continual journeyings thrown into new scenes, and among fresh people, find in their surroundings that which answers to the pages of new volumes. Their lonely rides and strange adventures are to them a literature, and they can, therefore, manage to be original and vigorous without consulting great writers. Men, too, who live in primitive villages in our own land, and, like Robert Robinson, plough and sow, and reap and mow, and are all the while in vigorous health, may find in their occupation all that others can discover on their book-shelves. But amid the routine of a limited circle of acquaintance, dwelling in the dreary street of a town, and bound down by the conventionalities of the period, a man finds it hard to strike out something fresh, and give the same people an interesting discourse three or four times a week. What can a poor preacher do who has no books? Is he to make loaves without flour, and catch fish without net or line? Some of us, who have every appliance and advantage, find our task no light one; but take these away, and, alas! master, what shall we do?

Poverty is a grievous trial to one who is called upon to be prominent. He might be content in a corner, but if you robe him in a thread-bare garment, it is a shame to place him on a rostrum, where all may see his condition. His wife and his children might wear their scanty apparel with patience if you did not make them the observed of all observers. But when poverty displays itself in a man's sermons, it is more grievous to him than when it is seen in his clothes. If the good man cannot explain his text for want of an exposition, nor work out an argument because he is unaware of the facts of history, nor venture upon an illustration because he has no work which would enable him to give it correctly, it is humiliating to him to the last degree. He bitterly feels the want of money, but the want of books so conquers him that it is with him as it was with Joseph, when the iron entered into his soul. He is conscious of the power to do better work, if he could but procure tools; and he frets and chafes because he is virtually expected to cultivate a field without a plough, build a wall without a trowel, and defeat an enemy without weapons.

No preacher ought to be kept short of books; as well deprive a workman of his tools. These men are to produce fresh, interesting, living, stimulating thought: the task is in itself no easy one; in the name of common-sense supply them with every known help for the cultivation of their minds. If we are to endure two addresses from them every Sunday, let us be merciful to ourselves by giving the good men something to think about, that they may not bore us with inane repetitions, nor send us to sleep with dull platitudes. Spiritual people desire that their Sabbaths should be profitably spent; and if they are thoughtful and instructed persons, they will feel that it is important that their religious teacher should come to the pulpit with a well-stored mind. In the age of miracles, an apostle was anxious to obtain his books and his parchments; and now that miracles have ceased, such helps have become even more important to the gospel minister. It is idle to look for exposition from a brother who is not only ignorant of the original tongues, but is unread in those admirable comments which have cost men a lifetime to prepare. In every other department of his work the minister needs such stimulus, guidance, and information as

only books can give him. It is an absolute necessity for continuous, instructive ministry among the same people that a man should study, and how can he study if he has nothing to read?

The more manifest sorrow of scantiness of bread arouses sympathy in all minds; but lack of mental food does not affect many with pity. Perhaps a pastor's wife, who knows the use which her own husband finds for his library, is one of the most likely persons to enter in sympathy into this common but bitter experience. Mrs. Spurgeon felt that the need was urgent, and she began to meet it; the work grew upon her hands, and her hands grew to the work so that she could not quit it, but must advance with it.

Through nine long years Mrs. Spurgeon has plodded on, hearing from poor preachers, answering their letters, and sending them parcels of books, until the number of those who have been helped by her exceeds twelve thousand. Many of these have had two, or three grants, as years have passed on, and it may therefore be imagined how much of correspondence and book-keeping has fallen to the lot of an invalid. If imagination should not convey a just idea, it may be well to add that this enterprise has kept her hands full from morning till night, and has at times taxed her powers beyond the due limit.

May the good Lord send his Spirit with the books given, and make them to be a testimony to the gospel of grace, a comfort to the servants of the Lord, and a means of revival to the churches among which they labour. Going as the books do to every part of the church of Christ, and even to those who are of doubtful orthodoxy, we do rejoice, yea, and will rejoice that a great door and effectual is thus opened, and none can tell what may come of it. It may be that the truth may influence the preacher, and through him may spread to his congregation. In these dark days every candle is precious, and the more we can light the better. To put sound doctrine in the way of ministers is to cast salt into the fountain, and should the Lord use it to the healing of the spring the streams will be sweet. At any rate, daily prayer goes up that this may be the case, and the Lord lives to hear and answer the believing petitions of his servants.

We have heard of generals who could more readily fight a battle than write the despatch which described it; and we know many a Christian worker who could toil on for a year with less trouble than it would cost him to produce a report of his mission. It is especially so with the persevering manager of the Book Fund: she delights in her holy service for the Lord's ministers, but the Annual Report is her daily burden, the perpetual task of the whole year. Yet when one reads these pleasant pages, nothing suggests the idea of toilsome production surely flowers so lovely and abundant must have sprung spontaneously from the sod. As when one sees a dell in spring-time azure as the skies with blue-bells, no picture of a labourer with a spade intrudes itself; so when we are charmed with the happy sentences of this delightful Annual, no notion of an aching head and a wearied mind crosses our imagination. We do but mention the fact because we see behind the curtain, and know that the pleasure given to her readers costs the writer dear. Personally, we could even wish for her sake that the Report could be henceforth dispensed with; but this must not be,

at least we hope it will not be, till ministers no more need donations of books; for pure minds need stirring up, and putting in remembrance, and there is no better way of doing it than by such appeals as these.

Our readers can procure this tasteful book for sixpence of our publishers, and therefore there is no need to say more. Even should they be unable to aid the enterprise, they will be all the better for knowing about it; and at least they will find the water standing in their eyes as they read of the needs of certain of the Lord's ministers, and mark the gratitude with which a little help is received. We will make two quotations which may suffice to give to any of our new friends a taste of the whole. Our older helpers have read nine such reports, and will be glad to know that it is proposed that these should all be made into a volume, and issued in a permanent form. They ought not to pass into forgetfulness, for they are adapted to be not only passing clouds, which drop an annual shower, but fixed fountains, ever refreshing weary travellers. We have extracted, first

THE PASTOR'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

The room is small, and very poorly furnished, a tiny fire burns in the grate, for it is mid-winter; but beyond this, there is an absence of all the suitable surroundings of a minister's study, and you can count the books upon your fingers. The pastor sits there with bowed head, and weary body, after a day of heavy work, and, shall I tell it? of very scanty sustenance. A deep sense of responsibility is upon him, and he feels the weight of souls on his heart; but, in addition to this, he has special cares just now which press upon him heavily, troubles of church and building matters, questions as to ways and means, fightings without and fears within, which vex and grieve him sorely. He tries to cast his burden upon the Lord, and put the cares in the background, for he has to seek and plead for a text for to-morrow morning's service; but the troubles seem to roll in upon him like the waves of the sea; and though, one after another, precious promises and glorious truths present themselves as he turns the sacred page, he can fix on no text which brings him deliverance, or comes to his heart with the power of the Spirit, as the word which shall first satisfy his own soul, and then refresh and bless his people.

Weary and faint, he is very, very poor,—and almost overwhelmed by the difficulties of the way, he turns to the fire with his open Bible on his knee, and sighs. Oh! such a sigh! Will the angels hear it, I wonder, and come and minister to him, as they used to do to their sorrowful Lord? Perhaps so; but his heavenly Father has also prepared an earthly solace, and the answer to his cry is even now at the door. The bell rings, and a large parcel is left "For the Pastor," and is taken at once to his room. In a moment he feels that relief has come, he knows the superscription, and divines the contents; in his joy he almost caresses the package; then, with trembling fingers, he cuts the string, and spreads the treasures out before the Lord. Yes, literally "before the Lord," for now you see him kneeling by the side of the open parcel, thanking and blessing God for such opportune mercy, for such streams in the desert, such blossoming roses in the wilderness. While prayer and praise mingle on his lips, his hand rests upon a small book of Mr. Geo. Müller's; this he takes up and opens, and the first words which meet his eye, standing out in bold relief, shining as it were with heaven's own light, are these :

"OPEN THY MOUTH WIDE, AND I WILL FILL IT."

This is what he needs, this is God's message, this is "the word with power," and the command is obeyed, and the promise is fulfilled in that first rapturous moment of enlightenment. He has broken down completely now, the tears are running down his cheeks, but they are rills from the fountains of joy, not of

sorrow, and will refresh and heal his spirit. The Lord himself has spoken to him, an angel has strengthened him, and after a season of adoring communion, he rises from his knees, strong to labour or to suffer, as his gracious Master wills. That Saturday night will never be forgotten by him, so well-timed was the mercy to relieve his misery; so precious was the light which shone in upon his darkness.

If we could have gone with him to the house of God on the Sabbath morning following, we should have seen that the blessing so graciously given was resting on him still; nay, more, that it was so abundant in the plenitude of its lifegiving power, that it overflowed from his heart into the souls of his people; for saints and sinners alike wept, some over sin, some over recovered joy, and both over the goodness and grace of God in the face of Jesus Christ. God's message to one heart repeated itself to many, and there was rejoicing in heaven and earth that day!

One other passage we cannot withhold—

THE LARK'S NEST.

But, apropos of sky-larks' songs, I must tell you, dear reader, what happened the other day, and how beautifully a sweet singer's confidence was rewarded, when fearlessly leaving her earthly treasures in our Father's keeping (Matt. vi. 26), she mounted upward to pay her full debt of daily orisons at "Heaven's Gate." You may find, perhaps, some "linked sweetness" between the little story and our present subject, or even, failing that desired end, may not be displeased with me for introducing the homely incident to your notice.

We were making a tour of the garden and pastures, admiring the beauty of the young year's fresh life,-noting with tender interest all the charming details of newly-awakened responsibility in every living thing-marking the sweet, impatient growth of leaves still rumpled and creased from their recent unfoldings, and rejoicing in the whispered promise of golden days to come which trembled on every scented breath of the perfumed air.

Down in the Dale field we came across a sky-lark's nest, built in the long grass, a lovely little soft-lined cup of cosiness, with three pretty brown eggs in it. The sweet songstress had flown up at the approach of human footsteps, and thus revealed the secret place of her wee home to inquisitive but kindly eyes. We looked with profound admiration on her happy work, and then quietly retraced our steps, having loving sympathy for the poor little fluttering heart which might perchance fear the despoiling of its treasures. A day or two afterwards the visit was repeated; but imagine our consternation when, on opening the gate of the field, we saw that the cows had been let into that pasture! How would the great clumsy sweet-breath'd creatures treat the little home in the grass? Would it not be crushed and trampled by their unheeding feet? We had placed an upright stick near the nest to show its position, and very doubtfully we made our way across the field, fearing to find ruin and desolation where we had left peace and prosperity.

When we reached the spot, our surprise and delight were great to find the home intact, and the wee birds safely hatched, for though the cows had munched the grass close down to the ground all round the nest, not a hoof had touched the little inmates. So, there they were, three cunning mites, with stubby bodies, and big downy heads, cowering close together in instinctive fear of the human presence which overshadowed them. The cows grazed quietly by, and overhead the pretty mother trilled forth her delicious carol in the morning sunshine, pouring out her heart's gratitude and gladness in libations of song! And there, till the little birds were feathered and flown, the cows were every day pastured, yet never a hurt came to the wee nest in the grass! Who watched over the mother in her peril as she sat upon the eggs, and guarded the nestlings in their hourly danger when the slight protection of her tender body was removed? Who shielded the tiny birds from the tread of the great beasts' feet?

Did Daphne know that the nursery on the ground-floor must be cared for and respected? Or did Strawberry's mother-instinct tell her that little living hearts beat as truly in that wool-lined cup as in the sweet hay-crib where her own darling was lying? I cannot tell-the matter is too deep for me; but the lark knew all about it, and it may be that, could our ears have been opened to understand the language of her hymn of praise, as she rose higher and higher in the calm blue sky, we might have caught here and there amidst the joyous notes, some such words as these:

Did she not do well thus to sing and trust? Oh, sighing and doubting reader, cast away your fears, and follow her fair example; you shall not only joyfully leave your earthly cares with your heavenly Father, but you shall get nearer to God's throne than you have ever been before!

"THE

A Strong Tower.

"THE name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous runneth into it, and is safe" (Prov. xviii. 10). Sometimes by "the name of the Lord" we are to understand God himself; but most commonly God's attributes are called his name, because by them he is known, as a man is by his name; and here by the "name of the Lord," we are to understand the power of the Lord. God himself is a strong tower, and the power of God is a strong tower; yea, it is a tower as high as heaven, and as strong as strength itself; it is a tower so deep, no pioneer can undermine it; so thick, no cannon can pierce it; so high, no ladder can scale it; so strong, that no enemy can assault it, or ever be able to stand before it; and so well furnished and provided for all purposes and intents, that all the powers of darkness can never distress it, or in the least straiten it. Now to this impregnable and inexpugnable tower the righteous in all their distresses and dangers run. All creatures run to their refuge when they are hunted or pursued; and so do righteous souls to theirs. But what doth the righteous man gain by running to his strong tower? Why, he gains safety; "he is safe," saith the text; or rather, according to the Hebrew, exaltatur, "he is exalted": he is set aloft, he is soul out of gun-shot, he is a soul out of all hazard and danger, he is safe in the everlasting arms, he is safe in his strong tower of defence; he can easily overlook all hazards; yea, he can look upon the greatest dangers with a holy neglect.-Thomas Brooks.