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."
During the first week after his arrival he began to mend; and all indulged a hope of his speedy recovery; but disease had taken too deep root in his constitution to be suddenly eradicated; and within a fortnight the fever returned with increasing violence, setting at defiance the skill of the physician, who confessed that his life was in the most imminent danger. He now took to his bed, and said to a young friend who called to see him: "I shall never leave this room till I am carried out by the ministers of death." On the following Sabbath, his mother ventured to ask him how he felt in prospect of death. This question agitated him. He became restless, a sullen gloom was thrown over his countenance, and he remained silent. This silence inflicted a deeper wound in her tender bosom than the most piercing cries of mental anguish; and though she endeavoured to conceal her grief, yet she was unable to do so. "O, George, do tell me. When I lost your father, I had the consolation of knowing that he was gone to heaven; and your dear departed sister said, just before she left me, 'Weep not for me, for I shall soon see the King in his beauty;' and will _you die_ without allowing me to indulge the hope of meeting you in heaven?"