ning, sent short civil notes,
regretting their utter inability to make up a sum of money by Saturday
night, unless _I_ favoured them, by the bearer, with the sum of ten
pounds, "the amount of my little account."

Dennett-driving drapers actually threatened to fail for the want of ten
pounds!--pastry-cooks, who took their families regularly "to summer at
the sea," assisted the _counter_-plot, and prematurely dunned my
husband!

It is not always convenient to pay sums at midsummer, which we had been
in the habit of paying at Christmas; if, however, a single applicant was
refused, a new rumour of inability was started and hunted through the
town before night. People walked by our house, looking up wistfully at
the windows; others peeped down the area, to see what we had for dinner.
One _gentleman_ went to our butcher, to inquire how much we owed him;
and one _lady_ narrowly escaped a legal action, because when she saw a
few pipkins lying on the counter of a crockery-ware man, directed to me,
she incautiously said, in the hearing of one of my servants, "Are you
paid for your pipkins?--ah, it's well if you ever get your money!"

Christmas came at last; bills were paid, and my husband did not owe a
shilling in Pumpington Wells. Like the old ladies in the besieged city,
the gossips looked at us, wondering when the havoc would begin.

Ho who mounts the ladder of life, treading step by step upon the
identical footings marked out, _may_ live in a provincial town.
When we want to drink spa waters, or vary the scene, we now visit
watering-places; but rather than force me to live at one again, "stick
me up," as _Andrew Fairservice_ says, in _Rob Roy_, "as a regimental
target for ball-practice." We have long ceased to live in Pumpington.

Fleeting are the tints of the rainbow--perishable the leaf of the
rose--variable the love of woman--uncertain the sunbeam of April; but
naught on earth can be fleeting; so perishable, so variable, or so
uncertain, as the popularity of a provincial reputation.

_Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

LONDON LYRICS.

* * * * *

JACK JONES, THE RECRUIT.--A HINT FROM OVID.

Jack Jones was a toper: they say that some how
He'd a foot always ready to kick up a row;
And, when half-seas over, a quarrel he pick'd,
To keep up the row he had previously kick'd.

He spent all, then borrow'd at twenty per cent.
His mistress