There is the good old loose, easy, slovenly
bedgown, laziness, for example. What man of sense likes to fling it off
and put on a tight guinde prim dress-coat that pinches him? There is
the cozy wraprascal, self-indulgence--how easy it is! How warm! How it
always seems to fit! You can walk out in it; you can go down to dinner
in it. You can say of such what Tully says of his books: Pernoctat
nobiscum, peregrinatur, rusticatur. It is a little slatternly--it is
a good deal stained--it isn't becoming--it smells of cigar-smoke; but,
allons donc! let the world call me idle and sloven. I love my ease
better than my neighbor's opinion. I live to please myself; not you, Mr.
Dandy, with your supercilious airs. I am a philosopher. Perhaps I live
in my tub, and don't make any other use of it--. We won't pursue further
this unsavory metaphor; but, with regard to some of your old habits let
us say--
1. The habit of being censorious, and speaking ill of your neighbors.
2. The habit of getting into a passion with your man-servant, your
maid-servant, your daughter, wife, &c.
3. The habit of indulging too much at table.
4. The habit of smoking in the dining-room after dinner.
5. The habit of spending insane sums of money in bric-a-brac, tall
copies, binding, Elzevirs, &c.
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