Nooks and Corners / being the companion volume to 'From Kitchen to Garret'

by J. E. Panton

I declare that twenty years of residence in and about the country have never reconciled me to all this, or caused me to take the profound interest in my turn in my neighbours, in the way that aborigines do to reconcile and repay themselves for their own sojourn under the microscope, and which a country born and bred individual takes as naturally as he does his absence from the theatres, and his utter lack of interest on any other topic than the ever-absorbing one of ‘who is going to marry whom,’ or who is not, and what the curate’s last baby was called, and why that special name was selected; and, therefore, I never lose an opportunity of warning the ducks to remain in the pond, and the hens in the farmyard where they were hatched, for I am quite sure my experience is not a solitary one by any means, and has often been the fate of those who went into the country because no one warned them that the delights thereof were mere snares and delusions, and who would give anything to return, only they cannot afford another move.

And I have no doubt that the country mice are as miserable in the town in their turn: they miss the intimate conversations, the familiarity of their friendships; they pine for fresh air, and weep over ‘smuts;’ the noise and bustle we love so dearly bewilders and distresses them; they object to putting on gloves and a bonnet whenever they go out, resent being unable to ‘run in’ at any moment to their acquaintances, dread the streets, see disease lurking at every corner, in every glass of milk, in each vestment fresh from the laundress, and, pining away, become pale, ill, and wretched, and put it down to London, when really the misery lies entirely in themselves.

Have I said enough to show my readers that when they are contemplating a move they should do their utmost to remain in the same neighbourhood, or at all events in one with the main workings of which they are in a measure familiar? I think so; and if at the same time I tell them to remember the church where their children were christened, the doctor who helped them over so many hours of pain and trouble, and finally the friends they made—and old friends should never be given up on any account whatever—I believe they will see that a change even for the better has always its trials, and that a great many things should be considered before up-rooting takes place, and a family is landed in an entirely new locality, that, be it as nice as it may be, has its own interests, in which the new-comer has neither part nor parcel, and its unwritten laws and small rules of etiquette, which are as rigid as they are incomprehensible to an outsider.

I think in every neighbourhood there should be also some agent to send out lists of all the pros and cons, the ins and outs of a neighbourhood, which should show you at once the number and styles of the different churches, the state of society (it could be ‘young,’ ‘army,’ ‘lawyers,’ or anything almost), the schools, the advantages and disadvantages, and, in fact, all the particulars one wants to know. They should truthfully and in confidence give one all the required information, and then one would not run the risk of making mistakes. But as this seems impossible, a residence for a short time in a furnished house (one’s own house could in turn be let to some one who wants to investigate our neighbourhood) should be indulged in. A very few weeks would inform us of all we want to know; for even if we did not become acquainted with one soul personally, we should have looked at the people and taken stock of their windows, from which I think one can always learn so much, and can quietly make our own inquiries about schools, churches, and the rest of the vital points of interest about a new residence, and come as quietly to the conclusion as to whether the neighbourhood will suit us or not, before going to the expense of moving and decorating to suit ourselves and our belongings—an expense which once incurred often binds us hard and fast to a place from which we would give our ears to remove.

Then comes the question of the house. This should be large enough to take all the family and allow for any possible additions; but at the same time Angelina will have to remember that when the boys are at school there will always be a room for a friend, and therefore the question of spare rooms is not such a vital one as it was. She will also have to legislate for the girls’ own room—probably a room for a governess, though a resident governess should be avoided unless the house is a good size, and unless she is an absolute necessity. There is the schoolroom to think of, and she must contemplate—perhaps ruefully—the nurseries, with an eye to adapting them to another purpose, when that saddest of all days comes when we cannot deceive ourselves into believing a nursery is any longer necessary, and we have to turn our backs on our youth and the dear small child-inhabitants at the same time. A house without a nursery is never as joyous or lively as one that possesses such a room, and it’s no use trying to believe this to be the case. Still it is equally of no use to set apart the best room in the house for that most pleasant of all chambers, if there is no chance of nursery children, and if all are merged into the young gentlemen and ladies, who are fast growing up and eagerly longing to launch their boats on the sea of life for a cruise of their own.

When the house is positively and actually selected and the move imminent, when the lease is signed and the decorations are in train, the first step to take is to get several estimates from firms who are accustomed to do nothing else save move furniture. In nothing does price fluctuate so much as it does in these estimates, and when we moved from Dorsetshire to Shortlands there was actually and positively a difference of 100l. in the highest and lowest of the many estimates we had, the person selected being just 100l. lower in his price than the man who made us our first offer.

To move luxuriously we should have taken house number two for a quarter before we are obliged to leave our own. Of course if we could persuade the landlord to let us have it for six weeks it would be better; but not many landlords are as accommodating as this, and unfortunately many of us cannot afford a double rent even for such a short space of time. Still an effort should be made, as undoubtedly much is wasted in a hurried move—in an enforced turning out on quarter day into another house on the same date.

It is only people in very straitened circumstances who accept in these artistic days of ours the landlord’s scheme of decoration. Formerly there were no ideas in the head of an ordinary paterfamilias on the subject of paint and paper, and as long as all was clean and in good condition he did not agitate himself in the least about his surroundings as far as mere colour and ‘decoration’ were concerned, and he cheerfully spread his Turkey carpet and placed his heavy sideboard and mahogany table and chairs in position, regardless of the fact that the ‘good’ flock paper and vulgar graining made up a tout ensemble as utterly depressing as it was tasteless and absolutely without character.

But now, I am glad to think, what is already in one’s possession governs in some measure what alterations are to be made, and as fate never yet was so propitious as to put one down straight from one house into another which was exactly decorated to our taste, we may be quite sure that there are many things to do to any place to which we may contemplate moving; therefore I say if possible let the two leases, i.e. of your present and your future house, run side by side for six weeks at least: so shall you move comfortably, and be able to make those alterations that are perfectly sure to be necessary.

A new house should never by any chance be entered in the September quarter; it is astonishing what an amount of coal and reckless expenditure of gas is required to obtain even moderate warmth in a new house; and furthermore most appalling discoveries are apt to be made, as soon as the fires are lighted, of the manner in which floors, doors, and window-frames are capable of shrinking the moment warmth penetrates the place; these we can circumvent in summer, but the winter is not a time to run any risks of discovering that the more we try to warm the house the wider open gape the cracks in all the woodwork, and that nothing we can do will really warm a place, more and more exposed as days go by to the four winds of heaven. Therefore, if the future house has never been lived in, enter it in June, or even in March; there will then be ample time to find out all faults in the structure before the winter arrives with all its concomitant miseries.