“Because,” answered Scott, “you have not gone into my case.”
On this Abernethy called him back, investigated his complaint carefully, and gave him a fresh prescription, saying, “Excuse me, but I cannot tell you with what nonsense I have to bear from the fools who come here for my advice!”
I heard this from Sir David, one of my earliest friends, whom I shall have occasion to speak of at large.
It was now that my uncle, Captain Wallinger, died, and the four sisters were all widows. Close upon this the great event in their family happened; the death of the uncle, William Clarke, who left considerable wealth which was divided among his nephews and nieces, of which my mother was one.
William Clarke reached the age of 95; he was well known in the city, but he had no calling except that of belonging to the Mercers’ Company in whose grounds in Cheapside he rests.
My mother, with my brother and sister, came to town and we settled in a house in Chapel Street, Grosvenor Place, at which time Belgrave Square was in the course of being built. Grosvenor Place was at that period a picturesque row of brick-built houses, which have since been replaced by others of a more stately kind. No. 1 was Tattersall’s, approached by an archway at the side of the front door, the house being occupied by Mr. Lane, who had been house-surgeon at St. George’s, next door. The hospital itself was of old brick, but occupied its present large area with one entrance in Grosvenor Place and another at Hyde Park Corner.
The Iron Duke’s house opposite, which was the said corner, was of as dingy a brick as the hospital. His good taste encased it in stone on his own account, and employed the architect, Mr. Burton, to erect the fine entrance to the park adjoining on account of the Government.
XXIV.
I was in London more or less until I reached my 21st year (1830); by that time the hospital and its teachers had gone stale, when the idea occurred to me to visit the Scotch Universities. I took my way to Edinburgh by steamer, and very pleasant the voyage was. There were pretty young ladies on board, who soon became as friendly as if they had been relations. But not to be forgotten was a gentleman who had wit and vivacity; I remember his name quite well. He told me that he was crossing to get out of the way of his creditors for a little time, and to visit his kinsfolk. He looked to me about 45 years old, when he told me, as a sort of joke, that he was a classical tutor in London and had been spending too much money, adding, with self-apologetic glee, “You see what it is to be a young fellow!” I did not know at the moment that he had been spending five pounds of mine, nevertheless such proved to be the case before we parted, for that was the trifle he—“by-the-bye”—wanted of me for a few days, his days very much resembling the six notable ones during which the world was created. He took me to Ambrose’s Hotel, a very comfortable one, the scene of Wilson’s drunken Noctes Ambrosianæ, and we had a double-bedded room. I was in bed first and it was left to him to extinguish the light, which he did by blowing it out. It was a candle of tallow, and, to my disgust, the stench of it soon filled the room. I protested vehemently against his proceeding, when his reply was, “You don’t know now what you may get to like in time!”