The poor soul's letter was blotted all over with tears, full of texts, and written in the wildest incoherent way.

She said she was delighted to think I was under a Protestant prince, though she feared he was not in the right way: that right way, she said, she had the blessing to find, under the guidance of the Reverend Joshua Jowls, whom she sat under.

She said he was a precious chosen vessel; a sweet ointment and precious box of spikenard; and made use of a great number more phrases that I could not understand; but one thing was clear in the midst of all this jargon, that the good soul loved her son still, and thought and prayed day and night for her wild Redmond.

Has it not come across many a poor fellow, in a solitary night's watch, or in sorrow, sickness, or captivity, that at that very minute, most likely, his mother is praying for him?
I often have had these thoughts; but they are none of the gayest, and it's quite as well that they don't come to you in company; for where would be a set of jolly fellows then ?--as mute as undertakers at a funeral, I promise you.

I drank my mother's health that night in a bumper, and lived like a gentleman whilst the money lasted.
She pinched herself to give it me, as she told me afterwards; and Mr.
Jowls was very wroth with her.