came in thoroughly drenched with the rain, and exhausted. I have not yet learned the particulars. I only know that she set out as soon as she was informed of the danger of her brother, and arrived here last night."

"It is a wonder she did not perish. But what is now to be done? I had better go and get some of the neighbors to come and lay him out. Anything you want done first."

"I should like to have you send to the post-office for me, and make inquiry if anything has been heard of Mr. Brainard. He wrote me he should be here last evening."

"I wish that I had known it before I left home; then I could have sent Ben. I don't know, though, as it matters much, for it is ten to one if he had gone a step after my back was turned. My children don't behave as yours do or did. I know about him who is gone, and the girl that would come through such a storm must be of the same make Well, I will go and send help here as soon as I can, and go myself to the office, and then I shall know it is done." He laid his hard hand for a moment on the temples of the sleeper, saying, "What a loss to lose such a son! and what a comfort to have such a son!" He left the house, and proceeded to execute the plan proposed.

Mrs. Brainard was surprised at the kindness of one who was distinguished for his misanthropy, but thought it not stranger than that she should be supported as she was in her grievous trial. She referred all to the good providence of God.

Mr. Bateman had proceeded but a short distance on his way before he saw Mr. Brainard slowly advancing towards him. He had arrived at the opening of the valley at a late hour the night before, and, with his feeble health, did not dare to undertake to make his way through the darkness and the storm.

When he saw Bateman in the distance, he was sorry that it was necessary to meet him. The last time they met, Bateman, for an alleged fault on the part of Brainard, had overwhelmed him with abuse.

As they drew near, Brainard took the opposite side of the way, and looked down, that they might pass in silence, but was surprised to find Bateman planting himself before him, and, with his eyes filled with tears, extending his hand. The hand could not be refused.

"Have you been at my house?" said Brainard, perceiving that he was speaking to a changed man.

At length he rose to proceed. "I see I must go with you," said Bateman. Leaning on Bateman's arm, Brainard made his way slowly towards the dwelling which he longed, yet feared, to reach. When within sight of it, he paused, and it was not until Bateman had remarked, "Your wife sees you, and wants you to come on," that he moved forward.

Bateman assisted him to enter, and closing the door, went on his way.

There was not one of the scattered inhabitants of the valley who did not sympathise with the bereaved parents, and freely furnish all the aid their circumstances required. All were surprised that Bateman should be the messenger, and still more that his manner should be so softened and subdued.

The funeral took place at the appointed time. Bateman was there, and classed himself with the mourners. It was the first time for more than half a score of years that he had been present where a prayer was offered, or other religious services performed.

When the body was consigned to its restingplace in the lone burial-yard where the dead of the retired valley were deposited, he followed the bereaved family to their home, but did not enter. He seemed to have an instinctive feeling that they should, for a season at least, be left alone. Mary saw him sitting under the deep shade of a venerable beech that grew at a little distance in rear of the dwelling, and invited him to came in.

'I don't know, young woman, as I ought to disturb you, seeing how you are situated, but I didn't feel as if I could go home. There isn't any place for my feelings there, and, to tell the truth, I feel as if I had lost the only friend I had in the world."

"If he was your friend," replied Mary, "my father and mother are your friends—we

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are all your friends, and greatly obliged for the sympathy and assistance you have rendered us. When did you become acquainted

with my brother?"

"A year ago, when you first came here, I saw him, and he treated me as if I was a human creature, which was so different from what I was used to, that I couldn't help liking him, though I didn't let him know it. Last spring, when he came home from college, and before he went to that place where he broke down, as I was afraid he would, I saw a great deal of him."

"I never knew that he visited you. You were never at our house."

"You were not here all the time, and I guess he didn't tell you all he did in his way of trying to do good. You see, he would take his gun and come over our way, and if he found me by myself he would begin talking to me. Many a time I abused him, and threatened violence if he came again; but he would take it all as pleasantly as a lamb, and may be the next day he would come along with that smile of his-you know what sort of one it was?"

He raised his eyes, which had been steadfastly fixed on a decaying log, and saw that she was weeping.

"I'm sorry-I was going to say I was sorry I had said anything to make you cry, but I wont say so, for I don't think it does anybody any harm to cry.”

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Go on," said the weeping girl.

Well, he kept on coming till I couldn't find heart to be cross to him, and sometimes I would find myself talking with him, and forget what time it was; and at such times he always said something on the subject of reliligion that I couldn't forget. Before he went away, he had brought me back in my belief to what I was when I was a child; he brought me back to the catechism. I didn't let him know it, though. I got to love him as if he was my own son, and more too; but he never knew it. I had got so unused to having or showing any feeling, that I couldn't say what I wanted to. When he went away, I wanted to throw my arms around him, but I couldn't. I did make out to offer him money to keep on through college; but he said it belonged to my own boys, and he must do something for his parents. He tried to make me promise to attend to religion, but I would not, though I was very near it, and if he had urged a little longer I should. When he bade

me good-bye, he looked sorrowful, and said, I am afraid, after all, friend Bateman, that you will be lost.' Those words have been ringing in my ear ever since."

"Come in and talk with my father on this subject," said Mary, knowing that her father would rejoice to find him in such a frame of spirit, and might give him counsel that might be of saving benefit.

“No,” said he, “ I had rather talk with you. I can't be half as free with him as with you There is a good deal in your ways that reminds me of him." I wish I could have seen him before he died. As soon as I heard he had come home sick-that is, as soon as I got home, I started to come here; but the bridge was gone, and the storm and darkness made it impossible for me to go through the woods towards the head of the stream, where I could cross. But you were out in the storm; how was it?"

I left the main road just before sunset. I had the stage set me down there. It was dark before I got half the way through the valley."

"How could you keep the road?”

"I did not except by feeling. I felt my way the whole distance, and was about to give up, when the faint light of the window met my eye. I am thankful I was permitted to see him before he died."

"I can't help thinking how different your family, or rather your father's family, are from mine; and the main reason is, that mine were brought up heathens, and, I am afraid, will never be anything else. I wanted to see that brother of yours once more. I would have felt my way here if the bridge hadn't been gone. I didn't take a lantern for fear they would ask me where I was going. I wanted to see him, and give him the promise that he begged for when he bid me farewell the last time we parted."

"Oh! make it to me; he would wish you to do it if he could have the opportunity "

"I will on one condition. If you will pray for me here, there is nobody to see or hear you but God,-I will give you the promise he tried so hard to make me give him."

Mary hesitated. Her voice had never been heard in prayer, save when whispered in the retirement of her chamber. She felt, however, that it was wrong to hesitate. With a glowing countenance she kneeled in the deep shadow of the forest trees, and in tremulous tones breathed forth a prayer for the returning

prodigal so tender and solemn, that his heart was more deeply affected than when kneeling beside the coffin of his departed friend. Without uttering a word, he turned his footsteps towards his home, and Mary went in to comfort her afflicted parents.

On the next Sabbath, Bateman was at Mr. Brainard's at an early hour, prepared to accompany them to their house of worship, which was at the village without the limits of the valley. In that village Bateman was well known. He frequently was there on the Sabbath, but his foot had never crossed the threshold of the house of God.

Much speculation was occasioned among his former associates when he was seen passing in the direction of the church with a pious family. Some followed him till they fairly saw him enter the sanctuary. Others, more sceptical, actually entered themselves, that they might be assured of the strange fact

that he had exchanged the seat of the scorner for that of the disciple.

The pastor saw him, and his devout bearing and moistened eye gave a joy to his heart which he had never felt before while standtng in the sacred desk. It, moreover, prompted him to enter on a course of exertion in behalf of those whose case had commonly been considered hopeless, which resulted in the conversion of nearly a score.

In due time they, with Bateman, made a public profession of religion. To one who congratulated Bateman on the change he had experienced, and not observed in others, he replied, "Let God have all the glory; yet, to the praise of the glory of his grace, let it be understood that these effects have followed the faithfulness of that young man who is dead and gone, and the faithfulness of those parents who brought him up to do good!"

FROM Dumbarton, we took our departure in a steamboat for Glasgow, distance up the Clyde about 20 miles. This is a delightful sail. The banks of the river, upon the right more particularly, are highly cultivated, and the grounds, which are laid out in parks, lawns, and ornamental plantations, contiguous to gentlemen's seats and country mansions, present a lively picture of opulence, and indicate your proximity to a great, flourishing commercial city. The navigation of the Clyde is greatly improved by river embankments, which contract and proportionably deepen the bed of the river. But nothing has contributed so largely, within the last few years, to the commercial interests and aggrandizement of Glasgow as steam navigation. It is well known that the first steamboat constructed in Great Britain was built in Glasgow, in 1812a small boat, christened the Comet, of about 25 tons, and plied upon the Clyde between Glasgow and Greenock. When I first visited Glasgow, in 1806, the Clyde was a small,

rapid, shallow stream, incapable of floating a paddle boat at Glasgow, and just answered the purpose of a wash-tub for the washer women of the city. Now, as we neared the city, a long range of funnels, rising from splendid steamers moored along the wharfs, receiving and discharging their cargoes, presented a most animating scene of bustling commerce.

The city is situated upon the northern banks of the Clyde, and chiefly built upon a plain, but rises on the north and north-west to a bold ridge. The streets are spacious and well built, thronged with a concentrated population, and every court, lane, and alley literally crammed with children. The main street, running east and west, continued under the names of Argyle, Gallowgate, and Trongate, is about two miles in length, and eighty feet in breadth For so large a city, the general appearance of the citizens is rough, squalid, and perhaps I should not be far from the truth if I were to add, dirty; the children generally, and the young laboring women frequently,

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without shoes and stockings, half dressed in tattered rags, and would indicate to a stranger, if he were not better informed, an extreme state of indigence. At the same time he will observe an orderly movement and no begging in the streets. The people do not look healthy, but are pale, thin, attenuated, and, one would imagine, only half fed. This may arise from the atmosphere being constantly impregnated with the smoke and fumes of extensive manufactories, for the city is by no means confined, not half as much so as London, and yet the inhabitants do not carry the same ruddy appearance of health and cheerfulness.

The four bridges thrown over the Clyde have a charming effect, and that is very much heightened by the ample space left between the river and the buildings, which rise beautifully upon its banks.

The new Exchange is a splendid and elegant building, every way worthy of this magnificent city. We have seen no building of the kind equal to it, excepting the Exchange in Paris, and the new one in London.

We visited the ancient cathedral, interesting as a monument of departed Popery and as the record of the architectural genius which distinguished the early ages of Christianity. It is still upheld in a good state of preservation.

Here we again met the Quaker and his family, whom I mentioned as seeing at the Trosachs. After the usual friendly salutations, he inquired whither we were going next. We informed him that we were bound for Londonderry. In turn we inquired of him where he was going. He replied that he should take the steam-packet for Liverpool, on his return to London. We proposed that he should alter his route, and join us in an excursion through Ireland. He seemed a little startled at the bare proposal, and declined the invitation; but immediately asked, "Art thou going to take thy daughter with thee?" "Certainly I am." Well, then, I think thou art a very bold fellow." I understood the admonition perfectly. It spoke a volume to my mind. He really thought we should never return. His mind, as the minds of almost all Englishmen are, was so thoroughly imbued with a sense of the ferocity of the Irish character, that he concluded at once that we were rushing upon certain death. As to an English lady travelling in Ireland, where the least she could expect would be to have her throat cut, the thing was monstrous, unheard-of, and

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most presumptuous. The fact is, that no English ladies do travel in Ireland, and very seldom an English gentleman, excepting upon matters of business. A fearful apprehension, and a most unreasonable and unjust one, fills the mind, that all the crimes of Ireland chronicled in the English daily journals will be visited upon them.

A little to the eastward of the cathedral, upon a lofty ridge, which bounds the northern extremity of the city, you notice the Merchants' Park—an odd name, considering the purpose for which it is consecrated. It is an immense ledge of rocks, which form the quarries, that are deeply and widely excavated to furnish material for building the city, and then converted into a cemetery for burying the citizens. This is the Merchants' Park. The whole is tastefully laid out, planted with shrubbery, evergreens, flowers, &c., in imitation of Pere la Chaise, in Paris. A winding path conducts you to the summit. The tombs are all excavated from the rocks, and the merchants of Glasgow may rest here securely enough until the trumpet of the archangel calls them to judgment.

On the peak of this cliff stands the monument of Knox, the Reformer, and all Scotland, for 50 miles around, may see it every day. From this elevation the eye wanders over the city of Glasgow, the windings of the Clyde, the fortress of Dumbarton, the hills of Renfrewshire, and the mountains in the far off distance. The churches, chapels, asylums, hospitals, banks, theatres, hotels, bazaars, &c., are all just suited to their respective objects, and just such as one meets with in all the large towns in the British Empire.

In taking leave of this rude country, where

"No vernal bloom: the torpid rocks array, But winter, ling'ring, chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare and stormy glooms invest,"

It is scarcely needful to remark that the romantic ideas which the perusal of her poets and historians, her philosophers and divines, of her martial achievements and undaunted heroism, wakened in the student's youthful mind, vanish into air, and leave the impression of rocks, and cliffs, and naked mountains.