sighed Al, al! and the old Roman, Eheu! I have no doubt we should die of shame and grief at the indignities offered us by age, if it were not that we see so many others as badly or worse off than ourselves We always compare ourselves with our contempo raries. [I was interrupted in my reading just here. Before I began at the next breakfast, I read them these verses; I hope you will like them, and get a useful esson from them.] THE LAST BLOSSOM. Though young no more, we still would dream Who knows a woman's wild caprice? When sixty bids us sigh in vain To melt the heart of sweet sixteen, We think upon those ladies twain Who loved so well the tough old Dean. We see the Patriarch's wintry face, Tranced in her Lord's Olympian smile His lotus-loving Memphian lies,The musky daughter of the Nile With plaited hair and almond eyes. Might we but share one wild caress My bosom heaves, remembering yet The morning of that blissful day When Rose, the flower of spring, I met, And gave my raptured soul away. Flung from her eyes of purest blue, O'er sense and spirit, heart and brain. Thou com'st to cheer my waning age, She blushes! Ah, reluctant maid, Floats the great Leveller's crimson fold Come to my arms !—love heeds not years No frost the bud of passion knows.— Ha what is this my frenzy hears? A voice behind me uttered,-Rose ! Sweet was her smile,-but not for me; Alas, when woman looks too kind, Just turn your foolish head and see, Some youth is walking close behind! As to giving up because the alınanac or the Fam ily-Bible says that it is about time to do it, I have no intention of doing any such thing. I grant you that I burn less carbon than some years ago. I see people of my standing really good for nothing, decrepit, effete, la lèvre inférieure déjà pendante, with what little life they have left mainly concentrated in their epigastrium. But as the disease of old age is epidemic, endemic, and sporadic, and everybody that lives long enough is sure to catch it, I am going to say, for the encouragement of such as need it, how I treat the malady in my own case. First. As I feel, that, when I have anything to do, there is less time for it than when I was younger, 1 find that I give my attention more thoroughly, and use my time more economically than ever before so that I can learn anything twice as easily as in my earlier days. I am not, therefore, afraid to attack a new study. I took up a difficult language a very few years ago with good success, and think of mathematics and metaphysics by-and-by. Secondly. I have opened my eyes to a good many neglected privileges and pleasures within my reach, and requiring only a little courage to enjoy them. You may well suppose it pleased me to find that old Cato was thinking of learning to play the fiddle, when I had deliberately taken it up in my old age, and satisfied myself that I could get much comfort, if not much music, out of it. Thirdly. I have found that some of those active exercises, which are commonly thought to belong to young folks only, may be enjoyed at a much later period. A young friend has lately written an admirable article in one of the journals, entitled, "Saints and their Bodies." Approving of his general doctrines, and grateful for his records of personal experience, I cannot refuse to add my own experimental confirmation of his eulogy of one particular form of active exercise and amusement, namely, boating. For the past nine years, I have rowed about, during a good part of the summer, on fresh or salt water. My present fleet on the river Charles consists of three row-boats. 1. A small flat-bottomed skiff of the shape of a flat-iron, kept mainly to lend to boys. 2. A fancy "dory" for two pairs of sculls, in which I sometimes go out with my young folks. 3. My own particular water-sulky, a "skeleton" or "shell" race. boat, twenty-two feet long, with huge outriggers, which boat I pull with ten-foot sculls,-alone, of course, as it holds but one, and tips him out, if he doesn't mind what he is about. In this I glide around the Back Bay, down the stream, up the Charles to Cambridge and Watertown, up the Mys tic, round the wharves, in the wake of steamboa's which leave a swell after them delightful to rock upon; I linger under the bridges,-those "caterpillar bridges," as my brother professor so happily called them; rub against the black sides of old woodschooners; cool down under the overhanging stern of some tall Indiaman; stretch across to the Navy Yard, where the sentinel warns me off from the Ohio, just as if I should hurt her by lying in her shadow; then strike out into the harbor, where the water gets clear and the air smells of the ocean,— till all at once I remember, that, if a west wind blows up of a sudden, I shall drift along past the islands, out of sight of the dear old State-house,plate, tumbler, knife and fork all waiting at home, but no chair drawn up at the table,-all the dear people waiting, waiting, waiting, while the boat is sliding, sliding, sliding into the great desert, where there is no tree and no fountain. As I don't want my wreck to be washed up on one of the beaches in company with devil's-aprons, bladder-weeds, dead horse-shoes, and bleached crab-shells, I turn about and flap my long, narrow wings for home. When the tide is running out swiftly, I have a splendid fight to get through the bridges, but always make it a rule to beat,—though I have been jammed up into pretty tight places at times, and was caught once between a vessel swinging round and the pier, until our bones (the boat's, that is) cracked as it we had |