^ " What would you wish to be doing," was the question once 1 put to a wise man, " if you knew that you were to die the next minute ? " " Just what I am doing now," was his reply, though he was neither repeating the creed nor telling his religious ex- perience, but, for aught I know, posting his accounts, or talking merry nonsense with his children round the fire. Nothing that is worthy of a living man can be unworthy of a dying one ; and ] whatever is shocking in the last moment, would be disgraceful in every other.^
^ The family motto of Dr. Doddridge was JDum vivimus, vivamus, which in its primary significance is, to be sure, not very suitable to a Christian divine ; but he paraphrased it thus : —
Live, while you live, the epicure would say. And seize the pleasures of the present day. Live, while you live, the sacred preacher cries. And give to God each moment as it flies. Lord, in my views let both united be, I live in pleasure, when I live to Thee.^
* James Martiueau. - GerUlemau's Magazine, 1786, ]>. 35.
232 THE RIGHT USE OF TIME
Life is unutterably dear, God makes to-day so fair;
Though heaven is better, — being here I long not to be there.
The weights of life are pressing still, Not one of them may fall;
Yet such strong joys my spirit fill, That I can bear them all.
Though Care and Grief are at my side, There would I let them stay,
And still be ever satisfied With beautiful To-day !i
III.
The Units of Life.
" Our days."
1. Notice the writer's unit of computation in measuring life. He speaks not of years, not even of months or weeks, but of days. There is something very impressive in such a mode of reckoning. A year is a long period ; and while we may hope for years of life, be they many or few, the passage of time is not continuously felt by us. But days — how they rush past and fly away with a rapidity which on reflection is almost appalling ! Even the heedless man must feel the ebb of life when it comes to be calculated by days. Yet as we see the winged hours go by, we are apt to think as lightly of them as if the series would never cease. We sleep and play and busy ourselves with what we call the serious business of life without much reference to the rising and setting of the sun. A day lost, a day half wasted, a day misused, causes us no poignant regret. We are so confident that many others are still in store for us. As they have come and gone in the past, so will they come and go in the future. We must admit, if we are pressed, that the supply is not absolutely unlimited. An end will be reached at some indefinite epoch, but not yet — not yet; and if meanwliile we are careless or prodigal, we anticipate
' Charlotte F. B. Rog6.
PSALM xc. 12 233
many opportunities of " making up for lost time " — as if it were ever possible to make up for lost time !
Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,
A mite of my twelve hours' treasure,
The least of thy gazes or glances,
(Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure)
One of thy choices or one of thy chances,
(Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure)
— My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure,
Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me ! ^
2. On our maps we have lines to mark the parallels of latitude — but these lines are only on the map. Crossing the equator or the tropics you see no score in the water, no line in the sky, to mark it ; the vessel gives no lurch, no call is emitted from the deep ; 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.
Their advent is as silent as their going, They have no voice nor utter any speech, No whispered murmur passes each to each. As on the bosom of the years' stream flowing, They pass beyond recall, beyond our knowing, Farther than sight can pierce or thought can reach, Nor shall we ever hear them on Time's beach. No matter how the winds of life are blowing.
They bide their time, they wait the awful warning Of that dread day, when hearts and graves unsealing. The trumpet's note shall call the sea and sod. To yield their secrets to the sun's revealing: What voices then shall thrill the Judgment morning. As our lost hours shall cry aloud to God ? ^