, which too often became agony, with heroic fortitude; but it
was evident that even his strong frame could not long hold out against
the debilitating effects of his merciless disease. Yet while it racked
his body it fortunately spared his mental faculties; and indeed so
lively did his interest in affairs remain that it seemed to require
these physical reminders to show him how old he was; save for his body,
he was still a man in his prime. He once said: "I often hear persons,
whom I knew when children, called _old_ Mr. Such-a-one, to distinguish
them from their sons, now men grown and in business; so that by living
twelve years beyond David's period, _I seem to have intruded myself into
the company of posterity, when I ought to have been abed and
asleep_,"--words which should take their place among the fine sayings of
the ages.

He was courageous and cheerful. In November, 1788, he wrote: "You kindly
inquire after my health. I have not of late much reason to boast of it.
People that will live a long life and drink to the bottom of the cup
must expect to meet with some of the dregs. However, when I consider how
many more terrible maladies the human body is liable to, I think myself
well off that I have only three incurable ones: the gout, the stone, and
old age; and, those notwithstanding, I enjoy many comfortable intervals,
in which I forget all my ills, and amuse myself in reading or writing,
or in conversation with friends, joking, laughing, and telling merry
stories, as when you first knew me, a young man about fifty."[101] He
does not seem to have taken undue credit to himself; there is no
querulousness, or egotism, or senility in his letters, but a delightful
tranquillity of spirit. His sister wrote to him that the Boston
newspapers often had matter in his honor. "I am obliged to them," he
wrote; "on the other hand, some of our papers here are endeavoring to
disgrace me. I take no notice. My friends defend me. I have long been
accustomed to receive more blame, as well as more praise, than I have
deserved. It is the lot of every public man, and I leave one account to
balance the other." So serene was the aged philosopher, a _real_
philosopher, not one who, having played a part in life, was to be
betrayed in the weakness and irritability of old age. He felt none of
the mental weariness which years so often bring. He was by no means
tired of life and affairs in this world, yet he wrote in a
characteristic vein to the