in
of gold to which the royal medal was attached, his head sinks weariedly
and sadly upon the oaken table before him. Beyond the bedstead, a gothic
archway vaults through the wall into his private chapel, the antique
lamp of gold still burns upon its altar. He turns not there, as is his
custom, to say his prayers before he goes to rest--he knows no sleep
to-night will close his heavy eyelids. Raising his head, he looks slowly
round at the pictures of his ancestors hung about him; with their fixed,
immovable pupils they return his gaze; but when he would again run round
the circle of the faces of the dead, his eyelids fall, his sight is
veiled by swimming tears.

Have you ever thought, young men, sons of the growing light and lovers
of the storm, how it must be in the souls of the old when all their
plans of life fail, when their _last_ loves on earth are blighted? Ah,
you cannot imagine this, you have not yet tasted the bitter gall of age!
Willing slaves, Time bears you forward on his mighty wings, cleaving
space with arrowy, unceasing motion, and though the stars die out behind
you as he bears you on, yet new ones ever burst upon you as you advance.

'On! on! the infinite is before us!' you cry as you fly. _But the old
have no to-morrows!_ the coffin lies across their threshold, and but one
single star shines down upon them. They kneel to it, and pray: 'Thou art
pure and steadfast. Thou fallest not like the meteor bursting in the
warm summer sky, nor settest like the moon in the far-off lakes of
youth. After our long and restless journey, we bask in thy serene light.
Be faithful to us, shine benignly upon us, that our House may live, that
our descendants may enjoy the earth!'

But even while they pray, the _truth_ creeps into their courtyards,
glides like a serpent on their castle walls, writhes over the threshold,
and, seating herself upon a coffin, chants the death song of delusion,
and as she sings, the last star falls from the sky, and eternal night
becomes the name of the world.

Behold! No glittering haze or golden woof remains in the hands of the
old man from the dying glow of his long Indian summer. Hearken! his
daughter's tears are falling fast on the burning embers of his soul. The
laughter of the careless husband blasts his ear. He starts from the bed,
stalking up and down the room with rapid strides. The snows of seventy
winters have in vain blanched his head; he has been proud of his
accumulated wisdom