it was that kept you in shameful peace, under God's wrath and curse, while you were careless; this unbelief | it is which keeps you in your misery, now that you are partially convinced of your sin. This unbelief, which has no ear for God, speak what he may, is the sin of sins; and it is of this sin of unbelief that the Holy Spirit convicts a man when he begins to open the man's heart to his blessed teaching. When he, the Spirit of truth, is come, he will convince the world of sin, because they believe not on me.' Our past conversation has aimed at showing you that you have never had any confidence to place in the Word of God; and I fear I must add that you have scarcely any confidence in it yet. He that believeth not God-' Can you finish the quotation ?"

"He that believeth not God hath made him a liar, because he believeth not the record that God gave of his Son."

"Yes; there is no difficulty in understanding how it must be so. If we refuse to believe the testimony of a man when he is giving formal evidence, we unquestionably treat him as if we thought him to be a liar. The gospel is not Paul's word, nor John's word; but it is the testimony of God' (1 Cor. ii. 1). And if we receive it not, what gentler term can be applied to our unbelief than that we make the God of truth and holinessa liar?"

"I fear that you are right. My darkness is growing darker; I dread the very worst. God be merciful to me, a sinner!"

"Amen, my friend; amen. He delighteth in mercy; he is infinitely ready to bestow it. Oh, that you were only ready to accept it in his appointed way! All the reluctance lies with you. In order that you may be startled out of your present refuge, let us look seriously at the hideous guilt and misery of unbelief-of actually making God a liar.”

"Spare me, if you please. It is too horrible; I can't bear to think of it," groaned Adam, with some impatience.

"And yet for forty-odd years God has been graciously bearing with your doing of it. But let us look at the matter. With such an ample atonement for sin as the perfect sacrifice of Christ, we can afford to look steadily and honestly at our condition. Did you ever tell a lie, Adam?"

Bible says makes God a liar-does not go the length of implying that he is not half so good a Being as yourself. He can be under no constraint of any kind to swerve from the truth. He can lose nothing; he can gain nothing; he cannot be tempted with sin. And therefore, Adam, when your unbelief charges him with being a liar, it makes him a liar under circumstances in which a man like you would prefer to speak the truth. Are you not amazed at yourself, Adam, that you dare to treat the only Holy One as if he were speaking and acting in a sphere of falsehood far below anything that ordinary men succeed in reaching? And yet you have been doing it every day of your past life till now.”

"Yes; it is dreadful. I have no excuse; you sink me into despair. Can there be pardon for such a wretch as I ?"

"Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.' But this is not all. Who is it that, when he speaks a lie, speaketh of his own, for he is a liar, and the father of it?"

"The devil, of course."

"Yes; the devil. And I wish you, Adam, to consider whether the God of truth and holiness has not been hitherto to you as the devil; while the devil-who is in fact the god of this world—has been your god. His suggestions you have all along trusted, and you trust them still. On the other hand, the God of the Bible, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, you do not. cannot trust. His assurances give you no comfort; his offers you will not accept; his gracious promises do not assuage your fears. In plain words, so completely do you turn things upside down, putting bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter, that hitherto you have been making God a liar and the devil true; or, to speak it in its unadorned horror, you make God your devil, while you make the devil your god. Now tell me, Adam, if you are not yet ready to give up this monstrous perversity, and submit for the first time to receive the Lord as your God, by accepting his word of grace about Jesus, as you have already begun to give credit to his word of condemnation because of your sin."

Adam sat silent, and manifestly absorbed in thought. Unwilling to disturb his meditations, his friend sat silent beside him for a time; but fearing that these meditations were tending rather to the dark than to the bright aspects of the solemn subject, he began to interject slowly, one after another, a few of the warm and gracious invitations of Holy Scripture. As they thus sat, the door of Adam's cottage was opened; but the neighbour who entered hastily withdrew again, so soon as she saw that a stranger was within.

"Come away, mistress, come away," said Adam, running to the door to call his neighbour back.

"Never mind," she said; "I am sorry for having disturbed you. All that I wanted was to see if you could oblige me with change for a pound.”

"I am glad that I am able to do it. Come in, if you please," replied Adam, opening a drawer, and taking

out of it a small bag, from which he counted the requisite number of coins into the hand of his neighbour. After she had retired his friend said, "Now, Adam, have you not made a reckless and uncalled-for venture just now?"

"In what respect?" returned Adam.

"What do you think may be the actual value of the metal you have just given your friend, even if it were rated at the price of old silver?"

"Somewhere about twenty shillings, I suppose; deducting a little, of course, for tear and wear. At least, I am told that British coins are worth, as mere metal, the sums they represent."

"So I believe. Now, will you tell me next what may be the actual worth of the tattered bit of paper which you have accepted in exchange for them; I mean its value merely as a piece of old paper?"

"Why, it is worth, as nearly as possible, nothing whatever," he answered, with a melancholy smile.

"Then you gave away what is in itself worth twenty shillings for what is in itself absolutely worthless. Is this wise?"

"Yes, but the paper represents twenty shillings. Men have agreed to give it and to take it for this sum; so I can turn the note into the coins again as soon as I like. Indeed, the bank engages to cash the note on demand. See, here it is-"The Bank promise to pay to the bearer one pound sterling on demand at their office here. By order of the Court of Directors, signed so and so.""

"Promise to pay,' and 'promise to pay on demand;' please to note these words very particularly, Adam. After all your note is only a promise-nothing more. It is the promise, however, of a body which is quite able to fulfil its engagements, quite willing to do so, and which, moreover, is legally bound to fulfil its promise whenever it is asked to do so. You have just acknowledged that, in itself, that piece of crumpled paper is worth nothing. And yet the promise which it bears, joined to the solvency of the parties who issue it, gives it a value equal to the sum which it undertakes to pay; and you and your fellows are so satisfied of the reliability of the bank's promises, that you will take the paper in payment as readily as the bullion; nay, in order to oblige a neighbour, and without any purpose of profit to yourself, you will come between the bank and its creditor, and will advance the money, while you run all the risk of the bank's failure to fulfil its engagement."

"Oh, there is no risk, none whatever,” replied Adam, smiling mournfully. "I only wish that I were equally sure about some more important interests."

"That is to say, Adam, you only wish you were as certain about the faithfulness of God as you are about the solvency of the bank."

"It is God whom you mistrust, Adam; and your present method of stating the case is simply a little bit of deceit which you practise on yourself. The truth is, your present state of soul is too hideous to be looked at in its native deformity; so you cover it up from your own eyes with anything that will serve for a decent veil. Permit me to strip gently off the delusive covering, and to repeat to you that your perplexity arises from the shocking unbelief which cannot venture on the mercy and the faithfulness of God as it ventures on the honesty and truthfulness of man. How strange that you, who have so much faith in human promises, refuse to put any value on the bank-notes of God. I do not say that you will not change them-that would be a sad proof of unbelief; but, far worse than this, you will not even take a gift of them. You treat God's formal promises to pay upon demand as if they were only so much waste paper, and nothing more. In response to your complaining outcry of abject spiritual poverty, he graciously presents you with untold riches in the form of promises, or if you like to call them notes, whereby he engages to pay on demand to the party who presents them, forgiveness of sin, peace of conscience, grace here and glory yonder. But you pay no heed to his invitations, give him no credit for his kind intentions, put no value on his notes, and have not hitherto carried even one of them to him, to ask and to receive the stipulated payment. How long has the Lord Jesus been calling in your hearing, 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest;' why, then, is it that you have never accepted his invitation, never gone to him to get the rest which he is so ready to bestow? If you would only trust the promises of God as you rely with confidence on the promises of man, there would actually be no end to your spiritual wealth. To place the matter on no higher ground, the God of truth is as able to fulfil, as willing to fulfil, and, by his own Word, he is as much engaged to fulfil all his exceeding great and gracious promises, as any bank can be: but it seems that you, who can venture so confidently on the written promises of your fellow-men, caunot risk anything on the promises, the bank-bills, of God. You think so kindly of false and fallen man, that he will prefer to speak the truth, unless he be under some temptation to do otherwise; while you refuse to think even so favourably of that God who cannot lie. Oh, Adam, is it not infinitely wonderful that he continues his mercy to creatures who persist in abusing it so wickedly?"

"It is all true," replied Adam, after a brief interval of silence. "Nay, you might have spoken more strongly, and yet have kept within the truth. One can scarcely think that there is still pardon for a man who has all along been treating the God of truth after this fashion.”

"Yes; but then, Adam, we are not to think our own thoughts; we are to listen to God while he tells us his. 'Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as

snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.' But you must believe what you read in his Word; you must begin now to believe it. And as you have been instructed in some little measure about your sin, and your consequent ruin, you must now accept God's further instructions to you about his saving mercy

in Christ Jesus; and you must now venture your guilty soul for pardon on the merits of the blood of Jesus, who gave his life a ransom for us. Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.' 'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.""

J. D.

HUS writes the aged John regarding the glory of the people of Christ. He tells us what Christians now are, and what they shall hereafter be. The glory which shall at last be visibly perfected, faith can already see as begun.

How the face of John must have shone while he wrote these words! Could we but have seen it! In this world a multitude of the children of God are walking, their native dignity concealed by the weakness and imperfections of mortal life, not even themselves conscious of that glory which yet at times, with marvellous splendour, is perceived by others whose spiritual sight

is clear.

I think I can still see an aged woman whom I met with one day in the course of my extensive "Diaspora." On an exploring journey, such as we take when seeking out those Protestants who are scattered here and there throughout Roman Catholic countries, I was told of an "evangelical" woman living in a secluded farm-house. I procured a guide, and directed my way to the said farm. As soon as I entered the courtyard, I discovered, among a group of children at play, the old woman, in a somewhat peculiar costume. Hardly had my companion explained who I was, and that I came to call for her, when, in great haste, she rose, ran within doors, and disappeared. I stood astonished, and could only think that she wished to escape from me-that she wanted no minister. How I was mistaken! The Roman Catholic mistress of the house came out, and courteously invited me to enter, explaining that Frau Tolle (so she called the old woman) had gone to change her dress, that she might be more fit to receive me. She said that Frau Tolle had come to them as a widow, and offered to be the children's nurse in order to gain a livelihood. She praised her fidelity and watchful care, and was truly glad that the children were so fond of her.

Meanwhile Frau Tolle had made her toilet, and appeared again, more queerly dressed, if possible, than before. She approached me with many becks and

courtesys, and, in a most polite manner, apologized for having run away at my arrival, saying that she felt it only proper to make some change of dress, in order to receive me with suitable respect. I gave her my hand, and told her that I had come to speak with her of the dear Lord Jesus, the gracious Saviour of sinners, and to inquire whether she from the heart believed in him, and whether she had a Bible, and could read it for her soul's edification. As I continued to speak in this strain, her heart seemed quite touched, and she expressed how wonderfully she was cheered, saying that it was long years since any person had thus addressed her. She joyfully professed her faith in the Lord Jesus, through whom she had found mercy before God, as her only comfort in life and hope in death. It did her such good, she said, to speak of what concerned her soul; to tell of her joys and sorrows, of her light in darkness; to praise that Word of God which was the consolation of her old age ;-in short, to open her heart in such a way as she had not done to any human being for long.

Yes, it was long, long years ago since her birth, in a country pastor's home. No cradle-song had foretold the burdens and sorrows of her path through life. A tender mother had nursed her infancy; a pious father had instructed her childhood, teaching her, seated on his knee, the stories of the Old and New Testaments. These were all deeply imprinted on her young heart, and many a holy text and hymn learne1, which she preserved in memory as sacred treasures during future years. Then, in after life, when her parents were both dead, she was cast upon the world, and gave her hand to one who asked her in marriage. He was a Roman Catholic, and of intemperate habits; his income was small, and his wife bore him many children. Who can describe what trials she endured, while suffering from her husband's bad conduct, and striving to feed and rear her family? At last the husband died, and the young people, one after another, went forth to seek a living for themselves. Several had gone as far as America. Their mother could no longer maintain

them, and they neglected their duty to her. She stood alone in her old age, and yet felt desirous to work to the last; for her heart could not bear the thoughts of being considered a burden by her children. So, being no longer able for hard labour, she willingly engaged herself as a nurse to the farmer's family in which I found her. There she hoped to remain so long as it pleased God she should live. She made no complaints over her trials, but gratefully spoke of the mercy of the Lord, who had helped her through every time of need.

While she related her story, I looked at her wrinkled face, her antiquated dress, her bright eyes, and felt that I could discern under outward weakness that inward glory which God bestows upon his children even on earth. Here, in the midst of Roman Catholic darkness, a Protestant flower was blooming, a plant of grace, which should never fade nor die, but in due time be transplanted to blossom for ever in paradise!

When I bade her adieu, she promised to return my visit, and to attend our Sabbath services. And truly she kept her word, and often, by extraordinary efforts, accomplished the three leagues' journey. Whenever I saw her among the worshippers, my heart glowed, and I felt how great must be the love of God's Word which carried this aged Christian over so long a road, in spite of many physical infirmities. And whenever she called at my own house, it was always a pleasure to talk with her of our common faith in the Lord Jesus, and love for him.

One day she entered my room with a somewhat embarrassed yet smiling face, and said she had come to ask a proof of my friendship. I gladly promised to do anything for her which was within my power. Then she drew from under her cloak a large straw-basket, and begged me to accept of its contents. These consisted of dried fruits, which she had received from the farmer as a reward for her faithful service. Much surprised, I looked at the old woman as she stood beside me with a beaming countenance, and then at the plums and apples, without being able to say a word. At last, thanking her warmly for her affection and kind intentions, I said I would take the will for the deed, but could not think of robbing her of her little store; I was a bachelor, with no housekeeping cares, therefore I did not need her fruit, and hoped she would use it for her own refreshment.

While I spoke, she stood pale and silent; but a tear stole from her eyes, and at length she timidly again entreated me to accept of her gifts of love. I could resist no longer; and with a half sad, half joyful heart, I gratefully agreed. Upon this the old woman became quite lively again, and with a smile exclaimed, “Oh, I know that such things are useful and good, even in the house of a bachelor!"

She went away cheerfully after I had promised to visit her soon; not in her own home, she said, but in

the house of a neighbour, where there was a large apartment in which she could receive me more respectfully. I felt it best to offer no opposition to this whim, and named my day and hour.

I put the dried plums and apples carefully aside, feeling as if I could not eat them, with the thought of how much the aged woman stood in need herself of such refreshment. Not till long after, when I had married, I gave them over to my wife's store.

I kept my promise of visiting my old friend on the day appointed. She was waiting for me far beyond the house, and with many compliments conducted me to the state-chamber. Everything was neat and clean, seats ranged round all the four walls, and a covered table in the centre, on which lay several framed photographs. I must take a chair and listen, while she began in a solemn manner to explain the meaning of the pictures. They were likenesses of her children and their wives or husbands; and she had long stories to tell of each, especially of those gone to America. There was nothing remarkable in the details, most of which I have forgotten; but a mother thinks everything important regarding her family, and I was a willing lis

tener.

But she was obliged to receive me again in her own small, poor apartment. I was told that she had become very ill, and longed to see me once more before her death. It was winter, bitterly cold, with deep snow on the ground, and I could only wade through it slowly and with difficulty. But my heart rejoiced to go to such a death-bed, where it might be truly said, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" After all the toils and tribulations of her long life, surely it was well for this aged believer to be about to go home to everlasting rest.

When, clambering up the steep ladder stair, I entered her little chamber, I saw that her peculiarities remained to the last: her bed and person were arrayed to receive me. I gave little heed to these things, only hastened to speak of her approaching departure, of leaving behind the earthly tabernacle and entering into the joy of her Lord. Oh, how joyfully she assented! Death had for her no terrors; she spoke only of the blessedness of going "to be with Christ!" Whenever I began to repeat a comforting promise of Scripture, or verse of a hymn, she went on herself to complete it.

I bade her farewell, "au revoir" in a better world. I never saw her on earth again. A few days later we laid her body in our little churchyard here. Her mother's family and one of her own sons came with the coffin; but also the greater part of my congregation attended her funeral.

No stone marks her grave-no hand has planted flowers there-only the thick green grass covers it; but better than any monument is the memory of her faith and love. Her faith is changed into sight; but her love abideth for ever.

Yes; we know not now the blessedness of the redeemed above, yet surely no words could so well describe it as those of the apostle: "Beloved, now are we the

sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is." H. L. L

39

M

AMMA," said Bessie, on Saturday afternoon, "I have been wondering very much what new plant or tree we shall choose for our lesson to-morrow evening." "Is there any one you have thought of, my dear?" "Miss Maclean proposed one. I was telling her how we had finished about the corn and the vines; and she said there was something else often mentioned in the Bible after corn and wine. Can you guess, mamma?" I think I can," said Mrs. Douglas.

66

There was only one service each Sabbath in the country church which Mrs. Douglas and her little girl attended, so Bessie had always a good deal of time for her Bible lessons. She was ready in the evening with a long list of verses. The weather was warm, and the lesson could be out of doors-always a pleasure.

"I have found both facts and figures, mamma, about the olive," said Bessie.

"That is good; I am glad to see you are trying a little arrangement of your own accord now. In the first place, have you ever seen an olive-trec?"

"I do not think so. We have none in our garden ?"

"No; our climate is too cold. Even in the south of England it is only in very warm, sheltered spots that the tree grows so as to bear fruit. Have you any idea what sort of tree it is?"

"I think it cannot be very green; for you know the woman in our worsted-shop showed us 'olive-greens' one day, and I did not think them pretty."

"The colour of the olive foliage is a dull shade; so, though the tree is an evergreen, an olive-grove has a dark effect in a landscape. The leaves are shaped like those of the willow; and like them also the under side is a whitish-gray colour. The wild olive is a thorny shrub rather than a real tree; but when cultivated the thorns disappear, and the trees grow to thirty or forty feet high. The forms are irregular, and often very picturesque. Here is a drawing which will show you what I mean."

"Yes; and in other parts of Asia. It is supposed to have been brought originally from Asia to the south of Europe, where now it is very much cultivated, and may be called naturalized. Wherever it will thrive, the olive is considered very valuable. Why?"

"Because it gives oil."

"Do you know how the olive-oil is made?" Bessie could not tell.

"It is got from the ripe berries by a process of crushing."

"Do the clive berries grow in bunches like grapes?" "Oh no; quite differently. Look at this drawing, and you will see that each grows on a separate stalk. They are often as large as pigeons' eggs; a soft, pulpy fruit, with a hard kernel."

"Oh!" exclaimed Bessie, "I remember one day after dinner seeing Uncle Ross eat nasty things, which he called olives, and made me taste; but I thought them very bad."

"That was the unripe fruit, pickled; and though I agree with you in disliking it, some people get very fond of it as a dessert. And in Syria, where the tree is cultivated, we are told that its fruit is indispensable for the comfort, and even the existence, of the mass of the community. The berry, pickled, forms the general relish to the farmer's dry bread. He goes forth to his work in the field at early dawn, or sets out on a journey, with no other provision than olives wrapped up in a quantity of his thin loaves; and with this he is contented. Then almost every dish is cooked in oil, and without it the goodwife is utterly confounded; and when the oil fails, the lamp in the dwelling of the poor expires. Besides, the entire supply of soap in this country is from the produce of the olive. Habakkuk, therefore, gives a very striking proof of his faith in God when he says, "Although the labour of the olive should