"I think," said I, "that she is the prettiest lass I ever saw; don't you think so, George?" But again George's only answer was to choke. "Smoke again, Jarge?" inquired the Ancient. "Ay," said George, as before. "'Tis a fine thing to be young," said the Ancient, after a somewhat lengthy pause, and with a wave of his long pipe-stem, "a very fine thing!" "It is," said I, "though we generally realize it all too late." As for George, he went on smoking. "When you are young," pursued the Ancient, "you eats well, an' enjys it, you sleeps well an' enjys it; your legs is strong, your arms is strong, an' you bean't afeard o' nothin' nor nobody. Oh! life's a very fine thing when you're young; but youth's tur'ble quick agoin'—the years roll slow at first, but gets quicker 'n quicker, till, one day, you wakes to find you 'm an old man; an' when you'm old, the way gets very 'ard, an' toilsome, an' lonely." "But there is always memory," said I. "You 'm right theer, Peter, so theer be—so theer be—why, I be a old, old man, wi' more years than 'airs on my 'ead, an' yet it seems but yesterday as I were a-holdin' on to my mother's skirt, an' wonderin' 'ow the moon got lighted. Life be very short, Peter, an' while we 'ave it 'tis well to get all the 'appiness out of it we can." "The wisest men of all ages preached the same," said I, "only they all disagreed as to how happiness was to be gained." "More fules they!" said the Ancient. "Eh?" I exclaimed, sitting up. "More fules they!" repeated the old man with a solemn nod. "Why, then, do you know how true happiness may be found?' "To be sure I du, Peter." "How?" "By marriage, Peter, an' 'ard work!—an' they allus goes together." "Marriage!" said I. "Marriage as ever was, Peter." "There I don't agree with you," said I. "That," retorted the Ancient, stabbing at me with his pipe-stem, "that's because you never was married, Peter." "Marriage!" said I; "marriage brings care, and great responsibility, and trouble for one's self means trouble for others." "What o' that?" exclaimed the Ancient. "'Tis care and 'sponsibility as mak' the man, an' if you marry a good wife she'll share the burden wi' ye, an' ye'll find what seemed your troubles is a blessin' arter all. When sorrer comes, 'tis a sweet thing—oh! a very sweet thing—to 'ave a woman to comfort ye an' 'old your 'and in the dark hour—an' theer's no sympathy so tender as a woman's, Peter. Then, when ye be old, like me, an' full o' years 'tis a fine thing to 'ave a son o' your own—like Simon—an' a granddarter—like my Prue—'tis worth 'aving lived for, Peter, ay, well worth it. It's a man's dooty to marry, Peter, 'is dooty to 'isself an' the world. Don't the Bible say summat about it not bein' good for a man to live alone? Every man as is a man should marry—the sooner the better." "But," said I, "to every happy marriage there are scores of miserable ones."