such impressions as these, your astonishment will be called forth and increased at every step.

A look of calm and bitter contempt at the mention of Pio Nono's name, and of triumphant confidence that he will not long be their oppressor, are the only expressions of hatred which most of them let fall. Deliberately they have committed their cause to heaven, and a moral certainty, however grounded, exists among them, that God will interfere ere long. "Will the Lord allow darkness to triumph?" we have heard them say, almost reproachfully, when allusion was made to the possible continuance of the Pope's tyranny; or, "Can that last?" as the foreign dragoons rode by. When you carefully approach the spiritual question of the Papacy, hardly venturing to use Scripture language, as being unintelligible, you are met by definitions of the Papal Antichrist, and in Bible language too, such as to astonish you. "We do not read of Peter's or John's equipages," they will tersely say, as Antonelli drives down the Corso with his livery servants and scarlet hammer-cloth. Or, when Pius passes in his purple mantle to the Vatican in Holy Week, they will quietly whisper, "Our Lord Jesus Christ never wore a King's robe but once." "The foreign soldiers were not on Christ's side, when He was in danger." This is constantly kept before them, for the French patrol scours the city night. and day, and an army seems always to be marshalling in the squares.

There is, moreover, in the minds of the reflecting among them, a standing comparison instituted between the Pope and Christ, whom, till lately, they were taught to consider as identical; and each time the Impostor, whether by his pretensions or by his crimes, is set face to face with Him he personates, the verdict, prompt and clear from the very depths of the Roman's soul, is ANTICHRIST.

Many things have combined to bring this about. From the time Pius assumed the keys, he was all but deified in Rome, and never before had the people so heartily accorded to a Pontiff his blasphemous honours. Our most Holy Lord God the Pope, seemed hardly too high a name for the liberator of Italy; and even the infant, in its mother's arms, lisped "Viva Pio Nono!" In 1848 the Jesuitical farce, of which the dupe was not only Rome, but Popish Europe, came to an end. The final scene was the assassination of Rossi, and the curtain fell. Before it rose again Pius had assumed the attitude of a bloody tyrant, re-appearing on the scene over the slaughtered bodies of the flower of Rome. Meanwhile the Romans had an advantage over their Catholic brethren elsewhere. They saw the actors for a brief space in the light of day; they saw Christ's vicar without mask or varnish; and had opportunities too, of deciphering the rudely-written texts on the Inquisition dungeon-walls, while the lock of woman's hair adhering to its damp stone pavement told a tale. They saw the hireling's features as he fled in disguise from his post; and more than once have we heard them aptly use the words,—" The hireling fleeth because he is an hireling and careth not for the sheep." Just then the Pope's oldest enemy got into Rome, at the gate by which he left it,-one more feared than Mazzini or Garibaldi, or all the other enemies of the Popedom put together, the Italian Bible.

There it was that the Romans found Antichrist delineated to the life, and side by side the living portrait of Him he counterfeits. There they found, too, their own epistle, written by an apostle's hand, and now they know why the Bible stands foremost on the "Index Expurgatorius."

Formerly it was the most imposing spectacle of Holy Week, to see the Pope stand with outstretched arms blessing his subjects from the balcony of St. Peter's,-the Romans assembled in thousands below, all in holiday attire, and rending the air with their shouts. In 1851 the piazza was chiefly filled with French troops and foreigners from all parts of Europe, including a number of English perverts and Puseyites; but the Romans were thinly scattered, and looked sullenly on, while they were almost entirely absent from the other religious services and ceremonies. "Do none of the Romans go to church this Good Friday?" we asked. "A few young women, and old men above sixty. To-day the Padri all preach from'Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.' Could the Romans listen to their declamation upon that? Their commentary outside the church-door is, 'Chain, imprison, banish ;' their forgiveness is the dungeon, death; and all this to those who did little-oh! how little-against them. If the Santissimo Padre had even acted like Jesus Christ after he came back to us, after the bombs opened the gate, I believe his Romans would have loved him still. If he had given a free pardon then, we would have laid blame on the French and tried to forget; but now-NEVER. Every house is weeping. One has a father in exile, one a brother slain, one a maniac mother. Happy the family who has not many relatives in prison. But who is sure of to-morrow?"

This was not the language of a weak woman, nor even of an immediate sufferer. The speaker was an athletic young soldier.

Help in the way of money was more than once refused by those to whose share it fell to support entire families. "In Rome we ought to be able to support our own sufferers," it was answered. “All I know are cared for; but we do this work secretly, each of us only knowing the names of his own Committee of three, and each of these having his own task. In these days we know not who may be a spy, but no one can thus betray more than two honest men at most. Inquire at the villages of indeed

or

all through the Roman States, and you will find hundreds who need help.” We can never forget an interview with one of these. In any land we should have taken her for a Roman matron. She was handsome, tall, and ashy pale, but for a sudden flush of colour now and then; her full, black, tearless eye half upraised, as if weary of watching for a beloved object, and fixed now on vacancy. She scarcely seemed inclined to receive the sympathy of a foreigner. Her long, black hair was knotted up under a scarf of faded green, which fell in loose folds over her figure. Her sister, who had been sent for along with her, was very ready to speak instead. "Indeed, Eccellenza, she deserves compassion. She never expected to have to work, and now toils night and day for her four boys. I have given them a little room in my house. She buys and cooks every bit of meat her husband eats, for he would die, as the others do, on prison pottage. She has gone on with this for sixteen months."

"What was your husband's offence?"

"Offence!" she said. "That he went to church with a fellow-workman the day the Republic was proclaimed, and sung the Te Deum; it was a holiday, and he was always attentive to mass. They heard nothing of it till sixteen months ago; the night after my infant was born, the French soldiers came and carried him to prison. He and his companion were sentenced for sixteen years. The French ambassador got a pardon for the other, at his wife's petition. I gave mine to the Grand Duke of Tuscany; falling on my knees, I put it in his hand as he mounted into his carriage.

He said he would intercede with the Holy Father, but I heard no more. Oh, if my husband might stay in this prison, I would be happy; but soon he will be sent to another, far away; he will have to eat the bad prison soup, and then I have no hope but in the Lord now; but I cry to Him night and day to soften the Santissimo Padre's heart; He can do it." (To be continued.)

THE MYSTERIOUS MONEY-BOX.

ONE Sabbath evening, two college youths were sitting among the ruins of an old cathedral. Their sympathies were mutual, for they had both drunk deeply of the same bitter cup-disappointed hopes and broken prospects. As if fallen from the eminence to which he aspired, one of them exclaimed, in melancholy bitterness," I feel that life would be a blank without literary eminence. I would rather live in the memory of my country than enjoy her fairest lands. I dread a nameless grave many times more than the grave itself." This poor youth gained, in some measure, the desire of his heart; for his name and writings enjoyed, for a time at least, a measure of popularity. We believe a monument was lately erected over his grave; but, a part of his short life was spent in riot and folly, and his early deathbed was a scene of madness and despair. By those who know the outline of his sad history, his name is mentioned with painful regret,-a lesson is learned of the vanity of worldly ambition, however refined, and how vainly a life is spent, how sadly prostituted the noblest gifts and acquirements, when consecrated to the praise of men.

But how different and more blessed is the inheritance of those who devote their lives to the glory of God and the welfare of men; who feel that "life would be a blank" unless it was useful; and who erect the most enduring monument to their memories in the "works that follow them."

The prince of botanists once declared, that the man did not live in vain who made a stem of grass to grow where never one grew before; but surely the man lives to nobler purpose who is the means of infusing a ray of real hope into a dark and dreary soul, or of sowing the seeds of Divine truth into a barren mind. His grave may be nameless-a "sculptured stone" may not mark the spot; but his memory will be embalmed in grateful hearts, and among the "children" of after-years some will "rise up to call him blessed." In the judgment-day, when the holy and living influences to which he gave birth, that have acted and re-acted upon one another through succeeding generations, shall then be seen in full fruition, how great may be the harvest of "joy and rejoicing" that the faithful labourer shall reap ,!

A few months ago, we were riding in the company of a young minister of the Free Church through a mountainous district of Galloway. Many parts of the country were wild and barren, and houses, like the trees, were few and far between. A few miles in the distance the noble hills were rising in majestic beauty, their tops clouded with the dark blue mists that had slowly ascended from the valleys below. But the scene has already been sketched by the graphic pen of a living authoress :—*

* Mrs. Monteath.

Aye, bonny hills of Galloway, the clouds above ye driven,

Make pleasant shadows in your depths, with glints and gleams of heaven:
And ye have fairy, hidden lakes, deep in your secret breast,
Which shine out suddenly like stars, as the sunbeams go to rest.
And ye have dells, and greenwood nooks, and little valleys, still,
Where the wild bee bows the harebell down, beside the mountain's rill,
And over all, grey Cairnsmore glooms-a monarch stern and lone,
Though the heather climbs his barrenness, and purples half his throne."

But it was not so much their external grandeur that secured our veneration and interest, as the noble deeds and lofty spirits with which they were associated. For many a long year our martyred forefathers were hunted like partridges over these blue mountains; and often among their "little valleys" the deep stillness of night was broken by the echoes of the evening psalm. We viewed with solemn interest the parish of the noble Rutherford, which he consecrated with so many prayers, and tears, and testimonies; nor could we easily forget the last dignified reply to his persecutors when they approached his death-bed with a summons to appear on a charge of high treason :-" Tell them,” said he, "I have got a summons already before a superior Judge and judicatory, and I behove to answer my first summons; and, ere your day arrive, I will be where few kings and great folks come." We found the country more barren and moorland the further we proceeded, with scarcely any habitations but those occupied by the humble shepherds. At length we reached an "oasis," where stood a few respectable houses, sheltered by a small plantation. A mineral spring, famed for its medicinal properties, we found to be the attraction of the place. During the summer and autumn months the houses are occupied by invalids, many of whom come from a considerable distance to drink of the "healing waters." We stopped to visit the little well, and, as we observed with pity, the feeble bended frames and pallid countenances of the patients, we could not help contrasting the fresh air and lonely quiet they were enjoying, with the stifling atmosphere of some of the filthy hovels we have visited, occupied by the "out-door patients" of a London hospital. Great was our surprise when we discovered on the top of a large stone, close to the "spring," a strongly-made, but weather-worn collecting-box, on the side of which we read, in legible characters, the words," Ragged Schools." Who could have expected to meet with so practical a manifestation of sympathy for the city poor in a spot so lonely and isolated? But there it was, silently and successfully (as its weight showed) doing its work, and reminding each visitor of those youthful invalids in the alleys and the lanes, whose diseases are as deeply-seated and deadly as their own. We found its history to be painfully interesting. One morning, about two years previous, a box, made of pasteboard, was found upon the stone, with a paper label, containing the words,—“ Contributions thankfully received for the Ragged Schools." Beside it was a copy of "Guthrie's Plea," and one or two other pamphlets on the same subject. Their appearance excited much interest among the invalid population, and many inquiries and conjectures were made respecting the "unknown" who had placed them there. At length a young lady stepped forward, put a shilling into the box, and said, "Whoever may have placed them here, the object itself is of great importance, and certainly deserves our support." Others followed the example; the pamphlets were perused with eager interest, and the mysterious box duly appeared each morning, and disappeared at night, with fresh additions to its contents. By the end of summer, from four to five pounds were thus collected-a

sum nearly sufficient to maintain a child for a whole year at an Industrial School-a portion of which was sent to Dr. Guthrie's School, in Edinburgh, and the remainder to another in Dumfries, which is carried on in the same building in which Burns the poet died. Many of the donors, even now, are not aware that the constructor of the flimsy box and originator of the plan was she who became the first contributor to its contents. By the close of the following autumn, a stronger box had been provided, and a goodly sum collected; but the hand that placed the first one there was mouldering in a village grave! After a short life, spent in similar deeds of mercy, dignified by the highest motives, and secretly performed in much weakness and suffering, her young spirit passed calmly and joyfully away into the possession of " an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled, and that fadeth not away."

As we looked at the humble box, bleached by the mountain rains, yet still perpetuating the labour of love, and reminding us of the miseries and claims of the perishing poor, we seemed to be reading for the first time, that wonderful declaration of the Lord himself,-" Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord from henceforth; yea, saith the Spirit, they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them." Nor could we be forgetful of the solemn admonition, here also so significantly enforced," Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with ALL thy might."

COMMUNION ADDRESSES.

AN aged believer, in a rural Scottish parish, had taken his seat at the far end of the table on a Communion Sabbath. The elder whose work it was to collect the tokens, knowing him to be afflicted with deafness, advised him to go up nearer the minister, “for,” said he, “you will not hear well back here." "I dinna want to hear," was the brief but expressive reply of the venerable disciple. He wished to have immediate dealings with the Master of the feast. The words of the minister would have interrupted his "meditations at the foot of the cross.'

The Communion Service of the Presbyterian Church is simple, but solemn and impressive. The heart is touched when those who have communicated arise from the table, joining, as they depart, in the song of praise,-" O thou my soul, bless God the Lord!" and while others take the places which they have left, ere that song of praise has ceased. And in those solemn and still moments when the voice of the preacher is hushed, and the symbols of the body broken and the blood shed are carried round, the child of God is impressed with feelings of awe, while yet he rejoices in a risen Saviour,

Our Communion Service is simple and solemn; and yet there are many things in the way in which it is conducted in modern times, which, as we think, indicate a false appreciation of the true nature and object of the feast. In many of our churches the preacher's words are allowed to distract the mind and prevent the soul from receiving that spiritual manna which God delights to scatter from his own unsparing hand for every believer to gather, no one assisting another in gathering his portion. "The law of THY MOUTH is better unto me than thousands of gold and silver." "How sweet are ТHY WORDS unto my taste." "To him that overcometh, will I GIVE to eat of the hidden manna."

The exercise in which Christians ought to be engaged at the table of their Lord is an exercise of the heart rather than of the mind. In hearing an ordinary sermon it is right that the mental faculties should be exercised. In stating the truths of Christian doctrine, our Saviour spake words that could not be gainsaid; and Paul argued ably and deeply. But we think an argumentative communion address is something that is peculiarly wanting in fitness and propriety. And yet we have heard some ministers not only speak in the language of argument, when addressing communicants, but even to divide their addresses into different branches and under different heads.