beef-steak on a wooden skewer, or a fresh fish, with a piece of tarred twine run through its gills.  In the evening he rocks the cradle, and gets up in the night when the child cries.  Like a Goth, of the Dark Ages, he consults his wife on all mighty matters, and looks upon her as a being of more than human goodness and wisdom.  In short, the ladies all say he is a very domestic man, and makes a good husband; which, under the rose, is only a more polite way of saying he is hen-pecked.  He is a Happy Man.  I have another dear friend, who is a sexagenary bachelor.  He has one of those well-oiled dispositions, which turn upon the hinges of the world without creaking.  The hey-day of life is over with him; but his old age is sunny and chirping; and a merry heart still nestles in his tottering frame, like a swallow that builds in a tumble-down chimney.  He is a professed Squire of Dames.  The rustle of a silk gown is music to his ears, and his imagination is continuallylantern-led by some will-with-a-wisp in the shape of a lady’s stomacher.  In his devotion to the fair sex,—­the muslin, as he calls it,—­he is the gentle flower of chivalry.  It is amusing to see how quick he strikes into the scent of a lady’s handkerchief.  When once fairly in pursuit, there is no such thing as throwing him out.  His heart looks out at his eye; and his inward delight tingles down to the tail of his coat.  He loves to bask in the sunshine of a smile; when he can breathe the sweet atmosphere of kid gloves and cambric handkerchiefs, his soul is in its element; and his supreme delight is to pass the morning, to use his own quaint language, ’in making dodging calls, and wiggling round among the ladies!’ He is a lucky dog!”

“And as a specimen of the class of Miserable Wretches, I suppose you will take me,” said Flemming, making an effort to enter into his friend’s humor.  “Certainly I am wretched enough.  You may make me the stuffed bear,—­the specimen of this class.”

“By no means,” replied Berkley; “you are not reduced so low.  He only is utterly wretched, who is the slave of his own passions, or those of others.  This, I trust, will never be your condition.  Why so wan and pale, fond lover?  Do you remember Sir John Suckling’s Song?

’Why so wan and pale, fond lover;

Pr’ythee why so pale?

Will, if looking well can’t move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Pr’ythee why so pale?

’Why so dull and mute, young sinner;

Pr’ythee why so mute?

Will, if speaking well can’t win her,

Saying nothing do ’t?

Pr’ythee why so mute?

’Quit, quit, for shame! this cannot move,

This cannot take her!

If of herself she do not love,

Nothing will make her!

The devil take her!’

How do you like that?”

“To you I say quit, quit for shame;” replied Flemming.  “Why quote the songs of that witty and licentious age?  Have you no better consolation to offer me?  How many, many times must I tell you, that I bear the lady no ill-will.  I do not blame her for not loving me.  I desire her happiness, even at the sacrifice of my own.”