THERE are few subjects of greater practical importance than that considered in these pages, viz., Conformity to the World. It is one that penetrates into the daily life of families, and leads to questions of the most delicate character between those who are bound together by the most intimate relationships of life. It is moreover a subject pre-eminently suited to our times, for I venture to say there are few amongst us who have not reason to deplore a sad tendency to worldly conformity amongst those in whom we take a deep interest. Many of the young people of our day seem prepared to sweep away all barriers, and to lose sight of all distinctions; while others, who, we really hope, are Christian people, who take an interest in Christian objects, and assist us generally in our parochial work, seem to have forgotten the landmarks drawn out by our fathers, and, I fear, have become in consequence weakened in their faith, and paralysed in their Christian peace. They have become very much like Ephraim as described in Hos. vii. 8, 9: ‘Ephraim, he hath mixed himself among the people; Ephraim is a cake not turned. Strangers have devoured his strength, and he knoweth it not; yea, gray hairs are here and there upon him, yet he knoweth not.’ Thus in such characters there is a warm side, and we acknowledge it with thankfulness; but there is a cold side likewise, and we deeply deplore it. The cake has not been turned, and the result is a thorough inconsistency of character. There is sufficient religious interest to blind the eye to the discovery of decay; but, though they know it not, the decay is begun, and there are grey hairs stealing upon them, the outward signs of inward weakness; for they have mixed with the people, and strangers are devouring their strength. But we need not suppose that this is a new difficulty, or that the temptation is now for the first time appearing in the Church. It was the same in Cowper’s day, as we may gather from his poem:— ‘Renounce the world, the preacher cries. We do—a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards; And one, whatever you may say, Can see no evil in a play. Some love a concert, or a race; And others shooting, or the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and followed! Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallowed. Each thinks his neighbour makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he.’