mance with regard to trial. Perhaps most persons who give way to day dreams have, at some time or other, placed themselves, in imagination, in positions in which they were exposed to it, and have nobly borne up under it; and if conscience should whisper that the same heroism is not shown in daily life, the natural answer is, that strength will be forthcoming when the cause for exerting it is sufficiently strong. Thus men and women— yes, and children also,-judge of themselves, not by what they are, but by what they believe they could be; and the first step towards ridding ourselves of this self-deceit may be, to remember that the natural tendency of grief is to cause us to "sleep for sorrow." It absorbs us so as to afford a legitimate reason for attending to nothing else. With some persons it becomes a morbid self-indulgence, and is actually cherished and nurtured. Everything which would disturb it is carefully shunned; the claims of daily duties are looked upon as intrusive; and although time, as it goes on, softens the bitterness of sorrow, it has no effect upon the form in which it has been embodied. Instead of a real, natural grief, one which is exaggerated and unnatural has been created; and this cannot be parted with without a sacrifice of the selfishness which originated, and the vanity which fostered it. In such cases, where is the healthful result of affliction to be found?

Our Lord's words to His disciples give us the only true guidance for our conduct under trial.

"Rise and pray, lest ye enter into temptation.""Rise" – be active, watchful, earnest — only trust not in yourselves. Grief cannot afford to neglect any precautions. It dares not loosen the reins of self-government, for they are already slackened by the intensity of feeling. The rules for daily conduct which were needed in prosperity can never be spared in adversity; and the first duty we neglect because we are unhappy, is the precursor of that uneasy spirit of self-dissatisfaction (wholly unlike repentance), which will at length rise up as a cloud between us and our God, and veil from us the brightness of His consolations. But how seldom we act upon this conviction! We say, perhaps, that we cannot summon resolution to attend to ordinary occupations, and that we need relief. Instead, therefore, of employing ourselves, we sit idle; instead of walking, we lie down; instead, of endeavouring to employ our minds usefully, we indulge in the distraction of a novel. These are all opiates. They lull the pain for a time, but it will return with tenfold bitterness afterwards. "Rise and pray;" there is no other remedy. Duties fulfilled, though with an aching heart-prayers uttered, though with faltering lips—these will soothe us, even by the very efforts which they compel us to make. "When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble." And where is there any quietness like the quietness of conscience? If it be needed in joy, how tenfold more in sorrow?

And the warning, if needed for ourselves, may

be useful also as regards our friends. It may happen that we see those we love overwhelmed by affliction, crushed beneath the weight of some sorrow, which seems to leave them no power of rising again. Under such circumstances the advice commonly given is to seek something which may distract the thoughts. Travelling, society, and cheerful amusements, are recommended and tried, most probably in vain; the wound is too deep for any such remedies. What is needed is perfect resignation to God's Will in feeling, and this can be attained only by a loving devotion to His Will in action. When we are consciously, not mechanically, working for Him, we cannot help loving Him; when we love Him, we acquiesce without a murmur in what He appoints. The suggestion of some little duty of affection, or benevolence, will in many such cases be far more in accordance with the depression of a broken heart, than a plan for a foreign tour. The sense of usefulness is a tonic; amusement is but an opiate. The reason why so many mothers, left widows in youth, are able to rouse themselves from the blow which it might have seemed would overpower them, is that they have something still to do, an object still to live for, and with this there can be no overwhelming desolation. The temptation is, "to sleep for sorrow," but they are compelled to rise; and in their loneliness and dreariness of heart they cannot but pray. And the remedy which is effectual with them will be found efficacious more or less with others.

Still more is there need to "rise and pray," when trial is drawing near and we are looking forward to it.

With trial temptation is inseparably joined. And it is coming to us in an unknown shape. Observation teaches us that no one set of human events is ever presented to us a second time in the same form; and therefore no experience of difficulties which are past will prepare us perfectly for those that are to come. And as we know not our foe, so neither do we know the weapons upon which we must seize to defend ourselves. All must be in readiness, or that which we most need will be wanting in the hour of danger.

"Rise and pray." It may safely be our motto in all trial. And if we could feel that every temptation to which, in our sorrow, we yield, betrays the soul for which Christ died into the hands of Satan, His enemy, we might hope that it could never be forgotten.

127

THE KISS OF BETRAYAL.*

ST. LUKE, xxii. 47, 48.

"And while He yet spake, behold a multitude, and he that was called Judas, one of the twelve, went before them, and drew near unto Jesus to kiss Him. But Jesus said unto him, Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss?"

THAT seems the worst kind of betrayal, yet probably it is in some degree the most common, not indeed consciously, but still actually. Few of us are guilty and hardened enough openly to turn against our Lord, yet who is there that is not tempted more or less at times to betray Him, under the pretence of doing him honour ?

Such conduct is especially the danger of an age which, like the present, may be described as religious. To talk of persecution now is almost a mockery. Religion is universally respected. The peculiar form under which it may exhibit itself may be obnoxious to certain persons, but it is not religion itself which is the cause of offence; all parties agree in professing to hold that in high estimation. Rank and talent and wealth are enlisted on its side, and the world, true to its principles, bows the knee before it with a willing heart, giving its