It has not been the fortune of the present historian to enjoy a personal experience of the state of matrimony. But he has never been lacking in awe for the wonders attaching to that institution. It has always seemed to him, looking upward, as it were, from the mire of bachelordom, that the married mind is subject to rare emotions, productive of a singular philosophy which one must view with astonishment, if not with envy.
In illustration of my meaning, permit me to cite the case of the Tuskers.
The Tuskers, as we were definitely informed by Mr. Tusker, have been tasting the wedded blisses for nearly eighteen years. And Mr. Tusker called in recently at Doctor Brink's in the matter, as he expressed it, of "any old bottles, any old rags; old bones, rabbit-skins, waste paper to buy," which somehow looks wrong. Let us try again—
Any old bottles?
Any old rags?
Old bones,
Rabbit-skins,
Waste paper,
To buy!
That is better. Mr. Tusker is nothing if not lyrical.
Also, he is a massy-jawed person in a muffler, having a dent over one eye and a limpy walk. Likewise, he is accompanied by an objectionable smell, arising partly from his trade, profession, or occupation. It is an impressionist sort of smell. The impression it suggested to me was that Mr. Tusker had been subjected to long, long years of solitary confinement in an over-heated chicken-coop.
Mr. Tusker, having recited his little poem, was rewarded by a "Not to-day, thank you," from Doctor Brink.
"What?" cried Mr. Tusker. "Not any old bottles; any old rags?"
"No," insisted Doctor Brink.
"Ho," quoth Mr. Tusker. "Right you are, then. One minute, Doctor. The missus. Ahtside. Can I trouble you?"