354 PORTRAIT-GALLERY OF OLD BACHELORS. 



quiver, his tongue falters; and well they may, for she is a creature 

 " to plant a soul beneath the ribs of death," much more to rouse a 

 flame in the bachelor's touchwood heart. Look at him, half-screened 

 as he is in the deep recess of that oriel window, in company with 

 the beautiful Widow Mansel, whose coif lends new charms to her 

 noble features: her soft eyes are bent upon him, and they pierce him 

 to the very back-bone, and make him fidget like a longing child. 

 See him tete-d-tete with the loveliest of wives and matrons, Mrs. 

 M , she who feels 



" In the soft duties of a virtuous love, 



Such pure, serene delight, as far transcends 

 What men call pleasure the delirious joy 

 Of an intoxicated, feverish brain ! " 



Watch with what insinuating fondness he sidles up to her, and carries 

 on the conversation in that low, mysterious, confidential tone used 

 by lovers, whilst his looks express how much he envies the cherub 

 baby that is reposing on her breast, in the untroubled sleep of in- 

 fantine innocence. Observe him leaning over the chair of that 

 sweet girl who is playing on the piano ; she is no bad representative 

 of St. Cecilia : and listen, we pray you, to his singing to her accom- 

 paniment ; he is obviously sincere ; one hand is placed upon his 

 heart, another upon the young lady's chair, and he turns up his eyes 

 like a duck in a thunder-storm : hark how his voice trembles ; what 

 exquisite modulation ; what unspeakable tenderness! 



" As after noon, one summer's day, 



Venus stood bathing in a river, 

 Cupid a-shooting went that way, 



New strung his bow, new filFd his quiver. 



" With skill he chose his sharpest dart; 



With all his might his bow he drew ; 

 Swift to his beauteous parent's heart 



The' too well guided arrow flew. 



" I faint, I die, the goddess cried, 



cruel ! couldst thou find none other 

 To wreak thy spleen on? Parricide! 



Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. 



" Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak : 



Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye : 

 Alas ! how easy my mistake ! 



1 took you for your likeness, Chloe." 



At this last line he throws a most expressive quaver into his voice : 

 and such has been his mode of life for forty-four years : and yet, 

 strange as it may sound, Mr. Tickler is a chaste old bachelor, and 

 would be as much shocked at being suspected of having committed 

 a peccadillo, as if charged with felony. 



He is an invaluable man to the ladies, and as useful as a wishing- 

 cap ; his complaisance and good nature being invariable : to the old 

 maids he is a perpetual bouquet, handing them about with as much 

 gallantry and devotion as he did in the period of the downy cheek 

 and the budding breast ; praising their persons, and admiring their 



