out in answer to what I had just said, "No, he is not in anybody's way." It was one of the most beautiful incidents I have ever witnessed. It was youth and beauty's spontaneous tribute to age with its crown of glory won by a long and noble life, and it must have cheered the old man's heart into a quicker and stronger beat, and filled his soul with the radiance of an unspeakable joy. I passed on wondering who ever got tired of "Jim" Westmoreland, with his honest face, great big heart, and radiant soul, and in whose way did either he or "Tet" ever get, unless in that of some one going wrong. Limestone College, Sept. 9, 1907. THE HARP OF A THOUSAND STRINGS. The universe is filled with wonders. Above. around, beneath, in whatever direction man turns his steps, or at whatever point he fixes his thoughts, he is met by mysteries that stagger his credulity, and by wonders that rebuke his presumption. And though in the triumphs of his genius he has laid hold of the hidden powers of nature and made them subservient to his will; though he has accurately marked the orbits of the rolling planets, and predicted with certainty the return of the stranger comets wandering from fields in space so remote that imagination itself shrinks from their contemplation in utter bewilderment; though he has gone beneath the earth, and read in the dust of dead ages of wonders too fanciful for human belief, and discovered in the successive strata that underlie the ground upon which we tread secrets which it is almost unlawful to utter; yet in the grandest triumphs of his skill and genius he has caught but a glimpse of the shadowy outlines of the mysteries that surround him. And when the mind, wearied in the vain effort to explore the forbidden fields of the Omnipotent Being, retreats upon itself, it is but to find that the greatest mystery of all has been left behind-the little house not made with hands, from which the soul peers longingly forth upon the passing wonders. Where are the foundations upon which the structure was erected? Where is the motive power that directs and controls all its varied and complicated machinery? What gives the bounding impulses of youth, and what mystic influence causes the form to wither, and the light that beams from the window to grow dim, as age creeps silently and softly upon it? Why should time affect it at all? Why should a certain number of revolutions of the earth about the sun, called years, or a certain number upon her own axis, called days, make the great difference between childhood and old age? But it is not stranger that the mysterious hand of time. should leave its traces upon it, than it is that it should last so long. When we consider the various disorders to which it is subject--the thousand and one pieces of the most delicate and exquisite workmanship, all moving in perfect harmony, and each performing functions absolutely necessary to the well-being of the whole, we can sympathize with the Psalmist in the expression that man is fearfully and wonderfully made. The wonder is increased when we learn that the machine is continually wearing out, and that by an inherent power of its own, to which men but give a name when they call it the law of compensation, it is as continually renewed. The most durable work of man wears by use, or rusts and decays by neglect, and there is no law to compensate the loss. The hardest material is worn by friction, and even the spring of tempered steel will in the course of time lose its elasticity, which is not regained by rest. But day by day is the mysterious harp attuned anew, year by year does the unseen hand furnish new supplies of the motive power that imparts health and vigor to its tones. And when, like the snow-white hind of Dryden it has passed safely through all the perils that encompass it perils that always threaten, yet never overwhelm it; when it has fulfilled the purposes of its Maker, and the hidden law begins to fail to compensate the powers that are wasted; when the tone of the thousand strings begins to lose its fullness and its power and grows weaker and weaker until at last it dies away and the music is hushed forever-then it is but to reveal the fact that the material of which it is made was but the dust of the earth. What a rebuke to the vain-glory that would inscribe the deeds of man on monuments of marble, that the great Maker of all should cause the very dust to proclaim His wonders! The next thing we notice is the identity of the human body. We often wonder how these bodies shall rise again. After they have been burned on the funeral pile and their ashes scattered to the four winds of heaven; after they have been sunk in he deep sea and devoured by the monsters that inhabit the depths of the water; after they have mouldered in the grave until every particle that composed them has lost its identity in the comm.on dust of the earth-how after all these changes can the identical particles be gathered up and reunited? It is not strange that the blind Sadduces should reject the doctrine of the resurrection, when many a faithful follower of Jesus has been staggered at these mysteries which no man can comprehend. But instead of attempting to peer into the mysteries that lie beyond the vale of time, let us wonder at what passes before our eyes. How is it that this structure is changing continually, that every part and particle of it is undergoing complete and continual renovations, and yet through all the changes ever maintains its strict identity. Look at the tender, helpless infant lying in the cradle, or just beginning to prattle in its mother's arms. View the fond mother as she bends over the charge with every feature knit in the strength of a mother's deathless love. Mark them well, and stamp the features of both upon your memory; and then cast a glance through the mists and shadows of the rolling years, and view that manly form moving in the pride of his strength, and helping along the journey the wan figure, the faded, trembling form that moves with feeble, tottering steps at his side. Would you recognize the prattling infant and the doting mother? Why there is not the most distant resemblance between them. There is not a feature, there is not a particle of flesh, there is not a bone, there is not a muscle, and if we could penetrate the chambers of the soul we would find that there is not a thought, nor a feeling, nor a motive, nor a hope that is the same. And yet they are the same identical forms that but a moment ago we watched by the cradle; the entire composition thoroughly changed, yet the whole structure remaining strictly the same. Oh! ye who would hesitate and stumble at the doctrine of the resurrection, view first the facts that pass before your mortal vision. |