Some poet has observed, that if any man would write down what has really
happened to him in this mortal life, he would be sure to make a good
book, though he never had met with a single adventure from his birth to
his burial; how much more, then, must I, who _have_ had adventures, most
singular, pathetic, and unparalleled, be able to compile an instructive
and entertaining volume for the use of the public!
I don't mean to say that I have killed lions, or seen the wonders of
travel in the deserts of Arabia or Prussia: or that I have been a very
fashionable character, living with dukes and peeresses, and writing my
recollections of them as the way now is. I never left this my native
isle, nor spoke to a lord (except an Irish one, who had rooms in our
house, and forgot to pay three weeks' lodging and extras); but, as our
immortal bard observes, I have in the course of my existence been so
eaten up by the slugs and harrows of outrageous fortune, and have been
the object of such continual and extraordinary ill-luck, that I believe
it would melt the heart of a mile-stone to read of it—that is, if a
mile-stone had a heart of anything but stone.
Twelve of my adventures, suitable for meditation and perusal during the
twelve months of the year, have been arranged by me for this Almanack.
They contain a part of the history of a great, and, confidently I may
say, a _good_ man. I was not a spendthrift like other men. I never
wronged any man of a shilling, though I am as sharp a fellow at a
bargain as any in Europe. I never injured a fellow-creature; on the
contrary, on several occasions, when injured myself, have shown the most
wonderful forbearance. I come of a tolerably good family; and yet, born
to wealth—of an inoffensive disposition, careful of the money that I
had, and eager to get more, I have been going down hill ever since my
journey of life began, and have been pursued by a complication of
misfortunes such as surely never happened to any man but the unhappy Bob
Stubbs.
Bob Stubbs is my name; and I haven't got a shilling: I have borne the
commission of lieutenant in the service of King George, and am _now_—but
never mind what I am now, for the public will know in a few pages more.
My father was of the Suffolk Stubbses—a well-to-do gentleman of Bungay.
My grandfather had been a respected attorney in that town, and left my
papa a pretty little fortune. I was thus the inheritor of competence,
and ought to be at this moment a gentleman.
My misfortunes may be said to have commenced about a year before my
birth, when my papa, a young fellow pretending to study the law in
London, fell madly in love with Miss Smith, the daughter of a tradesman,
who did not give her a sixpence, and afterwards became bankrupt. My papa
married this Miss Smith and carried her off to the country, where I was
born, in an evil hour for me.
Were I to attempt to describe my early years, you would laugh at me as
an impostor; but the following letter from mamma to a friend after her
marriage, will pretty well show you what a poor foolish creature she
was; and what a reckless extravagant fellow was my other unfortunate
parent.
* * * * *
_To Miss Eliza Hicks, in Gracechurch Street, London._
O Eliza! your Susan is the happiest girl under heaven! My Thomas is an
angel! not a tall grenadier-like looking fellow, such as I always vowed
I would marry:—on the contrary, he is what the world would call dumpy,
and I hesitate not to confess that his eyes have a cast in them. But
what then? when one of his eyes is fixed on me, and one on my babe, they
are lighted up with an affection which my pen cannot describe, and
which, certainly, was never bestowed upon any woman so strongly as upon
your happy Susan Stubbs.
When he comes home from shooting, or the farm, if you _could_ see dear
Thomas with me and our dear little Bob! as I sit on one knee, and baby
on the other, and as he dances us both about. I often wish that we had
Sir Joshua, or some great painter, to depict the group; for sure it is
the prettiest picture in the whole world, to see three such loving merry
people.
Dear baby is the most lovely little creature that _can possibly be_,—the
very _image_ of papa; he is cutting his teeth, and the delight of
_everybody_. Nurse says, that when he is older, he will get rid of his
squint, and his hair will get a _great deal_ less red. Doctor Bates is
as kind, and skilful, and attentive as we could desire. Think what a
blessing to have had him! Ever since poor baby's birth, it has never had
a day of quiet; and he has been obliged to give it from three to four
doses every week;—how thankful ought we to be that the _dear thing_ is
as well as it is! It got through the measles wonderfully; then it had a
little rash; and then a nasty hooping cough; and then a fever, and
continual pains in its poor little stomach, crying, poor dear child,
from morning till night.
But dear Tom is an excellent nurse; and many and many a night has he had
no sleep, dear man! in consequence of the poor little baby. He walks up
and down with it _for hours_, singing a kind of song (dear fellow, he
has no more voice than a tea-kettle), and bobbing his head backwards and
forwards, and looking, in his night-cap and dressing-gown, _so droll_.
Oh, Eliza! how you would laugh to see him.
We have one of the best nursemaids _in the world_,—an Irishwoman, who is
as fond of baby almost as his mother (but that can _never be_). She
takes it to walk in the Park for hours together, and I really don't know
why Thomas dislikes her. He says she is tipsy very often, and slovenly,
which I cannot conceive;—to be sure, the nurse is sadly dirty, and
sometimes smells very strong of gin.
But what of that? These little drawbacks only make home more pleasant.
When one thinks how many mothers have no nursemaids; how many poor dear
children have no doctors: ought we not to be thankful for Mary Malowney,
and that Dr. Bates's bill is forty-seven pounds? How ill must dear baby
have been, to require so much physic!
But they are a sad expense, these dear babies, after all. Fancy, Eliza,
how much this Mary Malowney costs us. Ten shillings every week; a glass
of brandy or gin at dinner, three pint bottles of Mr. Thrale's best
porter every day,—making twenty-one in a week; and nine hundred and
ninety in the eleven months she has been with us. Then, for baby, there
is Dr. Bates's bill of forty-five guineas, two guineas for christening,
twenty for a grand christening supper and ball (rich Uncle John mortally
offended because he was made godfather, and had to give baby a silver
cup: he has struck Thomas out of his will; and old Mr. Firkin quite as
much hurt because he was _not_ asked: he will not speak to me or John in
consequence); twenty guineas for flannels, laces, little gowns, caps,
napkins, and such baby's ware: and all this out of £300 a year! But
Thomas expects to make _a great deal_ by his farm.
We have got the most charming country-house _you can imagine_; it is
_quite shut in_ by trees, and so retired that, though only thirty miles
from London, the post comes to us but once a week. The roads, it must be
confessed, are execrable: it is winter now, and we are up to our knees
in mud and snow. But oh, Eliza! how happy we are: with Thomas (he has
had a sad attack of rheumatism, dear man!) and little Bobby, and our
kind friend Dr. Bates, who comes so far to see us, I leave you to fancy
that we have a charming merry party, and do not care for all the
gaieties of Ranelagh.
Adieu! dear baby is crying for his mamma: a thousand kisses from your
affectionate