as the approaches to Mohammedan mosques, are thronged with beggars at the hours of prayer. We know also that the Pharisees and others in those days bestowed much alms in the most public places, that their ostentatious charity might be seen of men;' and the perception of this weakness in a class of people so wealthy, had doubtless considerable influence in causing the beggars of Jerusalem to resort in large numbers to places so public, and through which the Pharisees were so continually passing as the gates of the temple-these people being more constant than others in their attendance at the sacred courts.

Some

countenance, and thus reveal in degree the struggles that are working within!

That little world is fearfully and wonderfully made. It is made for immortality. Its curious machinery, its powers and capacities, will never wear out. It will endure when this physical world has perished. It will be a happy or a miserable world for ever-happy if God be its king, and sit enthroned in its affection -a miserable and wretched world if a usurper holds sway over its dominions. Each inhabitant of this little world must choose who shall be its ruler and king, and upon that choice depends its condition of joy or sorrow for ever.

A LITTLE WORLD.

THERE are more worlds than this, which is the home of the human race. There are worlds which are visible, and there are worlds which are seen only by the eye of the mind. Every man lives in two worlds at the same time. He is a tenant of this great world in common with his fellowmen. He walks by the light of the same sun. He breathes an atmosphere provided for all alike. But he likewise lives in a little world of his own. He carries it about with him in his own bosom. He keeps its door of entrance. He alone of all his fellow-men knows what are the daily events of that little world. That little inner world has its own history-its own storms and calms-its sunny days and dark and cloudy nights-its seasons of joy and sorrow-its troubles and conflictsits cares and anxieties-its pleasures and pains its joys and its griefs-its loves and its hates-its friendships and its alienations. It is sometimes a happy world, full of peace and joy. It is sometimes a world of sorrow, anguish, and distress. The outer world may be lighted up with sunny skies and genial atmosphere, while the little world within is darkened with clouds and shaken with terrific tempests. Into this little world no stranger finds admittance, unless invited to enter by a most sacred confidence. What a history would this little world present, if its sole owner and inhabitant should record all its transactions, feelings, joys, sorrows, pleasures, reflections, storms, and calms! How often is that little world affected and disturbed, and all its bright skies overcast, by an unkind word-a harsh expression-a cold and chilly look of displeasure, where pleasant words and kind treatment were expected? What days and nights of anguish are felt in that little world, unknown to all besides, unless its sorrows are so deep as to change the expression of the

THE EDITOR'S LIBRARY.

DAILY BIBLE ILLUSTRATIONS. By J. KITTO, D.D. Edinburgh: W. Oliphant & Sons.

THIS Volume completes a remarkable and very valuable series of Scripture expositions. The labours of Dr Kitto, in this particularly interesting field, have been arduous, long-continued, and highly successful. No writer, living or dead, has done so much to render the habits and customs of Bible places and Bible times familiar to the nations of the west, and thus enabled them to understand more clearly the sacred narratives. The series of Daily Bible Illustrations just finished, will carry the name of the author down to posterity, and continue for many ages, perhaps for all time, to be at once a stu dent's guide to the Bible, and a tourist's guide to Palestine. That land, always dear to the heart of Christendom, is, we apprehend, about to become the object of still greater interest and attention. General expectation and the course of events point to the near completion of the times of the Gentiles;' and we have every reason to believe that, when that period has been fulfilled, the holy land will undergo a change, the greatness of which we probably little anticipate. Whatever it may become, its past history will never fail to awaken interest, and thus those publications of Dr Kitto, which depict that past history so vividly, will be always valued. Their literary talent and historical correctness, no one doubts; while their popular style, smooth diction, and judicious division, render them entertaining and easily comprehended. The last volume-which relates to the Apostles and early Church-is extremely interesting. We need scarcely recommend it to the perusal of our readers. 'The Beautiful Gate,' in this Number, is an extract from it.

,

Thomas Grant.

THIS is a little volume, but it contains a great amount of matter, and evidently comes from the pen of one who has a feeling heart. The title may be misunderstood by many, and by others may, when looked at in connection with the internal matter, be considered an unhappy, if not an unappropriate one; but we think no objection can be taken to the sentiments contained in the work itself. The following extract from the introduction will show the author's meaning:

This world, even at the best, may well be styled a 'Baca,' or a 'Bochim;' a valley of tears, or a place of weeping. So it was not originally, but so it has become through sin; so it has been in all ages in the experience of the people of God, as well as of the men of the world, and so it will continue till the

consummation of all things. Even now, indeed, God, in the exercise of his Almighty power, could easily so arrange everything connected with his people as completely to dry up their tears, or to exempt them from every occasion of weeping. But for the best of reasons he is pleased, in his sovereignty, often to order it altogether otherwise. For it frequently happens, in his all-wise providence, that their troubles are not less, but more numerous than those of others; and that their tears are not fewer, but more abundant. However, while all true believers view their troubles in the light of Scripture, and trace them to sin as their source; while they also call upon God in a day of trouble,' in the confidence that 'he will answer them' in his own time and way, and make all things work together for their good,' with unbelievers it is, in each of these respects, entirely different. Between the tears of believers and unbelievers, there may likewise be said to exist the greatest difference. For while the tears of believers spring from a sight and sense of sin as their cause, the tears of unbelievers flow chiefly, if not solely, from a view and feeling of sin in its consequences. While the tears, therefore, of believers are in the estimation of God precious, the tears of unbelievers are utterly worthless; while the tears, also, of believers 'in bright exhalement reach the skies,' the tears of unbelievers 'fall dark to earth,' or are as water spilt upon the ground; consequently, while the tears of believers may be said to be preserved by God as a treasure, infinitely more valuable than the richest wine or the purest water is regarded in a warm country, the tears of unbelievers are altogether undeserving of preservation. Thus, while of believers it may be said that theirs is not 'the tear forgot as soon as shed,' of unbelievers it may be added, that 'lost are the tears they shed.' In short, while in the one case there may be said to be 'a beauty' and 'a bliss in tears-a beauty in the sight of God, and a bliss in the experience of man-in the other it is, in each of these senses, the very reverse. In the spirit of these remarks, we find David, in one of the

sufferings at the hands of friends and foes, and also his wanderings in a literal and spiritual sense, but saying for such reasons, 'Put thou my tears into thy bottle.' (Ps. lvi. 8.)

The work contains remarks on believers' tears for the sins, backslidings, imperfections, afflictions, and bereavements of themselves and others. Pity it is that so many tears were needed; but, alas! so long as this world continues a place of sin, it must remain a vale of tears.'

THE PRIEST AND THE HUGUENOT; or, Persecution in the Age of Louis XV. By Louis FELIX BUNGENER. Edinburgh: T. Nelson & Sons. THE public at large are greatly indebted to the enterprising publishers of M. Bungener's works. They have made known to the British public a French author, who, perhaps, but for them, would scarcely have been heard of on this side the Channel; and in these days of increased strife with Rome, it is cheering to know that in the enemy's very camp is stationed a most determined and stanch defender of Protestauism. As a writer, M. Bungener is bold, witty, imaginative, and powerful; as a historian, he is learned and faithful; and, as a religious controversialist, acute and invincible. "The Priest and the Huguenot' much resembles The Preacher and the King,' lately published by the same firm; and, though rather tedious and minute in detail, it contains a fearful revelation of the corruptions, profligacy, and wickedness connected with Papacy. "In "The Preacher and the King" we are presented with Versailles only; in "The Priest and the Huguenot," the circle has widened to embrace Paris and the Desert; but the centre idea remains, the confrontation of Popery and Protestanism in their most distinguished religionists, and in their respective influence on men and manners. Rabaut and Bridaine inherit the interest inspired by Claude and Bourdaloue. The change which has come over the face of the nation, since the mighty hand of Louis XIV. has ceased to stem the torrent of corruption with decorous Church-conventionalities, is well shown in the Philosophers' soloons of D'Alembert and his motely crew, that have succeeded to the Philosophers' walk of Lossuet and his dignitaries. Here M. Bungener has amply proved his French extraction, and lighted up his pages with that brilliant wit, which cannot be denied his countrymen. But, however, he may seem to linger when he culls an anecdote or records a discussion, we feel that he is pressing forward to the mark; that his aim is not to make a book, but to prove from history the intimate connection between Popery, infi

delity, and profligacy; to show what were those men whom Rome tracked like wild beasts, whose blood she shed like water upon the scaffold, when, more merciless still, she did not consign them to the lifelong horrors of the infamous oar. In a work so admirable as a whole, it may seem invidious to detach, as especially fine, any one passage. Yet, some there are so pathetic, so thrilling, so magnificent, that they force themselves upon the memory. Who, for instance, can forget the Cevenol's narrative of his treachery; Rabaut's visit to the tower of Constance; or that of Bridaine to the Calas family? Who, the struggle in the royal libertine's conscience, between the awful voice of the man of God, and the steady, serpent eye of the man of Loyola? Or who, the touching monologue of the venerable missionary, on the eve of preaching before all Paris in the Church of St Sulpice? Above all, who can forget the sublime Dantean vision which discloses to those aged, overcome with pious vigils, the fearful on-coming doom of suicidial France?'

What right have I to present myself before you. Pardon

"Falsehood!' cried Bridaine; and this time the papers were flung to the further side of the table. Falsehood and cowardice! And I-I could write that! I could-O God, my pen was a lying pen-like so many others! My lips could not have spoken thus,-my heart still less. And yet I wrote it,-I wrote it; and even if I should burn these leaves, I should none the less have written them. And I took hours to do it! And I only saw a few words to be corrected-What, what could I have been about? What was I thinking of? To excuse myself! To ask pardon! "What right have I to present myself before you!” What right? You shall read it upon my brow, infidels!'

But suddenly a cloud seemed to pass over this brow, whereon he felt was written his right to be the minister of God. He bowed his head; he was silent. His eyes seemed endeavouring to fathom an abyss. abyss was his own heart.

This

abounds in such.

This orator was not just commencing his career. His debut had been made forty years before, and yet he murmured, 'Never, never have I felt as I now feel! To-morrow,-tomorrow, at Saint-Sulpice. All Paris will be there, they tell me. All Paris, in fact, all their Paris,-this nameless mixture of false gold, infidelity, and vice. Paris,—all Paris. And what shall I say to these people? Tomorrow, and nothing yet ready,-nothing that is worth anything.'

And he pushed away several roughlywritten papers, rumpled, torn, and covered with erasures and ink.

'But why,' he resumed, 'why have I taken it into my head to write? I was never made to write down these things, line by line. And shall I at sixty try to learn? But come, come, I have lost two days. This work must at least profit me a little.'

He took the leaves again.

This exordium, let me see. ""At the sight of an audience so new to me, the astonishment aroused within me is only equalled by the fear of being too far below what is apparently expected from me." Me-me, three times me in one sentence. Would that happen if I were talking? But let me go on,-I will correct afterwards.

""What can I do, in commencing, but solicit your indulgence? Grant it to me- Good, another me. "Grant it to me, my dear brethren. I am but a poor missionary.

I

which might be felt upon hearing me. Misery! oh misery! Is it quite certain that I am not thinking of the same things now ?'

He remained for a long time in this attitude of mournful self-examination-his hands hanging motionless beside him, and his eyes fixed on the same spot. The passing hours were tolled solemnly aud slowly from the high towers of Notre-Dame, but no sound reached his ear.

At length midnight sounded. At the first stroke Bridaine arose, as if this solemn hour had resounded differently from the others, through the long corridors of the palace. He listened; he counted

'Midnight!' he murmured. 'It is no longer to-morrow; it is to-day. A few hours more, and I shall see them-there, crowded around my pulpit. O God! oh God! once more, what shall I say to them?'

He fell back into his seat.. But a book lay before him, upon the table from which he had swept his manuscript. Upon the worn parchment of its cover might be read:

'And the voice said: Cry. And he said, What shall I cry?

Cry aloud, spare not; lift up thy voice like a trumpet, and show my people their transgression, and the house of Jacob their

sins. Isaiah xl. and lviii.

He himself had traced these words. He liked to have them before his eyes. They were his credentials as an ambassador of God; his device as a champion of the faith, and, in his moments of discouragement, his strength and consolation.

He took the book, and, without opening it, held it a long time upon his knees, gazing at the terrible, but re-assuring inscription.

'Quid calambo?' he murmured. 'Yes. What shall I cry? Alas! Isaiah asked this before I did-Moses before Isaiah. They also trembled before they went to work. Come-courage! Why should he, who supported them, abandon me? Come. Where is my text? Let me read it over once more. And God will do the rest.'

He opened his book-it was the Bible--and soon placed his fingers on the verse which we saw him select at the house of Gebelin, from the leaf saved from the fire.

"This is

Then with more assurance, 'Quid calambo?' he repeated. what I shall cry, "For God hath fixed a day when he shall judge the world." He hath fired a day. Yes. That is what I shall say. Fixed! fixed! There is when? No matter! There is, in the course of ages, a day fixed, irrevocably fixed, when ye shall appear before God. There is a day when all your iniquities shall appear before you, inscribed --for ever inscribed upon the flaming book of justice--upon the book- -But no-they are familiar with these terrifying ideas. I wish to show them that this book is their own heart; that it is there they shall one day perceive, as if by a lightning flash, all that they now accumulate there, of falsehood and vice. God will judge; yes, but not as man judges. He will have but to restore to the wicked that internal consciousness which they have lost, and each one shall instantly become his own accuser, judge, and executioner. Fixed! fixed! Do you see it, as it draws nigh, still surrounded with obscurity, but certain, inexorable, that day when you shall be plunged into the abyss? Do you see it? Oh God! Do I, myself, look closely enough at it? Do I feel vividly enough the terror with which I wish to inspire others? Have I assured myself sufficiently that you will weigh in your eternal balance my hesitations, my weaknesses, all!-even to the words which have just escaped me!'

He was once more silent. He let his clasped hands fall upon the book; his brow rested upon his hands; his eyes were closed. Soon, beneath the double weight of fatigue and meditation, he fell asleep, but with that half slumber in which the soul seems to inherit the activity of the body.

And then he felt himself, as it were, transported into another world, in which revived in other forms all the false virtues, all the vices, all the crimes, against which he had inveighed in this. He recognised them from his own delineation of them. It was no longer the earth; it was not hell. The spectres were neither sad nor joyful. They advanced silently, and their gaze seemed fastened upon some object. Some brandished a hatchet, others affected to display their hands without weapons, while a concealed poinard might be detected in the graceful folds of their garments.

And these spectres came and went, like men full of business.

'Sow, sow death, and ye shall reap death. 'He maketh his angels spirits, and his ministers a flaming fire.'

But the spectres listened not. They went on, on unceasingly.

And those who bore the axes, brandished them more boldly.

And those who had the daggers, drew them forth.

And in the midst of the mist into which they rushed confusedly, might be perceived upon a pedestal, a tall and majestic statue.

Above his head, in starry letters, might be read LIBERTY; and upon the rock which supported it, GOD; then they threw themselves upon their knees before it, and all cried out,

'Help us, Liberty! help us! descend!'

But she remained motionless.

Descend!

And then they dashed themselves against the pedestal, and all cried, 'Overthrow! Overthrow!

But the pedestal was not shaken.

Then the axes were raised, and all cried, 'Break!' break!'

But the axes were blunted by the hard granite; the name of God was illuminated by all the sparks of fire elicited by the iron from the unconquerable stone.

'Brethren,' said one of the labourers, 'what shall we do?'

'What shall we do?' they repeated. 'Brethren,' he resumed, let us begin by erecting another pedestal.'

Then they set to work. Some brought materials, others builded, others set up around the statue the scaffolding by means of which they were to take it away.

And from the top of the scaffolding they cried, 'Is all ready?'

And those below replied, 'No.' Then they ran and overthrew another throne, another altar. And they brought the fragments, and heaped them up together, so at length they raised the heap to the height of the old pedestal.

And upon the sides of the new one, to which had been given the false appearance of granite, they wrote HONOUR, PATRIOTISM, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY.

Then, amidst the acclamations of the crowd, the statue was taken down; they carried it, with songs, to its new pedestal; they set it up-

But immediately, with a terrible crash, it tottered, crumbled, fell. And its fragments mingled with those of which the spectres had endeavoured to make it a throne.