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Call him not old, whose visionary brain
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, mali cious questions about the “old boys” on the part of that forward young fellow who has figured occasion ally, 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. But having read our company so much of the Professor's talk about age and other subjects connected with physical life, I took the next Sunday morning to repeat to them the following poem of his, which
I have bad by me some time. He calls it I sup pose, for his professional friends—The Anatomist's HYMN; but I shall name it)
THE LIVING TEMPLE.
The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves
The ebbing current steals away,
No rest that throbbing slave may ask,
But warmed with that unchanging flame
Its living marbles jointed strong
See how yon beam of seeming white
Then mark the cloven sphere that holds
O Father! grant thy love divine
VIIL (SPRING has come. You will find some verses to that effect at the end of these notes. If you are an impatient reader, skip to them at once. In reading aloud, omit, if you please, the sixth and seventh verses. These are parenthetical and digressive, and, unless your audience is of superior intelligence, will confuse them. Many people can ride on horseback who find it hard to get on and to get off without assistance. One has to dismount from an idea, and get into the saddle again, at every parenthesis.]
- The old gentleman who sits opposite, find. ing that spring had fairly come, mounted a white hat one day, and walked into the street. It seems to have been a premature or otherwise exceptionable exhibition, not unlike that commemorated by the late Mr. Bayly. When the old gentleman came home, he looked very red in the face, and complained that he had been “made sport of.” By sympathize ing questions, I learned from him that a boy had called him "old daddy," and asked him when he had his hat whitewashed.
This incident led me to make some observations at table the next morning, which I here repeat for the benefit of the readers of this record.
- The hat is the vulnerable point of the arti,