time at least, irresistibly engaged; and, if he is not inclined to serious and useful reflections, his heart disposed to force the subject away from his contemplation, because it is painful. No theme of reflection has been oftener adopted, or, in a greater variety of forms, by Moralists, and others; no subject has, perhaps, been more frequently pronounced trite and dull; or more frequently ridiculed, as unfit to engage, the understanding, the imagination, or the heart. Observations on it are styled see-saw morality; and discourses about it are spoken of as mere thrumming. Yet, in defiance of this and all other opposition, it still finds a way to the heart. We cannot be told, that we must die, and that we may die to morrow, without, at the least, a momentary check to pleasure, sense, and sin. We cannot be told of the death of a neighbour without, at the least, a transient solemnity; a little twinge; an involuntary apprehension concerning the approach of our own end.

This truth is strikingly manifested in the conversation of men concerning places, and seasons, in which mortal diseases exist. Few men willingly acknowledge the place, in which they live, to be unhealthy; and most regard the bare mention of such a fact with resentment. In times of sickness, when inquiries are made concerning this subject, we are told, that it is indeed a sickly season; but it is confined chiefly to infants, or to children. When the yellow fever rages, we are told, that only some poor people have fallen victims to the pestilence. In this phraseology it is intended to intimate, that adults in the one case, and the rich in the other, are hitherto safe. Yet nothing would be alleg ed, as a reason why both were not exposed, in such a case except the insidiousness of the fear which persuades us to put far away the evil day. In this manner we testify, among other things, the alarm, excited in our minds by the mortality around us; and the industry, with which we impose on ourselves the persuasion that we are safe; and thus exhibit unquestionable proof, indirect as it seems, that a sense of the shortness and uncertainty of life has a sufficient influence to make us rely on trivial circumstances, as real evidence that we are secure from danger.

A tale is usually a momentary, and a trifling, amusement. When, therefore, our life is compared to this object, we are taught on the one hand, that it is a transient period; and on the other, that it is spent by us in a manner merely amusive, and without any serious or important benefit. How different is this manner of employing life from that, to which it was destined by our Creator? By him it was intended to be to each one of us a day of probation, and of grace; a season, in which we were to renounce our sins, accept of the mercy proffered to us through the Redeemer, and secure a title to a happy immortality. Infinite importance is in this manner stamped on this litle season. No mind was, perhaps, ever more feelingly alive to this fact, than that of Moses; and no circumstances could more strongly impress it on any mind, than those by which he was surrounded. We cannot, therefore wonder, at the strong images, by which he has unfolded his views of it to mankind.

The End of a year is undoubtedly a time, which presents these truths to the mind, and brings them home to the heart with peculiar force. There is something melancholy in the end of almost every thing. The evening is the most solemn period in the day. Saturday is the least cheerful day of the week. The termination of the year is the most melancholy season, which it contains. Students, at an early period of their collegiate residence, usually look forward to the close of it with pleasurable anticipation; but, when it arrives, rarely fail to experience a depression of spirits, a mournful reluctance to part with the place, where they have so long lived. The word, farewell, seems to carry sorrow in its very sound. How often do we find friends, when about to separate, scarcely able to pronounce it, and contriving beforehand to avoid a solemn formal adieu. The termination of a ministry, or the resignation of a civil office, long holden, is rarely met by any man, however desirable his judgment may pronounce it, without feelings of irresistible regret. The close of life is undoubtedly the most melancholy event, through which we pass in the present world; and requires the brightest hopes of a glorious immortaility to reconcile to it, however free it may

be from pain and suffering, either the mind of the dying person, or the minds of those who surround his bed.

The feelings, excited by this consideration, fit us in a peculiar manner to contemplate, with high advantage, many subjects of great importance, and utility. They are all serious feelings; and therefore suited to serious contemplation. They are solemn; they are affecting; and therefore suited to subjects, which are solemn and deeply interesting to the mind. In such a state every subject is regarded with more concern than in any other; and leaves impressions more permanent, and more influential.

We are now about to bid farewell to another year. Its last suns are rolling through their circuit, and about to set forever. Its day is spent; its evening is beginning to fade into never-ending darkness. Many important events joyful or melancholy, useful or useless to us, has it brought into being, during its course. Its nature, continuance, advantages, or disadvantages; and the manner in which it has been employed; together with various other things, well deserve to be recalled, and reviewed by us. With the feelings, which I have mentioned, we may profitably survey all these, and many more, objects of instruction, naturally presented by this period; and may make them means of real and lasting good,

Among these objects I shall select the following, as being of serious import to all who hear me.

1st. The shortness of human life.

The year, which we have almost finished, is a seventieth part of the life of man. How little does that part now seem! When it commenced, its end appeared to be distant; yet how soon has it arrived! How momentary the space between its commencement and its conclusion! How few, indistinct, and feeble, are the traces of it in our recollection! How faint an image of its varied events are we able to call up before the mind! How much does the flight of its days, weeks, and months, resemble a tale that is told!

Go to the man of grey hairs; and he will tell you, that seventy such years seem to him but little longer than one; and that

his own life, styled long in the customary language of men, is in his view more like a dream than a reality; that it has fleeted away before he was aware, and has scarcely left an abiding impression on his memory; that, since he arrived at the age of twenty, every year has become shorter than the preceding; and that a month in his youth, or childhood, seemed to him as long, as twelve, in the decline of life. What, according to this unexceptionable testimony, is then the amount of the whole term alloted to man? How strongly does it resemble "a tale that is told!" 2dly. The manner, in which life has been spent by us, is, at such a time a most solemn object of consideration.

How strongly does this also, resemble the allusion in the text! We tell, and hear, tales, without any serious concern, or thought; and intend only to be amused by them during the period of the rehearsal. How much is this the manner, in which life is passed by multitudes. Tales are frequently told to excite merriment; frequently, to awaken wonder; frequently, to move temporary feelings of sympathy; frequently, to while away an idle hour; and frequently, to enjoy the pleasure of telling them. When the recital is finished, the purpose, for which it exists, is also finished. It is followed by no consequence, either useful or entertaining. The emotions, whether serious or sportive, terminate with the story; and both are speedily lost and forgotten. Life then goes on exactly as it did before; and all things remain just as they would have been, if the rehearsal had never been made. On futurity it was never designed to have any influence; not even on a day, or an hour.

In a manner similar to this is life spent by no small part of the human race. The hearers of tales are not more perfectly the mere votaries of amusement, during the periods of listening to them, than multitudes are during the whole progress of life: not more given up to the indulgence of wonder, and other empty and useless emotions; nor to the killing of time; nor to the vanity of being listened to by a gaping circle. This amusement, also, terminates in itself; and is not designed to have any effect upon that which is to come. Its whole end is to produce enjoy

ment while it lasts; enjoyment, intended to be found in toying and trifling, without a wish exercised, or an attempt made, to become wise, virtuous, or useful. The pleasures of to day are not intended even to prepare pleasures to morrow; but those of to morrow are left to the direction of that chance, which is considered as having given birth to those of to day. Mere butterflies, they flutter from field to field, and from flower to flower, heedless that the summer, in which they sport, will be soon succeeded by a season of frost and death.

In the same manner, also, every period of life is by persons of this character chiefly forgotten, and employed to no useful purpose. Instead of reviewing at night the conduct of the day, or at the close of a week, or a year, the events which have existed in its progress; instead of learning from past errors, and past sins, future wisdom and reformation; instead of being admonished by the reproofs, alarmed by the judgments, solemnized and softened by the afflictions, and charmed to gratitude and repentance by the mercies, furnished by a holy and gracious Providence; they hurry from enjoyment to enjoyment, and bustle from sport to sport; embosomed, and lost, in the present gratification; forgetful that much good may be hereafter secured, and much evil avoided by prudent forecast, even in the present world; and that endless happiness must be gained, or endless misery suffered, in the world to come.

This subject we are now solemnly required to apply to ourselves, and to call up to our view the manner, in which life has been spent by us. As this is an object far too multiform and complicated, to admit of a particular examination at the present time; it will be more useful to confine our researches to the past year. The subject, here, will be less perplexed, and more fresh in every one's remembrance. Let me then call upon every person present to look back upon his own life, at this period; and see whether it has not strongly resembled "a tale that is told."

You have all throughout this period been furnished by the bountiful hand of GoD, with many privileges. A seventieth part