It cannot be denied that I rather enjoyed that dinner under the juniper bushes, and was not half so much shocked by the jocund conversation and merry laughter of my companions as became the dignity of a young lady whose “Lines to a Rose-bud” had been extensively copied through several remote papers of the Union, and who had been twice serenaded by her own words, set to most excruciating music, but I hope the refined reader will excuse my fault. It happened several years ago, and I am to this day a little inclined to be social with good-natured people, even those who are not particularly literary or intelligent. They do not expect you to talk books because you write them—never torment you with a discussion of “woman’s rights,” equality of the sexes, and like popular absurdities—or force you into a detestation of all books with quotations, which you would rejoice to think were “unwritten music.” The clocks were striking four when we drove into town again, much as we had left it except the basket of fragments under our seat. When we reached Colonel M’s. door there was a sound of voices in the drawing-room, and I knew that company was there. I entered the hall, and with a palpitating heart persuaded Mrs. Johnson to accompany me to my chamber, leaving her husband to take care of himself, and devoutly hoping that he would find his way into the garden, or stables, or any where except the drawing-room. I entered my chamber resolved to entertain Mrs. Johnson so pleasantly that she would be content to remain there. I opened the window and pointed out one of the most lovely prospects that eye ever dwelt upon, but she was busy with the pink bows and cotton lace border of her cap, and preferred the reflection of her own stout figure in the looking-glass to any the open sash could afford. When her toilet was finished, I was even preposterous enough to offer a book, but, after satisfying herself that it contained no pictures, she laid it down and walked toward the door. As a last resource, I flung open my wardrobe, as if by accident, and that had its effect; she came back with the avidity of a great child, handled every article, and was very particular to inquire the price of each garment, and the number of yards it contained. How I wished that Queen Elizabeth had but left me heiress to her nine hundred dresses. Had she been so thoughtful, it is highly probable that Mrs. Johnson would have contented herself in my room till morning; but, alas! my wardrobe was only extensive enough to detain her half an hour, and when that failed she grew stubborn and insisted on going down.