BY
GEORGE GROSSMITH
AND
WEEDON GROSSMITH
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
WEEDON GROSSMITH
A NEW EDITION
BRISTOL
J. W. Arrowsmith, Printer, QuayStreet
LONDON
Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent &Company Limited
Why should I not publish my diary? I haveoften seen reminiscences of people I have never even heardof, and I fail to see—because I do not happento be a ‘Somebody’—why my diaryshould not be interesting. My only regret is that Idid not commence it when I was a youth.
CharlesPooter.
The Laurels,
Brickfield Terrace,
Holloway.
We settle down in our new home, and I resolveto keep a diary. Tradesmen trouble us a bit, so does thescraper. The Curate calls and pays me a greatcompliment.
My dear wife Carrie and I have just been a week in our newhouse, “The Laurels,” Brickfield Terrace,Holloway—a nice six-roomed residence, not countingbasement, with a front breakfast-parlour. We have a littlefront garden; and there is a flight of ten steps up to the frontdoor, which, by-the-by, we keep locked with the chain up.Cummings, Gowing, and our other intimate friends always come tothe little side entrance, which saves the servant the trouble ofgoing up to the front door, thereby taking her from herwork. We have a nice little back garden which runs down tothe railway. We were rather afraid of the noise of thetrains at first, but the landlord said we should not notice themafter a bit, and took £2 off the rent. He wascertainly right; and beyond the cracking of the garden wall atthe bottom, we have suffered no inconvenience.
After my work in the City, I like to be at home.What’s the good of a home, if you are never in it?“Home, Sweet Home,” that’s my motto. I amalways in of an evening. Our old friend Gowing may drop inwithout ceremony; so may Cummings, who lives opposite. Mydear wife Caroline and I are pleased to see them, if they like todrop in on us. But Carrie and I can manage to pass ourevenings together without friends. There is alwayssomething to be done: a tin-tack here, a Venetian blind to putstraight, a fan to nail up, or part of a carpet to naildown—all of which I can do with my pipe in my mouth; whileCarrie is not above putting a button on a shirt, mending apillow-case, or practising the “Sylvia Gavotte” onour new cottage piano (on the three years’ system),manufactured by W. Bilkson (in small letters), from Collard andCollard (in very large letters). It is also a great comfortto us to know that our boy Willie is getting on so well in theBank at Oldham. We should like to see more of him.Now for my diary:—
April 3.—Tradesmen called forcustom, and I promised Farmerson, the ironmonger, to give him aturn if I wanted any nails or tools. By-the-by, thatreminds me there is no key to our bedroom door, and the bellsmust be seen to. The parlour bell is broken, and the frontdoor rings up in the servant’s bedroom, which isridiculous. Dear friend Gowing dropped in, butwouldn’t stay, saying there was an infernal smell ofpaint.
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