Thus, without having deviated from the path of moral rectitude, I am suffering torments like a "goblin damned." The lower half of me has been almost boiled, my tongue and mouth grilled, and I bear the mark of Cain upon my forehead; yet these are but trifling considerations, to the everlasting shame which I must feel, whenever this adventure shall be mentioned. Perhaps, by your assistance, when my neighbors know how much I feel on the occasion, they will spare a bashful man, and, as I am just informed my poultice is ready, I trust you will excuse the haste in which I retire.
I am what the old women call an "Odd Fish." I do nothing under heaven without a motive--never. I attempt nothing, unless I think there is a probability of my succeeding. I ask no favors when I think they are not deserved; and finally, I don't wait upon the girls when I think my attentions would be disagreeable. I am a matter-of-fact man, I am. I do every thing seriously. I once offered to attend a young lady home; I did it seriously; that is, I meant to wait on her home if she wanted me. She accepted my offer; I went home with her, and it has ever since been an enigma with me whether she wanted me or not. I bade her good night, and she said not a word. I met her next morning, and I said not a word. I met her again, and she gave me two hours' talk. It struck me as curious. She feared I was offended, she said, and could not, for the life of her, conceive why. She begged me to explain, but would not give me a chance to do so. She said she hoped I wouldn't be offended, asked me to call, and it has ever since been a mystery to me whether she wanted me or not.
Once I saw a lady at her window. I thought I would call. I did. I inquired for the lady, and was told she was not at home. I expected she was, I went away thinking so. I rather think so still. I met her again--she was offended--said I had not been neighborly. She reproached me for my negligence; said she thought I had been unkind. And I've ever since wondered whether she thought so or not.
A lady once said to me that she should like to be married if she could get a good, congenial husband who would make her happy, or at least try to. She was not difficult to please, she said. I said I should like to get married, too, if I could find a wife that would try to make me happy. She said Umph, and looked as if she meant what she said. She did. For when I asked her if she thought she could not be persuaded to marry me, she said she would rather be excused. I have often wondered why I excused her.