especially now before us. There were thirteen at table at the Last Supper; and Judas rose first, and certainly died, and died a horrible death, within the year. But why, unless a guest had the mind and heart of Judas-why the Righteous Judge should visit what is often a matter of mere accidental detention of one member upon a dinner party of thirteen-seems to me a question to which any honest heart would give simply an indignant answer. The least sin-ay, even the idle word of careless conversation-we can understand the God who charges even His angels with folly taking strict account of this. But that He should govern His decrees by the number at a dinner party—well, the thing won't bear thinking of or calmly talking about.

People, I find, generally look at this matter in a foolish, flighty way. They have, of course, no argument to bring, neither will they listen to any. No, "they won't do it," and there is an end of the matter. They will not entertain it seriously, in its really grave aspect, far less follow it out to the logical result. They may confess their prejudice, but they will not surrender it.

Well, it seems like a park of artillery set up against a child's toy, to write so seriously concerning so weak and vain a phantom. Yet there is the folly, or worse; and say what you will, and argue as you may, this folly, like many another, obdurately stands its ground. For this is only one out of many such superstitions. I cannot understand an earnest, thinking, religious mind persisting in such a degrading idea of our Father which is in heaven, at least after serious thought has once been set face to face with the notion. But my experience is, that it is hard, if not almost impossible, to argue people out of their superstitions. They have no reason to give; still they hold fast by their no-reason. They can't help it, they say; there the feeling is. But is it right, or is it wrong? Is it, in fact, a sin thus to deem of God's Providence? And, if so, God puts a "must" against your "can't."

In fine, all superstition, all belief in luck, in lucky or unlucky signs or acts, is simply and purely a sin-an insult to the God of Providence to the Father of His children who wait on Him. No one, I should say, upon his knees, could seriously represent such apprehensions and fears to the Almighty. Try asking God not to kill you for dining thirteen at table, not to spite you for being married in May, and see whether such folly would abide the solemn truth and reality of that searching Presence. And that danger which you would be ashamed to take to God, dare not to talk of, partly idly, partly in foolish earnest, to your fellow-men. To dishonour is also to anger the Great Being.

I happened to light upon one of Béranger's poems, headed, "Treize à Table," in a little pocket volume which I bought in Paris lately. A quaint and beautiful idea ran through the lyric. One of the guests at a feast starts terrified at the discovery that they are thirteen at table! To her, Death dreadful Death, suddenly appears not a thing of ghastly horror, but as an angel or a goddess, crowned with flowers, haloed by a rainbow, showing a broken chain, bearing an infant asleep on her bosom. The fear of death passes from the mind at her aspect and at her address. "Should you fear me," she asks, "the Daughter of Heaven, having Hope for sister? Tell me, Shall the slave complain of the deliverer who strikes off the fetters of the oppressor? Fallen Angel! I do but restore to you your wings, of which here a sad lot has robbed you!"

"At my coming," she continued, "I shall set your spirit free to wing her way from isle to isle amid the mighty ocean of space, those star-worlds which God has sown in His infinity."

And so the troubled heart was content; because death need not be a terror to the life spent near to God, and safe in Christ. The barque committed to the inevitable flood will, if God be our Pilot, lead us safe to port. And "if it be God who counts us,"

1

we need fear no malevolence or caprice, nor think that, except for ill-doing, death itself need be a fear.

"Si Dieu nous compte, ah, restons treize à table;
Non, mes amis, je ne crains plus la Mort!"

"B"

UT, papa, you must make allowances for wear and tear," said Sybilla, Mr. Venn's young housekeeping daughter, who spoke with impatient displeasure as her father pointed to a china plate on the table.

"For wear, my dear, yes; for tear, no!" replied the old gentleman, with decision.

"But, papa, what is the difference? I always consider them as one thing," said the young housekeeper.

"You look on them as one thing, my dear, because you don't consider. Wear and tear' are not man and wife,' as you seem to think; and it would be a good thing if they were not so united in many minds as they are in yours."

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'Well, papa, please tell me the difference," said Sybilla, colouring with displeasure.

"Illustration, my love, nothing like illustration ;" and he took up the china plate. "Here," he said, pointing to the faded gilding round the edges, and the little hair-like cracks which spread like network over its varnished surface-" here is wear; and here is tear," pointing to a chip off one side and a decided crack running from it across the centre.

"Yes, papa, that was an accident; they will happen sometimes, of course."

"They will, child; I admit it; but be frank, and tell me if you don't think in many cases they might be avoided?"

Yes, Sybilla was bound to confess that if more care and thought were used, accidents would wonderfully diminish.

"Then you see, Sybbie, that, although wear is inevitable, tear is not."

"Wear, papa, is surely not inevitable, for if things were not used they would remain perfect,” replied Sybilla, anxious to have a little of her own way in the argument.

"My dear, time has a tooth that will fret the strongest stuff; all that is temporal has its inwritten sentence, 'Decay.”

"Then, papa, if-"

"If all must decay, why distinguish between wear and tear?' you mean to ask. Because, my love, for wear we are not answerable; for tear we are," said Mr. Venn, adding, "therefore, although I must, as you say, make allowances for wear, I am not bound to do so for tear. You understand?"

Sybilla did understand, and through the day she continually came upon illustrations of her father's morning lesson.

There were two brothers in the village, who were as different in character as they were alike in name. John was honest, sober, and industrious, but he suffered from asthma, which often hindered him from working. Wat was a drunkard, younger than John by seven years, but older in constitution. His legs trembled, his hands shook, his back was bent, and his face wore a vacant, hopeless expression. In fact, he was quite a wreck. A few serious words would make him cry like a child, but they left no impression on him.

Sybilla was in the pantry when the cook came to her, saying Wattie Bents was at the door; he'd come to ask for some soup. "Good morning, Wattie; so you want some soup? Are the times bad with you? or are you ill?”

"I'm partly ill, miss, and times isn't, as you may say, good," said Wattie, not looking up, for he was always ashamed to show his face.

"Wattie, I'm sorry to hear such a poor account; the truth is, you are out of work because you are ill, and you are ill—you know why!" Sybilla spoke very kindly; she pitied poor Wattie, whom she had known from a child, and whose harmless, civil manners, and altogether easy-going ways, made him a favourite, in spite of his well-known terrible habit of drinking.

He looked very sorrowful, and his eyes filled with tears as he said, "You see, miss, there's more wear and tear for poor folks than gentlefolks, and if I catches a bit of a cold, it sticks to me like hedge fuzzes, and I'm so plagued with my cough I can do nought."

"Wear and tear," thought Sybilla, who answered, with a little pomposity, "Ay, Wattie, you talk of wear and tear, but let me tell you they are not the same things; you are tearing' up your constitution, and you are really very, very sadly wrong to

do it."

Wattie, never very brilliant, could not, in his present confusion, follow this flight of rhetoric; he only understood that Miss Sybbie was angry with him; so he meekly answered, drawing his greasy cuff across his eyes, 'Please, miss, it's for John, as is badly, as I've come for soup, and he've had a plenty of wear and tear, too, an' all,"

"No, no, Wattie; poor John has had no tear, he has had nothing but wear; he has not wilfully made himself ill. Do you understand the difference now between you and him?"

"Yes, miss," said Wattie, willing to confess to anything, so that he might escape, and giving his whole attention to steadying the can while cook poured the soup into it.

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"Ah, he'll never improve! he's something like my old master