Oh, if old age were cancelled from our lot, Full soon would man deplore the unhallowed blot? And earth would lose her stepping-stone to heaven." That age is naturally restless on retiring from business life is a good reason why a large space should be assigned it in social life. Old men grow weary of the inactivity which succeeds the busier days when they bore the heat and burden. Let them not be compelled to wander here and there, chafing against the infirmities of their years, and finding nothing to pacify the longing desire for change. Society can do much for old people, but not in the way of supervision-old folks hate supervision-rather in that tender but not too close watchfulness which is due to physical feebleness, and in that ample provision for association with others of agreeable turn. We are in sympathy with the idea that many aged persons are too early relieved of all responsibility. To be laid on the shelf, after a long period of activity and usefulness, is annoying to any mind. As one justly observes: "Grandfather's step is uncertain, his arm less vigorous than of old, but he possesses a rich treasure of experience, and he likes to be consulted. It is his privilege to give advice, his privilege, too, at times to go into the field and work with the youngest, renewing his youth as he keeps bravely up with the hearty men not half his age. Grandmother does not want to be left out of the household work. When the days come round for pickling and preserving, and the domestic force is pressed into the service, who is so eager and full of interest as she? It is cruel to overrule her decisions, to put her aside because 'she will be tired.' "Of course she will be tired, but she will enjoy the fatigue, and rest the sooner for the thought that she is still of use to the world. To those whose homes are honored by the presence of an aged parent, we would say, deal very gently with those who are on the down-hill of life. Your own time is coming to be where they now are. You, too, are 'stepping westward.' Soothe the restlessness of age by amusement, by consideration, by non-interference, and by allowing plenty of occupation to fall in the hands that long for it. Only let it be of their own choosing, and cease to order ways for them as though they were children. A hoary head at a fireside is a crown of glory to the house where it dwells. The blessing of the aged is as dew on the pasture, as the falling of sunlight in a shadowy place." 66 Dr. Talmage draws two or three pictures of age, which will be at once recognized as true to life. Waiting," he says, "for the door of one of my parishioners to open, I stand at the front steps, and looking through the window, see grandfather, with a child on either knee, his face beaming with benedictions. He is almost through with his journey, but he has an interest in those who are starting. The racket is almost too much for the old man's head, but he says nothing. The granddaughter, half grown, stands behind the chair, and runs her hand through his locks. As grandfather stoops down to kiss the children good-night, it is sunset embracing sunrise; it is the spring crocuses around about the edge of the snowbank; it is the white locks, beautiful in the domestic circle! "Grandfather is in church. His comrades are gone. His sons and daughters, though grown to be men and women, will never be anything but boys and girls to him. He looks around the audience and sees so many strange faces, and he wonders why people don't talk as loud as they used to. As some old hymn comes through his soul, his memory brings back the revival scenes of a half century. He wonders where all the old people are. His second sight has come, and he rarely uses spectacles. With a cane in both hands, he sits at the end of the pew. Don't crowd him; he will soon pass over the river, and see the King in his beauty. White locks are beautiful in the Lord's temple! "Two hearts have been pledged. Against the marriage-altar there dashes a wave of orange-blossoms. The two families, in a semicircle, stand about the altar. Father and mother come, of course, and give the first congratulations, but let them not tarry too long, for grandfather is coming up with trembling step. 'God be good to you both, my children!' he says, as he takes their hands. Then he seals his word with an old man's kiss. The bridal veil was graceful, but I know something more graceful than that. The vase of flowers on the altar was beautiful, but I know something more beautiful than that. The light that danced in the socket was bright, but I know something brighter than that. It was the long white locks of grandfather at the wedding." With this sentiment we all sympathize. Happy and pure old age is delightful. No matter if the bodies are old, only so that the life is young, Some one gives a few kind hints to the friends of "threescore years and beyond," which may be suggestive in now and then a case: "Don't grow old and rusty and cross, afraid of nonsense and fun. Tolerate the follies and crudities of youth. Gray hairs and wrinkles you cannot escape, but you need not grow old in feeling unless you choose. And so long as your age is only on the outside you will win confidence from the young, and find your life all the brighter for contact with theirs. But you have too many grave thoughts, too many weighty anxieties and duties, too much to do to make this trifling possible, you say. The very reason, my friend, why you should cultivate fun, nonsense, lightness of heart, because you need them so much, because you are 'weary with thinking.' Then do try to be young, even if you have to be foolish in so doing. One cannot be wise all the time." An inevitable sadness tinges the last remnants of declining life at the thought of the near and permanent separation from all things earthly. As appropriate to this feeling, we append the following lines, of unknown authorship, entitled: A FAREWELL. "Farewell, days and months and years; Farewell, thoughts and hopes and fears; Farewell, self of long ago! In the old familiar place Time sped on at slower pace Past recall, indeed, you lie, Days and months and years gone by, Now the old familiar door, Shuts us out for evermore! "Farewell, house-no more our home! Others, in the years to come, On the hearth their fires will burn; "Farewell, all things that we leave! Hopes and joys, and griefs and fears, Scarce have died from roof and wall? Surely, ghostly steps will fall On the bare dismantled floors, Gliding in at open doors, Flitting up and down the stair, Shades more vague than shadows are, Sure our wraiths, where we are gone, PEACE AT HOME. "I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled It is just as possible, tritely remarks Rev. Dr. Phillip, to keep a calm house as a clean house, a cheerful house as a warm house, if the heads set themselves to do so. Where is the difficulty of consulting each other's weaknesses as well as each other's wants; each other's tempers as well as each other's health; each other's comfort as well as each other's character? "Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind." Oh! it is by leaving the peace at home to chance, instead of pursuing it by system, that so many houses are unhappy. It deserves notice, also, that almost any one can be courteous and forbearing and patient in a neighbor's house. If anything go wrong, or be out of tune, or disagreeable there, it is made the best of, not the worst; even efforts are made to excuse it, and to show that it is not felt; or, if felt, it is attributed to accident, not design; and this is not only easy, but natural in the house of a friend. I will not, therefore, believe that what is so natural in the house of another is impossible at home, but maintain, without fear, that all the courtesies of life may be upheld in domestic society. A husband as willing to be pleased at home, and as anxious to please as in his neighbor's house, and a wife as intent on making things comfortable every day in her family as on set days to her guests, could not fail to make their home happy. Let us not evade the point of these remarks by recurring to the maxim about allowing for temper. It is worse than folly to refer to our temper, unless we |