warning, reproof, and invitation. It requires some bravery to do this amid such a Babel of discordant and conflicting sounds.

"We have not much to talk of," sadly observed this missionary to his interested companion, "in the way of actual result, but those who have been converted are trophies of grace."

"And do they still remain with you, and live consistently with their professions?"

"They do, and are of not a little service on such occasions as out-door preaching."

And these out-of-door efforts are among the best for securing the attention of working people, who rarely, if ever, see the inside of either church, chapel, or mission-room. In summer there is but little disposition on the part of the denizens of this district to attend an ordinary religious service, however attractive or well adapted to their intelligences. In winter evenings, the commodious hall adjoining is well filled. This building, arranged to hold about four hundred persons, is a light and cheerful structure, situated in a mean alley, in the centre of a population sadly needing the gospel. Standing in one of its upper rooms, Mr. Catlin, pointing out to the visitor a corner spot in the yard beneath,

observed:

"Over there, about three years ago, one Sunday afternoon, a friend connected with us stood up to conduct an open-air service. The Irish, at that time, were very embittered against us, and they drove the preacher clean out of the alley. The next Sunday a big brawny blacksmith attempted to preach, and, will you believe it, they came out of the public-house, seized him by the collar and trouser, and flung him into the main street. Well, the next week, I went to Mr. who lives in the alley, and asked him to allow me to stand by his door and preach on the Sunday afternoon. Mr. was a strong, bad fellow, a very terror to the neighbourhood; but he consented, and on the Sunday he told the Irish and the costermongers, who were ready to drive us away, that I was a good sort of fellow and wanted to do them good, and they musn't interfere with me. And there was no real interruption, although the excitement was intense. You see that public-house on the side of the court?"

"I do. It is shut up, terribly dilapidated, and quite a broken-down concern, I should say," was the rejoinder.

Well, sir, that old beer-house was once a famous resort for prizefighters, dog-fanciers, and cock-fighters. They kept a rat-pit, which was much patronized. The publican did a very large trade. At the time we commenced preaching at the corner of the alley, we ordinarily met at Union Hall, a small room that had become much too small for our purpose. We prayed the Lord to open a way for us, and to provide both the means and the place. Just then, a German manufacturer offered us the hall in which we now worship for missionary purposes, at an easy rent, and Mr. John Chubb (Chubb's locks are not unknown), hearing of our need of school accommodation, offered us, rent-free, for that purpose, the present three-storied building (which adjoins, and is now part of, the hall). Upon this very site stood for centuries The Old White Horse' public house. Well now, this looks very much like the hand of the Lord. But this is not all. Early last year, the land

lady of the Old Red Lion' before you, who had repeatedly heard our addresses in front of her beer-house, was ill, and in deep distress of mind respecting her soul. She sent for me, and I went. I found that she had, in early life, been trained in virtue and piety, but through marrying an unconverted man, had gradually sunk into her then condition. She bitterly repented of her sins, and some of her last wordsfor she did not live long-were to this effect, 'Oh that I had never seen London. I am indeed sorry that I have been engaged in such an unlawful wicked trade as this, and I wish that God would allow me just strength enough to come into the Mission Hall for once, to tell my neighbours so.' She never came into the Hall, but many of her neighbours saw her happy end, and were affected by it. The people around here know that her case was genuine. I often mention it, and as an instance of the power of God's grace, it is well received."

"But how is it the place is shut up and in such a state of distress?" "It isn't wanted now-the last man who had it was a sporting chap, but he couldn't succeed in it. And now they say the place is haunted; the skittle alley is in ruins. Oh, if the Lord would but grant the means, I would secure it at once, and open it as a cheap dining-house for working folks, which would be a great boon to the half-starved."

After surveying the premises, and learning the nature of the operations carried on therein-which particulars shall be duly given in another paper-the writer accompanied the missionary on a few domiciliary visits. These visits are the life of his mission. It is the work which the evangelist deems most important, and from the doing of which he reaps most reward. There may be in such a district, so closely packed, so deeply sunk, too much preaching, but too much of the kind of visitation he makes, there cannot well be. Never before have we been so strongly convinced of the need for this description of effort in such haunts of poverty and vice. "What," asked a Church of England clergyman of Mr. Catlin, "what is the Church to do to get at the people? they won't come to the Church." "Then," was the wise reply, "the Church must come to the people." It is in the spirit of this conviction that the missionary toils, and pages of this magazine might be profitably filled with the results which accrue from these domiciliary visits.

In every court and alley we threaded, were children. There were swarms of dirty, half-starved, half-nude juveniles; you could fill a dozen or two mission halls with these alone. Everywhere the missionary was recognized. There was scarcely a child who did not call out" Mr. Catlin." Astonishingly popular with the children is this good man, himself the father of seven. They left their play and ran after him. They capered before him with joy, asked questions, listened to his cheery words, smiled when he smiled, laughed when he joked, did as he bade them, and were as happy and as bright as sunbeams. His name was lisped, whispered, sung, shouted; his praises they celebrated with childish glee. They were as familiar as they pleased, and as respectful as you would desire. It was indeed a gladsome scene-his very presence, so pleasant were the associations that it brought to their infantile memories, made them merry. There was one group of dull-looking girls, seated in a circle, in one of the alleys, whose countenances brightened up wonderfully at his approach. "Ah, my

dears, what are you doing together?" "Playing, sir, at cob," quickly responded one little girl of about eight summers, who deemed herself honoured in being the first to reply to the questioner. "Cob, I've never heard of that "- -a confession of ignorance truly pitiable in both of us, and for us, doubtless, great commiseration was felt. It looked like a game at marbles, but marbles being above their means, they made shift with bits of coal, with which they grimed their hands and blackened their faces. We saw other faces worse disfigured; they were older children, upon whom vices and moral plagues and fevers had wrought a saddening change. And a fate as pitiable awaits the younger girls, innocently playing at "cob."

"The whole of this alley," observed Mr. Catlin, as we walked down one of these fever-haunts, "is inhabited by the poorest and lowest class of Irish, nearly every one of them Roman Catholics. And yet, I can enter all their homes and converse with them." "What, on religious matters?"

"Yes."

"How is that?"

"The children!" was the significant reply. "We look after the children-feed them, never trouble our minds whether they belong to Roman Catholic or Protestant parents. If they are half-starved, it is enough for us."

We had now arrived in a main thoroughfare, leading to the Meat Market. Working clerks and city shop girls were hastening to the adjoining Underground Railway, for their homes. Who would have thought that so much misery lay couched behind this open thoroughfare, in narrow dark alleys, and miserable holes called by a prodigious stretch of charity "homes?"

"Can you conceive of a court being here," asked our friend, as we looked at the doors and shutters and shops of one of the leading streets. We looked and could see none. We looked again, and with a like result. There were, however, to our surprise, two-one small but thickly inhabited, the other important and densely crowded. The first one was dismal indeed. The houses were built of wood, and the wood was begrimed with soot-the windows were few and dark, there were no signs of life, all presented a scene of dreary desolation

"O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear;

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted."

Inhabitants here-in this dreary haunt of excommunicated spirits? Yes, many, although their voices seem hushed as the grave, and only the sound of the mournful wind is heard. We saw, at the head of the court, the curiously spelt announcement, written as if by some shaky hand that feared the approach of the bailiff, "A room on the first flour to let "the only sign of life, strange to say, in that wretchedly dark den.

The other court was as lively as the smaller one was dull. Women, the wives of costermongers, shabbily attired and wearing, as is their wont, all their personal effects in the shape of gold rings, five and six in number, on one finger-oh vulgarest of vulgarisms!-were seated

on the broken-down doorsteps, while the Irish women were peeping from the windows above; and the men and hobbedehoys were gazing suspiciously upon the new-comers as they passed through the well-filled place, avoiding heaps of refuse on one side and barrows on the other. At the corner, we halted at a common lodging-house, into the chief room of which we entered, and were bidden to be seated. The landlady, a very agreeable but poor person, was at all times glad to see the missionary, enquired after his daughters, spoke affectionately of his late loss-the loss of a wife of whose labours in this benighted district so many of the poor speak eloquently-and deplored with sorrow the interruption which the missionary had received while preaching on the preceding evening in the open court, from a drunken but otherwise goodnatured fellow. An old, blind woman, and a younger lodger, made up the number who reside in this, the best apartment. Although you are blind, my friend," said Mr. Catlin, addressing himself to the poor afflicted woman, "I hope you can see a Saviour, and can trust him." She believed, she hoped she could, and from other words we found that piety dwelt in this abode. "Shall we pray together?" "Oh, do, sir." And on the bare floor, in that poor lodging house the voice of earnest supplication went up to a prayer-inspiring God for the conversion of those who were under that roof. Deeper and heartier responses we never heard; and thankfulness for the visit was evidently sincere "May we go down-stairs," enquired the missionary-more as a matter of politeness than of necessity, for none are more welcome than he. Down stairs meant the large kitchen, where the poor working men lodgers sit and drink, and cook, and rest. Four men of the artizan class were seated there, and treated us with respect. Poor fellows. They spoke rationally-they only wanted honest labour.

"What are you, sir, by trade?" we respectfully asked of an intelligent looking man, who sat moodily on the bench before us. "I am in the building line, sir."

"There is a good deal of building about, is there not ?"

"Yes, sir, very fair, but for every vacancy there are three applicants, and to get a regular or a good job is all a chance."

This is the kind of mechanic of whom many have been sent out to Canada, through Mr. Catlin's persevering appeals. But why should we send away our best-skilled men, when we really need them at home; and why send our lazy, incompetent refuse when even Botany Bay will not care for them?

Chaps," said Mr. Catlin, "we intend soon to re-open our hall, after cleansing; and if the Lord sends the money, we shall give a free tea to one thousand persons during a week of special services-will you come? And don't forget what I have often told you. We all hope to be happy and to have a friend in Jesus. But we must all be born again; there is no hope of our gaining heaven unless our characters are changed, is there?"

None," replied the mechanic whom I had previously addressed; "no sir, none," he repeated with much thoughtful solemnity of manner. The next house we visited, was a private dwelling. We stumbled up the dark, rickety, yielding staircase, and tapped at the door of a firstfloor room. Here was an elderly man lying seriously ill of diarrhoea

and physical exhaustion. His wife, seventy-two years of age, whose education had been superior to most of the working poor, tended him, and she was assisted by two other women. This one dilapidated room contained their all. There was no appearance of comfort, although there were signs of better days in the old worn-out furniture that had evidently been saved from the pawnshop.

"The doctor has been to-day," said the poor wife, "and he says it is diarrhoea; but it's more than that. He's been in a bad way for some time past. His work has been very little-a few jobs now and then, which he has been only too ready to do, but they have made him ill." "How is that?" was the somewhat natural enquiry.

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Well, sir, for some months past, he has got a little money by waking up people early in the morning for the market. At two o'clock he goes in one direction; at three, in another; at half-past, some distance off, at four and then at half-past, and five; and, because he wants to fulfil these jobs, he has been very wakeful, and therefore not had his right sleep."

"Have you put your trust in the Saviour?" kindly enquired the missionary of the sick man.

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Oh, yes, sir, I trust him with my soul."

"Ah, but you're a sinner; how about your sins?"

"Yes, sir, my sins-my sins," said the old man with energy, "I leave with my Saviour."

"He is no scholar," remarked his wife apologetically to me, "although we have had advantages in by-gone days. I don't want to talk about my troubles-God has been very good to me in them all; and you know, Mr. Catlin, I don't want to plead my poverty. But I know my heart is broken-broken." And the poor woman let the tear flow that would not keep in.

"What troubles me, too, so greatly," she continued, "is to hear such evil words and witness such sinful sights as we do here. Drunkenness and swearing downstairs, and some men still drunk upstairs, and my poor husband lying here."

Just then a person came into the room, and begged Mr. Catlin to step into the next court to see a dying woman. There was no hope for her recovery, dropsy had set in. She lived upstairs in a house too dilapidated downstairs for human habitation, in a court that few but those accustomed to the immediate district would discover, and into which few would probably care to venture.

The next case was unique. It was that of an old widow lady of the great age of ninety-five, bed-ridden, the daughter of a clergyman complicated, in some way, in the Cato-street conspiracy. She was brought up most respectably, received an adequate education, and was possessed of excellent gifts of mind. Until within the last year or so, she was able to repeat much solid poetry, and to open up the stores of her reading of past years. From various causes she sank so low in circumstances that without help she could not rise again—as is the case with so many of the very poor here; and that help not being forthcoming, her poverty became so extreme that she lacked needful warmth and food. A literary gentleman who was taken to visit her was so struck with her natural gifts, and so moved by her great need, as to make her a small