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A bony man he was and strong,
His hair and beard were stout and long;
His sinewy arms, like cedars sere,
Might hurl Goliath's heavy spear;

His deep broad breast much fame should win ;
His fierce eye was an eye of sin,

Which flamed with scorn and pride and hate,

The haughty prisoner, Batta Bate.

And here he lay apart from men,
Like a chained tiger in his den.
I know not what his wrong might be,
Whether 'twas done on land or sea,
Whether it stained the day or night;
Whether in darkness or in light:
But Batta in his cell did start,
For crime lay heavy on his heart.

What sees he here in gloomy nook?

How strange indeed! a well-bound book
Left by a traveller in the cell :

And Batta reads the Bible well.

His sins rise up like spectres grim,

And in the dungeon glare at him,

While conscience cries, "No rest, no rest!"

And fire is burning in his breast.

Then came a monk, and bade him pray

To Mary several times a day;

His beads to count, his eye to fix
Upon the wooden crucifix :

"And very soon," the monk did say,
"Thy load of guilt will roll away."
But aye he felt the leaden weight;
It brought no peace to Batta Bate.

Weary and worn and wan he lay
In darkest doubt from day to day,
Counting his beads till twilight fell,
When, lo, a voice ran through his cell,
"God only can thy sins forgive:
Rise, Batta Bate, believe and live !"
"This is the voice of Christ," said he,
"The Scriptures have revealed to me."

Among his friends he stood once more,
Released from prison damp and hoar.
Before, they feared his anger wild,
But now, how changed he was and mild!
"The Bible is for all," said he;

"The Bible has done this for me,

Which I have read with faith and prayer,
And found my pardoning Saviour there."

Go, Christian worker, scatter, wide
The Holy Book on every side,
By rill and rock, by fount and fen,
On mountain moor or mossy glen,
In city lane and forest-land,
Or on the desert's shining sand,
Till every nation, every tongue,
The praises of the Lord have sung.

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The German Bandsman.

TREET music is a very different thing now from what it was thirty or forty years ago. Those of us who can look back so far remember well the old barrel-organ, and the blind man's fiddle, and the yet humbler pan-pipes, and the well-worn flute with its few

and oft-repeated tunes. Things have changed greatly since those days; and changed for the better. The German band gives us music of a far higher order; and, in the summer months at least, a German band is to be found in every great town, and often more than one.

These bands are not all good. Alas, those who have an ear for music are sometimes sorely pained by harsh tones and discordant tones and bad time. Nor are they by any means all German bands. There are English bands and Italian bands as well; and some in which men of different nations are mixed. But though not all good, many of them are very good indeed. It is a real treat to a musical ear to listen to a first-rate street-band. The instruments are in tune, the time is perfect, the bandmaster has taste and feeling, and all follow his lead as one man. Many of these men are really good musicians; and their great precision has been gained by years of practice.

But they are not merely so many musical machines. Each one of the men in gay uniform of blue or green, whom we hear with such pleasure, has his own history. Some of these foreigners have settled in England, and live in this country all the year round, though most even of these hope to end their days at home. Others come to some English watering-place for the summer, under a regular engagement, and go back to their own country for the winter. Some are musicians, and nothing else; others work at a trade part of the year. I remember getting into conversation at a seaside place with a fine, tall violin-player from Strasburg. That was before the war of 1870, when Strasburg was French. This man, an excellent player, was a carpenter. All the winter he worked at his trade at Strasburg, and every summer he played the violin in England. In some years, he carried home a good sum; in others, he did little more than cover his expenses. I have always found the men glad to be talked to as 'men, and not mere musicians, especially in their own tongue; and, when offered courteously, I have never known a Testament, or Gospel, or

little book, in their own language, to be refused, even by Romanists, which many of them are.

I once visited a young German bandsman in his last illness. He was a Protestant, from Würtemberg; but had no religion, he told me, when he came to England. Again and again he told me in his own language, "I was a bad man; bad, very bad." It was not till he had been ill for some months that I became acquainted with him; but meanwhile he had been often visited by a kind lady, who had read the Bible to him almost daily. It was she who told me of him. He was far gone in consumption when I first saw him.

He

I found him in a small back-room in a poor street. was sitting on the bed, supported by pillows, and his young wife, a German also, was with him. He had been told that I was coming, and received me gladly. He now delighted in the Word of God, which till lately he had cared nothing for. And he was doubly pleased when he found that I could read it to him in his own tongue, and could also talk to him, though imperfectly, in German. He could understand me tolerably well when I spoke in English; but he greatly preferred his own language. A text, such as John iii. 16, spoken to him slowly in the words of Luther's German translation, would bring the tears to his eyes; and a few words of prayer in his own language were joined in most heartily.

There was something very interesting in his face and manner. He was quite young, only seven and twenty, with a bright, intelligent look, and a pleasing address. Music was written on his face. I fear that it was music, coupled with exposure to weather and loose habits of life, that had brought him so low; for he had been a player on a large wind-instrument, for which he had never been fit.

It was not necessary for me to tell him of his danger. He knew that he was a dying man. Nor was it necessary for me to show him his spiritual danger. He had learnt that also. And further, he had learnt to know his Saviour,

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