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another proof that a philosopher cannot write on even common place subjects, without philosophising, and throwing a halo around them. It tests genius. Now for my story.
There are epochs in the life of man as well as in the history of the world. Perhaps the greatest is the first breeks. Who does not recollect his first breeks? What pride; what walking up and down and looking up to every one with an eye saying, look at me—see how grand I am. Well do I remember that great occasion in my eventful life. After the breeks were on, and buttoned, and what beautiful buttons—I had never seen anything so pretty. I strutted up and down as proud as a peacock, putting my hands in my pockets, and taking them out over and over again. Then I took from that wonderful pocket the tailor's luckspenny, looked at it, and put it back to its place, times without number. I am sure that I felt more pride and consequentiality (there's a grand word), on the first day of my first breeks, than I would do now were Her Majesty to touch me with a sword and say, "Rise up Sir William Love." Next came my visiting the neighbours and various relatives, accompanied by a train of children, shewing off my new breeks, and getting an occasional bawbee to put in my pockets. I was told that I looked stunning—that I was now a man—that I must get a wife! At that remark the little girls who were present,
