The National Republican And Ohio Political Register

[From the Boston Spectator.]

A BACHELOR'S OLD AGE.

At the request of two graceless favorites of mine, who, when urchins, were as much my pets as are now my cat and dog. I have attempted to give a description of the fag end of a bachelor's life. Time, when we first attempt to pull his flowing beard, in the young days of our existence, when our blood gallops through our veins with a swift and healthy flow, then looks like a respectable, decent old gentleman, with sugar-plums in both pockets. But in after years, when gray hairs and nightcaps, gout and peevishness, take the place of strength and the worship of Dan Cupid, he changes his appearance to a miserly old rascal, who covets all your pleasures, and even life itself. A young bachelor is like a stout ship in ballast, riding merrily over the billows of pain and wo, and should he go down to the caverns of death, his loss is little felt by the owner, and but few beside are affected by the catastrophe.

But in the latter part of his life, he resembles somewhat that same ship stripped of its rigging, a perishing nuisance in the dock of society. There is something ludicrous in the situation of our corps, when we have arrived at the age of sixty. If we have a little property, we are daily reminded of the uncertainty of life and convenience of a will, with a minuendo, that the adviser is a particular friend of ours. Missionaries, Bible societies, interested fifteenth cousins, and would-be heirs are haunting you by night and by day.—hollow hearted kindness, and the treacle of flattery, are lavished upon you 'against the stomach of your sense.' Should you take cold, physic by quantity is arrayed before you, or if caught napping, poured down your throat, as one would drench a horse. A little farther on, when you wax a little more lantern-jawed, the very servants cast their eyes upon your visage, and then stealthy glances towards the coat in which your pocket book bivouacs; and when your eyes shall have become glazed, they doubtless will come in as left-handed heirs of some of your personal property. There is no child to watch and weep—no female lip with its affectionate kiss to touch your damp brow of agony—no fair hand to smooth the pillow of dissolution—no tear of sincerity to water the sod when it shall rest on your bosom; but all of the hereafter of this world, is to have some vile speller with a chisel as broad as his forehead, cut out upon a slate stone, to be placed at your head, your epitaph as follows:

Hear lies the body of Ichabod Singletown who lived respected & died lamented. Aged sixty I

but there are deeper causes of lament appertaining to the life, old age, and death of the bachelor. He dies the last link in the chain of an existence which has especially been handed down to him for a continuance, he has declined to exercise the duties, to answer the responsibilities, and to participate in those pleasures, which life has presented to him. The cup of consolation, offered to him by his maker has been rejected, and by his own act, at the hour when it was most needed he has deprived himself of the reviving draught it contained.— His course, however gallant it may have been through the waters of existence, leaves no trace behind. Those kindly affections which entwine themselves around every fibre of the heart of a husband, to him are unknown. He stands in old age, a pyramid on the desert—around it desolation—within it death.

Go, get wives—act as I preach, and not as I have practiced.

ICHABOD.