616 The Seven Agess Dec. 
__ He has not, however, lost. every sensibility in the .wans, and_there is 
yet a little corner of his heart. unhardened by scenes of blogd—uncon- 
taminated by glory. _ He at first denies this; but when, to, his, great. sur- 
prise, he meets with the first object of his youthful love, his tenderness 
is revived in spite of himself. She evinces so mueh soli eae is 
wound, and expresses so much admiration for his bravery, that he strikes 
the flag of celibacy—capitulates with the forces of his insinuated charmer 
—and at length yields up his heart for her disposal. His bride is yet a 
virgin ; but her nymph-like sparkling qualities have vanished, and left her 
sober and substantial—fair, fat, and forty. Like a glass of still cham- 
paene, her effervescence has subsided ; but the captain, like a good con- 
noisseur, thinks her all the better for that. People say at the time, that 
he does not marry her because he particularly loves her »ow—but be- 
cause he did love her once. He likes her better than any other woman, 
and makes her a good husband. Sane s eae 
And we now see him become 
“ The justice; 
In fair round belly, with good capon lined ; f ot aodw) 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut ; | 
Full of wise saws and modern instances.” 
As in the time of Shakspeare, we still find his “worship” fond of good 
living, and often marked by that badge of abundanee—corporal rotundity. 
But the beard is no longer a feature characteristic of his “age”: and 
ealling.. The chins of the young, the middling, and the aged, ave now. 
alike subjected to the razor-blade; for, save and except ian occasional 
pair of mustachios upon the lip of a Life-Guardsman or Bond-street 
swindler, we are all smooth as our mothers. taol bess 
The part of the Justice is monotonous, compared with former enact= 
ments. He reads an orthodox paper at breakfast, and very likelystakes 
a little ginger in his tea. During the remainder: of the) morning he 
presides in his justice-room, to the terror of poachers and orchard-rob- 
bers, and so maintains his official dignity till, the ponderous sirloin 
smokes before him, when his rigidity relaxes, and he sets (together with 
the parson) an example of earnest application, which all hungry people 
will be ever willing to follow. The clergyman and he divide the reve- 
rence of the parish: they are the “ two great ones” of the village, 
equally honoured by its inhabitants, who always summon up their best 
bow or curtsey, either for the guardian of their souls or the supporter 
of their personal rights; ‘ and so he plays his part.” 
In due time the exertions of office fall into younger hands, and he 
gradually enters the sixth age, shifting 
“ Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ; f 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch at side; 
His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big, manly voice, 
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in the sound.” 
Little more can be added to this. He now lives upon a prescribed diet, 
and finds a stick really necessary, where it was before merely ornamen- 
tal. As he walks through the village, he always stops the little chil- 
dren (particularly if. the nursery-maid be pretty )7 gives them a piece of 
gingerbread, or a few caraway-comfits—and tells them to * Be'go0 ‘boys 
ee 
