WHO can look upon the comfortable enjoyment of good and happy people, in their latter days, and not delight to see them? Such a picture as this, drawn originally by Henry Bunbury, Esq. and meant to convey a picture of domestic felicity in his day, would probably produce excessive ridicule if seen in these fast days. If, now, such a sight were seen in Rotten-row, however pleasing to the philanthropist, it would be called an affectation of absurdity. Yet Doctor Gambado, to the last year of his life, rode in such felicity that he was the only man in his profession that exactly practised the advice he gave. A contrast to everything in the present day,--we say to everything like modern enjoyment. One hundred years ago, there were no puffing steam engines, drawing thousands, with the rapidity of lightning, to Brighton, Ramsgate, Margate, and Folkestone. Men all tell us, that domestic felicity is the same. We do not doubt it; but we find very few, very few, indeed, so blest with content, and so happy in their mutual society, as our respected friend, when, with his wife and daughter by his side, he rode a jog trot at the seaside, or the hillside, or along the fashionable road of life. [Illustration] The Doctor had toiled through good report and evil report, and, like a prudent wise man, provided the best he could for his own. He kept up his house in Bread-street, though he declined practice altogether, that is, for _pecuniary profit_. I question whether the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals would not have considered this an overloaded beast; but there was no such society in existence then. The weary camel, toiling over the waste, might be overloaded; but he would let his driver know how much he would carry. John Tattsall furnished his good friend, the Doctor, with elephantine horses, stout, stiff, strong, bony and sinewy; he was, without the aid of Doctor Cassock, the inventor of a wicker pannier of such ample dimensions, as to afford the most easy and convenient chair for each of the ladies, without exposing feet or ancles, or incommoding boots or dress. Now, indeed, ladies who travel in first-class carriages by rail, find the seats too narrow and almost destructive to their crinoline.