CHAPTER I.

ON LOVE.

"Love is of man's life a thing apart;
'Tis woman's whole existence."


So sings the poet, and so agrees the world. Humiliating as it is to
make the confession, it is undeniably true. "Men and Dress are all
women think about," cry the lords of creation in their unbounded
vanity. And again, we must submit--and agree--to the truth of the
accusation; at any rate, in nine cases out of ten. Fortunately I am a
tenth case; at least, I consider myself so. I don't dispute the
"dress" imputation. I am very fond of dress. Nearly as fond of it as
the twenty-year old youth, and saying that, I allow a good deal. But
very few of my thoughts are given to the creature "man"! I do not
think him worth it. As my old nurse used to say, "I never 'ad no
opinion of the sex!"

Do not conclude, however, that because of my statement that I am a
disappointed, soured old maid, for I am nothing of the sort. I am on
the right side of twenty-five, and I have never been crossed in love;
indeed, I have never even experienced the tender passion, and only
write from my observations of other people; thus taking a perfectly
neutral ground in speaking of it at all.