"I mean, that in most cases it is for the worse--the change of condition. "How, sir?" "Observe the married man," replied Roundjacket, philosophically--"see his brow laden with cares, his important look, his solemn deportment. None of the lightness and carelessness of the bachelor." Verty nodded, as much as to say that there was a great deal of truth in this much. "Then observe the glance," continued Roundjacket, "if I may be permitted to use a colloquialism which is coming into use--there is not that brilliant cut of the eye, which you see in us young fellows--it is all gone, sir!" Verty smiled. "The married man frequently delegates his soul to his better half," continued Roundjacket, rising with his subject; "all his independence is gone. He can't live the life of a jolly bachelor, with pipe and slippers, jovial friends and nocturnal suppers. The pipe is put out, sir--the slippers run down--and the joyous laughter of his good companions becomes only the recollection of dead merriment. He progresses, sir--does the married man--from bad to worse; he lives in a state of hen-pecked, snubbed, unnatural apprehension; he shrinks from his shadow; trembles at every sound; and, in the majority of cases, ends his miserable existence, sir, by hanging himself to the bed-post!" Having drawn this awful picture of the perils of matrimony, Mr. Roundjacket paused and smiled. Verty looked puzzled. "You seem to think it is very dreadful," said Verty; "are you afraid of women, sir?" "No, I am not, sir! But I might very rationally be." "Anan?" "Yes, sir, very reasonably; the fact is, you cannot be a lady's man, and have any friends, without being talked about." Verty nodded, with a simple look, which struck Mr. Roundjacket forcibly. "Only utter a polite speech, and smile, and wrap a lady's shawl around her shoulders--flirt her fan, or caress her poodle--and, in public estimation, you are gone," observed the poet; "the community roll their eyes, shake their heads, and declare that it is very obvious--that you are so far gone, as not even to pretend to conceal it. Shocking, sir!" And Roundjacket chuckled. "It's very wrong," said Verty, shaking his head; "I wonder they do it." "Therefore, keep away from the ladies, my young friend," added Roundjacket, with an elderly air--"that is the safest way. Get some snug bachelor retreat like this, and be happy with your pipe. Imitate me, in dressing-gown and slippers. So shall you be happy!" Roundjacket chuckled again, and contemplated the cornice. At the same moment a carriage was heard to stop before the door, and the poet's eyes descended. "I wonder who comes to see me," he said, "really now, in a chariot." Verty, from his position, could see through the window. "Why, it's the Apple Orchard chariot!" he said, "and there is Miss Lavinia!" At this announcement, Mr. Roundjacket's face assumed an expression of dastardly guilt, and he avoided Verty's eye. "Lavinia!" he murmured.