that he was as good a man with his axe as he was when he was forty, but I would back him,—­if the match were possible, for a hundred shekels, against that over-confident old Israelite, to cut down and chop up a cedar of Lebanon.  I know a most excellent clergyman, not far from my own time of life, whom I would pit against any old Hebrew rabbi or Greek philosopher of his years and weight, if they could return to the flesh, to run a quarter of a mile on a good, level track.

We must not make too much of such exceptional cases of prolonged activity.  I often reproached my dear friend and classmate, Tames Freeman Clarke, that his ceaseless labors made it impossible for his coevals to enjoy the luxury of that repose which their years demanded.  A wise old man, the late Dr. James Walker, president of Harvard University, said that the great privilege of old age was the getting rid of responsibilities.  These hard-working veterans will not let one get rid of them until he drops in his harness, and so gets rid of them and his life together.  How often has many a tired old man envied the superannuated family cat, stretched upon the rug before the fire, letting the genial warmth tranquilly diffuse itself through all her internal arrangements!  No more watching for mice in dark, damp cellars, no more awaiting the savage gray rat at the mouth of his den, no more scurrying up trees and lamp-posts to avoid the neighbor’s cur who wishes to make her acquaintance!  It is very grand to “die in harness,” but it is very pleasant to have the tight straps unbuckled and the heavy collar lifted from the neck and shoulders.

It is natural enough to cling to life.  We are used to atmospheric existence, and can hardly conceive of ourselves except as breathing creatures.  We have never tried any other mode of being, or, if we have, we have forgotten all about it, whatever Wordsworth’s grand ode may tell us we remember.  Heaven itself must be an experiment to every human soul which shall find itself there.  It may take time for an earthborn saint to become acclimated to the celestial ether,—­that is, if time can be said to exist for a disembodied spirit.  We are all sentenced to capital punishment for the crime of living, and though the condemned cell of our earthly existence is but a narrow and bare dwelling-place, we have adjusted ourselves to it, and made it tolerably comfortable for the little while we are to be confined in it.  The prisoner of Chillon

   “regained [his] freedom with a sigh,”

and a tender-hearted mortal might be pardoned for looking back, like the poor lady who was driven from her dwelling-place by fire and brimstone, at the home he was leaving for the “undiscovered country.”

On the other hand, a good many persons, not suicidal in their tendencies, get more of life than they want.  One of our wealthy citizens said, on hearing that a friend had dropped off from apoplexy, that it made his mouth water to hear of such a case.  It was an odd expression, but I have no doubt that the fine old gentleman to whom it was attributed made use of it.  He had had enough of his gout and other infirmities.  Swift’s account of the Struldbrugs is not very amusing reading for old people, but some may find it a consolation to reflect on the probable miseries they escape in not being doomed to an undying earthly existence.