phecy, but as an acknowledgment which may be taken so far as a
proof, that the promise made to Abraham has never been accomplished.

And such is life's disappointment. Its promise is, you shall have a
Canaan; it turns out to be a baseless airy dream--toil and
warfare--nothing that we can call our own; not the land of rest, by
any means. But we will examine this in particulars.

1. Our senses deceive us; we begin life with delusion. Our senses
deceive us with respect to distance, shape, and colour. That which
afar off seems oval, turns out to be circular, modified by the
perspective of distance; that which appears a speck, upon nearer
approach becomes a vast body. To the earlier ages the stars presented
the delusion of small lamps hung in space. The beautiful berry proves
to be bitter and poisonous: that which apparently moves is really at
rest: that which seems to be stationary is in perpetual motion: the
earth moves: the sun is still. All experience is a correction of
life's delusions--a modification, a reversal of the judgment of the
senses: and all life is a lesson on the falsehood of appearances.

2. Our natural anticipations deceive us--I say _natural_ in
contra-distinction to extravagant expectations. Every human life is a
fresh one, bright with hopes that will never be realized. There may be
differences of character in these hopes; finer spirits may look on
life as the arena of successful deeds, the more selfish as a place of
personal enjoyment.

With man the turning point of life may be a profession--with woman,
marriage; the one gilding the future with the triumphs of intellect,
the other with the dreams of affection; but in every case, life is not
what any of them expects, but something else. It would almost seem a
satire on existence to compare the youth in the outset of his career,
flushed and sanguine, with the aspect of the same being when it is
nearly done--worn, sobered, covered with the dust of life, and
confessing that its days have been few and evil. Where is the land
flowing with milk and honey?

With our affections it is still worse, because they promise more.
Man's affections are but the tabernacles of Canaan--the tents of a
night; not permanent habitations even for this life. Where are the
charms of character, the perfection, and the purity, and the
truthfulness, which seemed so resplendent in our friend? They were
only the shape of our own conceptions--ou