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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