Olla Podrida

Chapter Forty Five.

Modern Town Houses.

I have often thought, when you consider the difference of comfort between houses built from sixty to a hundred years back, in comparison with the modern edifices, that the cry of the magician in “Aladdin,” had he called out “new houses,” instead of “new lamps,” for old ones, would not have appeared so very absurd. It was my good fortune, for the major part of my life, to occupy an ancient house, built, I believe, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. My father lived in it before I was in existence: I was born in it, and it was bequeathed to me. It has since been my misfortune to have lived three years in one of the modern-built houses; and although I have had my share of the ills to which we all are heir, I must date my real unhappiness from the first month after I took possession. With your permission, I will enter into my history, as it may prove a warning to others, who will not remember the old proverb of “Let well alone.”

I am a married man, with six children; my three eldest are daughters, and have now quitted a school, near Portman-Square, to which my wife insisted upon my sending them, as it was renowned for finishing young ladies. Until their return to domiciliate themselves under my roof, I never heard a complaint of my house, which was situated at Brompton. It was large, airy, and comfortable, with excellent shrubberies, and a few acres of land; and I possessed every comfort and even luxury which could be rationally required, my wife and daughters having their carriage, and in every respect my establishment being that of a gentleman.

I had not, however, taken my daughters from school more than two months, before I was told that we were “living out of the world,” although not a mile and a half from Hyde Park Corner; and, to my surprise, my wife joined in the cry; it was always from morn to night, “We might do this but, we cannot do this because, we are quite out of the world.” It was too far to dine out in town; too far for people to come and dine with us; too far to go to the play, or the opera; too far to drive in the park; too far even to walk in Kensington Gardens. I remonstrated, that we had managed to dine out, to receive visitors, and to enjoy all other amusements very well for a considerable number of years, and that it did not appear to me that Brompton had walked away from London, on the contrary, that London was making rapid advances towards Brompton; but it would not do,—all day the phrase rang in my ears, “out of the world,” until I almost began to wish that I was out too. But it is no use having the best of an argument when opposed to women. I had my choice, either to give up my house, and take another in London, or to give up my peace. With an unwilling sigh, I at last consented to leave a place dear to me, from long association and many reminiscences; and it was arranged that Brompton Hall was to be let, or sold, and that we were to look out immediately for a house in some of the squares in the metropolis. If my wife and daughters found that the distance from London was too far for other purposes, at all events it was not too far for house-hunting. They were at it incessantly week after week; and, at last, they fixed upon one in the neighbourhood of Belgrave-Square, which, as they repeated, possessed all the cheerfulness and fresh air of the country, all the advantages of a town residence. The next day I was to be dragged to see it, and give my opinion; at the same time, from the commendations bestowed upon it previous to my going, I felt assured that I was expected to give their opinion, and not my own.

The next day, accordingly, we repaired thither, setting off immediately after breakfast, to meet the surveyor and builder, who was to be on the spot. The house in question was one of a row just building, or built, whitened outside, in imitation of stone. It was Number 2. Number 1 was finished; but the windows still stained with the drippings of the whitewash and colouring. Number 2, the one in question, was complete; and, as the builder asserted, ready for immediate occupation. Number 3 was not so far advanced. As for the others, they were at present nothing but carcasses, without even the front steps built to them; and you entered them by a drawbridge of planks.

The builder stood at the front door, and bowed most respectfully. “Why,” observed I, looking at the piles of mortar, lime, and bricks, standing about in all directions, “we shall be smothered with dust and lime for the next two years.”

“Don’t be alarmed, sir,” replied the builder; “every house in the row will be finished before the winter. We really cannot attend to the applications for them.”

We entered the house.

“Is not the entrance handsome?” observed my wife; “so neat and clean.”

To this I had not a reply to make; it certainly did look neat and clean.

We went into the dining-room. “What a nice room,” exclaimed my eldest daughter. “How many can we dine in this room?”

“Um!” replied I; “about twelve, I suppose, comfortably.”

“Dear me!” observed the builder; “you have no notion of the size of the house; rooms are so deceiving, unfurnished. You may sit down twenty with ease; I’ll appeal to the lady. Don’t you think so, ma’am?”

“Yes, I do,” replied my wife.

After that we went over the drawing-rooms, bed-rooms, and attics.

Every bed-room was apportioned by my wife and daughters, and the others were allotted to the servants; and that in the presence of the builder, who took good note of all that passed.

The kitchen was admired; so were the pantry, scullery, coal-hole, dust-hole, etcetera; all so nice and clean; so compact; and, as the builder observed, not a nail to drive anywhere.

“Well, my dear, what do you think now? isn’t it a charming house?” said my wife, as we re-ascended into the dining-parlour.

“It’s a very nice house, my dear; but still it requires a little consideration,” replied I.

“Consideration, my dear?” replied my wife; “what! now that you have gone over it?”

“I am afraid that I cannot give you very long, sir,” observed the builder; “there are two other parties after the house, and I am to give them an answer by two o’clock.”

“Mr Smithers told me the same yesterday,” whispered my wife.

“What did you say the rent was, Mr Smithers?”

“Only 200 pounds per annum.”

“Any ground-rent?”

“Only 27 pounds 10 shillings.”

“And the taxes?”

“Oh, they will be a mere trifle.”

“The rent appears to me to be very high.”

“High, my dear sir! consider the situation, the advantages. We can’t build them fast enough at that price. But of course, sir, you best know,” replied he, carelessly walking towards the window.

“Take it; my dear,” said my wife.

“You must take it, papa.”

“Pray take it, papa.”

“Mr Whats-your-name, I beg your pardon—”

“Smithers, sir,” said the builder, turning round.

“Pray, Mr Smithers, what term of lease do you let at?”

“Seven, fourteen, or twenty-one, at the option of either party, sir.”

“I should have no objection to take it for three years.”

“Three years, my dear sir!—that would be doing yourself an injustice. You would lose half the value of your fixtures provided you left—and then the furniture. Depend upon it, sir, if you once get into it, you will never wish to leave it.”

“That may or not be,” replied I; “but I will not take it for more than three years. The town-air may not agree with me; and if, as you say, people are so anxious to take the houses, of course it can make no difference to you.”

“I’m afraid, sir, that for so short a time—”

“I will not take it for longer,” replied I, rising up, glad of an excuse to be off.

“Oh, papa!”

“My dear Mr B—.”

“On that point,” replied I, “I will not be overruled. I will not take a lease for more than three years, with the right of continuing, if I please.”

The builder perceived that I was in earnest.

“Well, sir,” replied he, “I hardly know what to say; but rather than disappoint the ladies, I will accept you as a tenant for three years certain.”

“Confound the fellow!” thought I; but I was pinned, and there was an end of the matter. Mr Smithers pulled out paper and ink; two letters of agreement were written upon a small deal table, covered with blotches of various coloured paints; and the affair was thus concluded.

We got into the carriage and drove home, my wife and daughters in ecstasies, and I obliged to appear very well satisfied, that I might not damp their spirits; yet I must say that although the house appeared a very nice house, I had my forebodings.

“At all events,” thought I, “the lease is only for three years;” and thus I consoled myself.

The next day the whole house was in commotion. I believe my wife and daughters were up at daybreak. When I went into the breakfast room, I discovered that the pictures had been taken down, although there was no chance of their being hung up for many weeks at least, and every thing was in preparation for packing up. After breakfast my wife set off for town to order carpets and curtains, and did not come home till six o’clock, very tired with the fatigues of the day. She had also brought the measure of every grate, to ascertain what fenders would suit; the measure of the bed-rooms and attics, to remodel the carpets; for it was proposed that Brompton Hall should be disposed of, the new occupier taking at a valuation what furniture might be left. To this I appeared to consent; but was resolved in my own mind that, if taken, it should only be for the same term of years as my new lease. I will pass over a month of hurry, bustle, and confusion; at the end of which I found myself in our new habitation. It was completely furnished, with the exception of the drawing-room carpet, which had not been laid down, but was still in a roll tied up with packthread in the middle of the room. The cause of this I soon understood from my wife. It was always the custom, she said, to give a house-warming upon entering a new house, and she therefore proposed giving a little dance. To this, as it would please her and my daughters, I raised no objection.

I have always observed, that what is proposed as a little dance invariably ends in a great one; for from the time of proposing till the cards are about, it increases like a snowball; but that arises, perhaps, from the extreme difficulty of knowing when to draw the line between friends and acquaintances. I have also observed that when your wife and daughters intend such a thing, they always obtain permission for the ball first, and then tack on the supper afterwards; commencing with a mere stand-up affair,—sandwiches, cakes, and refreshments,—and ending with a regular sit-down affair, with Gunter presiding over all. The music from two fiddles and a piano also swells into Collinet’s band, verifying the old adage, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” But to all this I gave my consent; I could afford it well, and I liked to please my wife and daughters. The ball was given, and this house-warming ended in house-breaking; for just before the supper-quadrille, as it was termed, when about twenty-four young ladies and gentlemen were going the grand ronde, a loud noise below, with exclamations and shrieks, was heard, and soon afterwards the whole staircase was smothered with dust.

“What is the matter?” cried my wife, who had passed to the landing-place on the stairs before me.

“Ma’am,” said one of Mr Gunter’s men, shaking the lappets of his blue coat, which were covered with white dust, “the whole ceiling of the dining-room has come down!”

“Ceiling come down!” screamed my wife.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied our own servant; “and the supper and supper-tables are all smashed flat with the weight on it.”

Here was a catastrophe. My wife hastened down, and I followed. Sure enough the weight of mortar had crushed all beneath it—all was chaos and confusion. Jellies, blancmanges, pâtés, cold roasts, creams, trifles,—all in one mass of ruin, mixed up with lime, horse-hair, plaster of Paris, and stucco. It wore all the appearance of a Swiss avalanche in miniature.

“Good heavens, how dreadful!” exclaimed my wife.

“How much more so if there had been people in the room,” replied I.

“What could be the cause of it!” exclaimed my wife.

“These new houses, sir, won’t bear dancing in,” observed Mr Gunter’s head man.

“So it appears,” replied I.

This unfortunate accident was the occasion of the party breaking up: they knew that there was no chance of supper, which they had looked forward to; so they put on their shawls and departed, leaving us to clear up the wreck at our leisure. In fact, as my daughters declared, it quite spoiled the ball as well as the supper.

The next morning I sent for Mr Smithers, who made his appearance, and showed him what had taken place.

“Dear me, I’m very sorry; but you had too many people above stairs—that is very clear.”

“Very clear, indeed, Mr Smithers. We had a ball last night.”

“A ball, sir! Oh, then no wonder.”

“No wonder! What! do you mean to say that balls are not to be given?”

“Why, really, sir, we do not build private houses for ball-rooms—we could not, sir; the price of timber just now is enormous, and the additional strength required would never pay us.”

“What then! do you mean to say that there are no balls to be given in London?”

“Oh no, sir!—certainly not; but you must be aware that few people do. Even our aristocracy hire Willis’s rooms for their balls. Some of the old houses, indeed, such as Devonshire House, may do for such a thing.”

“But, Mr Smithers, I expect you will make this ceiling good.”

“Much obliged to you, sir, for giving me the preference—I will do it as reasonable as anybody,” replied Mr Smithers, bowing. “I will order my workmen directly—they are only next door.”

For a fortnight we were condemned to dine in the back dining-room; and after that Mr Smithers sent in a bill which cost me more than the ball and supper.

So soon as all was right again, I determined that I would hang up my pictures; for I had been accustomed to look at them for years, and I missed them. I sent for a carpenter, and gave him directions.

“I have the middle now, sir, exactly,” said the man, standing on the high steps; “but,” continued he, tapping with his hammer, “I can’t find wood.”

“Can’t find wood!”

“No, sir,” replied the man, tapping as far as he could reach from right to left; “nothing to nail to, sir. But there never is no wood in these new-built houses.”

“Confound your new houses!” exclaimed I.

“Well, it is very provoking, my dear!” exclaimed my wife.

“I suppose that their new houses are not built for pictures any more than for balls,” replied I; and I sighed. “What must be done?”

“I think, sir, if you were to order brass rods to be fixed from one corner to the other, we might find means to fasten them,” observed the carpenter; “but there’s no wood, that’s certain.”

“What the devil is the house built of then?” exclaimed I.

“All lath and plaster, sir,” replied the man, tapping right and left.

At a heavy expense I procured the rods, and at last the pictures were hung up.

The next annoyance that we had was a very bad smell, which we found to proceed from the drains; and the bricklayers were sent for. All the drains were choked, it appeared, from their being so very narrow; and after having up the whole basement, at the expense of 40 pounds, that nuisance was abated.

We now had two months’ repose, and I was in hopes that things would go on more comfortably; but one day I overheard a conversation between my wife and daughters, as I passed by the door of the room, which I must candidly acknowledge gave me satisfaction.

“It’s really very awkward, mamma—one don’t know where to put anything: there’s not a cupboard or stow-hole in the whole house—not even a store-room.”

“Well, it is so, my dear; I wonder we did not observe it when we looked over it. What a nice set of cupboards we had at Brompton Hall.”

“Oh! yes—I wish we had them here, mamma. Couldn’t we have some built?”

“I don’t like to speak to your papa about it, my dear; he has already been put to such expense, what with the ceiling and the drains.”

“Then don’t, mamma; papa is really very good-natured.”

The equinoxes now came on, and we had several gales of wind, with heavy rain—the slates blew off and rattled up and down all night, while the wind howled round the corner of the square. The next morning complaints from all the attic residents; one’s bed was wetted quite through with the water dropping through the ceiling—another had been obliged to put a basin on the floor to catch the leak—all declared that the roof was like a sieve. Sent again for Mr Smithers, and made a complaint.

“This time, Mr Smithers,” said I, with the lease in my hand, “I believe you will acknowledge these are landlord’s repairs.”

“Certainly, sir, certainly,” exclaimed Mr Smithers; “I shall desire one of my men to look to it immediately; but the fact is, with such heavy gales, the slates must be expected to move a little. Duchesses and countesses are very light, and the wind gets underneath them.”

“Duchesses and countesses very light!” exclaimed my wife; “what do you mean?”

“It’s the term we give to slates, madam,” replied he; “we cannot put on a heavy roof with a brick-and-a-half wall. It would not support one.”

“Brick-and-a-half wall!” exclaimed I;—“surely, Mr Smithers, that’s not quite safe with a house so high.”

“Not quite safe, my dear sir, if it were a single house; but,” added he, “in a row, one house supports another.”

“Thank Heaven,” thought I, “I have but a three-years’ lease, and six months are gone already.”

But the annoyances up to this period were internal; we now had to experience the external nuisances attending a modern-built house.

“Number 1 is taken, papa, and they are getting the furniture in,” said my eldest daughter one day; “I hope we shall have nice neighbours. And William told Mary that Mr Smithers told him, when he met him in the street, that he was now going to fit up Number 3 as fast as he could.”

The report was true, as we found from the report of the carpenters’ hammers for the next three or four weeks. We could not obtain a moment’s sleep except in the early part of the night, or a minute’s repose to our ears during the day. The sound appeared as if it was in our house instead of next door; and it commenced at six o’clock in the morning, and lasted till seven in the evening. I was hammered to death; and, unfortunately, there was a constant succession of rain, which prevented me going out to avoid it. I had nothing to do but to watch my pictures, as they jumped from the wall with the thumps of the hammers. At last Number 3 was floored, wainscotted, and glazed, and we had a week’s repose.

By this time Number 1 was furnished, and the parties who had taken it came in. They were a gouty old gentleman, and his wife, who, report said, had once been his cook. My daughters’ hopes of pleasant neighbours were disappointed. Before they had been in a week, we found ourselves at issue: the old gentleman’s bed was close to the partition-wall, and in the dead of the night we could distinctly hear his groans and also his execrations and exclamations, when the fit came on him. My wife and daughters declared that it was quite horrible, and that they could not sleep for them.

Upon the eighth day there came a note:— “Mrs Whortleback’s compliments to Mr and Mrs —, and begs that the young people will not play on the piany, as Mr Whortleback is very ill with the gout.”

Now, my daughters were proficients on the piano, and practised a great deal. This note was anything but satisfactory: to play when the old gentleman was ill would be barbarous,—not to play was to deprive ourselves of our greatest pleasure.

“Oh dear! how very disagreeable,” cried my daughters.

“Yes, my dear; but if we can hear his groans, it’s no wonder that he can hear the piano and harp: recollect the wall is only a brick and a half thick.”

“I wonder music don’t soothe him,” observed the eldest.

Music is a mockery to a man in agony. A man who has been broken on the wheel would not have his last hours soothed by the finest orchestra. After a week, during which we sent every day to inquire after Mr Whortleback’s health, we ventured to resume the piano and harp; upon which the old gentleman became testy, and sent for a man with a trumpet, placing him in the balcony, and desiring him to play as much out of tune as possible whenever the harp and piano sounded a note. Thus were we at open hostility with our only neighbour; and, as we were certain if my daughters touched their instruments, to have the trumpet blowing discord for an hour or two either that day or the next, at last the piano was unopened, and the harp remained in its case. Before the year closed, Number 3 became tenanted; and here we had a new annoyance. It was occupied by a large family; and there were four young ladies who were learning music. We now had our annoyance: it was strum, strum, all day long; one sister up, another down; and every one knows what a bore the first lessons in music are to those who are compelled to hear them. They could just manage to play a tune, and that eternal tune was ringing in our ears from morning to night. We could not send our compliments, or blow a trumpet. We were forced to submit to it. The nursery also being against the partition wall, we had the squalls and noise of the children on the one side, added to groans and execrations of the old gentleman on the other.

However, custom reconciled us to everything, and the first vexation gradually wore off. Yet I could not help observing that when I was supposed not to be in hearing, the chief conversation of my wife, when her friends called upon her, consisted of a description of all the nuisances and annoyances that we suffered; and I felt assured that she and my daughters were as anxious to return to Brompton Hall as I was. In fact, the advantages which they had anticipated by their town residence were not realised. In our situation, we were as far off from most of our friends, and still farther from some than we were before, and we had no longer the same amusements to offer them. At our former short distance from town, access was more easy to those who did not keep a carriage, that is, the young men; and those were the parties who, of course, my wife and daughters cared for most. It was very agreeable to come down with their portmanteaus,—enjoy the fresh air and green lanes of the country for an afternoon,—dine, sleep, and breakfast, and return the next morning by conveyances which passed us every quarter of an hour; but to dine with us in — Square, when the expense of a hackney-coach there and back was no trifle, and to return at eleven o’clock at night, was not at all agreeable. We found that we had not so much society, nor were we half so much courted, as at Brompton Hall. This was the bitterest blow of all, and my wife and daughters would look out of the windows and sigh; often a whole day passed without one friend or acquaintance dropping in to relieve its monotony.

We continued to reside there, nevertheless, for I had made up my mind that the three years would be well spent if they cured my wife and daughters of their town mania; and although anxious, as I am sure they were, to return, I never broached the matter, for I was determined that the cure should be radical. Numbers 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8, were finished the next year, and, by the persuasions of Mr Smithers, were taken by different parties in the spring. And now we had another nuisance. Nothing but eternal rings at the bell. The man-servant grumbled, and was behind with his work; and when scolded, replied that there was no time for any thing, that when cleaning his knives and plate the bell was rung, and he was obliged to wash himself, throw on his jacket, and go up to answer the front door; that the bell was not rung for us, but to find out where some new-comer lived, and to ascertain this they always rang at the house which appeared the longest inhabited. There was no end to the ringing for some months, and we had three servants who absolutely refused to stay in so bad a place. We had also to contend with letters and notes in the same way, brought to us at haphazard: “Does Mr So-and-so live here?”—“No, he does not.”—“Then pray where does he?” This was interminable, and not five minutes in the day passed without the door-bell being rung. For the sake of not changing my servants I was at last put to the expense of an extra boy for no other purpose but to answer the constant applications at the door. At last we had remained there for two years and nine months, and then my wife would occasionally put the question whether I intended to renew the lease; and I naturally replied that I did not like change.

Then she went upon another tack; observed that Clara did not appear well for some time, and that she thought that she required country air; but, in this, I did not choose to agree with her.

One day I came home, and, rubbing my hands as if pleased, said, “Well, at last I’ve an offer for Brompton Villa for a term of seven years,—a very fair offer and good tenants,—so that will now be off my hands.”

My wife looked mortified, and my daughters held down their heads.

“Have you let it, papa?” said one of my daughters, timidly.

“No, not yet; but I am to give an answer to-morrow morning.”

“It requires consideration, my dear,” replied my wife.

“Requires consideration!” said I. “Why, my dear, the parties have seen the house, and I have been trying to let it these three years. I recollect when I took this house I said it required consideration, but you would not allow any such thing.”

“I’m sure I wish we had,” said Clara.

“And so do I.”

“The fact is, my dear,” said my wife, coming round to the back of my chair, and putting her arms round my neck, “we all wish to go back to Brompton.”

“Yes, yes, papa,” added my daughters, embracing me on each side.

“You will allow, then, that I was right in not taking a lease for more than three years.”

“Yes: how lucky you were so positive!”

“Well, then, if that is the case, we will unfurnish this house, and, as soon as you please, go back to Brompton Hall.”

I hardly need observe that we took possession of our old abode with delight, and that I have had no more applications for a change of residence, or have again heard the phrase that we were living “out of the world.”

Chapter Forty Six.

The Way To Be Happy.

Cut your coat according to your cloth, is an old maxim and a wise one; and if people will only square their ideas according to their circumstances, how much happier might we all be! If we only would come down a peg or two in our notions, in accordance with our waning fortunes, happiness would be always within our reach. It is not what we have, or what we have not, which adds or subtracts from our felicity. It is the longing for more than we have, the envying of those who possess that more, and the wish to appear in the world of more consequence than we really are, which destroy our peace of mind, and eventually lead to ruin.

I never witnessed a man submitting to circumstances with good humour and good sense, so remarkably as in my friend Alexander Willemott. When I first met him, since our school days, it was at the close of the war: he had been a large contractor with Government for army clothing and accoutrements, and was said to have realised an immense fortune, although his accounts were not yet settled. Indeed it was said that they were so vast, that it would employ the time of six clerks, for two years, to examine them, previous to the balance sheet being struck. As I observed, he had been at school with me, and, on my return from the East Indies, I called upon him to renew our old acquaintance, and congratulate him upon his success.

“My dear Reynolds, I am delighted to see you. You must come down to Belem Castle; Mrs Willemott will receive you with pleasure, I’m sure. You shall see my two girls.”

I consented. The chaise stopped at a splendid mansion, and I was ushered in by a crowd of liveried servants. Every thing was on the most sumptuous and magnificent scale. Having paid my respects to the lady of the house, I retired to dress, as dinner was nearly ready, it being then half-past seven o’clock. It was eight before we sat down. To an observation that I made, expressing a hope that I had not occasioned the dinner being put off, Willemott replied, “On the contrary, my dear Reynolds, we never sit down until about this hour. How people can dine at four or five o’clock, I cannot conceive. I could not touch a mouthful.”

The dinner was excellent, and I paid the encomiums which were its due.

“Do not be afraid, my dear fellow—my cook is an artiste extraordinaire—a regular Cordon Bleu. You may eat any thing without fear of indigestion. How people can live upon the English cookery of the present day, I cannot conceive. I seldom dine out, for fear of being poisoned. Depend upon it, a good cook lengthens your days, and no price is too great to insure one.”

When the ladies retired, being alone, we entered into friendly conversation. I expressed my admiration of his daughters, who certainly were very handsome and elegant girls.

“Very true; they are more than passable,” replied he. “We have had many offers, but not such as come up to my expectations. Baronets are cheap now-a-days, and Irish lords are nothings; I hope to settle them comfortably. We shall see. Try this claret; you will find it excellent, not a headache in a hogshead of it. How people can drink port, I cannot imagine.”

The next morning he proposed that I should rattle round the park with him. I acceded, and we set off in a handsome open carriage, with four greys, ridden by postilions at a rapid pace. As we were whirling along, he observed, “In town we must of course drive but a pair, but in the country I never go out without four horses. There is a spring in four horses which is delightful; it makes your spirits elastic, and you feel that the poor animals are not at hard labour. Rather than not drive four, I would prefer to stay at home.”

Our ride was very pleasant, and in such amusements passed away one of the most pleasant weeks that I ever remembered. Willemott was not the least altered—he was as friendly, as sincere, as open-hearted, as when a boy at school. I left him, pleased with his prosperity, and acknowledging that he was well deserving of it, although his ideas had assumed such a scale of magnificence.

I went to India when my leave expired, and was absent about four years. On my return, I inquired after my friend Willemott, and was told that his circumstances and expectations had been greatly altered. From many causes, such as a change in the Government, a demand for economy, and the wording of his contracts having been differently rendered from what Willemott had supposed their meaning to be, large items had been struck out of his balance sheet, and, instead of being a millionaire, he was now a gentleman with a handsome property. Belem Castle had been sold, and he now lived at Richmond, as hospitable as ever, and was considered a great addition to the neighbourhood. I took the earliest opportunity of going down to see him.

“Oh, my dear Reynolds, this is really kind of you to come without invitation. Your room is ready, and bed well aired, for it was slept in three nights ago. Come—Mrs Willemott will be delighted to see you.”

I found the girls still unmarried, but they were yet young. The whole family appeared as contented and happy, and as friendly, as before. We sat down to dinner at six o’clock; the footman and coachman attended. The dinner was good, but not by the artiste extraordinaire. I praised everything.

“Yes,” replied he, “she is a very good cook; she unites the solidity of the English with the delicacy of the French fare; and, altogether, I think it a decided improvement. Jane is quite a treasure.” After dinner, he observed, “Of course you know I have sold Belem Castle, and reduced my establishment. Government have not treated me fairly, but I am at the mercy of Commissioners, and a body of men will do that which, as individuals, they would be ashamed of. The fact is, the odium is borne by no one in particular, and it is only the sense of shame which keeps us honest, I am afraid. However, here you see me, with a comfortable fortune, and always happy to see my friends, especially my old schoolfellow. Will you take port or claret; the port is very fine, and so is the claret. By the by, do you know—I’ll let you into a family secret; Louisa is to be married to a Colonel Willer—an excellent match! It has made us all happy.”

The next day we drove out, not in an open carriage as before, but in a chariot and with a pair of horses.

“These are handsome horses,” observed I.

“Yes,” replied he, “I am fond of good horses; and, as I only keep a pair, I have the best. There is a certain degree of pretension in four horses, I do not much like—it appears as if you wished to overtop your neighbours.”

I spent a few very pleasant days, and then quitted his hospitable roof. A severe cold, caught that winter, induced me to take the advice of the physicians, and proceed to the South of France, where I remained two years. On my return, I was informed that Willemott had speculated, and had been unlucky on the Stock Exchange; that he had left Richmond, and was now living at Clapham. The next day I met him near the Exchange.

“Reynolds, I am happy to see you. Thompson told me that you had come back. If not better engaged, come down to see me; I will drive you down at four o’clock, if that will suit.”

It suited me very well, and, at four o’clock, I met him according to appointment at a livery stables over the Iron Bridge. His vehicle was ordered out, it was a phaeton drawn by two long-tailed ponies—altogether a very neat concern. We set off at a rapid pace.

“They step out well, don’t they? We shall be down in plenty of time to put on a pair of shoes by five o’clock, which is our dinner-time. Late dinners don’t agree with me—they produce indigestion. Of course, you know that Louisa has a little boy.”

I did not; but congratulated him.

“Yes, and has now gone out to India with her husband. Mary is also engaged to be married—a very good match—a Mr Rivers, in the law. He has been called to the bar this year, and promises well. They will be a little pinched at first, but we must see what we can do for them.”

We stopped at a neat row of houses, I forget the name, and, as we drove up, the servant, the only man-servant, came out, and took the ponies round to the stable, while the maid received my luggage, and one or two paper-bags, containing a few extras for the occasion. I was met with the same warmth as usual by Mrs Willemott. The house was small, but very neat; the remnants of former grandeur appeared here and there, in one or two little articles, favourites of the lady. We sat down at five o’clock to a plain dinner, and were attended by the footman, who had rubbed down the ponies and pulled on his livery.

“A good plain cook is the best thing, after all,” observed Willemott. “Your fine cooks won’t condescend to roast and boil. Will you take some of this sirloin, the under-cut is excellent. My dear, give Mr Reynolds some Yorkshire pudding.”

When we were left alone after dinner, Willemott told me, very unconcernedly, of his losses.

“It was my own fault,” said he; “I wished to make up a little sum for the girls, and risking what they would have had, I left them almost pennyless. However, we can always command a bottle of port and a beef-steak, and what more in this world can you have? Will you take port or white?—I have no claret to offer you.”

We finished our port, but I could perceive no difference in Willemott. He was just as happy and as cheerful as ever. He drove me to town the next day. During our drive, he observed, “I like ponies, they are so little trouble; and I prefer them to driving one horse in this vehicle, as I can put my wife and daughters into it. It’s selfish to keep a carriage for yourself alone, and one horse in a four-wheeled double chaise appears like an imposition upon the poor animal.”

I went to Scotland, and remained about a year. On my return, I found that my friend Willemott had again shifted his quarters. He was at Brighton; and having nothing better to do, I put myself in the “Times,” and arrived at the Bedford Hotel. It was not until after some inquiry, that I could find out his address. At last I obtained it, in a respectable but not fashionable part of this overgrown town. Willemott received me just as before.

“I have no spare bed to offer you, but you must breakfast and dine with us every day. Our house is small, but it’s very comfortable, and Brighton is a very convenient place. You know Mary is married. A good place in the courts was for sale, and my wife and I agreed to purchase it for Rivers. It has reduced us a little, but they are very comfortable. I have retired from business altogether; in fact, as my daughters are both married, and we have enough to live upon, what can we wish for more? Brighton is very gay, and always healthy; and, as for carriage and horses, they are no use here—there are flies at every corner of the streets.”

I accepted his invitation to dinner. A parlour-maid waited, but everything, although very plain, was clean and comfortable.

“I have still a bottle of wine for a friend, Reynolds,” said Willemott, after dinner; “but, for my part, I prefer whisky-toddy—it agrees with me better. Here’s to the health of my two girls, God bless them, and success to them in life!”

“My dear Willemott,” said I, “I take the liberty of an old friend, but I am so astonished at your philosophy, that I cannot help it. When I call to mind Belem Castle, your large establishment, your luxuries, your French cook, and your stud of cattle, I wonder at your contented state of mind under such a change of circumstances.”

“I almost wonder myself, my dear fellow,” replied he. “I never could have believed, at that time, that I could live happily under such a change of circumstances; but the fact is, that, although I have been a contractor, I have a good conscience; then, my wife is an excellent woman, and provided she sees me and her daughters happy, thinks nothing about herself; and, further, I have made it a rule, as I have been going down hill, to find reasons why I should be thankful, and not discontented. Depend upon it, Reynolds, it is not a loss of fortune which will affect your happiness, as long as you have peace and love at home.”

I took my leave of Willemott and his wife, with respect as well as regard; convinced that there was no pretended indifference to worldly advantages; that it was not, that the grapes were sour, but that he had learned the whole art of happiness, by being contented with what he had, and by “cutting his coat according to his cloth.”

Chapter Forty Seven.

How to Write a Fashionable Novel.

(Scene—Chamber in Lincoln’s Inn. Arthur Ansard at a briefless table, tête-à-tête with his wig on a block. A casts a disconsolate look upon his companion, and soliloquises.)

Yes, there you stand, “partner of my toils, my feelings, and my fame.” We do not suit, for we never gained a suit together. Well, what with reporting for the bar, writing for the Annuals and the Pocket-books, I shall be able to meet all demands, except those of my tailor; and, as his bill is most characteristically long, I think I shall be able to make it stretch over till next term, by which time I hope to fulfil my engagements with Mr C, who has given me an order for a fashionable novel, written by a “nobleman.” But how I, who was never inside of an aristocratical mansion in my life, whose whole idea of Court is comprised in the Court of King’s Bench, am to complete my engagement, I know no more than my companion opposite, who looks so placidly stupid under my venerable wig. As far as the street door, the footman and carriage, and the porter, are concerned, I can manage well enough; but as to what occurs within doors I am quite abroad. I shall never get through the first chapter; yet that tailor’s bill must be paid. (Knocking outside.) Come in, I pray.

Enter Barnstaple.

B. Merry Christmas to you, Arthur.

A. Sit down, my dear fellow; but don’t mock me with merry Christmas. He emigrated long ago. Answer me seriously: do you think it possible for a man to describe what he never saw?

B (putting his stick up to his chin.) Why, ’tis possible; but I would not answer for the description being quite correct.

A. But suppose the parties who read it have never seen the thing described?

B. Why then it won’t signify whether the description be correct or not.

A. You have taken a load off my mind; but still I am not quite at ease. I have engaged to furnish C with a fashionable novel.

B. What do you mean to imply by a fashionable novel?

A. I really can hardly tell. His stipulations were, that it was to be a “fashionable novel in three volumes, each volume not less than three hundred pages.”

B. That is to say, that you are to assist him in imposing on the public.

A. Something very like it, I’m afraid; as it is further agreed that it is to be puffed as coming from a highly talented nobleman.

B. You should not do it, Ansard.

A. So conscience tells me, but my tailor’s bill says Yes; and that is a thing out of all conscience. Only look here.