stand in the congregation of the Lord. Much of that primitive ignorance and superstition, and feeling of proprietaryship in religion is still with us. But, as we are reaching the conclusion that religion is summed up in "God is a Spirit, and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth," we are in duty bound to conform to spirit and to truth.

We still hear the complaint that men do not go to church. If they do not, it is because unnatural methods have made them think that the church is a sanctuary for moral debtors, weaklings, and hypocrites. The church is still talking the same old things, and men are thinking about entirely different things. The men I speak of now are the strong men of the earth, men of character, force, and energy. Here and everywhere you will hear them say, "I worship space," "I worship force," "I worship nature," etc. To me this betokens something wrong. They say, "My religion is honesty, to do as you would be done by." We believe there is something more in religion than the passive acceptance of such a belief; that it is a great, divine, restless force, calling men up to higher fields of duty and helpfulness. And, to get men to see this, we must be natural and keep close to the springs of love and duty.

In the first place, what I mean by naturalness is a separation of the idea of God and his republic from materialistic ideas, conceptions, traditions, and forms, from the element of mournfulness from the habit of attributing material good and ill to his direct interposition, and feeling oppressed at his goodness in permitting sinful men to live. There is nothing manly or vigorous in such beliefs. In what way can they help us? How can they assist us in our working life? Our religion should be such that we can make it part of ourselves, that we can feel that our work is as much the gift of God as the sunlight and the rain. Let religion pray in secret, behind closed doors, and then let it go out into the open fields, down into the alleys and tenements, until men shall know that it is not for us a thing apart.

It is sometimes charged that liberal religion makes men spiritually indolent and in different. If this be true, it is because such men have not understood its meaning, and

have taken its liberty to be license. It is not natural to go through life with a sublime indifference to its lights and shadows, to its deep experiences. In our times of distress, when we pray, "How long, O Lord, how long?" we sometimes envy others their calmness and insensibility. But the only truly natural life is the sensitive one,-not sensitive, perhaps, to outward seeming, but inwardly awake and quivering to the calls of humanity. Liberal religion, rightly understood, offers no one a path of roses. It demands a sincere altruistic life. It is in the roar and rumble of busy streets, in the drudgery and monotony of homes, in the countless social associations which bring us together, that the divine character in us finds its highest utterance; and here, too, comes the "peace of God which passeth all understanding." Let us not think that this peace is one of folded hands and spiritual rest, when we can say, "It is finished." I think Christ had this in mind when he said: "Think not I am come to send peace among you. I come not to send peace, but a sword." The "peace of God" is found only on a battlefield. It is no easy thing to be natural: it is a condition of toil of brain, heart, and haud.

This is a wonderful age of ours. We can hardly look in any direction without seeing momentous things. And one of them is that we are all moving and thinking on ethical lines, and whether or not we recognize or feel the agency of the church does not seem to concern us. Thousands find satisfaction of their religious aspirations in the great fraternal societies which are doing Christian work, though not in the Christian name. Others find it in lines of educational and philanthropic and legislative effort. Others find it in a higher sense of civic responsibility, in a loftier conception of patriotism than party fealty. And we cannot but see that, as the result of the great outstretching of commerce between nations and the spreading of mutual ideas and the birth of mutual respect and tolerance, there are in all countries a growing number of men who say: "This, my country, bore and nourished me my fathers sleep in her bosom. I rejoice in her splendid citizenship, her stirring memories, her wealth of brawn and brain. And yet-and yet-the world is also my country!" This is the power that makes for

arbitration; and, whether its principle is incorporated in treaty or not, these men-men of brain and conscience-stand up before God and men, and say, "Be just, and fear not!" The old idea that a nation, like a corporation, has no soul, is passing away; and we are finding-partly from sad experience that there is a national conscience, a national honor, a national character, and that nations, as men, are weighed in the balance, and that for them it is true, as it is of us, "I have not yet seen the righteous man forsaken, nor his seed begging for bread."

Now in all this I see religion. But I do not see the Church. In all these progressive movements, where shall it be? Away off in some corner, mumbling over rites and rituals, lamenting the sin of the world? The Church cannot now go to men, and tell them that they will be excommunicated on earth or condemned to eternal torment. Men know that there is a divinity that shapes their ends. They know, many of them, that they and their works are not a reproach. They laugh at shams and humbugs. They listen to sensational preachers as they listen to the drama, with tickled or edified imagination and unmoved soul. They know the value of their work. We want now to bring them to see that the Church can give them larger opportunities for manly effort. It has seemed to me for years that in its natural and free thought and methods liberal religion holds the key to the future. And if in the years to come there shall approach to it those who shall seek to lock up its truth in form or creed, philosophic cult, or intellectual or emotional fad, may it say to them as Nehemiah said to his enemies, when he was rebuilding the great wall of Jerusalem, and his enemies sought to beguile him from his task: "Why should I come down to you? I have a great work here to do. Why should the work cease whilst I leave it and come down to you?"

If I have on any subject a conviction, it is that society, with all its wrongs and vexatious problems, can only be regenerated by an infusion into it of the fundamental principles of Christianity. Society is governed by laws analogous to the laws governing human beings, its constituent parts, and with society, as with us, bringing impurities

into the system causes disease and stagnation. The cure for social ills is in pure and natural remedies. You and I know well enough that vast numbers of strong men who make the earth's waste places glad, who control its commerce and politics, look upon religion as a thing for dreamers, weaklings, and sentimentalists.

Let religion be natural. If so, it will enter the office and counting-house with the principles of equity. It will infuse new life into legislation, and something better than fear or gain into the establishment of international law. It will purify the State; it will direct and control the omnipresent aspirations of men for holier ideals and life and work; it will make more coherent and rational our social relations; it will furnish a natural basis on which government and governed, society and its classes, can live and let live. The Church which remains within its four walls, ransacking the dry bones of theology, will be termed "blind leaders of the blind." But the Church which truly understands and identifies itself with the spirit of the age will raise religion up from the dust of the earth, breathe into it the breath of life, and it will become as a living soul.

THE ROMANCE OF AN ISLAND.

There has always been a minority of serious-minded politicians-of whom the late Lord Derby was supposed to be the type and exemplar-ready to maintain, despite the sneers of an incredulous world, that blue books are the most interesting form of reading, however scant their claim to be regarded as literature may be. If every blue book were as interesting as that officially headed "Straits Settlements," and described as "Papers relating to the CocosKeeling and Christmas Islands" (to be purchased from her Majesty's printers for the modest sum of one shilling), it may safely be prophesied that the blue book would run the novel hard in the race for the circulating library stakes. The story of the colonization of the Cocos-Keeling Island, or group of coral islands in the Indian Ocean, is not, of course, entirely new to students of the literature of travel in eastern seas; but never before have we had such a graphic picture of one of the most fascinat

ing of island communities as is contained in the series of reports which the Colonial Office has now presented to Parliament. The Cocos were first attached to the Straits Settlements Administration by letters patent granted to the governor in 1886; and each year since that date, with a single exception, an official visit of inspection has been paid to the islands from Singapore. It is the reports of these visits, and one from E. W. Birch on a visit to the islands in 1885, which make up the bulk of these papers; and, as the duty of inspecting the islands was never twice intrusted to the same officer, we have, as it were, in the different reports a small gallery of impressionist pictures by various hands of the most remote of British possessions.

The history of the Cocos group goes back to the early days of the present century, when a couple of adventurers, Hare and Ross by name, almost simultaneously effected a settlement on the hitherto uninhabited islands. It turned out that it was Hare who had to go to the wall; and since 1827, when the original Ross first settled on the group, a Ross has ruled the Cocos. The first two Rosses, the grandfather and father of the present proprietor, ruled the islands, as their Highland ancestors had held their lands, by no "sheepskin title"; and it was not until 1886 that the British government, having formally annexed the group, made a grant to George Clunies Ross of that which was already his own. There had been a formal annexation of the group in 1857 by a British man-of-war; but until eleven years ago the Ross dynasty was practically unfettered by any outside interference, and it is to the credit of the Colonial Office and British common sense that even now the Ross family is left practically with a free hand to govern the islands by the traditional methods sanctioned by past experi

ence.

The Cocos Islands, some twenty in number, are situated in the Indian Ocean, to the south-west of the Dutch Island of Java, far removed from the ordinary trade routes. They form a roughly broken circle, with a shallow lagoon in the centre, protected by an outer barrier of reefs. The population at the present time numbers about six hundred, of whom the greater portion are native-born Cocos people, and the minority

Malays, from Batavia. The Ross family are the only Europeans inhabiting the group; and, though all the male members of the third generation were educated in Scotland, and are described as well educated, quick, and intelligent, they have almost all contracted native marriages, and thrown in their lot with the people among whom they live. Their sons and daughters, with few exceptions, neither speak nor understand English; and George Clunies Ross, the head of the family, and a man of remarkable force of character, was at one time eighteen years without hearing English spoken, and confesses to being a little rusty in its use.

The system of government is sufficiently remarkable. There are no written laws, and Mr. Ross has successfully resisted the suggestion that the penal code of the Straits Settlements should be introduced into the islands. There is no police force and no crime. Mr. Ross owns the whole of the land, and is the sole employer of labor. The currency is a parchment currency, convertible at a fixed rate into rupees or dollars when an islander makes a rare visit to Batavia or Singapore or when a Bantamese coolie leaves the island to return home. The natives, who are Malays by race, profess Mohammedanism; but there is the utmost freedom in religious matters, and the influence in the Ross family, exercised through three-quarters of a century, free from disturbing elements, has effected many striking changes in the habits and customs of the people. One after another the officials from the mainland confess that they find it difficult to institute a comparison between the Cocos-born Malays and the Malays with whom they have previously been brought into contact. The Cocos islanders live in neat houses, comfortably furnished on the European model, and kept scrupulously clean. They have adopted the institution of a weekly washing day, and sit at table to eat their food with the aid of knives and forks.

But it is not only in externals that European influence is clearly discernible. "The marriage laws," Hugh Clifford states in the 1894 report, "which to most Malays represents the Alpha and Omega of Mohammedan law, have been entirely superseded by the English marriage customs. Polygamy is un

known on the island, at any rate among the Cocos-born Malays; and public opinion on the subject is sufficiently strong to induce any Bantamese who has more than one wife to dispense with this superfluity." The sole export of the island is copra, which is sent once a year, in a vessel chartered for the purpose by Mr. Ross, to England for sale. From England, too, supplies for the islands are obtained, although formerly everything was bought in Batavia, with which port communication is kept up by a small schooner belonging to Mr. Ross. Of the people subjected to this paternal and benevolent despotism, and cut off from all contact with the outer world, the universal testimony of the reports is that they are contented and happy. They make no complaints, and look upon Mr. Ross as their benefactor and friend. It is surely a curious fate that has brought this sturdy and capable Scotch family into a remote corner of the Indian Ocean, and has enabled three generations of Europeans to influence and mould the character and habits of an alien and inferior race, free from the intrusion of conflicting forces.-Saturday Review.

THE SELFISHNESS OF ILL-HEALTH. "Unselfishness is a game that two ought, mark you, I don't say can, but ought,—that two ought to play at."

The remark was called forth by a case my friend and I were discussing. It was that of a young man who for several years had been in ill-health. An acute disease had left him an invalid, not altogether hopeless or incurable, but still confined to his room, and with no immediate prospect of being able to leave it. Though it was a sad case, for his hopes of a useful life were blighted, it was not without its alleviations. Two sisters devoted themselves to him. They gave up all the pleasures of society for his sake. They lived only to anticipate his wishes. Morning, noon, and night saw them devising schemes for his amusement or laboring to add to his comfort. No sacrifice was too great for them to make. And the result, instead of being beneficial, was, as far as he was concerned, the reverse; for, from being a meek, patient sufferer, he was transformed into an unconscious tyrant.

"Poor Frank fancies the light hurts his eyes," said one sister, as she drew down the blinds, and prepared to sit in semi-darkness. "The click of knitting-needles irritates Frank's nerves," said the other, as she laid her work aside. "Frank feels that everything bright and cheerful is mocking him," they chimed in concert; "and therefore we deny ourselves for his sake. Selfdenial is a duty, you know."

It was this that called forth my friend's remark. Frank did not dream he was selfish. He never realized that any self-sacrifice was required of him: he received his sisters' attentions as his right, and plumed himself on being a martyr. It was his part to receive, theirs to give; and the result was that his misery and despondency, not to speak of his demands, increased day by day.

It is no unusual case. There is more of this unconscious selfishness in the world than appears at the first glance, and more of it, perhaps, in our own hearts than we think.

How many of us who are familiar with pain and weakness and languor can say truly that we have never exacted more attention from our friends than we need have done; that we have been always patient and considerate, willing to see and thankful to receive every little kind deed bestowed on us? I fear there are few. We are apt to take all as our right, as the proper tribute paid to our weakness and ill-health. We seldom try to realize how much others may be denying themselves for our sakes, nor at what a cost their services are sometimes rendered. We become like spoiled children, the more we get, the more we demand, and our wants, instead of diminishing, multiply day by day.

And, then, how many of us have a conscience void of offence in the matter of peevishness and irritability? What a deal of extra trouble do we unhesitatingly give in this matter! We are not quite so well to-day as yesterday, and therefore every one must feel the effects of it. suffer and no one know it. are we to grumble at trifles! or closing of a door, the rustle of a paper, the fall of a cinder on the hearth, the condition of the fire, the placing of a chair, each is made a source of trouble to ourselves and of worry to our friends.

We must not And how apt The opening

Have you ever observed how much more patient the sick are in a hospital than they are at home, how submissive they become, how grateful they are for all that is done for them? At home they question and find fault and tyrannize over their friends; but they never do so with strangers. Peevishness seems to vanish when they leave the family circle: they grow quiescent and contented. Why should this be? Why should we treat those near and dear to us with less consideration than we do strangers? Why should we lay on them burdens which we would never ask outsiders to bear and demand sacrifices which are as unnecessary as they are selfish?

"I never sing now because my sister doesn't like it," said a sweet little maid: "she's so sensitive, you know, and has had so much sorrow, that I feel it would be cruel to do anything she doesn't like, so I've given up singing."

Very right and kind of the little maid, but not so right of the sister who accepted the sacrifice.

There are sacrifices which we have no right to accept, even when they are offered voluntarily. "Oh that one would give me drink of the water of the well at Bethlehem, that is at the gate." Yet, when the brave men burst through the hosts of the Philistines, and brought back the water, David would not drink it. Why? Because it had cost too much. They had risked their lives to get it. "Shall I drink the blood of these men who have put their lives in jeopardy?"

I think there is a lesson for an invalid in this. Some things that are offered to you cost too much. If they are the price of another's health or another's happiness or another's usefulness, they cost too much. Refuse to accept them: rather bear your burden alone. And does it ever strike you how much you may be the poorer by accept ing these sacrifices? You may get what you long for, it is true; but even in the getting of it you will find it has lost its sweetness. One of a family who was deaf said, "Don't speak so much to each other: it irritates me to know you are speaking when I cannot hear what you say." And so, out of sympathy with the afflicted one, lips were closed and smiles checked, and silence reigned. She got her wish, but the shadow

that rested on the family circle was more depressing to her than the sight of gayety which she could not join. Better to witness joy that you cannot take part in than to see no joy at all.

Oh, the shadows that even the best and the brightest and the most hopeful among us cast, shadows often thrown unconsciously,-the shadow caused by a look, a frown, a petulant tone! We don't mean it, perhaps; but the result is the same as if we did the cheerful are depressed by it, the hopeful cast down. Instead of gladness in our dwelling there is gloom. And what can be said of those miserable people who would banish every pleasure which they cannot enjoy, and fain lay the burden of their own pain and weakness on every one beside them? They have their reward; the burden comes back doubly weighted to their own shoulders, and stays there.

What a blessing it would be, not only to the weak, the suffering, the invalid, but to the whole of the little world in which they are placed, if they would but take to heart some such counsel as this!

Do not foster and pet and magnify your complaints: they will only take deeper root by such treatment. And do not let your self-sacrificing friends make too much of you. Take your own proper part in the game of unselfishness, try to find out by experience the blessedness of consideration for others, and instead of always receiving benefits try to give.

What can you give, you will say, as you hold up your thin, nerveless fingers,-what can you do for any one? Give love instead of always claiming it, give joy instead of trying to take it away, keep back the murmur that will cause pain to your friends, cultivate a gentle, resigned, patient spirit, fill your sick-chamber with the light that comes from inward peace. "He who imparts light to another," as Dr. Trench says, "has not less light, but walks henceforth in the light of two torches instead of one." And it is the same with happiness: strive to make those beside you happy, and you will find how greatly your own happiness is increased.-A. K. Forbes, in the Sunday Magazine.

We live no more of our time than we spend well.-Carlyle.