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and blessing which enables me to feed and clothe them every year so plentifully."

Seeing Ben look rather serious, the old gentleman, in a livelier tone, resumed his speech, "Yes, Ben, all this is very true; but yet let us not be disheartened. Although we have no funds now, yet a noble supply is at hand."

Where, father,” said Ben, roused up, where”

“Why, in your own virtues, Ben, in your own vir. tues, my boy-There are the noblest funds that God ean bestow on a young man.

All other funds may easily be drained by our vices and leave us poor indeed. But the virtues are fountains tiat never fail: they are indeed the true riches and honours, only.by other names. Only persevere, my son, in the virtues, as you have already so bravely begun, and the grand object is gained. By the time you reach twenty-one, for

every friend that you now have you will have ten; and for every dollar an hundred; and with these you will make thousands more. Thus, under God, you will have the glory to be the artificer of your own fame and fortune: and that will bring ten thousand times more honor and happiness, to you, Ben, than all the money that governors and fathers could ever give you.

Ben's countenance brightened as his father uttered this; then heaving a deep sigh, as of strong hope that such great things might one day be realized; he said, “well father, God only knows what I am to come to; but this I know, that I feel in myself a deterinination to do my best.”

I believe you do, my son, and I thank God most heartily that I have such good reason to believe you do. And when I consider, on one hand, what a fine field for fame and fortune this new country presents to young men of talents and enterprise: and on the other hand, what wonders you, a poor unknown and unfriended boy have done in Philadelphia, in only six months, I feel transported at the thought of what you may yet attain before my grey hairs descend to the grave.

Who knows, Ben, for God is good, my son, who knows but that a fate like that of young Joseph, whom his brethren drove into Egypt, may be in reserve for you? And who knows but that old Jacob's joys may be inine? that like him, after all my anxieties on your account, I may yet hear the name of my youngest son, my beloved Benjamin, coming up from the South, pertumerl with praise for his great virtues and services to his country? Then when I hear the sound of his fame rising from that distant land, like the pleasant thunders of summer before refreshing showers, and remember how he used to stand a little prattling boy by my side, in his rosy cheeks and flaxen locks filling the candie moulds, or twisting the snow white cotton wicks with his tender fingers. O how will such remembrance lighten up the dark evening of my days, and cause iny setting sun to go down in joy!”

He spoke this in tones so melting, that Ben, who was sitting by his father's side, fell with his face on his bosom, without saying a word. The fond parent, hearing him soh, tenderly embraced hin, and with a voice broken with sighs, went on, "Yes, my son, the measure of my joys will then be 'full. I shall have nothing to detain me any longer in this vale of troubles, but shall gladly breathe out my life in praise to God for this his last, his crowning act of goodnessfor this his blessing me in my son.

After a moment's pause, the feelings of both being too deliciously affected for speech, Ben gently raised his face from his father's bosom, and with his eyes yet red and wet with tears, tenderly looking at hiin, said, "I would to God, father, you would go and live iu Phi. ladelphia.”

“Why so, my son"?
“Because, I don't want ever to part with

you,

father: and I aill, you know, obliged to go back to Philadelphia immediately."

“Not immediately, my son, I cannot let you go from me immediately."

66 Father, I would never go from you, if I could help it; but I must be doing something to make good your fond hopes of me; and I can't stay here."

“Why not, my son?”

"Father, I can't stay with those who hate me; and you know that brother James hates me very much." “O! he does not hate you, I hope, my son."

“Yes, he does, father, indeed he does; because I only wiffered from him in opinion and ventured to reason with him, he kindled into passion and abused me even to blows, though I was in the right, as you told hun afterwards. And because I told him I did not think he acted the part of a brother by me in wishing to nake ine a slave so many years, he went about town and set all the printers against me, and thus drove me away from home and from you, my father, whom I so much love. And just now, when I went to his office to see him, instead of running to meet me and rejoicing to see me returned safe and sound and so well dressed and a plenty of money in my pocket, he would not even speak to me but lookei as dark and angry as though he would have torn me to pieces. And yet he can turn up his eyes; and make long prayers and graces; and talk a great deal about JESUS CHRIST!”

The old man here shook his head with a deep groan, while Ben thus went on, "No, father, I can't stay here; I must be going back to Philadelphia and to my good friend governor Keith; for I long to be realizing all the great hopes that you have been forming of me. And should God but give me a good settiement in Philadel. phia, then you will come and live with me. O say, my father, wont you come and live with me?"

Ben spoke this, looking up to his father with that joy of filial love sparkling in his youthful eyes which made him look like all that we fancy of angels.

The old man embraced him and said, I will, my son, I will; but stay with me a little while, at the least three days, and then you may depart.” Ben consenting to this, the old gentleman wrote a polite letter to governor Keith, thanking hinn very heartily for that he, so great a man, should have paid such attentions to his poor boy: but at the same time vegged his pardon for declining to do any thing for him, not only because he had very little in his power to do; but also because he thought him too young to be entrusted with the conduct of an enterprise that required much more experience than he possessed.

CHAPTER XVII.

OF the three days which Ben, as we have seen above, had collsented to stay at home, he spent the chierest pirt with his father, in his old canule vanufactory. 'Tis true, this happy sire, whose natural affeetion for Ben as a son, was now exalted into highest respect for him as a youth of talents and virtues; and perhaps too, looking up to him as a young mountain oak, wnose towering arnis would soon protect the parent tree, insisted that Ben should not stay in tiiat dirty place, as he called it. But knowing that his tather could not be spared from his daily labour, Ben insisted to be with him in the old shop, and to assist in his labours, reminding bis fa:her how sweetly the tine passes away when at work and conversing with tnose we love. His father at length consented: and those three days, now spent with Ben, were the happiest days he had spent for a long time. His aged boson was now relieved from his six months' load of lears and anxieties about this beloved child; vor only so, but this beloved child, shining iu a light of his own virtues, was aow with hint, and as a volunteer of filial love was quinyling in his toilse yerly lending his youthiui strength to assist hun in packing and boxing his canules and soap; while his sensible conversation heightened all tire time by the charm of that voice and those eyes that has ever been so dear to hp, touched his heart with a sweetness mexpressible, and made the happy hour's fly away as on angels' wings.

On the afternoon of the third day, as they were returning from dinner, walking it wil he garden, at the foot of which the factory stod, the old gentleman uithis eyes to the sun, suddenly heaved a deep sign and put on a melancholy look.

**High, father!" said Ben, “I see no cloud over the suu that we should lear a change of weather.”

“No, Ben, there is liv cloud over the suri, »ut still his beams throw a cour over sy spirits. They put me in mind that I shall walk here tv-morrow, but with no son by my side!"

The idea was mournful: and more so by the tender look and plaintive to .es in which it was conveyed.It wrung the heart of Ben, who in silence glanced his eyes on his father.

It was that tender glance of sorrowing love which quickest reaches the heart and stirs up all its yearnings.

The ol'l gentleman felt the meaning of his son's looks. They seerne i to say to hiin, "O my father, must we part to-morrow?"

“Yes, Ben, we part to-morrow, and perhaps never to meet again!"

After a short pause, with a sigh, he thus resumed his speech"Then, Ony son, what a wretch were man without religion?. Yes, Ben, without the hopes of immortality, how much better he had never been born? Without these his noblest capacities were but the greater curses. The more delightful his friendships the more dreadful the thought they may be extinguished for ever; and the gayer his prospects - the deeper his gloom, that endless darkness mas so quickly cover all. We were yesterday feeding fond hopes, my son; we were yesterday painting bright casties in the air; you were to be a great man and I a happy father. But alas! this is the last day, my child, that we may ever see each oiher again. And the sad reverse of all this may even now be at the door; when I, instead of hear, of my son's glory in Philadelphia, may hear that he is cold in his grave.

And when you, returning--after years of virtuous toils, returuing laden with riches and honors for your happy father to share in, may see nothing of that father but the tomb that covers his dust."

Seeing the moisture in Ben's eyes, the old gentleman, with a voice rising to exultation, thus went on, “Yes, Ben; this may soon be the case with us, my child; the dark curtain of our separation 8001 may drup, and your cheeks or mine be flooded with sor

But thanks be to God, that curtain will rise again, and open to our view those scenes of happiness, one glance at which is suffic ent to start the tear of tralisport into our eyes. Yes, Bely religion assures us of all this: religion assures us that this life is but the morning of our existence that there is a glorious . eternity beyond-and that to the penitent, death is out the passage to that happy life where they shall soon

rows.

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