o man, not even a provincial, can visit every body; and it seems but
fair, that if a selection is to be made, all should interchange the
hospitalities of life with those persons in whose society they feel the
greatest enjoyment.

Many a dinner, therefore, did we decline--many a route did we reject; my
husband's popularity tottered, and the inviters, though they no longer
dinned their dinners in our ears, and teazed us with their "teas," vowed
secret vengeance, and muttered "curses, not loud, but deep."

I have hinted that we had no scandalous capabilities; and though slander
flashed around us, we seldom admitted morning visiters, and our
street-door was a non-conductor.

But our next door neighbours were maiden ladies, who _had been_ younger,
and, to use a common term of commiseration, had seen better days--by
which, I mean the days of bloom, natural hair, partners, and the
probability of husbands.

Their vicinity to us was an infinite comfort to the town, for those who
were unable to gain admittance at our door to disturb our business and
desires,

"For every man has business and desire,
Such as they are,"

were certain of better success at our neighbours', where they at least
could gain some information about us "from eye-witnesses who resided on
the spot."

_My_ sins were numbered, so were my new bonnets; and for a time my
husband was pitied, because "he had an extravagant wife;" but when it
was ascertained that his plate was handsome, his dinner satisfactory in
its removes, and _comme il faut_ in its courses, those whose feet had
never been within our door, saw clearly "how it must all end, and really
felt for our trades-people."

I have acknowledged that I had written romances; the occupation was to
me a source of amusement; and as I had been successful, my husband saw
no reason why he should discourage me. A scribbling fool, _in_ or _out_
of petticoats, should be forbidden the use of pen, ink, and paper; but
my husband had too much sense to heed the vulgar cry of "blue stocking."
After a busy month passed in London, we saw my new novel sent forth to
the public, and then returned to our mansion at Pumpington Wells.

As we drove up to our door, our virgin neighbours gazed on us, if
possible, with more than their former interest. They wiped their
spectacles; with glances of commiseration they saw us alight, and with
unwearied scrutiny they witnessed the removal of our luggage from the
carriage. We