 | Rambles and reveries |  |
THE BACHELOR RECLAIMED;
A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.
“So, you are determined not to marry?”
“Absolutely.”
“And why?”
“In the first place, I never expect to be able to support
a wife according to my ideas of comfort. In the second
place, I have no hope of meeting a woman who will sympathise
sufficiently with my feelings and views, to be a
congenial companion. Thirdly, I cannot bear the idea of
adopting as constant associates the relations of her I may
love, and fourthly, I consider housekeeping and all the
details of domestic arrangements, the greatest bore in
existence.”
This colloquy took place between two young men, in
the garden of one of the fashionable hotels at Saratoga.
It was a sultry afternoon, and they had retired under the
shade of an apple-tree, to digest their dinner, which process
they were facilitating by occasionally puffing some
very mild, light-brown Havana segars. The last remarks
McNiel, a philosophical and quiet gentleman, who had
a most sensible theory for everything in life. Among
other things, he took great pleasure in the conviction
that he thoroughly understood himself. The first time
his interest was truly excited by a member of the gentler
sex, he had acted in the most extravagant manner, and
barely escaped with honor from forming a most injudicious
connection. To guard against similar mishaps,
he had adopted a very ingenious plan. Being uncommonly
susceptible to female attractions, he made it a
rule when charmed by a sweet face, or thrilled by a winning
voice, to seek for some personal defect or weakness
of character, in the fair creature, and obstinately dwell
upon these imperfections, until they cast a shade over the
redeeming traits, and dissolved the spell he feared.
When this course failed, he had but one resource.
With Falstaff, he thought discretion the better part of
valor, and deliberately fled from the allurements that
threatened his peace. Thus he managed not to allow
love to take permanent possession, and, after various
false alarms and exciting vigils, came to the conclusion
that no long siege or sudden attack would ever subdue the
citadel of his affections,
But McNiel had so braced himself in a spirit of resistance,
that he had made no provision against the unconscious
lures of beauty. He could chat, for hours,
with a celebrated belle, and leave her without a sigh;
he could smile at the captivating manners which over-came
his fellows. Regarding society as a battle-field,
his self-possession, and be on the watch against the
wiles of woman. He had seen lovely girls in the drawing-room,
followed their graceful movements in the
dance, heard them breathe songs of sentiment at the
piano, and walked beside them on the promenade. On
these occasions, he coolly formed an estimate of their
several graces, perfeetly appreciated every finely-chiselled
nose and tempting lip, noted with care the hue and
expression of the eye, but walked proudly away at parting,
murmuring to himself, “all this I see, yet am not in
love.”
But who can anticipate the weapon that shall lay him
low, or make adequate provision against the inexhaustible
resources of love? McNiel had sat for a week at
table, opposite an invalid widow and her daughter. He
had passed them potatoes not less than a dozen times,
and helped the young lady twice to cherry-pie. The
only impression he had derived from their demeanor
and appearance, was, that they were very genteel and
quiet. On the morning after his conversation in the
garden, he awoke just before sunrise, and found himself
lying with his face to the wall, in one of the diminutive
chambers in which visitors to the Springs are so
unceremoniously packed. His eyes opened within six
inches of the plaster; and he amused himself for some
minutes, in conjuring the cracks and veins it displayed,
into imaginary forms of warriors and animals. At
length his mind reverted to himself, and his present
quarters. “Well, I've been here just a fortnight,” thus
after day, the same stupid routine. In the morning I
swallow six glasses of Congress water at the spring,
with the hollow eyes of that sick minister from Connecticut
glaring on me like a serpent, and the die-away
tones of that nervous lady from Philadelphia, sounding
like a knell in my ears. I cannot drink in peace for
those everlasting Misses Hill, who all three chatter at
once, and expect me to be entertaining and talkative so
early in the morning, with my stomach full of cold liquid,
and a long dull day in perspective! Then comes breakfast.
The clatter of plates, the murmur of voices, the
rushing of the black waiters, and the variety of steams,
make me glad to retreat. I find a still corner of the
piazza, and begin to read; but the flies, a draught of
air, or the intrusive gabble of my acquaintances, utterly
prevent me from becoming absorbed in a book. It has
now grown too warm to walk, and I look in vain for Dr.
Clayton, who is the only man here whose conversation
interests me. I avoid the billiard-room because I
know who I shall meet there. The swing is occupied.
The thrumming on the piano of that old maid from
Providence, makes the saloon uninhabitable. They are
talking politics in the bar-room. The very sight of the
newspapers gives me a qualm. I involuntarily begin to
doze, when that infernal gong sounds the hour to dress.
No matter; any thing for a relief. Dinner is insufferable;
more show and noise, than relish and comfort.
How gladly I escape to the garden and smoke! That
reminds we of what I told Jones, yesterday, about matrimony.
about it. Catch me to give up my freedom, and provide
for a family—be pestered with a whole string of new connections,
when I can't bear those I have now—never have
a moment to myself—be obliged to get up in the night for a
doctor—have to pay for a boy's schooling, and be plauged
to death by him for my pains—be bothered constantly with
bad servants—see my wife lose her beauty, in a twelve-month
from, care—my goddess become a mere household
drudge—give up segars—keep precise hours—take care
of sick children—go to market! never, never, never!”
As his reverie thus emphatically terminated, NcNiel
slowly raised himself to a sitting posture, in order to ascertain
the state of the weather, when a sight presented
itself which at once put his philosophy to flight and
startled him from his composure. He did not cry out,
but hushed his very breath. Beside him lay a female
form in profound slumber. Her hair had escaped from
its confinement, and fell in the richest profusion around
her face. There was a delicate glow upon the checks.
The lips were scarcely parted. The brow was perfectly
serene. One arm was thrust under her head, the other
lay stretched upon the coverlid. It was one of those accidental
attitudes which sculptors love to embody. The
bosom heaved regularly. He felt that it was the slumber
of an innocent creature, and that beneath that calm breast
beat a kindly and pure heart. He bent over the vision,
for so at first it seemed to him, as did Narcissus above
the crystal water. The peaceful beauty of that face entered
his very soul. He trembled at the still regularity of
Recovering himself, all at once something familiar struch
him in the countenance. He thought awhile, and the
whole mystery was solved. It was the widow's daughter.
They occupied the adjoining chamber; she had gone
down stairs in the night to procure something for the invalid,
and on returning, entered in the darkness, the wrong
room, and fancying her mother asleep, had as she thought
very quietly taken her place beside her, and was soon lost
in slumber. No sooner did this idea take possession of
McNiel, than with the utmost caution and a noiseles movement,
he stole away and removed every vestige of his
presence into a vacant apartment opposite, leaving the
fair intruder to suppose she alone had occupied the room
At breakfast, he observed the mother and daughter whisper
and smile together, and soon ascertained that they
had no suspicion of the actual state of the case. With
the delicacy that belonged to his character, McNiel in
wardly vowed to keep the secret forever in his own breast
Meantime, with much apparent hilarity, he prepared to
accompany Jones to Lake George. His companion
marvelled to perceive this unwonted gaiety wear off a
they proceeded in their ride. McNiel became silent and
pensive. The evening was fine, and they went upon the
lake to enjoy the moonlight. Jones sung his best song
and woke the echoes with his bugle. His friend remained
silent, wrapt in his cloak, at the boat's stern. At last
very abruptly he sprang up, and ordered the rowers to
land him. “Where are you going?” inquired Jones
“To Saratoga,” was the reply. “Not to-night, surely?'
his friend's sanity, Jones reluctantly devoted that lovely
night to a hard ride over a sandy road, instead of lingering
away its delightful hours, on the sweet bosom of the
lake.
Six months after, McNiel married the widow's daughter,
and the ensuing summer, when I met him at Saratoga,
he assured me he found it a delightful residence.
| Rambles and reveries | |