a
perfect woman is that of one who is beautiful, "and can do everything
but speak." In the "Chronicles of Clovernook"--_i.e._ of his little
retreat near Herne Bay--he gives an account of the Hermit of Bellyfulle,
who lives in "the cell of the corkscrew," and among many amusing
paradoxes, maintains the following,

"Ay, Sir, the old story--the old grievance, Sir, twixt man and
woman," said the hermit.

"And what is that, Sir?" we asked.

The hermit shaking his head, and groaning cried, "Buttons."

"Buttons!" said we.

Our hermit drew himself closer to the table, and spreading his arms
upon it, leaned forward with the serious air of a man prepared to
discuss a grave thing. "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. Sir,
though I am now an anchorite I have lived in your bustling world,
and seen--ay, quite as much as anyone of its manifold wickedness.
Well, the man--the buttonless man--at first calmly remonstrates
with his laundress. He pathetically wr