Domestic fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Family -- England -- Fiction
Clifton has grown considerably since those days, and terraces have
swallowed up the site of what the post-office knew as Prospect Cottage,
but we were apt to term the doll’s house, for, as Emily said, our visit
there had something the same effect as a picnic or tea drinking at little
Anne’s famous baby house. In like manner, it was tiny, square, with one
sash-window on each side of the door, but it was nearly covered with
creepers, odds and ends which Clarence brought from home, and induced to
flourish and take root better than their parent stocks. In his nursery
days his precision had given him the name of ‘the old bachelor,’ and he
had all a sailor’s tidiness. Even his black cat and brown spaniel each
had its peculiar basket and mat, and had been taught never to transgress
their bounds or interfere with one another; and the effect of his
parlour, embellished as it was in our honour, was delightful. The
outlook was across the beautiful ravine, into the wooded slopes on the
further side, and, on the other side, down the widening cleft to that
giddy marvel, the suspension bridge, with vessels passing under it, and
the expanse beyond.
Most entirely we enjoyed ourselves, making merry over Clarence’s
housekeeping, employing ourselves after our wonted semi-student,
semi-artist fashion in the morning; and, when our host came home from
business, starting on country expeditions, taking a carriage whenever the
distance exceeded Emily’s powers of walking beside my chair; sketching,
botanising, or investigating church architecture, our newest hobby. I
sketched, and the other two rambled about, measuring and filling up
archæological papers, with details of orientation, style, and all the
rest, deploring barbarisms and dilapidations, making curious and
delightful discoveries, pitying those who thought the Dun Cow’s rib and
Chatterton’s loft the most interesting features of St. Mary’s Redcliff,
and above all rubbing brasses with heel ball, and hanging up their grim
effigies wherever there was a vacant space on the walls of our doll’s
house.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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