Why should not an old man be merry too， when the greatsea is at play with those little children？ I delight， also， tofollow in the wake of a pleasure-party of young men andgirls strolling along the beach after an early supper at thePoint. Here， with handkerchiefs at nose， they bend overa heap of eel-grass entangled in which is a dead skate sooddly accoutred with two legs and a long tail that theymistake him for a drowned animal. A few steps farther theladies scream， and the gentlemen make ready to protectthem against a young shark of the dogfish kind rollingwith a lifelike motion in the tide that has thrown him up.
Next they are smit with wonder at the black shells of awagon-load of live lobsters packed in rock-weed for thecountry-market. And when they reach the fleet of doriesjust hauled ashore after the day’s fishing， how do I laugh inmy sleeve， and sometimes roar outright， at the simplicityof these young folks and the sly humor of the fishermen！
In winter， when our village is thrown into a bustle by thearrival of perhaps a score of country dealers bargainingfor frozen fish to be transported hundreds of miles andeaten fresh in Vermont or Canada， I am a pleased but idlespectator in the throng. For I launch my boat no more.
When the shore was solitary， I have found a pleasurethat seemed even to exalt my mind in observing the sportsor contentions of two gulls as they wheeled and hoveredabout each other with hoarse screams， one momentflapping on the foam of the wave， and then soaring alofttill their white bosoms melted into the upper sunshine. Inthe calm of the summer sunset I drag my aged limbs witha little ostentation of activity， because I am so old， up tothe rocky brow of the hill. There I see the white sails ofmany a vessel outward bound or homeward from afar， andthe black trail of a vapor behind the Eastern steamboat；there， too， is the sun， going down， but not in gloom，and there the illimitable ocean mingling with the sky， toremind me of eternity.
But sweetest of all is the hour of cheerful musing andpleasant talk that comes between the dusk and the lightedcandle by my glowing fireside. And never， even on the firstThanksgiving-night， when Susan and I sat alone with ourhopes， nor the second， when a stranger had been sent togladden us and be the visible image of our affection， didI feel such joy as now. All that belongs to me are here：
Death has taken none， nor Disease kept them away， norStrife divided them from their parents or each other； withneither poverty nor riches to disturb them， nor the miseryof desires beyond their lot， they have kept New England’sfestival round the patriarch’s board. For I am a patriarch.
Here I sit among my descendants， in my old arm-chairand immemorial corner， while the firelight throws anappropriate glory round my venerable frame. —Susan！
My children！ Something whispers me that this happiesthour must be the final one， and that nothing remains butto bless you all and depart with a treasure of recollectedjoys to heaven. Will you meet me there？ Alas！ your figuresgrow indistinct， fading into pictures on the air， and now tofainter outlines， while the fire is glimmering on the wallsof a familiar room， and shows the book that I flung downand the sheet that I left half written some fifty years ago.
I lift my eyes to the looking-glass， and perceive myselfalone， unless those be the mermaid’s features retiring intothe depths of the mirror with a tender and melancholysmile.
Ah！ One feels a chilliness—not bodily， but about theheart—and， moreover， a foolish dread of looking behindhim， after these pastimes. I can imagine precisely howa magician would sit down in gloom and terror afterdismissing the shadows that had personated dead ordistant people and stripping his cavern of the unrealsplendor which had changed it to a palace.
And now for a moral to my reverie. Shall it be that，since fancy can create so bright a dream of happiness， itwere better to dream on from youth to age than to awakeand strive doubtfully for something real？ Oh， the slighttissue of a dream can no more preserve us from the sternreality of misfortune than a robe of cobweb could repelthe wintry blast. Be this the moral， then： In chaste andwarm affections， humble wishes and honest toil for someuseful end there is health for the mind and quiet for theheart， the prospect of a happy life and the fairest hope ofheaven.
