MARTHE.

A VALENTINE.

Und sich als Hagestolz allein zum Grab zu schleifen
Das hat doch keinem wohl gethan.

FAUST.

THE old bachelor, or Hagestolz, as Frau Marthe very expressively names him, presents himself under two forms. There is the merry, chirping old fellow, who loves fun and frolic, and hops about among women of all ages, with a whisper for the young, and a compliment for the old. A great man is he, in his way, and welcome in all circles:

'Superis deorum

Gratus et imis.'

The pleasure of his company is requested at every party and rout: we should as soon think of forgetting the oysters, or the whiskey punch, or the centre-light, as of omitting Mr. W in our cards of invitation. He treads the ball-room with an easy confidence, as a gladiator always victorious steps out upon the arena. So many smiles from pretty faces, and nods of recognition, are showered down upon him, that his head is kept in constant motion, like that of a plaster mandarin, or of Louis Philippe on a review day, while younger débutants look on and envy.

This gentleman does not marry, either because he adores the sex too generally, or because he detests the sight of the 'fond paternal ass,' with three small children appended to one arm, and a sharp-featured lady paritura attached to the other; or because he prefers his gay roving life, to settling down,' as it is called, and has no wish to see Madame appear, after a seclusion of eighteen or twenty years, ushering into society a troop of ungainly daughters, very much as a hen emerges from under a barn, after incubation, conducting, with ruffled feathers and cackling tones, her numerous descendants.

Our type of singleness is not poor. Heaven forbid that we should meddle with any of that class! Their case is past medicine. To fall under our notice, a célibataire must possess a neat little patrimony, enough at least to place him above want, and to excite fond hopes in the bosoms of his nearest akin. Such a one loves to lie perdu in the dreamy depths of an arm-chair, and to twine his pleasant fancies about the gracefully-curling smoke of his cigar. He stretches out his feet upon the fender, and blesses himself that he is a single man. What is there to trouble him? The fire is burning brightly, and the glass at his elbow is full. Not his absent buttons, nor the hiatus in his coat. A former essayist has represented an old bachelor as miserable, because he was forced himself to mend his garments, and pricked his fingers in so doing. With such wo-begone ancients, we say again, we will have nothing to do. Nevertheless, this stitching is by no means confined to the single. Mr. Peter Fichser, an old friend of ours, and a married man of long standing, retires within his closet for two hours every Sunday, not for self-communion or self-chastening, but to shrive a venerable coat of the impurities contracted during the week, and to administer the extreme unction to a pair of black pantaloons,

some portions of which he might use to shave by. No; an old bachelor's younger days glide on smoothly enough; but when the shaking hand pours from the full glass a libation to Death, and the curling cigar smoke excites the asthmatic cough, and the delicate waist has enlarged into a preternatural abdomen, and the fashionable boot has given place to the gouty shoe, and no one is near to amuse him in the long dull winter twilights, visions of connubial felicity hover around. He wishes he had a wife, for company's sake he feels so lonely. He wishes too that he had children to hang about his knees, and to love him - especially if blessed with a nephew. Thus he sits, musing and regretting, heaves deep sighs, grows gloomier and gloomier, and at last, after a few shudders, falls precipitate into the open arms of his cook-maid.

The second class of advanced single men are matter-of-fact persons, solemn and retiring, who look, when trying to be gay, as if they were performing a disagreeable duty; offer their arms to a lady as if they meant to fracture a rib with their elbows; and have never been married, because always afraid to propose. The culinary finale hangs over both, although the one reaches it through a merry life, and the other through a gloomy one.

It is as near to Heaven by sea as by land.' More than one journal has witnessed the entry: Married my cook.'

These gloomy units sometimes get the idea of matrimony very firmly fixed in their heads. They settle it logically that connubiality is to be preferred on many accounts, and determine to realize the theory. Instantly they install some lady, probably the last one they chanced to see, as their peerless Miss Toboso, and commence the siege after the most approved methods. Gone are the moping fireside habits; gone the readiness to catch cold, and the inability to bear fatigue. The legion of whims are summarily ejected from the abodes (we were on the point of saying ruins) they had so long haunted. The stock, generally so loose as to form a pleasant socket for the drowsy chin, is drawn up à la bowstring about the neck; flannels are laid aside, to reduce waists; easy pantaloons are replaced by tight, well-strapped doe-skins :

"Tam Tam residunt cruribus aspera pelles,'

which at any other time would seem intolerable; and off he scampers like mad, to call on her, evening after evening, for three weeks. Then an abrupt cessation of hostilities takes place; the fire is extinguished, and the old bachelor returns immediately to his cold metallic state.

The melancholy Mr. Nickel became enamoured of an incognita, and proceeded to extremities unknown to young lovers. A pew was taken at the church she frequented; tender glances were cast during the service, and love ditties hummed during the psalm-singing. This soon grew tame. 'I will walk up and down before her house,' he said. Accordingly he posted himself on the opposite corner. many peerings at the closed blinds, he thought that a face was discernible at the second story window. On this, Mr. Nickel gazed passionately, and hurled love looks across the street in immoderate abundance. He could contain himself no longer. He kissed his hand,

After

and waved the embrace up toward the second story window. He repeated this pantomime, and lo! the blinds were violently thrown open; two hairy faces protruded themselves through the gap, and kissed very red hands, amid roars of derision. The traditional German young gentleman advancing eagerly to kiss the beautiful face in the treasurecave, was not more completely taken aback when he heard the rustling of the serpentine coils beneath her robes, than was Mr. Nickel. Away he ran, dashed, flew,

With his pathos and bathos delightful to see.'

Little was known of him for some months. He has since gradually recovered from the shock, and is now engaged in training himself for a pedestrian match against time.

Frau Marthe remarks, in the course of her edifying conversation, thatein hagestolz ist schwerlich zu bekehren,' in which she is very right indeed. There is nothing in the world harder to manage than an old bachelor; and the lady who lands one safe at her feet on the shore, merits the title of an Izaak Walton among the fishers of men.'

An old bachelor is no greedy gudgeon, but a wary trout. Beware, fair lady! - you may see his golden scales flashing near the cap you have set for him; you may have a glorious nibble, a bite; you may have hooked him, even, and chuckle over your approaching triumph, when a sound or a shadow, a motion or a glance, will frighten the fickle and timorous creature, and he will escape hopelessly from your toils, All old célibataires are alike in this respect. How many hundreds, on the eve of that momentous popping the question, which is far more feared by them than being popped at by a pistol, have shyed at a dilapidated stocking, a dog's-eared novel, or that Medusa which turns the softest old beau's heart to stone, a grease-spot; and unhorsed the damsel who thought herself firmly seated, and was about to grasp the reins. Beware of him! Cave Canem - write it on your thresholds. It is the only Roman word for old bachelor. Unlucky Dog he is, to be sure!

The intricate nature of the phenomena presented by these worthies is apparent from our having found it necessary to compare them to three animals, in as many lines. This may seem unallowably metaphorical, even on such a theme. However, we refer all critics to Victor Hugo's essay on Mirabeau. Mr. Hugo compares the great revolutionist to a bull, a lion, a tiger, a gladiator, an archer, an eagle, a peacock, a hurricane, an ocean, and concludes with Proteus, which means, etc., etc. Under this broad shield we will take refuge. But seriously, it is a grave question whether the antique beaux are not responsible for the miseries of old maids. Three-and-thirty spinsters in synod assembled decided this question in the affirmative. They were certainly right, for the number of males being greater than that of females, if every man married there would be no spinsters, and old bachelors enough left to flirt with the handsome widows.' The old bachelors, as if conscious of the misery they have inflicted, shun those whom they have injured, and say sweet things to the damsels. How different the behaviour of the softer sex! Instead of sternly and

haughtily scorning the men who have rejected them, which the meekest christian could not blame them for doing, they, the kind forgiving creatures! redouble their affability and attention, and endeavor to their utmost to return good for evil. Instead of bridling up, when the enemy approaches, (how seldom, alas!) they smile, and smirk, and relieve his embarrassment by flattery, as if seeking to atone, in their downward course, for their ingratitude when approaching their zenith. The witty Smith describes the two ages excellently well. At twenty, when the swain approaches to pay his devoirs, they exclaim, with an air of languid indifference: Who is he?' But at the ultima thule of fifty, the ravenous expectant prepares to spring upon any prey, and exclaims Where is he?' When the 'Where is he?' meets no responding echo, the milk of human kindness sours, and becomes excessively bitter to all. We never could believe that old Popish legend of the thirteen thousand virgins, whose souls pirouetted on the point of a cambric needle. They must all have died very young, for, despite the excellent proofs of the immortality of the soul, we are convinced that if twenty old virgins were placed in such extreme juxtaposition, at least fifteen of them would run great risk of annihilation.

Little profiteth it to lecture to old bachelors. They will never hear reason, generally contradict you at once, and when disposed to be polite, are ready with a 'Very true, Sir, but'—which is equivalent to Not by any means, Sir, and beside.' Have it all your own way, gentlemen; but we can assure you that our young damsels will not consent to languish su la nativa spina,' because you dislike the trouble of matrimony. They will choose partners from the distinguished strangers who are on the watch to profit by your remissness. Caucassian and Persian refugees they have, sighing out I am miserable,' as shrilly and as pertinaciously as the smoke-jack; Mogul barons, in ecstasies with bad music; Chinese marquises, in ecstasies with heiressess; and uncertain New-Holland captains and colonels, practising the nil admirari in reunions, from which their appearance and manners alone would banish them in their own country. These are all the rage. These are the dear, 'dem,' delightful, delicious creatures; especially the New-Hollanders and the Chinese. We think the belles right enough our native talent is at present so very small. Could there be a more favorable occasion, then, for the old bachelors to put on their best coats, dash in, and carry off the prize? They are certain to have the consent of the mammas; for a mamma always considers a monied old fellow the philosopher's stone for a family, and to catch him, is with her the magnum opus.' The demoiselle, too, if she be thrifty, with a slight knowledge of the average life of man, at certain ages, will surely accede. On then, my old heroes! Do'nt mind catching cold:

For 'tis fifty times better to lead a dog's life,

To be teased by ten children, henpecked by your wife,
To be ground down by bills, like paint under a spatula,
Than to go to your grave a rich moping old bachelor.

The which lines we quote from that pathetic poet, Jos. Bunker.

VOL. XVII.

THY stream, Patapsco! - once again mine eye
Rests on thy sparkling wave, that murm'ring flows,
In soothing cadence, at the rugged base

Of all thy rugged hills. Once more the sigh
Of the rude wind makes music, where the rose,
Blent with the kalmia, deck'd the forest floor
With wide exuberance of bloom. All passed,
Those summer glories! Lovely not the less
Thy winter scenes, now that the blue of heaven,
Where scarce a white cloud like an island sleeps,
Is calm and waveless as a spell bound sea;
And the dark tracery of thy leafless boughs,
With accurate pencilling, is coldly cast
Upon its pale unmingled purity.

The dimness of the hour is on thy slopes,
And the weak sunbeams, falling on gray trunks,
Reflected glance on eyes most apt to deem
Thy beauties hidden, and thy glories dead.
It is not so! Thy laurels still are green,
Though bent with frost; thy mossy rocks retain
Their summer glow, except where melting snows
Have spread a rind upon their frozen sides
Of polished alabaster; and from thence
The fern leaves, and the coral stems
Of the bent briar, peep forth. In each ravine,
Where twisted roots of trees and jutting crags
Together wreathe their snowy promontories,
A thousand icicles depending gleam,
With thousand sparkles, in the noon-day sun :
The dazzling cascade, frozen in its flow,
Still from the glossy pile incumbent steals;
An oozing lymph, that o'er its fluted sheen
Glides gradual, adding, each freezing eve,
Another layer to its crystal walls-

Full soon to vanish in some warmer hour!

Though summer birds

Have spread the wing for more congenial climes,
And those who bide the hour of snow and storm
Far in the forest seek their winter food,
And leave inanimate our nearest groves,
Still doth the Christian traveller repose
With eye admiring on the steep ascents

Of rugged hills, which winter hath made white;
The wide outstretching fields, the frozen streams,
And meads, far as the sight, clad in a hue
Glit'ring and pure as are the robes of heav'n.
Nor, where in vagaries the thaw and sleet
Together have combined to deck in gems
Of sparkling crystal all the meanest weeds,
And case the purple and the amber stems
Of the rude thicket and the tangled copse
In brilliants, doth he less admire

The beauty in the wonder-working skill of Heaven.

Oft ere the flake from the cold sky, with coy
And feathery lightness, heralding the storm,
Hath kissed reluctantly the waiting earth,
That mystery of mysterious Nature comes,
The little snow-bird! At our door he lights,
Hops on the ground, the tree, the garden pale,
Then vanishes, with all his num'rous kin,
We know not whither! True 't is, in hours

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