"
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 went out--every body stared at us--the people we _did_
know touched the hands we extended, and hastened on as if fearful of
infection; the people we _did not_ know whispered as they passed us,
and looked back afterwards; the men servants seemed full of mysterious
flurry when we left our cards at the doors of acquaintances, and the
maid-servants peeped at us up the areas; the shopkeepers came from their
counters to watch us down the streets--and all was whispering and
wonder.
I could not make it out; was it to see the authoress? No; I had been an
authoress when they last saw me.
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