Threescore years and ten!
It is the scriptural statute of limitations. After that you owe no
active duties; for you the strenuous life is over. You are a
time-expired man, to use Kipling’s military phrase; you have served your
term, well or less well, and you are mustered out. You are become an
honorary member of the republic, you are emancipated, compulsions are
not for you, nor any bugle call but “lights out.” You pay the time-worn
duty bills if you choose, or decline if you prefer—and without
prejudice—for they are not legally collectible.
The previous-engagement plea, which in forty years has cost you so many
twinges, you can lay aside forever; on this side of the grave you will
never need it again. If you shrink at thought of night, and winter, and
the late homecomings from the banquet and the lights and laughter
through the deserted street—a desolation which would not remind you now,
as for a generation it did, that your friends are sleeping and you must
creep in a-tiptoe and not disturb them, but would only remind you that
you need not tiptoe, you can never disturb them more—if you shrink at
the thought of these things you need only reply, “Your invitation honors
me and pleases me because you still keep me in your remembrance, but I
am seventy; seventy, and would nestle in the chimney corner and smoke my
pipe, and read my book, and take my rest, wishing you well in all
affection, and that when you in your turn shall arrive at Pier 70 you
may step aboard your waiting ship with a reconciled spirit, and lay your
course toward the sinking sun with a contented heart.”