parks with their noble mansions, and country seats, and ivy covered or rose embowered cottages, as we speed along in the express train.

The one idea with which we have here to do is,

THE SWIFTNESS OF DEPARTING TIME.

Job used three figures here to represent it-the postmen or trained runners, who carried on foot with incredible swiftness the decrees of princes to the furthest points of the ancient empires, or summoned the chieftains and tribes to battle; the eagle-strongest on the wing and swiftest in flight; and the fastsailing ship.

The idea is that of time passing away with the greatest conceivable swiftness— swift as an eagle hastening to its prey; swift as a ship cutting its path through the mighty waters with the aid of a favouring breeze; swift as the messenger of life and death hastening on a service which brooks no delay.

The last service of another year makes us feel the reality of this idea of our life. It seems but yesterday since we commenced the new year with vows and prayers. We laid out our work, intended to be faithful in little and in much, hoped to come to the end of the year with a larger sheaf in our arms than we had ever borne off the field before; and here we are-the time has slipped away from us, the year is gone, gone past recall, gone for ever; and we have not even got the seed sown which was to produce our harvest. We have resolved, and reresolved; but the time has escaped from us, to some extent unimproved, wasted, and lost. To the young, the years seem to drag along heavily and with fettered limbs. It seems a long way off to the next Christmas-tide. It seems a long time to wait for sweet eighteen or free twenty-one. But to us who have lived half our lives and more, how precious, if conscience be instantly awake, time has become; and how dread is the pace at which it rushes past and away from us. The earth is growing old, and it seems to change and circle round and round more quickly than when we were children. Events succeed each other more rapidly, and crowd each other off the stage more roughly and recklessly than before; and it seems as though the end of all things were indeed nigh at hand. Day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment, we are losing life, and we feel it, as the young do not, and cannot.

It seems but a few days since we were children, gathering wild flowers in the woods, romping in the meadows, building houses of sand for the advancing tide to wash away, or preparing at school for the work of life; and now the wrinkles of care and time begin to mark us, and the hot blood of youth ceases to rush through our veins as it once did; grey hairs are appearing, or time's destructive marks are visible on our heads; and we find ourselves pushed forward by a new generation pressing to occupy our places.

It seems hardly possible, and yet it is so in reality. And such is life. The almond tree flourishes, covered with its white blossoms, before we have realized that the spring-time is gone. We sometimes laugh together at the idea that we are growing old; but we cannot hide it from ourselves for long. Birthdays come and go, and silently the years are added up and registered; and one more, and one more, soon changes into the quarter, and it again into the half century; and then we begin to mark off the days that separate us from the tomb. The Christmas chimes sound the requiem of departing days. The bells which ring out the old year are ringing us out of life—out of the world.

We are ever on the

move toward the grave, and our progress thither is awfully rapid. In the midst of life we are in death. One day here, the next in eternity. "He cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth also as a shadow, and never continueth in one stay."

If life be thus passing away from us, "swift as an Indian arrow flies, or like a shooting star "it cannot be out of place for us to ask ourselves whither we are tending-what shall be in the end thereof? If the passing year is bringing us nearer to the end of all our years, then what is before us? What is our hope concerning the great hereafter. We do not lie down in the dust with the bodily organization when it is worn out. The spirit lives through death according to the purposes it has revolved and realized with more or less of perfectness; according to the love, the supreme love which has ruled it; according to the character of its relations to God in Christ.

What then is the destiny which based upon our present condition and history, is before us? Are we looking certainly to the house with the many mansions as our home, or are we dreading death as the greatest privation and calamity which can befall us, because we have no portion in the heavenly inheritance? "The righteous hath hope in his death "-have we hope when we think of our own? These are questions which the swift-passing of our years immediately suggests. Death may be, the greatest conceivable gain to a man, or it may be most sad and deplorable loss. As possessing rational foresight we cannot help asking ourselves what shall be on the morrow; we cannot help forecasting the future and making anticipatory preparation for it. And would it be wise, would it be safe to foresee our inevitable landing on the shores of the Eternal world without asking what shall happen to us there; without making all needful preparation for our new circumstances; without preparing to meet our God, and making our heaven secure. Is not this the lesson of spiritual prudence?

2. But the swiftness of the passing away of our days suggests solemn inquiries concerning the character of our past.

First of all, what about the vows and promises which some have made again and again? There have been in the history of all, even of the most hardened, days when conscience was awake, and busy days in which their sin and folly were clearly apparent, days in which they entertained the conviction "we are all wrong" "—in which they said, "this won't do "; in which they resolved that a new leaf should be turned over; that hesitancy about the claims of Christ should cease; that they would seek Divine Mercy; that they would seek Divine forgiveness and cleansing; that they would seek power to live as the sons of God, serving Him and their fellows with all their hearts. Now to-night, is it not reasonable to ask what has become of all these convictions and resolves? In what have they all ended? What fruits unto God have they produced? Is not the Divine forgiveness still to seek? Is not the Divine cleansing still to be obtained? Is not the Divine provision still neglected, despised, refused? Is not the Divine warning and invitation left unheeded? Is not the place in the church of Christ still vacant? Is not the work for Christ still left undone? Is not the soul's danger still remaining? Is not threatened wrath still impending? Is not the old Hebrew lamentation the expression of a fact deplorable and full of menace to peace and happiness, full of unutterable dread. "Harvest is past, summer is ended, and I am not saved.” Ought there not, in these circumstances, to be immediate change, ought there not to be now a turning unto the Lord with purpose of heart.

3.

Solemn questions are suggested by the swiftly passing days to those who have made open profession of faith and service. The charge of Christ laid against an ancient community of believers by profession was: "Nevertheless, I have somewhat against thee because thou hast left thy first love." Is there not reason to believe that if we could hear His voice to-night, we should have to listen to a similar reproach—“ thou hast left thy first love?" Is the Church as earnest, as devout, as godly, as sincere, as consistent as she ought to be? Is her love to Christ as intense, as fervid as it was in days past, as it ought to be considering His character, His claims, His self-sacrifice, His doings on her behalf, His promises and purposes of good? Are those who profess and call themselves Christians to-day worthy successors of apostles, and martyrs, and missionaries, and men and women of primitive faith, and holy simplicity, and deep but quiet devotion, and intense earnestness, and fervent zeal, and constant fidelity? Is the Church really an example to the world? Is she really the salt of the earth? Is her ministry faithful, fearless, outspoken, loving? Are her students for the Ministry fired with a Christ-like zeal, which, consumes them, and which impels them to say: "Our meat is to do the will of Him who sent us and to finish His work?" Does their sanctity and faithful earnestness become manifest in speech, behaviour, prayer, and work? Are the Church's officers giving themselves to prayer, and watching the flock of the Great Shepherd as those who must give account? Has there been on the part of school superintendents and teachers, faithful diligence, constant and unceasing labour, earnest and believing prayer? Have they upheld the Church, and by example and effort led the young into it? or have they been careless, neglectful, self-seeking, faithless, and therefore unsuccessful? "The night cometh when no man can work; "—is there no need that the watchmen should awake and arouse the guards of the Holy City in danger of being betrayed into the hands of its enemies and those of its Lord and King, while its professed defenders are buried in careless, sensual sleep?

4. One cannot help, at such a time as this, recurring to the beginnings of spiritual life and history. How many ate living as they then prayed they might, as they vowed they would? How many have done what they promised, and "fought the good fight" constantly, and "kept the faith," and maintained a blameless "walk with God," and delighted in His house and its ordinances, and prayed and laboured unceasingly, as they declared they would, for its prosperity and peace. Is there not much self-condemnation when the life actually lived is regarded in view of promises, privileges, powers, solemn consecrations, and vows? and ought we not all to lay to heart the Saviour's charge and warning: Repent and do the first works, else I will come unto thee quickly and remove thy candlestick out of its place."

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This swiftness, characteristic of the passing away of the days, has its counter part in the rapidity with which events succeed each other; the crowding into limited space of the greatest and most portentious events. Changes now take place at a speed which baffles all calculation. Hurry and accumulation are the characteristics of our time. We go at the reckless pace of the race horse. We cannot wait to be rich in the evening of life; we make haste, and by hook or by crook must be rich at once. The old jog trot pace of industry and the small accumulations, gathering with the growing years, does not satisfy the mad ambition of the young now, who can spend in a year what once sufficed for the

life time of their fathers. The risks of the calm and quiet pedestrian are not like those of the racer, who is liable any moment to fall and break his neck. In how many instances during the year have we seen the stumble, and the crash, and the ruin? How sad has been the fate of some, who in a single day have seen melt away, like the snow flakes in a thaw, the accumulations of years. Money can purchase comforts innumerable. Money can rid one of many sore evils and privations. Money is a most useful and valuable possession. There is no need to decry it as though it were vile, for it is no such thing. But the scope and influence of money is limited. It cannot compensate for the loss of honour, It cannot compensate for the loss of integrity. It cannot minister to a mind diseased. It cannot restore peace to a troubled conscience. It cannot secure the favour of God or the hope of heaven. Amid fortunes made and lost, amid accumulations of hundreds of thousands and utter ruin, let this lesson be written to-night on every heart: "What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul, or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"

Animals make no account of departing time. The insect on the wing in the morning sunshine runs through the whole of its life and history within the day. What seventy or eighty or a hundred years is to a man the twenty-four hours is to it. And yet the swift passing consciousness belongs alone to man. The reason why he has it, why he counts his days, why he has this sense of awful change and swiftly working change and loss, is of immense importance. It is first, because he belongs to another life and to another world. This is one of the land marks of immortality which are constantly showing themselves in our lives, and of which we cannot rid ourselves. We are to pass out of one into another-another we do not know-and this alarms, terrifies or makes us anxious about the passing hours and our loss of them. Here is nature's answer to the question: "If a man die shall he live again?" If he does not, what does it matter when he has to die. "All the days of my appointed time will I wait," for what? "until my change come." Yes! that is the great fact which makes the present life so important. The change is coming. "This corruptible must put on incorruption and this mortal immortality.

But, the time passes swiftly to human thought because of another consciousness, that of responsibility; the sense that much has to be done, and that the doing fixes the position in the new world to which we go. So much to be done, so small a space into which it must be compressed. The press and hurry of life, the so much waiting to be done, that is what makes us feel how short the days are, how quickly flying the years. Nothing oppresses human power more heavily and completely than the sense of unfinished tasks. That is our case in relation to both worlds. For ours are linked together, and as a man soweth here that shall he also reap; and he that soweth sparingly shall reap sparingly. Is the work done? says the Master. No! this has not been done; that has not been done. But, the bell is about to ring, the works are about to be closed-what happens? What can happen but the singing of the doleful song-"Too late.”

The swiftness of the changes wrought by the passing year must be felt by us when we look around. How many dear friends are missed from our sides, how many places are vacant in the House of Prayer, how many pleasant things have become memories, how many homes are utterly desolate. The angel of

death is never idle. The angel of death never takes repose. Moment by moment, he is swearing in relation to men and women, boys and girls, old patriarchs and infants; "time shall be no longer." They go hence, one by one, in endless succession; each in his appointed place; each at "the appointed time." We have felt the mischief he can work, and we write against some names honoured and beloved in Church and home-Gone! Dead! And still it is not enough; still the dread harvesting goes on, still he cuts down both flowers and bearded corn; still the dark messenger is on his mission; and if you listened you might even hear the beat of his wing on the air. He is coming, coming as surely for us, as the day is coming to swallow up the night; as surely as the new year is coming to displace the old. He is coming and we cannot escape him. There is no discharge in this war. He is coming-but when? If we only knew we might prepare. We are not allowed to know that we may live "always ready," "having nothing to do but to die." It may be near, as near as this night; but near or remote, "prepare to meet thy God!" "Whatsoever thine hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." "Be thou faithful unto death." If it be so, what matter when he comes? If we be ready let him strike now, or strike hereafter, all will be well. If we be ready, how glad will our change be; how joyous our welcome to the Father's house where our loved ones are. If we be ready, come life or come death, it is all one; if to live is Christ, to die is gain. Be ye also ready ; “for the days are swifter than a post, they flee away, they pass as the swift ships, as the eagle hastening to his prey." ready;" for," after Death is the Judgement."

"Be ye also

EDITOR.