next related analogy, which gives it instantly radiating
power, and justifies the superstitious instinct with which we had hoarded
it. We remember our old Greek Professor at Cambridge, an ancient bachelor,
amid his folios, possessed by this hope of completing a task, with nothing
to break his leisure after the three hours of his daily classes, yet ever
restlessly stroking his leg, and assuring himself "he should retire from
the University and read the authors." In Goethe's Romance, Makaria, the
central figure for wisdom and influence, pleases herself with withdrawing
into solitude to astronomy and epistolary correspondence. Goethe himself
carried this completion of studies to the highest point. Many of his works
hung on the easel from youth to age, and received a stroke in every month
or year of his life. A literary astrologer, he never applied himself to
any task but at the happy moment when all the stars consented. Bentley
thought himself likely to live till fourscore,--long enough to read
everything that was worth reading,--"_Et tunc magna mei sub terris ibit
imago_." Much wider is spread the pleasure which old men take in
completing their secular affairs, the inventor his inventions, the
agriculturist his experiments, and all old men in finishing their houses,
rounding their estates, clearing their titles, reducing tangled interests
to order, reconciling enmities, and leaving all in the best posture for
the future. It must be believed that there is a proportion between the
designs of a man and the length of his life: there is a calendar of his
years, so of his performances.

America is the country of young men, and too full of work hitherto for
leisure and tranquillity; yet we have had robust centenarians, and
examples of dignity and wisdom. I have lately found in an old note-book a
record of a visit to Ex-President John Adams, in 1825, soon after the
election of his _son_ to the Presidency. It is but a sketch, and nothing
important passed in the conversation; but it reports a moment in the life
of a heroic person, who, in extreme old age, appeared still erect, and
worthy of his fame.

----, _Feb._, 1825. To-day, at Quincy, with my brother, by
invitation of Mr. Adams's family. The old President sat in a large
stuffed arm-chair, dressed in a blue coat, black small-clothes,
white stockings, and a cotton cap covered his bald head. We made
our compliment, told him he must let us join our congratulati