Books and tracts.

The long passage.

sprig of sea-weed or floating bubble that he could see, advanced to him, and asked, "Will you lend me something

to read ?"

"Certainly, sir, any thing I have; but most of my supply here is of a religious character, and I do not know whether you will take any interest in it.”

The gentleman replied that he should take an interest in it; and he selected a paper or a tract, took his seat again, and began to read. Presently a lady made the same request; others looked wishfully toward the books, but hesi tated to ask for them.

all within hearing,

Our traveler observing this, said to

"If any others of the company would like any thing I have, I should be happy to have them take it. I always carry a supply of reading when I travel, though I select my books, perhaps, too much to suit my own taste alone. What I have here is chiefly of a religious character, and it may not be so generally interesting on that account. You are heartily welcome, however, to any thing that I have."

The books and tracts were soon generally in circulation, the passengers were nearly all busy in reading them, and the time passed swiftly away. Our traveler became known as a Christian; and were I now upon the subject of Christian influence, I might describe many interesting occurrences which took place, the Christian acquaintances which he formed, and the conversations which he had with various persons on board the vessel. But I am going so much into detail in this story, that I fear you have almost lost sight of our subject, which is the duty of praying to God with the feeling that he will, after all, do as he pleases about granting the request. I must hasten to the conclusion of the narrative.

The com

The passage was an uncommonly long one. pany hoped to reach their port in two days, but after ten had

The approaching storm.

The storm increases.

passed away, they were still far from Boston, night was coming on, and what was still worse, the captain, who stood anxiously at the helm, said that there were signs of an approaching storm. A dark haze extended itself over the whole southern sky. The swell of the sea increased. The rising wind moaned in most melancholy tones through the rigging. The captain gave orders to take in sail, to make every thing snug about the vessel, and to have supper prepared earlier than usual, 'Because," said he, "I expect, from the looks of the sky yonder, that an hour hence you will not manage a cup of tea very handily."

The passengers ate their supper in silence. Their hearts were full of foreboding fears. The captain endeavored to encourage them. He said that they were not far from Boston. He hoped soon to see the light. If they could make out to get into the harbor before it began to blow very hard, they should be safe. Yes," said he, "I am in hopes to land all safely at the T before ten o'clock.* Unless we can get fairly into the harbor, however, I shall have to put about and stand out to sea; for if we are to have a storm, we must not stay tossing about near the rocks."

you

The storm increased. Sail after sail was reefed or taken in, but still the spirits of the company were sustained by knowing that they were advancing toward Boston, and by the hope that they should soon stand upon the firm shore. So great, however, was the pitching and rolling of the ship, that most of the passengers retreated to their berths and braced themselves there. A few of the more hardy or experienced remained upon deck, clinging to the masts or to the rigging, and watching with intense interest the distant glimmering of the Boston light, which had a short time before come into view. We are not very far from the light," said the captain, "but it blows pretty hard."

66

*The T, a noted wharf at Boston.

They watch the light.

The storm increases.

Going about.

"Do you think we shall get in ?" asked a passenger. "I do not know," said he, shaking his head, "it is a bad night. I will, however, try for it."

The passengers watched the light. They observed that the captain did not like to talk while he was at the helm, and they forbore to ask him questions. They knew that as long as they were going toward the light there was hope, and they watched it therefore with a very eager eye. Sometimes the ship would veer a little from her course, and as the light moved off to the right or to the left, they were filled with solicitude lest the captain was going to abandon the effort and put out again to sea.

He kept however steadily on for another half-hour, though wind and wave seemed to do their utmost to compel him to return. The light grew larger and brighter as the vessel approached it, but the wind increased so rapidly that the captain seemed much perplexed to know what to do. He put the helm into the hands of a sailor, and went forward and stood there looking upon the dark gloomy horizon until he was completely drenched with the spray. In a few minutes he returned suddenly.

"'Tis of no use," said he; and then taking the helm again, he called out in his loudest voice, to the sailors who were before, which, however, the roaring of the waves almost drowned, "READY, ABOUT."

The sailors answered, "READY."

A moment after, the captain's voice was again heard, in the loud but monotonous tone of command, HELM'S A-LEE. There was bustle at the bows of the ship. A great sail flapped in the wind with a sound of thunder; the ropes rattled; the boom swung with violence across the deck; and the bow, which had been pointed directly to the light-house, their only star of hope, now swept swiftly around the horizon, until it left it behind them. The vessel plunged into the

Splitting of the topsail.

Danger.

waves; and to complete this scene of terror, a loud sound, like a clap of rattling thunder, burst close over their heads, arousing every passenger, and producino universal alarm. It was the splitting of the topsail.

spread among the passengers below, that the effort to reach Boston was abandoned, and that they were now standing out to the open sea, and that consequently they must be all night exposed unsheltered to the violence of the storm. Although the commotion had been already enough to fill the passengers with fear, yet

to an eye accustomed to the ocean, there had not been any real danger. But real danger soon came. The wind increased, and the vessel labored so much in struggling against its fury, that even the captain thought it doubtful whether they should ever see the land.

In commencing this description, I did not intend to have. given so full a narrative of the circumstances of this storm, and perhaps the reader has almost forgotten the subject which we are considering, and the purpose for which this incident is introduced. The subject is the feelings with which prayer should be offered in danger, and the narrative was introduced simply to present a distinct idea of a situation of danger, on the deep. The passengers in this packet were now in verv

Protection never certain.

Object of prayer in danger.

imminent danger. They were all in their berths below, for so violent was the motion of the vessel, that it was not safe to attempt to stand. The wish was intimated by some of the company, and the desire soon extended to all, that a prayer should be offered; and they looked to our Christian traveler to express their petitions at the throne of grace.

Many persons may have such conceptions of the nature of prayer, as to suppose that if this company should now sincerely unite in commending themselves to God's protection, he would take care of them, and that they might feel perfectly safe. Many cases have occurred in which Christians, who have been in the midst of danger, have fled to Jehovah for protection, and have had their fears immediately quelled, and felt a calm and happy assurance that God would bring them through in safety. But such an assurance is not usually well grounded. Are real Christians never lost at sea? Do real Christians who on their sick beds pray that God will restore them to health, never die? Is a Christian who, on commencing a journey asks divine protection, never overturned in a coach? Is the family which always asks, in its evening prayer, that God will grant them quiet repose, never called up by the sudden sickness of a child, or aroused at midnight by a cry of fire? Facts universally testify that God does not grant every request. He reserves to himself the right, after hearing the petition, to grant or to deny, as may seem best to him.

You will perhaps say, Of what avail is it then, to pray to God in danger, if we can have no assurance that we shall be saved? It avails much. You can not be sure that you will be certainly preserved from that danger, but you can rest calmly and peacefully in the assurance that God will do what is on the whole for the best. “And will this feeling," you ask, “enable any one to rest in peace while he is out at sea in a storm, and in danger every moment of sinking?"