public property, we may remark, that his outer garment (toga) was of cheap stuff and somewhat worn, and that his general style and appearance of dress and manner (habitus, vestitusque) were somewhat provincial.
The lecture consisted of an imaginary dialogue between Cato and Lælius. We found the first portion rather heavy, and retired a few moments for refreshment (pocula quœdam vini).—All want to reach old age, says Cato, and grumble when they get it; therefore they are donkeys.—The lecturer will allow us to say that he is the donkey; we know we shall grumble at old age, but we want to live through youth and manhood, in spite of the troubles we shall groan over. —There was considerable prosing as to what old age can do and can't.—True, but not new. Certainly, old folks can’t jump,—break the necks of their thighbones, (femorum cervices,) if they do, can’t crack nuts with their teeth; can’t climb a greased pole (malum inunctum scandere non possunt); but they can tell old stories and give you good advice; if they know what you have made no your mind to do when you ask them.— All this is well enough, but won’t set the Tiber on fire (Tibertin accendere nequaquam potest).
There were some clever things enough, (dicta kaud inept a,) a few of which are worth reporting.—Old people are accused of being forgetful; but they never forget where they have put their money-—Nobody is so old he doesn’t think he can live a year.—The lecturer quoted an ancient maxim,—Grow old early, if you would be old long,—but disputed it.— Authority, he thought, was the chief privilege of age.— It is not great to have money, but fine to govern those that have it.—Old age begins at forty-six years, according to the common opinion.—It is not every kind of old age or of wine that grows sour with time.—Some excellent remarks were made on immortality, but mainly borrowed from and credited to Plato.—Several pleasing anecdotes were told.—Old Milo, champion of the heavy weights in his day, looked at his arms and whimpered, “ They are dead.” Not so dead as you, you old fool,—says Cato; —you never were good for anything but for your shoulders and flanks.—Pisistratus asked Solon what made him dare to be so obstinate. Old age, said Solon.
The lecture was on the whole acceptable, and a credit to our culture and civilization.—The reporter goes on to state that there will be no lecture next week, on account of the expected combat between the bear and the barbariau. Betting (sponsio) two to one (duo ad unum) on the bear.
——— After all, the most encouraging things I find in the treatise, “Do Senectute,” are the stories of men who have found new occupations when growing old, or kept up their common pursuits in the extreme period of life. Cato learned Greek when he was old, and speaks of wishing to learn the fiddle, or some such instrument, (fidibus,) after the example of Socrates. Solon learned something new, every day, in his old age, as he gloried to proclaim. Cyrus pointed out with pride and pleasure the trees he had planted with his own hand. [I remember a pillar on the Duke of Northumberland’s estate at Alnwick, with an inscription in similar words, if not the same. That, like other country pleasures, never wears out. None is too rich, none too poor, none too young, none too old to enjoy it.] There is a New England story I have heard more to the point, however, than any of Cicero’s. A young farmer was urged to set out some apple-trees.—No, said he, they are too long growing, and I don’t want to plant for oilier people. The young farmer’s father was spoken to about it; but; he, with better reason, alleged that apple-trees were slow and life was fleeting. At last some one mentioned it to the old grandfather of the young farmer. He had nothing else to do.—so he stuck in some trees. He lived long enough to drink barrels of eider made from the apples that grew on those trees.
As for myself, after visiting a friend lately,—
