But no more the GOD of Hosts is with him to give him victory in the battle. The eagles of Rome advance, and Israel flies broken and vanquished.- -Once more the battle rages; but it is Jew and Gentile no more. The Jew is gone from the land, and others strive for his inheritance; on the one side the mailed warriors of the cross, on the other the turbaned chivalry of Damascus.—Yet once again, and amid the louder din of modern war the Ottoman falls before the soldiers of Napoleon.-And here, unless the language of Scripture be figurative, another and greater battle is still to take place. Far different are the thoughts that throng upon the mind as we gain the summit of the hill, and look down upon the peaceful vale of Nazareth. There is something in a valley that has a charm to send home to the mind at once the associations of the scene. There is no vagueness about it. It is not "somewhere near this spot," but nature seems as it were to present it to you in the hollow of her hand. And there are other circumstances that combine to give a charm to Nazareth. It is still a lovely vale, though the olive-trees are scanty now; and its inhabitants are chiefly Christians. no "After Jerusalem the Holy Land has lost its zest," is one of the few remarks of a charming writer,* to which I must emphatically say nay. I would rather say with Miss Martineau, place satisfied me more completely than Nazareth." There is a unity in its interest, and it strikes at once upon the mind. Its character is that of peace; and it reminds us, as we climb the winding-path on the hill-side, or rest by the fountain of the Virgin, of the more tranquil days of the SAVIOUR'S life. Our proverb, "Truth lies in a well," might be applied in a more literal sense to Palestine; for there is no surer evidence of an ancient site, than the fresh spring that bubbles up from the ground in a dry and thirsty land. And we may be sure, that as the daughters of Nazareth gather round the fountain of the Virgin now, so they gathered in the time of yore; and here it was first whispered among them that the Son of Mary was become a Prophet. As I was returning from wandering in the valley, through the streets of Nazareth, the words "Salaam Aleikum " (peace be with you) greeted me from a Moslem, standing at the door of his shop. "Aleikum Salaam," (and on you peace,) replied I, in appropriate phrase, and with more than ordinary alacrity; for it seems to be a disputed point whether or not a Moslem ever deigns to bestow this salutation upon a Christian; and I was glad that I should be the means of solving the dispute. But perhaps something of a better feeling mingled with this. I had not wandered among the scenes where the mission of peace was matured, without feeling some what of its influence. And on this spot, where the Christian and the * Crescent and Cross. Moslem once met in bloody conflict, those words seemed the welcome token of a better time. "Aleikum Salaam," I replied; but scarcely were the words out of my mouth, than the individual to whom they were addressed set up a loud hoarse laugh; and at the same moment a similar sound proceeded from behind me. Turning round, I perceived another Moslem, standing at the door of his shop on the opposite side; and these two worthies had been saluting each other across the street. . . . At Jerusalem I had been ashamed of my own want of enthusiasm; but I felt the spirit of the Holy Land come upon me in the valley of Esdraelon, and I went forth from Nazareth a new man. And a beautiful ride it is from Nazareth to Carmel; much of the scenery resembles that of an English park, and therefore it must be beautiful. Skirting the valley of Esdraelon, the road winds round the foot of Carmel, and crossing that ancient river, the river Kishon, that at this season scarcely covers the horses' hoofs, we come to the Mediterranean at Hayfa. And then a climb, and a stiff one too, for the convent of Carmel is half-way up the mountain. And as I rode up the steep ascent, I thought of the olden time in England, when the traveller sat in his saddle all day, and slept in the convent at night, just as in Syria now.- Ferguson's Recollections of Eastern Travel. THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. "Grant that these, my two sons, may sit, the one on Thy right hand, and the other on the left, in Thy kingdom."-S. Matt. xx. 21. WHAT shall the pleading mother ask, Which in her blindness might be For those she nourished at her breast? Not riches-through the needle's eye Safe in GoD's treasure-house of grace Unnumbered prizes stored Await the battle and the race, Which to 1hy children, LORD, (Best known to Thee alone) belong, Not to the swift, nor to the strong. Enough to ask His guiding hand Come earthly peace or strife- But, 'mid the mansion of the blest, That those we love may have their In highest place for aye. The cup his Master drank; From which CHRIST never shrank, He too shall share, who dares to claim With willing heart the Martyr's name. Their place beside the SAVIOUR'S throne, Sought for the holy twain By mother's love, the Doom alone One fell beneath the Tyrant's sword, Launched his loud thunders at the gate Of Salem, rent and desolate. The fiery cauldron's trial o'er, Last of the Apostolic name! КАРРА. NARRATIVE OF A MEMBER OF S. COLUMBA, In a recent visit to Edinburgh, when attending the daily service at S. Colomba's, a small chapel in the old town, where the practices and doctrines of the Church are carried out and taught in their fulness, I was struck by the manner and appearance of a little woman, evidently belonging to the humbler classes, a constant attendant at the daily service and at the blessed Sacrament. On mentioning her subsequently to a friend, I learnt that the little woman near whom I knelt had published a small volume of verses, which in addition to their religious tone, displayed considerable poetical talent. This excited my interest, and I requested the priest of S. Columba's to make me acquainted with her. I accordingly visited her with him, in her curious habitation, a singular old-fashioned room, in a corner of the High School Yard, the only access to which was through a dark dismal lobby. But dull and lonely as her home is, the little poetess astonished and delighted me by her cheerful, contented temper, her quickness and intelligence, her thorough Church feeling and devotion to the services of the Church, and any works of mercy she can perform towards her poor neighbours, though few can be poorer than she is herself. Her history is not without its interest. Her parents and all her forefathers were Episcopalians. Her mother was left a widow in the poorest circumstances, and had a sore struggle to provide for her only child, the subject of this little history, whose frequent illnesses rendered her a heavy burden. Providence blessed the efforts of the poor widow, and she and her child struggled on for many years. She had not means enough to send her daughter to school, but she instructed her at home in the principles of the Christian faith, and the clergyman of the chapel they attended showed her much kindness, and took much pains with her religious education. For the last six years of Mrs. Piper's life she was en tirely confined to bed. It was at the commencement of her long illness that Mary Piper, to use her own simple words, first thought of writing verses. "Not that I ever thought they would be worth anyone's notice, but only as an expedient to prevent her sending me out of an evening to walk, as when I did go she was often worse when I came back, and I knew she did not like me to leave her, but she wished me to go for the sake of my health, as I was so much confined by her distress; but when I saw my plan took good effect, I just told her I had to write. What began in duty soon became a pleasure, and since I have found it a profit." After her mother's death in 1827, she had to pay sixpence or a shilling weekly towards a debt of £9. she had incurred for the funeral expenses, out of four or five shillings she made by her hard earnings. One circumstance in her religious history I must describe in her own language. "I had left S. Peter's some years before, and accommodated myself in S. Paul's, Carnoter's Close, the then Rev. Mr. Drummond's, for four years, and removed with him to Trinity Church for another four years, when at the unhappy schism which he made I returned to S. Paul's, the Rev. Mr. Alexander's, and when named by the trustees to quit, I accompanied him and the whole congregation to the new church of S. Columba's, where I am happy to say I now am." As a proof of how much she valued Church ordinances, I cannot forbear mentioning a circumstance told me by one who knew her well. She was offered regular employment and good wages at a workshop, which she declined because she could not obtain leave to attend the Saints' Day Services. I believe she now earns about three shillings a week, her whole means of subsistence. Some friends persuaded her to publish her poetical pieces by subscription, which she did in 1847, under the name of "Select Pieces." Of the thousand copies printed, she disposed of about six hundred. I append a specimen of these verses :— VOL. VII. THE POOR MAN AND THE MISER. The poor man's face was thin and pale, The miser heard his mournful tale, He cared not for his tatter'd rags, The poor man raised a heavenward eye- As death with friendly dart drew nigh P The conqueror of the world's frail race The poor man clung to his embrace- But death prepared, in solemn gloom, No gold could rescue from the tomb- The miser groan'd-his latest gaze The curtain drops we dare not raise- TALES OF THE HOUSEHOLD. BIOGRAPHY OF A BOTTLE. In the principal street of an old English town, there stands an old fashioned house which has been built for several centuries, and has been the scene of many adventures. Every room in it could tell, if it chose, some strange story, and the old furniture, most of which has been there ever since the house was built, has seen many generations of inhabitants, and witnessed numberless changes. It happened once when the master and mistress of the family and all the young masters and mistresses were out at a Christmas party, and the servants had taken the opportunity of going to see their friends, that the rest of the inmates of the house determined to amuse themselves, for said they," when the cat's away the mice will play." After some consideration, they thought it best, that every one should tell some story in prose or verse. Each individual might give an account of his own life, or tell the history of some one else's life, if his own were not sufficiently amusing, or at least invent something of some sort or other, and every one that could not do this, was to have such fine or punishment imposed on him as the rest of the company thought fit. The first that was called on was the poker, because he had the chimney corner, which was the best place in the house. But the poker said that he had never done any thing in his life, but sit by the fire and break the coals, and he had no adventures of his own to relate, and could not remember any others, for when people told stories as they sat by the fire |