Bound on another voyage, the Mary Anne is off the Canaries. She has fallen in with rough weather, and had a man fall from the main-yard; but there are dangers everywhere, on land as well as on the main. The roll of the waters, the heavy swell of the sea, has abated by degrees, and, unruffled by a breath of wind, the boundless ocean is tranquil as a lake. As motionless as a rock on shore lies the Mary Anne on the calm surface of the deep. There is neither straining of masts, creaking of timbers, nor flapping of sails; no whistling wind is heard among the rigging, and no billow is seen dashing against the bows. The moon is up; the ship makes no way; she is becalmed on the silvery ocean. The hands are mostly in their hammocks, but now may be heard the cheerful tones of a violin. Hark! that is the strong and clear voice of Billings the boatswain.

"In storm and calm, while shines the sun,
Duty cheerily must be done;
Though dangers frown and tempests blow,
Warily, merrily, on we go!"

The ship is riding easy, and the sun in the mid arch of heaven is flinging down on the deck his unbearable beams. The crew of the Mary Anne are at their accustomed sports on crossing the line. A seaman in a long beard, with a crown on his head, and a harpoon for a trident in his hand, is playing the part of old father Neptune, the monarch of the main, while another is acting the part of Amphitrite, his wife. The fresh hands are being roughly shaved, with a tar brush and a rusty piece of iron hoop. A sailor, with bleeding cheeks, has just had the tar-brush, not playfully, but brutally thrust into his mouth by the mate. A bad fellow that mate! The sailor has had the board on which he sat pulled from under him, and he is now floundering in the tub. There he goes, staggering along the deck, pelted with old rope swabs, and soused with buckets of water. Rough sport this, but seamen enjoy it. Sailors have ready hands and hardy frames

They blithely sing, while on the vessel flies, And laugh at danger when the billows rise. The master looks on good-humouredly, and Billings is righting some of the fresh

and helping to make them look shipshape. The boatswain has a kind heart beating in his bosom.

A storm is abroad; nay, a hurricane, and the Mary Anne is in distress. How awful is the angry ocean, when the black sky is as a pall above, when the voice of the tempest is heard in thunder, and when the wings of the wind in wrath are sweeping the face of the deep! Twice has the ship been on her beam-ends, the mizen-mast is sprung half through, the main-sail blown to shatters, and water is deep in the hold. The hands have been long at the pumps, but a panic has struck the hearts of the crew; though some of them are bold fellows; but this is no common storm. In vain the master cheers on his men gallantly, and sets them a brave example. The roaring waves dash over them, and the raging deep yawns for their destruction. Frightful is the scene; the lightnings flash, the thunder roars, and the rain comes down like a deluge. The crew are in confusion-some have broken open the spirit casks, and are drinking, in the madness of despair. Drunken sailors roll about on the deck, passengers fall on their knees to pray, and women shriek aloud. The ship has struck, and oh! how fearfully she is beating her hull against the rocks!

Thunder roaring, lightning flashing Through the gloom, and billows dashing. All on board have lost their self-possession. No! not all, for two are yet steady the master and Billings the boatswain.

The sea at times makes a clear run over her decks; but a crisis is at hand, for she cannot stand this long. Dark is the night, and wild the angry storm. The vessel has strained her bows, and shipped more water than is likely ever to be baled out of her. On the larboard bow the crew are trying to get a hawser to the cliff; the stern is yet Amid the breakers on in deep water. the starboard is a mother clasping her babe to her bosom, in all the wild energy of despair. She battles bravely with the raging billows, and now a rope is flung to her. She has grasped it, and they have hoisted her half way up towards the gunwale. Alas! her hand relaxes its holdshe falls, and is swallowed up by the whelming waters. See! see! A sailor, with

a rope coiled round him, has leaped into
the raging flood, and the zig-zag light-
ning shows that he has hold of the
drowning woman. The rope is pulled up
to the deck, and mother, child, and sea-
man all are saved. The daring plunge
was made by Billings the boatswain, who
is now crying out, in a momentary lull
of the storm, "6
Keep up, my hearties!
and the old barky may perhaps yet be
saved!"

When perils rise, and stormy billows roll,
How nobly hope sustains the sinking soul!

Though the Mary Anne is once more gliding smoothly through the waters, peril is in her wake, on the chase, and will very soon overtake her. Bear a hand, boys! squalls are coming on and are on the lee bow. There is mutiny in the ship, and that evil-eyed mate is at the head of it. The master must be told of this. Hark! the storm is bursting. But the ruffian mate and his followers are binding him, with horrid oaths and threats on their lips, and the master calls aloud for aid. Billings has burst away from two fellows that had grasped him-seized hold of a handspike lying on the deck, felled the mutineer that was guarding the gangway, and rushed down into the captain's cabin, followed by a few brave fellows, not won over by the mutineers. The master, with his hands half-tied, is struggling with his lawless crew; but Billings is at hand. Short and desperate is the struggle-the master is at liberty-the mate, by a blow of Billings' handspike, is weltering on the cabin floor, with others of his guilty companions. The mutiny is quelled, the mutineers are put in irons, and on sails the Mary Anne through the yielding waves. There is One who holdeth the sea in the hollow of his hand, who maketh the storm a calm, who raiseth the humble, and putteth down the proud.

Sailor, look up! and his almighty power
Shall shelter thee in danger's darkest hour.

*

Alas for the good ship Mary Anne! She has weathered many a storm, but is now in sad extremity. Often has she struggled with the winds and the waves, but now she is the prey of all-devouring fire. An hour ago a cask of spirits was staved by accident, a lantern fell on it, and in a moment the spirits were in flames. The light blue vapour changed into a

dark, dingy cloud; the fire caught the cable-tier, and soon the thick smoke came curling up the hatchways, and the flame burst forth. The lower deck was scuttled, the combings of the hatches cut, and the lower parts opened. In rushed the water on the blazing hold, but the fire had found its way to the rigging, and mounted the masts. A sail is in sight, but what ship will dare to approach a vessel on fire! When a ship is right and tight, the sea smooth, and the wind fair, all sailors seem alike; but it is in the hour of trial and distress that daring spirits show their self-possession. The Mary Anne is a scene of confusion, dismay, and wild despair; but there is courage in the heart of the master, and steadiness, enterprise, and endurance on the brow of Billings the boatswain.

Unbroken still in danger's stern control,
The heart of courage and the daring soul.

The strange sail has borne down on the Mary Anne, and now lies within a cable's length or two of the burning ship. Her long-boat has gone and taken on board the hapless passengers, but the master and Billings have remained on board, though the ship is almost covered with flames. They are bent on saving the lives of the guilty mate and his comrades in irons. Hurrah! Here they come. They are now in the longboat-they have reached the ship-they are all safe on board-the passengers, on their knees, are thanking God for their escape the master of the deserted vessel looks mournfully on her blazing hull, and Billings the boatswain is drawing his sleeve across his eyes, as the good ship Mary Anne sinks through the yielding waters. Cheerily, Billings! cheerily! Thy eradle, thy hammock, and thy home, are swept, by the fiery blast, from the face of the deep, but there is yet a bit of blue left in the sky! Look up, Billings, to Him who controls the winds and the waves. "The sea is his, and he made it, and his hands formed the dry land," Psa. xcv. 5. Look up to him steadily, through the mediation of Jesus Christ our Lord, and thou shalt yet weather the storms of life and death.

THE BIBLE.

Not long ago a proposition was made to prepare a book of asbestos, whose pages should record the annals of the world; and as the material is incombustible, and would survive the fires of the last day, the volume was to be called, "The Book of Eternity." Vain aspiration! the true book of eternity is already extant-the Bible; and with this vast superiority over the human invention, that it is mysteriously related to a twofold eternity: it is the gift of the past eternity to time, and will finally be restored by time to the eternity which is yet to come. It is a leaf from the book of the Divine decrees; it reveals thoughts which were revolved from everlasting in the mind of God; in its march through time it scatters those thoughts like seeds, whose fruit is to be gathered in eternity. It is the voice of one eternity speaking to another, for the benefit of every listening child of time and heir of immortality. It has never been out of the hand of the Eternal; though he graciously presents it to us as an open book, and turns it over, page by page, to the willing eye, yet it will hereafter appear, that he has never allowed it to pass out of his keeping, but has always held it in the hollow of his hand. This alone will account for its preservation.

So copiously did the Fathers quote from the New Testament, especially from the Gospels, that had that portion of Scripture been destroyed, their writings, it is said, would have supplied and restored the whole again. That destruction will eventually take place; but when the final conflagration shall have reduced the material of the Bible to ashes, the indestructible truths will be found transcribed by the finger of the Spirit, and enshrined in the hearts of the renewed. The disembodied spirit of truth will appear before the throne of God, and beholding in every face the reflection of her own image, will justly claim them all for her offspring.

There are certain places on the face of the globe which mankind seem, by general consent, to have selected for the theatres of great events. Such, for instance, is the Plain of Esdrelom, the battle-field of empires, where every nation of the old world has seen its banners wet with the dew of Hermon. And such the Mediterranean, the naumachia of the nations, where empire has often been lost and

won. But the Bible is the arena of more and higher conflicts still; it is at once the object of contest, the armoury which supplies the weapons, and the chosen ground of struggle. Why has it witnessed more frequent and fierce encounters than any other object on the face of the earth? Ask why is the rock of Gibraltar an object of fierce contention in every war with the power that holds it. Why is the pass of Thermopyla steeped to the centre with blood? The Bible is the frontier fortress of the church; all the armies of error, in every age, have beleaguered it; but the sons of truth, who hold it for God, have received it with this address, “Here stand, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against you;" and they "loved not their lives unto the death."

The Bible is the true prophet of hope. The books of pagan antiquity sung only of the golden-aged past; for the future, their moral was despair. Like the sternlights of a ship, the radiance they threw fell only on the track behind. The Bible builds on the future; the chorus of all its songs is of a glory to come. In the midwinter of humanity it has gone on sowing light for the righteous-seeds of the sun. And in the captivity of the church, when the daughter of Sion sat disconsolate in her chains, the voice of the Bible has ever been, "Arise, and shine." No dell of Tempe, no garden of the Hesperides, no vale of Cashmere, no slope on the banks of Gennesareth, where the seasons met and danced together, ever dazzled with more golden fruit, or charmed with fairer verdure and richer fragrance, than the Bible presents in the moral landscape of the future.

"O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true!

Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see,
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel
His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?
Rivers of gladness water all the earth,
And clothe all climes with beauty.
The various seasons woven into one,
And that one season an eternal spring."

* *

To the Bible, the great philosophers, legislators, and founders of ancient sects were indebted, directly or indirectly, for nearly every thing excellent in their codes and systems.

"Hither, as to their fountain, other stars

Repairing, in their golden urns drew light."

A live coal from off its altar, quickly transmitted-like the torch passed from hand to hand in the lamp-game of the Grecian youth-kindled the light of Persia, Greece, and Rome. Hence, doubt

less, Plato drew the dim conception which he is supposed to have entertained, of the necessity of a Divine Mediator; whether from an indistinct echo of the patriarchal faith, or from rays refracted from the Hebrew prophets, through a Phoenician medium, it is not easy to determine. Probably both cooperated, with his own deep sense of necessity, in partially unveiling the awful truth to this divine philosopher, this "plant from the wreck of Paradise, thrown on the shores of idolatrous Greece."

The Bible is distinguished from every other book professedly inspired-from the Shasters of the Brahmin and the Koran of Mahomet-by its earnest commendations of knowledge. Imposture fears the light; the Bible courts and creates it. Not only does it extol knowledge as a glory, it excites a thirst for it, and commands us to seek after it as a most sacred duty.

And, oh, what a field for contemplation does it lay open! It is the history of a world, of our own world-its morning, its meridian, its many changes, its prospective close. The countless multitudes of antiquity pass before our eyes, the heroes, and tyrants, and martyrs of old time, their enormous wealth, their glittering palaces, and mighty cities. We hear the tumult of their armies, and the fame of their kings proclaimed-Assyrian and Persian, Babylonian, Egyptian, and Mede; and all is suddenly swept away. Another king or conqueror comes, and another army, more numerous than the last, and that, too, perishes before our eyes; and another after rises up, and then another. And all these men were our fathers, whose virtues and vices are recorded in blazing letters, and whose punishment or reward is made known to the uttermost regions of the earth, for the benefit and guidance of us, their sons. Were it but the ruin of a history it would be venerable; were it a fiction only, it would be a grand one; but it is complete and true, it is full of general as well as individual interest, it is replete with simple and manly narration, with passionate appeals and overwhelming eloquence. It is addressed to ourselves, it is connected with us and our well-being; it gives us a story of the past, and a lesson for the future. There is nothing in Homer which can mate with the soaring spirit of its poetry; there is nothing in Virgil which can equal the gentle pathos of its strains.

Dante is less awful, and Ariosto less wild; even Milton, who has topped the sublimity of all other writers, and Shakspeare, who has surpassed the united world in prodigality of imagery and variety of thought, must yield to the infinite grandeur and beauty which are impressed on the living oracles, or scattered in exuberance over every page.

I have said the Bible is the history of our world, but this is not saying enough; its subject is the fate of worlds, the revolutions of heaven and of earth-destruction and restoration on the vastest scale. It is more than the history of all this, it is the philosophy of the history; and, more than this, the theology of the philosophy. But in the remarks I have made, I have only ascended the steps of the temple, the hallowed interior is yet to be viewed. For the present, it only remains for us to admire the manner in which the Bible embodies its great doctrines, and inculcates its great lessons. It narrates interesting facts, and teaches by example. And here I shall avail myself of a paragraph in Mr. Binney's "Discourses on the Practical Power of Faith:" "We are more likely to be successful in our inculcation of duty, if we not only state what it is right to do, but actually show how it has been done. The mind, in such cases, seems to have the advantage of another sense—it not only hears, but it sees; the understanding is not only put in possession of truth, but the fancy is furnished with illustrations and images. Many a man who could not comprehend the arguments for a particular providence, can feel the proof as seen in the lives of Abraham or Joseph. He whose weakness would be overcome by temptation or calamity, could he remember nothing but the abstract precepts of the preacher, may be stimulated to exert both firmness and faith, by knowing that others have been equally tempted, without sacrificing their virtue, and equally afflicted, without losing their confidence. For this very purpose, we imagine, has the Holy Spirit included so much of an historical nature in the inspired volume. On the same account, our Divine Lord conveyed most of his instructions in parables, embodying, in the intelligible actions of men, the particular truth he intended to enforce. This was emphatically teaching the multitude.' The mass of mankind feel, rather than reason; they arrive at truth by sensation, rather than by argument; the voice of