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gine the rapture they excite in his breast who, just escaped into the country, eagerly throws open his window the morning after his arrival, and beholds, instead of a smoky atmosphere, close streets, and brick walls, the fair face of Nature for which he has so long been pining, which his dreams and his imagination have for months been decking with every charm, and which now seems to exceed in loveliness all that his visions have portrayed or his fancy invented? The calm pleasures of years seem concentrated in that hour of ecstacy; he feels that a long exile is scarcely too dear a price for the transports of return, and consents almost willingly to purchase by renewed absence the right to a renewal of such keen and vivid enjoyment. The love and longing for a country life is often, indeed, counterbalanced by the contending charms of that cultivated and informed society, those literary pleasures and assistances, which, perhaps, only a metropolis can supply. The ancient, who praises so warmly the undisturbed studies, peaceful slumbers, and simple gratifications of the country, repaired thither for short intervals only from the luxury of Rome, the splendor of the court of Augustus, and the brilliant converse of the literary society which adorned it. It is not only "sad to see a noble landscape without being able to say to some one - What a beautiful prospect!'" but it is melancholy to say so to one who has no feeling for its beauties; it is melancholy to feel that we have ideas and sentiments worth communicating, but that those about us would understand them little better than High Dutch if communicated. Ah! could we transport into some remote and beautiful glen all those we love, and a few of those we admire, perch the British Museum on an adjacent hill, and persuade our favorite literary and scientific societies to hold their meetings in a neighboring valley, mingle the charms of human eloquence with the harmonies of groves, and enjoy "the feast of reason and the flow of soul" 13 atheneum, VOL. 2, 3d series.

at the same time with wild strawberries and waterfalls, then, indeed, none but the busy, the frivolous, or the worthless, would wish to reside in London, and the exaltation of fancy and exhilaration of mind, produced by fine views and free breezes, might be obtained without any sacrifice worthy of the name.

There is a sort of half-way between town and the country, which some assert combines the advantages, others the defects, of each; and this is a country-town. Here, indeed, a little money, a little learning, and a little fashion, will go ten times as far as they will in London. Here, a man who takes in the Quarterly or Edinburgh, is a literary character; the lady who has one head-dress in the year from a Bond-street milliner, becomes the oracle of fashion, "the observed of all observers ;" here dinners are talked of as excellent, at which neither French dishes nor French wines were given, and a little raspberry ice would confer wide celebrity on an evening party, and excite much animadversion and surprise. Here, notwithstanding a pretty strong line of demarcation between the different sets of society, every one appears to know every body; the countenances and names of each are familiar; we want no slave, who calls out the names; but are ready with a proper supply of condescending nods, friendly greetings, and kind inquiries, to dispense to each passenger according to his claims. Indeed, in calculating the length of time requisite for arriving at a certain point, the inhabitant of a country-town should make due allowance for the necessary gossip which must take place on the road, and for the frequent interchange of bulletins of health, which is sure to occur; and after a residence of any length in these sociable places, a sensation of solitude and desertion is felt in those crowded streets of our metropolis, where the full tide of population may roll past us for hours without bringing with it a single glance of recognition or kindness. Here round games and

Casino still find refuge and support ed limited to reading the Fathers,

amidst a steady band of faithful partizans; here old maids escape ridicule from being numerous, and old bachelors acquire importance from being scarce. It is, indeed, to this latter description of persons that I would especially recommend a residence in a country-town; and, as Dr. Johnson said, that "wherever he might dine, he would wish to breakfast in Scotland:" so, wherever I may pass my youth, let my days of old bachelorship, if to such I am doomed, be spent in a country-town. There the genteel male population forsake their birthplace at an early age; and since war no longer exists to supply their place with the irresistible military, the importance of a single man, however small his attractions, however advanced his age, is considerable; while a tolerably agreeable bachelor under sixty is the object of universal attention, the cynosure of every lady's eye. In the cathedral city where I visited a friend some years since, there were forty-five single women, from sixteen to fifty, and only three marriageable men. Let any one imagine the delight of receiving the most flattering attentions from fifteen women at once, some of them extremely pretty and agreeable; or, I should rather say, from forty-five, since the three bachelors, politically avoiding all appearance of preference, were courted equally by nearly the whole phalanx of the sisterhood. One of the enviable men, being only just of age, was indeed too young to excite hopes in the more elderly ladies, but another more fortunate, if he knew his happiness, (“sua si bona norit,") was exposed to the attacks, more or less open, of every unmarried woman. Alas! he was insensible to his privileges; a steady man of fifty-five, a dignitary of the church, devoted to study, and shy in his habits, he seemed to shrink from the kind attentions he received, and to wish for a less favored, a less glorious state of existence. His desires seem

writing sermons, and doing his duty as a divine; and he appeared of opinion that no helpmate was required to fulfil them. But still the indefatigable phalanx of forty-five, with three or four widows as auxiliaries, continued their attacks, and his age, as I before observed, was fatally encouraging to the hopes of each. The youngest looked in their glasses and remembered the power of youth and beauty; the middle-aged calculated on the good sense and propriety of character of their object, and were "sure he would never marry a girl ;" and the most elderly exaggerated his gravity, thought of his shovel hat, and seemed to suppose that every woman under fifty must be too giddy for its wearer. Meanwhile, what a life he led !-his opinions law; his wishes gospel; the cathedral crowded when he preached; churches attended; schools visited; waltzing calumniated ; novels concealed; shoulders covered; petticoats lengthened-all to gain his approving eye. The fact is, his sphere of useful influence was much enlarged by his single state: as a married man, he could only have reformed his wife ; as a bachelor, he exercised undisputed power over every spinster in his neighborhood. He was, indeed, unconscious of, or ungratified by the deference and incense he received; but the generality of men are less insensible, and half the homage he so carefully rejected would have been sufficient to intoxicate with delight and self-complacency the greater part of his fraternity. What object in nature is more pitiable than a London old bachelor, of moderate fortune and moderate parts, whose conversational powers do not secure him invitations to dinners, when stiffness of limb and a growing formality have obliged him to retreat from quadrilles. The rich, we know, thrive everywhere, and at all seasons, safe from neglect, secure from ridicule.* I speak of those less strongly fortified against the effects of

"Un projet assez vain seroit de vouloir tourner un homme fort sot et fort riche en ridicule ; les rieurs sont de son cote."

time; those who, scarcely considered with an air of triumph, and even hint good speculations in their best days, a wonder that he has given up dancare now utterly insignificant, concealed ing. and jostled by a crowd of younger aspirants, overlooked by mammas, except when needed to execute some troublesome commission; and without a chance of receiving a single word or glance from their daughters unmarked by that provoking ease and compassionate familiarity, which tell them, better than words, that their day of influence has closed forever. Let such unhappy men fly from the scenes of former pleasure and power, of former flirtation and gaiety, to the quiet er and surer triumphs of a countrytown. Here crowds of young women, as certainly devoted to celibacy as the inmates of a nunnery, accustomed from necessity to make beaux out of the most unprecedented materials, and concoct flirtations in the most discouraging circumstances, will welcome him with open arms, under-rate his age, over-rate his merits, doubt if his hair is grey, deny that he wears false teeth, accept his proffered arm

To their innocent cheeks his glance will have the long-lost power of calling up a blush; eyes as bright as those which beamed upon his youth will sparkle at his approach; and tender hearts, excluded by fate from palpitations for a more suitable object, must per force beat quicker at his address. Here let him revel in the enjoyment of unbounded influence, preserve it by careful management to the latest possible moment, and at length gradually slide from the agreeable old beau into the interesting invalid, and secure for his days of gout, infirmity, and sickness, a host of attentive nurses, of that amiable sex which delights and excels in offices of pity and kindness; who will read him news, recount him gossip, play backgammon or cribbage, knit him comfortables, make him jellies, and repay by affectionate solicitude and unselfish attentions the unmeaning, heartless, worthless admiration which he bestowed upon them in his better days.

SCRAPS FROM THE "NOCTES."

Shepherd.-Hoo could you, Mr. North, wi' a' your time at your ain command, keep in and about Embro' frae May to December? The city, for three months in the dead o' simmer, is like a tomb.

moon on the sunny braes o' MontBenger.

North. Why, James, the moment I begin to press matters, she takes out her pocket-handkerchief—and through sighs and sobs, recurs to the old topic

Tickler—(in a whisper to the Shep--that twenty thousand times told herd). The widow-James-the wi- tale-the dear old General.

dow.

Shepherd (aloud).-The weedow -sir-the weedow! Couldna he hae brocht her out wi' him to the Forest? At their time o' life, surely scandal wud hae held her tongue.

Tickler.-Scandal never holds her tongue, James. She drops her poison upon the dew on the virgin's untimely grave-her breath will not let the grey hairs rest in the mould

Shepherd.-Then, Mr. North, marry her at ance, and bring her out in Spring, that you may pass the hinney

Shepherd.-Deevil keep the dear old General! Hasna the man been dead these twunty years? And if he had been leevin', wouldna he been aulder than yoursell, and far mair infirm? You're no in the least infirm, sir.

North.-Ah, James! that's all you know. My infirmities are increasing with years

Shepherd.-Wad you be sae unreasonable as to expect them to decrease with years? Are her infirmities

North.-Hush-she has no infirmi

ties.

Shepherd.-Nae infirmities! Then tender topic, depend on't-sae that on she's no worth a brass button. But a calm and dispassionate view o' a' let me ask you ae interrogatory.-Hae the circumstances o' the case, there ye ever put the question ? can be nae doot that you maun mak an apology; or, if you do not, I leave

me that, sir.

Answer

North.-Why, James, I cannot say the room, and there is an end of the that I ever have Noctes Ambrosianæ.

Shepherd.-What! and you expeck that she wull put the question to you? That would indeed be puttin' the cart before the horse. If the women were to ask the men there wad be nae leevin' in this warld. Yet, let me tell you, Mr. North, that it's a shamefu' thing to keep playin' in the way you hae been doin' for these ten years past on a young woman's feelings

Tickler.-Ha-ha-ba-James! A young woman! Why, she's sixty, if she's an hour.

North.-You lie.

Shepherd. That's a douss on the chops, Mr. Tickler. That's made you as red in the face as a BubblyJock, sir. O the power o' ae wee bit single monosyllabic syllable o' a word to awawken a' the safter and a' the fiercer passions! Dinna keep bitin' your thoomb, Mr. Tickler, like an Itawlian. Make an apology to Mr. North

North.-I will accept of no apology. The man who calls a woman old deserves death.

North.-Rather than that should happen I will make a thousand apologies

Tickler. And I ten thousandShepherd. That's behavin' like men and Christians. Embrace-embrace. (North and Tickler embrace.) North.-Where were we, James? Shepherd.-I was abusin' Embro' in simmer.

North.-Why?

Shepherd.-Whey? a' the lumms smokeless! No ae jack turnin' a piece o' roastin' beef afore ae fire in ony ae kitchen in a' the New Toon! Streets and squares a' grass-grown, sae that they might be mown! Shops like bee-hives that hae de'ed in wunter! Coaches settin' aff for Stirlin', and Perth, and Glasgow, and no ae passenger either inside or out-only the driver keepin' up his heart wi' flourishin' his whup, and the guard, sittin' in perfect solitude, playin' an eerie spring on his bugle-horn! The shut-up playhouse a' covered ower wi' bills that seem to speak o' plays acted in an

Shepherd. Did you call her auld, antediluvian world! Here, perhaps, Mr. Tickler?

Tickler. To you, sir, I will condescend to reply. I did not. I merely said she was sixty if she was an hour. Shepherd.-In the first place, dinna "Sir" me-for it's not only ill-bred, but it's stoopit. In the second place, dinna tawk o'" condescendin'" to reply to me-for that's language I'll no thole even frae the King on the throne, and I'm sure the King on the throne wadna mak use o't. In the third place, to ca' a woman saxty, and then manteen that ye didna ca' her auld, is naething short o' a sophism. And, in the fourth place, you shudna hae accompanied your remark wi' a loud haw-hawhaw-for on a tender topic a guffaw's an aggravation—and marryin' a widow, let her age be what it wull, is a

a leevin' creter, like ane emage, staunin' at the mouth o' a close, or hirplin' alang, like the last relic o' the plague. And oh! but the stane-statue o' the late Lord Melville, staunin' a' by himsell up in the silent air, a hunder-and-fifty feet high, has then a ghastly seeming in the sky, like some giant condemned to perpetual imprisonment on his pedestal, and mournin' ower the desolation of the city that in life he loved so well. Then for womankind

Tickler.-Oh! James! James! I knew you would not long keep off that theme

Shepherd.-Oh! ye pawkie auld carle ! What ither theme in a' this wide weary warld is worth ae single thocht or feelin' in the poet's heart

single

North.-Song from the Shepherd's

lyre

ae single line frae the poet's pen-ae les on's shoon-for buckles are no quite out yet a'thegither-a frill like a fan at the shirt neck o' himand, wad the warld beleeve't, kneebreeks!-then they titter-and then they lauch-and then, as musical as if they were singin' in pairts, the bonnie, bloomin', innicent wicked creters break

Shepherd. The womankind, I say, sirs, never looks sae bonnie as in wunter, accepp indeed it may be in spring

Tickler.-Or summer, or autumn, out into-I maunna say, o' sic rosy

James

Shepherd.-Haud your tongue. You auld bachelors ken naething o' womankind-and hoo should ye, when they treat you wi' but ae feelin', that o' derision? Oh, sirs! but the dear creters do look weel in muffs-whether they haud them, wi' their invisible hauns clasped thegither in their beauty within the cozy silk linin', close prest to their innicent waists, just aneath the glad beatins o' their first-lovetouched hearts-or haud them hingin' frae their extended richt arms, leavin' a' the feegur visible, that seems taller and slimmer as the removed muff reveals the clasps o' the pelisse a' the way doon frae neck till feet! Then, sir, is there, in a' the beautifu' and silent unfauldin's o' natur amang plants and flowers, ony thing sae beautifu' as the white, smooth, saft chafts o' a bit smilin' maiden o' saxteen, aughteen, or twunty, blossomin' out, like some bonnie bud o' snaw-white satin frae a coverin' o' rough leaves,-blossomin' out, sirs, frae the edge o' the fur-tippet, that haply a lover's happy haun had delicately hung ower her gracefu' shoothers-oh! the dear delightfu' little Laplander !

Tickler.-For a
James, you really describe-

North.-Whisht !

lips, and sic snawy breasts, a guffaw but a guffay, sirs, a guffay-for that's the feminine o' guffaw

North.-Tickler, we really must not allow ourselves to be insulted in this style any longer

Shepherd. And then awa they trip, sirs, flingin' an antelope's or gazelle's ee ower their shouther, diverted beyond measure to see their antique beau continuing at a distance to cut capers in his pride-till a' at ance they see a comet in the sky-a young offisher o' dragoons, wi' his helmet a' in a low wi' a flicker o' red feathers-and as he "turns and winds his fiery Pegassus," they are a' mute as death-yet every face at the same time eloquent wi' mantling smiles, and wi' blushes that break through and around the blue heavens of their een, like crimson clouds to sudden sunlight burning beautiful for a moment, and then melting away like a thocht or a dream!

North.-Why, my dear James, it does one's heart good even to be ridiculed in the language of Poetry. Does it not, Tickler?

Tickler.-James, your health, my dear fellow.

Shepherd.-I never ridicule ony bomarried man, dy, sirs, that's no fit to bear it. But there's some sense and some satisfaction in makin' a fule o' them, that, when the fiend's in them, can mak fules o' a' body, like North and Tickler.

Shepherd.-I wush you only heard the way the bonnie croo-din-doos keep murmurin' their jeists to ane anither, as soon as a nest o' them gets rid o' an auld bacheleer on Prince's Street. Tickler.-Gets rid o' an auld ba

chelor!

Shepherd.-Booin' and scrapin' to them after the formal and stately fashion o' the auld school o' politeness, and thinking himsell the very pink o' coortesy, wi' a gold-headed cane aiblins, nae less, in his haun', and buck

Shepherd. There never was a baseless fiction.

North. No fiction, unless imposed by authority on the conscience of men, could ever obtain general credence, if it be not symbolical of truth.

Shepherd.-Truth's the essenceFiction the form.

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