# The Clergyman's Wife and Other Sketches/The Beauty of Age

The Beauty of Age.
ll the poets who ever sang have chronicled the loveliness of childhood, of youth, of maturity; but the beauty of old age, not less alluring, not less impressive, and far more rare, has been the source of fewer inspirations. "Beauty in Age?" cries Youth, his bright, disparaging eyes flashing dissent. "Beauty, forsooth? The unequivocal respectability of Age, its wisdom sometimes, its claims upon our reverence occasionally, we admit, but infirmity and Decay are the handmaidens of Age, they were never yet the tire-women of beauty!"
Listening to that scoff, an image rises before our mental vision, that rebukes Youth's hasty verdict; Age stands forth invested with triune beauty, physical, mental, spiritual! It is the picture of a Patriarch serenely counting the sands of his eightieth winter. A noble presence, with form erect as though Time had felt it fruitless labor and never essayed to bend its stateliness. About the high and meditative brow press silver locks, silken as childhood's tresses. The dark, genial eyes kindle ​brightly with every emotion. The lines about the finely curved mouth tell it has been used to smile on iron circumstance, ay, these eighty years! Every furrow upon that countenance speaks of heroic battles with misfortune, ending in victories, of perfect faith crowned with the halo of peace, of the sympathetic nature that looks benignly upon all creation. The Patriarch's step has not lost its firmness, nor his voice its full, melodious tones, for his warm, fervent spirit has melted the frost of Age's winter before it could gather on his heart and paralyze his faculties. The movement of his life has ever been rapid, impulsive, energetic, persevering. His hands more diligently employed in succoring than acquiring, his every blessing shared, his worst enemy pardoned,—well has he earned the rare attributes that distinguish his age. Rich is he in years, aged in no other sense.
And yet he has suffered more, perhaps, than most men. He has known the sting of treachery, the sharp pinch of penury, the icy touch of ingratitude, the agony of bereavement! A single stroke of Fate has hurled him, in an instant, from the pinnacle of wealth and worldly dignity into the abyss of poverty, embarrassment, and what would have been despair to weaker men. Again and again he has been lifted up, he has achieved great successes, he has welcomed Heaven's good gifts in abundant showers, and again and again has he been cast down and stripped of all. Prosperity essayed ​with the heat of her meridian sun, Adversity with his freezing winds, to rob him of the mantle of Faith in God's providence. Vain attempt! He only drew its folds more closely about him, and looking upwards, murmured, "It is well! it is well! Even as thou wilt, O Lord!" Herein lies the secret of youthful vigor, of unsubdued buoyancy, of the capacity for enjoyment, of the beauty in age preserved to an eightieth year.
Especially we love to recall his face as it looked upon a memorable celebration at which we were permitted to be present. Every heart beneath his hospitable roof beat gladly upon that day. There was a fête in honor of his seventy-eighth birthday. It would occupy too much space to describe the joyous festival; we will only touch upon the opening scene. The Patriarch sat beside a devoted wife, surrounded by a host of sons and daughters, grandsons and grand-daughters, who had flocked from their distant homes to gather about him. Many friends, too, were there, some whose dark locks had whitened side by side with his.
Within a bowery recess, decked with evergreens, and garlanded with festoons of natural flowers, behold a group of lovely children, clad in white, with flower-crowned brows and radiant faces. In the centre stands a classic-featured young maiden of but nine summers, holding by the hand a little sister of seven. These are the two youngest of the Patriarch's many daughters, the last roses of ​his long summer. The knot of little ones that encircle them, down to the golden-haired, blue-eyed, three-year old boy and girl in the corner, who stand with their tiny arms clasped about each other, are his grandchildren. The dark-eyed child, the central star of this youthful galaxy, in a voice, distinct, liquid, and full of genuine pathos, utters the salutatory lines which some elder sister (given to the sin of rhyming,) has taught her. The verses have no value in themselves, yet happy tears roll slowly down the cheeks of the Patriarch, and fall from the gentle eyes of his wife, as they listen. And friends weep, not merely because the sight moves them, but because, oh! truly because they feel and are melted by the beauty of that Patriarch's old age. These were the words the little damsel uttered with such touching emphasis:—