"Buttons," he repeated. Then clearing his
throat he began, "In the course of your long and, I hope, well
spent life, has it never come with thunderbolt conviction on you
that all washerwomen, clear-starchers, getters up of fine linen, or
under whatever name Eve's daughters--for as Eve brought upon us the
stern necessity of a shirt, it is but just that her girls should
wash it--under whatever name they cleanse and beautify flax and
cotton, that they are all under some compact, implied or solemnly
entered upon amongst themselves and their non-washing,
non-starching, non-getting up sisterhood, that by means subtle and
more mortally certain, they shall worry, coax, and drive all
bachelors and widowers soever into the pound of irredeemable
wedlock? Has this tremendous truth, sir, never struck you?'
"'How?--by what means?' we asked.
"'Simply by buttons.' answered the hermit, bringing down his
clenched fist upon the table.
"We knew it--we looked incredulous.
"'See here, sir,' said the Hermit, leaning still farther across the
table, 'I will take a man, who on his outstart in life, set his hat
a-cock at matrimony--a man who defies Hymen and all his wicked
wiles. Nevertheless, sir, the man must have a shirt, the man must
have a washerwoman, Think you that that shirt returning from the
tub, never wants one, two--three buttons? Always, sir, always.
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