"And so there is not to be the most perfect confidence between us? We are not to think aloud, lay our hearts bare."

"Not by any manner of means!

We are to live in little citadels of rose-colored reserve. I'm to say to myself, In all the big things of life-all the things that matterhe's perfection. Let the little ones buzz about my ears like gnats. They won't sting memuch—and if they do, pray Heaven he doesn't see the scar!' A fair cheek or no favor! But do you know what will happen?"

"An earthquake, I should hope. Or thunder! Anything to clear the air.”

"We shall live together fifty years in unbroken tranquillity, and you never will know you've married a whirlwind. Then some day I shall do just what I have to-night. I shall say, 'Tom, I hate, hate to have you wear side-whiskers.'"

"But all that isn't fair, Margaret. It isn't square dealing between man and man.”

Ah, but it isn't man to man. It's man and woman. That's what complicates it." "I don't care. There ought to be rules to hit our common humanity; they should work both ways. You expect me to know things by intuition, and do things I can't see. Is it fair?"

Not a bit. But I'm going to do things I do see, for reasons I want to kick over the moon. It's as broad as it is long."

66 What reasons?"

66

"Well, reasons I respect awfully in the main, but which are like sackcloth in the wearing. You see, really and truly, Tom, I do reverence you beyond belief; and that reverence must go into the detail I hate. It must even keep me from revolt when you stroke my fur crosswise. It must make me finely courteous to you-always-always. It must make me vow I will exact nothing.”

But suppose I think you've a right to exact?"

"Ah, that shows how dear you are, but it makes it no more possible to do it. If I am a wise woman, I shall refrain. The soul is an awful goddess, Tom. We don't talk about her much, but she's there just the same. Stay outside the veil, and she'll whisper to you all day long; but invade her shrine, and she slips away. Worship her, and she'll follow; hunt her home, and you've lost her. It's because she's so shy and sweet that when you seem to change to me, I sha'n't say, "Why?" "

"When I change! How queer it sounds!"' "When you seem to change! When I've lived near you so long that you forget whose breath it is, they mingle so. Then I shall stay beside you very softly, never once saying,

You used to do thus and so.' I shall realize you're turning, growing, stretching up, and pray the Almighty, who contains us both, that I may grow too, and that our new branches mingle. You shall be free, dear one. There shall be no shadow of a bond." "But I want bonds. I exult in them, when it's you. I demand them."

"Ah, so do I! and the outer ones-the

"Yes; days when you, monsieur, do not appear at the rendezvous. It's woman's sneaking habit to be always there. And on those days, when you are five-sixteenths indifferent to me, I shall become—another Margaret. I shall put on doublet and hose. Do you know, I've always wanted to write an essay entitled Concerning the Art of Being a Man'? For we've that to learn of you. When you are in trouble or perplexity, and your castle falls about your ears, what do you do? Go out into the world, and try to forget. But we! we sit and mull at home, growing sodden with tears. We think it a species of disloyalty to put our grief in a precious box and hand it back to Almighty God to keep for us, while we try to beguile our minds. But I have learned the formula. I know! When you drop away from me ever SO little, I shall go out-out-anywhere; under the sky, among people. I shall try to find some joyance with my kind, and then, if I come back and we renew ours together, so much the happier I."

"Margaret, you have put me miles away." "Yes; isn't it cold and dreadful-for a minute? But that doesn't last. It's the only way to be near together. If we clutch and cling, we sha'n't get anything but the air. If we reverence each other-serve each other why, some day we shall realize that, as much as two souls can be, we are fused into one." He sat looking at her in amazement. Her face was white and passionate. The hands he held had grown very cold.

"Margaret," he said, "how do you know all these things? Marriage-my marriage is a simple enough state, full of happiness, content. You've been studying the internal polity. Where did you get your data? Does it come to round, silky-headed things ursought ?"

The woman-look came into her eyes, the look of brooding and perhaps premonitory pain. She shook her head sadly, and smiled.

"We know lo's of things we're never told," she said" things like these Sometimes I think we evolved them through all the generations when you went to war and we stayed at home and mused over the cradle. It's our

You're only

Prince Consort. Don't you know that's why we're so pathetically different? It's a wonder we can speak a syllable of the same language. Our life has been all within for so many years that we keep the habit of secret, complex living yet. You must be patient with us. We spend our days hewing out our own crosses; you must come and give us drink."

She shook her head, with a very solemn look from far away.

"There's one pitfall," she said, "from which not even wisdom shall save me. Have I not learned the fallacy of wholesale betrayal? Have I not seen the woman sink and fail who throws away restraint and owns her worship? If she had kept one little fortress of reserve! If he had thought there was some inch of her he could not win! But no, poor princess! She pours her dowry down before him, and then walks beggared. If I could convince you that I should live if you deserted me! But no! I've told you I shall not, and I shall tell you yet again."

Silence fell between them, and in its hush she seemed to waken from another state—an unfamiliar one. She looked at him apprehensively; she shrank a little from his glance.

"And after all," he said, at last, " I haven't known you a bit. I didn't guess you had these thoughts, half-fears, half-tremors. Why, Margaret, you make me wonder whether you really will be glad!"

She stopped him, not by a word, but a swift curling up against his breast. He forgot what he was beginning to think, and gathered the whole sweet burden of her into his arms. She laid her cheek against his, and whispered to him divinely:

"What did I say, love? Forget it. These things don't matter. Nothing does but you. I'm not myself to-night. My head aches a little, and I'm nervous."

The formula rang familiar in his ear. It seemed to him he might have heard it, not long before; yet, when he looked down into her eyes, they were clear wells of shining light, and he found only his own image there. But as they sat thinking over the dear new world to be born to-morrow, another thrill of memory wakened in his brain. The tendency of their talk looked to him all of a piece.

"Dear!" he said. "Dear!" Then he stopped. Something was glimmering before

him, vague though palpable. Suddenly the outlined vision rose and took its shape to his mind's eye.

"Margaret," said he, "seems to me we've both been trying the boot on one foot. My faults, and how to weather them! I don't want to say it, but-how about your faults, dear?"

She pushed herself back at arm's length, her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes widened in a lovely and unreasoning terror.

I

Why, Tom," said she, " you said—you've often said—I haven't any !"

He put her hands passionately to his lips. "And it's true," he vowed. "It's God's truth. You haven't one."

They sat there still, knowing the unknown country was before them, and they were not afraid. At least the man was not; but the woman shivered a little, now and then. was not adventurous, and she had chanced upon the bones of other travelers.

N the memorial window at Stratford-onAvon the seventh and last age of man is represented by a picture of Isaac propped up in his bed, while Jacob is deceiving him. I would rather have chosen the life of Moses, his natural force not abated, his eye undimmed, although many years had passed over his head and much service he had rendered, going out alone from his people, and entering into that loneliness which is characteristic of old age when one after another of the companions of life have dropped off from him. Or I would have taken the appeal of Samuel to the people, Have I defrauded any of you? have I taken any bribes? have I rendered any unjust judgment? and receiving the generous testimony of all the people to his faithful and undeviating service. Or I would have taken the old age of David, recounting in that memorable psalm of his the mercies of God which had accompanied him through all the years of his pilgrimage, forecasting death, and giving directions how the government should be administered after he had gone from the earth. Or I would have taken, perhaps best of all, the old age of Paul, the missionary of the Gospel, chained to a soldier in Rome, awaiting his martyrdom, gladly look ing back in memories over the past, peaceful in his captivity and his confinement in the present, and joyously anticipating his redemption and his glorification in the future.

For youth is not the happiest time of life, but old age the happiest, if youth and man

A series of Sabbath-evening sermons preached in Plymouth Church, stenographically reported by Henry Winans, and revised by the author. For previous sermons in this series see issues for July 23 and 30, and August 6, 13, 20, and 27.

She

hood have been well spent. You are not to think that to-night I am addressing old men only; if I am to tell you how to grow old gracefully, I must tell you at the beginning of life; for no man can grow old gracefully unless he begins early. He may grow old submissively, resignedly, patiently; but he cannot grow old gloriously and joyously, so that his last days are his happiest days and his best days, if his youth has been wasted and his manhood misspent.

A graceful and blessed old age must have three elements in it; a happy retrospect, a peaceful present, and an inspiring future. And old age cannot have either one of these three if the youth has been wasted and manhood has been misspent. "I am already being offered, and the time of my departure is at hand, for I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith; henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness"-a blessed retrospect, a peaceful present, an inspiring future. Let us look at them separately.

The graceful and happy old age must have a happy retrospect. A man may indeed enter into old age and in oblivion forget somewhat of the past, but not if his memory is preserved to him. The old man lives in the past, and if his past is full of wasted hours and misspent opportunities, then those memories must be full of bitterness. It cannot be otherwise. The happy old man looks back along the path of gladness; the memories of that past gather round him and inspire his heart with rejoicings. So the old man looks at life as David looked at it and recounts the mercies of God that have accompanied him all his way

so he looks at it as Samuel looked at it, and remembers with gladness that he has been faithful to his trust, to his people, and turns to his children and to his grandchildren, and appeals to them to bear witness to his fidelity; so he looks upon it as Paul looked back upon his, with the sense of a service faithfully rendered to the Father whom he loves and to the Saviour whom he follows; so he looks back upon it as Moses looks back, and, looking forward and seeing that his children and his grandchildren will enter into the inheritance into which he cannot enter, nevertheless rejoices that his service has prepared that inheritance for them.

ance.

A man may face death as the penitent thief faced it; the memories that come out of the past may come hounding him like ghosts; and still the voice of Christ may break a way through them, and give deliverBut that is not the graceful old age. It is only an old age that can be endured. Even the old man who looks back on a faithful life will remember blunders, but he will allay regret because he will be able to say, I have learned wisdom by my mistakes; his sins will rise up against him, but he will be able to allay remorse, because he will say, Though I fell into sin, nevertheless I fought against it. So his memories of the past will make his last days rich days.

He

And his present will be a blessed one. will not have wasted his substance in his youth; he will have laid up something for this time of old age, so that he will not have to toil as though he had not made provision. He will not have wasted passions and appetites, and nothing else; he will have gotten control of the appetite and the passion; so there will come the peace, not of a man whose life has died and left nothing but ashes, but of one who has become victor over his enemy and made his enemy itself his servant and friend. He will have fought a good fight. And the doubts of his youth will have flown away as the ghosts fly at the crowing of the cock. For our doubts are the product of our spiritual ignorance and unculture. He who has had many years pass over his head, and in those years has been living for the world, will have been laying up for himself a greater skepticism when age comes upon him. But he who has been living in the eternal world, he who has been making the world serve him, he who has been keeping his heart open to the Eternal and the Infinite, he who has been walking with his Father, will find

the riddle of life less a riddle, the perplexity of life less a perplexity—he will perhaps know less than he thought he knew when he was a boy, but life will be clearer and better. In the summer the leaves hang on all the boughs, and as you stand in your country home you can get but a glimpse of the river or mountain that lies beyond the river; but when the fall has come, and the leaves are withered, and the winds have come and swept them all away and the trees stand bare, the river lies shining before you and the mountains rise up clear-marked in the autumn air. So when one after another of the things in life that did shield and surround you, and that you rejoiced in, have been swept away, and the trees in which your life is lived stand skeleton-like, if you have lived a life that has given you insight and outsight, you will see all the clearer because life seems barren, and the river of life will shimmer before you and the mountain of God stand clear-cut against the sky.

And so this man who has lived this life of temperance and probity and honor and service, and has all the flocking memories ministering to him, and has in the present all the sweet consciousness of God and immortality abiding with him, he will look forward into the future without fear, nay, with hope. "I am already being offered." If one's life has been one long self-sacrifice, why not rejoice when the sacrifice comes to its consummation and we see that it has not been offered in vain? If one has been living that life of Christly consecration and self-sacrifice, then this word, "I am already being offered," will come as a celestial anthem. He will live in the future; he will live in his children and in his grandchildren; he will project himself into them, as it were. Sometimes men in middle life grow impatient of children; but good old men never. They love the little children; and the grandmothers are more indulgent to the grandchildren than as mothers they were to their own offspring, because the old men and the old women come back again into their children and live their lives over again in them. But, more than that, God will renew his old man's youth. This old man will look forward and upward, and the life that is beyond will become near, and his heart will be more exhilarated at times than ever his heart was in his childhood. Do you remember those four pictures of Coles?—the Voyage of Life? The first, the babe in the cradle coming out from the

mystic cave, with an angel holding the tiller
in the hand; the second, the young man
standing in his boat and holding the tiller
himself, while before him there is that impos-
sible castle in the air which his imagination
has built, toward which he is looking; the
third, the man in middle life coming to the
very edge of a great cataract, the clouds
above black and the lightning flashing out of
them, while he stands firm and strong, with a
courageous
hand upon
the tiller; and, last of
all, the boat upon the smooth bosom of the
river, as a child rests its head upon the bosom
of its mother, and before him, not the dreams
of childhood, but through the rift of clouds
the angels calling him up and on. Only he
grows old gracefully who has seen that vision
and steered toward it, and in the time of
tempest and peril has kept a firm hand on
the tiller and a courageous heart in his bosom.
All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion-
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Is this Shakespeare's view of life? No! It is Shakespeare's representation of the cynic's view of life. And you might almost class it with the words of that other dramatic cynic, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." Yes, it is to the cynic. But not so does Christian faith view life. It sees the child in the bulrushes, God's special care; it sees the boy brought up to the Temple and there given to God; it sees the youth kindled with love by woman's love, and first beginning the real full life when woman has taken him to herself and enriched his life with her love and crowned him therewith; it sees the soldier going forth like Joshua, not seeking bubble reputation at the cannon's mouth, but armed with courage for God and his native land; it sees the man of middle life judging justly, learning experience from all the past and giving experience to others; it sees the patriarch gathering the children and the grandchildren about him and making a hospitable home, foundation and center of all life, fruitful in all love; it sees the old age that is birth into a new life, the happiest of all, glorious in memories of past achievement, the present all peaceful, the future all radiant with hope awaiting core nation in the world God grant that we may so live our life that we may thus grow old gracefully!

to come.

-The Spectator.