THEY DISCOURSE WITH AN OLD MAN.
THE evening was now far past, and they rose to return home. As they
walked along the banks of the Nile, delighted with the beams of the moon
quivering on the water, they saw at a small distance an old man whom the
Prince had often heard in the assembly of the sages. “Yonder,” said he,
“is one whose years have calmed his passions, but not clouded his reason.
Let us close the disquisitions of the night by inquiring what are his
sentiments of his own state, that we may know whether youth alone is to
struggle with vexation, and whether any better hope remains for the
latter part of life.”
Here the sage approached and saluted them. They invited him to join
their walk, and prattled awhile as acquaintance that had unexpectedly met
one another. The old man was cheerful and talkative, and the way seemed
short in his company. He was pleased to find himself not disregarded,
accompanied them to their house, and, at the Prince’s request, entered
with them. They placed him in the seat of honour, and set wine and
conserves before him.
“Sir,” said the Princess, “an evening walk must give to a man of learning
like you pleasures which ignorance and youth can hardly conceive. You
know the qualities and the causes of all that you behold—the laws by
which the river flows, the periods in which the planets perform their
revolutions. Everything must supply you with contemplation, and renew
the consciousness of your own dignity.”
“Lady,” answered he, “let the gay and the vigorous expect pleasure in
their excursions: it is enough that age can attain ease. To me the world
has lost its novelty. I look round, and see what I remember to have seen
in happier days. I rest against a tree, and consider that in the same
shade I once disputed upon the annual overflow of the Nile with a friend
who is now silent in the grave. I cast my eyes upwards, fix them on the
changing moon, and think with pain on the vicissitudes of life. I have
ceased to take much delight in physical truth; for what have I to do with
those things which I am soon to leave?”
“You may at least recreate yourself,” said Imlac, “with the recollection
of an honourable and useful life, and enjoy the praise which all agree to
give you.”
“Praise,” said the sage with a sigh, “is to an old man an empty sound. I
have neither mother to be delighted with the reputation of her son, nor
wife to partake the honours of her husband. I have outlived my friends
and my rivals. Nothing is now of much importance; for I cannot extend my
interest beyond myself. Youth is delighted with applause, because it is
considered as the earnest of some future good, and because the prospect
of life is far extended; but to me, who am now declining to decrepitude,
there is little to be feared from the malevolence of men, and yet less to
be hoped from their affection or esteem. Something they may yet take
away, but they can give me nothing. Riches would now be useless, and
high employment would be pain. My retrospect of life recalls to my view
many opportunities of good neglected, much time squandered upon trifles,
and more lost in idleness and vacancy. I leave many great designs
unattempted, and many great attempts unfinished. My mind is burdened
with no heavy crime, and therefore I compose myself to tranquillity;
endeavour to abstract my thoughts from hopes and cares which, though
reason knows them to be vain, still try to keep their old possession of
the heart; expect, with serene humility, that hour which nature cannot
long delay, and hope to possess in a better state that happiness which
here I could not find, and that virtue which here I have not attained.”
He arose and went away, leaving his audience not much elated with the
hope of long life. The Prince consoled himself with remarking that it
was not reasonable to be disappointed by this account; for age had never
been considered as the season of felicity, and if it was possible to be
easy in decline and weakness, it was likely that the days of vigour and
alacrity might be happy; that the noon of life might be bright, if the
evening could be calm.
The Princess suspected that age was querulous and malignant, and
delighted to repress the expectations of those who had newly entered the
world. She had seen the possessors of estates look with envy on their
heirs, and known many who enjoyed pleasures no longer than they could
confine it to themselves.
Pekuah conjectured that the man was older than he appeared, and was
willing to impute his complaints to delirious dejection; or else supposed
that he had been unfortunate, and was therefore discontented. “For
nothing,” said she, “is more common than to call our own condition the
condition of life.”
Imlac, who had no desire to see them depressed, smiled at the comforts
which they could so readily procure to themselves; and remembered that at
the same age he was equally confident of unmingled prosperity, and
equally fertile of consolatory expedients. He forbore to force upon them
unwelcome knowledge, which time itself would too soon impress. The
Princess and her lady retired; the madness of the astronomer hung upon
their minds; and they desired Imlac to enter upon his office, and delay
next morning the rising of the sun.