of either theory could be wrought out by mere cold logic, the Church would not have gained one pulse of spiritual life. But in all the conflict of opinion which has existed and does exist on this subject, what image would there be of the real Divine counsels, so warm, and good, and kind, so anxious to rescue souls from death, of the yearnings of Christ's forbearing heart; the stoopings of his condescension; the sufferings of his sympathy? To know God's purposes only with the head, is like knowing the human form and face divine only as one sees it in the dissecting-room. Or, take the other side. You have argued that Christ's offers would be a mockery if one might not accept them, and shown that unbelief could hardly be punished if belief were beyond one's power. Yet, unless your heart beat higher as you mused, and your eye grew dim, and your soul confessed the nothingness of words, you had but a poor idea of that love which willeth not the death of a sinner. The fact is, that the knowledge of theology is not religion, any more than the study of maps is travel. To dilate upon an array of texts, and argue over conflicting dogmas, is like drawing your finger down a crooked black line, and saying that is the Niger, or the Nile. But how different a thing is it to know the love of Christ! That is to drink of the stream as it gushes clear and full from its fountain in the everlasting hills; to launch on its expanding breast, to hear the trumpet-voices of its cataracts, to watch behemoth and leviathan revelling in its deeps, to see it refreshing the pastures of a hundred tribes, slaking the thirst of cities, bearing the keels of navies-it is to be swept and guided upon its sounding and majestic tides, out into the occan of eternal joy.

The knowledge of Christ's love passeth all knowledge beside for exalting influence upon man's nature. A great man has said that men are elevated in proportion as their minds dwell upon what is remote in the past or in the future. His idea was evidently that we need to be removed from the base and little things which occupy our lives, to something firmer and more lofty. Now here is a theme of contemplation, how high above all mortal cares; how far removed from earthly passion, frailty, and change; how serene and fixed and true! And what an influence should it have

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on every sinner, and especially on the down-trcdden and disgraced, to know that care for his fallen interest still lives in the heart of the Ruler of all worlds. There is no knowledge so elevating

as that.

And yet it is practical and veracious enough for the most prosaic mind. It is easy, to some people, to break away from real life into realms of cloudland and of day-dream; but what they may possibly gain in altitude of vision, they certainly lose in earnestness of aim. Life itself becomes to them no better than a cloud and a dream. But Christ's love is the one real and abiding fact. When all things below have suffered change, it shall remain unshaken, even as all genuine earthly love (which is its type) survives the wreck of health, of reputation, and of means. And we may know it. For this is no doubtful opinion, or brilliant hope, or beautiful wish, or promise that may fail us—it is a reality, present and indisputable; a fire to warm us; a meal to appease our hunger; a covert for our heads in the stormy wind and tempest.

"Who knows the love of Christ ?" He who has felt himself, not in name, but in fact a sinner, under a curse; who has cowered down under the sense of his helplessness, and shuddered to see the door of heaven closed against him, and the jaws of hell open to devour him. He who has seen the bolt of vengeance just ready to destroy him, received in another bosom; and has followed the story of Christ on earth, from the cradle of his infant humiliation, through the life of trial to the cross of agony, and thence up to the throne of intercession and of sovereignty. He who looks on to his own future and sees it steeped in light, the reflected light of the majesty of his Almighty Lord-he knows Christ's love.

was

'How am I to know 'it ?" The prayer of Paul

"that Christ might dwell in their hearts by faith, that they might know the love of Christ.” Therefore, to admit to the heart Him who ever seeks for admission, to have him dwelling there, to gaze as it were upon his face and read its meaning, that is the way to know his love. You cannot dwell in the family of our Father, and not learn the kindness of our elder Brother; but the longer you remain away, the more empty and thin will sound all mere words about his goodness.

Is it a fond lover's token of trust,

So often lost mid corroding and rust; So often forgotten or cast aside

To be trodden down by the skirts of Pride?
Or is it the miser's bright hidden hoard
Where his golden god is in secret stored ?
Or the simple mite by the toiler won,
From the morning dawn till the set of sun?
Touch the hidden spring, undo cord and band;
And the secret lies in thy open hand.

Ah!-only a curl of a baby's hair!

So silken and soft-so glossy and fair!
In a golden circlet whose bright threads twine
As the tendril clasp of the living vine.
Only a curl-yet what miser's hand
E'er heaped the treasures of sea or of land,
Or counted his gold with greedier eyes,
Than the mother bends where her baby lies?
Or what lover's trust could more sacred seem,
In his fairest vision or brightest dream,
Than this little curl that I find to-day,
In the murky path of the thronged highway?

Poor little curl, does a mother dream now
Of the clustering locks on a baby's brow;
Of the loving eyes that have met her own,
Of a voice with music in every tone;

Does she know she lost on life's plain to-day
A flower that with fragrance has filled her way?
Ah, me! does she dream of a mother's loss—
A darker path and a heavier cross?
Were those golden threads so fondly hid,
Severed in shade of the coffin's lid?

Fold it away in its covering old

Its story may never on earth be told;

We may fancy visions of earthly things,
And dream of the rush of an angel's wings

And feel the force of the saddening spell

Which those sun-bright threads have no voice to tell
And the stream flows on, and its restless tide
Is ebbing and flowing far and wide,
And life's anchor bands of frailty speak,
For even a threefold cord will break;
As the thread of time is leaving me
To merge in the woof of eternity!

A. M. N.

"Let me in, Allie; I'm so hot, and Bernard won't play with me (he's making a boat, and I wanted to help), and Kenneth is out, and Machell is busy, and Lilly is in the orchard with Luke."

What has come to Alice ? She never used to mind such country sounds; and even her brothers, though they criticised the colour and size of her eyes, had nothing to say to their strength. They would have laughed if they could have seen Alice now, hiding her eyes and covering her ears. Or, perhaps, they might not have laughed; to-day they might have remembered. For even rough boy-brothers have hearts, and it is not five hours since Dick said good-bye to Alice for as many years. Ever since, Alice has been in her room, schooling herself, and trying to learn patience, kindness, and charity, so much harder to practise with this new trouble at her heart.

Suddenly there is a light touch at the door, and then a crash, as of a child's body sent dashing against it. Alice started from her knees and opened the door of her room, to admit her youngest sister, little Totts.

"What is it, dear ?" she asked, keeping her eyes well above the level of the little one's sight,

In the orchard with Luke. Her orchardDick's orchard: Well, well, the apple-trees would not know any difference.

"There's no one but you, Allie."

So Alice lifted the little one in, who became then instantly aware of Alice's tears.

"You crying," she said with promptitude, but not at all as an accusation.

"I am crying because I am unhappy," Alice told her, that she might not be quoted the first time Totty fell to tears over her lessons.

"Ah!" Totty said, and wound her arms round her sister's neck, thereby pulling down her hair, and considerably adding to her disordered appearance. But, having administered her consolation, the child could not see that still her sister would rather have been left alone. Her vitality began to assert itself, and sitting still became no longer possible.

"Play, Allie," she said, coaxingly, slipping down off her lap. "I am to be a lady come to see you, and when I knock at the door, you are to open it and to say, 'Good morning, ma'am;" and Alice played with her gently and cleverly.

which one cannot do with all one's thoughts away.

Doubtless this sudden coming back into everyday life was good for her, but, nevertheless, it was at the time a trial; and Alice had many such. One day Lilly came fluttering in upon her in all her bridal apparel. "I have been to show Luke my wedding-dress," she said, "and now I have come to show you;" and then, before Alice could answer, she went on, passionately, "Oh, Alice, do give up Dick! You look so sad now, dear, and you are so unhappy. How I wish you would marry Machell's friend! Why should you not? I am sure he loves you sincerely." 'Which has nothing on earth to do with it," Alice said, shortly, surprised into a lapse from the kindness she sought to practise; "if Machell had fifty friends, and they all wanted to marry me (excuse the absurdity of the proposition), I should still only love Dick. Cannot you see that, Lilly?"

After which little burst, the bride-elect kissed her and held her peace. But from the mother it came with a harder strain on Alice's patience. She had not refused to sanction the engagement, but she would not check the expression of the most unflattering opinions concerning it. She held as Lilly did so many years, and only Dick after all. If it had been only Machell's friend, and so, on and on.

To which reproaches Alice had but one answer. "It is not all one to me whom I marry, mother." Or Machell would say, "From whom was that letter you had this morning, Alice? You surely are not keeping up that silly correspondence still."

But for all her joy, she looked so strangely that Bernard began to think the jest had succeeded too well; and he said, a little nervously, "Don't be silly, Alice, it's all fun; Dick is not really herehow should he be, you know ?"

And then Bernard became really frightened, for Alice who had never fainted in her life, and who was too strong and healthy ever to be inconvenienced by her nerves, grew suddenly white, and began to gasp for breath.

Kenneth coming in found her leaning back in her chair evidently suffering.

"What's this?" he asked his junior, angrily. "This is some prank of yours. What have you been up to?"

"I-I meant no harm," stammered Bernard. "I just told her Dick was here, to see what she would say. I had no notion she would go and do like that."

And disgust at Alice's folly, was evidently struggling with Bernard's penitence.

"You unmannerly cub!" Kenneth cried out. "Nice gentlemanly amusement: telling lies, and frightening your sister. Here, clear out: Alice has had enough of you for one time, I should think."

And then Bernard went away, and Kenneth set to consoling Alice: but for a while Alice was not to be consoled. The reaction from her intense joy at Dick's supposed sudden return, was terrible.

Presently she began to sob and cry.

"I shall give Bernard a thrashing for this," decided Kenneth; "or, stay, will you pay him out in your own way, Alice? No thrashing will disturb his equanimity. He's too well accustomed to them at school, I imagine. So, shall I leave it to you, Alice?"

And Alice said, "Yes, dear, leave it to me." And Alice did " pay Bernard out," that very evening. Lilly and she, and Kenneth and Machell had all been asked for the next day to a straw. berry feast given by a neighbour. Bernard, for some unknown cause, seemed to have been classed with little Totts, and was not invited. This was a

All this, Alice hoped, was suffering long and being kind, and on the strength of it she thought, now, perhaps, there would be less need, and almost insensibly, her strivings after charity relaxed, and then as though to prove her wrong, there came a special call for it.

One day as Alice sat drawing, and thinking of Dick, her youngest brother, Bernard, burst in upon her, with a shout of: "Here's Dick! Dick! Alice, Dick!" and Alice had risen from her chair, with wild eyes, stretching out her arms to pass her brother, and calling a little incoherently on Dick.

attractions for Bernard. Alice watched him sitting sulkily in a corner with a book, while Lilly was discussing to-morrow's dress, and Machell was descanting on strawberries.

Alice passed up to him. "Should you like very much to go?" she asked him. 'What's the use?" he rejoined; "couldn't if I did."

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'Yes, you could; you can have my place."
'And what will you do?"

"Stay at home, and be very glad to, Bernard." "But, Allie, don't you like strawberries? I know you do: see how you ate them last year!" 'Yes, as you say, last year; but we are talking

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of this year, and I would like them very much now, if I were going to have them at home, but I won't think them worth going after, Bernard." And Bernard looking up at her, with all his schoolboy heart touched to the quick, owned humbly, "You are very kind to me, Allie."

Alice found there was plenty of occasion for kindness. She had to be interested, and sympathise with Lilly, and help her with all her bridal preparations; to be pleasant and sisterly with Luke, who had many a time thrown in his word against Dick; to plan for Bernard, and keep up interest in Machell's pursuits. And though she too often failed, to a certain extent Alice succeeded in this. Something must have been achieved when the mother could say, "You are gentler to me than all my children, Alice."

One more look into Alice's heart.

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It is beating fast with thankfulness, and happiness, and love. The long, weary waiting is hurrying to a close; the old pressure of pain on her thoughts vanishes before the swift approach of a long-dreamed-of day. The five years that Dick has served for Alice have but a few more hours to run.

And Alice, in the orchard, awaiting his arrival, reviews the years of Dick's absence. Despite the sorrow, and the old aching pain, around those years clings many a gentle touch-little kindnesses shown to Alice, a great deal of love that was showered on her-all brought into action by a charity, which those who had lived with her had watched Alice practise, till they too had learned to love the charity which "suffereth long and is kind."

T

The small birds' song as slowly fails the day. At such a time, my Lady, but to stray There, to and fro with thee, and haply lay

Beneath Love's feet the dross of daily care, Is bliss to me; and as through life I fare I would that this dear path might type my way. T. H. S.

B

SECOND PAPER.

EFORE we can realise the full sig nificance of a Protestant movement in Spain, we should endeavour to form some estimate of the hold which Roman Catholicism, up to a very recent period, has obtained in this country. Before the revolution of 1868, legislative restricions alone went very far; the circulation of the Scriptures, or any unlicensed book, was forbidden by the law, and no religious teaching, with the exception of that of the Church of Rome, was in any way tolerated. The case of Matamoros is still fresh in the recollection of Englishmen, and will not soon suffer the memory of modern Spanish persecution to decay. But, in addition to legal restrictions on freedom of opinion, common public practice went far enough. Of real belief in the Romish religion there was probably little: the attendance at the churches has long been exclusively that of women, and of young men who lounge about the entrances in order to stare at the ladies; but of outward conformity to the mere external rites of the Church, there was

abundance. Not so many years since, when the bells for evening prayers struck up, all the promenaders of the various cities were expected to cease walking and talking, and to put on, at least for some moments, the appearance of private devotion. Even at present, the passage of the host to the dying man is met with the most respectful adoration; the multitude fall upon their knees in the midst of the crowded street, the first vehicle which passes is pressed into the service of the priest who carries the consecrated wafer, and it would probably go hard with any one who would refuse to pay some outward mark of reverence to the procession. Such a state of things, however, is not at all inconsistent with the thoroughly rotten state of belief in Roman Catholicism, which experience has now shown to be the fact. An outward and momentary conformity to a long-established custom, involving no influence on the life, and requiring no personal sacrifice, is almost naturally to be expected; especially as the persons demanding it are not slow to promise great advantages in return for so small a token of reverence.