bright ones--may, by the blessing and grace of God, be a truly happy year after all.

Passing away from these congratulations, which seem peculiar to the season, it may be well for us seriously to ponder the character and issues of that life so many years of which have already taken their departure.

If we look upon the spectacle presented by human life in this world, it is evident that every life, whatever may be the amount of its significance, has a distinct individual character; but it is a fact not less manifest, that there is a certain character common to all life-a certain experience which, as soon as stated, we all unhesitatingly recognise as our ownaspirations which call forth our hearts' strongest desires and sympathies and certain vague emotions which we all remember to have experienced when looking down into the depths of our own souls.

It is a feature which in some degree, distinguishes the highest productions of human genius, and, to an infinitely greater extent, the statements of Holy Writ, that we have a clear delineation of this common character of human life, the expression of those thoughts, desires, fears, aspirations which, when presented, we at once recognise as those which, in an undeveloped and inarticulate form, had been long stirring and struggling within our own hearts.

Take the numerous descriptions of and allusions to the character and progress of human life which are to be found in the sacred Scriptures-who is there who does not discern much therein which

closely corresponds with his own experience? It is, moreover, a fact sadly suggestive of man's condition in this world, that the more dark and gloomy pictures of life are those which commend themselves to the "mass and multitude" of mankind as the most truthful. There are many who would laugh to scorn a glowing picture of human happiness as that to which they, at least, had found no counterpart in life; but there are few who have not, at some time or other, and with more or less reason, sympathised with the feelings of him who inscribed the legend of "Vanity," upon all earthly things. There are many who, looking back upon the past, and onwards to the future, are ready to adopt the words of the Psalmist, and say, with a sigh of mingled anxiety and disappointment, " Wespend our years as a tale that is told."

The readers of this paper are aware that the word which in the English version has been rendered tale, has been also rendered cry, meditation, soliloquy. Without entering upon any critical discussion, we shall accept our version as it stands. These words, "We spend our years as a tale that is told," suggest a line of thought which we may profitably and appropriately pursue at this season of the year, when we can scarcely do otherwise than meditate on the rapid flight of time. We are all busily engaged in telling the tale of life. We have now entered upon a new chapter. We should try and realise the significance of this tale which we are telling, and which, as told by us, is heard and recorded by God, and the

record of which one day, in its completed form, will be presented for our inspection.

The great idea which seems to be set forth in these words is the brevity, the transitoriness of life; or, still more, our sense of its brevity after it has in some large degree lapsed away from us. The writer of this Psalm, looking at once from the eternal God to the circumscribed sphere of human existence, seems oppressed with a sense of its insignificance and brevity, and he gives expression to the feelings of his heart in the words, "We spend our years as a tale that is told."

The comparison is striking and appropriate. With life it is not so much its actual brevity that we feel; it is our subsequent sense of its brevity. We do not realise the rapid flight of hours and years till after their departure. As in anticipating a tale which we are to read or hear, it may seem comparatively long; and, even as we proceed, different portions may hang heavily, and occasion weariness and tedium-but when we have reached the end it seems as nothing. So it is with the tale of life. As we look forward to it, it seems long. When we are just beginning the first volume-youth, how far do we appear to be from that second volume-manhood, and how very far from that third volume-old age! The end appears indistinct in the far distance; the intermediate scenes of considerable duration; so long, indeed, does life seem, that men try to get on with it as fast as they can, and then are sorry because it is done. How many expedients are adopted to "kill

time," to make it pass as quickly as possible! How often are the children of men oppressed with a sense of weariness and disgust! How frequently do they evince a strong desire to pass swiftly and lightly over the dull chapters of existence! They tire with the slow progress of life, and, if they could, they would "skip" the less interesting and exciting portions. Thus do they go on till, startled, they find themselves at the end, at the conclusion of the last chapter; and then, filled with a sense of life's brevity, they exclaim in astonishment-almost in dismay "We spend our years as a tale that is told."

The more interesting the tale, the more crowded it is with eventful incidents, the shorter our passage through it seems, the shorter does it seem when finished. So the busiest life ever appears the briefest, and briefest, and enjoyment more short-lived than pain. Swiftly

pass the hours of pleasure, the seasons of joy and brightness; while the day of storm and tempest hangs wearily, and the dark clouds seem long in breaking away. The result, however, is in every case the same; every now and then we are startled out of our customary indifference, and we are surprised, we are appalled, to discover how swiftly and irrevocably a large proportion of our life has passed away from us.

With reference to such special seasons of reflection, the late Mr. De Quincey remarks:-"We are doomed to experience a bitter pang as often as the irrecoverable flight of our time is brought home with keenness to our hearts. The spectacle of a lady floating over

the sea in a boat, and waking suddenly from sleep, to find her magnificent rope of pearl necklace, by some accident, detached at one end from its fastenings, the loose string hanging down into the water, and pearl after pearl slipping off for ever into the abyss, brings before us the sadness of the case. That particular pearl which, at that very moment, is rolling off into the unsearchable depths, carries its own separate reproach to the lady's heart. But it is more deeply reproachful as the representative of so many others-uncounted pearls-which have already been swallowed up irrecoverably while she was sleeping, and of many besides which must follow before any remedy can be applied to what we may call this jewelly hæmorrhage. A constant hæmorrhage of this kind is wasting our jewelly hours. A day has perished from our brief calendar of days, and that we could endure; but this day is no more than the reiteration of many other daysdays counted by thousands, which have perished to the same extent, and by the same unhappy means."

It is this bitter sense of the transitoriness of life, to which we are occasionally awakened, and especially at such seasons as this, which leads us to sympathise with the utterance of the Psalmist, and exclaim, "We spend our years as a tale that is told."

closely identify ourselves, and in whom we take the greatest interest; and yet we feel that our present enjoyment is so dependent upon the continuance of our uncertainty and ignorance, that we restrain our curiosity even when its gratification is within our reach. Does not this, again, afford us a true picture of human life? Are we not constantly influenced by the desire to know the future? Do we not all wish to know what awaits us in it? We would all like to know whether our desires are to be satisfied, our plans and prospects prosper or fail, how we and others shall pursue the journey of life, and in what condition we shall reach its close. There is, perhaps, no one entirely free from such desires; and yet we are assured that the peace and comfort we enjoy are largely dependent on that very ignorance of the future, of which we sometimes unreasonably complain. There is scarcely any earthly blessing for which we have greater reason to praise God, than for that state of uncertainty in which He keeps us as to what shall happen in the future, the position to which we shall attain, the difficulties which we shall encounter, the cares by which we shall be harassed, the bereavements from which we shall suffer, and even the pleasures and enjoyments we shall realise. Our ignorance of the future is the safeguard of our present peace; and in reference to it at least we may say, Where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise." Judging from the past, who does not feel that his comfort would be very seriously interfered with by the power of an

ticipating the events of the next few years? The joy and brightness of existence would, in many cases, disappear, if we knew beforehand what was awaiting us. Were the dark veil, which so completely hides the future from us, now hanging within our reach, and had we power to raise or rend it, so that the whole remainder of our life should lie open to our view, we might well shrink from exercising that power, feeling that an increase of knowledge in that direction would be inevitably associated with an increase sorrow. It is a good thing that we cannot look on and anticipate even the next chapter in the tale of life.

of

A tale, either as a professed description of actual life, or as having a reference to it through an imaginary medium, excites a variety of feelings, according as the incidents, which are presented in swift succession, are pleasant or painful. It is, moreover, to be observed that this very change, this alternation of grave and gay, of light and shade, is a source of pleasure; and we find that many of those incidents which are in themselves painful and trying, contribute to subsequent comfort and success. So is it in human life, which all tales are supposed, more or less adequately, to represent. There is a constant change of circumstance, a never-ceasing alternation of feeling-now bright sunshine, now dark gloom; now the soft breeze of prosperity is refreshing us, and now the fierce blast of life's winter is howling around us; now all is peace and contentment, now all anxiety and trouble. Such changes we are

ever experiencing and ever looking forward to; and while many of them are, in themselves, painful, or, at least, far from pleasant, yet, as making up the sum-total of life, we directly or indirectly derive good from all. The very changes of which we sometimes complain are a source of pleasure. We like the alternations of light and darkness, cold and heat, though we may find fault with each in its turn. There is a pleasure arising from the mere contrast of the presence and absence of pain. Who has not experienced that joyful sense of relief which follows the removal of a heavy load of care, and that sweetest of all bodily rest which we realise after a protracted season of uneasiness or pain? sides this, it is the privilege of the Christian to know that, however dark and gloomy, painful and trying, life may be, there is God above, controlling all circumstances, evolving order from confusion, harmony from discord, and causing all things to work together for good.

Be

In life, as in a tale, we are ever hasting towards and ever desiring to reach some outstanding object, and yet sorrowing as we approach the end. What is life but an unceasing desire and effort to advance beyond the present? We are always looking forward to something-the child to youth, the youth to manhood, the man to the attainment of some proposed end, some desired object; and even the oldest man has some desire to be gratified, some purpose to be accomplished. One would imagine that, as man is thus ever eagerly pressing for

ward in the way of life, he would display no hesitation, no reluctance, as he approached its close; but it is not so. As in a tale of interest, so is it with the great tale of human life; though we hurry through with it, we are startled and almost dismayed when we come to the end. How many are there who, with careless indifference or earnest desire, are hurrying on in life, who think not how they are nearing the close, and who, perhaps, will not seriously think till they reach the end, when they can do no more than sadly reiterate the words of the Psalmist, "We spend our years as a tale that is told!"

But it is for us to consider not only life as it may be likened to a tale that is told, we have also to consider those who are engaged in telling this tale. We are all engaged in the same occupation. We are all telling the tale of life. We have just entered upon a new chapter; with some of us it may be the last chapter, a chapter brought to a very abrupt and sudden termination.

What is the meaning of this tale of life? Every tale should have some significance. What is the meaning of this? If human life, as some would have us believe, is nothing more than it appears, then is the meaning of this tale most miserable and unsatisfactory. If man, created, as he is, with a consciousness of ever-extending powers, boundless desires, lofty aspirations-if man, endowed with these wonderful faculties and susceptibilities, be placed in this world for a brief season, just to eat and drink, buy and sell, marry and be given in

marriage, and follow after the various objects of a merely earthly ambition-if this be all, then verily the tale of human life is the most meaningless and pitiful of any ever told. But if, as is the case, the present is only to be regarded as a preparatory and probationary state; if all things earthly are working out some great and eternal purpose; if all, even the minutest details of human life, are as seeds which will bear eternal fruit; if man stands related to more than this world contains, and is working out a grander destiny than any of earth-then, if all this be true, life at once assumes a strange significance, and things otherwise regarded as unmeaning trifles, must be viewed as circumstances of momentous import.

But the question more directly bearing upon us is: Of what significance is the tale of life which we are individually telling? It must have some meaning, and by this time we certainly ought to know what that meaning is.

Are we clearly, honestly setting forth those relations which subsist between us and the Most High? Have we, in heart and thought, realised, are we in practice exemplifying, the great truths of the Gospel? Have we a living faith in Christ; and are we showing to those around that we have been with, and are influenced by Him? Is there throughout our lives the general impression of the Divine idea? Is there any recognisable reflection of the Divine character? Is the tale we are telling a humble and truthful one, setting forth the fact of our reliance on and our