PETER HOPKINS. EFFECTS OF TIME AND CHANGE. DESCRIPTION OF HIS
DWELLING-HOUSE.
_Combien de changemens depuis que suis au monde,
Qui n'est qu' un point du tems!_
PASQUIER.
Peter Hopkins was a person who might have suffered death by the laws
of Solon, if that code had been established in this country; for
though he lived in the reigns of George I. and George II. he was
neither Whig nor Tory, Hanoverian nor Jacobite. When he drank the
King's health with any of his neighbours, he never troubled himself
with considering which King was intended, nor to which side of the
water their good wishes were directed. Under George or Charles he
would have been the same quiet subject, never busying himself with a
thought about political matters, and having no other wish concerning
them than that they might remain as they were,—so far he was a
Hanoverian, and no farther. There was something of the same temper in
his religion; he was a sincere Christian, and had he been born to
attendance at the Mass or the Meeting House would have been equally
sincere in his attachment to either of those extremes. For his whole
mind was in his profession. He was learned in its history; fond of its
theories; and skilful in its practice, in which he trusted little to
theory and much to experience.
Both he and his wife were at this time well stricken in years; they
had no children, and no near kindred on either side; and being both
kind-hearted people, the liking which they soon entertained toward
Daniel for his docility, his simplicity of heart, his obliging temper,
his original cast of mind, and his never failing good-humour, ripened
into a settled affection.
Hopkins lived next door to the Mansion House, which edifice was begun
a few years after Daniel went to live with him. There is a view of the
Mansion House in Dr. Miller's History of Doncaster, and in that print
the dwelling in question is included. It had undergone no other
alteration at the time this view was taken than that of having had its
casements replaced by sash windows, an improvement which had been made
by our Doctor, when the frame work of the casements had become
incapable of repair. The gilt pestle and mortar also had been removed
from its place above the door. Internally the change had been greater;
for the same business not being continued there after the Doctor's
decease, the shop had been converted into a sitting room, and the very
odour of medicine had passed away. But I will not allow myself to
dwell upon this melancholy subject. The world is full of mutations;
and there is hardly any that does not bring with it some regret at the
time,—and alas, more in the retrospect! I have lived to see the
American Colonies separated from Great Britain, the Kingdom of Poland
extinguished, the republic of Venice destroyed, its territory seized
by one Usurper, delivered over in exchange to another, and the
transfer sanctioned and confirmed by all the Powers of Europe in
Congress assembled! I have seen Heaven knows how many little
Principalities and States, proud of their independance, and happy in
the privileges connected with it, swallowed up by the Austrian or the
Prussian Eagle, or thrown to the Belgic Lion, as his share in the
division of the spoils. I have seen constitutions spring up like
mushrooms and kicked down as easily. I have seen the rise and fall of
Napoleon.
I have seen Cedars fall
And in their room a mushroom grow;
I have seen Comets, threatening all,
Vanish themselves;[1]
wherefore then should I lament over what time and mutability have done
to a private dwelling-house in Doncaster?
[Footnote 1: HABINGTON.]
It was an old house, which when it was built had been one of the best
in Doncaster; and even after the great improvements which have changed
the appearance of the town, had an air of antiquated respectability
about it. Had it been near the church it would have been taken for the
Vicarage; standing where it did, its physiognomy was such that you
might have guessed it was the Doctor's house, even if the pestle and
mortar had not been there as his insignia. There were eight windows
and two doors in front. It consisted of two stories, and was oddly
built, the middle part having, something in the Scotch manner, the
form of a gable end towards the street. Behind this was a single
chimney, tall, and shaped like a pillar. In windy nights the Doctor
was so often consulted by Mrs. Dove concerning the stability of that
chimney, that he accounted it the plague of his life. But it was one
of those evils which could not be removed without bringing on a worse,
the alternative being whether there should be a tall chimney, or a
smoky house. And after the mansion house was erected, there was one
wind which in spite of the chimney's elevation drove the smoke
down,—so inconvenient is it sometimes to be fixed near a great
neighbour.
This unfortunate chimney, being in the middle of the house, served for
four apartments; the Doctor's study and his bedchamber on the upper
floor, the kitchen and the best parlour on the lower, that parlour,
yes Reader, that very parlour wherein, as thou canst not have
forgotten, Mrs. Dove was making tea for the Doctor on that ever
memorable afternoon with which our history begins.