At length, however, having cleared my throat, I began.--“I have come to see you, Mr. B----e, about publishing a little book I am determined to write. The subject of it relates principally to the great plague occasioned by servants. And, when we reflect, Mr. B----e,” I continued, recollecting a portion of the speech I had prepared, “how much of our happiness depends upon those persons, and that there is no work of the kind designed to pilot the tender young wife when first launched into the sea of domestic life, through the rocks and precipices that beset her briary path----” “Perhaps,” he delicately interrupted me, “you are not acquainted, ma’m, with Dean Swift’s celebrated work on the subject.” “No, Mr. B----e,” I answered, with a pleasing smile; “I am not acquainted with Mr. Dean Swift’s book; but, as he never could have had the experience of a wife, and a mother, of such long standing as myself, I am satisfied that it will not, in any way, clash with the one I purpose. Besides, no one, I am sure, Mr. B----e, can have suffered a millionth part of what I have, from servants; for, what with the worry, and vexation, and trouble that they have caused me, together with, I may say, the wear and tear of both mind and body, it’s really, Mr. B----e, a wonder that I’m here now. Indeed, as our medical adviser says, if I hadn’t had a very fine constitution of my own, I should never have been able to have gone through with it all. So that I think, Mr. B----e, my troubles would make a very interesting and instructive little book.” “Yes, ma’m,” he answered, hesitatingly; “but I’m sorry to say, domestic troubles don’t go off at all in the trade; the public seem to have lost all taste for them. Now, if you could work up any horrible fact, or make a heroine out of some lady poisoner, ma’m, I think that might do. Sir Edward’s book has been quite a hit, and there is a great demand with us for lady poisoners just now.” “Oh, indeed, Mr. B----e,” I answered; “but there will be some most dreadful facts in my little book. Now, there was our Footman, who stole the spoons; and an Irish Cook, who I really thought would have been the death of the whole family. I intend to give the disclosure of all the circumstances in my interesting little work. Do you think that would do, Mr. B----e?” “Yes, ma’m,” he answered: “but I’m afraid the book, although I’ve no doubt (he was kind enough to add) it would be exceedingly interesting, wouldn’t exactly suit me. I really should not like to risk it.” “Oh! I perceive, now, Mr. B----e,” I returned, as, with my customary sagacity, I at once saw the reason of his refusal. “My motives for publishing my interesting little work are dictated purely by benevolence, I can assure you. I hope you do not imagine I am one of the people who write for money. No, Mr. B----e; I am happy to say, I am not yet necessitated to fly to my pen as a means of support.”