to those who love God and keep his commandments.  Poor William! this was a dreadful place for him to be, with every inducement, from bad example, to stray from the true path in which he had until now been trained to walk; how great was the danger that he would now follow the leading of those to whose guardianship he had been thus mistakenly committed.  A letter which he wrote to his friend, George Herman, will, perhaps, explain something of his condition and feelings:—­

     Dear George,

I should have written to you long ago, as I promised; but I am kept all the time so busy, and now I am afraid Mr. Walters will scold me for wasting time.  I call him Mr. Walters (the others call him master), and not uncle, for he is not my uncle, although his first wife was my aunt.  I do not like this big city of New York, everything is so different from my own home when my dear mother was alive.  You never saw anything so grand as the houses here; but I would rather be back, living in the smallest house there, than have to stay in this great city, where there are so many rich people, and, yes, George, a great many more poor folks than I thought were in the whole world.  I have cried so much since I have been here; Mr. Walters is almost always in a bad humour, and I cannot bear to mend shoes; I would almost rather do without wearing them.  There is always a great pile of torn boots and shoes lying in the corner, and I have to help to mend them.  Oh, how much pleasanter it was to work for the farmers round M——­ all the week, and then go to church on Sunday!  They have the grandest churches here, and I have heard beautiful music from the organ when I passed or stood at the door; but I have never been inside of a church since I left M——­, for none of our people ever go, nor do we have any family prayer.

There is one thing, however, in New York that I do like; you ought to see the beautiful picture-shops in Broadway.  I cannot help drawing a little, although I resolve every time shall be the last.  I did a very wrong thing two days ago, which I must tell you of.  I do not love Mrs. Walters, for she is always scolding me, and she has a very sharp nose and chin.  I had a piece of chalk in my pocket, and I drew her likeness on the end of the work-bench.  Jem Taylor, our journeyman, laughed so, that Mr. Walters would know what amused him so.  When he saw it, he beat me with a last, and hurt me greatly.  I cried, not for the beating, but because I felt I had done wrong.  I remembered what my dear mother said about caricaturing, and I was so sorry I had done it.  I begged Mrs. Walters’ pardon, and told her I never would do it again; and, indeed, I never will.  I am afraid I shall become a bad boy here.  Jem Taylor swears dreadfully, and tells so many falsehoods.  He is the only one here who is kind to me; but when I hear his oaths, and know that he is saying what is not true, I cannot like him.  My mother always warned me so against saying the least