Part 6
But it is not necessary to be a hero or a statesman, in order to lead an easy and agreeable old age. That season of life may prove equally serene and pleasant to him who has passed his days in the retired paths of learning. It is urged that old age impairs the memory. It may have that effect on those in whom memory was originally infirm, or who have not preserved its native vigor by exercising it properly. But the faculties of the mind will preserve their power in old age, unless they are suffered to become languid for want of due cultivation. Caius Gallus employed himself to the very last moments of his long life in measuring the distances of the heavenly orbs, and determining the dimensions of this our earth. How often has the sun risen on his astronomical calculations! How frequently has night overtaken him in the same elevated studies! With what delight did he amuse himself in predicting to us, long before they happened, the several lunar and solar eclipses! Other ingenious applications of the mind there are, though of a lighter nature, which may greatly contribute to enliven and amuse the decline of life. Thus Nœvius, in composing his poem on the Carthaginian war, and Plautus in writing his two last comedies, filled up the leisure of their latter days with wonderful complacency and satisfaction. I can affirm the same of our dramatic poet Livius, whom I remember to have seen in his old age; and let me not forget Marcus Cethegus, justly styled the soul of eloquence, whom I likewise saw in his old age exercising even his oratorical talents with uncommon force and vivacity. All these old men I saw pursuing their respective studies with the utmost ardor and alacrity. Solon, in one of his poems, written when he was advanced in years, glories that he learned something every day he lived. Plato occupied himself with philosophical studies, till they were interrupted by death at eighty-one years of age. Isocrates composed his famous discourse when he was ninety-four years old, and he lived five years afterward. Sophocles continued to write tragedies when he was extremely old. Gray hair proved no obstacle to the philosophic pursuits of Pythagoras, Zeno, Cleanthes, or the venerable Diogenes. These eminent persons persevered in their studies with undiminished earnestness to the last moment of their extended lives. Leontinus Gorgias, who lived to be one hundred and seven years old, pursued his studies with unremitting assiduity to the last. When asked if he did not wish to rid himself of the burden of such prolonged years, he replied, “I find no reason to complain of old age.”
The statement that age impairs our strength is not without foundation. But, after all, imbecility of body is more frequently caused by youthful irregularities than by the natural and unavoidable consequences of long life. By temperance and exercise, a man may secure to his old age no inconsiderable degree of his former spirit and activity. The venerable Lucius Metellus preserved such a florid old age to his last moments, as to have no reason to lament the depredations of time. If it must be acknowledged that time inevitably undermines physical strength, it is equally true that great bodily vigor is not required in the decline of life. A moderate degree of force is sufficient for all rational purposes. I no more regret the absence of youthful vigor, than when young I lamented because I was not endowed with the strength of a bull or an elephant. Old age has, at least, sufficient strength remaining to train the rising generation, and instruct them in the duties to which they may hereafter be called; and certainly there cannot be a more important or a more honorable occupation. There is satisfaction in communicating every kind of useful knowledge; and it must render a man happy to employ the faculties of his mind to so noble and beneficial a purpose, how much soever time may have impaired his bodily powers. Men of good sense, in the evening of life, are generally fond of associating with the younger part of the world, and, when they discover amiable qualities in them, they find it an alleviation of their infirmities to gain their affection and esteem; and well-inclined young men think themselves equally happy to be guided into the paths of knowledge and virtue by the instructions of experienced elders. I love to see the fire of youth somewhat tempered by the sobriety of age, and it is also pleasant to see the gravity of age enlivened by the vivacity of youth. Whoever combines these two qualities in his character will never exhibit traces of senility in his mind, though his body may bear the marks of years.
As for the natural and necessary inconveniences attendant upon length of years, we ought to counteract their progress by constant and resolute opposition. The infirmities of age should be resisted like the approaches of disease. To this end we should use regular and moderate exercise, and merely eat and drink as much as is necessary to repair our strength, without oppressing the organs of digestion. And the intellectual faculties, as well as the physical, should be carefully assisted. Mind and body thrive equally by suitable exercise of their powers; with this difference, however, that bodily exertion ends in fatigue, whereas the mind is never wearied by its activity.
Another charge against old age is that it deprives us of sensual gratifications. Happy effect, indeed, to be delivered from those snares which allure youth into some of the worst vices! “Reason,” said Archytas, “is the noblest gift which God or Nature has bestowed on men. Now nothing is so great an enemy to that divine endowment as the pleasures of sense; for neither temperance, nor any of the more exalted virtues, can find a place in that breast which is under the dominion of voluptuous passions. Imagine to yourself a man in the actual enjoyment of the highest gratifications mere animal nature is capable of receiving; there can be no doubt that during his continuance in that state it would be utterly impossible for him to exert any one power of his rational faculties.” The inference I draw from this is, that if the principles of reason and virtue have not proved sufficient to inspire us with proper contempt for mere sensual pleasures, we have cause to feel grateful to old age for at least weaning us from appetites it would ill become us to gratify; for voluptuous passions are utter enemies to all the nobler faculties of the soul; they hold no communion with the manly virtues; and they cast a mist before the eye of reason. The little relish which old age leaves us for enjoyments merely sensual, instead of being a disparagement to that period of life, considerably enhances its value. If age renders us incapable of taking an equal share in the flowing cups and luxurious dishes of wealthy tables, it thereby secures us from painful indigestion, restless nights, and disordered reason.
But though his years will guard an old man from excess, they by no means exclude him from enjoying convivial gratifications in a moderate degree. I always took singular satisfaction in the anniversaries of those little societies called Confraternities. But the gratification I received from their entertainments arose much less from the pleasures of the palate than from the opportunities they afforded for enjoying the company and conversation of friends. I derive so much pleasure from hours devoted to cheerful discourse, that I love to prolong my meals, not only when the company is composed of men of my own years, few of whom indeed are now remaining, but also when it chiefly consists of young persons. And I acknowledge my obligations to old age for having increased my passion for the pleasures of conversation, while it has abated it for those which depend solely on the palate; though I do not find myself disqualified for that species of gratification, also.
The advantages of age are inestimable, if we consider it as delivering us from the tyranny of lust and ambition, from angry and contentious passions, from inordinate and irrational desires; in a word, as teaching us to retire within ourselves, and look for happiness in our own souls. If to these moral benefits, which naturally result from length of days, be added the sweet food of the mind, gathered in the fields of science, I know of no season of life that is passed more agreeably than the learned leisure of a virtuous old age. Can the luxuries of the table, or the amusements of the theatre, supply their votaries with enjoyments worthy to be compared with the calm delights of intellectual employments? And, in minds rightly formed and properly cultivated, these exalted delights never fail to improve and gather strength with years.
From the pleasures which attend a studious old age, let us turn to those derived from rural occupations, of which I am a warm admirer. Pleasures of this class are perfectly consistent with every degree of advanced years, as they approach more nearly than any others to those of a purely philosophical kind. They are derived from observing the nature and properties of our earth, which yields ready obedience to the cultivator’s industry, and returns, with interest, whatever he places in her charge. But the profit arising from this fertility is by no means the most desirable circumstance of the farmer’s labors. I am principally delighted with observing the powers of Nature, and tracing her processes in vegetable productions. How wonderful it is that each species is endowed with power to continue itself; and that minute seeds should develop so amazingly into large trunks and branches! The orchard, the vegetable garden, and the parterre diversify the pleasures of farming; not to mention the feeding of cattle and the rearing of bees. Among my friends and neighbors in the country are several men far advanced in life, who employ themselves with so much activity and industry in agricultural business, that nothing important is carried on without their supervision. And these rural veterans do not confine their energies to those sorts of crops which are sown and reaped in one year. They occupy themselves in branches of husbandry from which they know they cannot live to derive any advantage. If asked why they thus expend their labor, they might well reply, “We do it in obedience to the immortal gods. By their bountiful providence we received these fields from our ancestors, and it is their will that we should transmit them to posterity with improvements.” In my opinion there is no happier occupation than agriculture; not only on account of its great utility to mankind, but also as the source of peculiar pleasures. I might expatiate on the beauties of verdant groves and meadows, on the charming landscape of olive-trees and vineyards; but to say all in one word, there cannot be a more pleasing, or a more profitable scene than that of a well-cultivated farm. And where else can a man in the last stages of life more easily find warm sunshine, or a good fire in winter, or the pleasure of cooling shades and refreshing streams in summer?
It is often argued that old age must necessarily be a state of much anxiety and disquietude, on account of the near approach of death. That the hour of dissolution cannot be far distant from an aged man is undoubtedly true. But every event that is agreeable to the course of nature ought to be regarded as a real good; and surely nothing can be more natural than for the old to die. It is true that youth also is exposed to dissolution; but it is a dissolution obviously contrary to Nature’s intentions, and in opposition to her strongest efforts. Fruit, before it is ripe, cannot be separated from the stalk without some degree of force; but when it is perfectly mature, it drops of itself: so the disunion of the soul and body is effected in the young by violence, but in the old it takes place by mere fulness and completion of years. This ripeness for death I perceive in myself with much satisfaction; and I look forward to my dissolution as to a secure haven, where I shall at length find a happy repose from the fatigues of a long voyage.
With regard to the consequences of our final dissolution, I will venture to say that the nearer death approaches the more clearly do I seem to discern its real nature. When I consider the faculties with which the human mind is endowed, its amazing celerity, its wonderful power in recollecting past events, and its sagacity in discerning the future, together with its numberless discoveries in arts and sciences, I feel a conscious conviction that this active, comprehensive principle cannot possibly be of a mortal nature. And as this unceasing activity of the soul derives its energy from its own intrinsic and essential powers, without receiving it from any foreign or external impulse, it necessarily follows that its activity must continue forever. I am induced to embrace this opinion, not only as agreeable to the best deductions of reason, but also in deference to the authority of the noblest and most distinguished philosophers.
I am well convinced that my dear departed friends are so far from having ceased to live, that the state they now enjoy can alone with propriety be called life. I feel myself transported with impatience to rejoin those whose characters I have greatly respected and whose persons I have loved. Nor is this earnest desire confined alone to those excellent persons with whom I have been connected. I ardently wish also to visit those celebrated worthies of whom I have heard or read much. To this glorious assembly I am speedily advancing; and I would not be turned back on my journey, even on the assured condition that my youth should be again restored. The sincere truth is, if some divinity would confer on me a new grant of life, I would reject the offer without the least hesitation. I have wellnigh finished the race, and have no disposition to return to the starting-point. I do not mean to imitate those philosophers who represent the condition of human nature as a subject of just lamentation. The satisfactions of this life are many; but there comes a time when we have had a sufficient measure of its enjoyments, and may well depart contented with our share of the feast. I am far from regretting that this life was bestowed on me; and I have the satisfaction of thinking that I have employed it in such a manner as not to have lived in vain. In short, I consider this world as a place which Nature never intended for my permanent abode; and I look on my departure from it, not as being driven from my habitation, but simply as leaving an inn.
THE FOUNTAIN.
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two.
A village schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering gray; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass And by the steaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills.
We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet.
“Now, Matthew,” said I, “let us match This water’s pleasant tune With some old Border-Song, or Catch, That suits a summer’s noon.
“Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made.”
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The gray-haired man of glee:
“Down to the vale this water steers; How merrily it goes! ’Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.
“And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain’s brink.
“My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
“Thus fares it still in our decay; And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away, Than what it leaves behind.
“The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will.
“With Nature never do _they_ wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
“But _we_ are pressed by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore.
“If there is one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth.
“My days, my friend, are almost gone; My life has been approved, And many love me; but by none Am I _enough_ beloved.”
“Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains;
“And, Matthew, for thy children dead, I’ll be a son to thee!” At this, he grasped my hand, and said, “Alas! that cannot be!”
We rose up from the fountain-side; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide, And through the wood we went.
And ere we came to Leonard’s Rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewildered chimes.
A POET’S BLESSING.
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
As I wandered the fields along, Listening to the lark’s sweet song, I saw an old man working there, A laborer with hoary hair.
“Blessings upon this field!” I said; “Fruitful by faithful labor made. And blessings on thy wrinkled hand, Thus scattering seed along the land!”
He answered me, with earnest face, “A poet’s blessing’s out of place; Likely enough that Heaven, in scorn, Will send us flowers instead of corn.”
“Nay, friend,” said I, “my tuneful powers Wake not to life too many flowers; Only enough to grace the land, And fill thy little grandson’s hand.”
BERNARD PALISSY[E]
[E] These facts are gleaned from Morley’s Life of Palissy the Potter.
“Call him not old, whose visionary brain Holds o’er the past its undivided reign. For him in vain the envious seasons roll, Who bears eternal summer in his _soul_. If yet the minstrel’s song, the poet’s lay, Spring with her birds, or children with their play, Or maiden’s smile, or heavenly dream of Art, Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart,-- Turn to the record where his years are told,-- Count his gray hairs,--_they_ cannot make him old!”
Bernard Palissy was born in one of the southwestern districts of France, in 1509; more than three hundred and fifty years ago, and more than a century before our forefathers landed on Plymouth Rock. The art of making colored glass, and of painting on glass, had been for centuries in great requisition, for the windows of castles and cathedrals. It was considered an occupation so honorable, that poor nobles sometimes resorted to it without losing caste; though the prejudices concerning rank were at that time very strong. The manufacture was generally carried on in the depths of forests, partly for the convenience of gathering fuel for the furnaces, and partly to avoid the danger of fire in towns. Around these manufactories the workmen erected their cabins, and night and day the red flames of the furnaces lighted up trees and shrubbery with a lurid glow. It is supposed that Bernard was born and reared in one of these hamlets, secluded from the world. The immense forests furnished a vast amount of chestnuts, which constituted the principal food of the peasantry. Constant labor in the open air, combined with this extreme simplicity of diet, formed healthy, vigorous men, free-hearted, simple, and brave. Whether Bernard’s father, who is supposed to have been a modeller of glass, was a decayed gentleman, or simply a peasant, is not known. Bernard, by some means, learned to read and write, which was not an ordinary accomplishment at that period. He also had a great talent for drawing, which he improved, either by practice or instruction. In other respects his education was simply that of the peasantry around him. In his own account of his early days he says, “I had no other books than heaven and earth, which are open to all.” These volumes, however, he studied with lively interest and the closest observation. He took notice of the growth of plants and the habits of animals. He soon began to paint on paper the likenesses of birds, lizards, and trees. As his skill increased, he made portraits of his mother and the neighbors, and landscapes containing the houses they lived in. The preparation of colors for glass early awakened an interest in chemical combinations; but there were then no books on the subject, and he could only increase his stock of knowledge by repeated experiments. His skill in drawing enabled him to produce a variety of new patterns for glass-work, and this, combined with his knowledge of colors, rendered his services much more important than those of a common workman. But the once profitable business was now in its decline. People began to find out that the exclusion of sunshine was unwholesome, and that the obstruction of light rendered their dwellings gloomy. Moreover, windows in those days, being opened on hinges, were much more exposed to be shattered by storms. To repair stained or painted glass was an expensive process; and in order to avoid the frequent necessity of it, people fastened their windows into the wall, so that they could not be opened. This excluded air, as well as light and sun-warmth; and gradually colored windows fell into disuse.
Bernard’s father was poor, and the profits of his business were too scanty to yield a comfortable support for his family. Therefore, the young man, when he was eighteen years old, strapped a scantily filled wallet upon his shoulders, and marched forth into the world to seek his fortune. Francis I. and Charles V. were then devastating half Europe by their wars, and the highways were filled with military adventurers and crippled soldiers. From these the young traveller obtained his first glimpses of the violence and intrigues going on in the world beyond his native forests.
He was also overtaken by a travelling cloth-merchant, who told him of many new things. In order to dignify his own calling, he enumerated many great men who had been employed in trade. Among others, he mentioned a renowned Athenian, called “the divine Plato,” by reason of the excellence of his wisdom, who had sold olive-oil in Egypt, to defray the expenses of travelling there. “I never heard of Plato,” said Bernard. “O, you are a wild bird from the forest,” replied the trader; “you can only pipe as you have been taught by nature. But I advise you to make acquaintance with books. Our King Francis is now doing so much to encourage the arts and sciences, that every artisan can become wise, if he makes good use of his leisure. Our shops may now be our schools.” “Then I should wish the whole world to be my shop,” rejoined Bernard. “I feel that earth and air are full of mysteries and wonders; full of the sublime wisdom of God.”
So he wandered on, reading, as he had done from childhood, in “the book of earth and heaven, which is open to all.”
“For Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying, ‘Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee.’
“‘Come, wander with me,’ she said, ‘Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God.’
“And he wandered away and away, With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe.”