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ROM one end of Cornwall to another no name is more familiar than that of BILLY BRAY.

On Sundays, when one met crowds of strangers making for the little white-washed chapel that was perched up amongst the granite boulders, or when one found the quiet "church town" thronged by the well-dressed people, the usual explanation was that Billy Bray was going to preach.

If you had overtaken Billy on the way you could not have been long in doubt as to who he was. A little, spare, wiry man, whose dress of orthodox black and the white tie indicated

the preacher. But this was evidently no preacher made out of broadcloth and choker. The sharp, quick, discerning eye that looked out from under the brows, the mouth almost hard in its decision, all the face softened by the light that played constantly upon it, and by the happy wrinkles round the eyes, and the smile that had perpetuated itself,-these belonged to no ordinary man. And with the first suspicion that this was Billy Bray there would quickly come enough to confirm it. If you gave him half a chance there would certainly be a straightforward question about your soul in wise, pithy words. And if the answer were what it should be, the lanes would ring with his happy thanksgiving.

Billy's whole life was spent in praising the Lord; and for the most part aloud. Somebody suggested to him that a man might get into such a habit of praising the Lord as scarcely to know what he was saying. Billy said very coolly, "I don't think the Lord is much troubled with that class of people." He couldn't help himself; with a heart always in tune, every influence, every breath shook from its tremulous chords some note of thanksgiving. "As I go along the street," he said, "I lift up one foot, and it seems to say 'Glory!' and I lift up the other, and it seems to say' Amen!' and they keep on like that all the time I walk."

But probably you would have come upon him singing. "Bless the Lord, I can sing," he would say; "my Heavenly Father likes to hear me sing. I can't sing so sweetly as some, but my Father likes to hear me sing as well as those who can sing better than Ï

the little village of Twelveheads, near Truro, Cornwall, in 1794.

As a young man, he was exceedingly wicked, and indulged in all sinfulness; and after being absent from his native country seven years, returned to it a drunkard. But throughout these years the constant danger to which he was exposed in his work, and the hair-breadth escapes, filled his mind. His conscience tormented him; dreams terrified him; at times he feared to sleep lest he should wake up in hell.

At length there came into his hand a book written by one who would have been a kindred spirit. It was John Bunyan's " Visions of Heaven and Hell." The vivid picturings of the lost roused Bray to great anxiety. The description of two souls in hell cursing each other for their misery, was himself and a drunken companion, and the thought burned within him," Shall he and I, who like each other so much, torment each other in hell?" That wound did not heal until he met with the Good Physician. It was deepened by the words of his wife, who had once enjoyed the favour of God, but had left her Saviour. She frequently would talk of the remembrance of her joy and peace, "O, Billy, no tongue can tell what they enjoy who serve the Lord!"

me the way, for you

bean't such a sinner as I be."

Though he suffered this bitterness, "the devil had such a hold of him," as he said, that he was ashamed to pray before his wife, and went to bed without kneeling.

What strange things men are ashamed of! And what strange things they are not ashamed of! A man is not ashamed to let his wife and children see him drunk, but he is dreadfully ashamed for them to see him on his knees! He is not ashamed for men to hear him take the holy name of God in vain, but he wouldn't for the world be heard praying! To be told by God's Word that he is in danger of "hell fire" is nothing; but to be called religious, and told that he's in danger of getting to heaven-this makes him blush like a child!

But Billy's trouble was too much for his shame. In the middle of the night he sprang out of bed and fell on his knees and prayed for mercy. "The more I prayed, the more I

felt to pray," was his account of it afterwards; and day and night, at work and at home, he wrestled for deliverance from the guilt of sin. His companions reproached him for making such a noise-like him of old, he was "roaring all the day long." But Billy could not be quiet until the Lord Jesus had spoken peace to him.

"You would roar out too if you felt my load, and roar I will until I get it off," was all Billy said in reply.

There was no more drunkenness, no more oaths, no more shame, but day and night one incessant cry,-"What must I do to be saved?" Work, and food, and sleep were forgotten in the intensity with which he sought the Lord. One day, as soon as he reached home, he went straight to his room and determined to press into the kingdom.

He prayed, "Lord, Thou hast said they that ask shall receive, and they that seek shall find, and they that knock shall have the door opened and I have faith to believe it." That instant the Lord made him happy. "I shouted for joy," he tells us; "I praised Him with my whole heart for what He had done for a poor sinner like me........ Everything looked new to me-the people, the fields, the cattle, the trees.

I was like a man in a new world....I told all I met what the Lord had done for my soul. I have heard some say that they have had hard work to get away from their companions, but I sought mine out, and had hard work to find them soon enough to tell them what the Lord had done for my soul... They said I was a madman, but they meant I was a glad man, and glory be to God, I have been glad ever since!"

Thus, blessed be God, the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent man taketh it by force. And perhaps the reason why you, reader, are not as happy as Billy, is, that you have not tried in the same way. You have sought to enter in at the strait gate-you have had good desires, good feelings, much earnest seeking. The Master saith strive, for many shall seek and shall not be able to enter in. Go to Him with the boldness that will have; with the importunity that cannot be refused. Go to Him with the violence that taketh by force. Grasping Him as thy Saviour, be thy cry mighty, ay, resistless, "I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me." M. G. P. Bedford.

F all books the Bible has had the most powerful influence on its readers, and this because it is the Word of God. It is interesting to note cases in which conviction and conversion have been brought about in individuals who have accidentally come in contact with the Sacred Volume; persons who have never read it, and perhaps hardly heard about it. The reading of a stray leaf picked up in the street has resulted in conversion. A few sentences

read by a Christian man in the public thoroughfare have fallen upon the careless ear of a loiterer, and, sinking into his conscience, have sprung up unto eternal life. A page of the Bible in which a godless shopman has wrapped up his goods for a purchaser has proved a message of life. Each and every

page of the Bible has a power of its ownsomething to arrest the eye, excite curiosity, beget admiration, awaken conviction, or impress the heart. But here is a case illustrative of the indirect power of the Bible :

A short time ago, a friend of mine was induced to attend some special services in a country village, and as the chapel was densely

wded he could only find a seat within the

(To be continued.)

communion-rail, just under the pulpit. The service commenced, and in due time the preacher announced his text, the subject being "The barren fig tree." Before closing his sermon he put the question, "Have you been bringing forth fruit?" and called upon his hearers to examine themselves. Just at this point a loose page from the Bible slipped over the pulpit's side, and alighted on the head of my friend, who was attentively listening to what was said. He told me afterwards what a startling sensation ran through him when the leaf fell upon his head; and added, that he felt it was a witness against him, and a silent call from the Vinedresser to take advantage of His intercession, "Spare it yet another year!" This simple circumstance served to arouse his slumbering conscience, and forced him to the act of selfexamination. May the impression never be effaced from his memory! May it lead to "godly sorrow for sin," a "repentance that needeth not to be repented of," and to salvation through Christ. Reader! have you never been deeply touched by some trifling occurrence? and have you profited by it? examine yourself. R. J. K.

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UR cousin Amy was a funny little thing. One day she got up behind Uncle Kit in his great easy chair, and putting her hand softly over the bald part of his head, she said, "Where is your hair gone? Did the wind blow it away?"

"Yes, my dear," said he," the wind of time has blown it off."

"The wind of time, did you say, uncle? Does time blow upon you like the wind?"

"Well something like it, you little puss," said he, giving her ear a pinch; "what I mean is, that as I get older, my hair goes away; so it is as if time blew it away, you know. I had quite as much hair once as your cousin Sammy has now; and when he was a little boy, he used to like to get up behind me on this very same chair, and comb my hair, and curl it, and wrap it in papers until my head was covered with twisted papers, and looked something like one of the great wigs that judges wear.'

"Did you like him to do it, uncle?" "Yes, very much, and all the more because he seemed happy while he was doing it; and I used to tell him stories now and then, for it seemed as if his little fingers stirred up my brains, and brought all sorts of stories to my mind."

"Well, uncle, I wish you had hair enough to curl now; for I should like to stir your brains too. I wish I knew how to do it, so as to bring out the stories. Will they come, if I smooth your head, or pat it softly, or rub it just hard enough to make the stories move?"

"Well, try what you can do, Amy."

So Amy began patting, and smoothing, and rubbing; stopping now and then, as if she were listening for the stories. At last, Uncle Kit said,

"You treat my bald head very kindly and gently, my dear. Is it for the sake of a story, or do you love bald head?"

my

"O, I love it!" said she, "and I am sure I should always be kind and gentle, whether any story came or not."

"That's a good child," said her uncle; "and just now I remember something about some young people who were not so gentle as you; but once laughed at a good man because his head was bald. He was walking quietly on the

road, and these youths came out from the town after him, quite a mob of them, and were very rude, and shouted behind him as he went along, "Go up, thou bald head; go up, thou bald head!""

"O, how naughty!" cried little Amy, gently smoothing Uncle Kit's head; "what did the good old man say to them?"

"Why he was very sorry, and turned back, and cursed them in the name of the Lord."" "What did God say?"

"Well, I don't know that He spoke; but He must have been very angry; for just then two bears came running down out of the wood, and very soon killed more than forty of them."

"And were they killed, uncle, for only laughing at the old man's bald head?"

"Not for that only, I should think; but for laughing about the old man's friend, whom God had taken up to heaven, in a bright chariot, because he was so good; the youths mocked the one who had just seen his friend go up, and told him, with a laugh, to go up the the same way: 'Go up, thou bald head,' said they; 'Go up, thou bald head!' making a mock at heaven, and at God too, as well as laughing at a wise and holy man, because he was aged and bald. God does not like to see old people treated rudely by the young; and will, sooner or later, show His anger against all who scoff and jeer at those who have lived to a good old age.

"Take care, my dear, that you never copy the example of those who speak pertly to their elders or their parents, lest you should be marked by God to be punished for breaking a commandment which He once gave to young people,— Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honour the face of the old man, and fear thy God: I am the Lord.""

"I love you, dear uncle," said Amy, "and will try to do what God tells me. Is there another story coming?"

"Not just now, darling; but one will be ready, perhaps, by the time you have found out who the old bald-headed man was, and who that friend of his was that went up to heaven, and to what town that naughty mob belonged, and where we may find that law that God gave to young people.”—Pixie.

R. SPURGEON went to Rome, looked

MR

around, and came back again to tell his tale. Some people travel much and see little. Many have money to pay their way to foreign places of resort, but on their return, they seem unwilling or unable to make their neighbours one whit the more merry or wise. Mr. Spurgeon is a traveller of better class. Nothing escapes his eye, and he is ready to make the best use of what he learns. He is open to lessons from every point, but is quite free to give everybody the benefit of them. In a pleasant way he tells us what he saw, and thought, and felt at Rome. He saw things there as common-sense people would, his thoughts were those of a true English Protestant, and he felt like a hearty lover of Protestant purity and truth. He visited the Church of St. Peter, and "was shocked to see the statue of St. Peter there, and the people kissing the toe of the image. He saw gentlemen wiping the toe with their handkerchiefs and kissing it, old women being helped up to do the same, and little children lifted up to follow the example. There also was the chair in which Peter never sat, and people bowing down to pay homage to it. St. Peter's was, in truth,

a big joss house; an idol shop, and nothing better. It was not the worst image house in Rome, but it was bad enough; and whatever might be said by those who turned to and professed the Catholic faith, if they were not idolaters, there were no idolaters on earth. Anything would seem to do for a god in Rome. Egyptians worshipped onions; but these men, with their bones, scraps of hair, and the like, worshipped that which might have manured the onions. At the Church of St. John there were people on their knees going up and down the steps, which were said to have been trodden by the Saviour. It was a sorrowful sight to see men, women, and children crawling up and down those stairs, and kissing and touching them with their foreheads.

In a

dungeon, where Paul and Peter were said to have been confined, they showed what was supposed to be the impression of Peter's face, when pushed violently against the wall by the gaoler. It is a curious thing, however, that while the marks of Peter's feet in

another place outside Rome were those of a man twelve feet high, the imprint of his nose and features in the dungeon was that of a man no bigger than oneself."

The journalists and reviewers who affect to represent the age, either notice Mr. Spurgeon's statements with contempt, or sneer at his style, or question his ability to appreciate Rome. One authority, which claims to be the advocate of true English freedom, and whose words are said to have "world-wide circulation," gives him credit for thorough English common sense, and the plain honesty of a Puritan Protestant; but insinuates that a "higher culture, broader philosophy, and more practised observation, would make allowance for much that shocked him on consideration of race, and climate, and tradition." Now it is this nambypamby style of dealing with manifest corruption, this would-be philosophy, this affectation of high culture, this mere supercilious worldliness on the part of those who would fain guide the public mind, against which English Protestants have to be ceaselessly guarded. No tradition can be an excuse for idolatry. Race may have something to do with the differences in degree or kind of feeling which mark the pure religious experience and expression of different people, but it cannot involve a necessity for "changing the truth of God into a lie." Climate may affect the manners of a population, but it cannot be inconsistent with pure Christianity. The religion of Brahma, or Buddha, may be the creature of climate, and be incapable of life in any place colder than its own cradle; but Christianity is the religion of Christ, and therefore of man,-man everywhere, always, and for ever. What then has brought Rome to what it is? Nothing but the false principles and the false practices of a Popish priesthood. If the professed successors of Apostles had continued to preach and exemplify the truth as taught in St. Peter's letters, and by St. Paul in his Epistle to the Romans, neither Mr. Spurgeon nor any other puresighted visitor would ever have seen the humiliating superstitions of modern Rome. To see Rome fairly it must be looked at in the light of the New Testament. And when Protestants look at it in this light, as is their duty, they will pity it, pray for it, and zealously help to bless it with saving truth.