to wait long, and that their end is perceptibly approaching?
One consideration remains—the case of failing faculties in the aged. Of course, this is by far the most painful aspect of the case; but there is something to be done; and where there is something to be done there should be something said.
Most elderly persons among us must have read Dugald Stewart’s writings when they were young, and none who read them can have forgotten the following description:—“One old man, I have, myself, had the good fortune to know, who, after a long, an active, and an honourable life, having begun to feel some of the usual effects of advanced years, has been able to find resources in his own sagacity against most of the inconveniences with which they are commonly attended, and who, by watching his gradual decline with the cool eye of an indifferent observer, and employing his ingenuity to retard its progress, has converted even the infirmities of age into a source of philosophical amusement.”[1]
This old man was Dr. Reid; and his noble use of an opportunity of studying phenomena through his own bodily failure reminds us of Sydenham, the physician, whose last moments were employed in noting his own pulse, for a scientific object—a death which I have heard Dr. Channing declare to be the most enviable he knew of. How indeed can there be a nobler close to life than providing light for others out of one’s own eclipse?
There are few, perhaps, who could do this; and certainly not many could be expected to think of doing it. But there is a preparation for that peculiar trial and difficulty which it is in the power of most aged persons to make, who are happily placed in regard to home and friends. Most who have advanced far in the “labour and sorrow” of old age must be conscious of more or less failure; and all are aware of the liability they shall be under if they live so long. Is it not possible—is it not even easy—to predetermine our own welfare in that condition? Can we not make a resolve, too determinate to be ever forgotten by the feeblest memory, to put ourselves entirely into the hands of some guardian whom we can trust in such circumstances better than ourselves? Do we not know that we cannot be judges in our own case as to whether our judgment is as sound as ever, and our temper as calm and strong, and our understanding as clear? From the moment when any failure is probable, or is recognised by anybody, it should be our plan, long formed and dwelt upon, to resign ourselves to decisions more trustworthy than our own, and to yield obedience to a better guidance. There can be no doubt of the benefit of this course to health, peace of mind, and serenity of the daily life. It is not always easy, of course, for it requires a resolute repression of self-love and self-will; but, when the work of repression is mainly done beforehand, there is no pain remaining that can for a moment compare with that of conflict, internal or external, with that of making mistakes, discrediting ourselves and disconcerting others—of sinking, in short, under infirmity, instead of conquering its worst liabilities. What can be more painful and humbling to witness, than the struggle which a failing mind keeps up; arguing in favour of its own abilities with saddened friends whom common humanity keeps from replying; quarrelling with the comrades of old times, or resenting their refusal to quarrel with him; fidgeting about everybody’s opinion of him, and straining his mind to show how sharp he still is; refusing all suggestion as to what he shall do, and how he shall live; subject to exploitation by those who will flatter him about his independence and his dignity; and at last humoured in his tempers and caprices because “it is his way,” and “he cannot help it now!” What can be more consoling than the spectacle, on the other hand, of the old man or woman who, however weakened, is still noble—however dulled, is still venerable—from the good sense and unselfish considerateness still pervading the course of daily life! He has engaged some trusty friend or friends to tell him plainly when it is time for him to retire from work and the competitions of life; and the moment he is told, he settles his accounts with the world, and gives himself to the interests and amusements of retreat—not seclusion, but leisure. He is wholly tractable in the hands he has chosen to guide him, and is thankful for guardianship, instead of resenting it. By thus depositing his cares, he reduces care all round to the minimum. His own life and its remaining powers are well husbanded; for there is no needless irritation to chafe his temper by day, or spoil his sleep at night. He has no more to bear than what Dr. Johnson called “the natural force of the evil” of his superannuation. And when he is gone, survivors will not have to put away the impression of his latter days, in order to think of his life as, on the whole, it deserves.
No doubt it may be objected, that this is requiring from the aged exactly what they are disabled from doing. This would be true if it was proposed that the failing should choose their course at the moment of failure, and hold it from choice when the power of choice is gone: but the actual suggestion is the widely different one, that the resolve should be made in anticipation of the need, and the habit of amenableness formed in good time. I cannot help thinking that such a purpose and such a habit may spread their influence far into the season of infirmity, and generally carry the meek philosopher through in safety and honour.
There will be little difficulty about passing the latter hours pleasantly if there is wisdom enough to follow a natural course. Let the aged person read or be read to, however soon he may forget. This is not a time for getting knowledge for use, but why not for pleasure? The chief delight will always be in old poetry—old divinity—old music—old history: but if there are new discoveries—new views—which can be understood for the moment, let them be enjoyed, even if lost again in an hour. The object is the calm entertainment of each passing day: no use beyond this need be considered; and here, as usual, the most thorough humility is the completest wisdom.
I need not speak of the opposite condition. The fret and passion of imbecility, unchastened by