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This　is　peculiarly　true　of　them。　　They　are　helping　others　without

always　being　aware　of　it。　　They　are　the　shields；　the　breakwaters；　of

those　who　come　after　them。　　Every　decade　is　a　defence　of　the　one　next

behind　it。　　At　thirty　the　youth　has　sobered　into　manhood；　but　the

strong　men　of　forty　rise　in　almost　unbroken　rank　between　him　and　the

approaches　of　old　age　as　they　show　in　the　men　of　fifty。　　At　forty　he

looks　with　a　sense　of　security　at　the　strong　men　of　fifty；　and　sees

behind　them　the　row　of　sturdy　sexagenarians。　　When　fifty　is　reached；

somehow　sixty　does　not　look　so　old　as　it　once　used　to；　and　seventy　is

still　afar　off。　　After　sixty　the　stern　sentence　of　the　burial　service

seems　to　have　a　meaning　that　one　did　not　notice　in　former　years。

There　begins　to　be　something　personal　about　it。　　But　if　one　lives　to

seventy　he　soon　gets　used　to　the　text　with　the　threescore　years　and

ten　in　it；　and　begins　to　count　himself　among　those　who　by　reason　of

strength　are　destined　to　reach　fourscore；　of　whom　he　can　see　a　number

still　in　reasonably　good　condition。　　The　octogenarian　loves　to　read

about　people　of　ninety　and　over。　　He　peers　among　the　asterisks　of　the

triennial　catalogue　of　the　University　for　the　names　of　graduates　who

have　been　seventy　years　out　of　college　and　remain　still　unstarred。

He　is　curious　about　the　biographies　of　centenarians。　　Such　escapades

as　those　of　that　terrible　old　sinner　and　ancestor　of　great　men；　the

Reverend　Stephen　Bachelder；　interest　him　as　they　never　did　before。

But　he　cannot　deceive　himself　much　longer。　　See　him　walking　on　a

level　surface；　and　he　steps　off　almost　as　well　as　ever；　but　watch　him

coming　down　a　flight　of　stairs；　and　the　family　record　could　not　tell

his　years　more　faithfully。　　He　cut　you　dead；　you　say？　　Did　it　occur

to　you　that　he　could　not　see　you　clearly　enough　to　know　you　from　any

other　son　or　daughter　of　Adam？　　He　said　he　was　very　glad　to　hear　it；

did　he；　when　you　told　him　that　your　beloved　grandmother　had　just

deceased？　　Did　you　happen　to　remember　that　though　he　does　not　allow

that　he　is　deaf；　he　will　not　deny　that　he　does　not　hear　quite　so　well

as　he　used　to？　　No　matter　about　his　failings；　the　longer　he　holds　on

to　life；　the　longer　he　makes　life　seem　to　all　the　living　who　follow

him；　and　thus　he　is　their　constant　benefactor。



Every　stage　of　existence　has　its　special　trials　and　its　special

consolations。　　Habits　are　the　crutches　of　old　age；　by　the　aid　of

these　we　manage　to　hobble　along　after　the　mental　joints　are　stiff　and

the　muscles　rheumatic；　to　speak　metaphorically；that　is　to　say；　when

every　act　of　self…determination　costs　an　effort　and　a　pang。　　We

become　more　and　more　automatic　as　we　grow　older；　and　if　we　lived　long

enough　we　should　come　to　be　pieces　of　creaking　machinery　like

Maelzel's　chess　player；or　what　that　seemed　to　be。



Emerson　was　sixty…three　years　old；　the　year　I　have　referred　to　as

that　of　the　grand　climacteric；　when　he　read　to　his　son　the　poem　he

called　〃Terminus；〃　beginning：



　　　　　　　　　〃It　is　time　to　be　old；

　　　　　　　　　　To　take　in　sail。

　　　　　　　　　　The　God　of　bounds；

　　　　　　　　　　Who　sets　to　seas　a　shore；

　　　　　　　　　　Came　to　me　in　his　fatal　rounds

　　　　　　　　　　And　said；　'No　more！'〃



It　was　early　in　life　to　feel　that　the　productive　stage　was　over；　but

he　had　received　warning　from　within；　and　did　not　wish　to　wait　for

outside　advices。　　There　is　all　the　difference　in　the　world　in　the

mental　as　in　the　bodily　constitution　of　different　individuals。　　Some

must　〃take　in　sail〃　sooner；　some　later。　　We　can　get　a　useful　lesson

from　the　American　and　the　English　elms　on　our　Common。　　The　American

elms　are　quite　bare；　and　have　been　so　for　weeks。　　They　know　very　well

that　they　are　going　to　have　storms　to　wrestle　with；　they　have　not

forgotten　the　gales　of　September　and　the　tempests　of　the　late　autumn

and　early　winter。　　It　is　a　hard　fight　they　are　going　to　have；　and

they　strip　their　coats　off　and　roll　up　their　shirt…sleeves；　and　show

themselves　bare…armed　and　ready　for　the　contest。　　The　English　elms

are　of　a　more　robust　build；　and　stand　defiant；　with　all　their　summer

clothing　about　their　sturdy　frames。　　They　may　yet　have　to　learn　a

lesson　of　their　American　cousins；　for　notwithstanding　their　compact

and　solid　structure　they　go　to　pieces　in　the　great　winds　just　as　ours

do。　　We　must　drop　much　of　our　foliage　before　winter　is　upon　us。　　We

must　take　in　sail　and　throw　over　cargo；　if　that　is　necessary；　to　keep

us　afloat。　　We　have　to　decide　between　our　duties　and　our　instinctive

demand　of　rest。　　I　can　believe　that　some　have　welcomed　the　decay　of

their　active　powers　because　it　furnished　them　with　peremptory　reasons

for　sparing　themselves　during　the　few　years　that　were　left　them。



Age　brings　other　obvious　changes　besides　the　loss　of　active　power。

The　sensibilities　are　less　keen；　the　intelligence　is　less　lively；　as

we　might　expect　under　the　influence　of　that　narcotic　which　Nature

administers。　　But　there　is　another　effect　of　her　〃black　drop〃　which

is　not　so　commonly　recognized。　　Old　age　is　like　an　opium…dream。

Nothing　seems　real　except　what　is　unreal。　　I　am　sure　that　the

pictures　painted　by　the　imagination；the　faded　frescos　on　the　walls

of　memory；come　out　in　clearer　and　brighter　colors　than　belonged　to

them　many　years　earlier。　　Nature　has　her　special　favors　for　her

children　of　every　age；　and　this　is　one　which　she　reserves　for　our

second　childhood。



No　man　can　reach　an　advanced　age　without　thinking　of　that　great

change　to　which；　in　the　course　of　nature；　he　must　be　so　near。　　It　has

been　remarked　that　the　sterner　beliefs　of　rigid　theologians　are　apt

to　soften　in　their　later　years。　　All　reflecting　persons；　even　those

whose　minds　have　been　half　palsied　by　the　deadly　dogmas　which　have

done　all　they　could　to　disorganize　their　thinking　powers；all

reflecting　persons；　I　say；　must　recognize；　in　looking　back　over　a

long　life；　how　largely　their　creeds；　their　course　of　life；　their

wisdom　and　unwisdom；　their　whole　characters；　were　shaped　by　the

conditions　which　surrounded　them。　　Little　children　they　came　from　the

hands　of　the　Father　of　all　；　little　children　in　their　helplessness；

their　ignorance；　they　are　going　back　to　Him。　　They　cannot　help

feeling　that　they　are　to　be　transferred　from　the　rude　embrace　of　the

boisterous　elements　to　arms　that　will　receive　them　tenderly。　　Poor

planetary　foundlings；　they　have　known　hard　treatment　at　the　hands　of

the　brute　forces　of　nature；　from　the　control　of　which　they　are　soon

to　be　set　free。　　There　are　some　old　pessimists；　it　is　true；　who

believe　that　they　and　a　few　others　are　on　a　raft；　and　that　the　ship

which　they　have　quitted；　holding　the　rest　of　mankind；　is　going　down

with　all　on　board。　　It　is　no　wonder　that　there　should　be　such　when　we

remember　what　have　been　the　teachings　of　the　priesthood　through　long

series　of　ignorant　centuries。　　Every　age　has　to　shape　the　Divine

image　it　worships　over　again；the　present　age　and　our　own　country

are　busily　engaged　in　the　task　at　this　time。　　We　unmake　Presidents

and　make　new　ones。　　This　is　an　apprenticeship　for　a　higher　task。　　Our

doctrinal　teachers　are　unmaking　the　Deity　of　the　Westminster

Catechism　and　trying　to　model　a　new　one；　with　more　of　modern　humanity

and　less　of　ancient　barbarism　in　his　composition。　　If　Jonathan

Edwards　had　lived　long　enough；　I　have　no　doubt　his　creed　would　have

softened　into　a　kindly；　humanized　belief。



Some　twenty　or　thirty　years　ago；　I　said　to　Longfellow　that　certain

statistical　tables　I　had　seen　went　to　show　that　poets　were　not　a

long…lived　race。　　He　doubted　whether　there　was　anything　to　prove　they

were　particularly　short…lived。　　Soon　after　this；　he　handed　me　a　list

he　had　drawn　up。　　I　cannot　lay　my　hand　upon　it　at　this　moment；　but　I

remember　that　Metastasio　was　the　oldest　of　them　all。　　He　died　at　the

age　of　eighty…four。　　I　have　had　some　tables　made　out；　which　I　have

every　reason　to　believe　are　correct　so　far　as　they　go。　　From　these；

it　appears　that　twenty