“Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labour that I had laboured to do: and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun.” No,--and the bitter thought is, that not the missing, but the attaining the prize, has disappointed; not failure, but success, has embittered: and that it might have been known from the very first that thus it must be--that the coveted possession was but lifeless rock or bare sand. There was a warning voice to this effect, but, oh, who heard or heeded it in that glorious advance of the long battalions of battling gleaming waters? And, to add bitterness to the cup, this was all an old story; we were not, as we dreamed, invading new worlds; no, those ancient sands have borne the furrows of myriads upon myriads of just such excited, eager, leaping tides. The anguish has not even the pathos of novelty; it is actually commonplace. That which seemed so new to us, at what more than millionth hand we received it! “The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. “Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us.” And so hark to the moan of the waves as they draw off, when the tide has turned, and the disenchantment has come, sigh after sigh, moan upon moan, in the weary and desolate retreat. “_Vanity of vanities; all is vanity._” Yes; and farther on, a more bitter wail, as it passes back over some spot where some of the gayest morning hopes were spilt: “_I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit._” Lower and lower yet, with yet duller and heavier moan: “_What hath man of all his labour, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun? For all his days are sorrows, and his travail grief; yea, his heart taketh not rest in the night. This is also vanity._” And now an almost fierce and angry cry: “_Therefore I hated life; because the work that is wrought under the sun is grievous unto me; for all is vanity and vexation of spirit._” And what then? Is this the end of all? Is there no hope for the wailing tide; no redemption for the scattered spray?