I should be afraid to say to you how much he writes in the compass of a half-dime,--whether the Psalms or the Gospels, or the Psalms AND the Gospels, I won't be positive.
But now let rue tell you this.

If the time comes when you must lay down the fiddle and the bow, because your fingers are too stiff, and drop the ten-foot sculls, because your arms are too weak, and, after dallying awhile with eye-glasses, come at last to the undisguised reality of spectacles,--if the time comes when that fire of life we spoke of has burned so low that where its flames reverberated there is only the sombre stain of regret, and where its coals glowed, only the white ashes that cover the embers of memory,--don't let your heart grow cold, and you may carry cheerfulness and love with you into the teens of your second century, if you can last so long.

As our friend, the Poet, once said, in some of those old-fashioned heroics of his which he keeps for his private reading,-- Call him not old, whose visionary brain Holds o'er the past its undivided reign.
For him in vain the envious seasons roll Who bears eternal summer in his soul.
If yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay, Spring with her birds, or children with their play, Or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream of art Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart,-- Turn to the record where his years are told,-- Count his gray hairs,--they cannot make him old! End of the Professor's paper.
[The above essay was not read at one time, but in several instalments, and accompanied by various comments from different persons at the table.

The company were in the main attentive, with the exception of a little somnolence on the part of the old gentleman opposite at times, and a few sly, malicious questions about the "old boys" on the part of that forward young fellow who has figured occasionally, not always to his advantage, in these reports.
On Sunday mornings, in obedience to a feeling I am not ashamed of, I have always tried to give a more appropriate character to our conversation.

I have never read them my sermon yet, and I don't know that I shall, as some of them might take my convictions as a personal indignity to themselves.