“Ah!” I exclaimed, “stop there—­that rock is so commonplace.”

Harry laughed and went on with his argument.—­“Besides, there is the gratification of making yourself considered in society—­which no single man is.  A single man is a kind of protected or licensed vagabond—­rambling to and fro without stamp or mark, as Witwould might say,—­like a sheep that has been overlooked at tarring time.  His home is a desert to him,—­and the love of social converse, which is so natural, and so amiable at the same time keeps him eternally in a state of fidgetty restlessness, which precludes all possibility of serious and persevering labour.  Only think of the horrors of a house without a queen—­Yawning servants, negligent housekeepers, extorting tradespeople,—­these and a thousand other annoyances, for which you have no relief, because you cannot stoop to meddle or make in such transactions—­are the agitations which perpetually infest the domestic commonwealth of a bachelor.—­But turn your eyes into the house of ’Benedick, the married man’—­He wears his rue with a difference, indeed!—­There is a sense of life, bustle, mirth, and happiness, in the very air of the dwelling.  To be greeted with smiles at your going forth and coming in—­to know that there is at least one who serves you without a self-interest—­to hear the joyous, feminine laugh, delicate and temperate in the very whirlwind of its ecstacy, ring through the mansion from hour to hour—­to hear the little foot pattering about you as you sit at your philosophic studies—­to have a friend with whom you can converse freely and without fear of present offence or future disadvantage—­and whose presence is not without its influence and its charm, even when the call of a worldly ambition summons you to—­
    “——­Pursue
    Your tasks, in social silence too,”
with just sense enough to understand all you can say to her—­and nothing so wise as to mortify you at any time by setting you right.  Then, instead of the natty primness of your bachelor’s apartment, you have your eyes feasted by that elegant confusion of the little sanctuary—­the charm of which cannot, unseen, be apprehended, and is only known to those who are privileged to enter, by the passport of Hymen.  A bit of bobbin here—­a thread-paper there—­here a hat feather—­there a scrap of silk.—­Besides,” [drawing his chair closer to mine and looking very tender] “when you love her, you know—.”  He paused and sighed, and I groaned strenuously.—­

“And is this all you have to say in defence of an elopement with a girl of sixteen.” ["A beautiful girl,” he passionately interrupted] “well! a beautiful girl—­so young, that it is perfectly impossible for you to form any judgment on her inclinations or her temper—­at a time when her character is undecided—­unformed—­when that which is mere caprice, frequently assumes the hue of passion, and wears all its fervour and intensity.  Or if it should continue unabated—­as I must