lderly 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 favoured, a
less glorious state of existence. His desires seemed limited to reading
the Fathers, 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
neighbourhood. 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 time; those who, scarcely
considered good speculations in their best days, ar