midnight
The years have rolled by swiftly . Life is a coach , whose wheels move slowly and painfully at the start ; but , once set moving , particularly when going down the deep decline of life , the years move so swiftly you can not see the spokes in the wheels , which are the days we number so sadly . What glorious resolutions I made the first months of my residence here ! How I would read and write and burn the midnight oil , and astonish the world , and grow from dignity to dignity into an honored old age ! Alas ! circumstances are too much for us all , and here I am , in my seventieth year , poor old Daddy Dan , with no great earthly trouble , indeed , and some few consolations , -- my breviary and the grand psalms of hope , -- my daily Mass and its hidden and unutterable sweetness , -- the love of little children and their daily smiles , -- the prayers of my old women , and , I think , the reverence of the men . But there comes a little sting sometimes , when I see young priests , who served my Masses long ago , standing in cathedral stalls in all the glory of purple and ermine , and when I see great parishes passing into the hands of mere boys , and poor old Daddy Dan passed over in silence .