A BACHELORS REVERIE.

Southland Times, Volume III, Issue 28, 11 January 1864, Page 6 (Supplement)

A BACHELORS REVERIE.

(From the Hew York Home Journal.) Fifty to-day! Fifty; little chance now of my having a wife, and a house fulhof " little responsibilitiesiVvas^arin^ Wright calls . them.', lieigho ! I'm getting to be — no, not a "'middle-aged gentleman," for Iv'e been that any time the last ten years — no, I'm a gentleman declining in years, and' may advertise for a house-keeper without giving a handle to scandal to make free with my character. Twenty-five years ago, and I should have affronted the man who foretold this ; that I should be sitting this day in an arm-chair, newspaper in hand, breakfast before me, one fooc on a cushion, and only one cup and two eggs. Newspapers are stupid things;- I'd much rather chat over my morning rriea!. Why the deuce am I not married ? Nobody makes tea fit to drink now ; and the toast never comes up to me hot. What capital tea Lucy Smith used to make. Poor Lucy, 1 wonder what made me think of her! People said Lucy and I would certainly make a match ; and so we should I suspect, if it hadn't been for that cursed cousin of hers. I'm sure she would have married me if I had asked her, but I kept putting it off ■and putting it off, day after day, and he — cut me out, and be hanged to him. I was a young gentleman then, and thought I could marry whenever I liked. They went away to the west, and got rich ; he's a member of Congress, and she has grown fat, and rides about in her carriage, with two or three grown-up-daughters ; pretty girls, too, as I'm told, but they'll never be like their mother. I've a ribbon of hers, that she used to wear round her sleuder waist, and L bribed her little brother to steal it for me, with the loan of my fowling piece ; and sometimes when it rains, and I feel sentimental, I take it out of my writing-desk and look at it awhile, and I think I'll throw it into the fire — but I don't though, and there it is yet in the secret drawer with my mother's picture, and the last lock of my own hair. They make capital wigs now, by the way ; nobody seems to suspect that my curls are not the natural crop. Lucy used to say that my hair was beautiful, and I'm almost certain she cut off a lock once when I was asleep on the sofa. I wonder whether she has lost any of her splendid teeth; mine have stood it out pretty well, but they're going. Parlmy said hers would last a long time, and he ought to know. I must go to him, and get him to make me a couple of new ones. What shall Ido with myself today ? I've given up business, and made money enough to last me my time. I've no one to leave it to when I'm gone. Where's the use of going on adding dollar to dollar, and acre to acre, unless one has children to set up ? Nine marriages created in the paper to-day. Nine husbands and nine wives created since yesterday morning. I dare say they'll all have young sprouts — say four a-piece on the average ; that's thirty-six little mouths to be stuffed with bread and butter, and seventy-two little feet to buy shoes for, and two hundred and eighty-eight little fingers to wash and keep clean ! No fool of a job that for the nine papas and mammas ! I was always remarkably fond of children. There is a newlymarried couple moved into the house over the way. on purpose to p]a r :;,v ;:•■<:. i do bc;evfc ; they seem cobe very W>nC o'i each otner, and dryadril'y happv. Thsre s a g; r ~ comed to uic door ? very ailen:>un, ami h« hands his tvifV 'iito it so ;M?efulk', and she smili--:; f;i h\ui i-o brightly as they drive o.i\ -:\:.' r I ?i"n "1 iao jt tempted 'to wish ffeij:; ._;i^^v : •*'""■";« rlif-ir '.necks before <:■:;■ : ■'■.•;•;>£&•£• ; ; -'.., '£■;/»».■'* ;'' lilt;': ' -joist: >■■•

giri thaF has come to stay with them during the lioney-moon ; sh«;'s the bride's sister, or something I dare'say ; the prettiest foot and the mo.s rojrujsh eve I've ever seerj. — except I^ucy Smith's. I wonder if she's T>ni.aged to be married ; I don't see any very suspicious youno; men come to the door, aud . But what the deuce is it to me whether she is or not ? I'm an old bachelor, and must go down to the grave without leaving any one to cry for me, I should lik«, though; to see the girl nearer : it's easy enough to get introduced into the house, and . though I'm too old to ma rry, there's no reason that I know of why an old fellow like me shouldn'fdo the polite thing to a newcomer into the neighborhood. I've a new coat coming home that, ray artist says, will make me look fifteen years younger — rather impertinent by the way. And I'm not so amazingly old after all. When I sat down to break • fast I felt rather bluish, and thought myself quite a Methuselah. Pohlno such thing; I Can walk as briskly as ever — almost — I can ride, sing, dan— , no, I'd better leave out the dancing; but what of that ? I'm a good-looking, middle-aged man, tired oftliving alone, and, hang me, but I'll make one more try for the ring, if I die for it. There's a pretty gh'l over the way, and I'll send over a basket of grapes with my compliments.