When it expires, like a dying swan, it sings its own funeral
hymn.
Well, then fancy, just fancy, when she gets well, and looks as chipper
as a canary-bird, though not quite so yaller from the effects of the
cold, that the bridegroom has his turn, and is taken down with the
acute rheumatism, and can't move, tack nor sheet, and has camphor,
turpentine, and hot embrocations of all sorts and kinds applied to
him, till his room has the identical perfume of a druggist's shop,
while he screams if he ain't moved, and yells if he is, and his temper
peeps out. It don't break out of course, for he is a happy man; but it
just peeps out as a masculine he-angel's would if he was tortured.
The fact is, lookin' at life, with its false notions, false hopes, and
false promises, my wonder is, not that married folks don't get on
better, but that they get on as well as they do. If they regard
matrimony as a lottery, is it any wonder more blanks than prizes turn
up on the wheel? Now, my idea of mating a man is, that it is the same
as matching a horse; the mate ought to have the same spirit, the same
action, the same temper, and the same training. Each should do his
part, or else one soon becomes strained, sprained, and spavined, or
broken-winded, and that one is about the best in a general way that
suffers the most.
Don't be shocked at the comparison; but to my mind a splendiferous
woman and a first chop horse is the noblest works of creation.
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