Arabs of the Jordan are out with their desert chivalry, to give you a display of their rude warfare. The array is divided into two parties, headed each by a chief, whose spear, with its black tuft of camel's hair, indicates his authority. Now they break singly forth, and meet, with a swoop like the eagle's, in the middle plain. At the instant of contact, when you look to see horse and rider stretched on the plain, the iron bit throws the charger upon his haunches; the pistols flash, the horses wheel, and others succeed, fast and airy as the flight of swallows. Then follows the general charge, amidst clouds of dust; giving you glimpses of the desperate thrust, the parry, the gleam of spears, the flash of guns, the rout, the rally, with the Moslem war-cry rising above the din.

Night comes and the encampment of the pilgrims is bright with watch-fires. Before the day has dawned, the drum of the Turk rouses the pilgrims, and they are up and away at once, for the Jordan is yet four miles distant. The width of the valley near Jericho is about ten miles, bounded by the mountains of Moab on the east, and those of Judah on the west. With the exception of the neighborhood of Jericho, the fountain of Elijah, and the fringe of shrubbery along the banks of the river, the plain is bare, though susceptible of the highest culture. The mountains of Moab rise to a height of two thousand feet, and those of Judah to fifteen hundred; the river, at its junction with the sea, is several hundred feet below the level of the Mediterranean.

The stars give you light enough in these pure skies for rapid way. The bracing air exhilarates your spirits. Every thing is unreal and dreamy about you. The place, the time, the purpose, all fill your heart with unusual thoughts. An Arab flits by, his horse at a gallop. You pass a lumbering camel with his burden. But it is not these oriental features which occupy you. There, in the gray light, is the range of Moab, whence Balaam blessed Israel, and Moses looked on the land of promise which he might not enter. The dust beneath your feet trembled under the tramp of the hosts of God, encircling Jericho. Before you, is the river. whose waters parted for the chosen tribe, and gave them admission to the Holy Land. And more, Jesus has been here before you. It was here he healed Bartimeus; it was here he stood at the waters of baptism, and the Spirit of God descended as a dove and crowned his brow with glory; while, from out of heaven, the Father proclaimed his well beloved Son.

As these thoughts move your heart, you near the banks. The pilgrims, who precede you, have fired the withered shrubbery to mark and light the way. It reminds you of the pillar of fire which guided Israel. The day-star shoots up at once, in full and mild effulgence above the outline of the mountains of Moab. You think of the star of Bethlehem, and of Him "who is the bright and morning star." The heavens and the earth become pervaded with the presence of God. In the mood of the hour, you feel that at last you have found the Holy Land, and are walking in the footsteps of Christ. The tumult of the pilgrims at the bank arouses you. You hurry in among the confusion. There, at last, is the Jordan! And dreams and visions all take flight before the realities about you. The river, which descends pure from the snow resting on the granite summit and sides of Hermon, and from the quiet of the Sea of Galilee, gathers afterwards the slime of its banks; and rolls before you in a narrow channel, a hundred feet wide, with a rapid, muddy and turbulent current.

For twenty rods along the bank, the shrubbery had been cut away to give the pilgrims access to the river; and here this mass of old and young were crowded together, amid restive horses, refractory mules, and screaming camels. The din and confusion was horrible. Accidents were continually occurring. A woman was thrown from camel and killed. But no notice was taken of it. The pilgrims, men and women, proceeded under the heels of the brutes to disrobe for the river. The women entered the waters in a long, loose robe of white, to be kept as the shroud in which they are to be buried. The bank of the river presented an abrupt descent of about eight feet, to a narrow strip of sand washed by the current. It was touching to see the aged, whose zeal had brought them into these wastes from lands unknown, borne in the arms of men to the waters. Mothers carried their struggling infants and plunged them in the waves. And many a black brow was there, brooding over the crimes of a past life, and hoping to wash them away in the current. The shore, the banks, the waters, were alive with the frenzied mass of human beings. As we looked on the strange scene, a pilgrim was swept from his footing into the middle of the river. His hands were raised, as if in prayer. He made no outcry, he struggled for no deliverance; gradually, inch by inch, he sunk, and the waters closed over him. Again he rose for a moment. No helping hand was near; and

again he sunk, and the stream covered him, and rolled his corpse down into the sea of the dead. The shrieks of woman in her agony on the shore told us, that a mother had lost her son, a wife her husband; and with unutterable horror we rushed away from the fury and madness of the place.

God, let him not wander to a
There is no virtue in the soil

No. He that would find his foreign shore, or a holier shrine. which Jesus trod, no cleansing efficacy in the waters where he washed, no nearer gate to heaven at Bethlehem, no voice of surer mercy where he died, or where he rose. To a spirit obdurate, with a will unbowed, and a heart corrupt, Jerusalem and Olivet, the garden and the tomb, are nothing. But with a spirit meek and penitent, any land we tread is holy, any dwelling-place is our Jerusalem, any altar is our Calvary, every font is the sacred river; and God's pardoning mercy comes as free, as sweet, as sure, as though we knelt on the very spot where the blood of Christ was shed in remission of sin.

PROGRESS IN SCHOOLS,

EVERY age has its watchword. For centuries Christendom rang with the battle-cry: "God wills it!"-summoning the faithful to the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre. Kings from their thrones, barons and knights from their turreted castles, and peasants from their dens and hovels, started into new life, as all hasted to join the crusade. It was the one heart-heaving of the age, and every pulse beat responsive. In later days, under the potent teachings of Wiclif, Huss and Luther, Christendom rose against ecclesiastical tyranny and corruption; and "Reform!" was the cry. The mighty watchword was echoed in the palace and the cottage, swelling as the voice of many waters; and the Reformation came. About the same period the daring Genoese had laid open a new world; and," Conquest and Colony!" became the rallying words. In the empires of the Aztec and Inca, Cortes and Pizarro wrought deeds of valor; and left some of the bloodiest marks ever found on war's gory page. Along the Atlantic shore colonies sprang up, less dazzling in the pomp and glitter of arms; but of higher and holier aim, as well as of more enduring prosper

ity and glory. There, in the last century, another cry was heard: "Liberty!" Down with the throne, and raise the people from the dust! Our land first gave the word: and, from out of a fearful conflict, with strong hands and stout hearts, our fathers bore the palladium of liberty, and left it, a precious legacy, in our political temple. Europe next caught the sound, and thrones trembled, as the storm swept on; but no land, like our own land, found an Ararat, whereon the ark might rest; nor caught a vision of the bow in the cloud, the token that the flood had ceased, the pledge that it would never return.

And has our age no watchword? Who has not heard it! It points the period of the ambitious Sophomore in his elaborate theme, it warms the eloquence of the senator in the hall of legislation, it sparkles in the editorial of the journalist, and mingles with the gravest teachings of the pulpit. The magic word is PROGRESS! And what is progress? To judge from all that we see and hear, it is but another name for speed. "Faster, Faster!" is the cry. Annihilate time and space; our destiny is onward. At the word, the coachman casts aside his thong, and unharnesses his panting steeds, and yokes the elements to his car. Alas for the son of Nimshi! in vain had he whipped up, to maintain his reputation, in such days as these. The winds even are too sluggish on the wing. Old Eolus may bar them up in his cave, and wait in vain for the mariner's gift or prayer. Fire and water now drive the ship across the deep: and Pluto smiles grimly at the baffled winds. Fame, too, discontented with her old trump, compels the lightning to tell her tale in annihilation of time. Is it not enough? Oh no! our destiny is onward; our watchword, Progress. "Faster! faster!" is yet the cry. O for some swifter agent than the lightning! why is the news so long in coming?

The watchword indicates the character of the age. It is not a mere unmeaning sound. It affects society in all its relations; and leaves its impress on infancy, on manhood, and on age. Under its influence, character is formed in the hour of education, and developed in the day of action. In the ages of war and carnage, every boy was educated for soldier; and eagerly rushed, at manhood, into the tented field. So, in our time, the school must feel the presence of the master spirit of the age;-the spirit of Progress. Innovation or improvement, as we may please to style it, is busy there; abolishing old forms and old principles, intro

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ducing new modes of discipline and instruction, and proudly rearing a system, on which shall be stamped the distinctive feature of the age. For Progress must mark the stage of pupilage, as well as the arena of manhood. This we cannot prevent, if we would; and would not, if we could. But we would have the growth as healthy as it is rapid. We willingly break from the shore, and fearlessly unfurl the canvass to the breeze; yet with more fixed eye must we watch the compass, and with firmer hand grasp the helm. Nor, from a spirit of reckless daring, or the boyish desire to make a short voyage, would we extinguish the beacons our fathers kindled, lest we wreck the precious bark which they launched, and committed to our care.

We wish to speak of some of the old-fashioned principles of education, which, amid the hurried changes of the present day, it is desirable to retain.

In the great drama of human life, we desire to retain the opening act of pupilage. There is a time for every thing under the sun; a time to learn, and a time to act; a time to be a boy, and a time to be a man. By a law of nature, which no one can abrogate or annul, we enter the world mentally and physically infants, and advance gradually to maturity of body and mind. Our fathers wisely protracted this stage, to give sufficient opportunity for that careful preparation and study, without which no man is fitted to "act well his part" amid the stirring scenes of life. There were boys and girls in their days; real boys and girls, who had not entered into active labor and conspicuous position; but were simply learners, willing and expecting to be taught by wiser and older heads. With these obsoletes of past generations, Progress has made fearful havoc. Not more exterminating was the sword of Herod to the infants of Bethlehem; for where are boys and girls now? In the first insidious advances of Progress, they were changed into masters and misses; and now, they have attained to be full-fledged young gentlemen and young ladies. And never was the saying of the old Roman more applicable, "that the rising luminary has more worshippers than the setting;" for the older gentlemen and ladies already hide their diminished heads before these new and brighter stars. Who, of the most venerable for age or worth, has moral courage enough to address a school by the boorish and antiquated terms of boys and girls? In the rapid progress of the age, man must live fast. He no