night, to avoid the burning heat of the sun, and lights are carried on the top of high poles, to guide the march. These are severally set up, also, where the respective caravans are to pitch. So, as our authority describes, "we have a vast body of pilgrims divided into parties, each headed by its leader, and under its own standard, and having portable fires to light them and serve as banners by night." It is hardly needful to remark here, that, in the case of he Hebrews, the "pillar of fire" superseded these beacons. But there is one object in the Mohammedan caravan to which general attention is directed, and which all regard with reverence. Each great caravan from Damascus or from Cairo has its holy camel, carrying on its back the mahmil, with presents for the Kaaba at Mecca. Maundrell describes the mahmil of Damascus as "a large pavilion of black silk,... spreading its curtains all round about the beast down to the ground." The

VOL, VII,

finery of the camel, he says, is all "designed for the Koran, which thus rides in state both to and from Mecca." But in some of his details Maundrell is now known to be inaccurate. The mahmil contains merely two copies of the Koran, one on a scroll, and one in the form of a little book, each enclosed in a case of gilt silver. The mahmil, we are told, is borne on a fine tall camel, which is commonly exempted from all labour during the rest of its life. Dr. Kitto observes that there is no fixed pattern for the mahmil. Our illustration represents the modern form.

Such a show of reverence for the book of the False Prophet ought not to be lost upon us. Do we reverence and love the pure word of God? It is related of a famous Mohammedan doctor, that, during the time of his confinement in the prison of Bagdad, where he died, he read the Koran through seven thousand times!

LIGHTS AND SHADES OF

YOUTHFUL LIFE.

BY THE REV. J. T. BARR.

THE ADOPTED SON.

"My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?"
COWPER.

I HAVE Somewhere read of a humane lady, whose sympathies were so deeply awakened by the sufferings of a little boy, as to excite the astonishment of her neighbours. The incident was as follows:A poor boy was left alone in an open cart, while his master alighted for a few minutes, for the purpose of transacting a little business with one of his customers. During this brief interval, the horse took fright, and galloped down the street with fearful speed. The lady, who witnessed this distressing scene from her parlour-window, rushed into the street, and, wringing her hands, offered a rich reward to any one who would rescue the boy from his perilous situation. Several of the neighbours, on seeing the anguish of the lady, and the intense interest she appeared to feel in the preservation of the child, very naturally inquired whether he was her son. "No," she replied: "I know nothing of him. But he is somebody's son!" Her answer was worthy of her benevolent heart, and honourable to her sex.

But selfishness is so intimately combined with the motives of human action, so moulded into the manners, and blended with the frame and temper, of society, that it is rarely found that the sufferings of others, especially those of strangers, are contemplated with anything more than an ordinary feeling of commiseration, even by those who have ample means of effectually relieving them. Happily, there are some exceptions.

Many years have passed away since the incidents which I am about to record took place. Mr. B., a wealthy merchant, who resided in a populous town in the west of England, was one evening returning home, after an absence of several days. The sun was lingering in the horizon, gilding with his departing beams the lofty summits of the distant hills, when he arrived at a secluded village, situated only about three miles from his own residence. On descending a gentle slope, at the extremity of the village, a little boy rushed out of a meanlooking cottage on the road-side, and imploringly solicited alms. The merchant

fixed his eyes on the boy, who appeared to be about the age of eight or nine years. His face was pale, very pale, and tears flowed down his cheeks. Struck with his haggard appearance, he was about to relieve him. But the Lorse on which he rode was a

spirited animal, and became exceedingly restive, as if anxious to proceed. Supposing the case to be one of no particular emergency, Mr. B. rode on; while the boy, evidently disappointed, called loudly after him, "My mother is ill in bed, and we have nothing to eat. For God's sake, help us!" But the merchant was quickly out of sight.

About a fortnight subsequently to this occurrence, he had occasion to travel through the same village, when he saw a funeral procession moving slowly towards the churchyard. The coffin was borne by several women, clad in rustic habiliments. Among the persons who followed, he recognised the pale-faced boy, who had recently accosted him, weeping as if his little heart would break. "O my poor mother!" he exclaimed, wringing his hands, "my poor mother!"

This affecting spectacle was too much for the sensitive feelings of Mr. B. His heart bitterly reproached him, as the remembrance of his past journey rushed upon his mind. IIe hastened to the village inn; and, having committed his horse to the care of the hostler, interrogated the landlord as to the character and circumstances of the deceased. "She was a good woman," said the landlord, "and much respected by her neighbours. But ever since the death of her husband, which took place shortly after the birth of Edward, their only child, it has been her lot to struggle with poverty and affliction. For several years she gained a scanty living by taking in washing; but of late her health became inadequate to the task; and her chief dependence for support has been on the bounty of her friends. But as they are mostly poor people, they could do but little for her. Her little son, who is an industrious lad, cheerfully went to work, when he could obtain any employment; but the remuneration of his labours was a mere pittance. For many weeks previous to her death, the poor woman had been confined to her bed. I have no doubt she died of starvation."

On receiving from the landlord this affeeting account, the first impulse of the merchant was to make some provision for the poor orphan, who appeared to be reduced to a state of utter destitution.

On the following day, he communicated these particulars to his wife, and also his intentions towards the boy. She heartily concurred in his views; and, having no children of their own, they resolved, if Edward's behaviour should prove satisfactory, to make him their adopted child. He was accordingly sent for; and during the time he remained under their roof, he conducted himself with the greatest

propriety. The sweetness of his disposition, the uniform consistency of his deportment, and the warm sentiments of gratitude which he continued to cherish towards those who had thus sheltered him from the nipping blasts of penury, at a time when scarcely a solitary beam of hope remained to cheer his unhappy bosom,-these engaging qualities, as they became more and more developed, gradually secured the esteem and won the affections of the merchant and his amiable partner.

With a view to his intellectual improvement, Edward was placed under the care of a worthy man, who kept a respectable academy in the outskirts of the town. Being an intelligent youth, and possessing an ardent desire for the acquisition of knowledge, he pursued his studies with unwearied diligence. The consequence was, that his progress in learning was rapid; so that on his retiring from the school about the sixteenth year of his age, his attainments were of a high order. Possessing these mental qualifications, he was not, however, puffed up with pride; nor did he, like many young persons, who have a smattering of Icarning, assume a haughtiness of deportment towards others who have not been favoured with the same advantages. He continued humble, docile, and gentle. Though his mind had been stored with useful knowledge, it had been properly disciplined. And he ever kept alive in his bosom the conviction, that for all that he possessed he was indebted, under God, to the munificence of an entire stranger.

After leaving school, he did not lead a life of idleness, nor spend his time unprofitably. In the counting-house of his benefactor, he endeavoured to render himself useful. And indeed the ability, as well as fidelity, with which he discharged the duties of his office, endeared him to the hearts of his foster-parents, who had thus the satisfaction of knowing that their charity to the orphan-boy had not been extended towards one who was either unworthy of their care, or ungrateful for the benefits bestowed.

A period now arrived, which was the most interesting to the happy youth,-a period the most vitally important in his eventful history. With all the excellencies of his character, the amiableness of his disposition, and the consistency of his moral deportment, he had been hitherto a stranger to true religion,-to that change of heart so indispensably essential as a mectness for heaven. He occasionally attended Divine worship in the church of his native village, that he might also indulge the mournful pleasure of visiting his mother's grave. One Sunday morning, under a powerful sermon which he heard from the pious Clergyman, he was deeply awakened to a conviction of his real condition as a sinner, and of his being destitute of the "one thing needful." These convictions led him to the foot of the

19

Cross. In an agony of contrition, he groaned for pardon. For a season, all appeared dark and gloomy; for his spirit was overwhelmed. At length, having cast himself by faith on the atonement of Christ, the Day-spring from on high appeared, and the Sun of Righteousness arose upon his soul, with healing in His wings, and he returned

home a new creature.

In this new character, the purity of his example, the savour of his conversation, and, above all, the affecting account which he gave of his conversion to God, soon produced a powerful influence on the minds of his foster-parents. They, too, began to feel a concern for the salvation of their souls. The Lord was nigh to save them. And one evening, while they were pleading the Divine promises, and relying on the covenant mercies of God, they received a knowledge of salvation by the remission of sins. From that time the domestic altar was reared; and every morning and every evening the sacrifices of prayer and of praise were offered on that altar, and ascended to the throne of the Eternal.

For several years subsequently, the members of this interesting family lived in each other's affection, happy in themselves, and a blessing to all around them; till at length, death, who is no respecter of persons, occasioned a temporary separation. The first victim was Mrs. B. But the "last enemy' did not appear as the King of terrors, but as the angel of deliverance. The scene in her dying chamber might be more effectively portrayed by the pencil than described by the pen. The dying saint, whose soul had long been ripening for glory, had just awaked from a calm slumber. Her face was pale, but brightened with a smile of hope. Her husband sat on a chair by the bedside, affectionately gazing on the partner of his bosom, who, he had too much reason to fear, was about to be taken from him. Edward stood at the foot of the bed, evidently overpowered by the thought of losing one who had been to him more than a mother; for the tears had dimmed his eyes, and an expression of grief sat on his countenance. But he made an effectual effort to conquer his feelings. Addressing the dying woman, he inquired whether she still felt Jesus to be precious to her soul. "O, yes!" was the reply: "He is more precious than ever. I shall soon behold Him in His own kingdom, and

Sing the wonders of His grace
For evermore.'

Finding her in this happy frame of mind, the pious youth then sang the following beautiful stanzas:

"Who suffer with our Master here,
We shall before His face appear,
And by His side sit down:
To patient faith the prize is sure ;
And all that to the end endure

The cross, shall wear the crown.

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"Thrice blessed, bliss-inspiring hope! It lifts the fainting spirits up;

It brings to life the dead:

Our conflicts here shall soon be past, And you and I ascend at last, Triumphant with our Head."

During the singing of these animating words, the merchant wept aloud; while his suffering partner, anticipating the glory that awaited her, appeared for a moment to be raised to the precincts of heaven. "Yes," she faintly uttered; "it is indeed a blessed, bliss-inspiring hope!"

On hearing the sobs which continued to burst from the stricken heart of her husband, she conjured him not to sorrow like those who are without hope; but to remember they should meet again,-meet to part no

more.

The beautiful summer's sun, which had already gained his meridian altitude in the heavens, poured his scorching rays through the window of the sick chamber. Edward softly opened the casement, that the air might enter. He stood for a moment gazing on the rich landscape which was stretched before him, embracing a number of smiling meadows and fruitful gardens, lofty hills and sweetly-sheltered valleys; while, at an immense distance, his eye caught a glimpse of the "dark blue sea." But his thoughts extended far beyond. His mental vision ranged over scenes more substantial, and more enduring; where

"Everlasting spring abides,

And never-withering flowers." Returning to the bedside of the patient sufferer, he found that the hour of her departure was come. A mortal paleness had overspread her countenance, and every symptom of dissolution was too apparent. "I am going to rest," she whispered; "and, O, may Heaven bless you both till we meet again! This is my last prayer."

And it was her last prayer. For she instantly fell back on the pillow, and expired without a struggle.

The merchant did not long survive his sainted wife. Within the space of twelve months after her decease, his corpse was carried to the same vault, and committed to the dust, in sure and certain hope of eternal life through the merits of the Redeemer.

He bequeathed the whole of his property to Edward, who lived many years a pattern of Christian excellence, and died universally regretted.

While perusing this narrative, the pious reader will have been prepared for some reflections on the incidents recorded.

1. The benevolence of the merchant and his wife cannot be too prominently set forth to universal admiration. Under their hospitable roof the poor orphan found an agreeable asylum from poverty and want. To what unknown scenes of misery and wretchedness might he have been hurried! What trials and privations, what sorrows and sufferings, might have embittered his existence! till, after having drunk of the cup of unmitigated grief, even to its last dregs, he might have sunk, broken-hearted, into an untimely grave. All these calamities, however, were providentially prevented, by the timely aid of his benefactors. 2. But the kindness of the humane merchant, in thus sheltering the helpless orphan from the blasts of penury, might also have prevented evils of a more serious character. Left to the mercy of an unfeeling world, having no father to counsel him, no mother to lead him to the throne of grace, nor even a friend to whom he could look with confidence for spiritual instruction, he might have listened to the suggestions of his naturally deceitful heart, and sought, by dishonest practices, to have procured the necessaries of life, which the hand of charity failed to furnish. Thus, in the morning of life, by wandering in the path of error, and plunging deeper and deeper into the depths of ungodliness and sin, the youthful delinquent might have died without hope, the victim of his own follies. And over his early grave might have been inscribed, with too much justice, "No man cared for my soul."

3. It was through the instrumentality of Edward, that the merchant and his wife became partakers of that religion which brightened the evening of their days with smiles, and opened to their departing spirits a kingdom of unfading glory! The poor ragged boy, whom their bounty had preserved from actual starvation, was the honoured instrument, in the hands of God, of leading them to the fountain of living Thus the foster-child became the spiritual father of his foster-parents. And there is no doubt that their spirits, so congenial on earth, are now mingling with those of the redeemed in heaven, who have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

waters.

FIDELITY REWARDED. THE following account is addressed more particularly to that class of persons to which

Jane R. belonged. She was a servant, a most diligent and faithful one. In the service of almost the only family she ever

entered, she lived comfortably for many years. Her strict integrity will be manifested to the reader in the following little incident:

Some young persons who were staying at her master's house on a visit, were in the habit of placing small coins in any position which they thought it possible for money to have reached by accident, partly for amusement, and also to try the honesty of the domestics. Whatever money Jane found, she, at her earliest convenience, placed in the hands of her mistress; but, one morning, her younger fellow-servant found a sixpence in the ashes under the grate, and was about to place it in her pocket, informing Jane, at the same time, of her good fortune. Jane insisted on her instantly laying the silver piece on the drawing-room table. "Your character, Sarah," she said, "will be of far greater value to you than that money; and you may be sure that that was put in the place where you found it for a test of your integrity." Year after year passed away, and Jane still lived on in the fear of both God and man. Death entered the dwelling, and the much-esteemed mistress was the first of his victims. Soon after, her master was taken ill; and, during the long period that elapsed from the first seizure till he ended his mortal career, all his wants were assiduously ministered to by his faithful attendant: and, when he was consigned to the tomb, poor Jane felt that in the grave of her dear old master and mis

21

tress was buried her all of earthly happiness She felt age fast creeping upon her, and knew not where on earth to look for a home. On the day of the funeral the will of the old gentleman was opened; and, to the astonishment of all present, but more especially of the nearest relative, who expected the whole of the property, the house was bequeathed to Jane for her life, with all the furniture, and a small sum of money annually; so that if she failed in letting lodgings, her annuity would place her above the reach of want. She lived to a good old age, surrounded by every comfort, and ever remembering, with gratitude, her benefactors. So, in this instance, worth had its immediate reward; which it does not always receive in this world. But let all who do well, remember that there is One who will, if not in this life, yet in the life to come, award to all according to their desert. Those who, kept by the Holy Spirit, have refrained from evil, and walked in the paths of righteousness, will find in that day, when the heavens and the earth shall flee from the face of the Son of Man, a recompense for all they faithfully endured while waging their mortal strife. If the favour of God can impart peace and joy to believers in this vale of tears, what raptures will it inspire in the redeemed souls who throughout eternity shall enjoy the unclouded sunshine of Deity! May you and I, dear readers, seck after it; and they who seek sincerely shall surely find.

N. S.

HOME-ITS IMPRESSIONS AND INFLUENCES.

BY THE KEV. DAVID HAY.

THE CONSTITUTION AND PRIVILEGE OF FAMILIES.

How deep and lasting upon the memory and heart are the impressions and influences of home! "It is a spot which rises to the eye of the social being covered with a holy charm. The heart gives it her remembrances, and affections, and hopes; childhood goes in and out with its simple confidence; and age clings to it with the last fibre that it yet preserves unbroken. He who has none for whom he cares, unloving and unloved, may have a roof; but it is only the lurking-place of repulsive selfishness. No voice blesses him while he lives, no tear falls for him when he dies. His abode is but the den where he eats, and the lair on which he sleeps. It awakens no tenderness in his bosom; it echoes with no joy, it warms with no love, it opens with no welcome. We turn from it away: it strikes a chill and terror into us.

"We speak of нOME, beneath whose influence all the soul expands: home, the seat of earth's strongest attachments, the hold of man's tenderest ties. It is the centre of the mind, the nest of the heart. It is the scene of the truest present bliss. Within that enclosure some flowers of Eden yet blow; there still gather around us some primeval associations of innocence and joy. Who is indifferent and irresponsive to this chord? Who can forget his home? Not the aged. He may forget far later events, and overlook far more recent bonds; but the earliest force of filial love survives, the dwelling in which he was cradled stands up before his memory, the scenery of life in its beginning once more presents itself, and a Barzillai pleads against royal honours that he may retain his simple satisfactions: Let thy servant, I pray thee, turn back again, that I may die in my own city, and be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother.' Not the wanderer. He can bear the chill of night, and the drought of day; wrongs may be multiplied upon him, and strangers may be