have been. But for your insidious counsels, I might now have been far advanced in the track of Christian."

"Do you think that I would keep you from following in his steps? far from me be the thought!" exclaimed Self-deception, who with the departure of his worldly patient seemed to have lost all his worldliness also. "I but persuaded you to remain awhile in Nocross, till you should have completed that noble work which will carry down your name to an admiring posterity, beside the names of Shelley and Byron. What delight you have found in that work--one worthy of your genius! Have you not sat up till the stars paled in the dawn, because the rush of thought overflowing its bounds would not suffer you to sleep; or started from your pillow to grasp your pen, lest the rich ideas borne on the surface of that flood should sink and be lost ere memory could retain them? Have you not, as it were, not only lived for, but lived in your poem ?"

"It has been the absorbing occupation for which all others, save one, have been neglected," was Ernest's reply.

“And now that the work has been ushered into light, now that the press has given forth the first edition (precursor of many others), do you not look on that poem as a proud parent looks on his first-born child? Are you not already listening to the first murmur of admiration which even in your own lifetime, but far, far beyond it, will swell into a loud burst of popular applause? Your book will be found in the library of the student, it will be an ornament to the palace. The learned will quote it, the critical praise it, the eyes of youth and beauty will rest upon its pages with delight. Your name, as its author, will be as a 'household name' in every home. Yes, you have not laboured for a world that will prove ungrateful; you have not in vain wrung time for your work from sleep, from business, from amusement, to devote it to a more glorious use."

"Smoothaway, I have been too long a listener, and too willing a listener," said Ernest, who had been now hearing the echo of hopes which had excited him from the days of his boyhood. “The love of fame has been to me an absorbing passion; the pride of intellect a perilous snare."

"You have had a lofty goal before you, and you have reached it!" cried Smoothaway. "The glorious prize which you have gained—”

"Is one on which I must set my foot," interrupted the young man, his features expressing a painful mental struggle. "I must sacrifice my poem, suppress that first-and last-edition before it is in the hands of the public, and give every copy to the flames."

"Absurdity-madness-suicide!" exclaimed Smoothaway vehemently. "What can induce you to admit the idea of a sacrifice so unnatural, so revolting?"

"The idea first came strongly upon me, with a pang of inward remorse, after I had given some proof-sheets into the hands of the woman whom I love. You have thrown a charm over infidelity,' she said with a smile, when she returned them after perusal."

"She spoke with a smile, not with a frown," observed Smoothaway.

"Yes, such a smile as is depicted on the lips of an artless child in the painting in the next room," replied Ernest; "the smile of innocence toying with the serpent, and deeming it but a beautiful plaything. Am I to be the one to cover the snake with flowers, and lure youth and innocence to lay a confiding hand on the neck of the reptile? If this be the consummation of my intellectual triumphs, it were better for my readers and for myself that I had been born an idiot.”

"You did not always think thus," said the tempter.

"No; I thought but of my own ambitious dreams, and the prize of earthly distinction," was the reply. "I fixed my eyes upon that glittering prize till they were so dazzled that its image floated over every object on which I turned my gaze. But I have met with Evangelist.” "Met with Evangelist!" repeated Smoothaway, in accents which conveyed disparagement even under words of praise. "Evangelist is an excellent most excellent guide for the ignorant, for simple souls-such as Christian-who can grasp no higher knowledge than they can gather out of his books. Crowds follow him—they are right to do so; but you are scarcely one to wish to travel in a crowd, you are gifted with wings to soar a little above it."

There was a pause, for Ernest seemed to be lost in reflection, and remained with arms folded, unconsciously watching the slow vibration of the vampire. Smoothaway took advantage of the interval to go to one of the recesses so often mentioned, and take from it a goblet, which he then filled with a sparkling liquid from a bottle which he opened for the purpose. Every bubble on the surface of the draught sparkled with all the prismatic tints of the rainbow.

"Take this, my friend," said the tempter; "it is pride of life, your favourite cordial; in it you have often drowned such pangs as those which now depress your spirits, and deaden your power of judgment."

Ernest motioned to him to take away the goblet. "Such a draught is not for the follower of Him whose crown was of thorns," said the young

man.

"You have learned this from Evangelist," cried the tempter bitterly; "you are like a slave obeying the harsh commands of the ascetic who would have you bury your talents in obscurity, and despise the godlike attribute of high intellectual power."

"Call it not a godlike attribute, but a Godbestowed gift," said Ernest; "a gift to be used not for man's glory, but that of the Giver. You speak to me of talents which ought not to be buried; Evangelist has spoken of them also, and his voice is the voice of the Most High. My pen must not be laid aside, but borne with me along the narrow track which pilgrims tread; that pen must be employed as a consecrated thing, a sacred trust received from my King, for which I must render account in the day when reckoning shall be taken alike of the five talents and of the one."

"Be it so !" exclaimed Smoothaway, after his wonted manner, appearing to follow the bent of one whom he desired to lead. "Begin your noble self-dedication, but begin it not by the destruction of that which would give to your service distinction, and make your dedication illustrious. Your poem, widely read as it is certain to be, will crown you with fame and bestow on you influence; that fame and influence will increase a thousandfold your power of doing good by your pen. Few, as yet, have seen your work, but the

world is eagerly expecting it; you are looked upon already as the rising man of your age. When an impatient audience are waiting to welcome a heaven-born poet on the stage of life, are you willing to appear before them as a weak, scrupulous, vacillating slave of conscience, who dare not hold to the opinions which he once boldly avowed; as one who is afraid to strike out into the path indicated by his genius, lest parsons and old women should perchance shake their heads and reprovingly say, 'How dare he let go the clue by which we grope on our way so safely!'"

It is impossible to convey on paper an adequate idea of the refined scorn, the contemptuous pity, expressed by Smoothaway's manner rather than his words. He had not put down the goblethe proffered the pride of life still to one who loved it too well.

The brow of Ernest darkened; he compressed his lips tightly, and, as if mechanically, took the drugged goblet into his hand. Such natures as his are wont to shrink from the imputation of weakness more than that of wickedness, and to them ridicule is the worst form of persecution. I watched Ernest with painful apprehension as he stood, with his back still resting against the mantelpiece, so close to the fountain of lies, that some of its perfumed spray must have been sprinkled upon his shoulder.

Smoothaway saw and pushed his advantage. With the most consummate art he stirred up the innate desire of distinction within the breast of the poet, and the partial love for the creations of his own genius which the author naturally felt. The tempter recalled to Ernest thoughts which had first burst on the poet's mind with the force of inspiration; thoughts which, though tainted by error, no author would willingly suffer to die. Smoothaway then touched with masterly skill on the reflected pride and delight which a certain maiden would feel in his fame, how sweet his praises would sound in her ears. Ernest's cheek flushed as he listened; the tempter had touched a chord which vibrated through the young lover's soul.

"And now," continued the deceiver, "now that you have actually reached the goal towards which from boyhood you have been struggling; when

under God's afflicting hand, yet, when that hand is removed, returns to the world, with its cares, and its business, and its pleasures, and dismisses the thought of God and eternity, of Christ and the soul's salvation, to a more convenient season.

We can all see the terribleness of the fruits of sin when evidenced in loathsome disease and death; but to the eye of God there is something far more terrible in sin itself in the diseased, the dead soul. Hear his own description of it: "The whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint. From the sole of the foot even unto the head there is no soundness; but wounds, and bruises, and putrifying sores." A foul and loathsome disease truly! That is God's view of sin, of all sin-for this was spoken to Israelites who frequented the temple, offered sacrifices, kept the new moons and sabbaths, made many prayers, and spent on the outward service of God a vast deal more than most of those that are counted liberal Christians do nowadays. Yet see what God's view of them was because of the sin they cherished amid all their outward observances. See what a foul thing sin is in God's sight. The ". worse thing" than all outward malady. Do we think of sin in this way? Do we thus regard the sin of our own hearts? It is easy to see the awfulness of sin in others, to abhor their sin and turn from it as hateful to God and man; but are we like Job, do we say with him, "Behold, I am vile; what shall I answer thee?......I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes"? Job had felt the fruits of sin in the suffering of his body, so that he had exclaimed, "My bones are pierced in me in the night season, and my sinews take no rest. My skin is black upon me, and my bones are burned with heat." But now that he has got a sight of God's holiness and his own sin, he finds it far exceeding in awfulness any suffering of a sick body, and he exclaims, "I am vile; what shall I answer thee?" My readers, have you got such a sight of sin? Do you know it as the "worse thing" than sickness and suffering? There has been much and sore sickness in our midst of late, great suffering and many deaths. God has been smiting severely, and many have been made to taste somewhat of the bitter fruits of sin in disease in their own body, or in the persons of those dear to them. What has been the issue of it to you, my readers? Have you learned to look for God's purpose in smiting? Do you find that your sins are called to your remembrance? Have you heard God's

voice saying to you, "Turn ye, turn ye; why will ye die?" Perhaps you have been sick, and God has raised you up. Have you hearkened to him as he says, "Sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee"? What has come of all the chastisement? have you come out from under the rod, saying, "Come and let us return unto the Lord: for he hath torn, and he will heal us; he hath smitten, and he will bind us up"? Are you going to the fountain opened for all sin and uncleanness? Or, being healed by God's mercy, are you hardening

your heart against his love, and going back to your business and your money-making, or your pleasure, as eagerly as ever, none the better of the affliction under which you have passed? Then let me warn you, if you are none the better of it, you are most assuredly the worse. The "worse thing" is coming upon you. Your heart is like the iron that, heated and smitten, only comes out still harder as steel. And what will be the end of it all? The wise man tells us plainly. "He that, being often reproved, hardeneth his neck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy."

But we are persuaded better things of you, and things that accompany salvation. We cannot but hope that God's voice, speaking so loudly among us, will be heard by many, and that the ears that affliction has opened will listen to the still small voice of gospel love saying, "Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." We cannot but hope that many hearts that have found their sins called to remembrance under God's chastisements will never rest or be content until they have brought them to the sin-bearer, and have learned, while looking at his sacrifice on the cross, to see both God's estimate of the hatefulness of sin and his wonderful love to poor sinners.

In conclusion, my Christian brethren and sisters, suffer a word of exhortation. What use are we making of these times of visitation? To God's people they have a voice as well as to the careless ones. Are we lending an attentive ear? Are we willing to have our sins called to remembrance our faithlessness - our prayerlessness — our abounding worldliness and self-indulgence our setting the claims of business, or society, or pleasure far above the claims of God both on our time and our purse? Which of us can say, I am clean in this matter; my sins have not helped to bring God's judgments down? Let us make use of this time as a season for deep self-examination, saying to God, "Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my thoughts; and see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting." And when we are searched and have our sins set before us, let us cry mightily to God to wash us in the precious blood of his Son, and to sanctify us by his Spirit, that we may no longer dishonour our Christian profession by our half-heartedness, but may so adorn God's gospel in our lives as to constrain others not only to say we have "been with Jesus," but to desire to go with us into his blessed presence.

And let us pray more earnestly than we have ever yet done for the outpouring of God's Spirit in our land, and that especially all, from the prince to the peasant, who, having been laid on beds of sickness, have mercifully been raised up, may hear the Saviour's voice saying to each of them, "Behold, thou art made whole! sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee." B. W.