alisades before, and a fish-pond opposite, which still
goes by the name of New Place, and is balanced, at the east end of
the street, by an erection of nearly the same date, a large square
dingy mansion enclosed within high walls, inhabited by three maiden
sisters, and called, probably by way of nickname, the Nunnery. New Place
being on the left of the road, and the Nunnery on the right, the T has
now something of the air of the italic capital T, turned up at one end
and down at the other. The latest improvements are the bow-window in the
market-place, commanding the pavement both ways, which the late brewer,
Andrews, threw out in his snug parlour some twenty years back, and where
he used to sit smoking, with the sash up, in summer afternoons, enjoying
himself, good man; and the great room, at the Swan, originally built by
the speculative publican, Joseph Allwright, for an assembly-room. That
speculation did not answer. The assembly, in spite of canvassing and
patronage, and the active exertions of all the young ladies in the
neighbourhood, dwindled away, and died at the end of two winters:
then it became a club-room for the hunt; but the hunt quarrelled with
Joseph's cookery: then a market-room for the farmers; but the farmers
(it was in the high-price time) quarrelled with Joseph's wine: then it
was converted into the magistrate's room--the bench; but the bench and
the market went away together, and there was an end of justicing: then
Joseph tried the novel attraction (to borrow a theatrical phrase) of a
billiard-table; but, alas! that novelty succeeded as ill as if it had
been theatrical; there were not customers enough to pay the marker: at
last, it has merged finally in that unconscious receptacle of pleasure
and pain, a post-office; although Hazelby has so little to do with
traffic of any sort--even the traffic of correspondence--that a saucy
mail-coach will often carry on its small bag, and as often forget to
call for the London bag in return.

In short, Hazelby is an insignificant place;--my readers will look
for it in vain in the map of Dorsetshire;--it is omitted, poor dear
town!--left out by the map-maker with as little remorse as a dropped
letter!--and it is also an old-fashioned place. It has not even a cheap
shop for female gear. Every thing in the one store which it boasts,
kept by Martha Deane, linen-draper and haberdasher, is dear and good,
as things were wont to be. You may actually get there thread mad