The Globe-republican. [volume] (Dodge City, Kan.) 1889-1910, 1893-07-14

muscle did not always bunch your arm
Grave and dignified as you now are,
| you once went coasting down the hill
side, or threw off your hat for the
race, or sent the ball flying skyhigh.
But youth will not always last 1t
stays only long enough to give us ex-
uberant spirits. and broad shoulders
for burden-carying, and an arm with
which to battle our way through diff
culties. Lies path, if you follow it
long enough, will come under frown-
ing crag and across trembling cause
way. Blessed old age, if you let it
come naturally. You cannot hide it.
You may try to cover the wrinkles, but
| you cannot cover the wrinkles If the
time has come for you to be old, be not
ashamed to be old. The grandest
things in all the universe are old. Old
mountains, old rivers, old seas, old
stars and old eternity. Then do not be
ashamed to be old, unless you are older
than the mountains and older than the
! stars.
How men and women will lie! They
say they are 40, but they are 60. They
say they are 20, but they are 80 They
say they are 60, but they are so. How
some people will lie! Glorious old age,
! if found in the way of righteousness!
How beautiful the old age of Jacob,
leaning on the top of his staff; of John
Quincy Adams, falling with the harness
on; of Washington Irving, sitting pen
| in hand, amid the scenes himself had
made classical: of John Angel James
to the last proclaiming the gospel to
| the masses of Birmingham, of Theodore
Frelinghuysen, down to feebleness and
emaciation, devoting his illustrious
faculties to the kingdom of God! At
eventide it was light!
See that you do honor to the aged
Smooth the way for that mothers feet;
they have not many more steps to take.
Steady those tottering limbs: they will
soon be at rest. Plow not up that face
| with any more wrinkles: trouble and
care have marked it full enough.
Thrust no thorn into that old heart; it
will soon cease to beat. 1.-THE eye that
mocketh its father, and .refuseth to
obey its mother, the ravens of the val
ley shall pick it out and the young
eagles shall eat it." The bright morn
ing and the hot monday of life
have passed with many. 1t is o'clock!
| 5 o'clock! 6 o'clock! The shad-
ows fall longer and thicker and
faster. Seven o'clock! 8 o'clock The
sun has dipped below the horizon: the
warmth has gone out of the air. Nine
o'clock! 10 o'clock! The heavy dews
are falling; the activities of life's day
are all hushed; it is time to go to bed.
Eleven o'clock! twelve o'clock! The
patriarch sleeps the blessed sleep, the
good sleep, the long sleep. Heavens
messengers of light have kindled bon
fires of victory all over the heavens At
eventide it is light! Light!
My text shall also find fulfllment in
the latter days of the church. Only a
few missionaries, few churches, few
good men, compared with the institu-
tions leprous and putretied.
1t is early yet in the history of every
thing good. Civilization and Chris
tianity are just getting out of the
cradle. The light of martyr-stakes,
flashing all up and down the sky, is
but the flaming of the morning; but
when the evening. of the world shall
come, glory to Gods conquering truth,
it shall be light. Wars sword clang-
ing back in the scabbard: intemper-
ance, buried under ten thousand broken
decanters; the worlds impurity, turn
ing its brow heavenward for the bene
diction, blessed are the pure in heart"
the last vestige of sel6shness sub
merged in notwithstanding charities:
all China worshiping DIR. Abeel's Sa-
viour; all India believing in Henry
Martyrs Bible: aboriginal superstition
acknowledging David Brainerd's piety:
human bondage delivered through
Thomas Clarkson's Christianity, vag-
rancy coming back from its pollution
at the call of Elizabeth Fry's Redeemer:
the mountains coming down; the val
legs going up; holiness" inscribed on
horses bell, and silkworm's thread and
brown thrasher's wing, and shells
tinge, and manufacturers shuttle, and
chemists laboratory, and kings scep-
ter, and nations magma charta. Not
hospital, for there are no wounds: not
an asylum, for there are no orphans;
not a prison, for there are no criminals:
not an alms-house, for there are no
paupers; not tear. for there are no
SORROWS. The long dirge of earths
lamentation has ended in the triumphal
march of redeemed empires, the forests
harping it on vine-strung branches, the
water chanting it among the gorges,
the thunders drumming it among the
hills, the ocean giving it forth with its
organs, trade winds touching the keys
and Euroclydon's foot on the pedal.
want to see John Howard when the
last prisoner is reformed: want to see
Florence Nightingale when the last
saber wound has stopped hurting; l
want to see William Penn when the
last Indian has been civilized; want
to see John Huss when the last flame of
persecution has been eXtinguished:
want to see John Bunyan after the last
pilgrim has come to the gate of the
Celestial city: above all, l want to see
Jesus after the last saint has his throne
and begun to sing hallelujah!
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