Chapter XI.
CHARMS OF FURNISHED APARTMENTS.
“De gustibus non est disputandum,” was originally observed by a man of sense, however many blockheads may since have repeated it; and as my tastes in the matter of comestibles did not harmonize with those of the several respectable boarding-house keepers beneath whose roofs we successively took shelter, it was settled in a committee of the whole family that Mrs. Lawyer and myself should take furnished apartments in a genteel street, or a furnished house—that Mrs. L. should be appointed Commissary-General, with one Bridget or Biddy O’Callaghan as Deputy-Acting-Assistant Commissary-General under her, while I should continue to hold the responsible post of Paymaster-General to the entire force.
In due time, after a considerable reduction in our stock of the virtue of patience and of the thickness of the soles of our boots, a suitable suite of rooms, furnished in a style agreeable to our taste, in a locality not objectionable and at a rate proportionate to the depth or rather shallowness of my pocket, was discovered and all necessary arrangements made with the landlord.
To avoid all possibility of future disputations with the owner, (and especially as a contract to let lodgings is a contract concerning an interest in land within the meaning of that celebrated troublesome statute passed in the twenty-ninth year of his rascally majesty, Charles II, and entitled “an act for the prevention of frauds and perjuries,” and so must be in writing,[414]) determined to follow the good advice of Mr. Woodfall, and have our agreement reduced to black and white. My instructions to my clerk in preparing the document were, to specify the amount of rent, the time of entry, the length of notice to quit required and such other particulars as the nature of the case rendered requisite, and to have a list of the goods and chattels in the apartments affixed.
Alas, I found the truth of the old adage, that a lawyer who acts for himself has a —— well, not a Solomon—for his client. An unexpected event, however, saved me. The very evening before we were to enter into our new abode a bailiff, on behalf of the real owner, for my acquaintance had but a lease of the place, visited the house and seized a part of the furniture for rent overdue; luckily none of my personal belongings had been taken in—if there had been any of them they, too, would have been liable to distress for the rent. I had stupidly neglected to inquire whether the taxes or the rent of the house were paid up, and whether they were likely to be kept so.[415] Of course I knew that if I had at that particular period of my existence chanced to have been living in New England, or in New York State, or in some of the other States of the Union, I could not have been troubled if in that house, as the power of distress exists in those places no longer;[416] but we were in a State in which it is still retained, or at least was then.
When I told my wife of the narrow escape we had had she asked me if I had ever made inquiries as to whether the landlords of the hotels at which we stayed were in arrear for rent.
“No,” I replied; “the rule is different in respect to hotels.”
“Why?”
“For the benefit of trade; otherwise business could not be carried on at all.”
“But what would we have had there except my cat and bird, our clothes, and your books?” urged Mrs. L.