The Wheeling Daily Register

From the Cincinnati Enquirer.

Growing Old

We perused an article in one of our exchanges the other day, under the above caption, in which the writer lamented the inevitable decree that sets up the milestones of the years behind, and brings us nearer to the silent close of our journey. To us the thought suggested a different train of reflections. We do not feel that it is a sad thing to grow old. As we go forward and meet the years, each is a messenger that tells us a pleasant story of the land to which we have taken up our pilgrimage, and though we may not lay hands upon them and detain them, yet they imbue us with happy thoughts and pleasant memories, that clothe each coming messenger in a halo-like garment of smiles and beauty. The journey of life is but short, but it is long enough to teach the idleness and littleness of things earthly, and that our earthly tabernacle is far too narrow to hold in thrall that invisible fire of immortality that pulses through our being, or even permit it to shine forth in that brilliancy that it so much longs for. Life is beautiful, but it is only beautiful as a panorama that moves on to the great and final climax, when the curtains are drawn, and the marvelous beauty of the universe opens with its endless vistas of glory upon our enlarged sight and the dreams of the past are paled from view in the blaze of the never ending Present. The toy, the sword and the toy make up the sum of our existence, for the old and the young are nearest Heaven. Prattling childhood and silver age walk hand in hand, and laugh at the gamboling lambs and make pretty speeches to the birds and butterflies, for the vial of time is but a mist to the right and to the left of them, and Love and Innocence stand like cherubs by the cradle and the grave. It is only when we are among the tropical clouds of the Middle Passage of life that we utterly forget the emblem of innocence and turn the edge of the sword against the unwary armies of Beauty. And this we do out of very blindness, for when we pass the mountain summit and go down the gentle plain toward the gold amethyst pillars of the sunset, we cast the sword behind us and reach forth for the flowers that wave and beckon us onward. There is nothing more touching and beautiful than age. The bent form, the feeble, tottering step, the dimmed eye and the child-like confidence of the aged speak to every heart, not dead to every human emotion, with a wonderful power and pathos. We do not envy the feelings of that person who can say a slighting word to or of the aged of every condition in life and whose strong hand is not held out to them at every rough corner and every narrow crossing. Not many days since we saw a bright and beautiful girl, having almost the form and semblance of an angel, rudely jostle a poor, decrepit old dame on the sidewalk, and tell her in tones of petulance to keep out of her way. That girl's bright eyes will yet be dim and lustreless, and her fair round shoulders bent with the weight of years and the burdens of life and if her life's sunset is cold and obscured with clouds, it will be because she herself, in the bloom of youth, poisoned the chalice with a suicidal hand. Of all to be loved and cherished, and kindly cared for, the aged are first deserving, for they have borne the burdens, and their patient old eyes are only waiting to see the gates lifted up, when they will be closed in an ecstasy of love. We grow old, but only that we may rehabilitate ourselves with the garments of an endless youth.