he was courteous, polite, and cheerful, in the presence of every person of whom he en tertained a good opinion; but though the readiness of his wit and humour caused him to converse in an apparently unrestrained manner with many, very few were acquainted with the movements of his mind, or the events of his early days. Some presumed upon his kindness; but he bore their forwardness with patience, for the sake of doing good, and because he believed it arose from ignorance. If once his suspicions were awakened and confirmed, those he had detected in doing wrong, seldom sought a second interview with him. Many years ago, an individual who had done discredit to a profession of religion, was standing at his door, just as he was going out, and greeted him with 'How do you do, Mr. Hill, I am delighted to see you once more.' made no answer, but with an air of perfect amazement, exclaimed, 'What, arn't you hanged yet?' and returned to the house till the astonished visitor de. parted. He was so well known by name, to every description of person, that applications of all kinds were made to him; and I have witnessed some such scenes at Surrey chapel house, as I think were never to be met with in any other place. Не I well remember one morning the footman ushered in a most romantic looking lady. She advanced with measured steps, and with an air that caused Mr. Hill to retreat towards the fire place. She began, 'Divine shepherd'— 'I hear you have great influence with the royal family.' 'Well ma'am, and did you hear any. thing else?' Now, seriously, sir-my son has the most wonderful poetic powers. Sir, his poetry is of a sublime order-noble, original, fine' Hill's door had literally no rest from morning till night; and nothing could exceed the good humour with which he submitted to every species of interrup. tion. Foreigners, all sorts of mendicants, candidates for the ministry—in short, almost every person who called, found him ready to listen to their cases. These were sometimes, like that we have just described not a little singular. One evening after dinner, his servant said, Sir, a foreign gentleman wishes to speak to you.' 'Well, show him in,' said Mr. Hill, and there entered a tall mustachoed man, who addressed him with, 'Meester Hill, I have heard you are a great, goot man-can do any ting.' Mercy on us! then I must be a wonderful man indeed.' 'Yes, so sare, you are a wonderful man; so I called to ask you to make my ambassador do his duty by me.' 'Sir, I can assure you I have not the honour of knowing him.' 'O, sare, but he regard a letter from you.' 'Sir, I can have no possible influence with him, and cannot take the liberty of writing to him, on a subject about which I know nothing.' 'But sare, I will tell you'— Finding his applicant inclined to be pertinacious, he concluded the business by saying, 'Well sir, you may give my compliments to the ambassador, and say, that I advise him to do his duty; and that will do as well as writing.' Very goot, sare-goot day.' A WIFE WORTH HAVING. THE distinguished William Wirt, within six or eight months after his first marriage, became addicted to intemperance, the effect of which operated strongly upon the mind and health of his wife, and in a few months more she was numbered with the dead. Her death led him to leave the country where he resided, and move to Richmond, where he soon rose to distinction. But his habits hung about him, and occasionally he was found with jolly and frolicsome spirits in bacchanalian revelry. His true friends expostulated with him, to convince him "of the injury he was doing himself. But he still persisted. His practice began to fall off, and many looked upon him as on the sure road to ruin. He was advised to get married with a view of correcting his habits. This he consented to do, if the right person offered. He accordingly paid his addresses to a Miss Gamble. After some months' attentions, he asked her hand in marriage. She replied: 'Mr. Wirt, I have been well aware of your intentions for some time back, and should have given you to understand that your visits and attentions were not acceptable, had I not reciprocated the affection which you evinced for me. But I cannot yield my assent until you make a pledge never to taste, touch, or handle any intoxicating drinks.' This reply to Mr. Wirt was as unexpected as it was novel. His reply was, that he regarded the proposition as a bar to all further consideration upon the subject, and left her. Her course to him was the same as ever-his, resentment and neglect. In the course of a few weeks he went again, and again solicited her hand. But her reply was, her mind was made up. He became indignant and regarded the terms proposed as insulting to his honour, and avowed it should be the last meeting they should ever have. He took to drinking worse and worse, and seemed to run headlong into ruin. She One day, while lying in the outskirts of the city, near a little grocery or grogshop, dead drunk, a young lady, whom it is not necessary to name, was passing that way to her home, not far distant, beheld him with his face upturned to the rays of a scorching sun. took her handkerchief, with her own name marked upon it, and placed it over his face. After he had remained in that way for some hours, he was awaked, and his thirst being great, he went into the little grocery or grog-shop, to get a drink, when he discovered the handkerchief, which he looked at, and the name that was on it. After pausing a few moments, he exclaimed: Great God! who left this with me? Who placed it on my face?' No one knew. He dropped his glass, exclaiming: Enough! enough!' He retired instantly from the grocery, forgetting his thirst, but not the debauch, the handkerchief, or the lady-vowing, if God gave him strength, never to touch, taste or handle intoxicating drinks. To meet Miss. G. was the hardest ef |