The influence of Divine truth on the youthful mind is often very salutary; it keeps the conscience tender, even when it does not keep it pure; it inspires an awe of God, and a secret dread of evil, even when it does not root out of the heart a predilection for it; and secures an external consistency of moral deportment, even while the mind remains unchanged. But such is the extreme degeneracy of our nature, that its sinful appetites and propensities will often burst through the most powerful restraints, and the fascinating temptations of an evening, or even a single hour, will often render apparently useless all the efforts of a long and painstaking course of domestic instruction and discipline. Hence the youth who has been trained up in the "fear of the Lord," on finding himself removed from under the watchful eye of parental solicitude, may, after a momentary hesitation, yield to the ensnaring seductions of the world, and launch forth into scenes of impurity and vice, braving the consequences; and though occasionally disturbed by some compunctious visitations, yet he passes on, contemning his early religious impressions, and treating with profane levity those momentous truths which once overawed and animated his soul. But can he proceed without meeting with some formidable resistances? Can he forget that the piercing eye of God follows him through all the windings and doublings of his course? Can he shake off the dread of futurity, and bid his dark forebodings cease? No; conscience stands in his way, and disputes his passage, by turning against him the sword of truth, which often inflicts a wound too deep even for intemperance to heal or soothe. He sighs for peace, but peace comes not; for there is no peace to the wicked. To indulge the hope of reclaiming such a youth by the mere force of terror or persuasion, would be a visionary prospect; yet, have we never seen the prodigal return? Have we never heard the parent exclaim, "For this my son was dead, but is alive again; he was lost, but is found?" George Lewellin left London a few days after he had communicated the state of his health to his mother, and reached her home the following morning; when she saw him, as he was opening the wicket gate in front of the house, she sprang up, ran, fell on his neck, and kissed him. The interview was affecting; and it was some moments before either of them could speak. On raising her eyes to survey the once lovely form of her only son, now emaciated by disease, she could not refrain from exclaiming, as she pressed him still closer to her agonized bosom, "O, George, what's the matter? How long have you been ill? Why did you conceal your illness from me?" "Be composed, mother; I am better, and have no doubt but relaxation from business, and the fresh air of the country, will be the means of bringing me about again. The porter is waiting with my trunk; I will thank you to satisfy him for his trouble, as I have no change."