We settled ourselves, much to our satisfaction, in our provincial abode:
it was a watering-place, which my husband, as a bachelor, had frequented
during its annual season.
As a watering-place he knew it well. Such places are vastly entertaining
to visiters, having no "local habitation," and no "name"--caring not for
the politics of the place, and where, if any thing displeases them, they
may pay for their lodgings, order post-horses, and never suffer their
names to appear in the arrival book again.
But with those who _live_ at watering-places, it is quite another
affair. For the first six months we were deemed a great acquisition.
There were two or three _sets_ in Pumpington Wells--the good, the bad,
and the indifferent. The bad left their cards, and asked us to dances,
the week we arrived; the indifferent knocked at our door in the first
month; and even before the end of the second, we were on the visiting
lists of the good. We knew enough of society to be aware that it is
impolitic to rush into the embraces of _all_ the arms that are extended
to receive strangers; but feeling no wish to affront any one in return
for an intended civility, we gave card for card; and the doors of good,
bad, and indifferent, received our names.
All seemed to infer, that the amicable gauntlet, which had been thrown
down, having been courteously taken up, the ungloved hands were
forthwith to be grasped in token of good fellowship; we had left our
_names_ for them, and by the invitations that poured in upon us, they
seemed to say with Juliet--
"And _for_ thy _name_, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.
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