cellent
woman, and provided she sees me and her daughters happy, thinks nothing
about herself; and, further, I have made it a rule, as I have been going
down hill, to find reasons why I should be thankful, and not
discontented. Depend upon it, Reynolds, it is not a loss of fortune
which will affect your happiness, as long as you have peace and love at
home."

I took my leave of Willemott and his wife, with respect as well as
regard; convinced that there was no pretended indifference to worldly
advantages; that it was not, that the grapes were sour, but that he had
learned the whole art of happiness, by being contented with what he had,
and by "cutting his coat according to his cloth."

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

HOW TO WRITE A FASHIONABLE NOVEL.

[_Scene--Chamber in Lincoln's Inn_. ARTHUR ANSARD _at a briefless
table, tete-a-tete with his wig on a block_. A _casts a disconsolate
look upon his companion, and soliloquises_.]

Yes, there you stand, "partner of my toils, my feelings, and my fame."
We do not _suit_, for we never gained a _suit_ together. Well, what
with reporting for the bar, writing for the Annuals and the
Pocket-books, I shall be able to meet all demands, except those of my
tailor; and, as his bill is most characteristically long, I think I
shall be able to make it stretch over till next term, by which time I
hope to fulfil my engagements with Mr C, who has given me an order for
a fashionable novel, written by a "nobleman." But how I, who was never
inside of an aristocratical mansion in my life, whose whole idea of
Court is comprised in the Court of King's Bench, am to complete my
engagement, I know no more than my companion opposite, who looks so
placidly stupid under my venerable wig. As far as the street door, the
footman and carriage, and the porter, are concerned, I can manage well
enough; but as to what occurs within doors I am quite abroad. I shall
never get through the first chapter; yet that tailor's bill must be
paid. (_Knocking outside_.) Come in, I pray.

_Enter_ BARNSTAPLE.

_B_. Merry Christmas to you, Arthur.

_A_. Sit down, my dear fellow; but don't mock me with merry Christmas.
He emigrated long ago. Answer me seriously: do you think it possible
for a man to describe what he never saw?

_B (putting his stick up to his chin_.) Why, 'tis possible; but I would
not answer for the description being quite correct.

_A_. But suppose the parties who read it have never see