MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES BY DOUGLAS JERROLD

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

It has happened to the writer that two, or three, or ten, or twentygentlewomen have asked him--and asked in various notes of wonder, pity, and reproof -

"What could have made you think of Mrs. Caudle?

"How could such a thing have entered any man's mind?"

There are subjects that seem like rain drops to fall upon a man'shead, the head itself having nothing to do with the matter. Theresult of no train of thought, there is the picture, the statue, thebook, wafted, like the smallest seed, into the brain to feed upon thesoil, such as it may be, and grow there. And this was, no doubt, theaccidental cause of the literary sowing and expansion--unfolding likea night-flower--of MRS. CAUDLE. 

But let a jury of gentlewomen decide. 

It was a thick, black wintry afternoon, when the writer stopt in thefront of the playground of a suburban school. The ground swarmedwith boys full of the Saturday's holiday. The earth seemed roofedwith the oldest lead, and the wind came, sharp as Shylock's knife, from the Minories. But those happy boys ran and jumped, and hopped, and shouted, and--unconscious men in miniature!--in their own worldof frolic, had no thought of the full-length men they would some daybecome; drawn out into grave citizenship; formal, respectable, responsible. To them the sky was of any or all colours; and for thatkeen east wind--if it was called the east wind--cutting the shoulder-blades of old, old men of forty {1}--they in their immortality ofboyhood had the redder faces, and the nimbler blood for it. 

And the writer, looking dreamily into that playground, still mused onthe robust jollity of those little fellows, to whom the tax-gathererwas as yet a rarer animal than baby hippopotamus. Heroic boyhood, soignorant of the future in the knowing enjoyment of the present! Andthe writer still dreaming and musing, and still following no distinctline of thought, there struck upon him, like notes of suddenhousehold music, these words--CURTAIN LECTURES. 

One moment there was no living object save those racing, shoutingboys; and the next, as though a white dove had alighted on the penhand of the writer, there was--MRS. CAUDLE. 

Ladies of the jury, are there not then some subjects of letters thatmysteriously assert an effect without any discoverable cause?Otherwise, wherefore should the thought of CURTAIN LECTURES grow froma school ground--wherefore, among a crowd of holiday school-boys, should appear MRS. CAUDLE?

For the LECTURES themselves, it is feared they must be given up as afarcical desecration of a solemn time-honoured privilege; it may be, exercised once in a life time, --and that once having the effect of ahundred repetitions, as Job lectured his wife. And Job's wife, acertain Mohammedan writer delivers, having committed a fault in herlove to her husband, he swore that on his recovery he would deal hera hundred stripes. Job got well, and his heart was touched andtaught by the tenderness to keep his vow, and still to chastise hishelp-mate; for he smote her once with a palm-branch having a hundredleaves. 

DOUGLAS JERROLD. 

INTRODUCTION

Poor Job Caudle was one of the few men whom Nature, in her casualbounty to women, sends into the world as patient listeners. He was, perhaps, in more respects than one, all ears. And these ears, Mrs. Caudle--his lawful, wedded wife as she would ever and anon impressupon him, for she was not a woman to wear chains without shakingthem--took whole and sole possession of. They were her entireproperty; as expressly made to convey to Caudle's brain the stream ofwisdom that continually flowed from the lips of his wife, as was thetin funnel through which Mrs. Caudle in vintage time bottled herelder wine. There was, however, this difference between the wisdomand the wine. The wine was always sugared: the wisdom, never. Itwas expressed crude from the heart of Mrs. Caudle; who, doubtless, trusted to the sweetness of her husband's disposition to make itagree with him. 

Philosophers have debated whether morning or night is most conduciveto the strongest and clearest moral impressions. The Grecian sageconfessed that his labours smelt of the lamp. In like manner didMrs. Caudle's wisdom smell of the rushlight. She knew that herhusband was too much distracted by his business as toyman and doll-merchant to digest her lessons in the broad day. Besides, she couldnever make sure of him: he was always liable to be summoned to theshop. Now from eleven at night until seven in the morning there wasno retreat for him. He was compelled to lie and listen. Perhapsthere was little magnanimity in this on the part of Mrs. Caudle; butin marriage, as in war, it is permitted to take every advantage ofthe enemy. Besides, Mrs. Caudle copied very ancient and classicauthority. Minerva's bird, the very wisest thing in feathers, issilent all the day. So was Mrs. Caudle. Like the owl, she hootedonly at night. 

Mr. Caudle was blessed with an indomitable constitution. One factwill prove the truth of this. He lived thirty years with Mrs. Caudle, surviving her. Yes, it took thirty years for Mrs. Caudle tolecture and dilate upon the joys, griefs, duties, and vicissitudescomprised within that seemingly small circle--the wedding-ring. Wesay, seemingly small; for the thing, as viewed by the vulgar, nakedeye, is a tiny hoop made for the third feminine finger. Alack! likethe ring of Saturn, for good or evil, it circles a whole world. Or, to take a less gigantic figure, it compasses a vast region: it maybe Arabia Felix, and it may be Arabia Petrea. 

A lemon-hearted cynic might liken the wedding-ring to an ancientcircus, in which wild animals clawed one another for the sport oflookers-on. Perish the hyperbole! We would rather compare it to anelfin ring, in which dancing fairies made the sweetest music forinfirm humanity. 

Manifold are the uses of rings. Even swine are tamed by them. Youwill see a vagrant, hilarious, devastating porker--a full-bloodedfellow that would bleed into many, many fathoms of black pudding--youwill see him, escaped from his proper home, straying in a neighbour'sgarden. How he tramples upon the heart's-ease: how, with quiveringsnout, he roots up lilies--odoriferous bulbs! Here he gives areckless snatch at thyme and marjoram--and here he munches violetsand gilly-flowers. At length the marauder is detected, seized by hisowner, and driven, beaten home. To make the porker less dangerous, it is determined that he shall be RINGED. The sentence ispronounced--execution ordered. Listen to his screams!

"Would you not think the knife was in his throat?And yet they're only boring through his nose!"

Hence, for all future time, the porker behaves himself with a sort offorced propriety--for in either nostril he carries a ring. It is, for the greatness of humanity, a saddening thought, that sometimesmen must be treated no better than pigs. 

But Mr. Job Caudle was not of these men. Marriage to him was notmade a necessity. No; for him call it if you will a happy chance--agolden accident. It is, however, enough for us to know that he wasmarried; and was therefore made the recipient of a wife's wisdom. Mrs. Caudle, like Mahomet's dove, continually pecked at the goodman's ears; and it is a happiness to learn from what he left behindthat he had hived all her sayings in his brain; and further, that heemployed the mellow evening of his life to put such sayings down, that, in due season, they might be enshrined in imperishable type. 

When Mr. Job Caudle was left in this briary world without his dailyguide and nocturnal monitress, he was in the ripe fulness of fifty-seven. For three hours at least after he went to bed--such slavesare we to habit--he could not close an eye. His wife still talked athis side. True it was, she was dead and decently interred. Hismind--it was a comfort to know it--could not wander on this point;this he knew. Nevertheless, his wife was with him. The Ghost of herTongue still talked as in the life; and again and again did JobCaudle hear the monitions of bygone years. At times, so loud, solively, so real were the sounds, that Job, with a cold chill, doubtedif he were really widowed. And then, with the movement of an arm, afoot, he would assure himself that he was alone in his holland. Nevertheless, the talk continued. It was terrible to be thus hauntedby a voice: to have advice, commands, remonstrance, all sorts ofsaws and adages still poured upon him, and no visible wife. Now didthe voice speak from the curtains; now from the tester; and now didit whisper to Job from the very pillow that he pressed. "It's adreadful thing that her tongue should walk in this manner, " said Job, and then he thought confusedly of exorcism, or at least of counselfrom the parish priest. 

Whether Job followed his own brain, or the wise direction of another, we know not. But he resolved every night to commit to paper onecurtain lecture of his late wife. The employment would, possibly, lay the ghost that haunted him. It was her dear tongue that criedfor justice, and when thus satisfied, it might possibly rest inquiet. And so it happened. Job faithfully chronicled all his latewife's lectures; the ghost of her tongue was thenceforth silent, andJob slept all his after nights in peace. 

When Job died, a small packet of papers was found inscribed asfollows:-

"Curtain Lectures delivered in the course of Thirty Years by Mrs. Margaret Caudle, and suffered by Job, her Husband. "

That Mr. Caudle had his eye upon the future printer, is made prettyprobable by the fact that in most places he had affixed the text--such text for the most part arising out of his own daily conduct--tothe lecture of the night. He had also, with an instinctive knowledgeof the dignity of literature, left a bank-note of very fair amountwith the manuscript. Following our duty as editor, we trust we havedone justice to both documents. 

LECTURE I--MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT FIVE POUNDS TO A FRIEND

"You ought to be very rich, Mr. Caudle. I wonder who'd lend you fivepounds? But so it is: a wife may work and may slave! Ha, dear! themany things that might have been done with five pounds. As if peoplepicked up money in the street! But you always were a fool, Mr. Caudle! I've wanted a black satin gown these three years, and thatfive pounds would have entirely bought it. But it's no matter how Igo, --not at all. Everybody says I don't dress as becomes your wife--and I don't; but what's that to you, Mr. Caudle? Nothing. Oh, no!you can have fine feelings for everybody but those belonging to you. I wish people knew you, as I do--that's all. You like to be calledliberal--and your poor family pays for it. 

"All the girls want bonnets, and where they're to come from I can'ttell. Half five pounds would have bought 'em--but now they must gowithout. Of course, THEY belong to you: and anybody but your ownflesh and body, Mr. Caudle!

"The man called for the water-rate to-day; but I should like to knowhow people are to pay taxes, who throw away five pounds to everyfellow that asks them?

"Perhaps you don't know that Jack, this morning, knocked hisshuttlecock through his bedroom window. I was going to send for theglazier to mend it; but after you lent that five pounds I was sure wecouldn't afford it. Oh, no! the window must go as it is; and prettyweather for a dear child to sleep with a broken window. He's got acold already on his lungs, and I shouldn't at all wonder if thatbroken window settled him. If the dear boy dies, his death will beupon his father's head; for I'm sure we can't now pay to mendwindows. We might though, and do a good many more things too, ifpeople didn't throw away their five pounds. 

"Next Tuesday the fire-insurance is due. I should like to know howit's to be paid? Why, it can't be paid at all! That five poundswould have more than done it--and now, insurance is out of thequestion. And there never were so many fires as there are now. Ishall never close my eyes all night, --but what's that to you, sopeople can call you liberal, Mr. Caudle? Your wife and children mayall be burnt alive in their beds--as all of us to a certainty shallbe, for the insurance MUST drop. And after we've insured for so manyyears! But how, I should like to know, are people to insure who makeducks and drakes of their five pounds?

"I did think we might go to Margate this summer. There's poor littleCaroline, I'm sure she wants the sea. But no, dear creature! shemust stop at home--all of us must stop at home--she'll go into aconsumption, there's no doubt of that; yes--sweet little angel!--I'vemade up my mind to lose her, NOW. The child might have been saved;but people can't save their children and throw away their five poundstoo. 

"I wonder where poor little Mopsy is! While you were lending thatfive pounds, the dog ran out of the shop. You know, I never let itgo into the street, for fear it should be bit by some mad dog, andcome home and bite all the children. It wouldn't now at all astonishme if the animal was to come back with the hydrophobia, and give itto all the family. However, what's your family to you, so you canplay the liberal creature with five pounds?

"Do you hear that shutter, how it's banging to and fro? Yes, --I knowwhat it wants as well as you; it wants a new fastening. I was goingto send for the blacksmith to-day, but now it's out of the question:NOW it must bang of nights, since you've thrown away five pounds. 

"Ha! there's the soot falling down the chimney. If I hate the smellof anything, it's the smell of soot. And you know it; but what aremy feelings to you? SWEEP THE CHIMNEY! Yes, it's all very fine tosay sweep the chimney--but how are chimneys to be swept--how are theyto be paid for by people who don't take care of their five pounds?

"Do you hear the mice running about the room? I hear them. If theywere to drag only you out of bed, it would be no matter. SET A TRAPFOR THEM! Yes, it's easy enough to say--set a trap for 'em. But howare people to afford mouse-traps, when every day they lose fivepounds?

"Hark! I'm sure there's a noise downstairs. It wouldn't at allsurprise me if there were thieves in the house. Well, it MAY be thecat; but thieves are pretty sure to come in some night. There's awretched fastening to the back-door; but these are not times toafford bolts and bars, when people won't take care of their fivepounds. 

"Mary Anne ought to have gone to the dentist's to-morrow. She wantsthree teeth taken out. Now, it can't be done. Three teeth thatquite disfigure the child's mouth. But there they must stop, andspoil the sweetest face that was ever made. Otherwise, she'd havebeen a wife for a lord. Now, when she grows up, who'll have her?Nobody. We shall die, and leave her alone and unprotected in theworld. But what do you care for that? Nothing; so you can squanderaway five pounds. "

"And thus, " comments Caudle, "according to my wife, she--dear soul!--couldn't have a satin gown--the girls couldn't have new bonnets--thewater-rate must stand over--Jack must get his death through a brokenwindow--our fire-insurance couldn't be paid, so that we should allfall victims to the devouring element--we couldn't go to Margate, andCaroline would go to an early grave--the dog would come home and biteus all mad--the shutter would go banging for ever--the soot wouldalways fall--the mice never let us have a wink of sleep--thieves bealways breaking in the house--our dear Mary Anne be for ever left anunprotected maid, --and with other evils falling upon us, all, allbecause I would go on lending five pounds!"

LECTURE II--MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN AT A TAVERN WITH A FRIEND, AND IS"ENOUGH TO POISON A WOMAN" WITH TOBACCO-SMOKE

"Poor me! Ha! I'm sure I don't know who'd be a poor woman! I don'tknow who'd tie themselves up to a man, if they knew only half they'dhave to bear. A wife must stay at home, and be a drudge, whilst aman can go anywhere. It's enough for a wife to sit like Cinderellaby the ashes, whilst her husband can go drinking and singing at atavern. YOU NEVER SING? How do I know you never sing? It's verywell for you to say so; but if I could hear you, I daresay you'reamong the worst of 'em. 

"And now, I suppose, it will be the tavern every night? If you thinkI'm going to sit up for you, Mr. Caudle, you're very much mistaken. No: and I'm not going to get out of my warm bed to let you in, either. No: nor Susan shan't sit up for you. No: nor you shan'thave a latchkey. I'm not going to sleep with the door upon thelatch, to be murdered before the morning. 

"Faugh! Pah! Whewgh! That filthy tobacco-smoke! It's enough tokill any decent woman. You know I hate tobacco, and yet you will doit. YOU DON'T SMOKE YOURSELF? What of that? If you go among peoplewho DO smoke, you're just as bad, or worse. You might as well smoke--indeed, better. Better smoke yourself than come home with otherpeople's smoke all in your hair and whiskers. 

"I never knew any good come to a man who went to a tavern. Nicecompanions he picks up there! Yes! people who make it a boast totreat their wives like slaves, and ruin their families. There's thatwretch Harry Prettyman. See what he's come to! He doesn't get homenow till two in the morning; and then in what a state! He beginsquarrelling with the door-mat, that his poor wife may be afraid tospeak to him. A mean wretch! But don't you think I'll be like Mrs. Prettyman. No: I wouldn't put up with it from the best man thatever trod. You'll not make me afraid to speak to you, however youmay swear at the door-mat. No, Mr. Caudle, that you won't. 

"YOU DON'T INTEND TO STAY OUT TILL TWO IN THE MORNING?

"How do you know what you'll do when you get among such people? Mencan't answer for themselves when they get boozing one with another. They never think of their poor wives, who are grieving and wearingthemselves out at home. A nice headache you'll have to-morrowmorning--or rather THIS morning; for it must be past twelve. YOUWON'T HAVE A HEADACHE? It's very well for you to say so, but I knowyou will; and then you may nurse yourself for me. Ha! that filthytobacco again! No; I shall not go to sleep like a good soul. How'speople to go to sleep when they're suffocated?

"Yes, Mr. Caudle, you'll be nice and ill in the morning! But don'tyou think I'm going to let you have your breakfast in bed, like Mrs. Prettyman. I'll not be such a fool. No; nor I won't have discreditbrought upon the house by sending for soda-water early, for all theneighbourhood to say, 'Caudle was drunk last night. ' No: I've someregard for the dear children, if you haven't. No: nor you shan'thave broth for dinner. Not a neck of mutton crosses my threshold, Ican tell you. 

"YOU WON'T WANT SODA, AND YOU WON'T WANT BROTH? All the better. Youwouldn't get 'em if you did, I can assure you. --Dear, dear, dear!That filthy tobacco! I'm sure it's enough to make me as bad as youare. Talking about getting divorced, --I'm sure tobacco ought to begood grounds. How little does a woman think, when she marries, thatshe gives herself up to be poisoned! You men contrive to have it allof your own side, you do. Now if I was to go and leave you and thechildren, a pretty noise there'd be! You, however, can go and smokeno end of pipes and--YOU DIDN'T SMOKE? It's all the same, Mr. Caudle, if you go among smoking people. Folks are known by theircompany. You'd better smoke yourself, than bring home the pipes ofall the world. 

"Yes, I see how it will be. Now you've once gone to a tavern, you'llalways be going. You'll be coming home tipsy every night; andtumbling down and breaking your leg, and putting out your shoulder;and bringing all sorts of disgrace and expense upon us. And thenyou'll be getting into a street fight--oh! I know your temper toowell to doubt it, Mr. Caudle--and be knocking down some of thepolice. And then I know what will follow. It MUST follow. Yes, you'll be sent for a month or six weeks to the treadmill. Prettything that, for a respectable tradesman, Mr. Caudle, to be put uponthe treadmill with all sorts of thieves and vagabonds, and--there, again, that horrible tobacco!--and riffraff of every kind. I shouldlike to know how your children are to hold up their heads, aftertheir father has been upon the treadmill?--No; I WON'T go to sleep. And I'm not talking of what's impossible. I know it will all happen--every bit of it. If it wasn't for the dear children, you might beruined and I wouldn't so much as speak about it, but--oh, dear, dear!at least you might go where they smoke GOOD tobacco--but I can'tforget that I'm their mother. At least, they shall have ONE parent. 

"Taverns! Never did a man go to a tavern who didn't die a beggar. And how your pot-companions will laugh at you when they see your namein the Gazette! For it MUST happen. Your business is sure to falloff; for what respectable people will buy toys for their children ofa drunkard? You're not a drunkard! No: but you will be--it's allthe same. 

"You've begun by staying out till midnight. By-and-by 'twill be allnight. But don't you think, Mr. Caudle, you shall ever have a key. I know you. Yes; you'd do exactly like that Prettyman, and what didhe do, only last Wednesday? Why, he let himself in about four in themorning, and brought home with him his pot-companion, Puffy. Hisdear wife woke at six, and saw Prettyman's dirty boots at herbedside. And where was the wretch, her husband? Why, he wasdrinking downstairs--swilling. Yes; worse than a midnight robber, he'd taken the keys out of his dear wife's pockets--ha! what thatpoor creature has to bear!--and had got at the brandy. A prettything for a wife to wake at six in the morning, and instead of herhusband to see his dirty boots!

"But I'll not be made your victim, Mr. Caudle, not I. You shallnever get at my keys, for they shall lie under my pillow--under myown head, Mr. Caudle. 

"You'll be ruined, but if I can help it, you shall ruin nobody butyourself. 

"Oh, that hor--hor--hor--i--ble tob--ac--co!"

To this lecture, Caudle affixes no comment. A certain proof, wethink, that the man had nothing to say for himself. 

LECTURE III--MR. CAUDLE JOINS A CLUB--"THE SKYLARKS. "

"Well, if a woman hadn't better be in her grave than be married!That is, if she can't be married to a decent man. No; I don't careif you are tired, I SHAN'T let you go to sleep. No, and I won't saywhat I have to say in the morning; I'll say it now. It's all verywell for you to come home at what time you like--it's now half-pasttwelve--and expect I'm to hold my tongue, and let you go to sleep. What next, I wonder? A woman had better be sold for a slave at once. 

"And so you've gone and joined a club? The Skylarks, indeed! Apretty skylark you'll make of yourself! But I won't stay and beruined by you. No: I'm determined on that. I'll go and take thedear children, and you may get who you like to keep your house. Thatis, as long as you have a house to keep--and that won't be long, Iknow. 

"How any decent man can go and spend his nights in a tavern!--oh, yes, Mr. Caudle; I daresay you DO go for rational conversation. Ishould like to know how many of you would care for what you callrational conversation, if you had it without your filthy brandy-and-water; yes, and your more filthy tobacco-smoke. I'm sure the lasttime you came home, I had the headache for a week. But I know who itis who's taking you to destruction. It's that brute, Prettyman. Hehas broken his own poor wife's heart, and now he wants to--but don'tyou think it, Mr. Caudle; I'll not have my peace of mind destroyed bythe best man that ever trod. Oh, yes! I know you don't care so longas you can appear well to all the world, --but the world little thinkshow you behave to me. It shall know it, though--that I'm determined. 

"How any man can leave his own happy fireside to go and sit, andsmoke, and drink, and talk with people who wouldn't one of 'em lift afinger to save him from hanging--how any man can leave his wife--anda good wife, too, though I say it--for a parcel of pot-companions--oh, it's disgraceful, Mr. Caudle; it's unfeeling. No man who had theleast love for his wife could do it. 

"And I suppose this is to be the case every Saturday? But I knowwhat I'll do. I know--it's no use, Mr. Caudle, your calling me agood creature: I'm not such a fool as to be coaxed in that way. No;if you want to go to sleep, you should come home in Christian time, not at half-past twelve. There was a time, when you were as regularat your fireside as the kettle. That was when you were a decent man, and didn't go amongst Heaven knows who, drinking and smoking, andmaking what you think your jokes. I never heard any good come to aman who cared about jokes. No respectable tradesman does. But Iknow what I'll do: I'll scare away your Skylarks. The house servesliquor after twelve of a Saturday; and if I don't write to themagistrates, and have the licence taken away, I'm not lying in thisbed this night. Yes, you may call me a foolish woman; but no, Mr. Caudle, no; it's you who are the foolish man; or worse than a foolishman; you're a wicked one. If you were to die to-morrow--and peoplewho go to public-houses do all they can to shorten their lives--Ishould like to know who would write upon your tombstone, 'A tenderhusband and an affectionate father'? _I_--I'd have no suchfalsehoods told of you, I can assure you. 

"Going and spending your money, and--nonsense! don't tell me--no, ifyou were ten times to swear it, I wouldn't believe that you onlyspent eighteenpence on a Saturday. You can't be all those hours andonly spend eighteenpence. I know better. I'm not quite a fool, Mr. Caudle. A great deal you could have for eighteenpence! And all theClub married men and fathers of families. The more shame for 'em!Skylarks, indeed! They should call themselves Vultures; for they canonly do as they do by eating up their innocent wives and children. Eighteenpence a week! And if it was only that, --do you know whatfifty-two eighteenpences come to in a year? Do you ever think ofthat, and see the gowns I wear? I'm sure I can't, out of the house-money, buy myself a pin-cushion; though I've wanted one these sixmonths. No--not so much as a ball of cotton. But what do you careso you can get your brandy-and-water? There's the girls, too--thethings they want! They're never dressed like other people'schildren. But it's all the same to their father. Oh, yes! So hecan go with his Skylarks they may wear sackcloth for pinafores, andpackthread for garters. 

"You'd better not let that Mr. Prettyman come here, that's all; or, rather, you'd better bring him once. Yes, I should like to see him. He wouldn't forget it. A man who, I may say, lives and moves only ina spittoon. A man who has a pipe in his mouth as constant as hisfront teeth. A sort of tavern king, with a lot of fools like you tolaugh at what he thinks his jokes, and give him consequence. No, Mr. Caudle, no; it's no use your telling me to go to sleep, for I won't. Go to sleep, indeed! I'm sure it's almost time to get up. I hardlyknow what's the use of coming to bed at all now. 

"The Skylarks, indeed! I suppose you'll be buying a 'LittleWarbler, ' and at your time of life, be trying to sing. The peacockswill sing next. A pretty name you'll get in the neighbourhood; and, in a very little time, a nice face you'll have. Your nose is gettingredder already: and you've just one of the noses that liquor alwaysflies to. YOU DON'T SEE IT'S RED? No--I daresay not--but _I_ seeit; _I_ see a great many things you don't. And so you'll go on. Ina little time, with your brandy-and-water--don't tell me that youonly take two small glasses: I know what men's two small glassesare; in a little time you'll have a face all over as if it was madeof red currant jam. And I should like to know who's to endure youthen? I won't, and so don't think it. Don't come to me. 

"Nice habits men learn at clubs! There's Joskins: he was a decentcreature once, and now I'm told he has more than once boxed hiswife's ears. He's a Skylark too. And I suppose, some day, you'll betrying to box MY ears? Don't attempt it, Mr. Caudle; I say don'tattempt it. Yes--it's all very well for you to say you don't meanit, --but I only say again, don't attempt it. You'd rue it till theday of your death, Mr. Caudle. 

"Going and sitting for four hours at a tavern! What men, unless theyhad their wives with them, can find to talk about, I can't think. Nogood, of course. 

"Eighteenpence a week--and drinking brandy-and-water, enough to swima boat! And smoking like the funnel of a steamship! And I can'tafford myself so much as a piece of tape! It's brutal, Mr. Caudle. It's ve-ve-ve--ry bru--tal. "

"And here, " says Caudle--"Here, thank Heaven! at last she fellasleep. "

LECTURE IV--MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN CALLED FROM HIS BED TO BAIL MR. PRETTYMAN FROM THE WATCH-HOUSE

"Fie, Mr. Caudle, I knew it would come to this. I said it would, when you joined those precious Skylarks. People being called out oftheir beds at all hours of the night, to bail a set of fellows whoare never so happy as when they're leading sober men to destruction. I should like to know what the neighbours will think of you, withpeople from the police knocking at the door at two in the morning?Don't tell me that the man has been ill-used: he's not the man to beill-used. And you must go and bail him! I know the end of that:he'll run away, and you'll have to pay the money. I should like toknow what's the use of my working and slaving to save a farthing, when you throw away pounds upon your precious Skylarks. A prettycold you'll have to-morrow morning, being called out of your warm bedthis weather; but don't you think I'll nurse you--not I; not a dropof gruel do you get from me. 

"I'm sure you've plenty of ways of spending your money--not throwingit away upon a set of dissolute peace-breakers. It's all very wellfor you to say you haven't thrown away your money, but you will. He'll be certain to run off; it isn't likely he'll go upon his trial, and you'll be fixed with the bail. Don't tell me there's no trial inthe matter, because I know there is; it's for something more thanquarrelling with the policeman that he was locked up. People aren'tlocked up for that. No, it's for robbery, or something worse, perhaps. 

"And as you have bailed him, people will think you are as bad as heis. Don't tell me you couldn't help bailing him; you should haveshown yourself a respectable man, and have let him been sent toprison. 

"Now people know you're the friend of drunken and disorderly persons, you'll never have a night's sleep in your bed. Not that it wouldmatter what fell upon you, if it wasn't your poor wife who suffered. Of course all the business will be in the newspapers, and your namewith it. I shouldn't wonder, too, if they give your picture as theydo the other folks of the Old Bailey. A pretty thing that, to godown to your children. I'm sure it will be enough to make themchange their name. No, I shall not go to sleep; it's all very wellfor you to say, go to sleep, after such a disturbance. But I shallnot go to sleep, Mr. Caudle; certainly not. "

"Her will, I have no doubt, " says Caudle, "was strong; but nature wasstronger, and she did sleep; this night inflicting upon me aremarkably short lecture. "

LECTURE V--MR. CAUDLE HAS REMAINED DOWNSTAIRS TILL PAST ONE, WITH AFRIEND

"Pretty time of night to come to bed, Mr. Caudle. Ugh! As cold, too, as any ice. Enough to give any woman her death, I'm sure. What!

"I SHOULDN'T HAVE LOCKED UP THE COALS?

"If I hadn't, I've no doubt the fellow would have stayed all night. It's all very well for you, Mr. Caudle, to bring people home--but Iwish you'd think first what's for supper. That beautiful leg of porkwould have served for our dinner to-morrow, --and now it's gone. _I_can't keep the house upon the money, and I won't pretend to do it, ifyou bring a mob of people every night to clear out the cupboard. 

"I wonder who'll be so ready to give you a supper when you want one:for want one you will, unless you change your plans. Don't tell me!I know I'm right. You'll first be eaten up, and then you'll belaughed at. I know the world. No, indeed, Mr. Caudle, I don't thinkill of everybody; don't say that. But I can't see a leg of porkeaten up in that way, without asking myself what it's all to end inif such things go on? And then he must have pickles, too! Couldn'tbe content with my cabbage--no, Mr. Caudle, I won't let you go tosleep. It's very well for you to say let you go to sleep, afteryou've kept me awake till this time. 

"WHY DID I KEEP AWAKE?

"How do you suppose I could go to sleep when I knew that man wasbelow drinking up your substance in brandy-and-water? for he couldn'tbe content upon decent, wholesome gin. Upon my word, you ought to bea rich man, Mr. Caudle. You have such very fine friends, I wonderwho gives you brandy when you go out!

"No, indeed, he couldn't be content with my pickled cabbage--and Ishould like to know who makes better--but he must have walnuts. Andyou, too, like a fool--now, don't you think to stop me, Mr. Caudle; apoor woman may be trampled to death, and never say a word--you, too, like a fool--I wonder who'd do it for you--to insist upon the girlgoing out for pickled walnuts. And in such a night too! With snowupon the ground. Yes; you're a man of fine feelings, you are, Mr. Caudle; but the world doesn't know you as I know you--fine feelings, indeed! to send the poor girl out, when I told you and told yourfriend, too--a pretty brute he is, I'm sure--that the poor girl hadgot a cold and I dare say chilblains on her toes. But I know whatwill be the end of that; she'll be laid up, and we shall have a nicedoctor's bill. And you'll pay it, I can tell you--for _I_ won't. 

"YOU WISH YOU WERE OUT OF THE WORLD?

"Oh! yes, that's all very easy. I'm sure _I_ might wish it. Don'tswear in that dreadful way! Aren't you afraid that the bed will openand swallow you? And don't swing about in that way. THAT will do nogood. THAT won't bring back the leg of pork, and the brandy you'vepoured down both of your throats. Oh, I know it, I'm sure of it. Ionly recollected it when I'd got into bed--and if it hadn't been socold, you'd have seen me downstairs again, I can tell you--Irecollected it, and a pretty two hours I've passed--that I left thekey in the cupboard, --and I know it--I could see by the manner of youwhen you came into the room--I know you've got at the other bottle. However, there's one comfort: you told me to send for the bestbrandy--the very best--for your other friend, who called lastWednesday. Ha! ha! It was British--the cheapest British--and niceand ill I hope the pair of you will be to-morrow. 

"There's only the bare bone of the leg of pork! but you'll getnothing else for dinner, I can tell you. It's a dreadful thing thatthe poor children should go without, --but if they have such a father, they, poor things, must suffer for it. 

"Nearly a whole leg of pork and a pint of brandy! A pint of brandyand a leg of pork. A leg of--leg--leg--pint--"

"And mumbling the syllables, " says Mr. Caudle's MS. , "she went tosleep. "

LECTURE VI--MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY UMBRELLA

"Bah! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. 

"WHAT WERE YOU TO DO?

"Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certainthere was nothing about HIM that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! Hedoesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd havebetter taken cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if itisn't St. Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the windows?Nonsense; you don't impose upon me. You can't be asleep with such ashower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you DO hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and nostirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. HE return the umbrella! Anybody wouldthink you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever DID return anumbrella! There--do you hear it! Worse and worse! Cats and dogs, and for six weeks, always six weeks. And no umbrella!

"I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow? They sha'n't go through such weather, I'm determined. No:they shall stop at home and never learn anything--the blessedcreatures!--sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, Iwonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing--who, indeed, but their father? People who can't feel for their own children oughtnever to be fathers. 

"But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. Iwas going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow--you knew that; andyou did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, andtake every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full I'll go all themore. No: and I won't have a cab. Where do you think the money'sto come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. Acab, indeed! Cost me sixteenpence at least--sixteenpence! two-and-eightpence, for there's back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like toknow who's to pay for 'em; _I_ can't pay for 'em, and I'm sure youcan't, if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, andbeggaring your children--buying umbrellas!

"Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But Idon't care--I'll go to mother's to-morrow: I will; and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way, --and you know that will give me mydeath. Don't call me a foolish woman, it's you that's the foolishman. You know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet'ssure to give me a cold--it always does. But what do you care forthat? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as Idaresay I shall--and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hopethere will! It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. Ishouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lentthe umbrella for. Of course!

"Nice clothes I shall get too, trapesing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoilt quite. 

"NEEDN'T I WEAR 'EM THEN?

"Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I SHALL wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out adowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows! it isn't oftenthat I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave atonce, --better, I should say. But when I do go out, --Mr. Caudle, Ichoose to go like a lady. Oh! that rain--if it isn't enough to breakin the windows. 

"Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow! How I am to go tomother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die I'll do it. No, sir; Iwon't borrow an umbrella. No; and you sha'n't buy one. Now, Mr. Caudle, only listen to this: if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it in the street. I'll have my own umbrella or none atall. 

"Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to thatumbrella. I'm sure, if I'd have known as much as I do now, it mighthave gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for otherpeople to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you--you can goto sleep. You've no thought of your poor patient wife, and your owndear children. You think of nothing but lending umbrellas!

"Men, indeed!--call themselves lords of the creation!--pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella!

"I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's whatyou want--then you may go to your club and do as you like--and then, nicely my poor dear children will be used--but then, sir, then you'llbe happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you'd neverhave lent the umbrella!

"You have to go on Thursday about that summons and, of course, youcan't go. No, indeed, you DON'T go without the umbrella. You maylose the debt for what I care--it won't be so much as spoiling yourclothes--better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lendumbrellas!

"And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without theumbrella! Oh, don't tell me that I said I WOULD go--that's nothingto do with it; nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her, andthe little money we were to have we sha'n't have at all--becausewe've no umbrella. 

"The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet; for theysha'n't stop at home--they sha'n't lose their learning; it's alltheir father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they SHALL go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't: you are so aggravating, Caudle;you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They SHALL go to school; markthat. And if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault--Ididn't lend the umbrella. "

"At length, " writes Caudle, "I fell asleep; and dreamt that the skywas turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs; that, in fact, thewhole world turned round under a tremendous umbrella!"

LECTURE VII--MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMONSTRANCE ON HIS DAY'SDINNER: COLD MUTTON, AND NO PUDDING. --MRS. CAUDLE DEFENDS THE COLDSHOULDER

"Umph! I'm sure! Well! I wonder what it will be next? There'snothing proper, now--nothing at all. Better get somebody else tokeep the house, I think. I can't do it now, it seems; I'm only inthe way here: I'd better take the children, and go. 

"What am I grumbling about now? It's very well for you to ask that!I'm sure I'd better be out of the world than--there now, Mr. Caudle;there you are again! I SHALL speak, sir. It isn't often I open mymouth, Heaven knows! But you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. You ought to have married a negro slave, and not any respectablewoman. 

"You're to go about the house looking like thunder all the day, andI'm not to say a word. Where do you think pudding's to come fromevery day? You show a nice example to your children, you do;complaining, and turning your nose up at a sweet piece of coldmutton, because there's no pudding! You go a nice way to make 'emextravagant--teach 'em nice lessons to begin the world with. Do youknow what puddings cost; or do you think they fly in at the window?

"You hate cold mutton. The more shame for you, Mr. Caudle. I'm sureyou've the stomach of a lord, you have. No, sir: I didn't choose tohash the mutton. It's very easy for you to say hash it; but _I_ knowwhat a joint loses in hashing: it's a day's dinner the less, if it'sa bit. Yes, I daresay; other people may have puddings with coldmutton. No doubt of it; and other people become bankrupts. But ifever you get into the Gazette, it sha'n't be MY fault--no; I'll do myduty as a wife to you, Mr. Caudle: you shall never have it to saythat it was MY housekeeping that brought you to beggary. No; you maysulk at the cold meat--ha! I hope you'll never live to want such apiece of cold mutton as we had to-day! and you may threaten to go toa tavern to dine; but, with our present means, not a crumb of puddingdo you get from me. You shall have nothing but the cold joint--nothing as I'm a Christian sinner. 

"Yes; there you are, throwing those fowls in my face again! I knowyou once brought home a pair of fowls; I know it: and weren't youmean enough to want to stop 'em out of my week's money? Oh, theselfishness--the shabbiness of men! They can go out and throw awaypounds upon pounds with a pack of people who laugh at 'em afterwards;but if it's anything wanted for their own homes, their poor wives mayhunt for it. I wonder you don't blush to name those fowls again! Iwouldn't be so little for the world, Mr. Caudle. 

"What are you going to do?

"GOING TO GET UP?

"Don't make yourself ridiculous, Mr. Caudle; I can't say a word toyou like any other wife, but you must threaten to get up. DO beashamed of yourself. 

"Puddings, indeed! Do you think I'm made of puddings? Didn't youhave some boiled rice three weeks ago? Besides, is this the time ofthe year for puddings? It's all very well if I had money enoughallowed me like any other wife to keep the house with: then, indeed, I might have preserves like any other woman; now, it's impossible;and it's cruel--yes, Mr. Caudle, cruel--of you to expect it. 

"APPLES AREN'T SO DEAR, ARE THEY?

"I know what apples are, Mr. Caudle, without your telling me. But Isuppose you want something more than apples for dumplings? I supposesugar costs something, doesn't it? And that's how it is. That's howone expense brings on another, and that's how people go to ruin. 

"PANCAKES?

"What's the use of your lying muttering there about pancakes? Don'tyou always have 'em once a year--every Shrove Tuesday? And whatwould any moderate, decent man want more?

"Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle, --no, it's no use your sayingfine words to me to let you go to sleep; I sha'n't!--pray do you knowthe price of eggs just now? There's not an egg you can trust tounder seven and eight a shilling; well, you've only just to reckon uphow many eggs--don't lie swearing there at the eggs in that manner, Mr. Caudle; unless you expect the bed to let you fall through. Youcall yourself a respectable tradesman, I suppose? Ha! I only wishpeople knew you as well as I do! Swearing at eggs, indeed! But I'mtired of this usage, Mr. Caudle; quite tired of it; and I don't carehow soon it's ended!

"I'm sure I do nothing but work and labour, and think how to make themost of everything; and this is how I'm rewarded. I should like tosee anybody whose joints go further than mine. But if I was to throwaway your money into the street, or lay it out in fine feathers onmyself, I should be better thought of. The woman who studies herhusband and her family is always made a drudge of. It's your finefal-lal wives who've the best time of it. 

"What's the use of your lying groaning there in that manner? Thatwon't make me hold my tongue, I can tell you. You think to have itall your own way--but you won't, Mr. Caudle! You can insult mydinner; look like a demon, I may say, at a wholesome piece of coldmutton--ah! the thousands of far better creatures than you are who'dbeen thankful for that mutton!--and I'm never to speak! But you'remistaken--I will. Your usage of me, Mr. Caudle, is infamous--unworthy of a man. I only wish people knew you for what you are; butI've told you again and again they shall some day. 

"Puddings! And now I suppose I shall hear of nothing but puddings!Yes, and I know what it would end in. First, you'd have a puddingevery day--oh, I know your extravagance--then you'd go for fish, --then I shouldn't wonder if you'd have soup; turtle, no doubt: thenyou'd go for a dessert; and--oh! I see it all as plain as the quiltbefore me--but no, not while I'm alive! What your second wife may doI don't know; perhaps SHE'LL be a fine lady; but you sha'n't beruined by me, Mr. Caudle; that I'm determined. Puddings, indeed!Pu-dding-s! Pud--"

"Exhausted nature, " says Caudle, "could hold out no longer. She wentto sleep. "

LECTURE VIII--CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON--MRS. CAUDLE INDIGNANT ANDCURIOUS

"Now, Mr. Caudle--Mr. Caudle, I say: oh: you can't be asleepalready, I know now, what I mean to say is this; there's no use, noneat all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but, at lastmy mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know allyou've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; there's an end of the marriage state, I think--an end of allconfidence between man and wife--if a husband's to have secrets andkeep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his ownwife can't know 'em! Not fit for any decent person to know, I'msure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there'sa good soul, tell me what it's all about? A pack of nonsense, I daresay; still--not that I care much about it, --still I SHOULD like toknow. There's a dear. Eh: oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it:I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle: I know there's a gooddeal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sureI'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?

"Caudle, you're enough to vex a saint! Now don't you think you'regoing to sleep; because you're not. Do you suppose I'd ever sufferedyou to go and be made a mason, if I didn't suppose I was to know thesecret too? Not that it's anything to know, I dare say; and that'swhy I'm determined to know it. 

"But I know what it is; oh yes, there can be no doubt. The secretis, to ill-use poor women; to tyrannise over 'em; to make 'em yourslaves: especially your wives. It must be something of the sort, oryou wouldn't be ashamed to have it known. What's right and propernever need be done in secret. It's an insult to a woman for a man tobe a freemason, and let his wife know nothing of it. But, poor soul!she's sure to know it somehow--for nice husbands they all make. Yes, yes; a part of the secret is to think better of all the world thantheir own wives and families. I'm sure men have quite enough to carefor--that is, if they act properly--to care for them they have athome. They can't have much care to spare for the world besides. 

"And I suppose they call you BROTHER Caudle? A pretty brother, indeed! Going and dressing yourself up in an apron like a turnpikeman--for that's what you look like. And I should like to know whatthe apron's for? There must be something in it not very respectable, I'm sure. Well, I only wish I was Queen for a day or two. I'd putan end to freemasonry, and all such trumpery, I know. 

"Now, come, Caudle; don't let's quarrel. Eh! You're not in pain, dear? What's it all about? What are you lying laughing there at?But I'm a fool to trouble my head about you. 

"And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean tosay, --you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put mein a passion--not that I care about the secret itself: no, Iwouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about: it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it'sthe studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks ofgoing through the world keeping something to himself which he won'tlet her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know howthat can be when a man's a mason--when he keeps a secret that setshim and his wife apart? Ha, you men make the laws, and so you takegood care to have all the best of 'em to yourselves: otherwise awoman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason: whenhe's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart--a secret place inhis mind--that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage!

"Caudle, you sha'n't close your eyes for a week--no, you sha'n't--unless you tell me some of it. Come, there's a good creature;there's a love. I'm sure, Caudle, I wouldn't refuse you anything--and you know it, or ought to know it by this time. I only wish I hada secret! To whom should I think of confiding it, but to my dearhusband? I should be miserable to keep it to myself, and you knowit. Now Caudle?

"Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!--yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, andyou won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a mason: not atall, Caudle; I dare say it's a very good thing; I dare say it is--it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tellme--you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't! You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle. 

"But I know why: oh, yes, I can tell. The fact is, you're ashamedto let me know what a fool they've been making of you. That's it. You, at your time of life--the father of a family! I should beashamed of myself, Caudle. 

"And I suppose you'll be going to what you call your Lodge everynight, now. Lodge, indeed! Pretty place it must be, where theydon't admit women. Nice goings on, I dare say. Then you call oneanother brethren. Brethren! I'm sure you'd relations enough, youdidn't want any more. 

"But I know what all this masonry's about. It's only an excuse toget away from your wives and families, that you may feast and drinktogether, that's all. That's the secret. And to abuse women, --as ifthey were inferior animals, and not to be trusted. That's thesecret; and nothing else. 

"Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel. Yes, I know you're in pain. Still, Caudle, my love; Caudle! Dearest, I say! Caudle!"

"I recollect nothing more, " says Caudle, "for I had eaten a heartysupper, and somehow became oblivious. "

LECTURE IX--MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO GREENWICH FAIR

"Ho, Mr. Caudle: I hope you enjoyed yourself at Greenwich. 

"HOW DO I KNOW YOU'VE BEEN AT GREENWICH?

"I know it very well, sir: know all about it: know more than youthink I know. I thought there was something in the wind. Yes, I wassure of it, when you went out of the house to-day. I knew it by thelooks of you, though I didn't say anything. Upon my word! And youcall yourself a respectable man, and the father of a family! Goingto a fair among all sorts of people, --at your time of life. Yes; andnever think of taking your wife with you. Oh no! you can go andenjoy yourself out, with I don't know who: go out, and make yourselfvery pleasant, I dare say. Don't tell me; I hear what a nicecompanion Mr. Caudle is: what a good-tempered person. Ha! I onlywish people could see you at home, that's all. But so it is withmen. They can keep all their good temper for out-of-doors--theirwives never see any of it. Oh dear! I'm sure I don't know who'd bea poor woman!

"Now, Caudle, I'm not in an ill-temper; not at all. I know I used tobe a fool when we were first married: I used to worry and fretmyself to death when you went out; but I've got over that. Iwouldn't put myself out of the way now for the best man that evertrod. For what thanks does a poor woman get? None at all. No:it's those who don't care for their families who are the best thoughtof. I only wish I could bring myself not to care for mine. 

"And why couldn't you say, like a man, you were going to GreenwichFair when you went out? It's no use your saying that, Mr. Caudle:don't tell me that you didn't think of going; you'd made up your mindto it, and you know it. Pretty games you've had, no doubt! I shouldlike to have been behind you, that's all. A man at your time oflife!

"And I, of course, I never want to go out. Oh no! I may stay athome with the cat. You couldn't think of taking your wife andchildren, like any other decent man, to a fair. Oh no, you nevercare to be seen with us. I'm sure, many people don't know you'remarried at all: how can they? Your wife's never seen with you. Ohno; anybody but those belonging to you!

"Greenwich Fair, indeed! Yes, --and of course you went up and downthe hill, running and racing with nobody knows who. Don't tell me; Iknow what you are when you're out. You don't suppose, Mr. Caudle, I've forgotten that pink bonnet, do you? No: I won't hold mytongue, and I'm not a foolish woman. It's no matter, sir, if thepink bonnet was fifty years ago--it's all the same for that. No:and if I live for fifty years to come, I never will leave off talkingof it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Caudle. Ha! fewwives would have been what I've been to you. I only wish my time wasto come over again, that's all; I wouldn't be the fool I have been. 

"Going to a fair! and I suppose you had your fortune told by thegipsies? You needn't have wasted your money. I'm sure I can tellyou your fortune if you go on as you do. Yes, the gaol will be yourfortune, Mr. Caudle. And it would be no matter--none at all--if yourwife and children didn't suffer with you. 

"And then you must go riding upon donkeys. 

"YOU DIDN'T GO RIDING UPON DONKEYS?

"Yes; it's very well for you to say so: but I dare say you did. Itell you, Caudle, I know what you are when you're out. I wouldn'ttrust any of you--you especially, Caudle. 

"Then you must go in the thick of the fair, and have the girlsscratching your coat with rattles!

"YOU COULDN'T HELP IT, IF THEY DID SCRATCH YOUR COAT?

"Don't tell me; people don't scratch coats unless they're encouragedto do it. And you must go in a swing, too. 

"YOU DIDN'T GO IN A SWING?

"Well, if you didn't it was no fault of yours; you wished to go I'veno doubt. 

"And then you must go into the shows? There, --you don't deny that. You did go into a show. 

"WHAT OF IT, MR. CAUDLE?

"A good deal of it, sir. Nice crowding and squeezing in those shows, I know. Pretty places! And you a married man and the father of afamily. No: I won't hold my tongue. It's very well for you tothreaten to get up. You're to go to Greenwich Fair, and race up anddown the hill, and play at kiss in the ring. Pah! it's disgusting, Mr. Caudle. Oh, I dare say you DID play at it; if you didn't, you'dhave liked, and that's just as bad;--and you can go into swings, andshows, and roundabouts. If I was you, I should hide my head underthe clothes and be ashamed of myself. 

"And what is most selfish--most mean of you, Caudle--you can go andenjoy yourself, and never so much as bring home for the poor childrena gingerbread nut. Don't tell me that your pocket was picked of apound of nuts! Nice company you must have been in to have yourpocket picked. 

"But I daresay I shall hear all about it to-morrow. I've no doubt, sir, you were dancing at the Crown and Anchor. I should like to haveseen you. No: I'm not making myself ridiculous. It's you that'smaking yourself ridiculous; and everybody that knows you says so. Everybody knows what I have to put up with from you. 

"Going to a fair, indeed! At your time--"

"Here, " says Caudle, "I dozed off hearing confusedly the words--hill--gipsies--rattles--roundabouts--swings--pink bonnet--nuts. "

LECTURE X--ON MR. CAUDLE'S SHIRT-BUTTONS

"There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than youwere this morning? There--you needn't begin to whistle: peopledon't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you. I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were thebest creature living; now you get quite a fiend. 

"DO LET YOU REST?

"No: I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk toyou, and you SHALL hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's veryhard if I can't speak a word at night: besides, it isn't often Iopen my mouth, goodness knows. 

"Because ONCE in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button you mustalmost swear the roof off the house!

"YOU DIDN'T SWEAR?

"Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. 

"YOU WERE NOT IN A PASSION?

"Weren't you? Well, then, I don't know what a passion is--and Ithink I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that. 

"It's a pity you haven't something worse to complain of than a buttonoff your shirt. If you'd SOME wives, you would, I know. I'm sureI'm never without a needle and thread in my hand. What with you andthe children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks?Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt--what do you cry'OH' at?--I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice, or three times, at most. I'm sure Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better lookedafter than yours. I only wish I had kept the shirts you had when youwere first married! I should like to know where were your buttonsthen?

"Yes, it IS worth talking of! But that's how you always try to putme down. You fly into a rage, and then if I only try to speak youwon't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk toyourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. 

"A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to thinkof but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have ofmarriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through. What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd never tiethemselves up, --no, not to the best man in the world, I'm sure. 

"WHAT WOULD THEY DO, MR. CAUDLE?

"Why, do much better without you, I'm certain. 

"And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt;it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have somethingto talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, foranything! All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be offthe shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband'sbuttons than I am. I only say, it's very odd. 

"However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to deathwith your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you maylaugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That'syour love--that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see howyour second wife will look after your buttons. You'll find out thedifference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, Ihope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back. 

"No, I'm not a vindictive woman, Mr. Caudle; nobody ever called methat, but you. What do you say?

"NOBODY EVER KNEW SO MUCH OF ME?

"That's nothing at all to do with it. Ha! I wouldn't have youraggravating temper, Caudle, for mines of gold. It's a good thing I'mnot as worrying as you are--or a nice house there'd be between us. Ionly wish you'd had a wife that WOULD have talked to you! Then you'dhave known the difference. But you impose upon me, because, like apoor fool, I say nothing. I should be ashamed of myself, Caudle. 

"And a pretty example you set as a father! You'll make your boys asbad as yourself. Talking as you did all breakfast time about yourbuttons! And of a Sunday morning, too! And you call yourself aChristian! I should like to know what your boys will say of you whenthey grow up? And all about a paltry button off one of yourwristbands! A decent man wouldn't have mentioned it. 

"WHY WON'T I HOLD MY TONGUE?

"Because I WON'T hold my tongue. I'm to have my peace of minddestroyed--I'm to be worried into my grave for a miserable shirtbutton, and I'm to hold my tongue! Oh! but that's just like you men!

"But I know what I'll do for the future. Every button you have maydrop off, and I won't so much as put a thread to 'em. And I shouldlike to know what you'll do then? Oh, you must get somebody else tosew 'em, must you? That's a pretty threat for a husband to hold outto a wife! And to such a wife as I've been, too: such a negro-slaveto your buttons, as I may say! Somebody else to sew 'em, eh? No, Caudle, no: not while I'm alive! When I'm dead--and with what Ihave to bear there's no knowing how soon that may be--when I'm dead, I say--oh! what a brute you must be to snore so!

"YOU'RE NOT SNORING?

"Ha! that's what you always say; but that's nothing to do with it. You must get somebody else to sew 'em, must you? Ha! I shouldn'twonder. Oh no! I should be surprised at nothing, now! Nothing atall! It's what people have always told me it would come to, --and nowthe buttons have opened my eyes! But the whole world shall know ofyour cruelty, Mr. Caudle. After the wife I've been to you. Somebodyelse, indeed, to sew your buttons! I'm no longer to be mistress inmy own house! Ha, Caudle! I wouldn't have upon my conscience whatyou have, for the world! I wouldn't treat anybody as you treat--no, I'm not mad! It's you, Mr. Caudle, who are mad, or bad--and that'sworse! I can't even so much as speak of a shirt button, but that I'mthreatened to be made nobody of in my own house! Caudle, you've aheart like a hearth-stone, you have! To threaten me, and onlybecause a button--a button--"

"I was conscious of no more than this, " says Caudle; "for here naturerelieved me with a sweet, deep sleep. "

LECTURE XI--MRS. CAUDLE SUGGESTS THAT HER DEAR MOTHER SHOULD "COMEAND LIVE WITH THEM. "

"Is your cold better to-night, Caudle? Yes; I thought it was. 'Twill be quite well to-morrow, I dare say. There's a love! Youdon't take care enough of yourself, Caudle, you don't. And youought, I'm sure, if only for my sake. For whatever I should do, ifanything was to happen to you--but I think of it; no, I can't bear tothink OF THAT. Still, you ought to take care of yourself; for youknow you're not strong, Caudle; you know you're not. 

"Wasn't dear mother so happy with us to-night? Now, you needn't goto sleep so suddenly. I say, wasn't she so happy?

"YOU DON'T KNOW?

"How can you say you don't know? You must have seen it. But she isalways happier here than anywhere else. Ha! what a temper that dearsoul has! I call it a temper of satin; it is so smooth, so easy, andso soft. Nothing puts her out of the way. And then, if you onlyknew how she takes your part, Caudle! I'm sure, if you had been herown son ten times over, she couldn't be fonder of you. Don't youthink so, Caudle? Eh, love? Now, do answer. 

"HOW CAN YOU TELL?

"Nonsense, Caudle; you must have seen it. I'm sure nothing delightsthe dear soul so much as when she's thinking how to please you. 

"Don't you remember Thursday night, the stewed oysters when you camehome? That was all dear mother's doings! 'Margaret, ' says she tome, 'it's a cold night; and don't you think dear Mr. Caudle wouldlike something nice before he goes to bed?' And that, Caudle, is howthe oysters came about. Now, don't sleep, Caudle: do listen to mefor five minutes; 'tisn't often I speak, goodness knows. 

"And then, what a fuss she makes when you are out, if your slippersaren't put to the fire for you. 

"SHE'S VERY GOOD?

"Yes, --I know she is, Caudle. And hasn't she been six months--thoughI promised her not to tell you--six months working a watch-pocket foryou! And with HER eyes, dear soul--and at HER time of life!

"And then what a cook she is! I'm sure the dishes she'll make out ofnext to nothing! I try hard enough to follow her: but, I'm notashamed to own it, Caudle, she quite beats me. Ha! the many nicelittle things she'd simmer up for you--and I can't do it; thechildren, you know it, Caudle, take so much of my time. I can't doit, love; and I often reproach myself that I can't. Now, you shan'tgo to sleep, Caudle; at least not for five minutes. You must hearme. 

"I've been thinking, dearest--ha! that nasty cough, love!--I've beenthinking, darling, if we could only persuade dear mother to come andlive with us. Now, Caudle, you can't be asleep; it's impossible--youwere coughing only this minute--yes, to live with us. What atreasure we should have in her! Then, Caudle, you never need go tobed without something nice and hot. And you want it, Caudle. 

"YOU DON'T WANT IT?

"Nonsense, you do; for you're not strong, Caudle; you know you'renot. 

"I'm sure, the money she'd save us in housekeeping. Ha! what an eyeshe has for a joint! The butcher doesn't walk that could deceivedear mother. And then, again, for poultry! What a finger and thumbshe has for a chicken! I never could market like her: it's a gift--quite a gift. 

"And then you recollect her marrow-puddings?

"YOU DON'T RECOLLECT 'EM?

"Oh, fie! Caudle, how often have you flung her marrow puddings in myface, wanting to know why I couldn't make 'em? And I wouldn'tpretend to do it after dear mother. I should think it presumption. Now, love, if she was only living with us--come, you're not asleep, Caudle--if she was only living with us, you could have marrowpuddings every day. Now, don't fling yourself about and begin toswear at marrow puddings; you know you like 'em, dear. 

"What a hand, too, dear mother has for a pie crust! But it's bornwith some people. What do you say?

"WHY WASN'T IT BORN WITH ME?

"Now, Caudle, that's cruel--unfeeling of you; I wouldn't have utteredsuch a reproach to you for the whole world. Consider, dear; peoplecan't be born as they like. 

"How often, too, have you wanted to brew at home! And I never couldlearn anything about brewing. But, ha! what ale dear mother makes!

"YOU NEVER TASTED IT?

"No, I know that. But I recollect the ale we used to have at home:and father would never drink wine after it. The best sherry wasnothing like it. 

"YOU DARE SAY NOT?

"No; it wasn't indeed, Caudle. Then, if dear mother was only withus, what money we should save in beer! And then you might alwayshave your own nice pure, good, wholesome ale, Caudle; and what goodit would do you! For you're not strong, Caudle. 

"And then dear mother's jams and preserves, love! I own it, Caudle;it has often gone to my heart that with cold meat you haven't alwayshad a pudding. Now if mother was with us, in the matter of fruitpuddings she'd make it summer all the year round. But I never couldpreserve--now mother does it, and for next to no money whatever. What nice dogs-in-a-blanket she'd make for the children!

"WHAT'S DOGS-IN-A-BLANKET?

"Oh, they're delicious--as dear mother makes 'em. 

"Now, you HAVE tasted her Irish stew, Caudle? You remember that?Come, you're not asleep--you remember that? And how fond you are ofit! And I know I never have it made to please you! Well, what arelief to me it would be if dear mother was always at hand, that youmight have a stew when you liked. What a load it would be off mymind. 

"Again, for pickles! Not at all like anybody else's pickles. Herred cabbage--why, it's as crisp as biscuit! And then her walnuts--and her all-sorts! Eh, Caudle? You know how you love pickles; andhow we sometimes tiff about 'em? Now if dear mother was here, a wordwould never pass between us. And I'm sure nothing would make mehappier, for--you're not asleep, Caudle?--for I can't bear toquarrel, can I, love?

"The children, too, are so fond of her! And she'd be such a help tome with 'em! I'm sure, with dear mother in the house, I shouldn'tcare a fig for measles, or anything of the sort. As a nurse, she'ssuch a treasure!

"And at her time of life, what a needle-woman! And the darning andmending for the children, it really gets quite beyond me now, Caudle. Now with mother at my hand, there wouldn't be a stitch wanted in thehouse. 

"And then, when you're out late, Caudle--for I know you must be outlate sometimes: I can't expect you, of course, to be always at home--why then dear mother could sit up for you, and nothing would delightthe dear soul half so much. 

"And so, Caudle, love, I think dear mother had better come, don'tyou? Eh, Caudle? Now, you're not asleep, darling; don't you thinkshe'd better come? You say NO?

"You say NO again? YOU WON'T HAVE HER, you say?

"YOU WON'T, THAT'S FLAT?

"Caudle--Cau-Cau-dle--Cau--dle--"

"Here Mrs. Caudle, " says her husband, "suddenly went into tears; andI went to sleep. "

LECTURE XII--MR. CAUDLE HAVING COME HOME A LITTLE LATE, DECLARES THATHENCEFORTH "HE WILL HAVE A KEY. "

"'Pon my word, Mr. Caudle, I think it a waste of time to come to bedat all now! The cocks will be crowing in a minute. Keeping peopleup till past twelve. Oh yes! you're thought a man of very finefeelings out of doors, I dare say! It's a pity you haven't a littlefeeling for those belonging to you at home. A nice hour to keeppeople out of their beds!

"WHY DID I SIT UP, THEN?

"Because I chose to sit up--but that's my thanks. No, it's no useyour talking, Caudle; I never WILL let the girl sit up for you, andthere's an end. What do you say?

"WHY DOES SHE SIT UP WITH ME, THEN?

"That's quite a different matter: you don't suppose I'm going to situp alone, do you? What do you say?

"WHAT'S THE USE OF TWO SITTING UP?

"That's my business. No, Caudle, it's no such thing. I DON'T sit upbecause I may have the pleasure of talking about it; and you're anungrateful, unfeeling creature to say so. I sit up because I chooseit; and if you don't come home all the night long--and 'twill sooncome to that, I've no doubt--still, I'll never go to bed, so don'tthink it. 

"Oh, yes! the time runs away very pleasantly with you men at yourclubs--selfish creatures! You can laugh and sing, and tell stories, and never think of the clock; never think there's such a person as awife belonging to you. It's nothing to you that a poor woman'ssitting up, and telling the minutes, and seeing all sorts of thingsin the fire--and sometimes thinking something dreadful has happenedto you--more fool she to care a straw about you!--This is allnothing. Oh no; when a woman's once married she's a slave--worsethan a slave--and must bear it all!

"And what you men can find to talk about I can't think! Instead of aman sitting every night at home with his wife, and going to bed at aChristian hour, --going to a club, to meet a set of people who don'tcare a button for him--it's monstrous! What do you say?

"YOU ONLY GO ONCE A WEEK?

"That's nothing at all to do with it: you might as well go everynight; and I daresay you will soon. But if you do, you may get in asyou can: _I_ won't sit up for you, I can tell you. 

"My health's being destroyed night after night, and--oh, don't sayit's only once a week; I tell you that's nothing to do with it--ifyou had any eyes, you would see how ill I am; but you've no eyes foranybody belonging to you: oh no! your eyes are for people out ofdoors. It's very well for you to call me a foolish, aggravatingwoman! I should like to see the woman who'd sit up for you as I do. 

"YOU DIDN'T WANT ME TO SIT UP?

"Yes, yes; that's your thanks--that's your gratitude: I'm to ruin myhealth, and to be abused for it. Nice principles you've got at thatclub, Mr. Caudle!

"But there's one comfort--one great comfort; it can't last long: I'msinking--I feel it, though I never say anything about it--but I knowmy own feelings, and I say it can't last long. And then I shouldlike to know who will sit up for you! Then I should like to know howyour second wife--what do you say?

"YOU'LL NEVER BE TROUBLED WITH ANOTHER?

"Troubled, indeed! I never troubled you, Caudle. No; it's youwho've troubled me; and you know it; though like a foolish woman I'veborne it all, and never said a word about it. But it CAN'T last--that's one blessing!

"Oh, if a woman could only know what she'd have to suffer before shewas married--Don't tell me you want to go to sleep! If you want togo to sleep, you should come home at proper hours! It's time to getup, for what I know, now. Shouldn't wonder if you hear the milk infive minutes--there's the sparrows up already; yes, I say thesparrows; and, Caudle, you ought to blush to hear 'em. 

"YOU DON'T HEAR 'EM?

"Ha! you won't hear 'em, you mean: _I_ hear 'em. No, Mr. Caudle; itISN'T the wind whistling in the keyhole; I'm not quite foolish, though you may think so. I hope I know wind from a sparrow!

"Ha! when I think what a man you were before we were married! Butyou're now another person--quite an altered creature. But I supposeyou're all alike--I dare say, every poor woman's troubled and putupon, though I should hope not so much as I am. Indeed, I shouldhope not! Going and staying out, and -

"What!

"YOU'LL HAVE A KEY?

"Will you? Not while I'm alive, Mr Caudle. I'm not going to bedwith the door upon the latch for you or the best man breathing. 

"YOU WON'T HAVE A LATCH--YOU'LL HAVE A CHUBB'S LOCK?

"Will you? I'll have no Chubb here, I can tell you. What do yousay?

"YOU'LL HAVE THE LOCK PUT ON TO-MORROW?

"Well, try it; that's all I say, Caudle; try it. I won't let you putme in a passion; but all I say is, --try it. 

"A respectable thing, that, for a married man to carry about withhim, --a street-door key! That tells a tale I think. A nice thingfor the father of a family! A key! What, to let yourself in and outwhen you please! To come in, like a thief in the middle of thenight, instead of knocking at the door like a decent person! Oh, don't tell me that you only want to prevent me sitting up--if Ichoose to sit up what's that to you? Some wives, indeed, would makea noise about sitting up, but YOU'VE no reason to complain--goodnessknows!

"Well, upon my word, I've lived to hear something. Carry the street-door key about with you! I've heard of such things with young good-for-nothing bachelors, with nobody to care what became of 'em; butfor a married man to leave his wife and children in a house with adoor upon the latch--don't talk to me about Chubb, it's all the same--a great deal you must care for us. Yes, it's very well for you tosay that you only want the key for peace and quietness--what's it toyou, if I like to sit up? You've no business to complain; it can'tdistress you. Now, it's no use your talking; all I say is this, Caudle: if you send a man to put on any lock here, I'll call in apoliceman; as I'm your married wife, I will. 

"No, I think when a man comes to have the street-door key, the soonerhe turns bachelor altogether the better. I'm sure, Caudle, I don'twant to be any clog upon you. Now, it's no use your telling me tohold my tongue, for I--What?

"I GIVE YOU THE HEADACHE, DO I?

"No, I don't, Caudle; it's your club that gives you the headache;it's your smoke, and your--well! if ever I knew such a man in all mylife! there's no saying a word to you! You go out, and treatyourself like an emperor--and come home at twelve at night, or anyhour for what I know, and then you threaten to have a key, and--and--and--"

"I did get to sleep at last, " says Caudle, "amidst the fallingsentences of 'take children into a lodging'--'separate maintenance'--'won't be made a slave of'--and so forth. "

LECTURE XIII--MRS. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO SEE HER DEAR MOTHER. --CAUDLE, ON THE "JOYFUL OCCASION, " HAS GIVEN A PARTY, AND ISSUED A CARD OFINVITATION

"It IS hard, I think, Mr. Caudle, that I can't leave home for a dayor two, but the house must be turned into a tavern: a tavern?--apothouse! Yes, I thought you were very anxious that I should go; Ithought you wanted to get rid of me for something, or you would nothave insisted on my staying at dear mother's all night. You wereafraid I should get cold coming home, were you? Oh yes, you can bevery tender, you can, Mr. Caudle, when it suits your own purpose. Yes! and the world thinks what a good husband you are! I only wishthe world knew you as well as I do, that's all; but it shall, someday, I'm determined. 

"I'm sure the house will not be sweet for a month. All the curtainsare poisoned with smoke; and what's more, with the filthiest smoke Iever knew. 

"TAKE 'EM DOWN, THEN?

"Yes, it's all very well for you to say take 'em down; but they wereonly cleaned and put up a month ago; but a careful wife's lost uponyou, Mr. Caudle. You ought to have married somebody who'd have letyour house go to wreck and ruin, as I will for the future. Peoplewho don't care for their families are better thought of than thosewho do; I've long found out THAT. 

"And what a condition the carpet's in! They've taken five pounds outof it, if a farthing, with their filthy boots, and I don't know whatbesides. And then the smoke in the hearthrug, and a large cinder-hole burnt in it! I never saw such a house in MY life! If youwanted to have a few friends, why couldn't you invite 'em when yourwife's at home, like any other man? not have 'em sneaking in, like aset of housebreakers, directly a woman turns her back. They must bepretty gentlemen, they must; mean fellows, that are afraid to face awoman! Ha! and you all call yourselves the lords of the creation! Ishould only like to see what would become of the creation, if youwere left to yourselves! A pretty pickle creation would be in verysoon!

"You must all have been in a nice condition! What do you say?

"YOU TOOK NOTHING?

"Took nothing, didn't you? I'm sure there's such a regiment of emptybottles, I haven't had the heart to count 'em. And punch, too! youmust have punch! There's a hundred half-lemons in the kitchen, ifthere's one: for Susan, like a good girl, kept 'em to show 'em me. No, sir; Susan SHAN'T LEAVE THE HOUSE! What do you say?

"SHE HAS NO RIGHT TO TELL TALES, AND YOU WILL BE MASTER IN YOUR OWNHOUSE?

"Will you? If you don't alter, Mr. Caudle, you'll soon have no houseto be master of. A whole loaf of sugar did I leave in the cupboard, and now there isn't as much as would fill a teacup. Do you supposeI'm to find sugar for punch for fifty men? What do you say?

"THERE WASN'T FIFTY?

"That's no matter; the more shame for 'em, sir. I'm sure they drankenough for fifty. Do you suppose I'm to find sugar for punch for allthe world out of my housekeeping money?"

"YOU DON'T ASK ME?

"Don't you ask me? You do; you know you do: for if I only want ashilling extra, the house is in a blaze. And yet a whole loaf ofsugar can you throw away upon--No, I WON'T be still; and I WON'T letyou go to sleep. If you'd got to bed at a proper hour last night, you wouldn't have been so sleepy now. You can sit up half the nightwith a pack of people who don't care for you, and your poor wifecan't get in a word!

"And there's that china image that I had when I was married--Iwouldn't have taken any sum of money for it, and you know it--and howdo I find it? With its precious head knocked off! And what was moremean, more contemptible than all besides, it was put on again, as ifnothing had happened. 

"YOU KNEW NOTHING ABOUT IT?

"Now, how can you lie there, in your Christian bed, Caudle, and saythat? You know that that fellow, Prettyman, knocked off the headwith the poker! You know that he did. And you hadn't the feeling--yes, I will say it--you hadn't the feeling to protect what you knewwas precious to me. Oh no, if the truth was known, you were glad tosee it broken for that very reason. 

"Every way I've been insulted. I should like to know who it was whocorked whiskers on my dear aunt's picture? Oh! you're laughing, areyou?

"YOU'RE NOT LAUGHING?

"Don't tell me that. I should like to know what shakes the bed, then, if you're not laughing? Yes, corked whiskers on her dearface, --and she was a dear soul to you, Caudle, and you ought to beashamed of yourself to see her ill-used. Oh, you may laugh! It'svery easy to laugh! I only wish you'd a little feeling, like otherpeople, that's all. 

"Then there's my china mug--the mug I had before I was married--whenI was a happy creature. I should like to know who knocked the spoutoff that mug? Don't tell me it was cracked before--it's no suchthing, Caudle; there wasn't a flaw in it--and now, I could have criedwhen I saw it. Don't tell me it wasn't worth twopence. How do youknow? You never buy mugs. But that's like men; they think nothingin a house costs anything. 

"There's four glasses broke, and nine cracked. At least, that's allI've found out at present; but I daresay I shall discover a dozen to-morrow. 

"And I should like to know where the cotton umbrella's gone to--and Ishould like to know who broke the bell-pull--and perhaps you don'tknow there's a leg off a chair, --and perhaps--"

"I was resolved, " said Caudle, "to know nothing, and so went to sleepin my ignorance. "

LECTURE XIV--MRS. CAUDLE THINKS IT "HIGH TIME" THAT THE CHILDRENSHOULD HAVE SUMMER CLOTHING

"There, Caudle! If there's anything in the world I hate--and youknow it, Caudle--it is asking you for money. I am sure for myself, I'd rather go without a thing a thousand times, and I do--the moreshame of you to let me, but--there, now! there you fly out again!

"WHAT DO I WANT NOW?

"Why, you must know what's wanted, if you'd any eyes--or any pridefor your children, like any other father. 

"WHAT'S THE MATTER--AND WHAT AM I DRIVING AT?

"Oh, nonsense, Caudle! As if you didn't know! I'm sure if I'd anymoney of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing; never; it'spainful to me, goodness knows! What do you say?

"IF IT'S PAINFUL, WHY SO OFTEN DO IT?

"Ha! I suppose you call that a joke--one of your club jokes? I wishyou'd think a little more of people's feelings, and less of yourjokes. As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there isanything that humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocketfor every farthing. It's dreadful!

"Now, Caudle, if ever you kept awake, you shall keep awake to-night--yes, you shall hear me, for it isn't often I speak, and then you maygo to sleep as soon as you like. Pray do you know what month it is?And did you see how the children looked at church to-day--like nobodyelse's children?

"WHAT WAS THE MATTER WITH THEM?

"Oh, Caudle! How can you ask? Poor things! weren't they all intheir thick merinos and beaver bonnets? What do you say? -

"WHAT OF IT?

"What! you'll tell me that you didn't see how the Briggs's girls, intheir new chips, turned their noses up at 'em? And you didn't seehow the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our dear girls, asmuch as to say, 'Poor creatures! what figures for the month of May!'

"YOU DIDN'T SEE IT?

"The more shame for you--you would, if you'd had the feelings of aparent--but I'm sorry to say, Caudle, you haven't. I'm sure thoseBriggs's girls--the little minxes!--put me into such a pucker, Icould have pulled their ears for 'em over the pew. What do you say?

"I OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED OF MYSELF TO OWN IT?

"No, Mr. Caudle; the shame lies with you, that don't let yourchildren appear at church like other people's children, that make 'emuncomfortable at their devotions, poor things! for how can it beotherwise, when they see themselves dressed like nobody else?

"Now, Caudle, it's no use talking; those children shall not cross thethreshold next Sunday, if they haven't things for the summer. Nowmind--they sha'n't; and there's an end of it. I won't have 'emexposed to the Briggs's and the Browns again: no, they shall knowthey have a mother, if they've no father to feel for 'em. What doyou say, Caudle?

"A GOOD DEAL I MUST THINK OF CHURCH, IF I THINK SO MUCH OF WHAT WE GOIN?

"I only wish you thought as much as I do, you'd be a better man thanyou are, Caudle, I can tell you; but that's nothing to do with it. I'm talking about decent clothes for the children for the summer, andyou want to put me off with something about the church; but that's solike you, Caudle!

"I'M ALWAYS WANTING MONEY FOR CLOTHES?

"How can you lie in your bed and say that? I'm sure there's nochildren in the world that cost their father so little: but that'sit; the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. It's thewives who don't care where the money comes from who're best thoughtof. Oh, if my time was to come over again, would I mend and stitch, and make the things go so far as I have done? No--that I wouldn't. Yes, it's very well for you to lie there and laugh; it's easy tolaugh, Caudle--very easy, to people who don't feel. 

"Now, Caudle, dear! What a man you are! I know you'll give me themoney, because, after all, I think you love your children, and liketo see 'em well dressed. It's only natural that a father should. Eh, Caudle, eh? Now you sha'n't go to sleep till you've told me. 

"HOW MUCH MONEY DO I WANT?

"Why, let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susannah, and Mary Anne, and--What do you say?

"I NEEDN'T COUNT 'EM; YOU KNOW HOW MANY THERE ARE?

"Ha! that's just as you take me up. Well, how much money will ittake? Let me see; and don't go to sleep. I'll tell you in a minute. You always love to see the dear things like new pins, I know that, Caudle; and though I say it--bless their little hearts!--they docredit to you, Caudle. Any nobleman of the land might be proud of'em. Now don't swear at noblemen of the land, and ask me whatthey've to do with your children; you know what I meant. But you AREso hasty, Caudle. 

"HOW MUCH?

"Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good pinching--andyou know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch closer than Ican--I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. What didyou say?

"TWENTY FIDDLESTICKS?

"What?

"YOU WON'T GIVE HALF THE MONEY?

"Very well, Mr. Caudle; I don't care: let the children go in rags;let them stop from church, and grow up like heathens and cannibals, and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied. 

"YOU GAVE ME TWENTY POUNDS FIVE MONTHS AGO?

"What's five months ago to do with now? Besides, what I HAVE had isnothing to do with it. 

"What do you say?

"TEN POUNDS ARE ENOUGH?

"Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for women; butyou don't care how much you lay out upon yourselves. 

"THEY ONLY WANT BONNETS AND FROCKS?

"How do you know what they want? HOW should a man know anything atall about it? And you won't give more than ten pounds? Very well. Then you may go shopping with it yourself, and see what YOU'LL makeof it. I'll have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you. No, sir, --no; you have no cause to say that. 

"I DON'T WANT TO DRESS THE CHILDREN UP LIKE COUNTESSES?

"You often fling that in my teeth, you do: but you know it's false, Caudle; you know it. I only want to give 'em proper notions ofthemselves: and what, indeed, CAN the poor things think when theysee the Briggs's, and the Browns, and the Smiths--and their fathersdon't make the money you do, Caudle--when they see them as fine astulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody; and to thinkyourself nobody--depend upon it, Caudle, --isn't the way to make theworld think anything of you. 

"What do you say?

"WHERE DID I PICK UP THAT?

"Where do you think? I know a great deal more than you suppose--yes;though you don't give me credit for it. Husbands seldom do. However, the twenty pounds I WILL have, if I've any--or not afarthing. No, sir, no. 

"I DON'T WANT TO DRESS UP THE CHILDREN LIKE PEACOCKS AND PARROTS!

"I only want to make 'em respectable and--what do you say?

"YOU'LL GIVE FIFTEEN POUNDS?

"No, Caudle, no--not a penny will I take under twenty; if I did, itwould seem as if I wanted to waste your money: and I'm sure, when Icome to think of it, twenty pounds will hardly do. Still, if you'llgive me twenty--no, it's no use your offering fifteen, and wanting togo to sleep. You sha'n't close an eye until you promise me twenty. Come, Caudle, love!--twenty, and then you may go to sleep. Twenty--twenty--twenty--"

"My impression is, " writes Caudle, "that I fell asleep stickingfirmly to the fifteen; but in the morning Mrs. Caudle assured me, asa woman of honour, that she wouldn't let me wink an eye before Ipromised the twenty: and man is frail--and woman is strong--she hadthe money. "

LECTURE XV--MR. CAUDLE HAS AGAIN STAYED OUT LATE. MRS. CAUDLE, ATFIRST INJURED AND VIOLENT, MELTS

"Perhaps, Mr. Caudle, you'll tell me where this is to end? Though, goodness knows, I needn't ask THAT. The end is plain enough. Out--out--out! Every night--every night! I'm sure, men who can't comehome at reasonable hours have no business with wives: they have noright to destroy other people, if they choose to go to destructionthemselves. Ha, lord! Oh, dear! I only hope none of my girls willever marry--I hope they'll none of 'em ever be the slave their poormother is: they shan't, if I can help it. What do you say?

"NOTHING?

"Well, I don't wonder at that, Mr. Caudle? you ought to be ashamed tospeak; I don't wonder that you can't open your mouth. I'm onlyastonished that at such hours you have the confidence to knock atyour own door. Though I'm your wife, I must say it, I do sometimeswonder at your impudence. What do you say?

"NOTHING?

"Ha! you are an aggravating creature, Caudle; lying there like themummy of a man, and never as much as opening your lips to one. Justas if your own wife wasn't worth answering! It isn't so when you'reout, I'm sure. Oh no! then you can talk fast enough; here, there'sno getting a word from you. But you treat your wife as no other mandoes--and you know it. 

"Out--out every night! What?

"YOU HAVEN'T BEEN OUT THIS WEEK BEFORE?

"That's nothing at all to do with it. You might just as well be outall the week as once--just! And I should like to know what couldkeep you out till these hours?

"BUSINESS?

"Oh, yes--I dare say! Pretty business a married man and the fatherof a family must have out of doors at one in the morning. What?

"I SHALL DRIVE YOU MAD?

"Oh, no; you haven't feelings enough to go mad--you'd be a betterman, Caudle, if you had. 

"WILL I LISTEN TO YOU?

"What's the use? Of course you've some story to put me off with--youcan all do that, and laugh at us afterwards. 

"No, Caudle, don't say that. I'm not always trying to find fault--not I. It's you. I never speak but when there's occasion; and whatin my time I've put up with there isn't anybody in the world thatknows. 

"WILL I HEAR YOUR STORY?

"Oh, you may tell it if you please; go on: only mind, I sha'n'tbelieve a word of it. I'm not such a fool as other women are, I cantell you. 

"There, now--don't begin to swear--but go on--" -

"--And that's your story, is it? That's your excuse for the hoursyou keep! That's your apology for undermining my health and ruiningyour family! What do you think your children will say of you whenthey grow up--going and throwing away your money upon good-for-nothing pot-house acquaintance?

"HE'S NOT A POT-HOUSE ACQUAINTANCE?

"Who is he, then? Come, you haven't told me that; but I know--it'sthat Prettyman! Yes, to be sure it is! Upon my life! Well, if I'vehardly patience to lie in the bed! I've wanted a silver teapot thesefive years, and you must go and throw away as much money as--what?

"YOU HAVEN'T THROWN IT AWAY?

"Haven't you? Then my name's not Margaret, that's all I know!

"A man gets arrested, and because he's taken from his wife andfamily, and locked up, you must go and trouble your head with it!And you must be mixing yourself up with nasty sheriff's officers--pah! I'm sure you're not fit to enter a decent house--and go runningfrom lawyer to lawyer to get bail, and settle the business, as youcall it! A pretty settlement you'll make of it--mark my words! Yes--and to mend the matter, to finish it quite, you must be one of thebail! That any man who isn't a born fool should do such a thing foranother! Do you think anybody would do as much for you?

"YES?

"You say yes? Well, I only wish--just to show that I'm right--I onlywish you were in a condition to try 'em. I should only like to seeyou arrested. You'd find the difference--that you would. 

"What's other people's affairs to you? If you were locked up, dependupon it, there's not a soul would come near you. No; it's all veryfine now, when people think there isn't a chance of your being introuble--but I should only like to see what they'd say to you if YOUwere in a sponging-house. Yes--I should enjoy THAT, just to show youthat I'm always right. What do you say?

"YOU THINK BETTER OF THE WORLD?

"Ha! that would be all very well if you could afford it; but you'renot in means, I know, to think so well of people as all that. And ofcourse they only laugh at you. 'Caudle's an easy fool, ' they cry--Iknow it as well as if I heard 'em--'Caudle's an easy fool; anybodymay lead him. ' Yes anybody but his own wife;--and she--of course--isnobody. 

"And now, everybody that's arrested will of course send to you. Yes, Mr. Caudle, you'll have your hands full now, no doubt of it. You'llsoon know every sponging-house and every sheriff's officer in London. Your business will have to take care of itself; you'll have enough todo to run from lawyer to lawyer after the business of other people. Now, it's no use calling me a dear soul--not a bit! No; and I shan'tput it off till to-morrow. It isn't often I speak, but I WILL speaknow. 

"I wish that Prettyman had been at the bottom of the sea before--what?

"IT ISN'T PRETTYMAN?

"Ah! it's very well for you to say so; but I know it is; it's justlike him. He looks like a man that's always in debt--that's alwaysin a sponging-house. Anybody might swear it. I knew it from thevery first time you brought him here--from the very night he put hisnasty dirty wet boots on my bright steel fender. Any woman could seewhat the fellow was in a minute. Prettyman! a pretty gentleman, truly, to be robbing your wife and family!

"Why couldn't you let him stop in the sponging--Now don't call uponheaven in that way, and ask me to be quiet, for I won't. Whycouldn't you let him stop there? He got himself in; he might havegot himself out again. And you must keep me awake, ruin my sleep, myhealth, and for what you care, my peace of mind. Ha! everybody butyou can see how I'm breaking. You can do all this while you'retalking with a set of low bailiffs! A great deal you must think ofyour children to go into a lawyer's office. 

"And then you must be bail--you must be bound--for Mr. Prettyman!You may say, bound! Yes--you've your hands nicely tied, now. How helaughs at you--and serve you right! Why, in another week he'll be inthe East Indies; of course he will! And you'll have to pay hisdebts; yes, your children may go in rags, so that Mr. Prettyman--whatdo you say?

"IT ISN'T PRETTYMAN?

"I know better. Well, if it isn't Prettyman that's kept you out, --ifit isn't Prettyman you're bail for--who is it, then? I ask, who isit, then? What?

"MY BROTHER? BROTHER TOM?

"Oh, Caudle! dear Caudle--"

"It was too much for the poor soul, " says Caudle; "she sobbed as ifher heart would break, and I--" and here the MS. Is blotted, asthough Caudle himself had dropped tears as he wrote. 

LECTURE XVI--BABY IS TO BE CHRISTENED; MRS. CAUDLE CANVASSES THEMERITS OF PROBABLE GODFATHERS

"Come, now, love, about baby's name? The dear thing's three monthsold, and not a name to its back yet. There you go again! Talk of itto-morrow! No; we'll talk of it to-night. There's no having a wordwith you in the daytime--but here you can't leave me. Now don't sayyou wish you could, Caudle; that's unkind, and not treating a wife--especially the wife to you--as she deserves. It isn't often that Ispeak but I DO believe you'd like never to hear the sound of myvoice. I might as well have been born dumb!

"I suppose the baby MUST have a godfather; and so, Caudle, who shallwe have? Who do you think will be able to do the most for it? No, Caudle, no; I'm not a selfish woman--nothing of the sort--but I hopeI've the feelings of a mother; and what's the use of a godfather ifhe gives nothing else to the child but a name? A child might almostas well not be christened at all. And so who shall we have? What doyou say?

"ANYBODY?

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Caudle? Don't you think somethingwill happen to you, to talk in that way? I don't know where you pickup such principles. I'm thinking who there is among our acquaintancewho can do the most for the blessed creature, and you say, --'ANYBODY!' Caudle, you're quite a heathen. 

"There's Wagstaff. No chance of his ever marrying, and he's veryfond of babies. He's plenty of money, Caudle; and I think he mightbe got. Babies, I know it--babies are his weak side. Wouldn't it bea blessed thing to find our dear child in his will? Why don't youspeak? I declare, Caudle, you seem to care no more for the childthan if it was a stranger's. People who can't love children morethan you do, ought never to have 'em. 

"YOU DON'T LIKE WAGSTAFF?

"No more do I much; but what's that to do with it? People who'vetheir families to provide for, mustn't think of their feelings. Idon't like him; but then I'm a mother, and love my baby. 

"YOU WON'T HAVE WAGSTAFF AND THAT'S FLAT?

"Ha, Caudle, you're like nobody else--not fit for this world, you'renot. 

"What do you think of Pugsby? I can't bear his wife; but that'snothing to do with it. I know my duty to my babe: I wish otherpeople did. What do you say?

"PUGSBY'S A WICKED FELLOW?

"Ha! that's like you--always giving people a bad name. We mustn'talways believe what the world says, Caudle; it doesn't become us asChristians to do it. I only know that he hasn't chick or child; and, besides that, he's very strong interest in the Blue-coats; and so, ifPugsby--Now, don't fly out at the man in that manner. Caudle, youought to be ashamed of yourself! You can't speak well of anybody. Where DO you think to go to?

"What do you say, then, to Sniggins? Now, don't bounce round in thatway, letting the cold air into the bed! What's the matter withSniggins?

"YOU WOULDN'T ASK HIM A FAVOUR FOR THE WORLD?

"Well, it's a good thing the baby has somebody to care for it: _I_will. What do you say?

"I SHAN'T?

"I will, I can tell you. Sniggins, besides being a warm man, hasgood interest in the Customs; and there's nice pickings there, if oneonly goes the right way to get 'em. It's no use, Caudle, yourfidgetting about--not a bit. I'm not going to have baby lost--sacrificed, I may say, like its brothers and sisters. 

"WHAT DO I MEAN BY SACRIFICED?

"Oh, you know what I mean very well. What have any of 'em got bytheir godfathers beyond a half-pint mug, a knife and fork, and spoon--and a shabby coat, that I know was bought second-hand, for I couldalmost swear to the place? And then there was your fine friendHartley's wife--what did she give to Caroline? Why, a trumpery lacecap it made me blush to look at. What?

"IT WAS THE BEST SHE COULD AFFORD?

"Then she'd no right to stand for the child. People who can't dobetter than that have no business to take the responsibility ofgodmother. They ought to know their duties better. 

"Well, Caudle, you can't object to Goldman?

"YES, YOU DO?

"Was there ever such a man! What for?

"HE'S A USURER AND A HUNKS?

"Well, I'm sure, you've no business in this world, Caudle; you havesuch high-flown notions. Why, isn't the man as rich as the bank?And as for his being a usurer, --isn't it all the better for those whocome after him? I'm sure it's well there's some people in the worldwho save money, seeing the stupid creatures who throw it away. Butyou are the strangest man! I really believe you think money a sin, instead of the greatest blessing; for I can't mention any of ouracquaintance that's rich--and I'm sure we don't know too many suchpeople--that you haven't something to say against 'em. It's onlybeggars that you like--people with not a shilling to blessthemselves. Ha! though you're my husband, I must say it--you're aman of low notions, Caudle. I only hope none of the dear boys willtake after their father!

"And I should like to know what's the objection to Goldman? The onlything against him is his name; I must confess it, I don't like thename of Lazarus: it's low, and doesn't sound genteel--not at allrespectable. But after he's gone and done what's proper for thechild, the boy could easily slip Lazarus into Laurence. I'm told thething's done often. No, Caudle, don't say that--I'm not a meanwoman--certainly not; quite the reverse. I've only a parent's lovefor my children; and I must say it--I wish everybody felt as I did. 

"I suppose, if the truth was known, you'd like your tobacco-pipefriend, your pot-companion, Prettyman, to stand for the child?

"YOU'D HAVE NO OBJECTION?

"I thought not! Yes; I knew what it was coming to. He's a beggar, he is; and a person who stays out half the night; yes, he does; andit's no use your denying it--a beggar and a tippler, and that's theman you'd make godfather to your own flesh and blood! Upon my word, Caudle, it's enough to make a woman get up and dress herself to hearyou talk. 

"Well, I can hardly tell you, if you won't have Wagstaff, or Pugsby, or Sniggins, or Goldman, or somebody that's respectable, to do what'sproper, the child sha'n't be christened at all. As for Prettyman, orany such raff--no, never! I'm sure there's a certain set of peoplethat poverty's catching from, and that Prettyman's one of 'em. Now, Caudle, I won't have my dear child lost by any of your spittoonacquaintance, I can tell you. 

"No; unless I can have MY way, the child sha'n't be christened atall. What do you say?

"IT MUST HAVE A NAME?

"There's no 'must' at all in the case--none. No, it shall have noname; and then see what the world will say. I'll call it Number Six--yes, that will do as well as anything else, unless I've thegodfather I like. Number Six Caudle! ha! ha! I think that must makeyou ashamed of yourself if anything can. Number Six Caudle--a muchbetter name than Mr. Prettyman could give; yes, Number Six. What doyou say?

"ANYTHING BUT NUMBER SEVEN?

"Oh, Caudle, if ever--"

"At this moment, " writes Caudle, "little Number Six began to cry; andtaking advantage of the happy accident I somehow got to sleep. "

LECTURE XVII--CAUDLE IN THE COURSE OF THE DAY HAS VENTURED TOQUESTION THE ECONOMY OF "WASHING AT HOME. "

"Pooh! A pretty temper you come to bed in, Mr. Caudle, I can see!Oh, don't deny it--I think I ought to know by this time. But it'salways the way; whenever I get up a few things, the house can hardlyhold you! Nobody cries out more about clean linen than you do--andnobody leads a poor woman so miserable a life when she tries to makeher husband comfortable. Yes, Mr. Caudle--comfortable! You needn'tkeep chewing the word, as if you couldn't swallow it. 

"WAS THERE EVER SUCH A WOMAN?

"No, Caudle; I hope not: I should hope no other wife was ever putupon as I am! It's all very well for you. I can't have a littlewash at home like anybody else but you must go about the houseswearing to yourself, and looking at your wife as if she was yourbitterest enemy. But I suppose you'd rather we didn't wash at all. Yes; then you'd be happy! To be sure you would--you'd like to haveall the children in their dirt, like potatoes: anything, so that itdidn't disturb you. I wish you'd had a wife who never washed--SHE'Dhave suited you, she would. Yes; a fine lady who'd have let yourchildren go that you might have scraped 'em. She'd have been muchbetter cared for than I am. I only wish I could let all of you gowithout clean linen at all--yes, all of you. I wish I could! And ifI wasn't a slave to my family, unlike anybody else, I should. 

"No, Mr. Caudle; the house isn't tossed about in water as if it wasNoah's Ark. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk ofNoah's Ark in that loose manner. I'm sure I don't know what I'vedone to be married to a man of such principles. No: and the wholehouse DOESN'T taste of soap-suds either; and if it did, any other manbut yourself would be above naming it. I suppose I don't likewashing-day any more than yourself. What do you say?

"YES, I DO?

"Ha! you're wrong there, Mr. Caudle. No; I don't like it because itmakes everybody else uncomfortable. No; and I ought not to have beenborn a mermaid, that I might always have been in water. A mermaid, indeed! What next will you call me? But no man, Mr. Caudle, sayssuch things to his wife as you. However, as I've said before, itcan't last long, that's one comfort. What do you say?

"YOU'RE GLAD OF IT?

"You're a brute, Mr. Caudle! No, you DIDN'T mean washing: I knowwhat you mean. A pretty speech to a woman who's been the wife to youI have! You'll repent it when it's too late: yes, I wouldn't haveyour feelings when I'm gone, Caudle; no, not for the Bank of England. 

"And when we only wash once a fortnight! Ha! I only wish you hadsome wives, they'd wash once a week! Besides, if once a fortnight'stoo much for you, why don't you give me money that we may have thingsto go a month? Is it MY fault if we're short? What do you say?

"MY 'ONCE A FORTNIGHT' LASTS THREE DAYS?

"No, it doesn't; never; well, very seldom, and that's the same thing. Can I help it, if the blacks will fly, and the things must be rinsedagain? Don't say that; I'm NOT made happy by the blacks, and theyDON'T prolong my enjoyment; and, more than that, you're an unfeelingman to say so. You're enough to make a woman wish herself in hergrave--you are, Caudle. 

"And a pretty example you set to your sons! Because we'd a littlewash to-day, and there wasn't a hot dinner--and who thinks of gettinganything hot for washer-women?--because you hadn't everything as youalways have it, you must swear at the cold mutton--and you don't knowwhat that mutton costs a pound, I dare say--you must swear at asweet, wholesome joint like a lord. What?

"YOU DIDN'T SWEAR?

"Yes; it's very well for you to say so; but I know when you'reswearing; and you swear when you little think it; and I say you mustgo on swearing as you did, and seize your hat like a savage, and rushout of the house, and go and take your dinner at a tavern! A prettywife people must think you have, when they find you dining at apublic-house. A nice home they must think you have, Mr. Caudle!What?

"YOU'LL DO SO EVERY TIME I WASH?

"Very well, Mr. Caudle--very well. We'll soon see who's tired ofthat, first; for I'll wash a stocking a day if that's all, soonerthan you should have everything as you like. Ha! that's so like you:you'd trample everybody under foot, if you could--you know you would, Caudle, so don't deny it. 

"Now, if you begin to shout in that manner, I'll leave the bed. It'svery hard that I can't say a single word to you, but you must almostraise the place. 

"YOU DIDN'T SHOUT?

"I don't know what you call shouting, then! I'm sure the people musthear you in the next house. No--it won't do to call me soft names, now, Caudle: I'm not the fool that I was when I was first married--Iknow better now. You're to treat me in the manner you have, all day;and then at night, the only time and place when I can get a word in, you want to go to sleep. How can you be so mean, Caudle?

"What?

"WHY CAN'T I PUT THE WASHING OUT?

"Now, you have asked that a thousand times, but it's no use, Caudle;so don't ask it again. I won't put it out. What do you say?

"MRS. PRETTYMAN SAYS IT'S QUITE AS CHEAP?

"Pray, what's Mrs. Prettyman to me? I should think, Mr. Caudle, thatI know very well how to take care of my family without Mrs. Prettyman's advice. Mrs. Prettyman, indeed! I only wish she'd comehere, that I might tell her so! Mrs. Prettyman! But, perhaps she'dbetter come and take care of your house for you! Oh, yes! I've nodoubt she'd do it much better than I do--MUCH. No, Caudle! I WON'THOLD MY TONGUE. I think I ought to be mistress of my own washing bythis time--and after the wife I've been to you, it's cruel of you togo on as you do. 

"Don't tell me about putting the washing out. I say it isn't socheap--I don't care whether you wash by the dozen or not--it isn't socheap; I've reduced everything, and I save at least a shilling aweek. What do you say?

"A TRUMPERY SHILLING?

"Ha! I only hope to goodness you'll not come to want, talking ofshillings in the way you do. Now, don't begin about your comfort:don't go on aggravating me, and asking me if your comfort's not wortha shilling a week? That's nothing at all to do with it--nothing:but that's your way--when I talk of one thing, you talk of another;that's so like you men, and you know it. Allow me to tell you, Mr. Caudle, that a shilling a week is two pound twelve a year; and taketwo pound twelve a year for, let us say, thirty years, and--well, youneedn't groan, Mr. Caudle--I don't suppose it will be so long; oh, no! you'll have somebody else to look after your washing long beforethat--and if it wasn't for my dear children's sake I shouldn't carehow soon. You know my mind--and so, good-night, Mr. Caudle. "

"Thankful for her silence, " writes Caudle, "I was fast dropping tosleep; when, jogging my elbow, my wife observed--'Mind, there's thecold mutton to-morrow--nothing hot till that's gone. Remember, too, as it was a short wash to-day, we wash again on Wednesday. '"

LECTURE XVIII--CAUDLE, WHILST WALKING WITH HIS WIFE, HAS BEEN BOWEDTO BY A YOUNGER AND EVEN PRETTIER WOMAN THAN MRS. CAUDLE

"If I'm not to leave the house without being insulted, Mr. Caudle, Ihad better stay indoors all my life. 

"What! Don't tell me to let you have ONE night's rest! I wonder atyour impudence! It's mighty fine, I never can go out with you and--goodness knows!--it's seldom enough without having my feelings tornto pieces by people of all sorts. A set of bold minxes!

"WHAT AM I RAVING ABOUT?

"Oh, you know very well--very well, indeed, Mr. Caudle. A prettyperson she must be to nod to a man walking with his own wife! Don'ttell me that it's Miss Prettyman--what's Miss Prettyman to me? Oh!

"YOU'VE MET HER ONCE OR TWICE AT HER BROTHER'S HOUSE?

"Yes, I dare say you have--no doubt of it. I always thought therewas something very tempting about that house--and now I know it all. Now, it's no use, Mr. Caudle, your beginning to talk loud, and twistand toss your arms about as if you were as innocent as a born babe--I'm not to be deceived by such tricks now. No; there was a time whenI was a fool and believed anything; but--I thank my stars!--I've gotover that. 

"A bold minx! You suppose I didn't see her laugh, too, when shenodded to you! Oh yes, I knew what she thought me--a poor miserablecreature, of course. I could see that. No--don't say so, Caudle. IDON'T always see more than anybody else--but I can't and won't beblind, however agreeable it might be to you; I must have the use ofmy senses. I'm sure, if a woman wants attention and respect from aman, she'd better be anything than his wife. I've always thought so;and to-day's decided it. 

"No; I'm not ashamed of myself to talk so--certainly not. 

"A GOOD, AMIABLE YOUNG CREATURE INDEED!

"Yes; I dare say; very amiable, no doubt. Of course, you think herso. You suppose I didn't see what sort of a bonnet she had on? Oh, a very good creature! And you think I didn't see the smudges ofcourt plaster about her face?

"YOU DIDN'T SEE 'EM?

"Very likely; but I did. Very amiable, to be sure! What do you say?

"I MADE HER BLUSH AT MY ILL MANNERS?

"I should have liked to have seen her blush! 'Twould have beenrather difficult, Mr. Caudle, for a blush to come through all thatpaint. No--I'm not a censorious woman, Mr. Caudle; quite thereverse. No; and you may threaten to get up, if you like--I willspeak. I know what colour is, and I say it WAS paint. I believe, Mr. Caudle, _I_ once had a complexion--though of course you've quiteforgotten that: I think I once had a colour--before your conductdestroyed it. Before I knew you, people used to call me the Lily andRose; but--what are you laughing at? I see nothing to laugh at. Butas I say, anybody before your own wife. 

"And I can't walk out with you but you're bowed to by every woman youmeet!

"WHAT DO I MEAN BY EVERY WOMAN, WHEN IT'S ONLY MISS PRETTYMAN?

"That's nothing at all to do with it. How do I know who bows to youwhen I'm not by? Everybody of course. And if they don't look atyou, why you look at them. Oh! I'm sure you do. You do it evenwhen I'm out with you, and of course you do it when I'm away. Now, don't tell me, Caudle--don't deny it. The fact is, it's become sucha dreadful habit with you, that you don't know when you do it, andwhen you don't. But I do. 

"Miss Prettyman, indeed! What do you say?

"YOU WON'T LIE STILL AND HEAR ME SCANDALISE THAT EXCELLENT YOUNGWOMAN?

"Oh, of course you'll take her part! Though, to be sure, she may notbe so much to blame after all. For how is she to know you'remarried? You're never seen out of doors with your own wife--never. Wherever you go, you go alone. Of course people think you're abachelor. What do you say?

"YOU WELL KNOW YOU'RE NOT?

"That's nothing to do with it--I only ask, What must people think, when I'm never seen with you? Other women go out with theirhusbands: but, as I've often said, I'm not like any other woman. What are you sneering at, Mr. Caudle?

"HOW DO I KNOW YOU'RE SNEERING?

"Don't tell me: I know well enough, by the movement of the pillow. 

"No; you never take me out--and you know it. No; and it's not my ownfault. How can you lie there and say that? Oh, all a poor excuse!That's what you always say. You're tired of asking me, indeed, because I always start some objection? Of course I can't go out afigure. And when you ask me to go, you know very well that my bonnetisn't as it should be--or that my gown hasn't come home--or that Ican't leave the children--or that something keeps me indoors. Youknow all this well enough before you ask me. And that's your art. And when I DO go out with you, I'm sure to suffer for it. Yes, youneedn't repeat my words. SUFFER FOR IT. But you suppose I have nofeelings: oh no, nobody has feelings but yourself. Yes; I'd forgot:Miss Prettyman, perhaps--yes, she may have feelings, of course. 

"And as I've said, I dare say a pretty dupe people think me. To besure; a poor forlorn creature I must look in everybody's eyes. But Iknew you couldn't be at Mr. Prettyman's house night after night tilleleven o'clock--and a great deal you thought of me sitting up foryou--I knew you couldn't be there without some cause. And now I'vefound it out! Oh, I don't mind your swearing, Mr. Caudle! It's I, if I wasn't a woman, who ought to swear. But it's like you men. Lords of the creation, as you call yourselves! Lords, indeed! Andpretty slaves you make of the poor creatures who're tied to you. ButI'll be separated, Caudle; I will; and then I'll take care and letall the world know how you've used me. What do you say?

"I MAY SAY MY WORST?

"Ha! don't you tempt any woman in that way--don't, Caudle; for Iwouldn't answer for what I said. 

"Miss Prettyman, indeed, and--oh yes! now I see! Now the whole lightbreaks in upon me! Now I know why you wished me to ask her with Mr. And Mrs. Prettyman to tea! And I, like a poor blind fool, was nearlydoing it. But now, as I say, my eyes are open! And you'd havebrought her under my own roof--now it's no use your bouncing about inthat fashion--you'd have brought her into the very house, where--"

"Here, " says Caudle, "I could endure it no longer. So I jumped outof bed, and went and slept somehow with the children. "

LECTURE XIX--MRS. CAUDLE THINKS "IT WOULD LOOK WELL TO KEEP THEIRWEDDING-DAY. "

"Caudle, love, do you know what next Sunday is?

"NO! YOU DON'T?

"Well, was there ever such a strange man! Can't you guess, darling?Next Sunday, dear? Think, love, a minute--just think. 

"WHAT! AND YOU DON'T KNOW NOW?

"Ha! if I hadn't a better memory than you, I don't know how we shouldever get on. Well, then, pet, --shall I tell you what next Sunday is?Why, then, it's our wedding-day--What are you groaning at, Mr. Caudle? I don't see anything to groan at. If anybody should groan, I'm sure it isn't you. No: I rather think it's I who ought togroan!

"Oh, dear! That's fourteen years ago. You were a very different manthen, Mr. Caudle. What do you say--?

"AND I WAS A VERY DIFFERENT WOMAN?

"Not at all--just the same. Oh, you needn't roll your head about onthe pillow in that way: I say, just the same. Well, then, if I'maltered, whose fault is it? Not mine, I'm sure--certainly not. Don't tell me that I couldn't talk at all then--I could talk just aswell then as I can now; only then I hadn't the same cause. It's youwho've made me talk. What do you say?

"YOU'RE VERY SORRY FOR IT?

"Caudle, you do nothing but insult me. 

"Ha! you were a good-tempered, nice creature fourteen years ago, andwould have done anything for me. Yes, yes, if a woman would bealways cared for, she should never marry. There's quite an end ofthe charm when she goes to church! We're all angels while you'recourting us; but once married, how soon you pull our wings off! No, Mr. Caudle, I'm not talking nonsense; but the truth is, you like tohear nobody talk but yourself. Nobody ever tells me that I talknonsense but you. Now, it's no use your turning and turning about inthat way, it's not a bit of--what do you say?

"YOU'LL GET UP?

"No you won't, Mr. Caudle; you'll not serve me that trick again; forI've locked the door and hid the key. There's no getting hold of youall the day-time--but here you can't leave me. You needn't groanagain, Mr. Caudle. 

"Now, Caudle, dear, do let us talk comfortably. After all, love, there's a good many folks who, I daresay, don't get on half so wellas we've done. We've both our little tempers, perhaps; but you AREaggravating; you must own that, Caudle. Well, never mind; we won'ttalk of it; I won't scold you now. We'll talk of next Sunday, love. We never have kept our wedding-day, and I think it would be a niceday to have our friends. What do you say?

"THEY'D THINK IT HYPOCRISY?

"No hypocrisy at all. I'm sure I try to be comfortable; and if everman was happy, you ought to be. No, Caudle, no; it isn't nonsense tokeep wedding-days; it isn't a deception on the world; and if it is, how many people do it! I'm sure it's only a proper compliment that aman owes to his wife. Look at the Winkles--don't they give a dinnerevery year? Well, I know, and if they do fight a little in thecourse of the twelvemonth, that's nothing to do with it. They keeptheir wedding-day, and their acquaintance have nothing to do withanything else. 

"As I say, Caudle, it's only a proper compliment that a man owes tohis wife to keep his wedding-day. It's as much as to say to thewhole world--'There! if I had to marry again, my blessed wife's theonly woman I'd choose!' Well! I see nothing to groan at, Mr. Caudle--no, nor to sigh at either; but I know what you mean: I'msure, what would have become of you if you hadn't married as you havedone--why, you'd have been a lost creature! I know it; I know yourhabits, Caudle; and--I don't like to say it, but you'd have beenlittle better than a ragamuffin. Nice scrapes you'd have got into, Iknow, if you hadn't had me for a wife. The trouble I've had to keepyou respectable--and what's my thanks? Ha! I only wish you'd hadsome women!

"But we won't quarrel, Caudle. No; you don't mean anything, I know. We'll have this little dinner, eh? Just a few friends? Now don'tsay you don't care--that isn't the way to speak to a wife; andespecially the wife I've been to you, Caudle. Well, you agree to thedinner, eh? Now, don't grunt, Mr. Caudle, but speak out. You'llkeep your wedding-day? What?

"IF I LET YOU GO TO SLEEP?

"Ha! that's unmanly, Caudle. Can't you say 'Yes, ' without anythingelse? I say--can't you say 'Yes'? There, bless you! I knew youwould. 

"And now, Caudle, what shall we have for dinner? No--we won't talkof it to-morrow; we'll talk of it now, and then it will be off mymind. I should like something particular--something out of the way--just to show that we thought the day something. I should like--Mr. Caudle, you're not asleep?

"WHAT DO I WANT?

"Why, you know I want to settle about the dinner. 

"HAVE WHAT I LIKE?

"No: as it's your fancy to keep the day, it's only right that Ishould try to please you. We never had one, Caudle; so what do youthink of a haunch of venison? What do you say?

"MUTTON WILL DO?

"Ha! that shows what you think of your wife: I dare say if it waswith any of your club friends--any of your pot-house companions--you'd have no objection to venison. I say if--what do you mutter?

"LET IT BE VENISON?

"Very well. And now about the fish? What do you think of a niceturbot? No, Mr. Caudle, brill won't do--it shall be turbot, or theresha'n't be any fish at all. Oh, what a mean man you are, Caudle!Shall it be turbot?

"IT SHALL?

"Very well. And now about the soup--now, Caudle, don't swear at thesoup in that manner; you know there must be soup. Well, once in away, and just to show our friends how happy we've been, we'll havesome real turtle. 

"NO, YOU WON'T, YOU'LL HAVE NOTHING BUT MOCK?

"Then, Mr. Caudle, you may sit at the table by yourself. Mock-turtleon a wedding-day! Was there ever such an insult? What do you say?

"LET IT BE REAL, THEN, FOR ONCE?

"Ha, Caudle! As I say, you were a very different person fourteenyears ago. And, Caudle, you'll look after the venison? There's aplace I know, somewhere in the City, where you get it beautiful!You'll look to it?

"YOU WILL?

"Very well. 

"And now who shall we invite?

"WHO I LIKE?

"Now, you know, Caudle, that's nonsense; because I only like whom youlike. I suppose the Prettymans must come? But understand, Caudle, Idon't have Miss Prettyman: I'm not going to have my peace of minddestroyed under my own roof! if she comes, I don't appear at thetable. What do you say?

"VERY WELL?

"Very well be it, then. 

"And now, Caudle, you'll not forget the venison? In the City, mydear? You'll not forget the venison? A haunch, you know; a nicehaunch. And you'll not forget the venison--?"

"Three times did I fall off to sleep, " says Caudle, "and three timesdid my wife nudge me with her elbow, exclaiming--'You'll not forgetthe venison?' At last I got into a sound slumber, and dreamt I was apot of currant jelly. "

LECTURE XX--"BROTHER" CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO A MASONIC CHARITABLE DINNER. MRS. CAUDLE HAS HIDDEN THE "BROTHER'S" CHEQUE-BOOK

"But all I say is this: I only wish I'd been born a man. What doyou say?

"YOU WISH I HAD?

"Mr. Caudle, I'll not lie quiet in my own bed to be insulted. Oh, yes, you DID mean to insult me. I know what you mean. You mean, ifI HAD been born a man, you'd never have married me. That's a prettysentiment, I think; and after the wife I've been to you. And now Isuppose you'll be going to public dinners every day! It's no useyour telling me you've only been to one before; that's nothing to dowith it--nothing at all. Of course you'll be out every night now. Iknew what it would come to when you were made a mason: when you wereonce made a 'brother, ' as you call yourself, I knew where the husbandand father would be;--I'm sure, Caudle, and though I'm your own wife, I grieve to say it--I'm sure you haven't so much heart that you haveany to spare for people out of doors. Indeed, I should like to seethe man who has! No, no, Caudle; I'm by no means a selfish woman--quite the contrary; I love my fellow-creatures as a wife and motherof a family, who has only to look to her own husband and children, ought to love 'em. 

"A 'brother, ' indeed! What would you say, if I was to go and be madea 'sister'? Why, I know very well the house wouldn't hold you. 

"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?

"How should I know where your watch is? You ought to know. But tobe sure, people who go to public dinners never know where anything iswhen they come home. You've lost it, no doubt; and 'twill serve youquite right if you have. If it should be gone--and nothing morelikely--I wonder if any of your 'brothers' will give you another?Catch 'em doing it. 

"YOU MUST FIND YOUR WATCH? AND YOU'LL GET UP FOR IT?

"Nonsense!--don't be foolish--lie still. Your watch is on themantelpiece. Ha! isn't it a good thing for you, you've somebody totake care of it?

"What do you say?

"I'M A DEAR CREATURE?

"Very dear, indeed, you think me, I dare say. But the fact is, youdon't know what you're talking about to-night. I'm a fool to open mylips to you--but I can't help it. 

"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?

"Haven't I told you--on the mantelpiece?

"ALL RIGHT, INDEED!

"Pretty conduct you men call all right. There now, hold your tongue, Mr. Caudle, and go to sleep: I'm sure 'tis the best thing you can doto-night. You'll be able to listen to reason to-morrow morning; now, it's thrown away upon you. 

"WHERE'S YOUR CHEQUE-BOOK?

"Never mind your cheque-book. I took care of that. 

"WHAT BUSINESS HAD I TO TAKE IT OUT OF YOUR POCKET?

"Every business. No, no. If you choose to go to public dinners, why--as I'm only your wife--I can't help it. But I know what foolsmen are made of there; and if I know it, you never take your cheque-book again with you. What? Didn't I see your name down last yearfor ten pounds? 'Job Caudle, Esq. , 10 pounds. ' It looked very wellin the newspapers, of course: and you thought yourself a somebody, when they knocked the tavern tables; but I only wish I'd been there--yes, I only wish I'd been in the gallery. If I wouldn't have told apiece of my mind, I'm not alive. Ten pounds indeed! and the worldthinks you a very fine person for it. I only wish I could bring theworld here, and show 'em what's wanted at home. I think the worldwould alter their mind then; yes--a little. 

"What do you say?

"A WIFE HAS NO RIGHT TO PICK HER HUSBAND'S POCKET?

"A pretty husband you are, to talk in that way! Never mind: youcan't prosecute her for it--or I've no doubt you would; none at all. Some men would do anything. What?

"YOU'VE A BIT OF A HEADACHE?

"I hope you have--and a good bit, too. You've been to the rightplace for it. No--I won't hold my tongue. It's all very well foryou men to go to taverns--and talk--and toast--and hurrah--and--Iwonder you're not all ashamed of yourselves to drink the Queen'shealth with all the honours, I believe, you call it--yes, prettyhonours you pay to the sex--I say, I wonder you're not ashamed todrink that blessed creature's health, when you've only to think howyou use your own wives at home. But the hypocrites that the men are--oh!

"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?

"Haven't I told you? It's under your pillow--there, you needn't befeeling for it. I tell you it's under your pillow. 

"IT'S ALL RIGHT?

"Yes; a great deal you know of what's right just now! Ha! was thereever any poor soul used as I am!

"I'M A DEAR CREATURE?

"Pah! Mr. Caudle! I've only to say, I'm tired of your conduct--quite tired, and don't care how soon there's an end of it. 

"WHY DID I TAKE YOUR CHEQUE-BOOK?

"I've told you--to save you from ruin, Mr. Caudle. 

"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BE RUINED?

"Ha! you don't know anything when you're out! I know what they do atthose public dinners--charities, they call 'em; pretty charities!True Charity, I believe, always dines at home. I know what they do:the whole system's a trick. No: I'M NOT A STONY-HEARTED CREATURE:and you ought to be ashamed to say so of your wife and the mother ofyour children, --but you'll not make me cry to-night, I can tell you--I was going to say that--oh! you're such an aggravating man I don'tknow what I was going to say!

"THANK HEAVEN?

"What for? I don't see that there's anything to thank Heaven about!I was going to say, I know the trick of public dinners. They get alord, or a duke, if they can catch him--anything to make people saythey dined with nobility, that's it--yes, they get one of thesepeople, with a star perhaps in his coat, to take the chair--and totalk all sorts of sugar-plum things about charity--and to makefoolish men, with wine in 'em, feel that they've no end of money; andthen--shutting their eyes to their wives and families at home--allthe while that their own faces are red and flushed like poppies, andthey think to-morrow will never come--then they get 'em to put theirhand to paper. Then they make 'em pull out their cheques. But Itook your book, Mr. Caudle--you couldn't do it a second time. Whatare you laughing at?

"NOTHING?

"It's no matter: I shall see it in the paper to-morrow; for if yougave anything, you were too proud to hide it. I know YOUR charity. 

"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?

"Haven't I told you fifty times where it is? In the pocket--overyour head--of course. Can't you hear it tick? No: you can hearnothing to-night. 

"And now, Mr. Caudle, I should like to know whose hat you've broughthome? You went out with a beaver worth three-and-twenty shillings--the second time you've worn it--and you bring home a thing that noJew in his senses would give me fivepence for. I couldn't even get apot of primroses--and you know I always turn your old hats intoroots--not a pot of primroses for it. I'm certain of it now--I'veoften thought it--but now I'm sure that some people dine out only tochange their hats. 

"WHERE'S YOUR WATCH?

"Caudle, you're bringing me to an early grave!"

WE HOPE THAT CAUDLE WAS PENITENT FOR HIS CONDUCT; INDEED, THERE IS, WE THINK, EVIDENCE THAT HE WAS SO: FOR TO THIS LECTURE HE HASAPPENDED NO COMMENT. THE MAN HAD NOT THE FACE TO DO IT. 

LECTURE XXI--MR. CAUDLE HAS NOT ACTED "LIKE A HUSBAND" AT THE WEDDINGDINNER

"Ah, me! It's no use wishing--none at all: but I do wish thatyesterday fourteen years could come back again. Little did I think, Mr. Caudle, when you brought me home from church, your lawful weddedwife--little, I say, did I think that I should keep my wedding dinnerin the manner I have done to-day. Fourteen years ago! Yes, I seeyou now, in your blue coat with bright buttons, and your whitewatered-satin waistcoat, and a moss-rose bud in your button-hole, which you said was like me. What?

"YOU NEVER TALKED SUCH NONSENSE?

"Ha! Mr. Caudle, you don't know what you talked that day--but I do. Yes; and you then sat at the table as if your face, as I may say, wasbuttered with happiness, and--What? No, Mr. Caudle, don't say that;_I_ have not wiped the butter off--not I. If you above all men arenot happy, you ought to be, gracious knows!

"Yes, I WILL talk of fourteen years ago. Ha! you sat beside me then, and picked out all sorts of nice things for me. You'd have given mepearls and diamonds to eat if I could have swallowed 'em. Yes, Isay, you sat beside me, and--What do you talk about?

"YOU COULDN'T SIT BESIDE ME TO-DAY?

"That's nothing at all to do with it. But it's so like you. I can'tspeak but you fly off to something else. Ha! and when the health ofthe young couple was drunk, what a speech you made then! It wasdelicious! How you made everybody cry as if their hearts werebreaking; and I recollect it as if it was yesterday, how the tearsran down dear father's nose, and how dear mother nearly went into afit! Dear souls! They little thought, with all your fine talk, howyou'd use me. 

"HOW HAVE YOU USED ME?

"Oh, Mr. Caudle, how can you ask that question? It's well for you Ican't see you blush. HOW have you used me?

"Well, that the same tongue could make a speech like that, and thentalk as it did to-day!

"HOW DID YOU TALK?

"Why, shamefully! What did you say about your wedded happiness?Why, nothing. What did you say about your wife? Worse than nothing:just as if she were a bargain you were sorry for, but were obliged tomake the best of. What do you say?

"AND BAD'S THE BEST?

"If you say that again, Caudle, I'll rise from my bed. 

"YOU DIDN'T SAY IT?

"What, then, did you say? Something very like it, I know. Yes, apretty speech of thanks for a husband! And everybody could see thatyou didn't care a pin for me; and that's why you had 'em here:that's why you invited 'em, to insult me to their faces. What?

"I MADE YOU INVITE 'EM?

"Oh, Caudle, what an aggravating man you are!

"I suppose you'll say next I made you invite Miss Prettyman? Oh yes;don't tell me that her brother brought her without you knowing it. What?

"DIDN'T I HEAR HIM SAY SO?

"Of course I did; but do you suppose I'm quite a fool? Do you thinkI don't know that that was all settled between you? And she must bea nice person to come unasked to a woman's house? But I know why shecame. Oh yes; she came to look about her. 

"Oh, the meaning's plain enough. --She came to see how she should likethe rooms--how she should like my seat at the fireplace; how she--andif it isn't enough to break a mother's heart to be treated so!--howshe should like my dear children. 

"Now, it's no use your bouncing about at--but of course that's it; Ican't mention Miss Prettyman but you fling about as if you were in afit. Of course that shows there's something in it. Otherwise, whyshould you disturb yourself? Do you think I didn't see her lookingat the ciphers on the spoons as if she already saw mine scratched outand hers there? No, I sha'n't drive you mad, Mr. Caudle; and if I doit's your own fault. No other man would treat the wife of his bosomin--What do you say?

"YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE MARRIED A HEDGEHOG?

"Well, now it's come to something! But it's always the case!Whenever you've seen that Miss Prettyman, I'm sure to be abused. Ahedgehog! A pretty thing for a woman to be called by her husband!Now you don't think I'll lie quietly in bed, and be called ahedgehog--do you, Mr. Caudle?

"Well, I only hope Miss Prettyman had a good dinner, that's all. Ihad none! You know I had none--how was I to get any? You know thatthe only part of the turkey I care for is the merry-thought. Andthat, of course, went to Miss Prettyman. Oh, I saw you laugh whenyou put it on her plate! And you don't suppose, after such an insultas that, I'd taste another thing upon the table? No, I should hope Ihave more spirit than that. Yes; and you took wine with her fourtimes. What do you say?

"ONLY TWICE?

"Oh, you were so lost--fascinated, Mr. Caudle; yes, fascinated--thatyou didn't know what you did. However, I do think while I'm alive Imight be treated with respect at my own table. I say, while I'malive; for I know I sha'n't last long, and then Miss Prettyman maycome and take it all. I'm wasting daily, and no wonder. I never sayanything about it, but every week my gowns are taken in. 

"I've lived to learn something, to be sure! Miss Prettyman turned upher nose at my custards. It isn't sufficient that you are alwaysfinding fault yourself, but you must bring women home to sneer at meat my own table. What do you say?

"SHE DIDN'T TURN UP HER NOSE?

"I know she did; not but what it's needless--Providence has turned itup quite enough for her already. And she must give herself airs overmy custards! Oh, I saw her mincing with the spoon as if she waschewing sand. What do you say?

"SHE PRAISED MY PLUM-PUDDING?

"Who asked her to praise it? Like her impudence, I think!

"Yes, a pretty day I've passed. I shall not forget this wedding-day, I think! And as I say, a pretty speech you made in the way ofthanks. No, Caudle, if I was to live a hundred years--you needn'tgroan, Mr. Caudle, I shall not trouble you half that time--if I wasto live a hundred years, I should never forget it. Never! Youdidn't even so much as bring one of your children into your speech. And--dear creatures!--what have THEY done to offend you? No; I shallnot drive you mad. It's you, Mr. Caudle, who'll drive me mad. Everybody says so. 

"And you suppose I didn't see how it was managed that you and THATMiss Prettyman were always partners at whist?

"HOW WAS IT MANAGED?

"Why, plain enough. Of course you packed the cards, and could cutwhat you liked. You'd settled that between you. Yes; and when shetook a trick, instead of leading off a trump--she play whist, indeed!--what did you say to her, when she found it was wrong? Oh--it was impossible that HER heart should mistake! And this, Mr. Caudle, before people--with your own wife in the room!

"And Miss Prettyman--I won't hold my tongue. I WILL talk of MissPrettyman: who's she, indeed, that I shouldn't talk of her? Isuppose she thinks she sings? What do you say?

"SHE SINGS LIKE A MERMAID?

"Yes, very--very like a mermaid; for she never sings but she exposesherself. She might, I think, have chosen another song. 'I LOVESOMEBODY, ' indeed; as if I didn't know who was meant by that'somebody'; and all the room knew it, of course; and that was what itwas done for, nothing else. 

"However, Mr. Caudle, as my mind's made up, I shall say no more aboutthe matter to-night, but try to go to sleep. "

"And to my astonishment and gratitude, " writes Caudle, "she kept herword. "

LECTURE XXII--CAUDLE COMES HOME IN THE EVENING, AS MRS. CAUDLE HAS"JUST STEPPED OUT, SHOPPING. " ON HER RETURN, AT TEN, CAUDLEREMONSTRATES

"Mr. Caudle, you ought to have had a slave--yes, a black slave, andnot a wife. I'm sure, I'd better been born a negro at once--muchbetter. 

"WHAT'S THE MATTER NOW?

"Well, I like that. Upon my life, Mr. Caudle, that's very cool. Ican't leave the house just to buy a yard of riband, but you stormenough to carry the roof off. 

"YOU DIDN'T STORM? YOU ONLY SPOKE?

"Spoke, indeed! No, sir: I've not such superfine feelings; and Idon't cry out before I'm hurt. But you ought to have married a womanof stone, for you feel for nobody: that is, for nobody in your ownhouse. I only wish you'd show some of your humanity at home, if everso little--that's all. 

"What do you say?

"WHERE'S MY FEELINGS, TO GO SHOPPING AT NIGHT?

"When would you have me go? In the broiling sun, making my face likea gipsy's? I don't see anything to laugh at, Mr. Caudle; but youthink of anybody's face before your wife's. Oh, that's plain enough;and all the world can see it. I dare say, now, if it was MissPrettyman's face--now, now, Mr. Caudle! What are you throwingyourself about for? I suppose Miss Prettyman isn't so wonderful aperson that she isn't to be named? I suppose she's flesh and blood. What?

"YOU DON'T KNOW?

"Ha! I don't know that. 

"What, Mr. Caudle?

"YOU'LL HAVE A SEPARATE ROOM--YOU'LL NOT BE TORMENTED IN THIS MANNER?

"No, you won't, sir--not while I'm alive. A separate room! And youcall yourself a religious man, Mr. Caudle. I'd advise you to takedown the Prayer Book, and read over the Marriage Service. A separateroom, indeed! Caudle, you're getting quite a heathen. A separateroom! Well, the servants would talk then! But no: no man--not thebest that ever trod, Caudle--should ever make me look socontemptible. 

"I SHA'N'T go to sleep; and you ought to know me better than to askme to hold my tongue. Because you come home when I've just steppedout to do a little shopping, you're worse than a fury. I should liketo know how many hours I sit up for you? What do you say?

"NOBODY WANTS ME TO SIT UP?

"Ha! that's like the gratitude of men--just like 'em! But a poorwoman can't leave the house, that--what?

"WHY CAN'T I GO AT REASONABLE HOURS?

"Reasonable! What do you call eight o'clock? If I went out ateleven and twelve, as you come home, then you might talk; but sevenor eight o'clock--why, it's the cool of the evening; the nicest timeto enjoy a walk; and, as I say, do a little bit of shopping. Oh yes, Mr. Caudle, I do think of the people that are kept in the shops justas much as you; but that's nothing at all to do with it. I know whatyou'd have. You'd have all those young men let away early from thecounter to improve what you please to call their minds. Prettynotions you pick up among a set of free-thinkers, and I don't knowwhat! When I was a girl, people never talked of minds--intellect, Ibelieve you call it. Nonsense! a new-fangled thing, just come up;and the sooner it goes out, the better. 

"Don't tell me! What are shops for, if they're not to be open lateand early too? And what are shopmen, if they're not always to attendupon their customers? People pay for what they have, I suppose, andaren't to be told when they shall come and lay their money out, andwhen they sha'n't? Thank goodness! if one shop shuts, another keepsopen; and I always think it a duty I owe to myself to go to the shopthat's open last: it's the only way to punish the shopkeepers thatare idle, and give themselves airs about early hours. 

"Besides, there's some things I like to buy best at candle-light. Oh, don't talk to me about humanity! Humanity, indeed, for a pack oftall, strapping young fellows--some of 'em big enough to be shown forgiants! And what have they to do? Why nothing, but to stand behinda counter, and talk civility. Yes, I know your notions; you say thateverybody works too much: I know that. You'd have all the world donothing half its time but twiddle its thumbs, or walk in the parks, or go to picture-galleries, and museums, and such nonsense. Veryfine, indeed; but, thank goodness! the world isn't come to that passyet. 

"What do you say I am, Mr. Caudle?

"A FOOLISH WOMAN, THAT CAN'T LOOK BEYOND MY OWN FIRESIDE?

"Oh yes, I can; quite as far as you, and a great deal farther. But Ican't go out shopping a little with my dear friend Mrs. Wittles--whatdo you laugh at? Oh, don't they? Don't women know what friendshipis? Upon my life, you've a nice opinion of us! Oh yes, we can--wecan look outside of our own fenders, Mr. Caudle. And if we can't, it's all the better for our families. A blessed thing it would befor their wives and children if men couldn't either. You wouldn'thave lent that five pounds--and I dare say a good many other fivepounds that I know nothing of--if you--a lord of the creation!--hadhalf the sense women have. You seldom catch us, I believe, lendingfive pounds. I should think not. 

"No: we won't talk of it to-morrow morning. You're not going towound my feelings when I come home, and think I'm to say nothingabout it. You have called me an inhuman person; you have said I haveno thought, no feeling for the health and comfort of my fellow-creatures; I don't know what you haven't called me; and only forbuying a--but I sha'n't tell you what; no, I won't satisfy you there--but you've abused me in this manner, and only for shopping up to teno'clock. You've a great deal of fine compassion, you have! I'm surethe young man that served me could have knocked down an ox; yes, strong enough to lift a house: but you can pity him--oh yes, you canbe all kindness for him, and for the world, as you call it. Oh, Caudle, what a hypocrite you are! I only wish the world knew how youtreated your poor wife!

"What do you say?

"FOR THE LOVE OF MERCY LET YOU SLEEP?

"Mercy, indeed! I wish you could show a little of it to otherpeople. Oh yes, I DO know what mercy means; but that's no reason Ishould go shopping a bit earlier than I do--and I won't. No; you'vepreached this over to me again and again; you've made me go tomeetings to hear about it: but that's no reason women shouldn't shopjust as late as they choose. It's all very fine, as I say, for youmen to talk to us at meetings, where, of course, we smile and allthat--and sometimes shake our white pocket-handkerchiefs--and whereyou say we have the power of early hours in our own hands. To besure we have; and we mean to keep it. That is, I do. You'll nevercatch me shopping till the very last thing; and--as a matter ofprinciple--I'll always go to the shop that keeps open latest. Itdoes the young men good to keep 'em close to business. Improve theirminds indeed! Let 'em out at seven, and they'd improve nothing buttheir billiards. Besides, if they want to improve themselves, can'tthey get up, this fine weather, at three? Where there's a will, there's a way, Mr. Caudle. "

"I thought, " writes Caudle, "that she had gone to sleep. In thishope, I was dozing off when she jogged me, and thus declared herself:'Caudle, you want nightcaps; but see if I budge to buy 'em till nineat night!"

LECTURE XXIII--MRS. CAUDLE "WISHES TO KNOW IF THEY'RE GOING TO THESEA-SIDE, OR NOT, THIS SUMMER--THAT'S ALL"

"Hot? Yes, it IS hot. I'm sure one might as well be in an oven asin town this weather. You seem to forget it's July, Mr. Caudle. I've been waiting quietly--have never spoken; yet, not a word haveyou said of the seaside yet. Not that I care for it myself--oh, no;my health isn't of the slightest consequence. And, indeed, I wasgoing to say--but I won't--that the sooner, perhaps, I'm out of thisworld, the better. Oh, yes; I dare say you think so--of course youdo, else you wouldn't lie there saying nothing. You're enough toaggravate a saint, Caudle; but you shan't vex me. No; I've made upmy mind, and never intend to let you vex me again. Why should Iworry myself?

"But all I want to ask you is this: do you intend to go to the sea-side this summer?

"YES? YOU'LL GO TO GRAVESEND?

"Then you'll go alone, that's all I know. Gravesend! You might aswell empty a salt-cellar in the New River, and call that the sea-side. What?

"IT'S HANDY FOR BUSINESS?

"There you are again! I can never speak of taking a littleenjoyment, but you fling business in my teeth. I'm sure you neverlet business stand in the way of your own pleasure, Mr. Caudle--notyou. It would be all the better for your family if you did. 

"You know that Matilda wants sea-bathing; you know it, or ought toknow it, by the looks of the child; and yet--I know you, Caudle--you'd have let the summer pass over, and never said a word about thematter. What do you say?

"MARGATE'S SO EXPENSIVE?

"Not at all. I'm sure it will be cheaper for us in the end; for ifwe don't go, we shall all be ill--every one of us--in the winter. Not that my health is of any consequence: I know that well enough. It never was yet. You know Margate's the only place I can eat abreakfast at, and yet you talk of Gravesend! But what's my eating toyou? You wouldn't care if I never ate at all. You never watch myappetite like any other husband, otherwise you'd have seen what it'scome to. 

"What do you say?

"HOW MUCH WILL IT COST?

"There you are, Mr. Caudle, with your meanness again. When you wantto go yourself to Blackwall or to Greenwich you never ask, how muchwill it cost? What?

"YOU NEVER GO TO BLACKWALL?

"Ha! I don't know that; and if you don't, that's nothing at all todo with it. Yes, you can give a guinea a plate for whitebait foryourself. No, sir: I'm not a foolish woman: and I know very wellwhat I'm talking about--nobody better. A guinea for whitebait foryourself, when you grudge a pint of shrimps for your poor family. Eh?

"YOU DON'T GRUDGE 'EM ANYTHING?

"Yes, it's very well for you to lie there and say so. 

"WHAT WILL IT COST?

"It's no matter what it will cost, for we won't go at all now. No;we'll stay at home. We shall all be ill in the winter--every one ofus, all but you; and nothing ever makes you ill. I've no doubt weshall all be laid up, and there'll be a doctor's bill as long as arailroad; but never mind that. It's better--much better--to pay fornasty physic than for fresh air and wholesome salt water. Don't callme 'woman, ' and ask 'what it will cost. ' I tell you, if you were tolay the money down before me on that quilt, I wouldn't go now--certainly not. It's better we should all be sick; yes, then you'llbe pleased. 

"That's right, Mr. Caudle; go to sleep. It's like your unfeelingself! I'm talking of our all being laid up; and you, like any stone, turn round and begin to go to sleep. Well, I think that's a prettyinsult!

"HOW CAN YOU SLEEP WITH SUCH A SPLINTER IN YOUR FLESH?

"I suppose you mean to call me the splinter?--and after the wife I'vebeen to you! But no, Mr. Caudle, you may call me what you please;you'll not make me cry now. No, no; I don't throw away my tears uponany such person now. 

"What?

"DON'T?

"Ha! that's your ingratitude! But none of you men deserve that anywoman should love you. My poor heart!

"Everybody else can go out of town except us. Ha! If I'd onlymarried Simmons--What?

"WHY DIDN'T I?

"Yes, that's all the thanks I get. 

"WHO'S SIMMONS?

"Oh, you know very well who Simmons is. He'd have treated me alittle better, I think. He WAS a gentleman. 

"YOU CAN'T TELL?

"May be not: but I can. With such weather as this, to stay meltingin London; and when the painters are coming in!

"YOU WON'T HAVE THE PAINTERS IN?

"But you must; and if they once come in, I'm determined that none ofus shall stir then. Painting in July, with a family in the house!We shall all be poisoned, of course; but what do you care for that?

"WHY CAN'T I TELL YOU WHAT IT WILL COST?

"How can I or any woman tell exactly what it will cost? Of courselodgings--and at Margate, too--are a little dearer than living atyour own house. 

"POOH! YOU KNOW THAT?

"Well, if you did, Mr. Caudle, I suppose there's no treason in namingit. Still, if you take 'em for two months, they're cheaper than forone. No, Mr. Caudle, I shall not be quite tired of it in one month. No: and it isn't true that I no sooner get out than I want to gethome again. To be sure, I was tired of Margate three years ago, whenyou used to leave me to walk about the beach by myself, to be staredat through all sorts of telescopes. But you don't do that again, Mr. Caudle, I can tell you. 

"WHAT WILL I DO AT MARGATE?

"Why, isn't there bathing, and picking up shells; and aren't therethe packets, with the donkeys; and the last new novel, whatever itis, to read?--for the only place where I really relish a book is atthe sea-side. No; it isn't that I like salt with my reading, Mr. Caudle! I suppose you call that a joke? You might keep your jokesfor the daytime, I think. But as I was saying--only you always willinterrupt me--the ocean always seems to me to open the mind. I seenothing to laugh at; but you always laugh when I say anything. Sometimes at the sea-side--especially when the tide's down--I feel sohappy: quite as if I could cry. 

"When shall I get the things ready? For next Sunday?

"WHAT WILL IT COST?

"Oh, there--don't talk of it. No: we won't go. I shall send forthe painters to-morrow. What?

"I CAN GO AND TAKE THE CHILDREN, AND YOU'LL STAY?

"No, sir: you go with me, or I don't stir. I'm not going to beturned loose like a hen with her chickens, and nobody to protect me. So we'll go on Monday? Eh?

"WHAT WILL IT COST?

"What a man you are! Why, Caudle, I've been reckoning that, withbuff slippers and all, we can't well do it under seventy pounds. No;I won't take away the slippers and say fifty. It's seventy poundsand no less. Of course, what's over will be so much saved. Caudle, what a man you are! Well, shall we go on Monday? What do you say -

"YOU'LL SEE?

"There's a dear. Then, Monday. "

"Anything for a chance of peace, " writes Caudle. "I consented to thetrip, for I thought I might sleep better in a change of bed. "

LECTURE XXIV--MRS. CAUDLE DWELLS ON CAUDLE'S "CRUEL NEGLECT" OF HERON BOARD THE "RED ROVER. " MRS. CAUDLE SO "ILL WITH THE SEA, " THATTHEY PUT UP AT THE DOLPHIN, HERNE BAY. 

"Caudle, have you looked under the bed?

"WHAT FOR?

"Bless the man! Why, for thieves, to be sure. Do you suppose I'dsleep in a strange bed without? Don't tell me it's nonsense! Ishouldn't sleep a wink all night. Not that you'd care for that; notthat you'd--hush! I'm sure I heard somebody. No; it's not a bitlike a mouse. Yes; that's like you--laugh. It would be no laughingmatter if--I'm sure there IS somebody!--I'm sure there is!

"--Yes, Mr. Caudle; now I AM satisfied. Any other man would have gotup and looked himself; especially after my sufferings on board thatnasty ship. But catch you stirring! Oh, no! You'd let me lie hereand be robbed and killed, for what you'd care. Why you're not goingto sleep? What do you say?

"IT'S THE STRANGE AIR--AND YOU'RE ALWAYS SLEEPY IN A STRANGE AIR?

"That shows the feelings you have, after what I've gone through. Andyawning, too, in that brutal manner! Caudle, you've no more heartthan that wooden figure in a white petticoat at the front of theship. 

"No; I COULDN'T leave my temper at home. I dare say! Because foronce in your life you've brought me out--yes, I say once, or two orthree times, it isn't more; because, as I say, you once bring me out, I'm to be a slave and say nothing. Pleasure, indeed! A great dealof pleasure I'm to have, if I'm told to hold my tongue. A nice waythat of pleasing a woman. 

"Dear me! if the bed doesn't spin round and dance about! I've gotall that filthy ship in my head! No: I sha'n't be well in themorning. But nothing ever ails anybody but yourself. You needn'tgroan in that way, Mr. Caudle, disturbing the people, perhaps, in thenext room. It's a mercy I'm alive, I'm sure. If once I wouldn'thave given all the world for anybody to have thrown me overboard!What are you smacking your lips at, Mr. Caudle? But I know what youmean--of course, you'd never have stirred to stop 'em; not you. Andthen you might have known that the wind would have blown to-day; butthat's why you came. 

"Whatever I should have done if it hadn't been for that good soul--that blessed Captain Large! I'm sure all the women who go to Margateought to pray for him; so attentive in sea-sickness, and so much of agentleman! How I should have got down stairs without him when Ifirst began to turn, I don't know. Don't tell me I never complainedto you; you might have seen I was ill. And when everybody waslooking like a bad wax-candle, you could walk about, and make whatyou call your jokes upon the little buoy that was never sick at theNore, and such unfeeling trash. 

"Yes, Caudle; we've now been married many years, but if we were tolive together for a thousand years to come--what are you claspingyour hands at?--a thousand years to come, I say, I shall never forgetyour conduct this day. You could go to the other end of the ship andsmoke a cigar, when you knew I should be ill--oh, you knew it; for Ialways am. The brutal way, too, in which you took that cold brandy-and-water--you thought I didn't see you; but ill as I was, hardlyable to hold my head up, I was watching you all the time. Threeglasses of cold brandy-and-water; and you sipped 'em, and drank thehealth of people who you didn't care a pin about; whilst the healthof your own lawful wife was nothing. Three glasses of brandy-and-water, and _I_ left--as I may say--alone! You didn't hear 'em, buteverybody was crying shame of you. 

"What do you say?

"A GOOD DEAL MY OWN FAULT? I TOOK TOO MUCH DINNER?

"Well, you are a man! If I took more than the breast and leg of thatyoung goose--a thing, I may say, just out of the shell--with theslightest bit of stuffing, I'm a wicked woman. What do you say?

"LOBSTER SALAD?

"La!--how can you speak of it? A month-old baby would have eatenmore. What?

"GOOSEBERRY PIE?

"Well, if you'll name that you'll name anything. Ate too muchindeed! Do you think I was going to pay for a dinner, and eatnothing? No, Mr. Caudle; it's a good thing for you that I know alittle more of the value of money than that. 

"But, of course, you were better engaged than in attending to me. Mr. Prettyman came on board at Gravesend. A planned thing, ofcourse. You think I didn't see him give you a letter. 

"IT WASN'T A LETTER; IT WAS A NEWSPAPER?

"I daresay; ill as I was, I had my eyes. It was the smallestnewspaper I ever saw, that's all. But of course, a letter from MissPrettyman--Now, Caudle, if you begin to cry out in that manner, I'llget up. Do you forget that you are not at your own house? makingthat noise! Disturbing everybody! Why, we shall have the landlordup! And you could smoke and drink 'forward, ' as you called it. What?

"YOU COULDN'T SMOKE ANYWHERE ELSE?

"That's nothing to do with it. Yes; forward. What a pity that MissPrettyman wasn't with you! I'm sure nothing could be too forward forher. No, I won't hold my tongue; and I ought not to be ashamed ofmyself. It isn't treason, is it, to speak of Miss Prettyman? Afterall I've suffered to-day, and I'm not to open my lips! Yes; I'm tobe brought away from my own home, dragged down here to the sea-side, and made ill! and I'm not to speak. I should like to know what next. 

"It's a mercy some of the dear children were not drowned; not thattheir father would have cared, so long as he could have had hisbrandy and cigars. Peter was as near through one of the holes as -

"IT'S NO SUCH THING?

"It's very well for you to say so, but you know what an inquisitiveboy he is, and how he likes to wander among steam-engines. No, Iwon't let you sleep. What a man you are! What?

"I'VE SAID THAT BEFORE?

"That's no matter; I'll say it again. Go to sleep, indeed! as if onecould never have a little rational conversation. No, I sha'n't betoo late for the Margate boat in the morning; I can wake up at whathour I like, and you ought to know that by this time. 

"A miserable creature they must have thought me in the ladies' cabin, with nobody coming down to see how I was. 

"YOU CAME A DOZEN TIMES?

"No, Caudle, that won't do. I know better. You never came at all. Oh, no! cigars and brandy took all your attention. And when I was soill, that I didn't know a single thing that was going on about me, and you never came. Every other woman's husband was there--ha!twenty times. And what must have been my feelings to hear 'emtapping at the door, and making all sorts of kind inquiries--something like husbands and I was left to be ill alone? Yes; and youwant to get me into an argument. You want to know, if I was so illthat I knew nothing, how could I know that you didn't come to thecabin-door? That's just like your aggravating way; but I'm not to becaught in that manner, Caudle. No. "

"It is very possible, " writes Caudle, "that she talked two hoursmore, but, happily, the wind got suddenly up--the waves bellowed--and, soothed by the sweet lullaby (to say nothing of the Dolphin'sbrandy-and-water) I somehow sank to repose. "

LECTURE XXV--MRS. CAUDLE, WEARIED OF MARGATE, HAS "A GREAT DESIRE TOSEE FRANCE. "

"Bless me! aren't you tired, Caudle?

"NO?

"Well, was there ever such a man! But nothing ever tires you. Ofcourse, it's all very well for you: yes, you can read yournewspapers and--What?

"SO CAN I?

"And I wonder what would become of the children if I did! No; it'senough for their father to lose his precious time, talking aboutpolitics, and bishops, and lords, and a pack of people who wouldn'tcare a pin if we hadn't a roof to cover us--it's well enough for--no, Caudle, no: I'm not going to worry you; I never worried you yet, andit isn't likely I should begin now. But that's always the way withyou--always. I'm sure we should be the happiest couple alive, onlyyou do so like to have all the talk to yourself. We're out uponpleasure, and therefore let's be comfortable. Still, I must say it:when you like, you're an aggravating man, Caudle, and you know it. 

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?

"There, now; we won't talk of it. No; let's go to sleep: otherwisewe shall quarrel--I know we shall. What have you done, indeed! ThatI can't leave my home for a few days, but I must be insulted!Everybody upon the pier saw it. 

"SAW WHAT?

"How can you lie there in the bed and ask me? Saw what, indeed! Ofcourse it was a planned thing!--regularly settled before you leftLondon. Oh yes! I like your innocence, Mr. Caudle; not knowing whatI'm talking about. It's a heart-breaking thing for a woman to say ofher own husband; but you've been a wicked man to me. Yes: and allyour tossing and tumbling about in the bed won't make it any better. 

"Oh, it's easy enough to call a woman 'a dear soul. ' I must be verydear, indeed, to you, when you bring down Miss Prettyman to--therenow; you needn't shout like a wild savage. Do you know that you'renot in your own house--do you know that we're in lodgings? What doyou suppose the people will think of us? You needn't call out inthat manner, for they can hear every word that's said. What do yousay?

"WHY DON'T I HOLD MY TONGUE THEN?

"To be sure; anything for an excuse with you. Anything to stop mymouth. Miss Prettyman's to follow you here, and I'm to say nothing. I know she HAS followed you; and if you were to go before amagistrate, and take a shilling oath to the contrary, I wouldn'tbelieve you. No, Caudle; I wouldn't. 

"VERY WELL, THEN?

"Ha! what a heart you must have, to say 'very well'; and after thewife I've been to you. I'm to be brought from my own home--draggeddown here to the sea-side--to be laughed at before the world--don'ttell me. Do you think I didn't see how she looked at you--how shepuckered up her farthing mouth--and--what?

"WHY DID I KISS HER, THEN?

"What's that to do with it? Appearances are one thing, Mr. Caudle;and feelings are another. As if women can't kiss one another withoutmeaning anything by it! And you--I could see you looked as cold andas formal at her as--well, Caudle! I wouldn't be the hypocrite youare for the world!

"There, now; I've heard all that story. I daresay she did come downto join her brother. How very lucky, though, that you should behere! Ha! ha! how very lucky that--ugh! ugh! ugh! and with the coughI've got upon me--oh, you've a heart like a sea-side flint! Yes, that's right. That's just like your humanity. I can't catch a cold, but it must be my own fault--it must be my thin shoes. I daresayyou'd like to see me in ploughman's boots; 'twould be no matter toyou how I disfigured myself. Miss Prettyman's foot, NOW, would beanother thing--no doubt. 

"I thought when you would make me leave home--I thought we werecoming here on pleasure: but it's always the way you embitter mylife. The sooner that I'm out of the world the better. What do yousay?

"NOTHING?

"But I know what you mean, better than if you talked an hour. I onlyhope you'll get a better wife, that's all, Mr. Caudle. What?

"YOU'D NOT TRY?

"Wouldn't you? I know you. In six months you'd fill up my place;yes, and dreadfully my dear children would suffer for it. 

"Caudle, if you roar in that way, the people will give us warning to-morrow. 

"CAN'T I BE QUIET, THEN?

"Yes--that's like your artfulness: anything to make me hold mytongue. But we won't quarrel. I'm sure if it depended upon me, wemight be as happy as doves. I mean it--and you needn't groan when Isay it. Good-night, Caudle. What do you say?

"BLESS ME!

"Well, you are a dear soul, Caudle; and if it wasn't for that MissPrettyman--no, I'm not torturing you. I know very well what I'mdoing, and I wouldn't torture you for the world; but you don't knowwhat the feelings of a wife are, Caudle; you don't. 

"Caudle--I say, Caudle. Just a word, dear. 

"WELL?

"Now, why should you snap me up in that way?

"YOU WANT TO GO TO SLEEP?

"So do I; but that's no reason you should speak to me in that manner. You know, dear, you once promised to take me to France. 

"YOU DON'T RECOLLECT IT?

"Yes--that's like you; you don't recollect many things you'vepromised me; but I do. There's a boat goes on Wednesday to Boulogne, and comes back the day afterwards. 

"WHAT OF IT?

"Why, for that time we could leave the children with the girls, andgo nicely. 

"NONSENSE?

"Of course; if I want anything it's always nonsense. Other men cantake their wives half over the world; but you think it quite enoughto bring me down here to this hole of a place, where I know everypebble on the beach like an old acquaintance--where there's nothingto be seen but the same machines--the same jetty--the same donkeys--the same everything. But then, I'd forgot; Margate has an attractionfor you--Miss Prettyman's here. No; I'm not censorious, and Iwouldn't backbite an angel; but the way in which that young womanwalks the sands at all hours--there! there!--I've done: I can't openmy lips about that creature but you always storm. 

"You know that I always wanted to go to France; and you bring me downhere only on purpose that I should see the French cliffs--just totantalise me, and for nothing else. If I'd remained at home--and itwas against my will I ever came here--I should never have thought ofFrance; but--to have it staring in one's face all day, and not beallowed to go! it's worse than cruel, Mr. Caudle--it's brutal. Otherpeople can take their wives to Paris; but you always keep me moped upat home. And what for? Why, that I may know nothing--yes; just onpurpose to make me look little, and for nothing else. 

"HEAVEN BLESS THE WOMAN?

"Ha! you've good reason to say that, Mr. Caudle; for I'm sure she'slittle blessed by you. She's been kept a prisoner all her life--hasnever gone anywhere--oh yes! that's your old excuse, --talking of thechildren. I want to go to France, and I should like to know what thechildren have to do with it? They're not babies NOW--are they? Butyou've always thrown the children in my face. If Miss Prettyman--there now; do you hear what you've done--shouting in that manner?The other lodgers are knocking overhead: who do you think will havethe face to look at 'em to-morrow morning? I sha'n't--breakingpeople's rest in that way!

"Well, Caudle--I declare it's getting daylight, and what an obstinateman you are!--tell me, shall I go to France?"

"I forget, " says Caudle, "my precise answer; but I think I gave her avery wide permission to go somewhere, whereupon, though not withoutremonstrance as to the place--she went to sleep. "

LECTURE XXVI--MRS. CAUDLE'S FIRST NIGHT IN FRANCE--"SHAMEFULINDIFFERENCE" OF CAUDLE AT THE BOULOGNE CUSTOM HOUSE

"I suppose, Mr. Caudle, you call yourself a man? I'm sure such menshould never have wives. If I could have thought it possible you'dhave behaved as you have done--and I might, if I hadn't been aforgiving creature, for you've never been like anybody else--if Icould only have thought it, you'd never have dragged me to foreignparts. Never! Well, I DID say to myself, if he goes to France, perhaps he may catch a little politeness--but no; you began asCaudle, and as Caudle you'll end. I'm to be neglected through life, now. Oh yes! I've quite given up all thoughts of anything butwretchedness--I've made up my mind to misery, now. 

"YOU'RE GLAD OF IT?

"Well, you must have a heart to say that. I declare to you, Caudle, as true as I'm an ill-used woman, if it wasn't for the dear childrenfar away in blessed England--if it wasn't for them, I'd never go backwith you. No: I'd leave you in this very place. Yes; I'd go into aconvent; for a lady on board told me there was plenty of 'em here. I'd go and be a nun for the rest of my days, and--I see nothing tolaugh at, Mr. Caudle; that you should be shaking the bed-things upand down in that way. But you always laugh at people's feelings; Iwish you'd only some yourself. I'd be a nun, or a Sister of Charity. 

"IMPOSSIBLE?

"Ha! Mr. Caudle, you don't know even now what I can be when myblood's up. You've trod upon the worm long enough; some day won'tyou be sorry for it!

"Now, none of your profane cryings out! You needn't talk aboutHeaven in that way: I'm sure you're the last person who ought. WhatI say is this. Your conduct at the Custom House was shameful--cruel!And in a foreign land, too! But you brought me here that I might beinsulted; you'd no other reason for dragging me from England. Ha!let me once get home, Mr. Caudle, and you may wear your tongue outbefore you get me into outlandish places again. 

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

"There, now; that's where you're so aggravating. You behave worsethan any Turk to me, --what?

"YOU WISH YOU WERE A TURK?

"Well, I think that's a pretty wish before your lawful wife! Yes--anice Turk you'd make, wouldn't you? Don't think it. 

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

"Well, it's a good thing I can't see you, for I'm sure you mustblush. Done, indeed!

"Why, when the brutes searched my basket at the Custom House!

"A REGULAR THING, IS IT?

"Then if you knew that, why did you bring me here? No man whorespected his wife would. And you could stand by, and see thatfellow with mustachios rummage my basket; and pull out my night-capand rumple the borders, and--well! if you'd had the proper feelingsof a husband, your blood would have boiled again. But no! There youstood looking as mild as butter at the man, and never said a word;not when he crumpled my night-cap--it went to my heart like a stab--crumpled it as if it were any duster. I dare say if it had been MissPrettyman's night-cap--oh, I don't care about your groaning--if ithad been her night-cap, her hair-brush her curl-papers, you'd havesaid something then. Oh, anybody with the spirit of a man would havespoken out if the fellow had had a thousand swords at his side. Well, all I know is this: if I'd have married somebody I could name, he wouldn't have suffered me to be treated in that way, not he!

"Now, don't hope to go to sleep, Mr. Caudle, and think to silence mein that manner. I know your art, but it won't do. It wasn't enoughthat my basket was turned topsy-turvy, but before I knew it, theyspun me into another room, and -

"HOW COULD YOU HELP THAT?

"You never tried to help it. No; although it was a foreign land, andI don't speak French--not but what I know a good deal more of it thansome people who give themselves airs about it--though I don't speaktheir nasty gibberish, still you let them take me away, and nevercared how I was ever to find you again. In a strange country, too!But I've no doubt that that's what you wished: yes, you'd have beenglad enough to have got rid of me in that cowardly manner. If Icould only know your secret thoughts, Caudle, that's what you broughtme here for, to lose me. And after the wife I've been to you!

"What are you crying out?

"FOR MERCY'S SAKE?

"Yes; a great deal you know about mercy! Else you'd never havesuffered me to be twisted into that room. To be searched, indeed!As if I'd anything smuggled about me. Well, I will say it, after theway in which I've been used, if you'd the proper feelings of a man, you wouldn't sleep again for six months. Well, I know there wasnobody but women there; but that's nothing to do with it. I'm sure, if I'd been taken up for picking pockets, they couldn't have used meworse. To be treated so--and 'specially by one's own sex!--it's THATthat aggravates me. 

"And that's all you can say?

"WHAT COULD YOU DO?

"Why, break open the door; I'm sure you must have heard my voice:you shall never make me believe you couldn't hear that. Whenever Ishall sew the strings on again, I can't tell. If they didn't turn meout like a ship in a storm, I'm a sinner! And you laughed!

"YOU DIDN'T LAUGH?

"Don't tell me; you laugh when you don't know anything about it; butI do. 

"And a pretty place you have brought me to! A most respectableplace, I must say! Where the women walk about without any bonnets totheir heads, and the fish-girls with their bare legs--well, you don'tcatch me eating any fish while I'm here. 

"WHY NOT?

"Why not, --do you think I'd encourage people of that sort?

"What do you say?

"GOOD-NIGHT?

"It's no use your saying that--I can't go to sleep so soon as youcan. Especially with a door that has such a lock as that to it. Howdo we know who may come in? What?

"ALL THE LOCKS ARE BAD IN FRANCE?

"The more shame for you to bring me to such a place, then. It onlyshows how you value me. 

"Well, I dare say you are tired. I am! But then, see what I've gonethrough. Well, we won't quarrel in a barbarous country. We won't dothat. Caudle, dear, --what's the French for lace? I know it, only Iforget it. The French for lace, love? What?

"DENTELLE?

"Now, you're not deceiving me?

"YOU NEVER DECEIVED ME YET?

"Oh! don't say that. There isn't a married man in this blessed worldcan put his hand upon his heart in bed and say that. French forlace, dear? Say it again. 

"DENTELLE?

"Ha! Dentelle! Good-night, dear. Dentelle! Den-telle. "

"I afterwards, " writes Caudle, "found out to my cost wherefore sheinquired about lace. For she went out in the morning with thelandlady to buy a veil, giving only four pounds for what she couldhave bought in England for forty shillings!"

LECTURE XXVII--MRS. CAUDLE RETURNS TO HER NATIVE LAND. "UNMANLYCRUELTY" OF CAUDLE, WHO HAS REFUSED "TO SMUGGLE A FEW THINGS" FOR HER

"There, it isn't often that I ask you to do anything for me, Mr. Caudle, goodness knows! and when I do, I'm always refused--of course. Oh yes! anybody but your own lawful wife. Every other husband aboardthe boat could behave like a husband--but I was left to shift formyself. To be sure, that's nothing new; I always am. Every otherman, worthy to be called a man, could smuggle a few things for hiswife--but I might as well be alone in the world. Not one poor half-dozen of silk stockings could you put in your hat for me; andeverybody else was rolled in lace, and I don't know what. Eh? What, Mr. Caudle?

"WHAT DO I WANT WITH SILK STOCKINGS?

"Well--it's come to something now! There was a time, I believe, whenI had a foot--yes, and an ankle, too; but when once a woman'smarried, she has nothing of the sort; of course. No: I'm NOT acherub, Mr. Caudle; don't say that. I know very well what I am. 

"I dare say now, you'd have been delighted to smuggle for MissPrettyman? Silk stockings become her!

"YOU WISH MISS PRETTYMAN WAS IN THE MOON?

"Not you, Mr. Caudle; that's only your art--your hypocrisy. A niceperson too she'd be for the moon: it would be none the brighter forher being in it, I know. And when you saw the Custom House officerslook at me, as though they were piercing me through, what was yourconduct? Shameful. You twittered about and fidgeted, and flushed upas if I really WAS a smuggler. 

"SO I WAS?

"What had that to do with it? It wasn't the part of a husband, Ithink, to fidget in that way, and show it. 

"YOU COULDN'T HELP IT?

"Humph! And you call yourself a person of strong mind, I believe?One of the lords of the creation! Ha! ha! couldn't help it!

"But I may do all I can to save the money, and this is always myreward. Yes, Mr. Caudle; I shall save a great deal. 

"HOW MUCH?

"I sha'n't tell you: I know your meanness--you'd want to stop it outof the house allowance. No: it's nothing to you where I got themoney from to buy so many things. The money was my own. Well, andif it was yours first, that's nothing to do with it. No; I haven'tsaved it out of the puddings. But it's always the woman who saveswho's despised. It's only your fine-lady wives who're properlythought of. If I was to ruin you, Caudle, then you'd think somethingof me. 

"I sha'n't go to sleep. It's very well for you, who're no sooner inbed than you're fast as a church; but I can't sleep in that way. It's my mind keeps me awake. And after all, I do feel so happy to-night, it's very hard I can't enjoy my thoughts. 

"NO: I CAN'T THINK IN SILENCE!

"There's much enjoyment in that, to be sure! I've no doubt now youcould listen to Miss Prettyman--oh, I don't care, I will speak. Itwas a little more than odd, I think, that she should be on the jettywhen the boat came in. Ha! she'd been looking for you all themorning with a telescope, I've no doubt--she's bold enough foranything. And then how she sneered and giggled when she saw me, --andsaid 'how fat I'd got:' like her impudence, I think. What?

"WELL SHE MIGHT?

"But I know what she wanted; yes--she'd have liked to have had mesearched. She laughed on purpose. 

"I only wish I'd taken two of the dear girls with me. What things Icould have stitched about 'em! No--I'm not ashamed of myself to makemy innocent children smugglers: the more innocent they looked, thebetter; but there you are with what you call your principles again;as if it wasn't given to everybody by nature to smuggle. I'm sure ofit--it's born with us. And nicely I've cheated 'em this day. Lace, and velvet, and silk stockings, and other things, --to say nothing ofthe tumblers and decanters. No: I didn't look as if I wanted adirection, for fear somebody should break me. That's another of whatyou call your jokes; but you should keep 'em for those who like 'em. I don't. 

"WHAT HAVE I MADE, AFTER ALL?

"I've told you--you shall never, never know. Yes, I know you'd beenfined a hundred pounds if they'd searched me; but I never meant thatthey should. I daresay you wouldn't smuggle--oh no! you don't thinkit worth your while. You're quite a conjuror, you are, Caudle. Ha!ha! ha!

"WHAT AM I LAUGHING AT?

"Oh, you little know--such a clever creature! Ha! ha! Well, now, I'll tell you. I knew what an unaccommodating animal you were, so Imade you smuggle whether or not. 

"HOW?

"Why, when you were out at the Cafe, I got your great rough coat, andif I didn't stitch ten yards of best black velvet under the liningI'm a sinful woman! And to see how innocent you looked when theofficers walked round and round you! It was a happy moment, Caudle, to see you. 

"What do you call it?

"A SHAMEFUL TRICK--UNWORTHY OF A WIFE? I COULDN'T CARE MUCH FOR YOU?

"As if I didn't prove that by trusting you with ten yards of velvet. But I don't care what you say: I've saved everything--all but thatbeautiful English novel, that I've forgot the name of. And if theydidn't take it out of my hand, and chopped it to bits like so muchdog's-meat. 

"SERVED ME RIGHT?

"And when I so seldom buy a book! No: I don't see how it served meright. If you can buy the same book in France for four shillingsthat people here have the impudence to ask more than a guinea for--well, if they DO steal it, that's their affair, not ours. As ifthere was anything in a book to steal!

"And now, Caudle, when are you going home? What?

"OUR TIME ISN'T UP?

"That's nothing to do with it. If we even lose a week's lodging--andwe mayn't do that--we shall save it again in living. But you're sucha man! Your home's the last place with you. I'm sure I don't get awink of a night, thinking what may happen. Three fires last week;and any one might as well have been at our house as not. 

"NO--THEY MIGHTN'T?

"Well, you know what I mean--but you're such a man!

"I'm sure, too, we've had quite enough of this place. But there's nokeeping you out of the libraries, Caudle. You're getting quite agambler. And I don't think it's a nice example to set your children, raffling as you do for French clocks, and I don't know what. Butthat's not the worst; you never win anything. Oh, I forgot. Yes; aneedle-case, that under my nose you gave to Miss Prettyman. A nicething for a married man to make presents: and to such a creature asthat, too! A needle-case! I wonder whenever she has a needle in HERhand!

"I know I shall feel ill with anxiety if I stop here. Nobody left inthe house but that Mrs. Closepeg. And she is such a stupid woman. It was only last night that I dreamt I saw our cat quite a skeleton, and the canary stiff on its back at the bottom of the cage. Youknow, Caudle, I'm never happy when I'm away from home; and yet youwill stay here. No, home's my comfort! I never want to stir overthe threshold, and you know it. If thieves were to break in, whatcould that Mrs. Closepeg do against 'em? And so, Caudle, you'll gohome on Saturday? Our dear--dear home! On Saturday, Caudle?"

"What I answered, " says Caudle, "I forget; but I know that on theSaturday we were once again shipped on board the 'Red Rover'. "

LECTURE XXVIII--MRS. CAUDLE HAS RETURNED HOME. THE HOUSE (OF COURSE)"NOT FIT TO BE SEEN. " MR. CAUDLE, IN SELF-DEFENCE, TAKES A BOOK

"After all, Caudle, it is something to get into one's own bed again. I SHALL sleep to-night. What!

"YOU'RE GLAD OF IT?

"That's like your sneering; I know what you mean. Of course; I nevercan think of making myself comfortable, but you wound my feelings. If you cared for your own bed like any other man, you'd not havestayed out till this hour. Don't say that I drove you out of thehouse as soon as we came in it. I only just spoke about the dirt andthe dust, --but the fact is, you'd be happy in a pig-sty! I thought Icould have trusted that Mrs. Closepeg with untold gold; and did youonly see the hearthrug? When we left home there was a tiger in it:I should like to know who could make out the tiger, now? Oh, it'svery well for you to swear at the tiger, but swearing won't revivethe rug again. Else you might swear. 

"You could go out and make yourself comfortable at your club. Youlittle know how many windows are broken. How many do you think? No:I sha'n't tell you to-morrow--you shall know now. I'm sure! Talkingabout getting health at Margate; all my health went away directly Iwent into the kitchen. There's dear mother's china bowl cracked intwo places. I could have sat down and cried when I saw it: a bowl Ican recollect when I was a child. Eh?

"I SHOULD HAVE LOCKED IT UP, THEN?

"Yes: that's your feeling for anything of mine. I only wish it hadbeen your punch-bowl; but, thank goodness! I think that's chipped. 

"Well, you haven't answered about the windows--you can't guess howmany?

"YOU DON'T CARE?

"Well, if nobody caught cold but you, it would be little matter. Sixwindows clean out, and three cracked!

"YOU CAN'T HELP IT?

"I should like to know where the money's to come from to mend 'em!They sha'n't be mended, that's all. Then you'll see how respectablethe house will look. But I know very well what you think. Yes;you're glad of it. You think that this will keep me at home--butI'll never stir out again. Then you can go to the sea-side byyourself; then, perhaps, you can be happy with Miss Prettyman?--Now, Caudle, if you knock the pillow with your fist in that way, I'll getup. It's very odd that I can't mention that person's name but youbegin to fight the bolster, and do I don't know what. There must besomething in it, or you wouldn't kick about so. A guilty conscienceneeds no--but you know what I mean. 

"She wasn't coming to town for a week; and then, of a sudden, she'dhad a letter. I dare say she had. And then, as she said, it wouldbe company for her to come with us. No doubt. She thought I shouldbe ill again, and down in the cabin, but with all her art, she doesnot know the depth of me--quite. Not but what I was ill; though, like a brute, you wouldn't see it. 

"What do you say?

"GOOD-NIGHT, LOVE?

"Yes: you can be very tender, I dare say--like all of your sex--tosuit your own ends; but I can't go to sleep with my head full of thehouse. The fender in the parlour will never come to itself again. Ihaven't counted the knives yet, but I've made up my mind that half of'em are lost. No: I don't always think the worst; no, and I don'tmake myself unhappy before the time; but of course that's my thanksfor caring about your property. If there aren't spiders in thecurtains as big as nutmegs, I'm a wicked creature. Not a broom hasthe whole place seen since I've been away. But as soon as I get up, won't I rummage the house out, that's all! I hadn't the heart tolook at my pickles; but for all I left the door locked, I'm sure thejars have been moved. Yes; you can swear at pickles when you're inbed; but nobody makes more noise about 'em when you want 'em. 

"I only hope they've been to the wine-cellar: then you may know whatmy feelings are. That poor cat, too--What?

"YOU HATE CATS?

"Yes, poor thing! because she's my favourite--that's it. If that catcould only speak--What?

"IT ISN'T NECESSARY?

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Caudle: but if that cat could onlyspeak, she'd tell me how she's been cheated. Poor thing! I knowwhere the money's gone to that I left for her milk--I know. Why, what have you got there, Mr. Caudle? A book? What!

"IF YOU AREN'T ALLOWED TO SLEEP, YOU'LL READ?

"Well, now it is come to something! If that isn't insulting a wifeto bring a book to bed, I don't know what wedlock is. But yousha'n't read, Caudle; no, you sha'n't; not while I've strength to getup and put out a candle. 

"And that's like your feelings! You can think a great deal oftrumpery books; yes, you can't think too much of the stuff that's putinto print; but for what's real and true about you, why, you've theheart of a stone. I should like to know what that book's about. What!

"MILTON'S 'PARADISE LOST'?

"I thought some rubbish of the sort--something to insult me. A nicebook, I think, to read in bed; and a very respectable person he waswho wrote it. 

"WHAT DO I KNOW OF HIM?

"Much more than you think. A very pretty fellow, indeed, with hissix wives. What?

"HE HADN'T SIX--HE'D ONLY THREE?

"That's nothing to do with it; but of course you'll take his part. Poor women! A nice time they had with him, I dare say! And I've nodoubt, Mr. Caudle, you'd like to follow Mr. Milton's example; elseyou wouldn't read the stuff he wrote. But you don't use me as hetreated the poor souls who married him. Poets, indeed! I'd make alaw against any of 'em having wives, except upon paper; for goodnesshelp the dear creatures tied to them! Like innocent moths lured by acandle! Talking of candles, you don't know that the lamp in thepassage is split to bits! I say you don't--do you hear me, Mr. Caudle? Won't you answer? Do you know where you are? What?

"IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN?

"Are you? Then you've no business there at this time of night. "

"And saying this, " writes Caudle, "she scrambled from the bed and putout the night. "

LECTURE XXIX--MRS. CAUDLE THINKS "THE TIME HAS COME TO HAVE A COTTAGEOUT OF TOWN"

"Oh, Caudle, you ought to have had something nice to-night; foryou're not well, love--I know you're not. Ha! that's like you men--so headstrong! You will have it that nothing ails you; but I cantell, Caudle. The eye of a wife--and such a wife as I've been toyou--can at once see whether a husband's well or not. You've beenturning like tallow all the week; and what's more, you eat nothingnow. It makes me melancholy to see you at a joint. I don't sayanything at dinner before the children; but I don't feel the less. No, no; you're not very well; and you're not as strong as a horse. Don't deceive yourself--nothing of the sort. No, and you don't eatas much as ever: and if you do, you don't eat with a relish, I'msure of that. You can't deceive me there. 

"But I know what's killing you. It's the confinement; it's the badair you breathe; it's the smoke of London. Oh yes, I know your oldexcuse: you never found the air bad before. Perhaps not. But aspeople grow older, and get on in trade--and, after all, we've nothingto complain of, Caudle--London air always disagrees with 'em. Delicate health comes with money: I'm sure of it. What a colour youhad once, when you'd hardly a sixpence; and now, look at you!

"'Twould add thirty years to your life--and think what a blessingthat would be to me; not that I shall live a tenth part of the time--thirty years, if you'd take a nice little house somewhere at Brixton. 

"YOU HATE BRIXTON?

"I must say it, Caudle, that's so like you: any place that's reallygenteel you can't abide. Now Brixton and Baalam Hill I thinkdelightful. So select! There, nobody visits nobody, unless they'resomebody. To say nothing of the delightful pews that make thechurches so respectable!

"However, do as you like. If you won't go to Brixton, what do yousay to Clapham Common? Oh, that's a very fine story! Never tell me!No; you wouldn't be left alone, a Robinson Crusoe with wife andchildren, because you're in the retail way. What?

"THE RETIRED WHOLESALES NEVER VISIT THE RETIRED RETAILS AT CLAPHAM?

"Ha! that's only your old sneering at the world, Mr. Caudle; but Idon't believe it. And after all, people should keep to theirstation, or what was this life made for? Suppose a tallow-merchantdoes keep himself above a tallow-chandler, --I call it only a properpride. What?

"YOU CALL IT THE ARISTOCRACY OF FAT?

"I don't know what you mean by 'aristocracy'; but I suppose it's onlyanother of your dictionary words, that's hardly worth the findingout. 

"What do you say to Hornsey or Muswell Hill? Eh?

"TOO HIGH?

"What a man you are! Well, then--Battersea?

"TOO LOW?

"You're an aggravating creature, Caudle, you must own that!Hampstead, then?

"TOO COLD?

"Nonsense; it would brace you up like a drum, --Caudle; and that'swhat you want. But you don't deserve anybody to think of your healthor your comforts either. There's some pretty spots, I'm told, aboutFulham. Now, Caudle, I won't have you say a word against Fulham. That must be a sweet place: dry and healthy, and every comfort oflife about it--else is it likely that a bishop would live there?Now, Caudle, none of your heathen principles--I won't hear 'em. Ithink what satisfies a bishop ought to content you; but the politicsyou learn at that club are dreadful. To hear you talk of bishops--well, I only hope nothing will happen to you, for the sake of thedear children!

"A nice little house and a garden! I know it--I was born for agarden! There's something about it makes one feel so innocent. Myheart somehow always opens and shuts at roses. And then what nicecurrant wine we could make! And again, get 'em as fresh as you will, there's no radishes like your own radishes! They're ten times assweet! What?

"AND TWENTY TIMES AS DEAR?

"Yes; there you go! Anything that I fancy, you always bring up theexpense. 

"No, Mr. Caudle, I should not be tired of it in a month. I tell youI was made for the country. But here you've kept me--and much you'vecared about my health--here you've kept me in this filthy London, that I hardly know what grass is made of. Much you care for yourwife and family to keep 'em here to be all smoked like bacon. I cansee it--it's stopping the children's growth; they'll be dwarfs, andhave their father to thank for it. If you'd the heart of a parent, you couldn't bear to look at their white faces. Dear little Dick! hemakes no breakfast. What!

"HE ATE SIX SLICES THIS MORNING?

"A pretty father you must be to count 'em. But that's nothing towhat the dear child could do, if, like other children, he'd a fairchance. 

"Ha! and when we could be so comfortable! But it's always the case, you never will be comfortable with me. How nice and fresh you'd comeup to business every morning; and what pleasure it would be for me toput a tulip or a pink in your button-hole, just, as I may say, toticket you from the country. 

"But then, Caudle, you never were like any other man! But I know whyyou won't leave London. Yes, I know. Then, you think, you couldn'tgo to your filthy club--that's it. Then you'd be obliged to be athome, like any other decent man. Whereas you might, if you liked, enjoy yourself under your own apple-tree, and I'm sure I should neversay anything about your tobacco out of doors. My only wish is tomake you happy, Caudle, and you won't let me do it. 

"You don't speak, love? Shall I look about a house to-morrow? Itwill be a broken day with me, for I'm going out to have little pet'sears bored--What?

"YOU WON'T HAVE HER EARS BORED?

"And why not, I should like to know?

"IT'S A BARBAROUS, SAVAGE CUSTOM?

"Oh, Mr. Caudle! the sooner you go away from the world, and live in acave, the better. You're getting not fit for Christian society. What next? My ears were bored and--What?

"SO ARE YOURS?

"I know what you mean--but that's nothing to do with it. My ears, Isay, were bored, and so were dear mother's, and grandmother's beforeher; and I suppose there were no more savages in our family than inyours, Mr. Caudle? Besides, --why should little pet's ears go nakedany more than any of her sisters'? They wear earrings; you neverobjected before. What?

"YOU'VE LEARNED BETTER NOW?

"Yes, that's all with your filthy politics again. You'd shake allthe world up in a dice-box, if you'd your way: not that you care apin about the world, only you'd like to get a better throw foryourself, --that's all. But little pet SHALL be bored, and don'tthink to prevent it. 

"I suppose she's to be married some day, as well as her sisters? Andwho'll look at a girl without earrings, I should like to know? Ifyou knew anything of the world, you'd know what a nice diamondearring will sometimes do--when one can get it--before this. But Iknow why you can't abide earrings now: Miss Prettyman doesn't wear'em; she would--I've no doubt--if she could only get 'em. Yes, it'sMiss Prettyman who -

"There, Caudle, now be quiet, and I'll say no more about pet's earsat present. We'll talk when you're reasonable. I don't want to putyou out of temper, goodness knows! And so, love, about the cottage?What?

"'TWILL BE SO FAR FROM BUSINESS?

"But it needn't be far, dearest. Quite a nice distance; so that onyour late nights you may always be at home, have your supper, get tobed, and all by eleven. Eh, --sweet one?"

"I don't know what I answered, " says Caudle, "but I know this: inless than a fortnight I found myself in a sort of a green bird-cageof a house, which my wife--gentle satirist--insisted upon calling'The Turtle Dovery. '"

LECTURE XXX--MRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS OF THE "TURTLE DOVERY. " DISCOVERSBLACK-BEETLES. THINKS IT "NOTHING BUT RIGHT" THAT CAUDLE SHOULD SETUP A CHAISE

"Tush! You'd never have got me into this wilderness of a place, Mr. Caudle, if I'd only have thought what it was. Yes, that's right:throw it in my teeth that it was my choice--that's manly, isn't it?When I saw the place the sun was out, and it looked beautiful--now, it's quite another thing. No, Mr. Caudle; I don't expect you tocommand the sun, --and if you talk about Joshua in that infidel way, I'll leave the bed. No, sir; I don't expect the sun to be in yourpower; but that's nothing to do with it. I talk about one thing, andyou always start another. But that's your art. 

"I'm sure a woman might as well be buried alive as live here. Infact, I am buried alive; I feel it. I stood at the window threehours this blessed day, and saw nothing but the postman. No: itisn't a pity that I hadn't something better to do; I had plenty: butthat's my business, Mr. Caudle. I suppose I'm to be mistress of myown house? If not, I'd better leave it. 

"And the very first night we were here, you know it, the black-beetles came into the kitchen. If the place didn't seem spread allover with a black cloth, I'm a story-teller. What are you coughingat, Mr. Caudle? I see nothing to cough at. But that's just your wayof sneering. Millions of black-beetles! And as the clock strikeseight, out they march. What?

"THEY'RE VERY PUNCTUAL?

"I know that. I only wish other people were half as punctual:'twould save other people's money and other people's peace of mind. You know I hate a black-beetle! No: I don't hate so many things. But I do hate black-beetles, as I hate ill-treatment, Mr. Caudle. And now I have enough of both, goodness knows!

"Last night they came into the parlour. Of course, in a night ortwo, they'll walk up into the bedroom. They'll be here--regiments of'em--on the quilt. But what do you care? Nothing of the sort evertouches you: but you know how they come to me; and that's why you'reso quiet. A pleasant thing to have black-beetles in one's bed!

"WHY DON'T I POISON 'EM?

"A pretty matter, indeed, to have poison in the house! Much you mustthink of the dear children. A nice place, too, to be called theTurtle Dovery!

"DIDN'T I CHRISTEN IT MYSELF?

"I know that, --but then, I knew nothing of the black-beetles. Besides, names of houses are for the world outside; not that anybodypasses to see ours. Didn't Mrs. Digby insist on calling their newhouse 'Love-in-Idleness, ' though everybody knew that that wretchDigby was always beating her? Still, when folks read 'Rose Cottage'on the wall, they seldom think of the lots of thorns that are inside. In this world, Mr. Caudle, names are sometimes quite as good asthings. 

"That cough again! You've got a cold, and you'll always be gettingone--for you'll always be missing the omnibus as you did on Tuesday, --and always be getting wet. No constitution can stand it, Caudle. You don't know what I felt when I heard it rain on Tuesday, andthought you might be in it. What?

"I'M VERY GOOD?

"Yes, I trust so: I try to be so, Caudle. And so, dear, I've beenthinking that we'd better keep a chaise. 

"YOU CAN'T AFFORD IT, AND YOU WON'T?

"Don't tell me: I know you'd save money by it. I've been reckoningwhat you lay out in omnibuses; and if you'd a chaise of your own--besides the gentility of the thing--you'd be money in pocket. Andthen, again, how often I could go with you to town, --and how, again, I could call for you when you liked to be a little late at the club, dear! Now you're obliged to be hurried away, I know it, when, ifyou'd only a carriage of your own, you could stay and enjoy yourself. And after your work you want enjoyment. Of course, I can't expectyou always to run home directly to me: and I don't, Caudle; and youknow it. 

"A nice, neat, elegant little chaise. What?

"YOU'LL THINK OF IT?

"There's a love! You are a good creature, Caudle; and 'twill make meso happy to think you don't depend upon an omnibus. A sweet littlecarriage, with our own arms beautifully painted on the panels. What?

"ARMS ARE RUBBISH; AND YOU DON'T KNOW THAT YOU HAVE ANY?

"Nonsense: to be sure you have--and if not, of course they're to behad for money. I wonder where Chalkpit's, the milkman's arms, camefrom? I suppose you can buy 'em at the same place. He used to drivea green cart; and now he's got a close yellow carriage, with twolarge tortoise-shell cats, with their whiskers as if dipped in cream, standing on their hind legs upon each door, with a heap of Latinunderneath. You may buy the carriage if you please, Mr. Caudle; butunless your arms are there, you won't get me to enter it. Never!I'm not going to look less than Mrs. Chalkpit. 

"Besides, if you haven't arms, I'm sure my family have, and a wife'sarms are quite as good as a husband's. I'll write to-morrow to dearmother, to know what we took for our family arms. What do you say?What?

"A MANGLE IN A STONE KITCHEN PROPER?

"Mr. Caudle, you're always insulting my family--always: but youshall not put me out of temper to-night. Still, if you don't likeour arms, find your own. I daresay you could have found 'em fastenough, if you'd married Miss Prettyman. Well, I will be quiet; andI won't mention that lady's name. A nice lady she is! I wonder howmuch she spends in paint! Now, don't I tell you I won't say a wordmore, and yet you will kick about!

"Well, we'll have the carriage and the family arms? No, I don't wantthe family legs too. Don't be vulgar, Mr. Caudle. You might, perhaps, talk in that way before you'd money in the Bank; but itdoesn't at all become you now. The carriage and the family arms!We've a country house as well as the Chalkpits! and though theypraise their place for a little paradise, I dare say they've quite asmany blackbeetles as we have, and more too. The place quite looksit!

"Our carriage and our arms! And you know, love, it won't cost much--next to nothing--to put a gold band about Sam's hat on a Sunday. No:I don't want a full-blown livery. At least, not just yet. I'm toldthat Chalkpits dress their boy on a Sunday like a dragon-fly; and Idon't see why we shouldn't do what we like with our own Sam. Nevertheless, I'll be content with a gold band, and a bit of pepper-and-salt. No: I shall not cry out for plush next; certainly not. But I will have a gold band, and -

"YOU WON'T; AND I KNOW IT?

"Oh yes! that's another of your crotchets, Mr Caudle; like nobodyelse--you don't love liveries. I suppose when people buy theirsheets, or their tablecloths, or any other linen, they've a right tomark what they like upon it, haven't they? Well, then? You buy aservant, and you mark what you like upon him, and where's thedifference? None, that _I_ can see. "

"Finally, " says Caudle, "I compromised for a gig; but Sam did notwear pepper-and-salt and a gold band. "

LECTURE XXXI--MRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS VERY BITTERLY THAT MR. CAUDLE HAS"BROKEN HER CONFIDENCE. "

"O you'll catch me, Mr. Caudle, telling you anything again. Now, Idon't want to have any noise: I don't wish you to put yourself in apassion. All I say is this; never again do I open my lips to youabout anybody. No: if man and wife can't be one, why there's an endof everything. Oh, you know well what I mean, Mr. Caudle: you'vebroken my confidence in the most shameful, the most heartless way, and I repeat it--I can never be again to you as I have been. No:the little charm--it wasn't much--that remained about married life, is gone for ever. Yes; the bloom's quite wiped off the plum now. 

"Don't be such a hypocrite, Caudle; don't ask me what I mean! Mrs. Badgerly has been here--more like a fiend, I'm sure, than a quietwoman. I haven't done trembling yet! You know the state of mynerves, too; you know--yes, sir, I HAD nerves when you married me;and I haven't just found 'em out. Well, you've something to answerfor, I think. The Badgerlys are going to separate: she takes thegirls, and he the boys, and all through you. How you can lay yourhead upon that pillow and think of going to sleep, I can't tell. 

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

"Well, you have a face to ask the question. Done? You've broken myconfidence, Mr. Caudle: you've taken advantage of my tenderness, mytrust in you as a wife--the more fool I for my pains!--and you'veseparated a happy couple for ever. No; I'm not talking in theclouds; I'm talking in your bed, the more my misfortune. 

"Now, Caudle--yes, I shall sit up in the bed if I choose; I'm notgoing to sleep till I have this properly explained; for Mrs. Badgerlysha'n't lay her separation at my door. You won't deny that you wereat the club last night? No, bad as you are, Caudle--and thoughyou're my husband, I can't think you a good man; I try to do, but Ican't--bad as you are, you can't deny you were at the club. What?

"YOU DON'T DENY IT?

"That's what I say--you can't. And now answer me this question. What did you say--before the whole world--of Mr. Badgerly's whiskers?There's nothing to laugh at, Caudle; if you'd have seen that poorwoman to-day, you'd have a heart of stone to laugh. What did you sayof his whiskers? Didn't you tell everybody he dyed 'em? Didn't youhold the candle up to 'em, as you said, to show the purple?

"TO BE SURE YOU DID?

"Ha! people who break jokes never care about breaking hearts. Badgerly went home like a demon; called his wife a false woman:vowed he'd never enter a bed again with her, and to show he was inearnest, slept all night upon the sofa. He said it was the dearestsecret of his life; said she had told me; and that I had told you;and that's how it has come out. What do you say?

"BADGERLY WAS RIGHT. I DID TELL YOU?

"I know I did: but when dear Mrs. Badgerly mentioned the matter tome and a few friends, as we were all laughing at tea together, quitein a confidential way--when she just spoke of her husband's whiskers, and how long he was over 'em every morning--of course, poor soul! shenever thought it was to be talked of in the world again. Eh?

"THEN I HAD NO RIGHT TO TELL YOU OF IT?

"And that's the way I'm thanked for my confidence. Because I don'tkeep a secret from you, but show you, I may say, my naked soul, Caudle, that's how I'm rewarded. Poor Mrs. Badgerly--for all herhard words--after she went away, I'm sure my heart quite bled forher. What do you say, Mr. Caudle?

"SERVES HER RIGHT--SHE SHOULD HOLD HER TONGUE?

"Yes; that's like your tyranny--you'd never let a poor woman speak. Eh--what, what, Mr. Caudle?

"That's a very fine speech, I dare say; and wives are very muchobliged to you, only there's not a bit of truth in it. No, we womendon't get together, and pick our husbands to pieces, just assometimes mischievous little girls rip up their dolls. That's an oldsentiment of yours, Mr. Caudle; but I'm sure you've no occasion tosay it of me. I hear a good deal of other people's husbands, certainly; I can't shut my ears; I wish I could: but I never sayanything about you, --and I might, and you know it--and there'ssomebody else that knows it, too. No: I sit still and say nothing;what I have in my own bosom about you, Caudle, will be buried withme. But I know what you think of wives. I heard you talking to Mr. Prettyman, when you little thought I was listening, and you didn'tknow much what you were saying--I heard you. 'My dear Prettyman, 'says you, 'when some women get talking, they club all their husbands'faults together; just as children club their cakes and apples, tomake a common feast for the whole set. ' Eh?

"YOU DON'T REMEMBER IT?

"But I do: and I remember, too, what brandy was left when Prettymanleft. 'Twould be odd if you could remember much about it, afterthat. 

"And now you've gone and separated man and wife, and I'm to be blamedfor it. You've not only carried misery into a family, but broken myconfidence. You've proved to me that henceforth I'm not to trust youwith anything, Mr. Caudle. No; I'll lock up whatever I know in myown breast, --for now I find nobody, not even one's own husband, is tobe relied upon. From this moment, I may look upon myself as asolitary woman. Now, it's no use your trying to go to sleep. Whatdo you say?

"YOU KNOW THAT?

"Very well. Now I want to ask you one question more. Eh?

"YOU WANT TO ASK ME ONE?

"Very well--go on--I'm not afraid to be catechised. I never droppeda syllable that as a wife I ought to have kept to myself--no, I'm notat all forgetting what I've said--and whatever you've got to ask mespeak out at once. No--I don't want you to spare me; all I want youis to speak. 

"YOU WILL SPEAK?

"Well then, do. 

"What?

"WHO TOLD PEOPLE YOU'D A FALSE FRONT TOOTH?

"And is that all? Well, I'm sure--as if the world couldn't see it. I know I did just mention it once, but then I thought everybody knewit--besides, I was aggravated to do it; yes, aggravated. I rememberit was that very day, at Mrs. Badgerly's, when husbands' whiskerscame up. Well, after we'd done with them, somebody said somethingabout teeth. Whereupon, Miss Prettyman--a minx! she was born todestroy the peace of families, I know she was: she was there; and ifI'd only known that such a creature was--no I'm not rambling, not atall, and I'm coming to the tooth. To be sure, this is a great dealyou've got against me, isn't it? Well, somebody spoke about teeth, when Miss Prettyman, with one of her insulting leers, said 'shethought Mr. Caudle had the whitest teeth she ever HAD beheld. ' Ofcourse my blood was up--every wife's would be: and I believe I mighthave said, 'Yes, they were well enough; but when a young lady so verymuch praised a married man's teeth, she perhaps didn't know that oneof the front ones was an elephant's. ' Like her impudence!--I set HERdown for the rest of the evening. But I can see the humour you're into-night. You only came to bed to quarrel, and I'm not going toindulge you. All I say is this, after the shameful mischief you'vemade at the Badgerlys', you never break my confidence again. Never--and now you know it. "

Caudle hereupon writes--"And here she seemed inclined to sleep. Notfor one moment did I think to prevent her. "

LECTURE XXXII--MRS. CAUDLE DISCOURSES OF MAIDS-OF-ALL-WORK AND MAIDSIN GENERAL. MR. CAUDLE'S "INFAMOUS BEHAVIOUR" TEN YEARS AGO

"There now, it isn't my intention to say a word to-night, Mr. Caudle. No; I want to go to sleep, if I can; for after what I've gone throughto-day, and with the headache I've got, --and if I haven't left mysmelling-salts on the mantelpiece, on the right-hand corner just asyou go into the room--nobody could miss it--I say, nobody could missit--in a little green bottle, and--well, there you lie like a stone, and I might perish and you wouldn't move. Oh, my poor head! But itmay open and shut, and what do you care?

"Yes, that's like your feeling, just. I want my salts, and you tellme there's nothing like being still for a headache. Indeed? But I'mnot going to be still; so don't you think it. That's just how awoman's put upon. But I know your aggravation--I know your art. Youthink to keep me quiet about that minx Kitty, --your favourite, sir!Upon my life, I'm not to discharge my own servant without--but sheshall go. If I had to do all the work myself, she shouldn't stopunder my roof. I can see how she looks down upon me. I can see agreat deal, Mr. Caudle, that I never choose to open my lips about--but I can't shut my eyes. Perhaps it would have been better for mypeace and mind if I always could. Don't say that. I'm not a foolishwoman, and I know very well what I'm saying. I suppose you think Iforget THAT Rebecca? I know it's ten years ago that she lived withus--but what's that to do with it? Things aren't the less true forbeing old, I suppose. No; and your conduct, Mr. Caudle, at thattime--if it was a hundred years ago--I should never forget. What?

"I SHALL ALWAYS BE THE SAME SILLY WOMAN?

"I hope I shall--I trust I shall always have my eyes about me in myown house. Now, don't think of going to sleep, Caudle; because, asyou've brought this up about that Rebecca, you shall hear me out. Well, I do wonder that you can name her! Eh?

"YOU DIDN'T NAME HER?

"That's nothing at all to do with it; for I know just as well whatyou think, as if you did. I suppose you'll say that you didn't drinka glass of wine to her?

"NEVER?

"So you said at the time, but I've thought of it for ten long years, and the more I've thought the surer I am of it. And at that verytime--if you please to recollect--at that very time little Jack was ababy. I shouldn't have so much cared but for that; but he was hardlyrunning alone, when you nodded and drank a glass of wine to thatcreature. No; I'm not mad, and I'm not dreaming. I saw how you didit, --and the hypocrisy made it worse and worse. I saw you when thecreature was just behind my chair; you took up a glass of wine, andsaying to me, 'Margaret, ' and then lifting up your eyes at the boldminx, and saying 'my dear, ' as if you wanted me to believe that youspoke only to me, when I could see you laugh at her behind me. Andat that time little Jack wasn't on his feet. What do you say?

"HEAVEN FORGIVE ME?

"Ha! Mr. Caudle, it's you that ought to ask for that: I'm safeenough, I am: it's you who should ask to be forgiven. 

"No, I wouldn't slander a saint--and I didn't take away the girl'scharacter for nothing. I know she brought an action for what I said;and I know you had to pay damages for what you call my tongue--I wellremember all that. And serve you right; if you hadn't laughed ather, it wouldn't have happened. But if you will make free with suchpeople, of course you're sure to suffer for it. 'Twould have servedyou right if the lawyer's bill had been double. Damages, indeed!Not that anybody's tongue could have damaged her!

"And now, Mr. Caudle, you're the same man you were ten years ago. What?

"YOU HOPE SO?

"The more shame for you. At your time of life, with all yourchildren growing up about you, to -

"WHAT AM I TALKING OF?

"I know very well; and so would you, if you had any conscience, whichyou haven't. When I say I shall discharge Kitty, you say she's avery good servant, and I sha'n't get a better. But I know why youthink her good; you think her pretty, and that's enough for you; asif girls who work for their bread have any business to be pretty, --which she isn't. Pretty servants, indeed! going mincing about withtheir fal-lal faces, as if even the flies would spoil 'em. But Iknow what a bad man you are--now, it's no use your denying it; fordidn't I overhear you talking to Mr. Prettyman, and didn't you saythat you couldn't bear to have ugly servants about you? I ask you, --didn't you say that?

"PERHAPS YOU DID?

"You don't blush to confess it? If your principles, Mr. Caudle, aren't enough to make a woman's blood run cold!

"Oh, yes! you've talked that stuff again and again; and once I mighthave believed it; but I know a little more of you now. You like tosee pretty servants, just as you like to see pretty statues, andpretty pictures, and pretty flowers, and anything in nature that'spretty, just, as you say, for the eye to feed upon. Yes; I know youreyes, --very well. I know what they were ten years ago; for shall Iever forget that glass of wine when little Jack was in arms? I don'tcare if it was a thousand years ago, it's as fresh as yesterday, andI never will cease to talk of it. When you know me, how can you askit?

"And now you insist upon keeping Kitty, when there's no having a bitof crockery for her? That girl would break the Bank of England--Iknow she would--if she was to put her hand upon it. But what's awhole set of blue china to her beautiful blue eyes? I know that'swhat you mean, though you don't say it. 

"Oh, you needn't lie groaning there, for you don't think I shall everforget Rebecca. Yes, --it's very well for you to swear at Rebeccanow, --but you didn't swear at her then, Mr. Caudle, I know. 'Margaret, my dear!' Well, how you can have the face to look at me -

"YOU DON'T LOOK AT ME?

"The more shame for you. 

"I can only say, that either Kitty leaves the house, or I do. Whichis it to be, Mr. Caudle? Eh?

"YOU DON'T CARE? BOTH?

"But you're not going to get rid of me in that manner, I can tellyou. But for that trollop--now, you may swear and rave as you like -

"YOU DON'T INTEND TO SAY A WORD MORE?

"Very well; it's no matter what you say--her quarter's up on Tuesday, and go she shall. A soup-plate and a basin went yesterday. 

"A soup-plate and a basin, and when I've the headache as I have, Mr. Caudle, tearing me to pieces! But I shall never be well in thisworld--never. A soup-plate and a basin!"

"She slept, " writes Caudle, "and poor Kitty left on Tuesday. "

LECTURE XXXIII--MRS. CAUDLE HAS DISCOVERED THAT CAUDLE IS A RAILWAYDIRECTOR

"When I took up the paper to-day, Caudle, you might have knocked medown with a feather! Now, don't be a hypocrite--you know what's thematter. And when you haven't a bed to lie upon, and are brought tosleep upon coal sacks--and then I can tell you, Mr. Caudle, you maysleep by yourself--then you'll know what's the matter. Now, I'veseen your name, and don't deny it. Yes, --the Eel-Pie Island Railway--and among the Directors, Job Caudle, Esq. , of the Turtle-Dovery, and--no, I won't be quiet. It isn't often--goodness knows!--that Ispeak; but seeing what I do, I won't be silent. 

"WHAT DO I SEE?

"Why, there, Mr. Caudle, at the foot of the bed, I see all theblessed children in tatters--I see you in a gaol, and the carpetshung out of the windows. 

"And now I know why you talk in your sleep about a broad and narrowgauge! I couldn't think what was on your mind--but now it's out. Ha! Mr. Caudle, there's something about a broad and narrow way thatI wish you'd remember--but you're turned quite a heathen: yes, youthink of nothing but money now. 

"DON'T I LIKE MONEY?

"To be sure I do; but then I like it when I'm certain of it; no risksfor me. Yes, it's all very well to talk about fortunes made in notime: they're like shirts made in no time--it's ten to one if theyhang long together. 

"And now it's plain enough why you can't eat or drink, or sleep, ordo anything. All your mind's allotted into railways; for you shan'tmake me believe that Eel-Pie Island's the only one. Oh, no! I cansee by the looks of you. Why, in a little time, if you haven't asmany lines in your face as there are lines laid down! Every one ofyour features seems cut up--and all seem travelling from one another. Six months ago, Caudle, you hadn't a wrinkle; yes, you'd a cheek assmooth as any china, and now your face is like the Map of England. 

"At your time of life, too! You, who were for always going small andsure! You to make heads-and-tails of your money in this way! It'sthat stock-broker's dog at Flam Cottage--he's bitten you, I'm sure ofit. You're not fit to manage your own property now; and I shouldonly be acting the part of a good wife if I were to call in the mad-doctors. 

"Well, I shall never know rest any more now. There won't be a soulknock at the door after this that I sha'n't think it's the man comingto take possession. 'Twill be something for the Chalkpits to laughat when we're sold up. I think I see 'em here, bidding for all ourlittle articles of bigotry and virtue, and--what are you laughing at?

"THEY'RE NOT BIGOTRY AND VIRTUE; BUT BIJOUTERIE AND VERTU?

"It's all the same: only you're never so happy as when you're takingme up. 

"If I can tell what's coming to the world, I'm a sinner! Everybody'sfor turning their farthings into double sovereigns and cheating theirneighbours of the balance. And you, too--you're beside yourself, Caudle--I'm sure of it. I've watched you when you thought me fastasleep. And then you've lain, and whispered and whispered, and thenhugged yourself, and laughed at the bed-posts, as if you'd seen 'emturned to sovereign gold. I do believe that you sometimes think thepatchwork quilt is made of thousand-pound bank-notes. 

"Well, when we're brought to the Union, then you'll find out yourmistake. But it will be a poor satisfaction for me every night totell you of it. What, Mr. Caudle?

"THEY WON'T LET ME TELL YOU OF IT?

"And you call that 'some comfort'? And after the wife I've been toyou! But now I recollect. I think I've heard you praise that Unionbefore; though, like a fond fool as I've always been, I never oncesuspected the reason of it. 

"And now, of course, day and night, you'll never be at home. No, you'll live and sleep at Eel-Pie Island! I shall be left alone withnothing but my thoughts, thinking when the broker will come, andyou'll be with your brother directors. I may slave and I toil tosave sixpences; and you'll be throwing away hundreds. And then theexpensive tastes you've got! Nothing good enough for you now. I'msure you sometimes think yourself King Solomon. But that comes ofmaking money--if, indeed, you have made any--without earning it. No;I don't talk nonsense: people CAN make money without earning it. And when they do, why it's like taking a lot of spirits at onedraught; it gets into their head, and they don't know what they'reabout. And you're in that state now, Mr. Caudle: I'm sure of it, bythe way of you. There's a tipsiness of the pocket as well as of thestomach--and you're in that condition at this very moment. 

"Not that I should so much mind--that is, if you HAVE made money--ifyou'd stop at the Eel-Pie line. But I know what these things are:they're like treacle to flies: when men are well in 'em, they can'tget out of 'em: or, if they do, it's often without a feather to flywith. No: if you've really made money by the Eel-Pie line, and willgive it to me to take care of for the dear children, why, perhaps, love, I'll say no more of the matter. What?

"NONSENSE?

"Yes, of course: I never ask you for money, but that's the word. 

"And now, catch you stopping at the Eel-Pie line! Oh no; I know youraggravating spirit. In a day or two I shall see another fineflourish in the paper, with a proposal for a branch from Eel-PieIsland to the Chelsea Bun-house. Give you a mile of rail, and--Iknow you men--you'll take a hundred. Well, if it didn't make mequiver to read that stuff in the paper, --and your name to it! But Isuppose it was Mr. Prettyman's work; for his precious name's among'em. How you tell the people 'that eel-pies are now become anessential element of civilisation'--I learnt all the words by heart, that I might say 'em to you--'that the Eastern population of Londonare cut off from the blessings of such a necessary--and that by meansof the projected line eel-pies will be brought home to the businessand bosoms of Ratcliff Highway and the adjacent dependencies. ' Well, when you men--lords of the creation, as you call yourselves--do gettogether to make up a company, or anything of the sort--is there anystory-book can come up to you? And so you look solemnly in oneanother's faces, and, never so much as moving the corners of yourmouths, pick one another's pockets. No, I'm not using hard words, Mr. Caudle--but only the words that's proper. 

"And this I MUST say. Whatever you've got, I'm none the better forit. You never give me any of your Eel-Pie shares. What do you say?

"YOU WILL GIVE ME SOME?

"Not I--I'll have nothing to do with any wickedness of the kind. If, like any other husband, you choose to throw a heap of money into mylap--what?

"YOU'LL THINK OF IT? WHEN THE EEL-PIES GO UP?

"Then I know what they're worth--they'll never fetch a farthing. "

"She was suddenly silent"--writes Caudle--"and I was sinking intosleep, when she elbowed me, and cried, 'Caudle, do you think they'llbe up to-morrow?'"

LECTURE XXXIV--MRS. CAUDLE, SUSPECTING THAT MR. CAUDLE HAS MADE HISWILL, IS "ONLY ANXIOUS, AS A WIFE, " TO KNOW ITS PROVISIONS

"There, I always said you'd a strong mind when you liked, Caudle; andwhat you've just been doing proves it. Some people won't make awill, because they think they must die directly afterwards. Now, you're above that, love, aren't you? Nonsense; you know very wellwhat I mean. I know your will's made, for Scratcherly told me so. What?

"YOU DON'T BELIEVE IT?

"Well, I'm sure! That's a pretty thing for a man to say to his wife. I know he's too much of a man of business to talk; but I supposethere's a way of telling things without speaking them. And when Iput the question to him, lawyer as he is, he hadn't the face to denyit. 

"To be sure, it can be of no consequence to me whether your will ismade or not. I shall not be alive, Mr. Caudle, to want anything: Ishall be provided for a long time before your will's of any use. No, Mr. Caudle, I sha'n't survive you: and--though a woman's wrong tolet her affection for a man be known, for then she's always takenadvantage of--though I know it's foolish and weak to say so, still Idon't want to survive you. How should I? No, no; don't say that:I'm not good for a hundred--I sha'n't see you out, and anotherhusband too. What a gross idea, Caudle! To imagine I'd ever thinkof marrying again. No--never! What?

"THAT'S WHAT WE ALL SAY?

"Not at all; quite the reverse. To me the very idea of such a thingis horrible, and always was. Yes, I know very well that some domarry again--but what they're made of I'm sure I can't tell. Ugh!

"There are men, I know, who leave their property in such a way thattheir widows, to hold it, must keep widows. Now, if there isanything in the world that is mean and small, it is that. Don't youthink so, too, Caudle? Why don't you speak, love? That's so likeyou! I never want a little quiet, rational talk, but you want to goto sleep. But you never were like any other man! What?

"HOW DO I KNOW?

"There now--that's so like your aggravating way. I never open mylips upon a subject but you try to put me off. I've no doubt whenMiss Prettyman speaks, you can answer HER properly enough. There youare, again! Upon my life, it IS odd; but I never can in the mostinnocent way mention that person's name that -

"WHY CAN'T I LEAVE HER ALONE?

"I'm sure--with all my heart! Who wants to talk about her? I don't:only you always will say something that's certain to bring up hername. 

"What was I saying, Caudle? Oh, about the way some men bind theirwidows. To my mind, there is nothing so little. When a man forbidshis wife to marry again without losing what he leaves--it's what Icall selfishness after death. Mean to a degree! It's like takinghis wife into the grave with him. Eh?

"YOU NEVER WANT TO DO THAT?

"No, I'm sure of that, love: you're not the man to tie a woman up inthat mean manner. A man who'd do that would have his widow burntwith him, if he could--just as those monsters, that call themselvesmen, do in the Indies. 

"However, it's no matter to me how you've made your will; but it maybe to your second wife. What?

"I SHALL NEVER GIVE YOU A CHANCE?

"Ha! you don't know my constitution after all, Caudle. I'm not atall the woman I was. I say nothing about 'em, but very often youdon't know my feelings. And as we're on the subject, dearest, I haveonly one favour to ask. When you marry again--now it's no use yoursaying that. After the comforts you've known of marriage--what areyou sighing at, dear?--after the comforts, you must marry again--nowdon't forswear yourself in that violent way, taking an oath that youknow you must break--you couldn't help it, I'm sure of it; and I knowyou better than you know yourself. Well, all I ask is, love, becauseit's only for your sake, and it would make no difference to me then--how should it?--but all I ask is, don't marry Miss Pret--There!there! I've done: I won't say another word about it; but all I askis, don't. After the way you've been thought of, and after thecomforts you've been used to, Caudle, she wouldn't be the wife foryou. Of course I could then have no interest in the matter--youmight marry the Queen of England, for what it would be to me then--I'm only anxious about you. Mind, Caudle, I'm not saying anythingagainst her; not at all; but there's a flightiness in her manner--Idare say, poor thing, she means no harm, and it may be, as the sayingis, only her manner after all--still, there is a flightiness abouther that, after what you've been used to, would make you verywretched. Now, if I may boast of anything, Caudle, it is mypropriety of manner the whole of my life. I know that wives who'revery particular aren't thought as well of as those who're not--still, it's next to nothing to be virtuous, if people don't seem so. Andvirtue, Caudle--no, I'm not going to preach about virtue, for I neverdo. No; and I don't go about with my virtue, like a child with adrum, making all sorts of noises with it. But I know yourprinciples. I shall never forget what I once heard you say toPrettyman: and it's no excuse that you'd taken so much wine youdidn't know what you were saying at the time; for wine brings outman's wickedness, just as fire brings out spots of grease. 

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?

"Why, you said this: --'Virtue's a beautiful thing in women, whenthey don't make so much noise about it: but there's some women whothink virtue was given 'em, as claws were given to cats'--yes, catswas the word--'to do nothing but scratch with. ' That's what yousaid. 

"YOU DON'T RECOLLECT A SYLLABLE OF IT?

"No, that's it; when you're in that dreadful state, you recollectnothing: but it's a good thing I do. 

"But we won't talk of that, love--that's all over: I dare say youmeant nothing. But I'm glad you agree with me, that the man who'dtie up his widow not to marry again, is a mean man. It makes mehappy that you've the confidence in me to say that. 

"YOU NEVER SAID IT?

"That's nothing to do with it--you've just as good as said it. No:when a man leaves all his property to his wife, without binding herhands from marrying again, he shows what a dependence he has upon herlove. He proves to all the world what a wife she's been to him; andhow, after his death, he knows she'll grieve for him. And then, ofcourse, a second marriage never enters her head. But when she onlykeeps his money so long as she keeps a widow, why, she's aggravatedto take another husband. I'm sure of it; many a poor woman has beendriven into wedlock again, only because she was spited into it by herhusband's will. It's only natural to suppose it. If I thought, Caudle, you could do such a thing, though it would break my heart todo it, --yet, though you were dead and gone, I'd show you I'd aspirit, and marry again directly. Not but what it's ridiculous mytalking in such a way, as I shall go long before you; still, mark mywords, and don't provoke me with any will of that sort, or I'd do it--as I'm a living woman in this bed to-night, I'd do it. "

"I did not contradict her, " says Caudle, "but suffered her to slumberin such assurance. "

LECTURE XXXV--MRS. CAUDLE "HAS BEEN TOLD" THAT CAUDLE HAS "TAKEN TOPLAY" AT BILLIARDS

"Ah, you're very late to-night, dear. 

"IT'S NOT LATE?

"Well, then, it isn't, that's all. Of course, a woman can never tellwhen it's late. You were late on Tuesday, too; a little late on theFriday before; on the Wednesday before that--now, you needn't twistabout in that manner; I'm not going to say anything--no; for I seeit's now no use. Once, I own, it used to fret me when you stayedout; but that's all over: you've now brought me to that state, Caudle--and it's your own fault entirely--that I don't care whetheryou ever come home or not. I never thought I could be brought tothink so little of you; but you've done it: you've been treading onthe worm for these twenty years, and it's turned at last. 

"Now, I'm not going to quarrel; that's all over: I don't feel enoughfor you to quarrel with, --I don't, Caudle, as true as I'm in thisbed. All I want of you is--any other man would speak to his wife, and not lie there like a log--all I want is this. Just tell me whereyou were on Tuesday? You were not at dear mother's, though you knowshe's not well, and you know she thinks of leaving the dear childrenher money; but you never had any feeling for anybody belonging to me. And you were not at your Club: no, I know that. And you were not atany theatre. 

"HOW DO I KNOW?

"Ha, Mr. Caudle! I only wish I didn't know. No; you were not at anyof these places; but I know well enough where you were. 

"THEN WHY DO I ASK IF I KNOW?

"That's it: just to prove what a hypocrite you are: just to showyou that you can't deceive me. 

"So, Mr. Caudle--you've turned billiard-player, sir. 

"ONLY ONCE?

"That's quite enough: you might as well play a thousand times; foryou're a lost man, Caudle. Only once, indeed! I wonder, if I was tosay 'Only once, ' what would you say to me? But, of course, a man cando no wrong in anything. 

"And you're a lord of the creation, Mr. Caudle; and you can stay awayfrom the comforts of your blessed fireside, and the society of yourown wife and children--though, to be sure, you never thought anythingof them--to push ivory balls about with a long stick upon a greentable-cloth. What pleasure any man can take in such stuff mustastonish any sensible woman. I pity you, Caudle!

"And you can go and do nothing but make 'cannons'--for that's thegibberish they talk at billiards--when there's the manly and athleticgame of cribbage, as my poor grandmother used to call it, at your ownhearth. You can go into a billiard-room--you, a respectabletradesman, or as you set yourself up for one, for if the world knewall, there's very little respectability in you--you can go and playbilliards with a set of creatures in mustachios, when you might takea nice quiet hand with me at home. But no! anything but cribbagewith your own wife!

"Caudle, it's all over now; you've gone to destruction. I never knewa man enter a billiard-room that he wasn't lost for ever. There wasmy uncle Wardle; a better man never broke the bread of life: he tookto billiards, and he didn't live with aunt a month afterwards. 

"A LUCKY FELLOW?

"And that's what you call a man who leaves his wife--a 'luckyfellow'? But, to be sure, what can I expect? We shall not betogether long, now: it's been some time coming, but, at last, wemust separate: and the wife I've been to you!

"But I know who it is; it's that fiend Prettyman. I WILL call him afiend, and I'm by no means a foolish woman: you'd no more havethought of billiards than a goose, if it hadn't been for him. Now, it's no use, Caudle, your telling me that you have only been once, and that you can't hit a ball anyhow--you'll soon get over all that;and then you'll never be at home. You'll be a marked man, Caudle;yes, marked: there'll be something about you that'll be dreadful;for if I couldn't tell a billiard-player by his looks, I've no eyes, that's all. They all of 'em look as yellow as parchment, and wearmustachios--I suppose you'll let yours grow now; though they'll be agood deal troubled to come. I know that. Yes, they've all a yellowand sly look; just for all as if they were first cousins to peoplethat picked pockets. And that will be your case, Caudle: in sixmonths the dear children won't know their own father. 

"Well, if I know myself at all, I could have borne anything butbilliards. The companions you'll find! The Captains that will bealways borrowing fifty pounds of you! I tell you, Caudle, abilliard-room's a place where ruin of all sorts is made easy, I maysay, to the lowest understanding, so you can't miss it. It's achapel-of-ease for the devil to preach in--don't tell me not to beeloquent: I don't know what you mean, Mr. Caudle, and I shall bejust as eloquent as I like. But I never can open my lips--and itisn't often, goodness knows!--that I'm not insulted. 

"No, I won't be quiet on this matter; I won't, Caudle: on any other, I wouldn't say a word--and you know it--if you didn't like it; but onthis matter I WILL speak. I know you can't play at billiards; andnever could learn. I dare say not; but that makes it all the worse, for look at the money you'll lose; see the ruin you'll be brought to. It's no use your telling me you'll not play--now you can't help it. And nicely you'll be eaten up. Don't talk to me; dear aunt told meall about it. The lots of fellows that go every day into billiard-rooms to get their dinners, just as a fox sneaks into a farm-yard tolook about him for a fat goose--and they'll eat you up, Caudle; Iknow they will. 

"Billiard-balls, indeed! Well, in my time I've been over WoolwichArsenal--you were something like a man then, for it was just beforewe were married--and then I saw all sorts of balls; mountains of 'em, to be shot away at churches, and into people's peaceable habitations, breaking the china, and nobody knows what--I say, I've seen all theseballs--well, I know I've said that before; but I choose to say itagain--and there's not one of 'em, iron as they are, that could dohalf the mischief of a billiard-ball. That's a ball, Caudle, that'sgone through many a wife's heart, to say nothing of her children. And that's a ball, that night and day you'll be destroying yourfamily with. Don't tell me you'll not play! When once a man's givento it--as my poor aunt used to say--the devil's always tempting himwith a ball, as he tempted Eve with an apple. 

"I shall never think of being happy any more. No; that's quite outof the question. You'll be there every night--I know you will, better than you, so don't deny it--every night over that wicked greencloth. Green, indeed! It's red, crimson red, Caudle, if you couldonly properly see it--crimson red, with the hearts those balls havebroken. Don't tell me not to be pathetic--I shall: as pathetic asit suits me. I suppose I may speak. However, I've done. It's allsettled now. You're a billiard-player, and I'm a wretched woman. "

"I did not deny either position, " writes Caudle, "and for thisreason--I wanted to sleep. "

LECTURE THE LAST--MRS. CAUDLE HAS TAKEN COLD; THE TRAGEDY OF THINSHOES

"I'm not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what you like--but I think I ought to know my own feelings better than you. I don'twish to upbraid you neither; I'm too ill for that; but it's notgetting wet in thin shoes, --oh, no! it's my mind, Caudle, my mind, that's killing me. Oh, yes! gruel, indeed you think gruel will curea woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can'treach what I suffer; but, of course, nobody is ever ill but yourself. Well, I--I didn't mean to say that; but when you talk in that wayabout thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn't mean; shecan't help it. You've always gone on about my shoes; when I thinkI'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say, --'twouldbe all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots; but I'm notgoing to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never gotcold with the shoes I've worn yet, and 'tisn't likely I should beginnow. 

"No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you: no, goodness knows, I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world, --butthe cold I've got, I got ten years ago. I have never said anythingabout it--but it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago the daybefore yesterday. 

"HOW CAN I RECOLLECT IT?

"Oh, very well: women remember things you never think of: poorsouls! they've good cause to do so. Ten years ago, I was sitting upfor you, --there now, I'm not going to say anything to vex you, onlydo let me speak: ten years ago, I was waiting for you, and I fellasleep, and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I was sittingright in the draught of the keyhole. That was my death, Caudle, though don't let that make you uneasy, love; for I don't think youmeant to do it. 

"Ha! it's all very well for you to call it nonsense; and to lay yourill conduct upon my shoes. That's like a man, exactly! There neverwas a man yet that killed his wife, who couldn't give a good reasonfor it. No: I don't mean to say that you've killed me: quite thereverse: still there's never been a day that I haven't felt thatkey-hole. What?

"WHY WON'T I HAVE A DOCTOR?

"What's the use of a doctor? Why should I put you to expense?Besides, I dare say you'll do very well without me, Caudle: yes, after a very little time you won't miss me much--no man ever does. 

"Peggy tells me, Miss Prettyman called to-day. 

"WHAT OF IT?

"Nothing, of course. Yes; I know she heard I was ill, and that's whyshe came. A little indecent, I think, Mr. Caudle; she might wait; Ishan't be in her way long; she may soon have the key of the caddy, now. 

"Ha! Mr. Caudle, what's the use of your calling me your dearest soulnow? Well, I do believe you. I dare say you do mean it; that is, Ihope you do. Nevertheless, you can't expect I can lie quiet in thisbed, and think of that young woman--not, indeed, that she's near soyoung as she gives herself out. I bear no malice towards her, Caudle, --not the least. Still, I don't think I could lie at peace inmy grave if--well, I won't say anything more about her; but you knowwhat I mean. 

"I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I'mgone. Well, love, I won't talk in that way if you desire it. Still, I know I've a dreadful cold; though I won't allow it for a minute tobe the shoes--certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and youknow it, and they never gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it'sten years ago that did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matterto hurt you. I'd die first. 

"Mother, you see, knows all your little ways; and you wouldn't getanother wife to study you and pet you up as I've done--a second wifenever does; it isn't likely she should. And after all, we've beenvery happy. It hasn't been my fault if we've ever had a word or two, for you couldn't help now and then being aggravating; nobody can helptheir tempers always, --especially men. Still we've been very happy, haven't we, Caudle?

"Good-night. Yes, --this cold does tear me to pieces; but for allthat, it isn't the shoes. God bless you, Caudle; no, --it's NOT theshoes. I won't say it's the key-hole; but again I say, it's not theshoes. God bless you once more--But never say it's the shoes. "

The above significant sketch is a correct copy of a drawing from thehand of Caudle at the end of this Lecture. It can hardly, we think, be imagined that Mrs. Caudle, during her fatal illness, never mixedadmonishment with soothing as before; but such fragmentary Lectureswere, doubtless, considered by her disconsolate widower as having tootouching, too solemn an import to be vulgarised by type. They were, however, printed on the heart of Caudle; for he never ceased to speakof the late partner of his bed as either "his sainted creature, " or"that angel now in heaven. "

POSTSCRIPT

Our duty of editorship is closed. We hope we have honestly fulfilledthe task of selection from a large mass of papers. We could havepresented to the female world a Lecture for Every Night in the year. Yes, --three hundred and sixty-five separate Lectures! We trust, however, that we have done enough. And if we have armed weak womanwith even one argument in her unequal contest with that imperiouscreature, man--if we have awarded to a sex, as Mrs. Caudle herselfwas wont to declare, "put upon from the beginning, " the slightestmeans of defence--if we have supplied a solitary text to meet any oneof the manifold wrongs with which woman, in her household life, iscontinually pressed by her tyrannic taskmaster, man, --we feel that wehave only paid back one grain, hardly one, of that mountain of morethan gold it is our felicity to owe her. 

During the progress of these Lectures, it has very often pained us, and that excessively, to hear from unthinking, inexperienced men--bachelors of course--that every woman, no matter how divinelycomposed, has in her ichor-flowing veins one drop--"no bigger than awren's eye"--of Caudle; that Eve herself may now and then have beenguilty of a lecture, murmuring it balmily amongst the rose-leaves. It may be so; still, be it our pride never to believe it. NEVER!

Footnotes:

{1} The author was just 42 when he began the "Caudle Lectures. "