"When I had paid a visit of some months to each of my friends, I perceived that their husbands were men of whom they might be _vain_ but could not be _fond_. Isabella, the eldest, had married one of your "admirable Creighton" sort of people. He was a Mr. Mills, and set up for a person of universal science, taste, and talent. There was nothing too high or too low for the omnivorous appetite of his ambition; and he has often reminded me of Johnson's sarcasm directed against Goldsmith, "Sir, he would be jealous of Punch;" and so would Mr. Mills. There was no trial of skill, however humble its object, in which he would not exert his powers for the pleasure of a triumph. He knew every thing, at least superficially, and astonished every society of which he was a member. How clever! what talents! such a memory! such universal information! echoed from room to room whenever he appeared; and the sweet savour of this incense is the food upon which he lives, it is his daily bread, and to purchase it his continual employment. How Mr. Mills should ever have married, would surprise, had it not been that the general habit of mankind protesting against single blessedness, he thought it necessary to prove that he possessed superlative powers of captivation, and accordingly set his eye on my poor friend, who, in an hour of infatuation, consented to be his bride. That purpose being accomplished, some newer project succeeded. He lives as if the world were indeed a stage, and he a player, continually occupied in learning or rehearsing a part for the next exhibition, and his wife is no better in his eyes than candle-snuffer to the theatre (though far surpassing him in all that gives solid dignity to human character), because she is too wise and too honest to flatter him.