Yet more signally was the worthlessness of the idol to be proved in the sight of his priests. When they arose early on the morrow, behold, Dagon was fallen on his face to the ground before the Ark of the Lord; and the head of Dagon and both the palms of his hands were cut off upon the threshold; only the stump (or fishy part) of Dagon was left. Here was evidence calculated to convince even the most superstitious of the folly of idolatry. The head—the supposed seat of knowledge and wisdom—was wanting; the hands—the emblems of power—were broken off. Dagon had evidently no means of helping either himself or his worshippers. Might we not have expected that conviction of the absurdity of adoring such an image would have flashed across the minds of the priests and people of Ashdod; that the temple would have rung with the shout, "The Lord, He is God! the Lord, He is God!" Nay; the idol was broken indeed, but the stump remained to be venerated still! The very threshold on which it had lain prostrate was for its sake treated with respect. The miserable relic of superstition was still spoken of as "Dagon our god!" Such infatuation might well surprise us, did we not so frequently see its counterpart now. The human heart still sets up its idol; the young, full of hope and joy like the Philistines after their victory, pay homage to the world, and expect from it those pleasures and delights which it is ever promising to bestow. Dagon has a lofty shrine, and many bow down before it. Then comes some providential dispensation of sorrow, that opens the eyes to the fact that the world and the things of the world have no power to secure our peace. Have we not known such a moment, when Dagon is seen prostrate on earth, and we feel that he is indeed but an idol? Happy for us if the knowledge make us turn to One who is over all, God exalted for ever! But it is not always that sorrow and disappointment wean the soul from the world. We too often find Dagon set up again on his shrine, and as ardently worshipped as ever. Yes, even the gray-headed, the weary-hearted, who from repeated trials know the hollowness of the world and its sinful pleasures—who have, as it were, but the stump of the idol left—too often, even to the last, fondly worship that stump! The dreary lament may be heard,— "My days are in the yellow leaf— The flower, the fruit of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Remain alone!" * Without one sigh of true penitence, one upward look towards Him who can give rest to the heavy-laden. * Byron. Our last subject of thought was sanctified sorrow, that sorrow which must be succeeded by joy as— "Morning is ever the daughter of Night;" † but it is well to remember that there is also a "sorrow of the world," that "worketh death." If God throw down our idols, it is not that we should raise them again and adore them all broken and mutilated as they may be. † Tupper.