o it at once. They're always pecking at you;
and a fellow feels that if he's in for it, what's the good of his
fighting it out?"

"I should never marry except for love," said Robinson.

"Nor I neither," said Poppins. "That is, I couldn't bring myself to
put up with a hideous old hag, because she'd money. I should always
be wanting to throttle her. But as long as they're young, and soft,
and fresh, one can always love 'em;--at least I can."

"I never loved but one," said Robinson.

"There was a good many of them used to be pretty much the same to me.
They was all very well; but as to breaking my heart about them,--why,
it's a thing that I never understood."

"Do you know, Poppins, what I did twice,--ay, thrice,--in those dark
days?"

"What; when Brisket was after her?"

"Yes; when she used to say that she loved another. Thrice did I
go down to the river bank, intending to terminate this wretched
existence."

"Did you now?"

"I swear to you that I did. But Providence, who foresaw the happiness
that is in store for me, withheld me from the leap."

"Polly once took up with a sergeant, and I can't say I liked it."

"And what did you do?"

"I got uncommon drunk, and then I knocked the daylight out of him.
We've been the best of friends ever since. But about marrying;--if
a man is to do it, he'd better do it. It depends a good deal on the
young woman, of course, and whether she's comfortable in her mind.
Some women ain't comfortable, and then there's the devil to pay. You
don't get enough to eat, and nothing to drink; and if ever you leave
your pipe out of your pocket, she smashes it. I've know'd 'em of that
sort, and a man had better have the rheumatism constant."

"I don't think Maryanne is like that."

"Well; I can't say. Polly isn't. She's not over good, by no means,
and would a deal sooner sit in a arm-chair and have her victuals and
beer brought to her, than she'd break her back by working too hard.
She'd like to be always a-junketing, and that's what she's best
for,--as is the case with many of 'em."

"I've seen her as sportive as a young fawn at the Hall of Harmony."

"But she ain't a young fawn any longer; and as for harmony, it's my
idea that the less of harmony a young woman has the better. It makes
'em give themselves airs, and think as how their ten fingers were
made to put into yellow gloves, and that a young man hasn't nothing
to do but to stand treat, and whirl 'em about till he ain't able