After the reading of the paper which was reported in the preceding
number of this record, the company fell into talk upon the subject with
which it dealt.
The Mistress. “I could have wished you had said more about the religious
attitude of old age as such. Surely the thoughts of aged persons must
be very much taken up with the question of what is to become of them. I
should like to have The Dictator explain himself a little more fully on
this point.”
My dear madam, I said, it is a delicate matter to talk about. You
remember Mr. Calhoun's response to the advances of an over-zealous
young clergyman who wished to examine him as to his outfit for the
long journey. I think the relations between man and his Maker grow more
intimate, more confidential, if I may say so, with advancing years. The
old man is less disposed to argue about special matters of belief, and
more ready to sympathize with spiritually minded persons without anxious
questioning as to the fold to which they belong. That kindly judgment
which he exercises with regard to others he will, naturally enough,
apply to himself. The caressing tone in which the Emperor Hadrian
addresses his soul is very much like that of an old person talking with
a grandchild or some other pet:
“Animula, vagula, blandula,
Hospes comesque corporis.”
“Dear little, flitting, pleasing sprite,
The body's comrade and its guest.”
How like the language of Catullus to Lesbia's sparrow!
More and more the old man finds his pleasures in memory, as the present
becomes unreal and dreamlike, and the vista of his earthly future
narrows and closes in upon him. At last, if he live long enough, life
comes to be little more than a gentle and peaceful delirium of pleasing
recollections. To say, as Dante says, that there is no greater grief
than to remember past happiness in the hour of misery is not giving
the whole truth. In the midst of the misery, as many would call it, of
extreme old age, there is often a divine consolation in recalling the
happy moments and days and years of times long past. So beautiful are
the visions of bygone delight that one could hardly wish them to become
real, lest they should lose their ineffable charm. I can almost conceive
of a dozing and dreamy centenarian saying to one he loves, “Go, darling,
go! Spread your wings and leave me. So shall you enter that world of
memory where all is lovely. I shall not hear the sound of your footsteps
any more, but you will float before me, an aerial presence. I shall not
hear any word from your lips, but I shall have a deeper sense of your
nearness to me than speech can give. I shall feel, in my still solitude,
as the Ancient Mariner felt when the seraph band gathered before him:
“'No voice did they impart
No voice; but oh! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.'”
I said that the lenient way in which the old look at the failings of
others naturally leads them to judge themselves more charitably. They
find an apology for their short-comings and wrong-doings in another
consideration. They know very well that they are not the same persons as
the middle-aged individuals, the young men, the boys, the children, that
bore their names, and whose lives were continuous with theirs. Here
is an old man who can remember the first time he was allowed to go
shooting. What a remorseless young destroyer he was, to be sure!
Wherever he saw a feather, wherever a poor little squirrel showed his
bushy tail, bang! went the old “king's arm,” and the feathers or the fur
were set flying like so much chaff. Now that same old man,--the mortal
that was called by his name and has passed for the same person for some
scores of years,--is considered absurdly sentimental by kind-hearted
women, because he opens the fly-trap and sets all its captives
free,--out-of-doors, of course, but the dear souls all insisting,
meanwhile, that the flies will, every one of them, be back again in
the house before the day is over. Do you suppose that venerable sinner
expects to be rigorously called to account for the want of feeling he
showed in those early years, when the instinct of destruction, derived
from his forest-roaming ancestors, led him to acts which he now looks
upon with pain and aversion?
“Senex” has seen three generations grow up, the son repeating the
virtues and the failings of the father, the grandson showing the same
characteristics as the father and grandfather. He knows that if such or
such a young fellow had lived to the next stage of life he would very
probably have caught up with his mother's virtues, which, like a graft
of a late fruit on an early apple or pear tree, do not ripen in her
children until late in the season. He has seen the successive ripening
of one quality after another on the boughs of his own life, and he finds
it hard to condemn himself for faults which only needed time to fall
off and be succeeded by better fruitage. I cannot help thinking that the
recording angel not only drops a tear upon many a human failing, which
blots it out forever, but that he hands many an old record-book to the
imp that does his bidding, and orders him to throw that into the fire
instead of the sinner for whom the little wretch had kindled it.
“And pitched him in after it, I hope,” said Number Seven, who is in
some points as much of an optimist as any one among us, in spite of the
squint in his brain,--or in virtue of it, if you choose to have it so.
“I like Wordsworth's 'Matthew,'” said Number Five, “as well as any
picture of old age I remember.”
“Can you repeat it to us?” asked one of The Teacups.
“I can recall two verses of it,” said Number Five, and she recited the
two following ones. Number Five has a very sweet voice. The moment she
speaks all the faces turn toward her. I don't know what its secret is,
but it is a voice that makes friends of everybody.
“'The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs
Of one tired out with fun and madness;
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.
“'Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup
Of still and serious thought went round,
It seemed as if he drank it up,
He felt with spirit so profound:'
“This was the way in which Wordsworth paid his tribute to a
“'Soul of God's best earthly mould.'”
The sweet voice left a trance-like silence after it, which may have
lasted twenty heart-beats. Then I said, We all thank you for your
charming quotation. How much more wholesome a picture of humanity than
such stuff as the author of the “Night Thoughts” has left us:
“Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings but Himself
That hideous sight, a naked human heart.”