Old Age

“Remember thy Creator,... while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.”

A DISSIPATED youth is sure to be followed by a cross and joyless old age. During the years of his ungodliness, Solomon had been a fast liver, and, most likely, he now felt creeping over him the jejune and dreary feelings which foretel a premature decline. No dew of youth survived to create a green old age, and having forestalled the reserve of strength and spirits, he had failed withal to lay up against this time a good foundation of faithful friends and pleasant memories. The portrait is general; but an old worldling seems to have supplied the original.

Of his last years this old man says, “I have no pleasure in them.” Once on a time existence was a joy, and the exuberant spirits overflowed in shouts and songs and hilarious ditties. So abundant was the joy of life that, like the sunbeams in a tropic

LECTURE XIX.

clime, it was needful to shade it, and with a Venetian lattice of imagined sorrows and tragic tales the young man assuaged the over-fervid beams of his own felicity.

“In youth he loved the darksome lawn,

Brushed by the owlet’s wing;
Then twilight was preferred to dawn,
And autumn to the spring.

“Sad fancies did he then affect,

In luxury of disrespect
To his own prodigal excess
Of too familiar happiness.” *

Now there is no need of such artificial abatements. It is not easy for the old man to get a nook so warm that it will thaw the winter in his veins. To say nothing of a song, it is not easy for him to muster up a smile; and as he listens with languid interest to the news of the day, and, in subtile sympathy with his own failing faculties, as he disparages this modern time and its dwindled men, it is plain that, as for the world, its avocations and amusements, its interests and its inhabitants, he has little pleasure in them.

It adds to the evil of such days that the pleasures of expectation are constantly lessening. Old age is a Terra del Fuego, — a region where the weather never clears. Once, when a trivial ailment came the hardy youth could outbrave it, and still go on with his daily duties. But now, every ailment is im- * Wordsworth.

portant, and they are never like to end. The cough is cured only to be succeeded by an asthma, and when the tender eyes have ceased to trickle, the ears begin to tingle. Once upon a time a few drops might fall into the brightest day, like a settling shower in June; and there were apt to be hurri canes, equinoctial gales, great calamities, drenching and devastating sorrows. But now, the day is all one drizzle, and life itself the chief calamity, and there is little space for hope where the weather is all either clouds or rain.

Then in the third and three following verses, there is given an allegorical sketch of the infirmities of age. “The keepers of the house tremble,” Those arms once so brawny wither. The Priam who could have cleft a brazen panoply, can now fling a spear with scarce an infant’s force, — and the David wTho could hurl his pebble straight into the centre of Goliath’s brow, can scarcely carry to his own lips a cup of water. In either arm the sturdy champion used to feel that he had two stout defenders, — two trusty keepers of the castle; but now that he is old, any one can bind them and carry him whither he would not. “And the strong men bow them selves.” Those active limbs can do no more. The pedestrian tells how once on a time he walked his hundred miles in four-and-twenty hours, and then, as he gets up to give a specimen, he stumbles on the carpet. That other disciple who outran Peter can no longer creep from his couch to the sanctuary, but is fain to be carried in his chair. Be thankful, Asahel, that you die so soon, or none would believe that your feet were once swifter than a roe. Be thankful, Samson, that you perish in your prime, or it would not be easy to believe that those bending legs of yours once bore the gates of Gaza. “The strong men bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few.” The daily meal is itself a drudgery; for the teeth have fallen out, and the masticating process is a fatigue and a trouble. And, still sorer privation, the eyes are dim. “Those that look out of the windows are darkened.” The landscape is a blot, — the very world is misty. The writer’s inkhorn is allowed to dry, and the virtuous woman who clothed all her household with scarlet, — her needles now rust in the unopened case. Whatever may have been the pleasure derived from works of information or of fancy, that pleasure has faded; for, except in the brief winter’s noon, the eye can no longer decipher the wavering lines, and even though by reading aloud, friendship endeavours to supply their failure, the effort is defeated by the dulness of the ear. “The doors are shut in the street.” Soft sounds no longer get in; and though by bawling lustily, a son or a daughter may ask or answer some occasional question, — poor substitute, these volleyed and intermitting utterances, — poor substitute for the whispers of affection, and the sweet accents of familiar voices, and that calm, effortless participation in all the passing converse which were the privilege of happier days. But, not only is the door of audience closed, the door of utterance is also shut. “The grinders have ceased,” and with lips collapsed and organs all impaired, it is an eifort to talk; and bending silently in on his own solitude, the veteran dozes in his elbow-chair the long summer hours when younger folks are busy. But if he dozes in the day, he does not sleep at night. At the voice of the bird, at the crowing of the cock, although he does not hear it, he can keep his couch no longer. He rises whilst industry is still locked in needed slumber, and even before the sleep-cloud has melted from the eyes of infancy. He rises, but not because he has any work to do, or any pleasure to enjoy. “He is afraid of that which is high, and fears are in the way.” He has neither enterprise nor courage. Once it was a treat to press up the mouncain side and enjoy the majestic prospect. Now, there is no high place which is not formidable; and even to the temple it is a sad drawback that it stands on Zion, and that it is needful to “go up.” “The almond-tree nourishes, and the grasshopper is burdensome.” Teaze him not with your idle affairs. In that load of infirmities he has encumbrance enough to carry, and though it be not the weight of a feather, do not augment his burden, who

totters under the load of many years. For “desire has failed.” You can grapple with heavy tasks, — you can submit to severe toil and protracted self-denial, for you have a purpose to serve — you have an end in view, — you have an inducement which countervails toil and cheats the self-denial. But with him there is no inducement, for there is no ulterior. “Desire has failed.” “Barzillai, come and live with me at the palace,” says David. And, answers Barzillai, “I am this day fourscore years old; can I discern between good and evil? Can thy servant taste what I eat or what I drink? Can I hear any more the voice of singing men and singing women? Let thy servant, I pray thee, turn back, that I may die in mine own city, and be buried in the grave of my father and of my mother.” Yes, that is all of “desire” that now remains, — the desire to die at home, and be buried in the family grave. And it is presently fulfilled. For now the old man goes to his long home, and his funeral walks the streets. The other morning his children came and found nothing but the ruin. The silver cord by which it was suspended had worn out at last, and the lamp of life was fallen to the ground, — the lights extinguished and the golden bowl which fed them broken. * The pitcher was shattered beside the fountain, and the cisternwheel demolished. The eye was glass. The heart was still. And now dust goes back to dust, — for the soul has already gone to the God who gave it.

* Noyes.

This description gives great emphasis to the exhortation of the outset. Remember thy Creator in youth — for if you do not remember Him then, your next leisure will be old age, and now you see what sort of leisure that is. How foolish to calculate on a time which not one youth in ten ever sees! How fatal to calculate on a time which, were it really come, you could turn to no account! Suppose that by an interposition of Omnipotence, you were lifted over the interval of years. Suppose that you, who are this day fifteen, were to awake to-morrow and find yourself fourscore. You know what it is to be very sleepy, and how tiresome it is to have people talking to you when you can scarcely keep open your eyes. You know what it is to be very sad, and when your heart is breaking you know how painful it is to be obliged to go about your daily tasks, and how little progress you make in this disconsolate diligence. You know wnat it is to be very sick; and if, when you cannot lift your head from the pillow, your little sister were bringing in lilies of the valley or new wall-flowers of the spring, you would look languidly at them, and soon put them away; or if they asked you to rise and take a ride, you would feel that they were mocking you. So is it with old age. It is drowsy, and sad, and fall of infirmity; and to go to an old man who has never minded religion in his youth — to go to him and ask him to mind it now, would be like singing songs to a heavy heart; it would be like telling stories to a sleepy man; it would be like showing pictures or presenting nosegays to a tortured invalid. Were you now waking up to a sudden old age, you would find all over you a strange stupor: the windows darkened, and the street-doors closed. And you would find yourself very dull. These are days when you would say, “I have no pleasure in them,” And like a man constantly in a dim disease, you would feel as if you never were hale enough to throw all your heart into the subject. And when pious friends pressed you and entreated you to think of your soul, you would pray them, “I cannot attend. Everything fatigues me now. The grasshopper is a burden. I know that the subject is awfully important. So much the worse for me — for I cannot take interest in anything. Desire has failed. My heart is weary — my soul is dim. Oh, leave me, leave me to repose!” 0 my dear young friends, give the Saviour your heart whilst you have a heart to give. Listen to his voice whilst your feelings still are fresh, and give Him your affections before your natures grow dry and arid.

For this is our next lesson: The Creator remembers in their old age, those who in youth remember Him. This is a woful picture, but some of the features would scarcely be recognised in an old disciple. At least it cannot be truly said by an aged Christian, “I have no pleasure •” and though there may be “clouds,” he has also long and sunny intervals, and beyond this cloudy region he has blessed prospects. The peace which the Saviour gives to his people, is a well of water springing up unto everlasting life; and there is nothing which keeps the feelings so fresh and youthful as a perennial piety. “Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall.” The young men of this world must grow old; and a few years hence the young man rejoicing in his youth shall be leaning on his staff for very feebleness. “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.” And if you want to know the difference between animal and spiritual youth, just compare that young spendthrift who bows his head like a bulrush, because he is conscious of debt arid dishonesty and the disrespect of all around; compare him with that old, but frugal and contented saint, who carries his head erect as the palm-tree, and who, like the palm-tree, has constant sunshine on it. Compare that young profligate who, after a night of riot, is now dragging his reluctant steps to his hated post, and with bleared eyes and throbbing temples, is yawning forth his vacancy, or ejaculating his chagrin; — compare him with yon serene and cheerful Christian who, now that life’s working- day is over, is resting from his labours for a little before he passes to his reward, and whose evening is so bright that the youngest are glad to come forth and bask in its beams. Compare that young sceptic who has half persuaded himself into the disbelief of God and hereafter, — and whose forced unbelief is often interrupted by intrusions of unwelcome conviction, — compare him with Paul the aged in prison, writing, “I know whom I have believed. I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand; I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. Henceforth, there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day.”

It is not very long ago since the lives of two veterans appeared so simultaneous as almost to compel the contrast. Their declining days were somewhat similar. When getting old and feeling frail, they lost some of their dearest friends, and each lost his fortune. In these circumstances Sir Walter writes:” I used to think a slight illness was a luxurious thing.

It is different in the latter stages — the old

post-chaise gets more shattered at every turn; windows will not pull up, doors refuse to open, or, being open, will not shut again. There is some new subject of complaint every moment — your sicknesses come thicker and thicker; your sympathizing friends fewer and fewer. The recollection of youth, health, and uninterrupted powers of activity, neither improved nor enjoyed, is a poor strain of comfort

Death has closed the long dark avenue upon loves and friendships; and I look at them as through the grated door of a burial-place filled with monuments of those who were once dear to me, with no insincere wish that it may open for me at no distant period, provided such be the will of God. I shall never see the threescore and ten, and shall be summed up at a discount. No help for it, and no matter either.“* Recovering from a similar slight illness, Mr. Wilberforce remarked, “I can scarce understand why my life is spared so long, except it be to show that a man can be as happy without a fortune as with one.” And then, soon after, when his only surviving daughter died, he writes, “I have often heard that sailors on a voyage will drink, ‘Friends astern, till they are half way over, then ‘Friends a head, With me it has been ’ friends a head 3 this long time.” f

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints; and God’s kindness to his aged servants is often displayed in their gentle dismissal. In view of advancing years it has been sweetly sung by an English poetess: — J

“Life! we’ve been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather.

Tis hard to part when friends are dear,
Perhaps ‘twill cost a sigh, a tear.
Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time; Say not good night, but in some happier clime,

Bid me good morning.”

* “Scotfs Life,” Second Edition, vol. ix.,pp. 60, 61. f “Wilberforce’s Life,” vol. v., pp. 326, 328. Mrs. Barbauld.

And the boon has oft been vouchsafed to the mature and Simeon-like disciple. Many of you remember “Father “Wilkinson, who preached the Golden Lecture so many years in London. One evening he told his daughter that he had long dreaded dying in his sleep, and that he had nightly prayed that it might not be so:” But this night,” he added, “I have withdrawn that petition, and will leave this and all my matters in God’s hands.” It was the last link of bondage broken; the last fibre of self-will uprooted; and having thus completed his meetness, the Lord surprised his servant into blessedness that selfsame night. Last week, in an old book, we read a similar instance of a veteran’s gentle home-going. In the days of Gallican persecution, Pastor Faber sat at the table of the Queen of Navarre one afternoon, when some other Protestant refugees were present. He was looking sad, and, when they asked the reason, he replied with tears, <( I am now a hundred years old, and when many young men are sealing their testimony with their blood, here have I, the craven, saved myself by flight.” The Queen and her friends assured him that in consulting his own safety he had only fulfilled his Lord’s command; and by and by he brightened up, and said,” Then nothing remains but that I go back to God; for I perceive that He calls me. But, first, if you please, I shall make my will.” Then turning his eyes on the Queen he said,” I constitute you my executrix and residuary legatee. My books I bequeath to M.

Gerard, the Preacher. My clothes and whatever else I have I give to the poor. The rest I commit to God.” At which the Queen smiling, asked, “Yes, but, James, what will revert to your residuary legatee?” “The charge of dispensing to the poor,” he answered. “And I,” exclaimed her Majesty, “accept it, and I vow that it is to me a more grateful heritage than if my Royal brother had bequeathed to me the kingdom of France.” Thereupon the old man, saying that he wanted rest, bade the guests a cheerful “good night” and retired into an adjoining chamber. They thought that he was sleeping, and so he was. He had fallen asleep in a palace, and he awoke in heaven. *

My young friends, let me claim your kindness for the old. They are well entitled to your sympathy. Through this bright world they move mistily, and though they rise as soon as the birds begin to sing, they cannot hear the music. Their limbs are stiff, their senses dull, and that body which was once their beautiful abode and their willing servant, has become a cage and a heavy clog. And they have outlived most of those dear companions with whom they once took sweet counsel.

“One world deceas’d, another born,

Like Noah they behold,
O’er whose white hairs and furrow’d brows
Too many suns have roll’d.” f

* “Witsii Miscellanea Sacra,” torn, ii., p. 184. t Young. Q 2

Make it up to them as well as you can. Be eyes to the blind, and feet to the lame. On their way to the sanctuary be their supporting staff, and though it may need an extra effort to convey your words into their blunted ear, make that effort; — for youth is never so beautiful as when it acts as a guardian angel, or a ministering spirit to old age. And should extreme infirmity or occasional fretfulness try your patience, remember that to all intents you were once the same, and may be the same again; — in second childhood, as in first, the debtor of others’ patience and tenderness and magnanimity. And, my aged friends, let me commend you to the sympathy of the Saviour. The merciful High Priest knows your frame. The dull ear and the dim eye are no obstacles to intercourse with Him; and the frequent infirmities prayer can convert into pleas for his compassion. “What are you doing?” said a minister, as he one day visited a feeble old man, who dwelt in a windy hovel. “What are you doing?” as he saw him sitting beneath the dripping rafters in his smoky chamber, with his Bible open on his knee. ( ‘Oh, Sir! I am sitting under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit is sweet to my taste!” That is dainty food, which even Barzillai might discern. Feed upon its promises; draw water from its wells of salvation. And when one sight after another fades away from your darkening eyes, look more and more to Jesus; — for if He be your joy, your hope, your life, the faster you are clothed with the snows of eld, the sooner will you renew your youth in the realms of immortality.

“In age and feebleness extreme,

Who shall a helpless worm redeem?

Jesus, my only hope Thou art,

Strength of my failing flesh and heart;

Oh, could I catch a smile from Thee,

And drop into eternity!”

April 6, 1851.