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but no jarrings with the servants. To the uninitiated eye, things
appear in exemplary confusion; but the solitary head of the
household can extract order from this confusion at any moment.
It is a maze, but not without a plan. You will chafe, because
there is a want of neatness ; but then our bachelor has quiet. Ah !
but you say, how lonesome it looks ! But the answer is ready.
The bachelor is not, nevertheless, the inhabitant of a solitude.
His domain is peopled with pleasant thoughts and sweet visitors,
and, if he be a student, with sublime ones. He converses with
great minds, unembarrassed by the voices of little ones. He
communes with master spirits in antique books. These counsel
and teach him, without ever disputing what he says and thinks.
They till, and instruct his soul, without vexing his self-esteem.
They bring music to his chamber, without troubling his ears with
noise. But, you say, he has none of the pleasures which spring
from his communion with children. You say that the association
with the young keeps the heart young; and you say rightly. But
the bachelor answers and says —if he has no children of his own,
he sees enough of his neighbours. They climb his fences, pilfer
his peaches, pelt his dog, and, as Easter approaches, break into his
fowl-yards and carry off his fresh eggs. Why should he seek for
children of his own, when his neighbours’ houses are so prolific \
He could give you a long discourse, in respect to the advantages
of single blessedness, —that is, in the case of the man. In that of
the woman, the affair is more difficult and doubtful. He is not
prepared to deny that she ought to get married whenever she can
find the proper victim. To sum up, in brief, he goes and comes
when he pleases, without dreading a feminine authority. He
takes his breakfast at his own hours, and dines when in the hu
mour, and takes his ease at his inn. His sleep is undisturbed by
unpleasant fancies. He is never required to rise at night, no mat -
ter how cold the weather, to see that the children are covered, or
to warm the baby’s posset. Never starts with horror, and a chil
ling shiver, at every scream, lest Young Hopeful, the boy, or
Young Beauty, the girl, has tumbled down stairs, bruizing nose,
or breaking leg or arm; and, if he stays out late o’nights, never
sneaks home, with unmanly terrors, dreading to hear no good of
himself when he gets there. At night, purring, in grateful reve
rie, by his fireside, he makes pictures in his ignited coals, which
exhilarate his fancy. His cat sleeps on the hearth rug, confident
ot her master, and ‘never dreading the broomstick of the always
officious chambermaid; and the ancient woman who makes up his
bed, and prepares his breakfast, appears before him like one of
those seemingly old hags of the fairy tale who turn out to be
princesses and good spirits in homely disguise.”
“ See now,” said I to Ned Bulmer, as Tabitha the cook brought
in the breakfast things. “ See now, the instance. Tabitha is not
comely. Far from it. Tabitha never was comely, even in the
days of her youth. Her nose is decidedly African, prononct after
the very worst models. Her mouth, a sjiacious aperture at first,
has so constantly worked upon its hinges for fifty-six years, that
they have lost their elasticity, and the valves remain apart, open in
all weathers. Her entire face is of this fashion. She looks like
°ne of the ugly men-women, black and bearded, such as they
collect on the heath, amidst tliunde v and lightning, for the en
counter with Macbeth. Yet, at a word, Tabitha will uncover the
dhhes, and enable us, like the old lady in the fairy legend, to fill
our mouths with good things. Such is the bachelor’s faiiy. lake
THE GOLDEN CHRISTMAS.
my word for it, Ned, there’s no life like that of a bachelor. Con
tinue one, if you are wise. Paula Bonneau is, no doubt, a de
lightful little picture of mortality and mischief. But so was Pan
dora. She has beauty, and sweetness, and many virtues, but she
will till the house with cares, every one of which has a tearful
faculty ot reduplication. Bea bachelor as long as you can, and
when the inevitable fate wills it otherwise, provide yourself with
all facilities for dying decently. Coffee, Tabitha.”
Such was the rambling exordium which I delivered to my
friend, rather with the view of discouraging his anticipations than
because I really entertained any such opinions. He answered me
in a huff.
“ Pshaw! what nonsense is all this! Don’t I know that if you
could get Beatrice Mazyck to-morrow, you’d change your blessed
bachelorhood into the much abused wedlock.”
w Fate may do much worse things for me, Ned, I grant you.”
“It is some grace in you to admit even so little. But don’t
you speak again, even in sport, so disrespectfully of the marriage
condition. Don’t I know the cheerlessness of yours. Talk of
your books and ancient philosophers ! don’t I know that you are
frequently in the mood to throw them into the fire; and, even
while you sit over it, the reveries which you find so delicious, are
those which picture to you another foim, of the other gender, sit
ting opposite you, with eyes smiling in your own, and sweet
lips responding at intervals to all the fondest protestations which
you can utter. Tabitha, indeed! I verily believe the old crea
ture, though faithful and devoted to you, grows sometimes hateful
in your eyes, as reminding you of her sex in the most disagreeable
manner; —a manner quite in discord to such fancies as your own
thoughts have conjured up. Isn’t it so, Tabitha ? Isn’t Ned
sometimes monstrous cross, and sulky to you, only because you
haven’t some young mistress, Tabitha ?”
u l’spec so, Mass Ned: he sometime mos’ sick ’cause he so
lonesome yer. I tell um so. I say, wha’ for, Mass Dick you no get
you’se’f young wife for make your house comfortable, and keep
you company yer, in dis cold winter’s a’coming. I ’spec its only
’cause he can’t git de pusson he want.”
“ True, every word of it, Tab ! But never you mind. You’ll
be surprised some day with another sort of person overlooking
your housekeeping. What do you think, Tabitha, of Miss Bea
trice Mazyck.”
“ Hush, Ned!”
“ She’s a mighty fine young pusson, and a purty one too. I
don’t tink I hab any ’jection to Miss Beatrice.”
“Very well! You’re an accommodating old lady. She’ll be
the one, be sure of it. So keep the house in order. You’ll be
taken by surprise. Then we shall see very different arrangements
in the housekeeping here, Tabby. Do you suppose that she’d let
Dick lie abed till nine o’clock in the morning, and sit up, smoking
and drinking, till midnight ?”
“Nebber, in dis world, Mass Ned.”
“ And, if the power is with her, never in the next, Tabitha.
Then, do you think she’d suffer a pack of fellows to be singing
through the house at all hours —and such singing, and such
songs.”
“ Nebber guine le’ um come, Mass Ned. Him no guine ’courage
dis racket yer at all hours. I tell you for true, Mass Ned, dis
house, sometime, aint ’spectable for people to lib in. You no
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