Part 31

In another essay, called “A Compendium of a Sober Life,” he says: “I now find myself sound and hearty, at the age of eighty-six. My senses continue perfect; even my teeth, my voice, my memory, and my strength. What is more, the powers of my mind do not diminish, as I advance in years; because, as I grow older, I lessen the quantity of my solid food. I greatly enjoy the beautiful expanse of this visible world, which is really beautiful to those who know how to view it with a philosophic eye. O, thrice-holy Sobriety, thou hast conferred such favors on thine old man, that he better relishes his dry bread, than he did the most dainty dishes in the days of his youth! My spirits, not oppressed by too much food, are always brisk, especially after eating; so that I am accustomed then to sing a song, and afterward to write. I do not find myself the worse for writing immediately after meals; I am not apt to be drowsy, and my understanding is always clearer, the food I take being too small in quantity to send up any fumes into my brain. O, how advantageous it is to an old man to eat but little!”

In a letter to a friend, written when he was ninety-one, the old man rejoices over his vigor and friskiness, as a boy does over his exploits on the ice. He says: “The more I advance in years, the sounder and heartier I grow, to the amazement of the world. My memory, spirits, and understanding, and even my voice and my teeth, remain unimpaired. I employ eight hours a day in writing treatises with my own hand; and when I tell you that I write to be useful to mankind, you may easily conceive what pleasure I enjoy. I spend many hours daily in walking and singing. And O, how melodious my voice has grown! Were you to hear me chant my prayers to my lyre, after the example of David, I am certain it would give you great pleasure, my voice is so musical.”

In an essay, entitled, “An Earnest Exhortation,” he says: “Arrived at my ninety-fifth year, I still find myself sound and hearty, content and cheerful. I eat with good appetite, and sleep soundly. My understanding is clear, and my memory tenacious. I write seven or eight hours a day, walk, converse, and occasionally attend concerts. My voice, which is apt to be the first thing to fail, grows so strong and sonorous, that I cannot help chanting my prayers aloud, morning and evening, instead of murmuring them to myself, as was formerly my custom. Apprehensions of death do not disturb my mind, for I have no sensuality to nourish such thoughts. I have reason to think that my soul, having so agreeable a dwelling in my body, as not to meet with anything in it but peace, love, and harmony, not only between its humors, but between my reason and my senses, is exceedingly contented and pleased with her present situation, and that, of course, it will require many years to dislodge her. Whence I conclude that I have still a series of years to live in health and spirits, and enjoy this beautiful world, which is indeed beautiful to those who know how to make it so by virtue and divine regularity of life. If men would betake themselves to a sober, regular, and abstemious course of life, they would not grow infirm in their old age, but would continue strong and hearty as I am, and might attain to a hundred years and upwards, as I expect will be my case. God has ordained that whoever reaches his natural term should end his days without sickness or pain, by mere dissolution. This is the natural way of quitting mortal life to enter upon immortality, as will be my case.”

Once only, in the course of his long life, did Cornaro depart from the strict rules he had laid down for himself. When he was seventy-eight years old, his physician and family united in urging him to take more nutrition; saying, that he required it to keep up his strength, now that he was growing so old. He argued that habit had become with him a second nature, and that it was unsafe to change; moreover, that as the stomach grew more feeble, it was reasonable to suppose that it ought to have less work to do, rather than more. But as they continued to remonstrate, he finally consented to add a little to his daily portion of food and wine. He says: “In eight days, this had such an effect upon me, that from being cheerful and brisk, I began to be peevish and melancholy, so that nothing could please me. I was so strangely disposed, that I neither knew what to say to others, nor what to do with myself.” The result was a terrible fever, which lasted thirty-five days, and reduced him almost to a skeleton. He attributes his recovery to the abstinence he had practised for so many years. “During all which time,” says he, “I never knew what sickness was; unless it might be some slight indisposition, that continued merely for a day or two.” He gives it, as the result of his long experience, that it is well for people, as they become aged, to diminish the quantity of solid food. He also advises that such nourishment as they take should be less at any one time, and taken more frequently.

Never had longevity such a zealous panegyrist as this venerable Italian. He says: “Some sensual, inconsiderate persons affirm that long life is not a blessing; that the state of a man who has passed his seventy-fifth year does not deserve to be called life, but is rather a lingering death. This is a great mistake. And I, who have experienced the salutary effects of temperate, regular habits, am bound to prove that a man may enjoy a terrestrial paradise after he is eighty years old. My own existence, so far from being a lingering death, is a perpetual round of pleasures; and it is my sincere wish that all men would endeavor to attain my age, in order that they also may enjoy that period of life which of all others is the most desirable. For that reason I will give an account of my recreations, and of the relish I find in life at its present advanced stage. I can climb my horse without any assistance, or advantage of situation, and now and then I make one of a hunting party suitable to my age and taste. I have frequent opportunities to converse with intelligent, worthy gentlemen, well acquainted with literature. When I have not such conversation to enjoy, I betake myself to reading some good book. When I have read as much as I like, I write, endeavoring in this, as in everything else, to be of service to others. This I do in my own commodious house, in the most beautiful quarter of this noble and learned city of Padua, and around it are gardens supplied with running waters, where I always find something to do that amuses me. Every spring and autumn I go to a handsome hunting-lodge, belonging to me, in the Euganean mountains, which is also adorned with fountains and gardens. Then I visit my village in the plain, the soil of which I redeemed from the marshes. I visit neighboring cities, to meet old friends, and to converse with architects, painters, sculptors, musicians, and husbandmen, from all of whom I learn something that gives me satisfaction. I visit their new works, and I revisit their old ones. I see churches, palaces, gardens, fortifications, and antiquities, leaving nothing unobserved from which either entertainment or instruction can be derived. But what delights me most is the scenery I pass through, in my journeys backwards and forwards. When I was young, and debauched by an irregular life, I did not observe the beauties of nature; so that I never knew, till I grew old, that the world was beautiful. That no comfort may be wanting to the fulness of my years, I enjoy a kind of immortality in a succession of descendants. When I return home from my journeys, I am greeted by eleven grandchildren, the oldest eighteen, the youngest two years old; all the offspring of one father and mother. They all have good parts and morals, are blessed with the best of health, and fond of learning. I play with the youngest, and make companions of the older ones. Nature has bestowed on them fine voices. I delight in hearing them sing and play on various instruments, and I myself sing with them, for I have a clearer and louder pipe now than at any other period of life. Such gayety of spirits has been imparted by my temperate life, that at my present age of eighty-three I have been able to write a very entertaining comedy, abounding with innocent mirth and pleasant jests. I declare I would not exchange my gray hairs, or my mode of living, with any young men, even of the best constitutions, who seek pleasure through the indulgence of their appetites. I take an interest in seeing the draining of marshes and the improvement of the harbor going on, and it is a great comfort to me that my treatises on a temperate life have proved useful to others, as many have assured me, both by word of mouth, and by letter. I may further add, that I enjoy two lives at once. I enjoy this terrestrial life, in consequence of sobriety and temperance; and, by the grace of God, I enjoy the celestial life, which he makes me anticipate by thought,--a thought so lively, that I affirm the enjoyment to be of the utmost certainty. To die in the manner that I expect to die is not really death, but merely a passage of the soul from this earthly life to an infinitely perfect existence. The prospect of terminating the high gratifications I have enjoyed here gives me no uneasiness; it rather affords me pleasure, as it will be only to make room for another glorious and immortal life. How beautiful the life I lead! How happy my exit!”

His prophecy proved true. He lived to be one hundred and four years old, and passed away without pain, sitting in his elbow-chair. His wife, who was nearly as old as himself, survived him but a short time, and died easily. They were buried in St. Anthony’s Church, at Padua, in a very unostentatious manner, according to their testamentary directions.

When Dr. Priestley was young, he preached that old age was the happiest period of life; and when he was himself eighty, he wrote, “I have found it so.”

ROBIN AND JEANNIE.

BY DORA GREENWELL.

“Do you think of the days that are gone, Jeannie, As you sit by the fire at night? Do you wish that the morn would bring back the time, When your heart and your step were so light?”

“I think of the days that are gone, Robin, And of all that I joyed in then; But the brightest that ever arose on me, I have never wished back again.”

“Do you think of the hopes that are gone, Jeannie, As you sit by the fire at night? Do you gather them up, as they faded fast, Like buds with an early blight?”

“I think of the hopes that are gone, Robin, And I mourn not their stay was fleet, For they fell as the leaves of the roses fall, And were even in falling sweet.”

“Do you think of the friends that are gone, Jeannie, As you sit by the fire at night? Do you wish they were round you again once more, By the hearth that they made so bright?”

“I think of the friends that are gone, Robin; They are dear to my heart as then; But the best and the dearest among them all I have never wished back again.”

* * * * *

“We have lived and loved together, Through many changing years; We have shared each other’s gladness, We have wept each other’s tears.

“I have never known a sorrow That was long unsoothed by thee; For thy smile can make a summer, Where darkness else would be.

“And let us hope the future As the past has been, will be; I will share with thee thy sorrows, And thou thy smiles with me.”

ANONYMOUS.

A GOOD OLD AGE.

FROM MOUNTFORD’S EUTHANASY.

A good old age is a beautiful sight, and there is nothing earthly that is as noble,--in my eyes, at least. And so I have often thought. A ship is a fine object, when it comes up into a port, with all its sails set, and quite safely, from a long voyage. Many a thousand miles it has come, with the sun for guidance, and the sea for its path, and the winds for its speed. What might have been its grave, a thousand fathoms deep, has yielded it a ready way; and winds that might have been its wreck have been its service. It has come from another meridian than ours; it has come through day and night; it has come by reefs and banks that have been avoided, and past rocks that have been watched for. Not a plank has started, nor one timber in it proved rotten. And now it comes like an answer to the prayers of many hearts; a delight to the owner, a joy to many a sailor’s family, and a pleasure to all ashore, that see it. It has been steered over the ocean, and been piloted through dangers, and now it is safe.

But still more interesting than this is a good life, as it approaches its threescore years and ten. It began in the century before the present; it has lasted on through storms and sunshine; and it has been guarded against many a rock, on which shipwreck of a good conscience might have been made. On the course it has taken, there has been the influence of Providence; and it has been guided by Christ, that day-star from on high. Yes, old age is even a nobler sight than a ship completing a long, long voyage.

On a summer’s evening, the setting sun is grand to look at. In his morning beams, the birds awoke and sang, men rose for their work, and the world grew light. In his mid-day heat, wheat-fields grew yellower, and fruits were ripened, and a thousand natural purposes were answered, which we mortals do not know of. And at his setting, all things seem to grow harmonious and solemn in his light.

But what is all this to the sight of a good life, in those years that go down into the grave? In the early days of it, old events had their happening; with the light of it many a house has been brightened; and under the good influence of it, souls have grown better, some of whom are now on high. And then the closing period of such a life,--how almost awful is the beauty of it! From his setting, the sun will rise again to-morrow; and he will shine on men and their work, and on children’s children and their labors. But when once finished, even a good life has no renewal in this world. It will begin again; but it will be in a new earth, and under new heavens. Yes, nobler than a ship safely ending a long voyage, and sublimer than the setting sun, is the old age of a just, a kind, and useful life.

A good old man is the best antiquity; one whom time hath been thus long a working, and, like winter fruit, ripened when others are shaken down. He looks over his former life as a danger well past, and would not hazard himself to begin again. The next door of death saps him not, but he expects it calmly, as his turn in nature. All men look on him as a common father, and on old age, for his sake, as a reverent thing. He practises his experience on youth, without harshness or reproof, and in his council is good company. You must pardon him if he likes his own times better than these, because those things are follies to him now, that were wisdom then; yet he makes us of that opinion, too, when we see him, and conjecture those times by so good a relic.--BISHOP EARLE.

MY PSALM.