was not seen to moulder under the quiet which an old man claims as his right. Of him might be said what Solon said of himself in advanced years, that “he learned something every day he lived"; and to no one could be better applied the remark of Cicero concerning the venerable Appius: "He kept his mind bent like a bow, nor was it ever relaxed by old age.” But it was peculiarly his fine moral qualities his benevolence, his artlessness, his genial kindness—which shed a mellow and beautiful light on his old age. No thought of self ever mingled its alloy with the virtues that adorned Judge Davis's character. His reliance on the truths and promises of Christian faith seemed more confident. and vital as he drew nearer to the great realities of the future. For him, life had always a holy meaning. A Grecian philosopher, at the age of eighty-five, is said to have expressed painful discontent at the shortness of life, and complained of nature's hard allotment, which snatches man away just as he is about to reach some perfection of science. Not so our Christian sage; he found occasion, not for complaint, but rather for thankfulness, because, as the end approached, he saw more distinctly revealed the better light beyond. He once expressed, in a manner touchingly beautiful, his own estimation of old age. On the occasion of a dinner-party, at which Judge Story and others eminent in the legal profession were present, the conversation turned upon the comparative advantages of the different periods of life. Some preferred, for enjoyment, youth and manhood; others ascribed more solid satisfactions to old age. When the opinion of Judge Davis was asked, he said, with his usual calm simplicity of manner: "In the warm season of the year it is my delight to be in the country; and every pleasant evening while I am there, I love to sit at the window and look at some beautiful trees which grow near my house. The murmuring of the wind through the branches, the gentle play of the leaves, and the flickering of light upon them when the moon is up, fill me with an indescribable pleasure. As the autumn comes on, I feel very sad to see these leaves falling one by one; but when they are all gone, I find that they were only a screen before my eyes; for I experience a new and higher satisfaction as I gaze through the naked branches at the glo rious stars of heaven be yond." AT ANCHOR.* AH, many a year ago, dear wife, Α We floated down this river, Where the hoar willows on its brink Alternate wave and shiver; With careless glance we viewed askance And scarce would heed the reed-wren near, Who sang beside her nest; Nor dreamed that e'er our boat would be Thus anchored and at rest, Thus anchored, and at rest! O, many a time the wren has built Where those green shadows quiver, And many a time the hawthorn shed Its blossoms on the river, Since that sweet noon of sultry June, When I my love confessed, While with the tide our boat did glide Adown the stream's smooth breast, *Author unknown. Whereon our little shallop lies Now anchored, and at rest, Now anchored, and at rest! The waters still to ocean run, Their tribute to deliver, And still the hawthorns bud and bloom Above the dusky river. Still sings the wren, the water-hen Still skims the ripple's crest; The sun as bright as on that night Sinks slowly down the west; But now our tiny craft is moored, Safe anchored and at rest, Dear love, Safe anchored, and at rest! For this sweet calm of after-days A world our own has round us grown, Wherein we twain are blest; Our child's first words than songs of birds More music have expressed; And all our centred happiness Is anchored, and at rest, Dear love, Is anchored, and at rest! By NOVEMBER. REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER. W E often hear people say, "O, the dreary days of November!" The days of November are never dreary, though men sometimes are. There are things in November that make us sad. There are suggestions in it that lead us to serious thoughts. At that season of the year, we are apt to feel that life is passing away. After the days in summer begin to grow short, I cannot help sighing often; and, as they still grow shorter and shorter, I look upon things, not with pain, but with a melancholy eye. And when autumn comes, and the leaves of the trees drop down through the air and find their resting-places, I cannot help thinking, that life is short, that our work is almost ended. It makes me sad; but there is a sadness that is wholesome, and even pleasurable. There are sorrows that are not painful, but are of the nature of some acids, and give piquancy and flavor to li |