yet breathing out threatenings and slaughter against the disciples of the Lord, went unto the high priest, and desired of him letters to Damascus to the synagogues, that if he found any of this way, whether they were men or women, he might bring them bound to Jerusalem."

Now let us see what Paul himself has said and written on his persecuting career. Here, then, are his confessions on the point: "And I persecuted this way unto the death, binding and delivering into prison both men and women (Acts xxii. 4). "I verily thought within myself that I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth. Which things I also did in Jerusalem, and many of the saints did I shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests, and when they were put to death I gave my voice against them. And I punished them oft in every synagogue, and compelled them to blaspheme: and being exceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities." (Acts xxvi. 9-11.) For ye have heard of my conversation in time past in the Jews' religion, how that beyond measure I persecuted the church of God, and wasted it." (Gal. i. 13.) 66 Who was before a blasphemer and a persecutor, and injurious." (1 Tim. i. 13).

This, then, is the written history of Paul's life as a persecutor. One or two incidents, however, I must call to remembrance, to show how widely the reputation of Paul as a persecutor had spread, and how great a terror was inspired by his name among those who were Christians. When Ananias, of Damascus, was commanded by Jesus Christ to go and visit Saul, who, he was informed, had arrived at Damascus, humbled and repentant, he objected, saying, "Lord, I have heard by many of this man, how much evil he hath done to thy saints at Jerusalem. And here he hath authority from the chief priests to bind all them that call upon thy name." And when, three years after his conversion, Paul went up to Jerusalem, and presented himself" among the disciples," they were all afraid of him, and believed not that he was a disciple." How these simple facts testify to the horror in which the name of Saul was held as a persecutor; and how violent, effectual, and terrible that persecution was, may be seen from the quotations I have given. Jerusalem was not a sphere wide enough for the energy and rage of the maddened Saul. His persecuting zeal knew no bounds. So he leaves Jerusalem and journeys 130 miles down to Damascus, there to carry into effect the same infuriate zeal, the same maddened hatred against the humble believers in Jesus,

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which he had previously manifested in Jerusalem. What a shocking career that was which began at the murder of Stephen, and culminated when Jesus met the rebellious Saul by the way, still " kicking against the pricks!" In his determined and restless cruelty he spared neither age, condition, nor sex; no punishment, however horrid and severe, would he hesitate to inflict; imprisonment, torture, or death was equally welcome to him; anything, in fact, to grieve, waste, and destroy the saints. Luke says, he "breathed out threatenings and slaughter." Paul himself tells us that he was "exceedingly mad against" the saints, and that he "persecuted the church of God, and wasted it." These are fearfully expressive and powerful statements, but not at all beyond the truth.

And here for the present we must leave him, with one or two reflections. 1. How a blind, fanatical zeal degrades and curses the human character. Under its demoniacal power an otherwise amiable and religious man may become an utter madman, an infuriate bigot, a reckless destroyer and murderer. From the least tendency to such a spirit the Lord save us all! 2. But on the other hand, how must we admire and adore that divine grace which subdued the hardened spirit of a relentless Saul, and transformed him into the glorious apostle he afterwards became. Blessed grace! Oh, come, and by thy inward fires consume the adamant of sin, and thoroughly transform us all. "Melt down our spirits, Lord, and mould,

Into thy perfect love."

(To be continued.)

W. M. B.

A STORY ABOUT LANFRANC.

very late

"So it was a very nice party, last night, was it, Amy ?" said Mrs. Elliott, when her little girl came down to breakfast, the morning after Twelfth Night.

"Oh, beautiful, mamma; I have so much to tell you. We had splendid charades. One boy had all his face and hands blacked, and was dressed up in blue and white calico, and said such a funny piece of poetry about his being a runaway slave from the South. And before supper there was the largest Christmas-tree I ever saw-so tall that Mr. Woods could only just reach to the top to get the basket for Katy."

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'Kate has been showing me her pretty basket, and I suppose you have some wonderful things to show me too." Oh, yes, mamma, ever so many, up in the nursery. I

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saved all the pretty cracker-papers and some of the sweets. I mean to give some to baby to play with; and Katy and I are going to make a little Christmas-tree with the rest. But my things off the tree are all toys and little things, not like Katy's basket. When any of these were given to her, she said she would rather the little ones had them, and gave them all away; and at the end, when Mr. and Mrs. Woods saw she had nothing, they said she had been such a generous little girl, she must have the prettiest thing of all; so they cut down the large basket of sweets at the top of the tree, and gave it to her. But I don't think it was really generous of Katy, mamma; for when I asked her, after we came home, why she gave away all the other things, she said she knew she should get something better in the end. That was not right now, was it, mamma?"

"No, Amy, it was not; but we will not talk about it now. You must make haste and get your breakfast, or Miss Scriven will be here before you are ready for school; and then she will say, 'No more parties for little girls who cannot learn their lessons next morning!'

"Oh, I know she will, mamma; she always says cross things like that. I think she has quite forgotten what she liked when she was a little girl-if she ever was a little girl."

"Hush, Amy; I shall have to say the same as Miss Scriven, if you have nothing but unkind words this morning. Now I think I may trust you to be good while I am out to-day. I have to go to town, and you must have dinner with nurse; but I shall be home before blind man's holiday;' and then you and Katy shall come down, and tell me all about the charades; and I will tell you a story I read yesterday."

"Oh, that will be nice, mamma, dear; it is such a long while since you told us a story. I will be very good, and play with baby all the afternoon; at least, after we have made our Christmas-tree."

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When the long story of the charades was done, and Amy was settled comfortably on her mamma's knee, and Katy on a stool at her feet, in the twilight, Mrs. Elliot began:

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:

Now, you must send your thoughts a long way back, for it is an old story I am going to tell you.

"A long time ago, about thirty years before William the Conqueror came to England,—and I am sure Katy knows when that was

"I know, mamma," said Amy; "it was in 1066; I said it in my lesson this morning."

"Well," continued Mrs. Elliot, "about thirty years before that, a monk was walking through a forest in Normandy. He was trying to find his way to a new monastery, of which he had often heard, but to which he had never been before. He had started very early in the morning, before any of the other monks were up, that he might get to his journey's end before night came on. But, though he had been walking all day, only resting now and then to drink a little water from a brook, and to eat some of the bread in his wallet, it was now fast getting dark, and he was still in the midst of the thick-tangled forest..

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Now, we should not much like to be walking alone in a strange wood in the dark, even in our days; but in those old times it was much more dangerous; and the poor monk walked faster and faster, wishing very much he could see anything like a cottage, or a way out of the wood. But there was nothing to be seen but trees in every direction, and the farther he went the more frightened he felt. He had good reason, too, for suddenly, from a little clearing in the wood, there rushed out upon him four or five wild-looking robbers. They did not pity the poor man, and spare him because he was only a monk, with nothing but his staff to defend him. Two of them seized his arms; and threw him roughly to the ground, while the others searched him, and took from him his purse, with all the little money he had in the world. While he was lying on the ground there came a strange thought into his mind. Often in writing out the Gospel of Matthew in his cell (for there was no printing then, you know), he had copied these words: If a man shall strike thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also;' and he remembered a story he had heard of a good man who was attacked by robbers, and when they had stolen his horse-a wild, unruly animal-he freely gave them his whip to manage him with. The robbers, astonished, and not to be outdone in generosity, gave him back his horse. Now, thought the monk, I will try the same kind of generosity. So as soon as the robbers let him get up, he asked them if they would like to take his clothes too, -hoping that they would act like the others, and give him back his purse. But they did not at all understand him; and thinking that he meant to insult them, they took his clothes, as he generously suggested, but never thought of giving him back his purse. They left him

only his cap, which they forced down over his eyes, and then they bound him to a tree at some distance from the

road.

"For some time after he was left alone, the monk wondered why he had not been rewarded for his generosity, like the other good man. But presently he began to see how what he had done had not been really generous at all, only a kind of trick by which he hoped to get back his purse. And then he began to think how many things in his life, which had seemed very good to himself and others, must have been only deccitful in the eyes of One who could see the heart. There, in the lonely, dark wood, he felt God's eye, to which there is no darkness, looking right through him, and he felt himself a very sinful man. He could not kneel down to pray, for he was tied fast to the tree; and though he was a very learned man, and had said numbers of Latin prayers in the church every day for years, he could not remember one now. But he felt he must pray; so he said in his own words a prayer very much like David's, 'Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness, and according to the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my ways, and see what wicked way there is in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.'

me.

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'A great many hours passed before any one came that way, and cut the cords that bound him, and showed him the way to the place where he wanted to go; and he was stiff and bruised for a long while after, and had to do with very little money indeed; but I do not think he was ever sorry that he met the robbers and had that lonely night in the wood; for there he had first learned to know himself, and to pray, 'Give me a new heart, O God.'

"The monk's name was Lanfranc; and when you get older, I should like you to read a great deal more about him, in a very interesting book in which I read this story, 'Dr. Hook's Lives of the Archbishops of Canterbury.'

"But now the candles are coming, and tea; and we must put papa's slippers by the fire, and have baby down ready to meet him. Go and tell nurse to bring him, Amy."

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Katy was very quiet all tea-time; and when she came for her good-night kiss, she whispered

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Mamma, I wish you would come and kiss me when I am in bed; I want to speak to you."

"Certainly I will, my child."