I was systematically advertised—­by mamma—­for about four years prior to my debut.  Every body was made to know that I was “growing up” rapidly, “coming on,” but still young, “oh, very young, and cares absolutely nothing about men.”  Fact:  cared more then than I do now.  Young fellows—­available matches—­would be invited out “very informally indeed,” to dinner or to tea, “would just drop in, you know,” each occasion skillfully planned by mamma.  She is an excellent manager—­always manages to have her own way.  On each one of these occasions it was so arranged that they would catch a glimpse of me—­supposed to be entirely accidental.  I was made to pose for the occasion over my books or fancy-work.  I was “so studious!” or “so skillful with my needle!”—­running comment by mamma during the accidental glimpse of her darling daughter.  These things are always effective, for mamma is really an artistic woman.  Her social villainy fascinates me into a constant state of acquiescence.  There is an irresistible glamour, there is a touch of his Satanic majesty which gains me, against my will, body and soul.  She is a bad, dangerous woman.  What an awful idea to have of my own mother! but, fortunately, other people don’t know her as we do—­papa and I.

But after all the constant planning, the education with trimmings, the high art dressing, the effective situations without number, in short, the whole broad system of skillful social advertising, I am not the one magnet-point; I am not the belle of the town.  This has caused the breach between us; and it grows wider every day.  Mamma used to be unkind, but now she is cruel.  Those uncertain social honors can never be mine; therefore a reconciliation is out of the question.  Men come to the house frequently and in fair numbers, but frequent and merely polite attentions do not satisfy mamma.  I have never had a real lover.  Men seem to like me well enough; they send me flowers, take me out, and do not let me suffer at balls or parties for want of attention.  But they do not make love or ask me the all—­important question, “Will you be my wife?” This confession would surprise most people.  My name is constantly mentioned in a tender way with some one man of my acquaintance, but there is never any thing beyond the mention.

During the past winter mamma has been trying a new plan.  She has determined to marry me off, having proved to be such worthless material for the make up of a reigning belle.  She has made earnest, successful effort to induce a batch of clever young lawyers into a frequent and regular attendance at the house, under pretext of a quasi-ideal Literary Association.  A wise bait, which always ensnares the eager-nibbling lawyer.  It sounds well to have people say that he is a gifted young lawyer and a member of a most delightful and highly select literary association—­and the average young lawyer acknowledges a fondness—­inexpensive, of course—­for all things which sound well; the legal mind bows down before the mighty shrine of “Euphony.”