little narrative--had once been a tradesman. He was naturally phlegmatic,
methodical, and avaricious. His ear was formed to relish better the hoarse
voice of an exchange broker, than the finest tones of Handel's organ. He
found something much more agreeable and interesting in the perusal of his
ledger and his day book, than in the scenes of Shakespeare, or the
elegance of Addison. With this disposition, he had notwithstanding, when
age had chilled the vigour of his limbs, and scattered her snow over those
hairs which had escaped the hands of the barber, resigned his shop, and
retired to enjoy the fruits of his industry. It is as natural for a
tradesman in modern times to desire to die in the tranquillity of a
gentleman, as it was for the Saxon kings of the Heptarchy to act the same
inevitable scene amidst the severities of a cloister.

The old gentleman however found, and it is not impossible that some of his
brethren may have found it before him, when the great transaction was
irretrievably over, that retirement and indolence did not constitute the
situation for which either nature or habit had fitted him. It has been
observed by some of those philosophers who have made the human mind the
object of their study, that idleness is often the mother of love. It might
indeed have been supposed, that Mr. Hartley, for that was his name, by
having attained the age of sixty, might have outlived every danger of this
kind. But opportunity and temptation supplied that, which might have been
deficient on the side of nature.

Within a little mile of the mansion in which he had taken up his retreat,
resided two ancient maiden ladies. Under cover of the venerable age to
which they had attained, they had laid aside many of those modes which
coyness and modesty have prescribed to their sex. The visits of a man were
avowedly as welcome to them, and indeed much more so, than those of a
woman. Their want of attractions either external or mental, had indeed