have exposed his folly, and he was of too high a spirit to endure the idea of such a thing.

Henry. Ah, mamma! this is indeed a proof of the truth of your assertion, that we never gain any thing, in the end, by attempting to deceive our friends. But I want to know what became of him, poor fellow!

Mamma. When he arrived at Newcastle he felt tired of his long journey, and therefore embarked in a collier at North Shields, and sailed for London. On the third night of the voyage, they were in danger of being shipwrecked during a gale of wind, and then, for the first time, he began seriously to reflect on his situation. But, alas! no sooner had the tempest subsided, than the good resolutions he had made also passed away.

Henry. How very much distressed his mother would have been, had she known in what a situation her son was placed.

Louisa. mamma?

Did he never write to her,

Mamma. As he wished her to remain in ignorance with respect to his movements, he wrote to her very seldom, and always gave a cheerful account of his travels, dating his letters as from Paris, Bologna, Florence, &c. He arrived safely in London, and was by this time sufficiently weary of his new mode of life, to give up every idea of going abroad. He was now very sadly off, and lived for some time in obscure lodgings, by selling his clothes and the few books he possessed; for he was afraid to display his skill in music, lest he should be discovered by some persons who might know him or his family. He was consequently reduced to the lowest extreme of wretchedness and want; and although he had, a few months before, lived in happiness and splendour, was now glad to sleep away his cares upon little a straw, and to procure a morsel of dry bread for his dinner. Thus we

have a melancholy proof of the misery which must infallibly arise from such a course of deception. But although young Buchanan was convinced of his folly, pride forbade him to make any reparation for his fault, and he endeavoured to check the rising thought, when the still small voice of conscience told him that he had done wrong.

Henry. Oh, what a sad condition to be in! But indeed, mamma, I cannot feel half so much pity for him, as I should have done if he had not practised such deception. How did he manage when he had parted with all his clothes and books? and did the serious impressions, which he had received when in Mr. Campbell's family, ever return?

Mamma. He one day observed an advertisement in a morning paper for a "clerk to an attorney," and, in the faint hope of bettering his condition, he offered himself, and was accepted. In such a situation he remained for three years, and

during that time, in which he still suffered from poverty and want, he was "led to see the error of his ways;" those serious impressions which had, in early years, been so deeply implanted in his mind as never to be wholly erased, again sprung up, and he once more began to feel the comforts and consolations of religion. He no longer felt any inclination to hide his real situation from his mother; but wrote a long and succinct account of the various hardships he had endured, implored her forgiveness, and concluded his letter by saying: "Believe me, I have not, till now, enjoyed a day of peace since I left my father's house." From this moment he became more and more serious; his circumstances improved; he entered, in time, upon the ministry of the gospel in the church of England; and, in the course of a few years, eminent for knowledge, piety, and goodness, he accepted the office of chaplain to the East India company, and devoted the remainder of his

life to promote the knowledge of God among the poor natives of that sultry climate. Indeed, the value of the exertions of this excellent man, in favour of Christi anity among the Hindoos, is daily becoming more apparent, and more universally acknowledged; and his name will long be remembered with fervent gratitude, by those who are interested in the eternal happiness of their fellow-creatures. my accounts were to be confined to the years of childhood and youth, and I have already exceeded the prescribed limits, I must now refer you, for further particulars, to the "Life of Dr. Buchanan," which you will find extremely interesting.

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