Part 14

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.