father into the silent tomb, and mingled their tears with the dust which covered his clay.

The Rev. Dr. Magie, of Elizabethtown, N. J., then said: "Eighty years of life on earth are ended here. Sixty years in the ministry of the Gospel are ended here. Forty years in the instruction of a rising generation of ministers are ended here. All that was mortal of our father and friend we have just committed to this silent tomb. It does look cold, and dark, and dreary, but it is no more so than the grave in which his Master lay, and they who sleep in Jesus will God bring with him." After a few words more he led the assembly in prayer, and dismissed them with the Apostolical Benediction.

There his remains are lying, within an enclosure that contains the ashes of such men as Dickinson, and Burr, and President Edwards, and Finley, and Smith, and Davies, and Witherspoon, and Green, and Dodd, and Miller,-such a line of Presidents and Professors as distinguish no other cemetery in this land. Genius and learning and virtue made these men great, and their tombs will be honoured by the friends of sacred science for ever.

No less than 1,837 young men have received instruction in Princeton from his lips and of this large number 1,640 are believed to be still among the living. These will extend his influence to the end of time.

"And I am glad that he has lived so long,
And glad that he has gone to his reward;
Nor deem that kindly nature did him wrong,

Softly to disengage the vital cord,

When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye

Dark with the mists of age-it was his time to die."

DAYS NUMBERED.-A PASTOR'S ADDRESS AT THE CLOSE OF
THE YEAR.

PSALM XC. 12.

"So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”

THERE is something very insidious in the lapse of time. When you pass the frontiers of a new country they stop you at once and demand your passport. They look to see whence you have come and whither you are going; and everything reminds you of the transition. The dress of the people is peculiar. Their language is strange. The streets and houses, the conveyances, the style of everything is new. And often the features of the landscape are foreign. Unwonted crops grow in the fields, and unfamiliar trees stand in the hedge-rows, and quaint and unaccountable creatures flit over your head or hurry across your path. And at any given moment you have only to look up, in order to remember, "This is no more my native land; this is no longer the country in which I woke up yesterday."

But marked and conspicuous as is our progress in space, we recognise no such decided transitions in our progress through time. When you pass the frontiers of a new year, there is no one there with authority to demand your passport; no one who forcibly arrests you, and asks, Whence comest thou? or, Whither art thou going? Art thou bound for the better country, and hast thou a safe-conduct in the name of

the Lord of the land? But you just pass on-'50, '51, '52—and every year repeats, We demand no passport; be sure you can show it at the journey's end, for it is certain to be needed there. And as nothing stops you at the border, so in the new year itself there is nothing distinugishable from the year that went before. The sun rises and the sun sets. Your friends are about you all the same. You ply your business or amusements just as you did afore, and all things continue as they were. And it is the same with the more signal epochs. The infant passes on to childhood, and the child to youth, and the youth to manhood, and the man to old age, and he can hardly tell when or how he crossed the boundary. On our globes and maps we have lines to mark the parallels of distance-but these lines are only on the map. Crossing the equator or the tropic, you see no score in the water, no line in the sky to mark it; and the vessel gives no lurch; no alarum sounds from the welkin, no call is emitted from the deep, and it is only the man of skill, the pilot or the captain, with his eye on the signs of heaven, who can tell that an event has happened, and that a definite portion of the voyage is completed. And so far, our life is like a voyage on the open sea, every day repeating its predecessor-the same watery plain around and the same blue dome above—each so like the other that you might fancy the charmed ship was standing still. But it is not so. The watery plain of to-day is far in advance of the plain of yesterday, and the blue dome of to-day may be very like its predecessors, but it is fashioned from quite another sky.

However, it is easy to see how insidious this process is, and how illusive might be the consequence. Imagine that in the ship were some passengers-a few young men, candidates for an important post in a distant empire. They may reasonably calculate on the voyage lasting three months or four; and, provided that before their arrival they have acquired a certain science, or learned a competent amount of a given language, they will instantly be promoted to a lucrative and honourable appointment. The first few days are lost in the bustle of setting all to-rights, and in the pangs of the long adieu. But at last one or two settle down in solid earnest, and betake themselves to the study of the all-important subject, and have not been at it long till they alight on the key which makes their after-progress easy and delightful. To them the voyage is not irksome, and the end of it is full of expectation. But their comrades pass the time in idleness. They play cards, and smoke, and read romances, and invent all sorts of frolics to while away the tedium of captivity; and if a more sober companion venture to remonstrate, they exclaim, "Lots of time. Look how little signs of land. True, we have been out of port six weeks; but it does not feel to me as if we had moved a hundred miles. Besides, man, we have first to pass the Cape, and after that we may manage very well." And thus on it goes, till one morning there is a loud huzza, and every passenger springs on deck. "Land ahead!" "What land?" "Why, the land to which we are 'Impossible; we have not passed the Cape." "Yes, indeed; but we did not put in there. Yonder is the coast. We shall drop anchor to-night, and must get on shore to-morrow." And then you may see how blank and pale the faces of the loiterers are. They feel thatall is lost. One takes up the neglected volume, and wonders whether anything may be done in the remaining hours; but it all looks so strange and intricate, that in despair he flings it down. "To-morrow is the examination-day. To-morrow is the day of trial. It is no use now. I have played the fool, and lost my opportunity." Whilst their wiser friends lift up their heads with joy, because their promotion draweth nigh. With no trepidation, except so much as every thoughtful spirit feels when a solemn event is near, without forebod

bound."

ing and without levity, they look forth to the nearer towers and brightening minarets of that famed city, which has been the goal of many wishes, and the home of many a dream. And as they calmly get ready for the hour of landing, the only sorrow that they feel is for their heedless companions, who have lost a glorious opportunity to make their calling and election sure.

And so, my dear friends, we here are a ship-full of voyagers bound for eternity. There is a certain "wisdom" which, if we learn it on the passage, will secure us a welcome and a high promotion whenever we land. It is the knowledge of Christ crucified. If we know him, and are found sufficiently acquainted with him, he is the Lord of the better country; and whether we land to-night, or be left a long while at sea, he will say, "Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world." But, from the delusion I spoke of, few set about learning this knowledge in time. Every day looks so like its brother-yesterday as life-like as the day before, and the present day as hale and hopeful as either, that it becomes very natural to say, "To-morrow will be as this day, and much more abundant." And so the golden moments glide away. One is constantly adjusting his berth, and finds new employment every day in making it more comfortable or more complete; and will perhaps be so engaged the night when the anchor drops, and the sails are furled. And many more amuse themselves. They take up the volume which contains the grand lesson, and look a few minutes at it, and put it past, and skip away to some favourite diversion; whilst they know full well, or fear too sadly, that they have not reached the main secret yet. And so in various ways, instead of giving all diligence to be found in Christ at his appearing, many are squandering in frivolity their precions term of probation.

Oh, dear brethren, it is time to be numbering the days. It is time to apply your hearts unto wisdom. It is time to read-time to listen for the great hereafter. It is time to take up that blessed book with which at the outset God graciously furnished you, and make sure of that excellent knowledge, without which you cannot see his face in peace. It is time to be seeking an interest in the Lord Jesus Christ. It is time to be done with trifles; time to break away from silly or ensnaring company, and give yourselves resolutely to the one thing needful.

"When you can read your title clear

To mansions in the skies,

You'll bid farewell to every fear,

And wipe your weeping eyes."

When you can say, "I know whom I have believed,”—when you can aver, Ι am persuaded that Christ is able to keep that which I have committed unto him," -when you have found in the blood of Jesus a cleansing from all your sin, and in his merits your own title to glory-a wondrous relief will come over your spirit, and you will have no forebodings about the end of the voyage. When we announce, as now we announce, that we are crossing another parallel, the intelligence will cause you no perturbation. And should you wake up at midnight, and hear the hurrying steps and novel voices which bespeak the vessel come to port, you may calmly rise and make ready, for your Friend is there, and your title is here. The Gospel you believe, and the Saviour you know.

This is the great lesson we would learn from the text, "Lord, so teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom." Teach us how short a time it is. Teach us to be always ready. And since the seasons are so subtle, since spring so quickly blossoms into summer, and summer so soon mellows

into autumn, and autumn wrinkles into winter,—since short days so stealthily lengthen, and long days shorten,—since years dissolve so fast, and melted years bulk no more than moments,—since we cannot fix these flying hours, nor detain one precious instant, Lord, teach us to number them; teach us to note their rapid flight, and, oh, may the lesson make us wise! May it force us to the great life-study! May it shut us up to heavenly wisdom! May it so urge our conscience and haunt our thoughts, that we shall now apply our hearts to saving knowledge! May rapid life thus send us to a deathless Redeemer, and fleeting time bear us to a blissful immortality!

Whether sad or happy, the year now closing has been very short,-far too short for fulfilling all the schemes and purposes we cherished in its sanguine outset. The days have twinkled past,- -mere sparkles of interest, and the months have vanished like a dream; and yet we flatter ourselves the next year will have a charm about it; that its days will linger, and its weeks will lengthen out into a latitude and leisure which will admit of our doing everything, and enjoying everything. Vain delusion! Next year will be swifter than a post. Its days will gleam and click like a weaver's shuttle; and those who survive to its closing Sabbath will look back on a cloud that has melted-a vapour that has vanished; and it will not be till we have reached eternity, it will not be till the loom of time is stopped, and the endless day laps existence round, that we shall know the sense of leisure, and find that however urgent the work, the opportunity is ample. And from this fugacity and fleetness of time, let us learn that whoever would do a great thing or a right thing in a world like this, must set about it instantly.

But top-speed though the year has spun,—rapid as the days have raced, and phantom-like though their flight appears, to some this year has been a year of progress and profit. It has not been a mere breathless rush, nor a guilty slumber, nor a feverish dream. It has been a year of active exertion and solid achievement. To some, I trust, it has been of all years the most memorable and blessed, for it has been the year when they began to seek the better part, and commenced to live for God. Some, I trust, have reason to regard it as of all years the most gainful, for in it they have found the pearl of great price; and gloomy as its outward visage has lowered, some, I believe, look back to it as the brightest year of their history, for it is the year on which the Sun of Righteousness-the Saviour-has shone. And some have made progress: they have gained sensible advantages over a sin that did easily beset them, or they have escaped from some snare or entanglement, or they have been enabled to take some decided step, or make some difficult sacrifice; or they have grown in knowledge of some truth, or enjoyment of some grace, or they have been privileged to do some good: they have been permitted to commence or carry forward some labour in the cause of God; and thus, short as the year has been, it has sufficed to initiate something everlasting, and from its tiny mustard-seed a great tree may spring in some soul or some community; and from their example let us learn a second lesson-to redeem the time.

Redeem the time! You sometimes think what a pound may purchase. Do you ever think what a day may do? Money is precious, but time is priceless! The man who has this year lost a thousand pounds, may next twelvemonths make two thousand, and be richer than before, but the man who has lost the year itself, God may give him another year, but even the great God cannot give him back the year which he has lost. Of all losses the greatest and most guilty is squandered time.

When Mr. Hardcastle was dying (once a noble-minded merchant, and long the Treasurer of the London Missionary Society), it was one of his memorable sayings, "My last act of faith I wish to be, to take the blood of Jesus as the high priest did when he entered behind the veil, and when I have passed the veil I would appear with it before the throne." And in making the transit from one year to another, this is our most appropriate exercise. We see much sin in the retrospect; we see many a broken purpose, many a mis-spent hour, many a rash and unadvised word. We see much pride, and anger, and worldliness, and unbelief; we see a long track of inconsistency. There is nothing for us but the great atonement. With that atonement let us, like believing Israel, end and begin anew. Bearing its precious blood, let us pass within the veil of a solemn and eventful future. Let a visit to the Fountain be the last act of the closing year, and let a new year still find us there.

DOMESTIC SERVANTS.