women, and have drifted away upon the currents of life, themselves
fathers and mothers, with grey hairs gathering upon their heads. I
visit this venerable philosopher in his hearty and green old age,
every summer. I see him now, in my mind's eye, sitting under the
spreading branches of the trees planted by himself half a century ago,
which cast their shadows upon the pleasant lawn in front of his
dwelling--discussing politics, morals, history, religion,
philosophy--recounting anecdotes of the early settlement of the
county of which he was a pioneer; and I see how calmly and
deliberately he smokes, while he calls up old memories from the
shadowy past, discoursing wisely of the present, or speaking
prophetically of the future. I saw him last in July of the past year,
and he seemed to have changed in nothing. He had not grown older in
outward seeming. His heart was as warm and genial as it was long,
long ago; and cheerfulness, calm and chastened, marked as it had for
years the conversation of a man who felt that his mission in life was
accomplished. 'Why,' said he, addressing me, as a new thought seemed
to strike him, 'why, _your_ head is growing grey! I never noticed it
before. It is almost as white as mine. Well, well!' he continued, as
he tapped the thumb nail of his left hand with the inverted bowl of
his pipe, knocking the ashes from it as he spoke, 'well, well! it
won't be long until we will have smoked our last pipe. Mine, at least,
will soon be broken. But what of that? Seventy-eight years is a long
time to live in this world. I have had my share of life and of the
good pertaining to it, and shall have no right to complain when my
pipe is broken and its ashes scattered.' Such was the philosophy of an
almost Octogenarian smoker."

"I move for a suspension of sentence," said Smith, "Spalding's defence
of the weed, induces me to withdraw the indictment against it, leaving