of the shortcomings or superstitions of the time in which it was engraved-perhaps nearly four hundred years ago; but it represents the best that the artist in those days could give to ordinary readers. How precious must the Scriptures have been when pictures were expected to teach the poor, and in some measure to make up for the scant supply of the life-giving Word itself, which printers could then only afford to dole out even to the few who were able to purchase books!

" Eonverted in a Boiler."

ITTING on one occasion in the vestry of old Surrey Chapel, to see candidates for church-membership, a working-man desired an

interview.

It was evident, at the first glance, that he was only a recent convert, but his whole bearing proved he was as sincere as he was earnest. There is no possibility of mistaking a genuine convert, for there is an undefinable something in his tone and manner which bespeaks the reality of the change.

The day and the hour of his conversion were stated with as much certainty as he would have mentioned the day and the hour of his natural birth. As to the place, he excited some little surprise and amusement when he said, in reply to my question, "I was converted in a boiler!"

Observing, by the expression of my countenance, that my imagination was playing me false, he soon put me right, and justified the statement which had surprised me, by the following story :

"I am an engineer by trade, and I was at work in a large boiler we had in hand. For some time I had been anxious about my soul, and couldn't get any rest. Every sound seemed like a voice which spoke of sin, and a judgment to come. God's Spirit was striving with me, and I was as miserable as a man could be. So I said to one of my mates, who was on the same job, Will you pray for me?' He said he would when we knocked off at night; but what was the good of that to me, as I was? I said, 'No, let's kneel down now where we are!' So down we went on our knees: he prayed, and then I prayed, but you couldn't have heard us, with the noise that was going on. God heard, though, and I was able to lay hold of Jesus as my Saviour, and I came out of that boiler a saved man; now I want to join the church."

I rejoiced and blessed God when I heard this somewhat romantic story, and felt persuaded the candidate would honour the profession he desired to make, and be of service to his fellow-workmen ; for the most robust Christians, as a rule, are those who can fix the chronology of their conversion.

The lessons which this story yields may be regarded as trite, but they must not therefore be withheld. It is often the commonplace in our teaching which is fruitful of the best results.

1. God hears prayer. This conviction had so laid hold upon the mind of this working-man, that all the arguments of infidelity could not have modified his belief. Philosophical questions as to the possibility of the creature moving the Creator, and a feeble voice from the earth eliciting a response from heaven, were all silenced by the cry of need which he scarce could formulate into a prayer, and the loud echoes of the promise, "Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me!" His soul was an empty well which only God could fill, and he felt himself restricted to the office of prayer to secure the coveted blessing. "I perish with hunger" was no mere lament uttered to the winds, but a cry for the bread which satisfieth, and that cry pierced the heavens to which it was directed, with something more than a hope that it would be heard-there was the conviction that

the response would be prompt and adequate. Nor was he disappointed, for God loves to fulfil at once his own promise and the desires of them that fear him. "Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he saveth them out of their distresses."

We revere the 2. True prayer needs no sacred place for its success. building which is set apart for the worship of God, but we have no superstitious belief in its peculiar sanctity. The cathedral may be a perfect monument of architectural skill, and its artistic symbolism may mutely speak its "Sermons in Stones," but we dare aver that the most venerated pile cannot offer any guarantee that a prayer will be “I will,” acceptable to God because offered within its sacred enclosure. says the apostle," that men pray everywhere"; for he had come to learn the truth of a wider gospel than, as a Jew, he thought to be possible— "Where'er we seek thee, thou art found,

And every place is hallowed ground."

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It is strange so many have missed this lesson, and hold by superstiTemples tions which the world should have outgrown long since. made with hands" furnish no dwelling-place for Jehovah, nor can they prescribe the area within which a suit must be preferred to find accept"The house of God" has the world for its floor, and the sky for its dome; and "the gate of heaven" stands ever open to the call if men will but knock and seek admission. A boiler in a noisy workshop may furnish an equal vantage-ground for successful prayer as the most venerated of ecclesiastical buildings.

ance.

3. No privileged class has the monopoly of prayer. That God does not limit our supplications to the expression of our own wants or desires is a fact which should compel our gratitude, and stimulate the exercise of the sacred ministry of prayer. There is not a living soul for whom we may not pray, and there are no lips which God has touched which may not utter the prayer of intercession. A superstitious belief still operates, however, in our midst, and all sections of society are influenced by the fiction, that the prayers of an ordained or recognized official are more potent than those of an ordinary believer. The wealthy betake themselves to their priest, and the poor, in their hour of sickness or sorrow, beg that a minister or a missionary may be sent "to pray for them. Official Priestcraft, alas! has fenced the mercy-seat, and exacts a toll for the removal of the barrier which obstructs the sinner's access. hand-books of supplication too often hinder where they should help, and formulated prayers, instead of stimulating devotion, may tend to spiritual bondage. The Saviour's declaration, "Men ought always to pray," implies at once universal liberty, and the readiness of God to hear without prescribing either place, or time, or official intercessor.

4. Conversion must not be discredited because it is sudden. God is sovereign, and his sovereignty is as often seen in the startling suddenness of conversion as in its subjects. It is not in our power to determine the precise moment of divine quickening, or to arrange the Failure often waits upon our circumstances under which it shall occur. wisest efforts, and seeming accidents bring about desired results. In nothing is human impotency more apparent than in our inability to precipitate conversion, and in nothing is the grace of God more mani

fest than in the decree by which a sinner is "delivered from the power of darkness, and translated into the kingdom of his dear Son." A soul may linger on the confines of the two kingdoms through weary days and weeks, perhaps, but the transition from one to the other is the work of an instant. Eyes that have grown weary "with watching for the morning" may be strained till the power of vision has well-nigh forsaken them, when suddenly there is a quickening, and the sinner "beholds the Lamb of God," and rejoices that—

"There is life in a look at the Crucified One."

In the gloom of that boiler, and amidst the noise of that workshop, there was seen and heard a sight and a voice less dazzling and alarming, perhaps, than those of Saul's vision on the road to Damascus, but the reality and the results were the same, and rejoicing angels sangBEHOLD, HE PRAYETH!”

V. J. C.

The Autobiography of a Porter Bottle.

OF my birth, parentage, and early history, I know but little. I have heard

of another blackamoor, (Topsy was her name, I fancy,) who would have it that she was never born, but simply "grow'd." I am inclined to believe that I, too, was never born, but that I was blowed. I am not sure, however, but that I was manufactured, not like Adam, out of the mould, but like many other bottles, in a mould. There can be little doubt as to the reason why I was made black. My makers and masters prefer darkness to light, because their deeds are evil. It was only fit that my very hue should be in keeping with the sad scenes I was to witness; of which, indeed, my contents were to be the moving spirit.

When quite young, I was sent to an establishment called a brewery, celebrated for its superior stout, &c. As your children, kind readers, are sent to school that they may not grow up with empty brain-pans, I, too, was to be filled, but not with such pure waters as those that gush from the Pierian spring. As if it were but yesterday, I remember my arrival at that brewery. There was a pond close at hand, which supplied the maltster with water. Its pestilential odour is fresh-not fragrant-to my memory still! It received the drainage from a graveyard, a cow stable, and a slaughter-house; while on its shores_were deposited the dead horses, cows, dogs, and cats drawn from the city. It was the place for the congregation of geese, and was known as "the goose-pond." In hot weather it was covered with a thick green scum. Ugh! It makes me sick to think of it. But it made splendid porter! For a while I remained in the brew-house unused, and apparently uncared for, in company with dozens of other bottles as black as I. But I constantly witnessed the departure of my confrères, and wondered when my turn would come. Abundant opportunity was thus afforded me of watching the movements and hearing the conversation of the brewers.

*

"Little pitchers," they say, "have long ears." Mine don't stick out visibly, I know. I am not without them though-they are within me. One fine day an agent arrived, and proceeded to recommend to my owners a certain recipe for the manufacture of porter. As I overheard it I may make it public. (They shouldn't have talked so loudly.) Here it is:-"25 qrs. malt, 6 lbs. coculus indicus, 4 lbs. porter extract, I cwt. 2 qrs. hops, 3 lbs. Leghorn juice." In due time this poisonous mixture was compounded-I suppose because malt was scarce and my turn came to be filled with the abomination of desolation. In vain did I protest. I tried to shut my mouth, but couldn't; and when I

* Vide Eli Johnson's "Drinks from Drugs," page 57.

sought to keep it open, that I might still protest, they gagged me with a cork. How can I tell my agony of mind at so painful a position? I was now black inside as well as outside, with a garish label (say rather libel) on my body, declaring my imaginary virtues, and stating my name and address.

My next habitation was the cellar of a wine, beer, and spirit merchant. I don't know which I disliked the more, the cellar dark and damp, or the seller grim and groggy. Thence I emigrated to the table of a well-to-do citizen, where, to my intense relief, the cork was drawn from my mouth. In the exuberance of my delight I frothed up, and over, venting all my pent-up spleen and ire on a snow-white damask covering the table, and a best Brussels on the floor. A portion of my inner bottle was poured down the rich man's throat-a fit libation to that portion of his frame which he was pleased to make his god. (Phil. iii. 19). Imagine how horrified I was; I, who knew the spirit that was in me, when he proceeded to pour some into the glass of his little fair-haired girl-her father's pet. I tried to make it look as black and taste as nasty as possible, and was glad to hear the maiden say she didn't like it. (Alas! Alas! I have heard since then that she has learned to love it!)

My lodgings hereafter were most objectionable, for, with all sorts of refuse, I was thrown into a dust-bin, "to be left till called for." A rag, bone, and bottle merchant came at last, and after strange vicissitudes, I found myself in another brewery, soon to be refilled with the horrid black stuff. My next residence was a grocer's shop. I was on the shelf (would that I might have stopped there!) till a certain lady enquired for me. She was an invalid, she said, and had been ordered stout for supper by her medical man. (Surely the medicus didn't know what I was made of, but he ought to have known!) To my thinking, this good lady was stout enough; and though she certainly looked pale, I could not help fancying that the roses would have been more likely to bloom upon her cheeks again if they had been well watered with well water, rather than poisoned with porter. The idea of goose-pond scum or coculus indicus giving health! I would have liked to whisper in her ear,

Leave stout alone if you should ail,

And ale if you are stout;

A drinking bout won't make you well,

Mind well what you're about!

Be doctored, if you please, with stout,
The stout is doctored, too;
Persist in bearing porter still,

And soon 'twill carry you!

The dealer handed me and eleven others down, and soon despatched us to the invalid's residence. She, in her turn, despatched our contents in double-quick time into the frail corporeal tabernacle whose stakes she sought to strengthen. A plague on these grocers' licenses! Going to a public-house for drink would have been too gross an act for this lady; and she failed to see that getting it from a tea-dealer was grosser still. While other medicine bottles remained untouched, we twelve little niggers were drained one after the other till there was a call for twelve niggers more. The poor sufferer (?) was most persistent -I had almost said consistent-in dosing herself with what she declared was very nasty"; the most surprising point of all being that its efficacy seemed nil, for as she continued and even increased the remedy, I conclude that the malady remained.

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My own lot at this time was to reside in the unsavouriness of another dustbin until driven to market by a dealer in such black slaves. Oh, how I wished to get broken, or hidden away, that I might be no longer a vessel unto dishonour! But it was not so to be. Again I was filled, and once more gagged and bound. I stood, soon after, on a publican's shelf, before a mirror where my reflection haunted me. I never knew I was so ugly and misshapen. Would God others would see me as I saw myself! What sights I saw, what sounds I heard, from