of sense.

Love for Christ has expelled the love of sin, and the indwelling presence of the Holy Ghost is his tower of strength.

Christian reader, are you spiritually minded? Do you comprehend the workings of the spiritual life? Is Christ in you as a well of water? Do you worship God with a spiritual worship? If so, sacredly guard the

growth of the spiritual principle within you. Beware of the early symptoms of declining vigour in your spiritual affections, and check the feeblest tendencies toward the low and sensual. Thus will your life be hid with Christ in God, and your end eternal life.

But if not,-if the carnal is strong and the spiritual weak,-rouse yourself to honest endeavour after the true life. Your first duty is to humble yourself before God; your second, to ask faith for pardon and for power. Then, in steadfast looking to Christ, and patient waiting for divine manifestations, go forward from grace to grace, until, in the pure depths of your renovated soul, you mirror the life and peace which is the sequence of a spiritually-minded state.

"Fare-ye-well, dreams of night,
Jesus is mine!

Mine is a dawning bright,
Jesus is mine!

All that my soul has tried
Left but a dismal void
Jesus has satisfied-
Jesus is mine!"

HIS SERVANTS SHALL SERVE HIM.

We seek that land whose light, e'en now,

Though dimm'd and far, is all our gladness; Whose hope, in storms, is God's own brow; Whose peace, the rest from care and woe; Whose love, our joy in sadness.

There day and night Thy happy saints,
In ceaseless work, find rest unending;
Where in Thy strength theirs never faints.
Where tears are dried, and hush'd complaints,
All in one worship bending.

The service here we strive to pay,

By weakness marr'd, by darkness clouded; Strong in Thy strength, bright with Thy day, We there shall offer perfectly,

In light and love unshrouded.

Our hearts, whose love has taught them this,
Their wants to feel, their own unmeetness,
Shall learn, in that ne'er-ending bliss,
To rise towards Thine own perfectness,
Thine infinite completeness.

The songs, here drowned in the moan
Of earth's unrest, which ceaseth never,
Shall rise in strains of joy unknown,
To Him who sitteth on the throne,
And to the Lamb, for ever.

And for our feet, to earth which cling,
Feeble and slow, too oft unwilling,
Thou there shalt give an angel's wing
To serve, as angels do, our King,
Thy high behests fulfilling.

So let us strive, with earnest soul,

Thy work to do, though small the measure, Knowing it part of one great whole,

All tending to our highest goal,

Thy perfect will and pleasure.

L. R.

CHAPTER XI.

The Ideal of a Christian Mind a Sublime Reality.

"Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." 66 Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven."

IFE is thought," says Coleridge.
And with truth, for no man lives

in the facts of the present moment, but in an ideal future. The heaven of man is not here, in the present, but THERE— somewhere in that ideal world painted in his thoughts with pencils dipped in the brilliant hues of the rainbow.

sings,

Hence, as another poet

"Man never is, but always to be blest."

This is true, to some extent, both of worldlings and of Christians. True, the spiritual

mind does live more in the present than is possible to a sensuous one; but there is so much of trial, temptation, and toil mixed with its joys, that it sighs for its future, and derives much of its pleasure from those visions of unmolested repose in heaven which are inspired by the voices of hope. Its chosen treasures are there, and it sighs to gain access to them. It has therefore its ideal world, as well as the unbelieving one.

But here the parallel ceases. Henceforth its lines diverge in opposite directions. There is no comparison to be drawn between the two ideals of these two classes of minds. They are contrasts in the most absolute sense.

What is the ideal of a worldly mind? It is a fiction, a spectre, an impalpable nothing. It is like the image which is reflected by the woodman's form on the mountain mist, so beautifully described by Coleridge

"As when

The woodman, winding westward up the glen
At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glistening naze,
Sees full before him, gliding without tread,

An image with a glory round its head;
The enamour'd rustic worships its fair hues,
Nor knows he makes the glory he pursues."

The ideal future of the unchristian mind is