THE YOUNG MAN OF NINETY. A SKETCH FROM THE life. "He is a citizen," thought I, "who, now, in the seventh day and sabbath of his old age,-wisely forsaking the mart, the 'change, and the populous paths surrounding the temple of all-worshipped Mammon -nestles here in this quiet village, The town forgetting, by the town forgot." It was an old gentleman, who had, a few moments before, entered the cozy, and cleanly parlour of "mine inn," and was now engaged in sipping his sherry and glancing through the paper, who had given birth to these reflections. He was, as I afterwards ascertained, ninety years old, though looking less than sixty-hearty and activeshort, well set, and with legs that might make an Irish pavior misgive his own: these were handsomely clad in black silk stockings; and legs which would stand by a man in the handsome way which his had done, were worthy of the honour. A pair of buckles conferred additional brilliancy on the "brilliant Warren" of his shoes; and a smaller pair gave compactness to their knees. coat was of the old-school cut, lengthy and capacious, ample in pocket and flap-in short, a reminiscence of the coat of "other days," ere tailors turned out that Starveling in a scanty vest, His called an Exquisite. His hat was partly hat and partly umbrella, for it was wide enough in the brim to shelter his shoulders in a shower. His face was of a healthy hue: though there were as many iines in it as in Denner's master-piece. His features had somewhat of the Scottish character, and were what some physiognomists would call hard: but their severity was softened off by a frequent smile, full of good-nature, which gave a general expression of mildness and benevolence to his countenance,-such as a face with more pretensions to comeliness would perhaps have wanted. There may be many human sights more glorious to behold, but I do not know one more interesting-I would almost say, more holythan an old man, who has passed his active days amidst the stir and strife of the great Babel, and in the evening of his life sinks quietly and placidly back into the arms of nature,-a man in experience of the world a child in the mildness and meekness of that knowledge. I have sketched the old man; I must now describe his companion, for he had one a dog of the large spaniel breed, who seemed to have seen as much of the busy world as his master. We were very soon inti mate, for Prince (that was the worthy four legged fellow's name) appeared to be of that amiable class of dogs, who, by a handsome person and winning manners, recommend themselves immediately to one's good opinion. His master apologized for his familiarities, and in mild terms expostulated with him on the impropriety of his conduct. "You are too dirty, Prince-do you hear, sir? you are too dirty." The conscientious beast seemed to be immediately made sensible that he was, and, taking the reproof in good part, very quietly laid himself down at the feet of his ancient friend. Prince, I suspected, had a great partiality to duck-ponds, for the weeds of those aquatic paradises still hung about him, and decorated him almost to the beatitude of a Sadler's Wells Neptune. To encourage him in decent behaviour, the old gentleman began rumaging his pockets; and the result was, the production of two nicely-packed papers of biscuits, which, first having swept clean a spot on the sanded floor, he deposited there for honest Master Prince's refection; and then the old gentleman resumed the newspaper. The luncheon was soon over; and the gaiete de cœur of Prince returned, but he as speedily resumed the proper degree of respect for self and company, and straightway wore as much gravity in his looks, as if he had, in his better days, held the onerous office of deputy of the dogs of Dowgate. I noticed that Prince had a trick of tucking up one leg, and running about on the other three, and this brought up a story from the old gentleman, which I shall relate, as it was short, and had some point. "My dog, sir," said he, "often reminds me of my old acquaintance Jack Simpson. It was said of Jack Simpson,—but stay, I had better first relate how what was said of him came to be said; it is not a bad joke, sir. Jack, when I first knew him-let me see, that was in seventeen-sixty, not a yesterday recollection, sir!" I stared at the antiquity of the reminiscence. "Yes, it was in seventeen-sixty. Jack Simpson was then a blood of the first pretensions, as far as broad skirts and breeding went-the 'Ladies' Man' at the Hackney Assembly, a fashionable thing, sir, in that day; first butterfly at Tunbridge Wells, and second only at Bath; an undisputed man of pleasure and of the world; gay, full of unfeigned good humour, having wit enough for men, address and a handsome person for women, and spirit sufficient for all occasions. His fortune was but small, and this gay life of his, you may be sure, made it less. In no long time he began to find out that a spendthrift's purse does not always keep pace with the demands on it; and so he took dinners instead of giving them, and became of Sheridan's opinion, that the best wine is certainly our friend's.' Now what, in heaven's name, sir, had a man of Jack's fortune and folly to do with avarice? It was one of those contradictions in his character, which I could never understand, and which must have been a riddle to himself. Sir, it must have been born in him—an innate quality— a genius for avarice; and all his brilliant exterior, which pleased the popular eye, like the wretched finery and foppery of a May-day sweep, only disguised but did not conceal the dirt and degradation underneath. He confessed to me that he felt the first gripings of that heart-hardening vice coming upon him at that time, while still whirling round in the vortex of fashion. His fingers began to clutch closer, and his whole hand held faster what it held. As if fortune had become disgusted with his growing meanness, she sent him a thumping legacy of thirty thousand pounds, the hard scrapings of a miserly relation-it ran in the blood of the Simpsons, sir. One would have thought that this sudden accession would have confirmed him in his sordidness—it had an effect directly the reverse! Off he went again on the old road to ruin, with a renewed speed, gained from loitering so leisurely along it as he had lately done. Open house-card tables and faro banks-wine, women, and assemblies— routs, Ranelagh, Pump-room, sedans here, and coaches there-flirtations with Lady A., an alderman's young widow, and the lovely Miss B.-and follies of all sorts, which were nothing if not expensive, made his thirty thousand pounds fly thirty thousand ways; and in three years Jack stood with his hands in two empty pockets-his good constitution gone with his gold, forsaken of his frivolous friends, his flirtation with Lady A. off, as the phrase is, and his calculations of the money and matrimonial inclinations of Miss B. wrong in the items, and the whole bill disputed. But a well selected vice never leaves its victim-it is sometimes more faithful than a virtue, and sticks, where it has once fastened, tenaciously to the last. Though run out of ready money, Jack was above want. His estate was even now a clear thousand a year,-quite enough to begin with when you intend to be pennyless all the rest of your life. He was seen no more in his old haunts: and Fashion lost one of her favourite fools. He disappeared, and no one knew when or where. He was known to be alive, for his rents were punctually demanded-but not by him, and his agent kept his secret. Seven years passed away, and he was almost forgotten, when suddenly he re-appeared,-grey, pinched, miserable, stooping, and unnaturally old-the very phantom of avarice. The generous few pitied him, the unfeeling many laughed at him, the perplexed thought he was deranged, and the positive said It might perhaps amuse you to relate some instances of his sordid passion; but there is more melancholy than mirth in looking at human nature at a discount, and I would rather forget them. In blief, sir, he ended by starving himself to death through fear of he was. want; a good estate and forty thousand pounds in funded money fell into the coffers of the crown, in lack of an heir-at-law; and the only pleasant fact connected with the memory of Jack Simpson is this waggish remark on his begrudging habits, by one who knew him well, -that if he had been born with four legs, he would have run about on three to save one!" The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly over this portion of his reminiscence; Prince,-who must have heard the story before, for he walked to the door as soon as "legs were mentioned,— stood ready and willing to start; his master bowed, said I was a good listener, a great accomplishment, and bade me good morning. Athenaum. IV. TO MY BED. BLESS'D tenement, on which are spent Repose to this sick heart of mine: Accept the tribute of my lays !-- To thy soft breast fatigue may fly, And sickness, ennui, and grief,- In thee can find a sweet relief: Husband of sleep, and downy chain That links dull night with joyous day- Of midnight to the sun's bright sway- This world-this noisy world-hath still A quiet spot, whereon, at will, We rest the burdens that we bear, Knit to the sordid things of day Busied in fleeting phantoms :-here Crouching for wealth, like beasts for prey, O God! how truly cursed my life, How abject, wretched would it be, Thou simple, unpreter.ding spot- TO THE STARS. YE beautiful and bright Lamps of the regal night, That wreathe with light the shadowy vault on high, What wake ye in the soul, As on your course ye roll, In the gay midnight of a summer sky? Ye wake in fitful gleams, Beneath your trembling beams, Far through the gloom of interposing years, The hopes of other days Affection's dawning rays, That shone ere youth's bright sky was dewed with tears : Each wild imagining That faded with life's spring Bright dreams, that never knew reality, And vows of early love, Whispered in moonlit grove When trembling lips were breathing sweet reply. And evenings when we strayed By brook and forest-glade, With those we ne'er may meet on earth again; And hours of vanish'd mirth, When feelings had their birth, Which our fond hearts have cherished-all in vain. And each awakening thought, From memory's labyrinth brought, Yields to the heart a rapture all its own-- In summer's sunniest hours, And soothing as the flute's low plaintive tone. |