the ganglions which the cruelty of a
mistress inflicts, that he neglects his personal appearance: he neglects
it, not because he is in love, but because his nervous system is
depressed. That was the cause, if you remember, with poor Major Prim. He
wore his wig all awry when Susan Smart jilted him; but I set it all
right for him."

"By shaming Miss Smart into repentance, or getting him a new
sweetheart?" asked my uncle.

"Pooh!" answered Squills, "by quinine and cold bathing."

"We may therefore grant," renewed my father, "that, as a general rule,
the process of courtship tends to the spruceness, and even foppery, of
the individual engaged in the experiment, as Voltaire has very prettily
proved somewhere. Nay, the Mexicans, indeed, were of opinion that the
lady at least ought to continue those cares of her person even after
marriage. There is extant, in Sahagun's _History of New Spain_, the
advice of an Aztec or Mexican mother to her daughter, in which she
says--'That your husband may not take you in dislike, adorn yourself,
wash yourself, and let your garments be clean.' It is true that the good
lady adds,--'Do it in moderation; since, if every day you are washing
yourself and your clothes, the world will say you are over-delicate; and
particular people will call you--TAPETZON TINEMAXOCH!' What those words
precisely mean," added my father modestly, "I cannot say, since I never
had the opportunity to acquire the ancient Aztec language--but something
very opprobrious and horrible, no doubt."

"I dare say a philosopher like Signior Riccabocca," said my uncle, "was
not himself very _tapetzon tine_--what d'ye call it?--and a good healthy
English wife, like that poor affectionate Jemima, was thrown away upon
him."

"Roland," said my father, "you don't like foreigners: a respectable
prejudice, and quite natural in a man who has been trying his best to
hew them in pieces, and blow them up into splinters. But you don't like
philosophers either--and for that dislike you have no equally good
reason."

"I only implied that they were not much addicted to soap and water,"
said my uncle.

"A notable mistake. Many great philosophers have been very great beaux.
Aristotle was a notorious fop. Buffon put on his best laced ruffles when
he sat down to write, which implies that he washed his hands first.
Pythagoras insists greatly on the holiness of frequent ablutions; and
Horace--who, in his own way, was as good a philosopher as a