" Light is pleasant to the eye;" and what I find is that the smallest trace of that which is pleasant-the mere remnant of beauty-engages it. But this trace-this shred of the beautiful-has a very strange effect On us: it awakens us to an existence here-to a set of hopes here. We are like birds aroused at night from their nests by the blazing flambeau. Alas for the birds who see not the captor's hand holding the dazzling, attractive, but deadly torch! They are delighted with the light, and rush into it; but it is a mere net for their destruction.
How readily we are attracted by any flash that crosses our path! -But the way to be proof against these delusions is to walk in the light. "'In thy light we shall see light." In these flashes we do not see, but we are seen by our enemies. We are dazzled, but not enlightened. It is a deception-an ignis fatuus which bewitches.
We know little of ourselves if we do not see that we are in danger to be a prey to these flashes. How often has the heart, like a bird, returned to its roost, prepared to remain and rest through a livelong stormy night. The wind howled, the rain pattered, but on its roost the lonely bird quietly and fearlessly braved all, until, when the darkness was-deepest, and there was a lull in the storm, the enemy came with his torch. The bird is attracted-seized. And the one who could have quietly sat out the force of the storm which shook the earth, sinks into the hand bearing a false light.
J. B. S.