“Gentlemen,” continued the enthusiastic deputy, brimming Uncle Tim's glass, “our noble Vice drinks to all your good healths. Bravo! this looks like the merry old times! We have not a moment to lose. To-morrow prostrates this ancient roof-tree! Shall it be sawed asunder unsung? No, Uncle Timothy,--no! rather let it tumble to a dying fall!” The satirical-nosed gentleman would as soon have been suspected of picking a pocket as eschewing a pun. “Your eloquence, Mr. Deputy, is irresistible,--“Man anticipates Time in the busy march of destruction. His own mortal frame, broken by intemperance, becomes a premature ruin; he fells the stately oak in the towering majesty of its verdure and beauty; he razes the glorious temple hallowed by Time! and the ploughshare passes over the sacred spot it once dignified and adorned! Man is ever quarrelling with Time. Time flies too swiftly; or creeps too slowly. His distempered vision conjures up a dwarf or a giant; hence Time is too short, or Time is too long! Now Time hangs heavy on his hands; yet for most things he cannot find Time! Though fame-serving, he makes a lackey of Time; asking Time to pay his debts; Time to eat his dinner; Time for all things! He abuses those, that never gave him a hard word; and, in a fit of ennui, to get rid of himself he kills Time; which is never recovered, but lost in Eternity!” And Uncle Timothy, keeping time and the tune, sang his retrospective song of OLD TIME. From boyhood to manhood, in fair and rough weather. Old Time! you and I we have jogg'd on together; Your touch has been gentle, endearing, and bland; A fond father leading his son by the hand! In the morning of life, ah! how tottering my tread-- (True symbol of age ere its journey is sped!) But Time gave me courage, and fearless I ran-- I held up my head, and I march'd like a man! Old Time brought me friendship, and swift flew the hours; Life seem'd an Elysium of sunshine and flowers! The flowers, but in memory, bear odour and bloom; And the sun set on friendship, laid low in the tomb! Yet, Time, shall I blame thee, tho' youth's happy glow Is fled from my cheeks, that my locks are grey?--No! What more can I wish (not abusing my prime) To pilot me home, than a friend like Old Time? CHAPTER IX. |Quite _at home_” is a comfortable phrase! A man may be in his own house, and “not at home or a hundred miles away from it, and yet “quite at home.” Quite at home” denotes absence of restraint (save that which good breeding imposes), ostentatious display, affected style, and the petty annoyances of your small gentry, who clumsily ape their betters. Good entertainment, congenial company, pleasant discourse, the whole seasoned with becoming mirth, and tempered with elegance and refinement, make a man “Quite at home”