by myself, over the fire, is precious to me
beyond all power of expression. There is my
Domestic Friend, who comes to me at such
times, and who has no subject of conversation
but the maladies of his wife and children.
That afflicted lady and her family have never
been well, since my Domestic Friend and I
first became acquainted, some years since.
No efforts that I can make to change the
subject, can get me out of the range of the
family sick-room. If I start the weather, I lead
to a harrowing narrative of its effect on Mrs.
Ricketts, or the Master and Miss Rickettses.
If I try politics or literature, my friend apologises
for knowing nothing about any recent
events in which ministers or writers are
concerned, by telling me how his time has been
taken up by illness at home. If I attempt to
protect myself by asking him to meet a large
party, where the conversation must surely be
on general topics, he brings his wife with him
(though he told me, when I invited her, that
she was unable to stir from her bed), and
publicly asks her how she feels, at certain intervals;
wafting that affectionate question across the
table, as easily as if he was handing the
salt-cellar, or passing the bottle. I have given up
defending myself against him of late, in
sheer despair. I am resigned to my fate.
Though a single man, I blush to confess that
I know (through the vast array of facts in
connection with the subject, with which my
friend has favoured me) as much about the
maladies of young mothers and their children,
as the doctor himself. The symptoms and
treatment of Croup are familiar to my mind.
So of other painful disorders. Show me a
baby in a certain state; let me look at that
infant, and listen to that infant, and then
ask me how much Dill-water I ought to
throw in directly, and see if I don't give the
right answer. Does any other unmedical
single man, besides myself, know when half a
pint of raw brandy may be poured down the
throat of a delicate and sensitive woman,
without producing the slightest effect on her,
except of the restorative kind? I know
when it may be done—when it must be done
—when, I give you my sacred word of
honour, the exhibition of alcohol in large
quantities, may be the saving of one precious
life— ay, sir, and perhaps of two! Possibly
it may yet prove a useful addition to my
stores of information, to know what I do on
such interesting subjects as these. Possibly,
I ought to feel grateful to the excellent
husband and father who strengthens me to meet
the nurse and the doctor on their own ground,
if I am so fortunate as to be married. It
may be so— but, good Christian people, it is
not the less true, that I could also dispense
with my Domestic Friend.

My Country Friends—I must not forget
them and least of all, my hospitable hostess,
Lady Jinkinson, who is in certain respects
the type and symbol of my whole circle of
rural acquaintance. Lady Jinkinson is the
widow of a gallant general officer. She has
a charming place in the country. She has
also sons who are splendid fellows, and
daughters who are charming girls. She has
a cultivated taste for literature— so have the
charming girls— so have not the splendid
fellows. She thinks a little attention to literary
men is very becoming in persons of distinction;
and she is good enough to ask me to
come and stay at her country-house, where a
room shall be specially reserved for me, and
where I can write my "fine things " in
perfect quiet, away from London noises and
London interruptions. I go to the countryhouse
with my work in my portmanteau—
work which must be done by a certain time.
I find a charming little room made ready for
me, opening into my bedroom, and looking
out on the lovely garden-terrace, and the
noble trees in the park beyond. I come
down to breakfast in the morning; and after
the second cup of tea, I get up to return to
my writing-room. A chorus of family
remonstrance rises instantly. Oh, surely I am
not going to begin writing on the very first
day. Look at the sun, listen to the birds,
feel the sweet air. A drive in the country,
after the London smoke, is absolutely necessary
— a drive to Shockley Bottom, and round
by Multum in Parvo, where there is that
famous church, and a pic-nic luncheon (so
nice! ), and back by Grimshawe's Folly (such
a view from the top! ), and a call, on the
way home, at Saint Rumold's Abbey, that
lovely old house, where the dear old Squire
has had my last book read aloud to him (only
think of that! the very last thing in the
world that I could possibly have expected! )
by darling Emily and Matilda, who are both
dying to know me. Possessed by a (printer's)
devil, I gruffly resist this string of temptations
to be idle, and try to make my escape.

"Lunch at half-past one," says Lady
Jinkinson, as I retire.

"Pray, don't wait for me," I answer.

"Lunch at half-past one," says Lady
Jinkinson, as if she thought I had not heard
her.

"And cigars in the billiard-room," adds
one of the splendid fellows.

"And in the greenhouse, too," continues
one of the charming girls, " where your horrid
smoking is really of some use."

I shut the door desperately. The last
words I hear are from Lady Jinkinson.
"Lunch at half-past one."

I get into my writing-room. Table of rare
inlaid woods, on which a drop of ink would
be downright ruin. Silver inkstand of
enormous size, holding about a thimbleful of ink.
Clarified pens in scented papier-mâché box.
Blotting-book lined with crimson watered
silk, full of violet and rose-coloured note-paper
with the Jinkinson crest stamped in silver
at the top of each leaf. Pen-wiper, of glossy
new cloth, all ablaze with beads; tortoiseshell
paper-knife; also paper-weight, exhibiting