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Windcliff and Tintern Abbey; and pleasanter still looking up at the snow-white, sun-lit clouds, as they glided through the clear blue sky, to sing with the heart as well as the lip,

"When all thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys,

Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise."

'Tis a pleasant thing to travel by steam-boat when the sun shines, and the river is broad, and the music plays, and the passengers wear smiles on their faces. I have travelled by steam-boat, and talked with the captain and passengers, and stood by the steersman as he turned round his wheel to guide the vessel, and leaned over the bulwarks musing on the paddle-wheels tearing their way through the waters. The band has played the while, and the huge vessel has followed the helm as obediently as a child. Sometimes, too, I have met with a fellow passenger, who has made a serious remark, an acknowledgment of God's goodness, and we have talked together of holy things, and of the way of salvation through the Saviour of sinners.

'Tis pleasant in our pilgrimage,

In fair or stormy weather,

To meet a traveller Zion-bound,

And journey on together.

'Tis a pleasant thing to travel over the mighty ocean in a ship, when the broad sails are filled with a favourable wind, and the sea and the sky seem to lose themselves in each other. When the billows of the great deep sparkle with beautiful colours, when the dolphin plays, the flyingfish leaps from the water into the air, and the sea-gull hovers over the foam-fringed waves. I have sailed on the billowy ocean in a gentle breeze, and in a storm I have mounted up as if going to the heavens, and plunged downwards as if descending to the bottom of the sea. Yet still the rudder has guided the ship, and still the sails have enabled her to keep her course. God has given wonderful power to man, enabling him to say to the bounding waves, "Bear me safely on your back;" and to the blustering winds, "Waft me forward on my course." Truly, “The Lord is a great God, and a great King above all gods. In his hand are the deep places of the earth: the strength of the hills is his also. The sea is his, and he made it; and his hands formed the dry land. Oh come, let us worship, and bow down; let us kneel before the Lord our Maker."

Where ocean rolls his mighty flood,

Where billows rise and fall,

Wisdom and power are infinite,
And God is all in all.

Ah, well! whether we travel high or low, by land or by water, by ship, steamer, or boat, by rail-road, stage-coach, or post-chaise, by gig, horseback, or on foot, we are all travelling towards the grave, and every stage brings us nearer our journey's end.

It may be that we shall see threescore and ten birth-days; perhaps we may be strong enough to witness fourscore: but he who looks back to his childhood, even though his hairs are grey, regards it as yesterday. "We spend our years as a tale that is told." Is it well, then, to think so fondly of a bubble that is so soon to burst? of a dream that has well nigh passed away? Will it not be better to think less of this world, and more of the next? Less of what is, as it were for a moment, and more of what shall endure for ever? Surely it will. Begin then, reader, to do this at once.

Oh gird thy loins, set out for heaven,
Ere earth's enjoyments wither;
And give not slumber to thine eyes,
Till thou art journeying thither!

ON

DEPARTED FRIENDS.

SHAME upon us! shame upon us! when our friends are taken away from this world of tribulation, we think more of their perishing bodies than we do of their immortal souls. We go amid the gloom of eventide to sigh over their graves, rather than take the wings of the morning to visit their enfranchised spirits in the mansions of the blessed. Shame upon us! shame upon us!

I think it is Franklin who says, or intimates, that we should not be immoderately moved at the carriages of our friends being ready first, seeing that ours are so soon to follow. But, alas! it is so easy to talk philosophy. I could pour out the affections of my heart for my friends gone before me, even to sobbing: this is my infirmity; I ought to know better, nay, I do know betterbut in things of this sort a heart-rush sweeps away head-knowledge.

It is a hard thing, to be sure, to part with those who have been almost as dear to us as our

own souls, and no one but the God of all consolation can make it easy to us; but when we think of the glorious things He has prepared in heaven for his people, our tears for those who die in Christ should be those of thankfulness, and our sorrow should be turned into joy.

To a Christian, death appears the portal to eternal life, and therefore he ought to rejoice when a fellow pilgrim to the heavenly city is mercifully permitted to pass through it; but it is otherwise with the worldly man; the grave must needs be a fearful thing to him who has no hope beyond it. It has often been a puzzle to my mind, how worldly men bear up under the loss of their friends. Is it not enough to touch our hearts, to see those who have been precious to us as the "ruddy drops that warm the heart," stretched on a bed of sickness, unconscious of our presence and sympathy? To hear the hard-drawn sigh, and midnight moan; to mark the glazed eye, the heaving breast, and the falling jaw, while the last breath rattles in the throat?

Are not these things, and the shroud, the coffin, the mattock, and the grave, enough to try humanity to the utmost. Surely the cup of sorrow that every sincere mourner has to drink is bitter enough, without anticipating the gall and wormwood of eternal woe! Blessed be God, for

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