Many churches do not keep the so-called Saints' Days, having some well-grounded fears of the superstition and false worship to which such celebrations tend to minister; but there is one day in the Christian year we might well keep, and that is All Saints' Day, when we reverently think of the blessed memory of the just, when we celebrate the triumphs of faith and trophies of grace, and remember the glorious company of the Apostles, the goodly fellowship of the prophets, the noble army of martyrs, the holy Church throughout all the world, the whole family in heaven and earth, named after the name of Jesus, all the endeavours after pure faith and holy living of the humble and true-hearted followers of Christ. It would not be just an empty celebration, doing idle homage to the great lives of departed saints. It might be a mighty inspiration for more heroism of faith and life. There is inspiration in the thought that we are not alone in our fitful endeavours, but that we come in a great succession and are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses. It is a source of strength to know that we are not exceptional in our struggle, or sorrow, or joy; that we, if we are faithful, are treading where the saints have trod; that we belong to the ageless Church, and take our place among those who have fought the

good fight and witnessed the good confession, inspired by the blessed memory of the just. With all our petty divisions and small distinctions, it is something to realise the unity of the spirit, and be held in the bonds of peace and love.

And what higher ambition can there be for us than to be counted also among those whose memory smells sweet, who have helped not hindered the world in its steep ascent to God? What nobler part to play than be a link, however humble, in that golden chain of testimony which binds the ages together? We all know in some form the truth of the other proverb, "A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's children." That is true even in a worldly sense, but the inheritance of good is not confined to such natural descent. It is part of the life of everything that lives. It is part of the light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world. All personal ambitions dwindle before the majesty of this desire to partake of the true posthumous fame, the true immortality of memory, to partake of the very influence of Christ, and be blessed with the memory of the just. "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them."

XXVI

PAST AND PRESENT

Say not thou, What is the cause that the former days were better than these? for thou dost not inquire wisely concerning this.-ECCLESIASTES Vii. 10.

THE actual connection of these words of our text is quite in keeping with the tone and temper of the writer of this Book. He does not mean, at least as the chief purpose of this rebuke, to glorify the present with its opportunities and possibilities at the expense of the past. It would hardly be in accordance with the prevailing pessimism of the writer to strike here a hopeful and inspiring note. He is sick with life, and out of tune with the airy hopes of youth and its golden dream that the world is a fairer, sweeter place than it was in bygone days. We would not expect this bright, cheerful philosophy from the man whose verdict on all earthly things is Vanity of vanities; and we do not get it. The whole trend of his teaching is that life is illusive, and a man should not build his hopes too high, and look for permanence in any source of joy. Rather he advises moderation,

to take things calmly, and make the most of life. To be over-sanguine is to court disappointment: to be over-righteous is to destroy happiness: to be over-evil is to be broken by inexorable law. Moderation is the great secret.

So here, he deprecates anger, and hastiness of spirit. It is foolish to be angry, and patience is better than pride. Seneca said, "Anger is like rain: it breaks itself on what it falls." All worldly wisdom preaches this, whatever it practises. You don't do any good and you only hurt yourself by losing your temper and getting over-excited about anything. It is a mark of folly to be hasty of spirit: "Anger resteth in the bosom of fools." Even to be angry about symptoms of the present and by comparison magnify the past, and ask petulantly, what is the cause that the former days were better than these? the wise man will not do that. "Thou dost not inquire wisely concerning this." The wise man of this creed takes things as they are, and does not fret himself with repining about good times gone, and with discontent about the present, and gloomy views about the future. He makes the most of what cannot be helped. He cultivates a cheerful pleasant temperament. Not that he deceives himself with utopian dreams that the world is improving and will soon be

a paradise-he only just wants peace to enjoy what good there is, and won't let the present be lost by a barren worship of the past. The truth of this attitude (what truth there is in it), and the danger of it, are both too obvious for us to spend time enlarging on them. But we can see how, from this standpoint of somewhat cynical worldly-wisdom, the writer should exclaim, "Say not thou, What is the cause that the former days were better than these?"

us;

In any case, for higher and larger reasons than the writer's, the advice is good, and is applicable to for it touches on a temptation which robs life of its full power. It is a common infirmity of old age, but it is not confined to age, to disparage the present and to glorify the past. Especially in times of trial this is so: when the present is a wail it is natural to think that the past was a hallelujah. In reviewing times that are gone memory has a hallowing, softening power. It is a merciful provision of our nature which makes us forget the pains and sorrows of the past, and when we do remember them sets them in a soft and tender light, letting us see some of the good which has come from them. And as the sorrows of the past seem diminished by distance, by a strange reversion the joys loom larger and finer. To a reflective mind the pleasures of memory are sweeter