the robber, not the fanatic, not the blasphemer, who sealed the destruction that they had wrought; the war, the wrath, the terror, might have worked their worst and the strong walls would have risen again. But they could not rise out of their own violated truth."

The same trail of desolation wrought by deception did he see everywhere. Lying lead in the drainage, had he seen as the demon of fever and death, and lying links in the anchors' cable as the stormy petrol of shipwreck. He might have seen a thousand perish in the flames of a General Slocum or be swallowed up by the merciless waves at the destruction of a Valencia because some penurious steamship company had put rotten cork in life preservers.

We do not wonder that he branded with infamy lies of both high and low degree, "the patriotic lie of the historian, the provident lie of the politician, the zealous lie of the partisan, the merciful lie of the friend, and the careless lie of each man to himself." If untruth is deadly to things made by hands much more is it destruction to that house of the soul not made by hands that standeth eternal in the heavens. Therefore, telling of that new Jerusalem, the City of God, the seer in the book of Revelation said, "There shall enter into it no sorcerer, no murderer nor whatsoever maketh a lie."

He who would escape unconscious deterioration must tear aside the mask. He must not fool him

self. He must hate untruth in all forms whatsoFoil unconscious deterioration by the power of purpose. We are proud to possess the power of self-determination and vehemently vindicate the fact of free-will. Yet, rarely do we really exercise the sovereign power of will. What passes for will is a chaotic lot of indecisions. We are content to feel dimly, see faintly, decide weakly, and life becomes a series of ineffectual struggles in which it is often hard to distinguish success from failure.

"I have half a mind to do it." Where are the great pictures this has painted, or the books it has written, or the duties it has performed?

Purpose, the fullest development and noblest attainment. Fight on until the day is done. Even Samson, blind and grinding in the prison-house dared to dream of a better day and he prayed and said, "O Lord God, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me '-and he took hold of the two middle pillars upon which the house stood and he bowed himself with all his might and the house fell upon the Lords of the Philistines and upon all the people."

Fight unconscious deterioration by meeting temptation triumphantly. There was One who conquered. He came into the wilderness. Unconscious deterioration attacked Him by the wiles of every fancy that could appeal to the strong man grown weary. He faced every temptation unrelentingly and instantly.

Profiting by His triumph and with His power,

it is possible to throttle unconscious deterioration. To the temptation of using powers and opportunities for ends that disregard God's righteousness, be not slow to say, "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord Thy God."

To the temptation of success at the price of moral rectitude "It is written Thou shalt worship the Lord Thy God, and Him only shalt Thou serve.' "

"The Son of God goes forth to war

A Kingly crown to gain.

His blood-red banner streams afar,
Who follows in His train?"

VIII

THE MASTERY OF THE BOOK

"The ears of all the people were attentive unto the reading of the words of the book."-NEHEMIAH 8:3.

P

LEADING guilty to increasing the agony of

a world already surfeited with books, Robert Burton, the Oxford sage, in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," recalls the complaint first uttered by the Wise Man of long ago: "Of the writing of many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness to the flesh." ""Tis most true," slyly comments the quaint Burton. "In this scribbling age, especially, wherein the number of books is without number (as a worthy man saith), presses be oppressed,' and out of an itching humour that every man hath to show himself desirous of fame and honour, he will write no matter what and scrape together it boots not whence."

But what would the Wise Man, who was King in Jerusalem three thousand years ago, and the Other Wise Man, who was King of English literati three hundred years ago, say, if they could see the formidable announcement of ten thousand new books in this country alone each year and listen to the rumbling of the printing presses multiplying

these into ten million copies! And what do we say of such formidable literary output?

We rejoice in the great variety of books that are at our command. Our library is our chief joy. Rich argosies of the poetic and prose treasuries of the past, there lie at anchor awaiting our command. New gems of truth just discovered by some diligent brain-toiler of today are constantly taking their place for enlightenment. Poet and essayist, philosopher and scientist, biographer and humourist, bid us share their wealth without money and without price.

As happy-hearted vacationists we still love to take with us the bright-winged messengers of the books. By the cool ocean or in the depths of mountain retreat we delight to follow Stevenson's "Travels with a Donkey," or to voyage with him and his companion in the "Cigaret and the Arethuse"; or with Stewart Edward White to feel the mystery of "The Silent Places" or the compelling power of the "Blazed Trail"; or with Locke taste the romantic life of "The Beloved Vagabond.'

Yes, we rejoice in the wealth of our limitless sea of books. But sometimes the very lavishness of our supply becomes bewildering and the very embarrassment of riches compels a selection and choosing of the most desirable.

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An idle summer's day may give a little excuse for McCutcheon's Brewster's Millions" or Hand-made Gentleman." But doesn't the universal comment "Of course, it's absolutely improb

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