The Doctor was no dancer. He had no inclination for this pastime even in what the song calls “our dancing days,” partly because his activity lay more in his head than in his heels, and partly perhaps from an apprehension of awkwardness, the consequence of his rustic breeding. In middle and later life he had strong professional objections, not to the act of dancing, but to the crowded and heated rooms wherein it was carried on, and to the late hours to which it was continued. In such rooms and at such assemblies, the Devil, as an old dramatist says, “takes delight to hang at a woman's girdle, like a rusty watch, that she cannot discern how the time passes.”[1] Bishop Hall in our friend's opinion spake wisely when drawing an ideal picture of the Christian, he said of him, “in a due season he betakes himself to his rest. He presumes not to alter the ordinance of day and night; nor dares confound, where distinctions are made by his Maker.” [Footnote 1: WEBSTER.] Concerning late hours indeed he was much of the same opinion as the man in the old play who thought that “if any thing was to be damned, it would be Twelve o'clock at night.” These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not for us To waste these times.[2] He used to say that whenever he heard of a ball carried on far into the night, or more properly speaking, far into the morning, it reminded him with too much reason of the Dance of Death. Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed: The breath of night's destructive to the hue Of ev'ry flow'r that blows. Go to the field, And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps Soon as the sun departs? Why close the eyes Of blossoms infinite, long ere the moon Her oriental veil puts off? Think why, Nor let the sweetest blossom Nature boasts Be thus exposed to night's unkindly damp. Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose, Compell'd to taste the rank and pois'nous steam Of midnight theatre, and morning ball. Give to repose the solemn hour she claims And from the forehead of the morning steal The sweet occasion. O there is a charm Which morning has, that gives the brow of age A smack of earth, and makes the lip of youth Shed perfume exquisite. Expect it not, Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie, Indulging feverous sleep.[3] [Footnote 2: SHAKESPEARE.] [Footnote 3: HURDIS' VILLAGE CURATE.]