“These lines were inscribed beneath his portrait, which hung in his own apartment. I remarked that the painter had not flattered him. ‘You are right, Sir,’ replied he; ‘the fact is, I am much younger than my portrait,’ and to prove that he was making no vain boast, he sprang up, and cut several capers, with surprising agility. His faculties were unimpaired, and he was a remarkable example of that vigorous organisation which sometimes manifests itself in the human frame; and which excites our wonder when we find that such delicate structures as the nerves of sight and hearing may be used for the space of a century without wearing out. Until within two years of the time when I saw Jankens, he had been able to work well and actively. His hand was firm and steady, and he frequently wrote letters to his distant friends. When in his one hundred and seventh year, he thought, very reasonably, that he might give up work. ‘And what do you do now?’ I enquired. ‘I enjoy my life,’ replied he; ‘I saunter about the whole day long, singing, smoking, and amusing myself. I spend my time very gaily!’ “‘Yes, Sir; he dances, drinks, and sings all day long!’ exclaimed, in a half-jeering, half-envious tone, another veteran, named Watermans, who had joined us, and who, though _only_ ninety years of age, was much more feeble than Jankens. “I learned from the latter that he had had fifteen children; but that of all his large family, only one survived, though most of them had lived to a goodly age. His memory was stored with recollections of events connected with the marriage of Louis the Sixteenth; for, when a soldier in the Austrian service, he had formed one of the military escort which conducted Marie Antoinette into France. He sang me an old song, which had been composed in honour of the Royal nuptials, and which he said was very popular at the time. It was in the usual style of such effusions; a mere string of hyperbolic compliments, in praise of the ‘beauteous Princess,’ and the ‘illustrious Prince.’ It sounded like an echo from the grave of old French loyalty. Jankens sang this song in a remarkably clear, strong voice; but nevertheless, the performance did not give satisfaction to old Watermans, who, thrusting his fingers into his ears, said peevishly, ‘What a croaking noise!’ “Heedless of this discouraging remark, the venerable centenarian was preparing to favour me with another specimen of his vocal ability, when the great bell in the court-yard rang for supper. ‘Pardon, Sir,’ said Jankens, with an apologetic bow, ‘but—supper.’ Whereupon he hurried off in the direction of the refectory, with that sort of eager yearning with which it might be imagined he turned to his mother’s breast one hundred and nine years before. “‘It is amazing that that old fellow should have so sharp an appetite,’ observed the petulant Watermans, hobbling after him in a way which showed that he too was not altogether unprepared to do honour to the evening meal.”