The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 51, January, 1862

It may be expected of me that I should say something to justify myself with the world for a seeming inconsistency with my well-known principles in allowing my youngest son to raise a company for the war, a fact known to all through the medium of the publick prints. I did reason with the young man, but expellas naturam furcâ, tamenusque recurrit. Having myself been a chaplain in 1812, I could the less wonder that a man of war had sprung from my loins. It was, indeed, grievous to send my Benjamin, the child of my old age; but after the discomfiture of Manassas, I with my own hands did buckle on his armour, trusting in the great Comforter for strength according to my need. For truly the memory of a brave son dead in his shroud were a greater staff of my declining years than a coward, though his days might be long in the land and he should get much goods. It is not till our earthen vessels are broken that we find and truly possess the treasure that was laid up in them. Migravi in animam meam, I have sought refuge in my own soul; nor would I be shamed by the heathen comedian with his Nequam illud verbum, bene vult, nisi bene facit. During our dark days, I read constantly in the inspired book of Job, which I believe to contain more food to maintain the fibre of the soul for right living and high thinking than all pagan literature together, though I would by no means vilipend the study of the classicks. There I read that Job said in his despair, even as the fool saith in his heart there is no God,—“The tabernacles of robbers prosper, and they that provoke God are secure.” Job xii. 6. But I sought farther till I found this Scripture also, which I would have those perpend who have striven to turn our Israel aside to the worship of strange gods:—“If I did despise the cause of my man-servant or of my maid-servant when they contended with me, what then shall I do when God riseth up? and when he visiteth, what shall I answer him?” Job xxxi. 13-14. On this text I preached a discourse on the last day of Fasting and Humiliation with general acceptance, though there were not wanting one or two Laodiceans who said that I should have waited till the President announced his policy. But let us hope and pray, remembering this of Saint Gregory, Vult Deus rogari, vult cogi, vult quâdam importunitate vinci.

We had our first fall of snow on Friday last. Frosts have been unusually backward this fall. A singular circumstance occurred in this town on the 20th October, in the family of Deacon Pelatiah Tinkham. On the previous evening, a few moments before family-prayers,

[The editors of the “Atlantic” find it necessary here to cut short the letter of their valued correspondent, which seemed calculated rather on the rates of longevity in Jaalam than for less favored localities. They have every encouragement to hope that he will write again.]

With esteem and respect,Your obedient servantHOMER WILBUR, A.M.It’s some consid’ble of a spell sence I hain’t writ no letters,An’ ther’ ’s gret changes hez took place in all polit’cle metters:Some canderdates air dead an’ gone, an’ some hez ben defeated,Which ’mounts to pooty much the same; fer it’s ben proved repeatedA betch o’ bread thet hain’t riz once ain’t goin’ to rise agin,An’ it’s jest money throwed away to put the emptins in:But thet’s wut folks wun’t never larn; they dunno how to go,Arter you want their room, no more ’n a bullet-headed beau;Ther’ ’s ollers chaps a-hangin’ roun’ thet can’t see pea-time’s past,Mis’ble as roosters in a rain, heads down an’ tails half-mast:It ain’t disgraceful bein’ beat, when a holl nation doos it,But Chance is like an amberill,—it don’t take twice to lose it.I spose you’re kin’ o’ cur’ous, now, to know why I hain’t writ.Wal, I’ve ben where a litt’ry taste don’t somehow seem to gitTh’ encouragement a feller’d think, thet’s used to public schools,An’ where sech things ez paper ’n’ ink air clean agin the rules:A kind o’ vicyvarsy house, built dreffle strong an’ stout,So ’s ’t honest people can’t git in, ner t’ other sort git out,An’ with the winders so contrived, you’d prob’ly like the viewBetter a-lookin’ in than out, though it seems sing’lar, tu;But then the landlord sets by ye, can’t bear ye out o’ sight,And locks ye up ez reg’lar ez an outside door at night.This world is awfle contrary: the rope may stretch your neckThet mebby kep’ another chap frum washin’ off a wreck;An’ you will see the taters grow in one poor feller’s patch,So small no self-respectin’ hen thet vallied time ’ould scratch,So small the rot can’t find ’em out, an’ then agin, nex’ door,Ez big ez wut hogs dream on when they’re ’most too fat to snore.But groutin’ ain’t no kin’ o’ use; an’ ef the fust throw fails,Why, up an’ try agin, thet’s all,—the coppers ain’t all tails;Though I hev seen ’em when I thought they hed n’t no more headThan’d sarve a nussin’ Brigadier thet gits some ink to shed.When I writ last, I’d ben turned loose by thet blamed nigger, Pomp,Ferlorner than a musquash, ef you’d took an’ dreened his swamp:But I ain’t o’ the meechin’ kind, thet sets an’ thinks fer weeksThe bottom’s out o’ th’ univarse coz their own gillpot leaks.I hed to cross bayous an’ criks, (wal, it did beat all natur’,)Upon a kin’ o’ corderoy, fust log, then alligator:Luck’ly the critters warn’t sharp-sot; I guess’t wuz overruledThey’d done their mornin’s marketin’ an’ gut their hunger cooled;Fer missionaries to the Creeks an’ runaway’s air viewedBy them an’ folks ez sent express to be their reg’lar food:Wutever ’t wuz, they laid an’ snoozed ez peacefully ez sinners,Meek ez disgestin’ deacons be at ordination dinners;Ef any on ’em turned an’ snapped, I let ’em kin’ o’ tasteMy live-oak leg, an’ so, ye see, ther’ warn’t no gret o’ waste,Fer they found out in quicker time than ef they’d ben to college’T warn’t heartier food than though ’t wuz made out o’ the tree o’ knowledge.But I tell you my other leg hed larned wut pizon-nettle meant,An’ var’ous other usefle things, afore I reached a settlement,An’ all o’ me thet wuz n’t sore an’ sendin’ prickles thru meWuz jest the leg I parted with in lickin’ Montezumy:A usefle limb it ’s ben to me, an’ more of a supportThan wut the other hez ben,—coz I dror my pension for ’t.Wal, I gut in at last where folks wuz civerlized an’ white,Ez I diskivered to my cost afore ’t wuz hardly night;Fer ’z I wuz settin’ in the bar a-takin’ sunthin’ hot,An’ feelin’ like a man agin, all over in one spot,A feller thet sot opposite, arter a squint at me,Lep up an’ drawed his peacemaker, an’, “Dash it, Sir,” suz he,“I’m doubledashed if you ain’t him thet stole my yaller chettle,(You’re all the stranger thet’s around,) so now you’ve gut to settle;It ain’t no use to argerfy ner try to cut up frisky,I know ye ez I know the smell o’ ole chain-lightnin’ whiskey;We’re lor-abidin’ folks down here, we’ll fix ye so ’s ’t a barWouldn’ tech ye with a ten-foot pole; (Jedge, you jest warm the tar;)You’ll think you’d better ha’ gut among a tribe o’ Mongrel Tartars,’Fore we’ve done showin’ how we raise our Southun prize tar-martyrs;A moultin’ fallen cherubim, ef he should see ye, ’d snicker,Thinkin’ he hedn’t nary chance. Come, genlemun, le’ ’s liquor;An’, Gin’ral, when you ‘ve mixed the drinks an’ chalked ’em up, tote roun’An’ see ef ther’ ’s a feather-bed (thet’s borryable) in town.We’ll try ye fair, Ole Grafted-Leg, an’ ef the tar wun’t stick,Th’ ain’t not a juror here but wut’ll ’quit ye double-quick.”To cut it short, I wun’t say sweet, they gi’ me a good dip,(They ain’t perfessin’ Bahptists here,) then give the bed a rip,—The jury ’d sot, an’ quicker ’n a flash they hetched me out, a livin’Extemp’ry mammoth turkey-chick fer a Feejee Thanksgivin’.Thet I felt some stuck up is wut it’s nat’ral to suppose,When poppylar enthusiasm hed furnished me sech clo’es;(Ner ’t ain’t without edvantiges, this kin’ o’ suit, ye see,It’s water-proof, an’ water’s wut I like kep’ out o’ me;)But nut content with thet, they took a kerridge from the fenceAn’ rid me roun’ to see the place, entirely free ‘f expense,With forty-’leven new kines o’ sarse without no charge acquainted me,Gi’ me three cheers, an’ vowed thet I wuz all their fahncy painted me;They treated me to all their eggs; (they keep ’em, I should think,Fer sech ovations, pooty long, for they wuz mos’ distinc’;)They starred me thick ’z the Milky-Way with indiscrim’nit cherity,For wut we call reception eggs air sunthin’ of a rerity;Green ones is plentifle anough, skurce wuth a nigger’s getherin’,But your dead-ripe ones ranges high fer treatin’ Nothun bretherin:A spotteder, ringstreakeder child the’ warn’t in Uncle Sam’sHoll farm,—a cross of stripèd pig an’ one o’ Jacob’s lambs;’T wuz Dannil in the lions’ den, new an’ enlarged edition,An’ everythin’ fust-rate o’ ’ts kind, the’ warn’t no impersition.People’s impulsiver down here than wut our folks to home be,An’ kin’ o’ go it ’ith a resh in raisin’ Hail Columby:Thet’s so: an’ they swarmed out like bees, for your real Southun men’sTime isn’t o’ much more account than an ole settin’ hen’s;(They jest work semioccashnally, or else don’t work at all,An’ so their time an’ ’tention both air et saci’ty’s call.)Talk about hospitality! wut Nothun town d’ ye knowWould take a totle stranger up an’ treat him gratis so?You’d better b’lieve ther’ ’s nothin’ like this spendin’ days an’ nightsAlong ’ith a dependent race fer civerlizin’ whites.But this wuz all prelim’nary; it’s so Gran’ Jurors hereFin’ a true bill, a hendier way than ourn, an’ nut so dear;So arter this they sentenced me, to make all tight ’n’ snug,Afore a reg’lar court o’ law, to ten years in the Jug.I didn’ make no gret defence: you don’t feel much like speakin’,When, ef you let your clamshells gape, a quart o’ tar will leak in:I hev hearn tell o’ wingèd words, but pint o’ fact it tethersThe spoutin’ gift to hev your words tu thick sot on with feathers,An’ Choate ner Webster wouldn’t ha’ made an A 1 kin’ o’ speech,Astride a Southun chestnut horse sharper ’n a baby’s screech.Two year ago they ketched the thief, ’n’ seein’ I wuz innercent,They jest oncorked an’ le’ me run, an’ in my stid the sinner sentTo see how he liked pork ’n’ pone flavored with wa’nut saplin’,An’ nary social priv’ledge but a one-hoss, starn-wheel chaplin.When I come out, the folks behaved mos’ gen’manly an’ harnsome;They ’lowed it wouldn’t be more ’n right, ef I should cuss ’n’ darn some:The Cunnle he apolergized; suz he, “I’ll du wut ’s right,I’ll give ye settisfection now by shootin’ ye at sight,An’ give the nigger, (when he’s caught,) to pay him fer his trickin’In gittin’ the wrong man took up, a most H fired lickin’,—It’s jest the way with all on ’em, the inconsistent critters,They’re ’most enough to make a man blaspheme his mornin’ bitters;I’ll be your frien’ thru thick an’ thin an’ in all kines o’ weathers,An’ all you’ll hev to pay fer ’s jest the waste o’ tar an’ feathers:A lady owned the bed, ye see, a widder, tu, Miss Shennon;It wuz her mite; we would ha’ took another, ef ther ’d ben one:We don’t make no charge for the ride an’ all the other fixins.Le’ ’s liquor; Gin’ral, you can chalk our friend for all the mixins.”A meetin’ then wuz called, where they “RESOLVED, Thet we respec’B.S. Esquire for quallerties o’ heart an’ intellec’Peculiar to Columby’s sile, an’ not to no one else’s,Thet makes Európean tyrans scringe in all their gilded pel’ces,An’ doos gret honor to our race an’ Southun institootions”:(I give ye jest the substance o’ the leadin’ resolootions:)“RESOLVED, Thet we revere in him a soger ’thout a flor,A martyr to the princerples o’ libbaty an’ lor:RESOLVED, Thet other nations all, ef sot ’longside o’ us,For vartoo, larnin’, chivverlry, ain’t noways wuth a cuss.”They gut up a subscription, tu, but no gret come o’ that;I ’xpect in cairin’ of it roun’ they took a leaky hat;Though Southun genelmun ain’t slow at puttin’ down their name,(When they can write,) fer in the eend it comes to jest the same,Because, ye see, ’t ’s the fashion here to sign an’ not to thinkA critter’d be so sordid ez to ax ’em for the chink:I didn’t call but jest on one, an’ he drawed toothpick on me,An’ reckoned he warn’t goin’ to stan’ no sech dog-gauned econ’my;So nothin’ more wuz realized, ’ceptin’ the good-will shown,Than ef ’t had ben from fust to last a reg’lar Cotton Loan.It’s a good way, though, come to think, coz ye enjy the senseO’ lendin’ lib’rally to the Lord, an’ nary red o’ ’xpense:Sence then I’ve gut my name up for a gin’rous-hearted manBy jes’ subscribin’ right an’ left on this high-minded plan;I’ve gin away my thousans so to every Southun sortO’ missions, colleges, an’ sech, ner ain’t no poorer for ’t.I warn’t so bad off, arter all; I needn’t hardly mentionThat Guv’ment owed me quite a pile for my arrears o’ pension,—I mean the poor, weak thing we hed: we run a new one now,Thet strings a feller with a claim up tu the nighest bough,An’ prectises the rights o’ man, purtects down-trodden debtors,Ner wun’t hev creditors about a-scrougin’ o’ their betters:Jeff’s gut the last idees ther’ is, poscrip’, fourteenth edition,He knows it takes some enterprise to run an oppersition;Ourn’s the fust thru-by-daylight train, with all ou’doors for deepot,Yourn goes so slow you’d think ’t wuz drawed by a last cent’ry teapot;—Wal, I gut all on ’t paid in gold afore our State seceded,An’ done wal, for Confed’rit bonds warn’t jest the cheese I needed:Nut but wut they’re ez good ez gold, but then it’s hard a-breakin’ on ’em,An’ ignorant folks is ollers sot an’ wun’t git used to takin’ on ’em;They’re wuth ez much ez wut they wuz afore ole Mem’nger signed ’em,An’ go off middlin’ wal for drinks, when ther’ ’s a knife behind ’em:We du miss silver, jest fer thet an’ ridin’ in a bus,Now we’ve shook off the despots thet wuz suckin’ at our pus;An’ it’s because the South’s so rich; ’t wuz nat’ral to expec’Supplies o’ change wuz jest the things we shouldn’t recollec’;We’d ough’ to ha’ thought aforehan’, though, o’ thet good rule o’ Crockett’s,For ’t ’s tiresome cairin’ cotton-bales an’ niggers in your pockets,Ner ’t ain’t quite hendy to pass off one o’ your six-foot GuineasAn’ git your halves an’ quarters back in gals an’ pickaninnies:Wal, ’t ain’t quite all a feller ’d ax, but then ther’ ’s this to say,It’s on’y jest among ourselves thet we expec’ to pay;Our system would ha’ caird us thru in any Bible cent’ry,’Fore this onscripted plan come up o’ books by double entry;We go the patriarkle here out o’ all sight an’ hearin’,For Jacob warn’t a circumstance to Jeff at financierin’;He never ’d thought o’ borryin’ from Esau like all naterAn’ then cornfiscatin’ all debts to sech a small pertater;There’s p’litickle econ’my, now, combined ’ith morril beautyThet saycrifices privit eends (your in’my’s, tu) to dooty!Wy, Jeff’d ha’ gin him five an’ won his eye-teeth ’fore he knowed it,An’, slid o’ wastin’ pottage, he’d ha’ eat it up an’ owed it.But I wuz goin’ on to say how I come here to dwall;—’Nough said, thet, arter lookin’ roun’, I liked the place so wal,Where niggers doos a double good, with us atop to stiddy ’em,By bein’ proofs o’ prophecy an’ cirkleatin’ medium,Where a man’s sunthin’ coz he’s white, an’ whiskey’s cheap ez fleas,An’ the financial pollercy jest sooted my idees,Thet I friz down right where I wuz, merried the Widder Shennon,(Her thirds wuz part in cotton-land, part in the curse o’ Canaan,)An’ here I be ez lively ez a chipmunk on a wall,With nothin’ to feel riled about much later ’n Eddam’s fall.Ez fur ez human foresight goes, we made an even trade:She gut an overseer, an’ I a fem’ly ready-made,(The youngest on ’em’s ’most growed up,) rugged an’ spry ez weazles,So’s ’t ther’ ’s no resk o’ doctors’ bills fer hoopin’-cough an’ measles.Our farm’s at Turkey-Buzzard Roost, Little Big Boosy River,Wal located in all respex,—fer ’t ain’t the chills ’n’ feverThet makes my writin’ seem to squirm; a Southuner’d allow I’dSome call to shake, for I’ve jest hed to meller a new cowhide.Miss S. is all ’f a lady; th’ ain’t no better on Big Boosy,Ner one with more accomplishmunts ’twixt here an’ Tuscaloosy;She’s an F.F., the tallest kind, an’ prouder ’n the Gran’ Turk,An’ never hed a relative thet done a stroke o’ work;Hern ain’t a scrimpin’ fem’ly sech ez you git up Down East,Th’ ain’t a growed member on ’t but owes his thousuns et the least:She is some old; but then agin ther’ ’s drawbacks in my sheer;Wut’s left o’ me ain’t more ’n enough to make a Brigadier:The wust is, she hez tantrums; she is like Seth Moody’s gun(Him thet wuz nicknamed frum his limp Ole Dot an’ Kerry One);He’d left her loaded up a spell, an’ hed to git her clear,So he onhitched,—Jeerusalem! the middle o’ last yearWuz right nex’ door compared to where she kicked the critter tu(Though jest where he brought up wuz wut no human never knew);His brother Asaph picked her up an’ tied her to a tree,An’ then she kicked an hour ’n’ a half afore she’d let it be:Wal, Miss S. doos hev cuttins-up an’ pourins-out o’ vials,But then she hez her widder’s thirds, an’ all on us hez trials.My objec’, though, in writin’ now warn’t to allude to sech,But to another suckemstance more dellykit to tech,—I want thet you should grad’lly break my merriage to Jerushy,An’ ther’ ’s a heap of argymunts thet’s emple to indooce ye:Fust place, State’s Prison,—wal, it’s true it warn’t fer crime, o’ course,But then it’s jest the same fer her in gittin’ a disvorce;Nex’ place, my State’s secedin’ out hez leg’lly lef’ me freeTo merry any one I please, pervidin’ it’s a she;Fin’lly, I never wun’t come back, she needn’t hev no fear on ’t,But then it ’s wal to fix things right fer fear Miss S. should hear on ’t;Lastly, I’ve gut religion South, an’ Rushy she’s a paganThet sets by th’ graven imiges o’ the gret Nothun Dagon;(Now I hain’t seen one in six munts, for, sence our Treasury Loan,Though yaller boys is thick anough, eagles hez kind o’ flown;)An’ ef J. wants a stronger pint than them thet I hev stated,Wy, she’s an aliun in’my now, an’ I’ve ben cornfiscated,—For sence we’ve entered on th’ estate o’ the late nayshnul eagle,She hain’t no kin’ o’ right but jest wut I allow ez legle:Wut doos Secedin’ mean, ef’t ain’t thet nat’rul rights hez riz, ’n’Thet wut is mine’s my own, but wut’s another man’s ain’t his’n?Bersides, I couldn’t do no else; Miss S. suz she to me,“You’ve sheered my bed,” [Thet’s when I paid my interdiction feeTo Southun rites,] “an’ kep’ your sheer,” [Wal, I allow it stickedSo’s ’t I wuz most six weeks in jail afore I gut me picked,]“Ner never paid no demmiges; but thet wun’t do no harm,Pervidin’ thet you’ll ondertake to oversee the farm;(My eldes’ boy is so took up, wut with the Ringtail RangersAn’ settin’ in the Jestice-Court for welcomin’ o’ strangers”;)[He sot on me;] “an’ so, ef you’ll jest ondertake the careUpon a mod’rit sellery, we’ll up an’ call it square;But ef you can’t conclude,” suz she, an’ give a kin’ o’ grin,“Wy, the Gran’ Jury, I expect, ‘ll hev to set agin.”Thet’s the way metters stood at fust; now wut wuz I to du,But jest to make the best on’t an’ off coat an’ buckle tu?Ther’ ain’t a livin’ man thet finds an income necessarierThan me,—bimeby I’ll tell ye how I fin’lly come to merry her.She hed another motive, tu: I mention of it hereT’ encourage lads thet’s growin’ up to study ’n’ persevere,An’ show ’em how much better ’t pays to mind their winter-schoolin’Than to go off on benders ’n’ sech, an’ waste their time in foolin’;Ef ’t warn’t for studyin’, evening, I never ’d ha’ ben hereAn orn’ment o’ saciety, in my approprut spear:She wanted somebody, ye see, o’ taste an’ cultivation,To talk along o’ preachers when they stopt to the plantation;For folks in Dixie th’t read an’ write, onless it is by jarks,Is skurce ez wut they wuz among th’ oridgenal patriarchs;To fit a feller f’ wut they call the soshle higherarchy,All thet you’ve gut to know is jest beyund an evrage darky;Schoolin’ ’s wut they can’t seem to stan’, they’re tu consarned high-pressure,An’ knowin’ t’ much might spile a boy for bein’ a Secesher.We hain’t no settled preachin’ here, ner ministeril taxes;The min’ster’s only settlement ’s the carpet-bag he packs hisRazor an’ soap-brush intu, with his hymbook an’ his Bible,—But they du preach, I swan to man, it’s puf’kly indescrib’le!They go it like an Ericsson’s ten-hoss-power coleric ingine,An’ make Ole Split-Foot winch an’ squirm, for all he’s used to singein’;Hawkins’s whetstone ain’t a pinch o’ primin’ to the innardsTo hearin’ on ’em put free grace t’ a lot o’ tough old sin-hards!But I must eend this letter now: ’fore long I’ll send a fresh un;I’ve lots o’ things to write about, perticklerly Seceshun:I’m called off now to mission-work, to let a leetle law inTo Cynthy’s hide: an’ so, till death,Yourn,BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN.

OLD AGE

On the last anniversary of the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Cambridge, the venerable President Quincy, senior member of the Society, as well as senior alumnus of the University, was received at the dinner with peculiar demonstrations of respect. He replied to these compliments in a speech, and, gracefully claiming the privileges of a literary society, entered at some length into an Apology for Old Age, and, aiding himself by notes in his hand, made a sort of running commentary on Cicero’s chapter “De Senectute.” The character of the speaker, the transparent good faith of his praise and blame, and the naïveté of his eager preference of Cicero’s opinions to King David’s, gave unusual interest to the College festival. It was a discourse full of dignity, honoring him who spoke and those who heard.

The speech led me to look over at home—an easy task—Cicero’s famous essay, charming by its uniform rhetorical merit; heroic with Stoical precepts; with a Roman eye to the claims of the State; happiest, perhaps, in his praise of life on the farm; and rising, at the conclusion, to a lofty strain. But he does not exhaust the subject; rather invites the attempt to add traits to the picture from our broader modern life.

Cicero makes no reference to the illusions which cling to the element of time, and in which Nature delights. Wellington, in speaking of military men, said,—“What masks are these uniforms to hide cowards! When our journal is published, many statues must come down.” I have often detected the like deception in the cloth shoe, wadded pelisse, wig and spectacles, and padded chair of Age. Nature lends herself to these illusions, and adds dim sight, deafness, cracked voice, snowy hair, short memory, and sleep. These also are masks, and all is not Age that wears them. Whilst we yet call ourselves young, and all our mates are yet youths and boyish, one good fellow in the set prematurely sports a gray or a bald head, which does not impose on us who know how innocent of sanctity or of Platonism he is, but does not less deceive his juniors and the public, who presently distinguish him with a most amusing respect: and this lets us into the secret, that the venerable forms that so awed our childhood were just such impostors. Nature is full of freaks, and now puts an old head on young shoulders, and then a young heart beating under fourscore winters.

For if the essence of age is not present, these signs, whether of Art or Nature, are counterfeit and ridiculous: and the essence of age is intellect. Wherever that appears, we call it old. If we look into the eyes of the youngest person, we sometimes discover that here is one who knows already what you would go about with much pains to teach him; there is that in him which is the ancestor of all around him: which fact the Indian Vedas express, when they say, “He that can discriminate is the father of his father.” And in our old British legends of Arthur and the Round-Table, his friend and counsellor, Merlin the Wise, is a babe found exposed in a basket by the river-side, and, though an infant of only a few days, he speaks to those who discover him, tells his name and history, and presently foretells the fate of the by-standers. Wherever there is power, there is age. Don’t be deceived by dimples and curls. I tell you that babe is a thousand years old.

Time is, indeed, the theatre and seat of illusion. Nothing is so ductile and elastic. The mind stretches an hour to a century, and dwarfs an age to an hour. Saadi found in a mosque at Damascus an old Persian of a hundred and fifty years who was dying, and was saying to himself, “I said, coming into the world by birth, ‘I will enjoy myself for a few moments.’ Alas! at the variegated table of life I partook of a few mouthfuls, and the Fates said, ‘Enough!’” That which does not decay is so central and controlling in us, that, as long as one is alone by himself, he is not sensible of the inroads of time, which always begin at the surface-edges. If, on a winter day, you should stand within a bell-glass, the face and color of the afternoon clouds would not indicate whether it were June or January; and if we did not find the reflection of ourselves in the eyes of the young people, we could not know that the century-clock had struck seventy instead of twenty. How many men habitually believe that each chance passenger with whom they converse is of their own age, and presently find it was his father, and not his brother, whom they knew!