are still but very poorly supported; but now some Christian laymen are taking up the matter, and I think they will be better treated in future.

THE BRIDGE OVER THE RIVER,

AN aged man sat on a bank of the Hereford river, leaning on the top of his staff, while his eyes seemed intently fixed on the gliding stream. I sat beside him, yet he was so absorbed in thought that he did not move. Speaking loudly, I said, "Old man, you and I must cross the river" (meaning the river of death). This roused him, and looking at me with a start, he exclaimed, “And what can a man do if he cannot swim?" "He must sink," was the reply. He heaved a deep sigh. Then, preaching Jesus, I showed him God's way of saving perishing sinners; but without any apparent effect, for he wanted to swim across the river of death in his own righteousness. I left him shortly afterwards, and when I had crossed over the bridge towards the town, I waited for the old man, who was slowly coming that way. "Now," said I, "old man, you have crossed the river; how did you get over safely?" He pointed to the bridge; and, taking this illustration, I preached Jesus, whose blood has washed our sins down the tide of death, and himself is the bridge, or Mediator between God and men. The poor man's eyes opened; he no more tried to swim in his own strength or righteousness. He believed in Jesus, and went on his way rejoicing, and exclaiming, "I see it! I see it! I see it!"-John Hambleton,

THE WELL AT SYCHAR.

(On finding it filled up by the Arabs.)

THEY have stopp'd the sacred well, which the patriarchs dug of old,

When they water'd the patient flocks at noon, from the depths so pure and cold;

Where the Saviour ask'd to drink, and found at noon repose;

But the living spring He opened there no human hands can close.

They have scatter'd the ancient stones, where at noon He sat to rest;

None ever shall rest by that well again, and think how His accents bless'd;

But the rest for the burden'd heart, the shade in the weary land,

The river Rock with its living streams, for ever unmoved shall stand.

Earth has no temple now, no beautiful house of God; Or earth is all one temple-floor, which those sacred feet have trod;

But in heaven there is a Throne, a Home, and a House of prayer;

Thyself the Temple, Thyself the Sun; our pilgrimage endeth there.

The Three Wakings.

BOMBAY.

TRIALS OF NATIVE CHRISTIANS.

UNTIL one visits India it is impossible to form any adequate conception of the difficulties with which native Christians have to contend. Oh! how much ought Christians at home to sympathize with, and pray for the native Christians of India! They have to struggle with hardships and adversities which few could imagine. The obstacles which impede their path to heaven are many and fearful. Born in heathen darkness—from infancy instructed in the wickedness of idolatry-surrounded by sights and sounds of sin and misery-the Hindu has no moral standard by which to weigh his actions. His gods are sins personified. Brought beneath the sound of the blessed Gospel, the grace of God touches his heart, he sees his guilt, mourns over it, and comes to the Saviour that he may obtain pardon. Embracing the free offer of reconciliation, he becomes a new-born babe in the divine life. Slowly, and often painfully, he attains to the knowledge and light of things spiritual. Gradually his prejudices vanish, and the eye of his mind becomes cleared from the mists of error. But, besides this experience, no sooner has he openly avowed his faith in Christ, and obedience to his precepts, than he becomes the object of hatred, suspicion, and not a little cruel persecution. Often has he left no choice but to lose all-wife, children, and property-for the sake of Jesus.

Let these things be duly remembered, and then shall we not feel that, amid such difficulties and trials, nothing can bear them up save the daily supply of heavenly grace; and nothing can preserve from the powerful influences brought to bear upon them in every con

ceivable manner, except the sustaining force of divine love shed abroad in the heart.

THE VOICE OF THE WEARY.

I COME from a land where a beautiful light

Is creeping o'er hill-top and vale;

Where broad is the field, and the harvest is white,
But the reapers are wasted and pale.

All wasted and worn with the wearisome toil,
Still they pause not-that brave little band;
Though soon their lone pillow must be the strange soil
Of that distant and grave-dotted strand.

For dangers uncounted are clustering there:

The pestilence stalks uncontrolled;

Strange poisons are borne on the soft languid air,

And lurks in each leaf's fragrant fold.

There the rose never blooms on fair woman's wan cheek,
But there's beautiful light in her eye,

And the smile that she wears is so loving and meek,
None can doubt it comes down from the sky.

There the strong man is bowed in his youth's golden prime,

But he cheerily sings at his toil,

For he thinks of his sheaves and the garnering time,

Of the glorious Lord of the soil.

And ever they turn-that brave little band--

A long wistful gaze to the west: