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they can go in iron boats, fitted with superior accommodation, and towed by horses, at an average rate of about five miles an hour, from Alexandria to Atféh by canal, and thence upon the Nile by steamer, to Cairo. From this city, they proceed across the desert to Suez, either in four-horse coaches, “two-wheeled vans, sort of tilt-cover,” donkey-chaises, or sedans; or on the backs of saddle-horses, or donkeys! This route, about eighty miles in length, is now made quite agreeable by the erection of seven stations, containing stabling, resting rooms, and other conveniences; and between these places, are the magnificent tents used at the late Eglintoun tournament; thus making five-mile stations throughout the whole distance. At Suez, another steamboat receives them for conveyance to their ultimate destination.
The advantages offered by such rapid modes of transit, are of vast importance to the mercantile community ; but the Christian regards them chiefly, as the means of civilizing and evangelizing distant nations. “ The heart of man, is in the hand of the Lord, and he turneth it as the rivers of water." How little is his glory consulted in the projection of railways, or the building of steam-boats ; and yet, who can say, how important a part they are to achieve in the fulfilment of the promise, “ Many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.”
YOUNG WHITEFIELD AND OLD COLE. At the time of Mr. Whitefield's preaching in Gloucester, old Mr. Cole, a dissenting minister used to say, “These are the days of the Son of Man indeed.” This Mr. Cole, Mr. Whitefield, when a boy, was taught to ridicule. And being asked once by one of his congregation, what business he would be of? he said, “A minister; but he would take care never to tell stories in the pulpit, like old Cole.” About twelve years afterwards, the old man hearing him preach, and tell some story to illustrate the subject he was upon, having been informed what he had before said, made this remark to one of his elders,
I find that young Whitefield can now tell stories as well as old Cole." He was much affected with Mr. Whitefield's preaching, and so humble that he used to subscribe himself his curate, and went about preaching after him from place to place.
“PEACE, BE STILL,"
(Founded on fact.)
“She was a beautiful and lovely child,
Full of affection, gentle, pure, and mild ;
One of those joyous spirits, who might seem
The bright creation of a poet's dream.
Her happy face and bright engaging smile,
Would oft our anxious hearts of care beguile;
No angry, fretful passions ever rose
To cast a shadow o'er her sweet repose;
We looked on her, as one of heavenly birth :
A precious treasure lent awhile to earth.
Yet health had never glowed upon her cheek-
Each day she grew more languid, pale, and weak;
She drooped and withered, like some fading flower,
Which the dark storm has blighted by its power;
Disease and pain were wearing life away,
And bent her fragile form beneath their sway.
Oft, when at night, her feverish couch she prest,
Her throbbing temples sought in vain for rest.
In weary tossings to and fro, she lay,
And longed in touching accents for the day.
Then would her gentle sister softly tell
The simple stories, which she lov'd so well,
And try, that little sufferer to soothe,
With the sweet narratives of sacred truth.
Once, when the child awoke with plaintive moans,
She told to her, in rich expressive tones,
How, when an angry storm arose at sea,
And waves, like rolling mountains, seemed to be,
When red forked lightning darted o'er the head,
And dark forebodings filled each mind with dread,
The Saviour, by his own Almighty skill,
Said to the raging waters, “ Peace, be still.”
Then the fierce tempest yielded to his sway,
And the proud sea in meek subjection lay.
This simple sentence soothed with magic power
The little mourner in that midnight hour,
And, as the gentle infant sinks to rest,
Calmly she slept upon her sister's breast.
Months rolled away—and still she lingered here,
Opprest with languor-worn by pain severe,
Yet patient and submissive-full of love!
She seemed preparing, for the courts above.
Though often, with consuming fever prest,
Weary and faint she sought, but found no rest,
Oh! never did the holy influence fail,
Which first accompanied that touching tale.
In those dark hours, the whisper, “Peace, be still,"
Would in her ears like heavenly music thrill,
Bidding the sounds of grief and sorrow cease,
Till tranquil and composed, she slept in peace.
At length, the hour of sweet release drew nigh,
When she should join the white-robed hosts on high;
Too pure, for such a darkened world as this,
The Saviour called her to the realms of bliss.
The brilliant eye was dim and clouded now,
And death was written on that marble brow;
Yet, ere the gentle spirit took its flight
To the fair world of uncreated light,
She asked in trembling accents, once again,
For those sweet words to ease her dying pain ;
“Oh sister! will you tell me- yes, you will-
How Christ, said to the waters, Peace, be still !"
She listenedfaint and fainter grew each breath,
She smiled serenely, in the arms of death,
One gentle sigh escaped her heaving breast,
And all was pure, seraphic, endless rest!
H. M. W.
How soon and easily a little child
Acquainted grows with father, mother, sister,
With day and night, with sunshine and with moonlight,
With spring and harvest, and with birth and death!
“Thus is it in my Father's house," thinks he,
And never wonders at the already done,
But only at the new that comes to pass —
Easier to him seems life than A. B. C.
So willingly he sees funereal trains,
Admires the garland laid upon the coffin,
Beholds the narrow, still, last house of man,
Looks in the grave, and hears, without a fear,
The dust fall down upon the coffin-lid.
With joy he stands beside his new-born sister,
Admires the snowy dress, her first array,
And sees her placed upon the mother's breast.
It grieves him not when, in pale harvest time,
The meadows cease to put forth gentle flowers.
He gladdens when the flowers return again,
And learns the name of the all-beauteous season,
The name of Spring-he learns the name of day,
When the bright sun is up, and names the night,
When hosts of stars array themselves in heaven,
While softly at his mother's side he sleeps,
And early in the morn awakens her.
Thus lives the child unbounded and immortal,
Lives in the work and blessings of the power
From whom proceed home, father, mother, sister,
Flowers, fruits, and sun, and moon, and every hair
On his own head- the child believes in all.
Thus let the man this holy bond of union
Behold in constant gladsomness of heart,
In which the tenderest blossoms of the spring,
The earth with men full-crowded, and the sun
That sheds on all his glory, live together.
The least lives with the greatest in this bond :
The springing grass points to the highest heavens!
The tiniest sand-grain, to Eternity!
The dew drops tell us of serenest love ;
The shade a flower casts, tells of holy light ;
A child's glad laughter tells Heaven's happiness,
And a poor beggar with her tatter'd child
May point the mind to God for rest and quiet.
To learn of life, however humble, true,
The cheerful and divine interpretation,
Perform the little as you would the great,
The transitory as the ever-during,
And in the mind of God your life-day spend.
THE SINNER'S REFUGE.
(The following fine argument, in which the interlocutors are, Jesus, Justice, and the Sinner, was written more than two centuries ago, and is so well known, that we should apologize for reprinting it, were not its subject one of those which is always grateful to the renewed mind. It is an epitome of the Way of Salvation, told with much truth, feeling, and power; and, as such, ought to find its way to the hearts of all our young charge.]
Jesus. BRING forth the pris'ner, Justice !
Justice. Thy commands Are done, just Judge: See, here the pris'ner stands.
Jesus. What has the pris'ner done? Say; what's the cause Of his commitment ?
Justice. He hath broke the laws
Of his too gracious God; conspir’d the death
Of that great Majesty who gave him breath;
And heaps transgression, LORD, upon transgression.
JESUS. How know'st thou this?
Justice. E'en by his own confession: His sins are crying; and they cry'd aloud; They cry'd to heav'n,--they cry'd to heav'n for blood.
Jesus. What say'st thou, sinner? Hast thou aught to plead That sentence should not pass ? Hold up thy head, And show thy brazen, thy rebellious face!
Sinner. Ah me! I dare not: I'm too vile and base
To tread upon the earth, much more to lift
Mine eyes to heav'n; I need no other shrift
Than mine own conscience; LORD, I must confess,
I am no more than dust, and nd whit less
Than my indictment styles me! Ah! if Thou
Search too severe, with too severe a brow,
What flesh can stand ? I have transgressed thy laws;
My merits plead thy vengeance, not my cause.
Justice. LORD, shall I strike the blow?
JESUS. Hold! Justice, stay! Sinner, speak on; what hast thou more to say?