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 him all the consolation at her command. And she did so; but without much apparent effect. She, moreover, with the view of diverting his thoughts, pointed out, as they proceeded, every object which she held to be in the slightest degree remarkable, but nothing could cheer him—nothing could rouse him from the reverie in which he indulged, until they approached the Parsonage-house, which stood within three hundred yards of the Cottage. Of this place Sylvester took especial notice; and it was an exceedingly beautiful little place, in the centre of a most delightful garden, and surrounded by a wall, which appeared to be studded with nectarines and peaches. He even—albeit languidly—expressed his admiration of the fine appearance of this delicious fruit; but it was soon lost to view, and he was silent again.

Now, much has been written and said of old maids. They have been spoken of in terms of the deepest contempt; painters have represented them with crabbed aspects, scraggy necks, yellow complexions, busts particularly bony, and fingers long, fleshless, and cold; while writers have described them as being skinny, toothless, arrogant, malicious, and wretched; but if the libellous painters and writers in question mean to contend that these are the prevailing characteristics of old maids in the aggregate, it will be at once perfectly clear that they never have studied the real flesh and blood. Their's are merely conventional old maids! Henceforth let these libelers paint and write from Nature! Let them do justice to those who compose that honourable—albeit, peculiar—species of humanity, who have studied the respective characters of their suitors too deeply to be ensnared—who have met with none but those whose views were selfish, and whose affections were impure—who have not allowed their judgment to be blinded by passion—who have imagined man's love to be ethereal but have not found it so—who have never had the wish to make, in a worldly sense, a good match, and who have had sufficient sense to escape the miseries of a bad one! It is, of course, admitted that a few of these honourable old maids—for even their contemptuous sobriquet is associated with honour!—may be bony, and not very mild; but the idea of making unamiable skeletons of them all is monstrous!—sufficiently monstrous to inspire indignation. Aunt Eleanor was an old maid, and she was no skeleton: nor was she malicious, nor toothless, nor wretched. On the contrary, her figure approached en bon point; her teeth were white and sound, and her skin was soft and clear: she had, perhaps, a finer—a more animated—bust than any other lady in the county!—she was, moreover, just, benevolent, amiable, and pure, while her heart was full of tranquil joy, for she was in spirit wedded to her God.

Nor was there in this lovely cottage of hers the slightest thing indicative of the residence of an old maid. Everything indeed was neat and elegant; everything was arranged with the most exquisite taste; but there was no minute primness perceptible: nor must it be imagined for a moment that if the whole of her highly-prized china and had been swept from the sideboard and broken to atoms, she would have shed a single tear. No: nothing but love and sympathy could wring a tear from her.