observe, "that it was a great pity, but it
made good for the trade." I am not sure
that the chance of such a casualty happening,
say once a-year, does not enter into his
calculations for obtaining a livelihood.
* See page 169.

The doctor, who, as a man of some education
and refinement, ought to be free from
such mercenary feelings, is, I am confident,
even worse than the others. When I go out
for my morning-walk, looking a trifle paler
than usual, this speculator upon human
infirmities is glaring at me through the coloured
bottles, weighing my symptoms, and gloating
over the prospect of a patient. Although I
do not hear him, I feel that he says to
himself, in that horrid back-parlour, amongst the
instruments, the grinning teeth, and the
sickening smell of camphor: "When will those
rude, healthy children at Number Twelve
have the measles, like other children?"

Yes, I am known as Number Twelve,
—Number Twelve, the Grove. I do not
require a name; but, like a Siberian convict,
I am distinguished by a numeral. I have no
domestic privacy, in one sense, for a dozen
eager eyes are always turned upon me and my
household. The bootmaker knows how many
pairs of boots I have; he sees them ranged in
a row in my dressing-room, as plainly as if
he was amongst them, and he waits and
watches for the decay which, he knows, must
come to boots as to everything else. If I
order more than I want, I am "liberal—a
patron of trade—a real gentleman—a man
who likes to live and let live." If I exercise
a careful economy, and wear them thoroughly
and fairly, I am "an old hunks, mean, close,
and shabby genteel." If I do not choose
to have fish for dinner, the fishmonger is
aware of the fact, without knowing the
cause, and he and his wife settle, that we are
not so well off as we appear to be. If our
consumption of meat falls off from any cause,
I know the butcher thinks that we are
pinching our domestics. The plumber and
house-decorator wonders, "how much longer
we are going to leave our front in its present
disgraceful condition. If our regard for
health does not impel us to re-paint and
paper the interior of our castle, we might
at least consult the harmonious elegance of
the neighbourhood, and adorn the exterior."
The tailor looks with ill-concealed disgust
upon a certain great-coat, that I believe I
have now worn for three seasons. His
artistic eye may see in it an antiquated style,
a threadbare face, and a generally diminished
lustre; but, to my untrained gaze, it looks
very little the worse for the long, but not
severe struggle it has gone through. My
grocer, I know, complains we do not have
puddings enough in the course of the year,
and that our consumption of tea bears no
adequate proportion to our consumption of
sugar; while our cheesemonger thinks we
are remarkably niggardly in the way of eggs,
and absurdly liberal in the matter of lard.

So is every detail of our domestic expenditure
registered, examined, compared, and
criticised. Our house, to the passer-by, looks
solid, opaque, detached, snug, and private,
but to this little band of hungry traders it
is as a glass pavilion, easy of access under
the thin transparent covering of which the
movements of the small family-circle within
are distinctly visible.

Nor is this knowledge (so interesting to
them, but so embarrassing to me), confined
within their own bosoms. South Poodleton,
that compact neighbourhood, advertises one
of its eligible businesses for sale nearly every
week, and the immense value of the "goodwill"
is more than sufficiently dwelt upon.
I am trotted out before the vulgar, inquiring
eyes of all that motley tribe of small capitalists
who are ever looking for a profitable
investment. I watch the little groups as they
arrive one after the other; and, I fancy, that
I know them all. There is the couple of
middle-aged, spinster sisters, who having
received a small legacy, are searching for a
genteel business, combining the lending
library and the fancy trade—a mixture of
literature and Berlin wool. They make several
visits before they get to that decisive stage
when the man of affairs is called in to confer
upon the valuation. There is the stout, well-
fed, gentleman's servant, who, wishes to
exchange the elegancies of May Fair for the
sanded tap-room; and, with the assistance of
the brewer, make an effort to manage the
thriving public-house of South Poodleton.
There is the young couple, just married, or
going to be married, who make inquiry about
the returns and prospects of the bread and
fancy biscuit establishment. There is the
mother who brings her son, a fat,
bloodthirsty boy, to inquire about the butcher's
business which he has taken a strong fancy
to. There is the omnibus conductor who
wishes to take the greengrocer's shop for his
wife to manage, while he attends to it in the
intervals of his journeys to the metropolis,
I know that the two spinster sisters inquire
about me, and are told to what extent I
patronise literature and the domestic fine arts.
I know that the gentleman's servant is duly
informed of the consumption of my family
in intoxicating liquors; and what I consider
shameful dissipation on their part, he looks
upon as showing a disregard for the interests
of my neighbours, and a disinclination to "do
another a turn." I feel that the young couple
are deluded with grossly exaggerated
accounts of the quantity of bread and flour
consumed by "Number Twelve—the Grove,"
and I almost feel disposed to stop the negotiations
by a disclosure. I see the mother and
the bloodthirsty son in the butcher's shop,
looking towards me with unmistakeable
interest as I pass by, while they are pursuing
their investigations. I see them again, the
next day, looking over the book in which my
name, or rather my number stands