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Lmomoas RAGAN.
The wings of fiitting centuries produce scant disturbance "
in the etherial ocean of Eternity. And we who barely scan ‘
with careful eye and plod with weary feet, our little space of
three score years and ten, find, at the end of Centuries, that ¢
life assumes fresh forms; new thoughts arise; and unforseen ,
events bring obligations which we had not thought of meeting.
What strange disturbance of the stars it is, we do not know,
‘ ` but centuries were not adjusted so by accident. Somehow, an
era seems to close with every hundred years-another cycle of ‘
the earth begins. The world awakes from slumber, as it ware,
and must prepare to meet the obligations of another day. The
centuries of the past have faces, like angels of the Lord, and
as they pass, ghostlike, in wierd possession across the pages of
history, we recognize them, not by their numbers, but by the
great events which marked their lives. Some of them are red
with martyr’s blood, some gorgeous with imperial crowns, ~
some bear the dimly burning students’ lamp, and some are
lurid with fires of revolution. Not one of them is featureless,
not one but bears some strong significance.
And as it was in the past, so it shall be in the future. The I
action that has been—the surging sea of thought and impulse ,
and emotion that is, will be projected onward into the deeds
that are yet to be done, the lives that are yet to be lived, the
grand purposes that are yet unaccomplished. Not man, nor
world, nor systems——not time itself can pause—all-in—all, drifts
onward to eternity.
, And the significance of the small is just as the significance _
of the great. In the sight of immensity, there is no small—no
great. The fungus under the microscope is a wilderness of