Economics Today The Micro 17th

Edition by Roger LeRoy Miller

ISBN 0132948885 9780132948883

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72 Miller • Economics Today, Seventeenth Edition

Chapter 8
Measuring the Economy’s Performance

◼ Overview
This chapter introduces national income accounting (NIA). It is important because it provides the
foundation for the heart of macroeconomics—the national income determination models. The first
objective is to examine the concepts and methods of NIA. The various measures of income and output
such as gross domestic product, net domestic product, national income, personal income, and disposable
personal income are explained in this section. The second objective is to demonstrate that one person or
group’s expenditure is another’s income. National income is equal to the money value of national (final)
output. GDP or income is not a perfect measurement of economic well-being and was not designed to
provide one. The basis of NIA, the circular flow of income and product model, is introduced. Then the
concept of real versus nominal values is presented. Finally, inter-country comparisons of GDP are shown.

◼ Learning Objectives
After studying this chapter, students should be able to
• Describe the circular flow of income and output.
• Define gross domestic product (GDP).
• Understand the limitations of using GDP as a measure of national welfare.
• Explain the expenditure approach to tabulating GDP.
• Explain the income approach to computing GDP.
• Distinguish between nominal GDP and real GDP.

◼ Outline
I. The Simple Circular Flow: The concept of a circular flow of income involves two principles:
(1) in every economic exchange, the seller receives exactly the same amount that the buyer

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 Chapter 8 Measuring the Economy’s Performance 73

spends and (2) goods and services flow in one direction and money payments flow in the other.
(See Figure 8-1.)
A. Profits Explained: Profits are a part of costs because entrepreneurs must be rewarded for
providing their services, or they will not provide them.
B. Total Income or Total Output: Total income is the total of all individuals’ income and is also
defined as the annual cost of producing the entire output of final goods and services. Total output
is the value of all of the final goods and services produced in the economy during the year.
1. Product Markets: Product Markets are where households are the buyers and businesses are
the sellers of consumer goods.
2. Factor Markets: In the Factor Markets, households are the sellers; they sell resources such
as labor, land, capital, and entrepreneurial ability.

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74 Miller • Economics Today, Seventeenth Edition

C. Why the Dollar Value of Total Output Must Equal Total Income: Total income is income
earned by households in payment for the production of these goods and services. The value of
total output is identical to total income because spending by one group is income to another.

II. National Income Accounting: A measurement system used to estimate national income and its
components.
A. Gross Domestic Product (GDP): The total market value of all final goods and services
produced by factors of production located within a nation’s borders in a year. GDP is a flow,
i.e., an activity that occurs over time. Contrast this with a stock measured at a point in time.
B. Stress on Final Output: GDP does not count intermediate goods (goods used up entirely in
the production of final goods) because to do so would be to double count. Value added is the
amount of dollar value contributed to a product at each state of production. (See Table 8-1.)
C. Exclusion of Financial Transactions, Transfer Payments, and Secondhand Goods: Many
transactions occur that have nothing to do with final goods and services produced.
1. Financial Transactions: There are three categories of purely financial transactions:
a. Securities: The value of brokers’ services is included in GDP when an investor buys or
sells securities because they perform a service. The actual value of the transaction is not
included because nothing new is produced. All that happens is an exchange of ownership
rights to the securities.
b. Government Transfer Payments: Transfer payments are payments for which no
productive services are concurrently provided in exchange.
c. Private Transfer Payments: This is a private transfer of funds from one person to
another and these are not included in GDP.
2. Transfer of Secondhand Goods: The value of secondhand goods is included in the GDP
in the year they were produced.
3. Other Excluded Transactions
a. Household Production: Tasks performed by homemakers within their households for
which they are not paid through the marketplace.
b. Otherwise Legal Underground Transactions: Legal transactions that are not reported
and not taxed.
c. Illegal Underground Activities: These activities include prostitution, illegal gambling,
sale of illegal drugs, etc. Illegal transactions are also not reported and thus not counted.
D. Recognizing the Limitations of GDP: GDP is a measure of production and an indicator of
economic activity. It is not a measure of a nation’s welfare. It excludes nonmarket activity and
says little about our environmental quality of life.

III. Two Main Methods of Measuring GDP: The expenditure approach is a way of adding up the dollar
value at current market prices of all final goods and services. The income approach could also be
used, by adding up the income received by everyone producing final goods and services.
A. Deriving GDP by the Expenditure Approach: The components of total expenditures are
added together. (See Figure 8-3.)
1. Consumption Expenditures (C): Consumption expenditures fall into three categories:
durable consumer goods, nondurable goods, and services.
2. Gross Private Domestic Investment (I): When economists refer to investment, they are
referring to expenditures that represent an addition to our future productive capacity.

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 Chapter 8 Measuring the Economy’s Performance 75

Investment consists of fixed investment, changes in inventories, and consumer expenditures

on new residential structures.
3. Fixed versus Inventory Investment: Fixed investment is the purchase of capital goods that
increase productive capacity in the future. Inventory investment represents net additions to
the stock of goods that can be consumed in the future.
4. Government Expenditures (G): The government buys goods and services from private
firms and pays wages and salaries to government employees. Since many government goods
are not sold in the marketplace, we value them at their cost.
5. Net Exports (Foreign Expenditures): Net exports (X) are equal to total exports minus total
imports.
B. Presenting the Expenditure Approach: GDP is C + I + G + X. C is consumption spending, I is
investment spending, G is government purchases, and X is net exports.
1. The Historical Picture: When we sum up the expenditures of the household, government,
business, and foreign sectors, we get GDP. (See Figure 8-2.)
2. Depreciation and Net Domestic Product: Depreciation is a reduction in the value of
capital goods over a one-year period due to physical wear and obsolescence; also called
capital consumption allowance. NDP = GDP − depreciation (capital consumption allowances)
or NDP = C + I + G + net exports − depreciation. Since net I = gross I − depreciation: NDP =
C + net I + G + net exports. Net investment measures changes in our capital stock over a
one-year period.
C. Deriving GDP by the Income Approach: The second approach to calculating GDP is the income
approach, which looks at total factor payments. Total income is all income earned by the owners
(or resources) who put their factors of production to work. Using this approach, gross domestic
income or GDI is computed and GDI is identically equal to GDP. (See Figure 8-3.)
1. Wages: Wages, salaries, and other forms of labor income, such as income in kind and
incentive payments. Social Security taxes paid by both the employees and employers are
also counted.
2. Interest: Only interest received by households plus net interest paid to us by foreigners is
included.
3. Rent: Income earned by individuals for the use of their real (nonmonetary) assets, such as
farms and houses.
4. Profits: Total corporate profits plus proprietors’ income, i.e., income earned from the
operation of unincorporated businesses, which include sole proprietorships, partnerships,
and producers’ cooperatives.
5. Indirect Business Taxes: All business taxes except the tax on corporate profits. Indirect
business taxes include sales and business property taxes.
6. Depreciation: Depreciation must be added to Net Domestic Income to get Gross Domestic
Income. Depreciation can be thought of as the portion of the current year’s GDP that is used
to replace physical capital consumed in the process of production. Since somebody has paid

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and bent to be a part of the round globe, under the optical sky,—part of
the astonishing astronomy, and existing, at last, to moral ends and from
moral causes.
The world is not made up to the eye of figures, that is, only half; it is also
made of color. How that element washes the universe with its enchanting
waves! The sculptor had ended his work, and behold a new world of
dream-like glory. ’Tis the last stroke of Nature; beyond color she cannot
go. In like manner, life is made up, not of knowledge only, but of love
also. If thought is form, sentiment is color. It clothes the skeleton world
with space, variety, and glow. The hues of sunset make life great; so the
affections make some little web of cottage and fireside populous,
important, and filling the main space in our history.
The fundamental fact in our metaphysic constitution is the
correspondence of man to the world, so that every change in that writes a
record in the mind. The mind yields sympathetically to the tendencies or
law which stream through things, and make the order of nature; and in
the perfection of this correspondence or expressiveness, the health and
force of man consist. If we follow this hint into our intellectual
education, we shall find that it is not propositions, not new dogmas and a
logical exposition of the world, that are our first need; but to watch and
tenderly cherish the intellectual and moral sensibilities, those fountains
of right thought, and woo them to stay and make their home with us.
Whilst they abide with us, we shall not think amiss. Our perception far
outruns our talent. We bring a welcome to the highest lessons of religion
and of poetry out of all proportion beyond our skill to teach. And,
further, the great hearing and sympathy of men is more true and wise
than their speaking is wont to be. A deep sympathy is what we require
for any student of the mind; for the chief difference between man and
man is a difference of impressionability. Aristotle, or Bacon, or Kant
propound some maxim which is the key-note of philosophy
thenceforward. But I am more interested to know, that, when at last they
have hurled out their grand word, it is only some familiar experience of
every man in the street. If it be not, it will never be heard of again.
Ah! if one could keep this sensibility, and live in the happy sufficing
present, and find the day and its cheap means contenting, which only ask
receptivity in you, and no strained exertion and cankering ambition,
overstimulating to be at the head of your class and the head of society,
and to have distinction and laurels and consumption! We are not strong
by our power to penetrate, but by our relatedness. The world is enlarged
for us, not by new objects, but by finding more affinities and potencies in
those we have.
This sensibility appears in the homage to beauty which exalts the
faculties of youth, in the power which form and color exert upon the
soul; when we see eyes that are a compliment to the human race, features
that explain the Phidian sculpture. Fontenelle said: “There are three
things about which I have curiosity, though I know nothing of them,—
music, poetry, and love.” The great doctors of this science are the
greatest men,—Dante, Petrarch, Michel Angelo, and Shakspeare. The
wise Socrates treats this matter with a certain archness, yet with very
marked expressions. “I am always,” he says, “asserting that I happen to
know, I may say, nothing but a mere trifle relating to matters of love; yet
in that kind of learning I lay claim to being more skilled than any one
man of the past or present time.” They may well speak in this uncertain
manner of their knowledge, and in this confident manner of their will, for
the secret of it is hard to detect, so deep it is; and yet genius is measured
by its skill in this science.
Who is he in youth, or in maturity, or even in old age, who does not like
to hear of those sensibilities which turn curled heads round at church,
and send wonderful eye-beams across assemblies, from one to one, never
missing in the thickest crowd. The keen statist reckons by tens and
hundreds; the genial man is interested in every slipper that comes into
the assembly. The passion, alike everywhere, creeps under the snows of
Scandinavia, under the fires of the equator, and swims in the seas of
Polynesia. Lofn is as puissant a divinity in the Norse Edda as Camadeva
in the red vault of India, Eros in the Greek, or Cupid in the Latin heaven.
And what is specially true of love is, that it is a state of extreme
impressionability; the lover has more senses and finer senses than others;
his eye and ear are telegraphs; he reads omens on the flower, and cloud,
and face, and form, and gesture, and reads them aright. In his surprise at
the sudden and entire understanding that is between him and the beloved
person, it occurs to him that they might somehow meet independently of
time and place. How delicious the belief that he could elude all guards,
precautions, ceremonies, means, and delays, and hold instant and
sempiternal communication! In solitude, in banishment, the hope
returned, and the experiment was eagerly tried. The supernal powers
seem to take his part. What was on his lips to say is uttered by his friend.
When he went abroad, he met, by wonderful casualties, the one person
he sought. If in his walk he chanced to look back, his friend was walking
behind him. And it has happened that the artist has often drawn in his
pictures the face of the future wife whom he had not yet seen.
But also in complacences, nowise so strict as this of the passion, the man
of sensibility counts it a delight only to hear a child’s voice fully
addressed to him, or to see the beautiful manners of the youth of either
sex. When the event is past and remote, how insignificant the greatest
compared with the piquancy of the present! To-day at the school
examination the professor interrogates Sylvina in the history class about
Odoacer and Alaric. Sylvina can’t remember, but suggests that Odoacer
was defeated; and the professor tartly replies, “No, he defeated the
Romans.” But ’tis plain to the visitor, that ’tis of no importance at all
about Odoacer, and ’tis a great deal of importance about Sylvina; and if
she says he was defeated, why he had better, a great deal, have been
defeated, than give her a moment’s annoy. Odoacer, if there was a
particle of the gentleman in him, would have said, Let me be defeated a
thousand times.
And as our tenderness for youth and beauty gives a new and just
importance to their fresh and manifold claims, so the like sensibility
gives welcome to all excellence, has eyes and hospitality for merit in
corners. An Englishman of marked character and talent, who had brought
with him hither one or two friends and a library of mystics, assured me
that nobody and nothing of possible interest was left in England,—he
had brought all that was alive away. I was forced to reply: “No, next door
to you, probably, on the other side of the partition in the same house, was
a greater man than any you had seen.” Every man has a history worth
knowing, if he could tell it, or if we could draw it from him. Character
and wit have their own magnetism. Send a deep man into any town, and
he will find another deep man there, unknown hitherto to his neighbors.
That is the great happiness of life,—to add to our high acquaintances.
The very law of averages might have assured you that there will be in
every hundred heads, say ten or five good heads. Morals are generated as
the atmosphere is. ’Tis a secret, the genesis of either; but the springs of
justice and courage do not fail any more than salt or sulphur springs.
The world is always opulent, the oracles are never silent; but the receiver
must by a happy temperance be brought to that top of condition, that
frolic health, that he can easily take and give these fine communications.
Health is the condition of wisdom, and the sign is cheerfulness,—an
open and noble temper. There was never poet who had not the heart in
the right place. The old trouveur, Pons Capdueil, wrote,—
“Oft have I heard, and deem the witness true,
Whom man delights in, God delights in too.”
All beauty warms the heart, is a sign of health, prosperity, and the favor
of God. Everything lasting and fit for men, the Divine Power has marked
with this stamp. What delights, what emancipates, not what scares and
pains us, is wise and good in speech and in the arts. For, truly, the heart
at the centre of the universe with every throb hurls the flood of happiness
into every artery, vein, and veinlet, so that the whole system is inundated
with the tides of joy. The plenty of the poorest place is too great: the
harvest cannot be gathered. Every sound ends in music. The edge of
every surface is tinged with prismatic rays.
One more trait of true success. The good mind chooses what is positive,
what is advancing,—embraces the affirmative. Our system is one of
poverty. ’Tis presumed, as I said, there is but one Shakspeare, one
Homer, one Jesus,—not that all are or shall be inspired. But we must
begin by affirming. Truth and goodness subsist forevermore. It is true
there is evil and good, night and day: but these are not equal. The day is
great and final. The night is for the day, but the day is not for the night.
What is this immortal demand for more, which belongs to our
constitution? this enormous ideal? There is no such critic and beggar as
this terrible Soul. No historical person begins to content us. We know the
satisfactoriness of justice, the sufficiency of truth. We know the answer
that leaves nothing to ask. We know the Spirit by its victorious tone. The
searching tests to apply to every new pretender are amount and quality,
—what does he add? and what is the state of mind he leaves me in? Your
theory is unimportant; but what new stock you can add to humanity, or
how high you can carry life? A man is a man only as he makes life and
nature happier to us.
I fear the popular notion of success stands in direct opposition in all
points to the real and wholesome success. One adores public opinion, the
other private opinion; one fame, the other desert; one feats, the other
humility; one lucre, the other love; one monopoly, and the other
hospitality of mind.
We may apply this affirmative law to letters, to manners, to art, to the
decorations of our houses, etc. I do not find executions or tortures or
lazar-houses, or grisly photographs of the field on the day after the battle
fit subjects for cabinet pictures. I think that some so-called “sacred
subjects” must be treated with more genius than I have seen in the
masters of Italian or Spanish art to be right pictures for houses and
churches. Nature does not invite such exhibition. Nature lays the ground-
plan of each creature accurately,—sternly fit for all his functions; then
veils it scrupulously. See how carefully she covers up the skeleton. The
eye shall not see it: the sun shall not shine on it. She weaves her tissues
and integuments of flesh and skin and hair and beautiful colors of the
day over it, and forces death down underground, and makes haste to
cover it up with leaves and vines, and wipes carefully out every trace by
new creation. Who and what are you that would lay the ghastly anatomy
bare?
Don’t hang a dismal picture on the wall, and do not daub with sables and
glooms in your conversation. Don’t be a cynic and disconsolate preacher.
Don’t bewail and bemoan. Omit the negative propositions. Nerve us with
incessant affirmatives. Don’t waste yourself in rejection, nor bark against
the bad, but chant the beauty of the good. When that is spoken which has
a right to be spoken, the chatter and the criticism will stop. Set down
nothing that will not help somebody;
“For every gift of noble origin
Is breathed upon by Hope’s perpetual breath.”
The affirmative of affirmatives is love. As much love, so much
perception. As caloric to matter, so is love to mind; so it enlarges, and so
it empowers it. Good-will makes insight, as one finds his way to the sea
by embarking on a river. I have seen scores of people who can silence
me, but I seek one who shall make me forget or overcome the frigidities
and imbecilities into which I fall. The painter Giotto, Vasari tells us,
renewed art, because he put more goodness into his heads. To awake in
man and to raise the sense of worth, to educate his feeling and judgment
so that he shall scorn himself for a bad action, that is the only aim.
’Tis cheap and easy to destroy. There is not a joyful boy or an innocent
girl buoyant with fine purposes of duty, in all the street full of eager and
rosy faces, but a cynic can chill and dishearten with a single word.
Despondency comes readily enough to the most sanguine. The cynic has
only to follow their hint with his bitter confirmation, and they check that
eager courageous pace and go home with heavier step and premature
age. They will themselves quickly enough give the hint he wants to the
cold wretch. Which of them has not failed to please where they most
wished it? or blundered where they were most ambitious of success? or
found themselves awkward or tedious or incapable of study, thought, or
heroism, and only hoped by good sense and fidelity to do what they
could and pass unblamed? And this witty malefactor makes their little
hope less with satire and scepticism, and slackens the springs of
endeavor. Yes, this is easy; but to help the young soul, add energy,
inspire hope, and blow the coals into a useful flame; to redeem defeat by
new thought, by firm action, that is not easy, that is the work of divine
men.
We live on different planes or platforms. There is an external life, which
is educated at school, taught to read, write, cipher, and trade; taught to
grasp all the boy can get, urging him to put himself forward, to make
himself useful and agreeable in the world, to ride, run, argue, and
contend, unfold his talents, shine, conquer, and possess.
But the inner life sits at home, and does not learn to do things, nor value
these feats at all. ’Tis a quiet, wise perception. It loves truth, because it is
itself real; it loves right, it knows nothing else; but it makes no progress;
was as wise in our first memory of it as now; is just the same now in
maturity and hereafter in age, it was in youth. We have grown to
manhood and womanhood; we have powers, connection, children,
reputations, professions: this makes no account of them all. It lives in the
great present; it makes the present great. This tranquil, well-founded,
wide-seeing soul is no express-rider, no attorney, no magistrate: it lies in
the sun, and broods on the world. A person of this temper once said to a
man of much activity, “I will pardon you that you do so much, and you
me that I do nothing.” And Euripides says that “Zeus hates busybodies
and those who do too much.”
OLD AGE.
 OLD AGE.
O the anniversary of the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Cambridge, in
1861, the venerable President Quincy, senior member of the Society, as
well as senior alumnus of the University, was received at the dinner with
peculiar demonstrations of respect. He replied to these compliments in a
speech, and, gracefully claiming the privileges of a literary society,
entered at some length into an Apology for Old Age, and, aiding himself
by notes in his hand, made a sort of running commentary on Cicero’s
chapter “De Senectute.” The character of the speaker, the transparent
good faith of his praise and blame, and the naïveté of his eager
preference of Cicero’s opinions to King David’s, gave unusual interest to
the College festival. It was a discourse full of dignity, honoring him who
spoke and those who heard.
The speech led me to look over at home—an easy task—Cicero’s famous
essay, charming by its uniform rhetorical merit; heroic with Stoical
precepts; with a Roman eye to the claims of the State; happiest, perhaps,
in his praise of life on the farm; and rising at the conclusion to a lofty
strain. But he does not exhaust the subject; rather invites the attempt to
add traits to the picture from our broader modern life.
Cicero makes no reference to the illusions which cling to the element of
time, and in which Nature delights. Wellington, in speaking of military
men, said, “What masks are these uniforms to hide cowards!” I have
often detected the like deception in the cloth shoe, wadded pelisse, wig,
spectacles, and padded chair of Age. Nature lends herself to these
illusions, and adds dim sight, deafness, cracked voice, snowy hair, short
memory and sleep. These also are masks, and all is not Age that wears
them. Whilst we yet call ourselves young, and our mates are yet youths
with even boyish remains, one good fellow in the set prematurely sports
a gray or a bald head, which does not impose on us who know how
innocent of sanctity or of Platonism he is, but does deceive his juniors
and the public, who presently distinguish him with a most amusing
respect: and this lets us into the secret, that the venerable forms that so
awed our childhood were just such impostors. Nature is full of freaks,
and now puts an old head on young shoulders, and then a young heart
beating under fourscore winters.
For if the essence of age is not present, these signs, whether of Art or
Nature, are counterfeit and ridiculous: and the essence of age is intellect.
Wherever that appears, we call it old. If we look into the eyes of the
youngest person, we sometimes discover that here is one who knows
already what you would go about with much pains to teach him; there is
that in him which is the ancestor of all around him: which fact the Indian
Vedas express when they say, “He that can discriminate is the father of
his father.” And in our old British legends of Arthur and the Round
Table, his friend and counsellor, Merlin the Wise, is a babe found
exposed in a basket by the river-side, and, though an infant of only a few
days, speaks articulately to those who discover him, tells his name and
history, and presently foretells the fate of the by-standers. Wherever
there is power, there is age. Don’t be deceived by dimples and curls. I
tell you that babe is a thousand years old.
Time is, indeed, the theatre and seat of illusion: nothing is so ductile and
elastic. The mind stretches an hour to a century, and dwarfs an age to an
hour. Saadi found in a mosque at Damascus an old Persian of a hundred
and fifty years who was dying, and was saying to himself, “I said,
coming into the world by birth, ‘I will enjoy myself for a few moments.’
Alas! at the variegated table of life I partook of a few mouthfuls, and the
Fates said, ‘Enough!’” That which does not decay is so central and
controlling in us, that, as long as one is alone by himself, he is not
sensible of the inroads of time, which always begin at the surface-edges.
If, on a winter day, you should stand within a bell-glass, the face and
color of the afternoon clouds would not indicate whether it were June or
January; and if we did not find the reflection of ourselves in the eyes of
the young people, we could not know that the century-clock had struck
seventy instead of twenty. How many men habitually believe that each
chance passenger with whom they converse is of their own age, and
presently find it was his father, and not his brother, whom they knew!
But not to press too hard on these deceits and illusions of Nature, which
are inseparable from our condition, and looking at age under an aspect
more conformed to the common sense, if the question be the felicity of
age, I fear the first popular judgments will be unfavorable. From the
point of sensuous experience, seen from the streets and markets and the
haunts of pleasure and gain, the estimate of age is low, melancholy, and
sceptical. Frankly face the facts, and see the result. Tobacco, coffee,
alcohol, hashish, prussic acid, strychnine, are weak dilutions: the surest
poison is time. This cup, which Nature puts to our lips, has a wonderful
virtue, surpassing that of any other draught. It opens the senses, adds
power, fills us with exalted dreams, which we call hope, love, ambition,
science: especially, it creates a craving for larger draughts of itself. But
they who take the larger draughts are drunk with it, lose their stature,
strength, beauty, and senses, and end in folly and delirium. We postpone
our literary work until we have more ripeness and skill to write, and we
one day discover that our literary talent was a youthful effervescence
which we have now lost. We had a judge in Massachusetts who at sixty
proposed to resign, alleging that he perceived a certain, decay in his
faculties; he was dissuaded by his friends, on account of the public
convenience at that time. At seventy it was hinted to him that it was time
to retire; but he now replied, that he thought his judgment as robust, and
all his faculties as good as ever they were. But besides the self-deception,
the strong and hasty laborers of the street do not work well with the
chronic valetudinarian. Youth is everywhere in place. Age, like woman,
requires fit surroundings. Age is comely in coaches, in churches, in
chairs of state, and ceremony, in council-chambers, in courts of justice,
and historical societies. Age is becoming in the country. But in the rush
and uproar of Broadway, if you look into the faces of the passengers,
there is dejection or indignation in the seniors, a certain concealed sense
of injury, and the lip made up with a heroic determination not to mind it.
Few envy the consideration enjoyed by the oldest inhabitant. We do not
count a man’s years, until he has nothing else to count. The vast
inconvenience of animal immortality was told in the fable of Tithonus. In
short, the creed of the street is, Old Age is not disgraceful, but
immensely disadvantageous. Life is well enough, but we shall all be glad
to get out of it, and they will all be glad to have us.
This is odious on the face of it. Universal convictions are not to be
shaken by the whimseys of overfed butchers and firemen, or by the
sentimental fears of girls who would keep the infantile bloom on their
cheeks. We know the value of experience. Life and art are cumulative;
and he who has accomplished something in any department alone
deserves to be heard on that subject. A man of great employments and
excellent performance used to assure me that he did not think a man
worth anything until he was sixty; although this smacks a little of the
resolution of a certain “Young Men’s Republican Club,” that all men
should be held eligible who were under seventy. But in all governments,
the councils of power were held by the old; and patricians or patres,
senate or senes, seigneurs or seniors, gerousia, the senate of Sparta, the
presbytery of the Church, and the like, all signify simply old men.
The cynical creed or lampoon of the market is refuted by the universal
prayer for long life, which is the verdict of Nature, and justified by all
history. We have, it is true, examples of an accelerated pace by which
young men achieved grand works; as in the Macedonian Alexander, in
Raffaelle, Shakspeare, Pascal, Burns, and Byron; but these are rare
exceptions. Nature, in the main, vindicates her law. Skill to do comes of
doing; knowledge comes by eyes always open, and working hands; and
there is no knowledge that is not power. Béranger said, “Almost all the
good workmen live long.” And if the life be true and noble, we have
quite another sort of seniors than the frowzy, timorous, peevish dotards
who are falsely old,—namely, the men who fear no city, but by whom
cities stand; who appearing in any street, the people empty their houses
to gaze at and obey them: as at “My Cid, with the fleecy beard,” in
Toledo; or Bruce, as Barbour reports him; as blind old Dandolo, elected
Doge at eighty-four years, storming Constantinople at ninety-four, and
after the revolt again victorious, and elected at the age of ninety-six to
the throne of the Eastern Empire, which he declined, and died Doge at
ninety-seven. We still feel the force of Socrates, “whom well-advised the
oracle pronounced wisest of men”; of Archimedes, holding Syracuse
against the Romans by his wit, and himself better than all their nation; of
Michel Angelo, wearing the four crowns of architecture, sculpture,
painting, and poetry; of Galileo, of whose blindness Castelli said, “The
noblest eye is darkened that Nature ever made,—an eye that hath seen
more than all that went before him, and hath opened the eyes of all that
shall come after him”; of Newton, who made an important discovery for
every one of his eighty-five years; of Bacon, who “took all knowledge to
be his province”; of Fontenelle, “that precious porcelain vase laid up in
the centre of France to be guarded with the utmost care for a hundred
years”; of Franklin, Jefferson, and Adams, the wise and heroic
statesmen; of Washington, the perfect citizen; of Wellington, the perfect
soldier; of Goethe, the all-knowing poet; of Humboldt, the encyclopædia
of science.
Under the general assertion of the well-being of age, we can easily count
particular benefits of that condition. It has weathered the perilous capes
and shoals in the sea whereon we sail, and the chief evil of life is taken
away in removing the grounds of fear. The insurance of a ship expires as
she enters the harbor at home. It were strange, if a man should turn his
sixtieth year without a feeling of immense relief from the number of
dangers he has escaped. When the old wife says, ‘Take care of that tumor
in your shoulder, perhaps it is cancerous,’—he replies, ‘I am yielding to
a surer decomposition.’ The humorous thief who drank a pot of beer at
the gallows blew off the froth because he had heard it was unhealthy; but
it will not add a pang to the prisoner marched out to be shot, to assure
him that the pain in his knee threatens mortification. When the pleuro-
pneumonia of the cows raged, the butchers said, that, though the acute
degree was novel, there never was a time when this disease did not occur
among cattle. All men carry seeds of all distempers through life latent,
and we die without developing them; such is the affirmative force of the
constitution; but if you are enfeebled by any cause, some of these
sleeping seeds start and open. Meantime, at every stage we lose a foe. At
fifty years, ’tis said, afflicted citizens lose their sick-headaches. I hope
this hegira is not as movable a feast as that one I annually look for, when
the horticulturists assure me that the rosebugs in our gardens disappear
on the tenth of July; they stay a fortnight later in mine. But be it as it may
with the sick-headache,—’tis certain that graver headaches and heart-
aches are lulled once for all, as we come up with certain goals of time.
The passions have answered their purpose: that slight but dread
overweight, with which, in each instance, Nature secures the execution
of her aim, drops off. To keep man in the planet, she impresses the terror
of death. To perfect the commissariat, she implants in each a certain
rapacity to get the supply, and a little oversupply, of his wants. To insure
the existence of the race, she reinforces the sexual instinct, at the risk of
disorder, grief, and pain. To secure strength, she plants cruel hunger and
thirst, which so easily overdo their office, and invite disease. But these
temporary stays and shifts for the protection of the young animal are
shed as fast as they can be replaced by nobler resources. We live in youth
amidst this rabble of passions, quite too tender, quite too hungry and
irritable. Later, the interiors of mind and heart open, and supply grander
motives. We learn the fatal compensations that wait on every act. Then,
—one after another,—this riotous time-destroying crew disappear.
I count it another capital advantage of age, this, that a success more or
less signifies nothing. Little by little, it has amassed such a fund of merit,
that it can very well afford to go on its credit when it will. When I
chanced to meet the poet Wordsworth, then sixty-three years old, he told
me, “that he had just had a fall and lost a tooth, and, when his
companions were much concerned for the mischance, he had replied, that
he was glad it had not happened forty years before.” Well, Nature takes
care that we shall not lose our organs forty years too soon. A lawyer
argued a cause yesterday in the Supreme Court, and I was struck with a
certain air of levity and defiance which vastly became him. Thirty years
ago it was a serious concern to him whether his pleading was good and
effective. Now it is of importance to his client, but of none to himself. It
has been long already fixed what he can do and cannot do, and his
reputation does not gain or suffer from one or a dozen new
performances. If he should, on a new occasion, rise quite beyond his
mark, and achieve somewhat great and extraordinary, that, of course,
would instantly tell; but he may go below his mark with impunity, and
people will say, ‘O, he had headache,’ or, ‘He lost his sleep for two
nights.’ What a lust of appearance, what a load of anxieties that once
degraded him, he is thus rid of! Every one is sensible of this cumulative
advantage in living. All the good days behind him are sponsors, who
speak for him when he is silent, pay for him when he has no money,
introduce him where he has no letters, and work for him when he sleeps.
A third felicity of age is, that it has found expression. The youth suffers
not only from ungratified desires, but from powers untried, and from a
picture in his mind of a career which has, as yet, no outward reality. He
is tormented with the want of correspondence between things and
thoughts. Michel Angelo’s head is full of masculine and gigantic figures
as gods walking, which make him savage until his furious chisel can
render them into marble; and of architectural dreams, until a hundred
stone-masons can lay them in courses of travertine. There is the like
tempest in every good head in which some great benefit for the world is
planted. The throes continue until the child is born. Every faculty new to
each man thus goads him and drives him out into doleful deserts, until it
finds proper vent. All the functions of human duty irritate and lash him
forward, bemoaning and chiding, until they are performed. He wants
friends, employment, knowledge, power, house and land, wife and
children, honor and fame; he has religious wants, æsthetic wants,
domestic, civil, humane wants. One by one, day after day, he learns to
coin his wishes into facts. He has his calling, homestead, social
connection, and personal power, and thus, at the end of fifty years, his
soul is appeased by seeing some sort of correspondence between his
wish and his possession. This makes the value of age, the satisfaction it
slowly offers to every craving. He is serene who does not feel himself
pinched and wronged, but whose condition, in particular and in general,
allows the utterance of his mind. In old persons, when thus fully
expressed, we often observe a fair, plump, perennial, waxen complexion,
which indicates that all the ferment of earlier days has subsided into
serenity of thought and behavior.
The compensations of Nature play in age as in youth. In a world so
charged and sparkling with power, a man does not live long and actively
without costly additions of experience, which, though not spoken, are
recorded in his mind. What to the youth is only a guess or a hope, is in
the veteran a digested statute. He beholds the feats of the juniors with
complacency, but as one who, having long ago known these games, has
refined them into results and morals. The Indian Red Jacket, when the
young braves were boasting their deeds, said, “But the sixties have all
the twenties and forties in them.”
For a fourth benefit, age sets its house in order, and finishes its works,
which to every artist is a supreme pleasure. Youth has an excess of
sensibility, before which every object glitters and attracts. We leave one
pursuit for another, and the young man’s year is a heap of beginnings. At
the end of a twelvemonth, he has nothing to show for it,—not one
completed work. But the time is not lost. Our instincts drove us to hive
innumerable experiences, that are yet of no visible value, and which we
may keep for twice seven years before they shall be wanted. The best
things are of secular growth. The instinct of classifying marks the wise
and healthy mind. Linnæus projects his system, and lays out his twenty-
four classes of plants, before yet he has found in Nature a single plant to
justify certain of his classes. His seventh class has not one. In process of
time, he finds with delight the little white Trientalis, the only plant with
seven petals and sometimes seven stamens, which constitutes a seventh
class in conformity with his system. The conchologist builds his cabinet
whilst as yet he has few shells. He labels shelves for classes, cells for
species: all but a few are empty. But every year fills some blanks, and
with accelerating speed as he becomes knowing and known. An old
scholar finds keen delight in verifying the impressive anecdotes and
citations he has met with in miscellaneous reading and hearing, in all the
years of youth. We carry in memory important anecdotes, and have lost
all clew to the author from whom we had them. We have a heroic speech
from Rome or Greece, but cannot fix it on the man who said it. We have
an admirable line worthy of Horace, ever and anon resounding in our
mind’s ear, but have searched all probable and improbable books for it in
vain. We consult the reading men: but, strangely enough, they who know
everything know not this. But especially we have a certain insulated
thought, which haunts us, but remains insulated and barren. Well, there is
nothing for all this but patience and time. Time, yes, that is the finder, the
unweariable explorer, not subject to casualties, omniscient at last. The
day comes when the hidden author of our story is found; when the brave
speech returns straight to the hero who said it; when the admirable verse
finds the poet to whom it belongs; and best of all, when the lonely
thought, which seemed so wise, yet half-wise, half-thought, because it
cast no light abroad, is suddenly matched in our mind by its twin, by its
sequence, or next related analogy, which gives it instantly radiating
power, and justifies the superstitious instinct with which we have
hoarded it. We remember our old Greek Professor at Cambridge, an
ancient bachelor, amid his folios, possessed by this hope of completing a
task, with nothing to break his leisure after the three hours of his daily
classes, yet ever restlessly stroking his leg, and assuring himself “he
should retire from the University and read the authors.” In Goethe’s
Romance, Makaria, the central figure for wisdom and influence, pleases
herself with withdrawing into solitude to astronomy and epistolary
correspondence. Goethe himself carried this completion of studies to the
highest point. Many of his works hung on the easel from youth to age,
and received a stroke in every month or year. A literary astrologer, he
never applied himself to any task but at the happy moment when all the
stars consented. Bentley thought himself likely to live till fourscore,—
long enough to read everything that was worth reading,—“Et tunc
magna mei sub terris ibit imago.” Much wider is spread the pleasure
which old men take in completing their secular affairs, the inventor his
inventions, the agriculturist his experiments, and all old men in finishing
their houses, rounding their estates, clearing their titles, reducing tangled
interests to order, reconciling enmities, and leaving all in the best posture
for the future. It must be believed that there is a proportion between the
designs of a man and the length of his life: there is a calendar of his
years, so of his performances.
America is the country of young men, and too full of work hitherto for
leisure and tranquillity; yet we have had robust centenarians, and
examples of dignity and wisdom. I have lately found in an old note-book
a record of a visit to ex-President John Adams, in 1825, soon after the
election of his son to the Presidency. It is but a sketch, and nothing
important passed in the conversation; but it reports a moment in the life
of a heroic person, who, in extreme old age, appeared still erect and
worthy of his fame.
——, Feb., 1825. To-day, at Quincy, with my brother, by
invitation of Mr. Adams’s family. The old President sat in a
large stuffed arm-chair, dressed in a blue coat, black small-
clothes, white stockings; a cotton cap covered his bald head.
We made our compliment, told him he must let us join our
congratulations to those of the nation on the happiness of his
house. He thanked us, and said: “I am rejoiced, because the
nation is happy. The time of gratulation and congratulations is
nearly over with me: I am astonished that I have lived to see
and know of this event. I have lived now nearly a century; [he
was ninety in the following October:] a long, harassed, and
distracted life.”—I said, “The world thinks a good deal of joy
has been mixed with it.”—“The world does not know,” he
replied, “how much toil, anxiety, and sorrow I have
suffered.”—I asked if Mr. Adams’s letter of acceptance had
been read to him.—“Yes,” he said, and, added, “My son has
more political prudence than any man that I know who has
existed in my time; he never was put off his guard: and I hope
he will continue such; but what effect age may work in
diminishing the power of his mind, I do not know; it has been
very much on the stretch, ever since he was born. He has
always been laborious, child and man, from infancy.”—When
Mr. J. Q. Adams’s age was mentioned, he said, “He is now
fifty-eight, or will be in July”; and remarked that “all the
Presidents were of the same age: General Washington was
about fifty-eight, and I was about fifty-eight, and Mr.
Jefferson, and Mr. Madison, and Mr. Monroe.”—We inquired
when he expected to see Mr. Adams.—He said: “Never: Mr.
Adams will not come to Quincy but to my funeral. It would
be a great satisfaction to me to see him, but I don’t wish him
to come on my account.”—He spoke of Mr. Lechmere, whom
he “well remembered to have seen come down daily, at a
great age, to walk in the old town-house,”—adding, “And I
wish I could walk as well as he did. He was Collector of the
Customs for many years under the Royal Government.”—E.
said: “I suppose, sir, you would not have taken his place, even
to walk as well as he.”—“No,” he replied, “that was not what
I wanted.”—He talked of Whitefield, and “remembered when
he was a Freshman in College, to have come into town to the
Old South church, [I think,] to hear him, but could not get into
 the house;—I however, saw him,” he said, “through a
window, and distinctly heard all. He had a voice such as I
never heard before or since. He cast it out so that you might
hear it at the meeting-house, [pointing towards the Quincy
meeting-house,] and he had the grace of a dancing-master, of
an actor of plays. His voice and manner helped him more than
his sermons. I went with Jonathan Sewall.”—“And you were
pleased with him, sir?”—“Pleased! I was delighted beyond
measure.”—We asked if at Whitefield’s return the same
popularity continued.—“Not the same fury,” he said, “not the
same wild enthusiasm as before, but a greater esteem, as he
became more known. He did not terrify, but was admired.”
We spent about an hour in his room. He speaks very distinctly for so old
a man, enters bravely into long sentences, which are interrupted by want
of breath, but carries them invariably to a conclusion, without correcting
a word.
He spoke of the new novels of Cooper, and “Peep at the Pilgrims,” and
“Saratoga,” with praise, and named with accuracy the characters in them.
He likes to have a person always reading to him, or company talking in
his room, and is better the next day after having visitors in his chamber
from morning to night.
He received a premature report of his son’s election, on Sunday
afternoon, without any excitement, and told the reporter he had been
hoaxed, for it was not yet time for any news to arrive. The informer,
something damped in his heart, insisted on repairing to the meeting-
house, and proclaimed it aloud to the congregation, who were so
overjoyed that they rose in their seats and cheered thrice. The Reverend
Mr. Whitney dismissed them immediately.

When life has been well spent, age is a loss of what it can well spare,—
muscular strength, organic instincts, gross bulk, and works that belong to
these. But the central wisdom, which was old in infancy, is young in
fourscore years, and, dropping off obstructions, leaves in happy subjects
the mind purified and wise. I have heard that whoever loves is in no
condition old. I have heard, that, whenever the name of man is spoken,
the doctrine of immortality is announced; it cleaves to his constitution.
The mode of it baffles our wit, and no whisper comes to us from the
other side. But the inference from the working of intellect, hiving
knowledge, hiving skill,—at the end of life just ready to be born,—
affirms the inspirations of affection and of the moral sentiment.
THE END.

Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, and Company.

 FOOTNOTES:
[A] Dr. Thomas Brown.
[B] Iliad, III. 191.
[C] Diary, I. 169.
 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
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standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
The cover image for this eBook was created by the
transcriber using the original cover and is entered
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