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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:26:48 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:26:48 -0700 |
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| -rw-r--r-- | 6054-0.txt | 5502 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6054-h/6054-h.htm | 4716 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6054-0.txt b/6054-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9825624 --- /dev/null +++ b/6054-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5502 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 6054 *** +MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES BY DOUGLAS JERROLD + + + + +AUTHOR'S PREFACE + + + +It has happened to the writer that two, or three, or ten, or twenty +gentlewomen 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's +head, the head itself having nothing to do with the matter. The +result of no train of thought, there is the picture, the statue, the +book, wafted, like the smallest seed, into the brain to feed upon the +soil, such as it may be, and grow there. And this was, no doubt, the +accidental cause of the literary sowing and expansion--unfolding like +a night-flower--of MRS. CAUDLE. + +But let a jury of gentlewomen decide. + +It was a thick, black wintry afternoon, when the writer stopt in the +front of the playground of a suburban school. The ground swarmed +with boys full of the Saturday's holiday. The earth seemed roofed +with 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 world +of frolic, had no thought of the full-length men they would some day +become; drawn out into grave citizenship; formal, respectable, +responsible. To them the sky was of any or all colours; and for that +keen east wind--if it was called the east wind--cutting the shoulder- +blades of old, old men of forty {1}--they in their immortality of +boyhood had the redder faces, and the nimbler blood for it. + +And the writer, looking dreamily into that playground, still mused on +the robust jollity of those little fellows, to whom the tax-gatherer +was as yet a rarer animal than baby hippopotamus. Heroic boyhood, so +ignorant of the future in the knowing enjoyment of the present! And +the writer still dreaming and musing, and still following no distinct +line of thought, there struck upon him, like notes of sudden +household music, these words--CURTAIN LECTURES. + +One moment there was no living object save those racing, shouting +boys; and the next, as though a white dove had alighted on the pen +hand of the writer, there was--MRS. CAUDLE. + +Ladies of the jury, are there not then some subjects of letters that +mysteriously assert an effect without any discoverable cause? +Otherwise, wherefore should the thought of CURTAIN LECTURES grow from +a 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 a +farcical desecration of a solemn time-honoured privilege; it may be, +exercised once in a life time,--and that once having the effect of a +hundred repetitions, as Job lectured his wife. And Job's wife, a +certain Mohammedan writer delivers, having committed a fault in her +love to her husband, he swore that on his recovery he would deal her +a hundred stripes. Job got well, and his heart was touched and +taught by the tenderness to keep his vow, and still to chastise his +help-mate; for he smote her once with a palm-branch having a hundred +leaves. + +DOUGLAS JERROLD. + + + +INTRODUCTION + + + +Poor Job Caudle was one of the few men whom Nature, in her casual +bounty 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 impress +upon him, for she was not a woman to wear chains without shaking +them--took whole and sole possession of. They were her entire +property; as expressly made to convey to Caudle's brain the stream of +wisdom that continually flowed from the lips of his wife, as was the +tin funnel through which Mrs. Caudle in vintage time bottled her +elder wine. There was, however, this difference between the wisdom +and the wine. The wine was always sugared: the wisdom, never. It +was expressed crude from the heart of Mrs. Caudle; who, doubtless, +trusted to the sweetness of her husband's disposition to make it +agree with him. + +Philosophers have debated whether morning or night is most conducive +to the strongest and clearest moral impressions. The Grecian sage +confessed that his labours smelt of the lamp. In like manner did +Mrs. Caudle's wisdom smell of the rushlight. She knew that her +husband was too much distracted by his business as toyman and doll- +merchant to digest her lessons in the broad day. Besides, she could +never make sure of him: he was always liable to be summoned to the +shop. Now from eleven at night until seven in the morning there was +no retreat for him. He was compelled to lie and listen. Perhaps +there was little magnanimity in this on the part of Mrs. Caudle; but +in marriage, as in war, it is permitted to take every advantage of +the enemy. Besides, Mrs. Caudle copied very ancient and classic +authority. Minerva's bird, the very wisest thing in feathers, is +silent all the day. So was Mrs. Caudle. Like the owl, she hooted +only at night. + +Mr. Caudle was blessed with an indomitable constitution. One fact +will prove the truth of this. He lived thirty years with Mrs. +Caudle, surviving her. Yes, it took thirty years for Mrs. Caudle to +lecture and dilate upon the joys, griefs, duties, and vicissitudes +comprised within that seemingly small circle--the wedding-ring. We +say, seemingly small; for the thing, as viewed by the vulgar, naked +eye, is a tiny hoop made for the third feminine finger. Alack! like +the 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 may +be Arabia Felix, and it may be Arabia Petrea. + +A lemon-hearted cynic might liken the wedding-ring to an ancient +circus, in which wild animals clawed one another for the sport of +lookers-on. Perish the hyperbole! We would rather compare it to an +elfin ring, in which dancing fairies made the sweetest music for +infirm humanity. + +Manifold are the uses of rings. Even swine are tamed by them. You +will see a vagrant, hilarious, devastating porker--a full-blooded +fellow that would bleed into many, many fathoms of black pudding--you +will see him, escaped from his proper home, straying in a neighbour's +garden. How he tramples upon the heart's-ease: how, with quivering +snout, he roots up lilies--odoriferous bulbs! Here he gives a +reckless snatch at thyme and marjoram--and here he munches violets +and gilly-flowers. At length the marauder is detected, seized by his +owner, and driven, beaten home. To make the porker less dangerous, +it is determined that he shall be RINGED. The sentence is +pronounced--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 of +forced propriety--for in either nostril he carries a ring. It is, +for the greatness of humanity, a saddening thought, that sometimes +men must be treated no better than pigs. + +But Mr. Job Caudle was not of these men. Marriage to him was not +made a necessity. No; for him call it if you will a happy chance--a +golden accident. It is, however, enough for us to know that he was +married; and was therefore made the recipient of a wife's wisdom. +Mrs. Caudle, like Mahomet's dove, continually pecked at the good +man's ears; and it is a happiness to learn from what he left behind +that he had hived all her sayings in his brain; and further, that he +employed 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 daily +guide and nocturnal monitress, he was in the ripe fulness of fifty- +seven. For three hours at least after he went to bed--such slaves +are we to habit--he could not close an eye. His wife still talked at +his side. True it was, she was dead and decently interred. His +mind--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 her +Tongue still talked as in the life; and again and again did Job +Caudle hear the monitions of bygone years. At times, so loud, so +lively, so real were the sounds, that Job, with a cold chill, doubted +if he were really widowed. And then, with the movement of an arm, a +foot, he would assure himself that he was alone in his holland. +Nevertheless, the talk continued. It was terrible to be thus haunted +by a voice: to have advice, commands, remonstrance, all sorts of +saws and adages still poured upon him, and no visible wife. Now did +the voice speak from the curtains; now from the tester; and now did +it whisper to Job from the very pillow that he pressed. "It's a +dreadful thing that her tongue should walk in this manner," said Job, +and then he thought confusedly of exorcism, or at least of counsel +from 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 one +curtain lecture of his late wife. The employment would, possibly, +lay the ghost that haunted him. It was her dear tongue that cried +for justice, and when thus satisfied, it might possibly rest in +quiet. And so it happened. Job faithfully chronicled all his late +wife's lectures; the ghost of her tongue was thenceforth silent, and +Job slept all his after nights in peace. + +When Job died, a small packet of papers was found inscribed as +follows:- + + +"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 pretty +probable 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--to +the lecture of the night. He had also, with an instinctive knowledge +of the dignity of literature, left a bank-note of very fair amount +with the manuscript. Following our duty as editor, we trust we have +done 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 five +pounds? But so it is: a wife may work and may slave! Ha, dear! the +many things that might have been done with five pounds. As if people +picked up money in the street! But you always were a fool, Mr. +Caudle! I've wanted a black satin gown these three years, and that +five pounds would have entirely bought it. But it's no matter how I +go,--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 called +liberal--and your poor family pays for it. + +"All the girls want bonnets, and where they're to come from I can't +tell. Half five pounds would have bought 'em--but now they must go +without. Of course, THEY belong to you: and anybody but your own +flesh and body, Mr. Caudle! + +"The man called for the water-rate to-day; but I should like to know +how people are to pay taxes, who throw away five pounds to every +fellow that asks them? + +"Perhaps you don't know that Jack, this morning, knocked his +shuttlecock through his bedroom window. I was going to send for the +glazier to mend it; but after you lent that five pounds I was sure we +couldn't afford it. Oh, no! the window must go as it is; and pretty +weather for a dear child to sleep with a broken window. He's got a +cold already on his lungs, and I shouldn't at all wonder if that +broken window settled him. If the dear boy dies, his death will be +upon his father's head; for I'm sure we can't now pay to mend +windows. We might though, and do a good many more things too, if +people didn't throw away their five pounds. + +"Next Tuesday the fire-insurance is due. I should like to know how +it's to be paid? Why, it can't be paid at all! That five pounds +would have more than done it--and now, insurance is out of the +question. And there never were so many fires as there are now. I +shall never close my eyes all night,--but what's that to you, so +people can call you liberal, Mr. Caudle? Your wife and children may +all be burnt alive in their beds--as all of us to a certainty shall +be, for the insurance MUST drop. And after we've insured for so many +years! But how, I should like to know, are people to insure who make +ducks and drakes of their five pounds? + +"I did think we might go to Margate this summer. There's poor little +Caroline, I'm sure she wants the sea. But no, dear creature! she +must stop at home--all of us must stop at home--she'll go into a +consumption, there's no doubt of that; yes--sweet little angel!--I've +made 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 pounds +too. + +"I wonder where poor little Mopsy is! While you were lending that +five pounds, the dog ran out of the shop. You know, I never let it +go into the street, for fear it should be bit by some mad dog, and +come home and bite all the children. It wouldn't now at all astonish +me if the animal was to come back with the hydrophobia, and give it +to all the family. However, what's your family to you, so you can +play the liberal creature with five pounds? + +"Do you hear that shutter, how it's banging to and fro? Yes,--I know +what it wants as well as you; it wants a new fastening. I was going +to 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 smell +of anything, it's the smell of soot. And you know it; but what are +my feelings to you? SWEEP THE CHIMNEY! Yes, it's all very fine to +say sweep the chimney--but how are chimneys to be swept--how are they +to 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 they +were to drag only you out of bed, it would be no matter. SET A TRAP +FOR THEM! Yes, it's easy enough to say--set a trap for 'em. But how +are people to afford mouse-traps, when every day they lose five +pounds? + +"Hark! I'm sure there's a noise downstairs. It wouldn't at all +surprise me if there were thieves in the house. Well, it MAY be the +cat; but thieves are pretty sure to come in some night. There's a +wretched fastening to the back-door; but these are not times to +afford bolts and bars, when people won't take care of their five +pounds. + +"Mary Anne ought to have gone to the dentist's to-morrow. She wants +three teeth taken out. Now, it can't be done. Three teeth that +quite disfigure the child's mouth. But there they must stop, and +spoil the sweetest face that was ever made. Otherwise, she'd have +been 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 the +world. But what do you care for that? Nothing; so you can squander +away 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--the +water-rate must stand over--Jack must get his death through a broken +window--our fire-insurance couldn't be paid, so that we should all +fall victims to the devouring element--we couldn't go to Margate, and +Caroline would go to an early grave--the dog would come home and bite +us all mad--the shutter would go banging for ever--the soot would +always fall--the mice never let us have a wink of sleep--thieves be +always breaking in the house--our dear Mary Anne be for ever left an +unprotected maid,--and with other evils falling upon us, all, all +because 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't +know who'd tie themselves up to a man, if they knew only half they'd +have to bear. A wife must stay at home, and be a drudge, whilst a +man can go anywhere. It's enough for a wife to sit like Cinderella +by the ashes, whilst her husband can go drinking and singing at a +tavern. YOU NEVER SING? How do I know you never sing? It's very +well for you to say so; but if I could hear you, I daresay you're +among the worst of 'em. + +"And now, I suppose, it will be the tavern every night? If you think +I'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't +have a latchkey. I'm not going to sleep with the door upon the +latch, to be murdered before the morning. + +"Faugh! Pah! Whewgh! That filthy tobacco-smoke! It's enough to +kill any decent woman. You know I hate tobacco, and yet you will do +it. YOU DON'T SMOKE YOURSELF? What of that? If you go among people +who DO smoke, you're just as bad, or worse. You might as well smoke- +-indeed, better. Better smoke yourself than come home with other +people's smoke all in your hair and whiskers. + +"I never knew any good come to a man who went to a tavern. Nice +companions he picks up there! Yes! people who make it a boast to +treat their wives like slaves, and ruin their families. There's that +wretch Harry Prettyman. See what he's come to! He doesn't get home +now till two in the morning; and then in what a state! He begins +quarrelling with the door-mat, that his poor wife may be afraid to +speak 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 that +ever trod. You'll not make me afraid to speak to you, however you +may 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? Men +can't answer for themselves when they get boozing one with another. +They never think of their poor wives, who are grieving and wearing +themselves out at home. A nice headache you'll have to-morrow +morning--or rather THIS morning; for it must be past twelve. YOU +WON'T HAVE A HEADACHE? It's very well for you to say so, but I know +you will; and then you may nurse yourself for me. Ha! that filthy +tobacco again! No; I shall not go to sleep like a good soul. How's +people to go to sleep when they're suffocated? + +"Yes, Mr. Caudle, you'll be nice and ill in the morning! But don't +you 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 discredit +brought upon the house by sending for soda-water early, for all the +neighbourhood to say, 'Caudle was drunk last night.' No: I've some +regard for the dear children, if you haven't. No: nor you shan't +have broth for dinner. Not a neck of mutton crosses my threshold, I +can tell you. + +"YOU WON'T WANT SODA, AND YOU WON'T WANT BROTH? All the better. You +wouldn'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 you +are. Talking about getting divorced,--I'm sure tobacco ought to be +good grounds. How little does a woman think, when she marries, that +she gives herself up to be poisoned! You men contrive to have it all +of your own side, you do. Now if I was to go and leave you and the +children, a pretty noise there'd be! You, however, can go and smoke +no 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 their +company. You'd better smoke yourself, than bring home the pipes of +all the world. + +"Yes, I see how it will be. Now you've once gone to a tavern, you'll +always be going. You'll be coming home tipsy every night; and +tumbling down and breaking your leg, and putting out your shoulder; +and bringing all sorts of disgrace and expense upon us. And then +you'll be getting into a street fight--oh! I know your temper too +well to doubt it, Mr. Caudle--and be knocking down some of the +police. And then I know what will follow. It MUST follow. Yes, +you'll be sent for a month or six weeks to the treadmill. Pretty +thing that, for a respectable tradesman, Mr. Caudle, to be put upon +the treadmill with all sorts of thieves and vagabonds, and--there, +again, that horrible tobacco!--and riffraff of every kind. I should +like to know how your children are to hold up their heads, after +their 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 be +ruined 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't +forget 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 name +in the Gazette! For it MUST happen. Your business is sure to fall +off; for what respectable people will buy toys for their children of +a drunkard? You're not a drunkard! No: but you will be--it's all +the same. + +"You've begun by staying out till midnight. By-and-by 'twill be all +night. 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 did +he do, only last Wednesday? Why, he let himself in about four in the +morning, and brought home with him his pot-companion, Puffy. His +dear wife woke at six, and saw Prettyman's dirty boots at her +bedside. And where was the wretch, her husband? Why, he was +drinking downstairs--swilling. Yes; worse than a midnight robber, +he'd taken the keys out of his dear wife's pockets--ha! what that +poor creature has to bear!--and had got at the brandy. A pretty +thing for a wife to wake at six in the morning, and instead of her +husband to see his dirty boots! + +"But I'll not be made your victim, Mr. Caudle, not I. You shall +never get at my keys, for they shall lie under my pillow--under my +own head, Mr. Caudle. + +"You'll be ruined, but if I can help it, you shall ruin nobody but +yourself. + +"Oh, that hor--hor--hor--i--ble tob--ac--co!" + + +To this lecture, Caudle affixes no comment. A certain proof, we +think, 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 care +if you are tired, I SHAN'T let you go to sleep. No, and I won't say +what I have to say in the morning; I'll say it now. It's all very +well for you to come home at what time you like--it's now half-past +twelve--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! A +pretty skylark you'll make of yourself! But I won't stay and be +ruined by you. No: I'm determined on that. I'll go and take the +dear children, and you may get who you like to keep your house. That +is, as long as you have a house to keep--and that won't be long, I +know. + +"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. I +should like to know how many of you would care for what you call +rational conversation, if you had it without your filthy brandy-and- +water; yes, and your more filthy tobacco-smoke. I'm sure the last +time you came home, I had the headache for a week. But I know who it +is who's taking you to destruction. It's that brute, Prettyman. He +has broken his own poor wife's heart, and now he wants to--but don't +you think it, Mr. Caudle; I'll not have my peace of mind destroyed by +the best man that ever trod. Oh, yes! I know you don't care so long +as you can appear well to all the world,--but the world little thinks +how 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, and +smoke, and drink, and talk with people who wouldn't one of 'em lift a +finger to save him from hanging--how any man can leave his wife--and +a 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 the +least love for his wife could do it. + +"And I suppose this is to be the case every Saturday? But I know +what I'll do. I know--it's no use, Mr. Caudle, your calling me a +good 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 regular +at your fireside as the kettle. That was when you were a decent man, +and didn't go amongst Heaven knows who, drinking and smoking, and +making what you think your jokes. I never heard any good come to a +man who cared about jokes. No respectable tradesman does. But I +know what I'll do: I'll scare away your Skylarks. The house serves +liquor after twelve of a Saturday; and if I don't write to the +magistrates, and have the licence taken away, I'm not lying in this +bed 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 foolish +man; you're a wicked one. If you were to die to-morrow--and people +who go to public-houses do all they can to shorten their lives--I +should like to know who would write upon your tombstone, 'A tender +husband and an affectionate father'? _I_--I'd have no such +falsehoods told of you, I can assure you. + +"Going and spending your money, and--nonsense! don't tell me--no, if +you were ten times to swear it, I wouldn't believe that you only +spent eighteenpence on a Saturday. You can't be all those hours and +only spend eighteenpence. I know better. I'm not quite a fool, Mr. +Caudle. A great deal you could have for eighteenpence! And all the +Club married men and fathers of families. The more shame for 'em! +Skylarks, indeed! They should call themselves Vultures; for they can +only do as they do by eating up their innocent wives and children. +Eighteenpence a week! And if it was only that,--do you know what +fifty-two eighteenpences come to in a year? Do you ever think of +that, 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 six +months. No--not so much as a ball of cotton. But what do you care +so you can get your brandy-and-water? There's the girls, too--the +things they want! They're never dressed like other people's +children. But it's all the same to their father. Oh, yes! So he +can go with his Skylarks they may wear sackcloth for pinafores, and +packthread 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 in +a spittoon. A man who has a pipe in his mouth as constant as his +front teeth. A sort of tavern king, with a lot of fools like you to +laugh 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 hardly +know what's the use of coming to bed at all now. + +"The Skylarks, indeed! I suppose you'll be buying a 'Little +Warbler,' and at your time of life, be trying to sing. The peacocks +will 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 getting +redder already: and you've just one of the noses that liquor always +flies to. YOU DON'T SEE IT'S RED? No--I daresay not--but _I_ see +it; _I_ see a great many things you don't. And so you'll go on. In +a little time, with your brandy-and-water--don't tell me that you +only take two small glasses: I know what men's two small glasses +are; in a little time you'll have a face all over as if it was made +of red currant jam. And I should like to know who's to endure you +then? 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 decent +creature once, and now I'm told he has more than once boxed his +wife's ears. He's a Skylark too. And I suppose, some day, you'll be +trying to box MY ears? Don't attempt it, Mr. Caudle; I say don't +attempt it. Yes--it's all very well for you to say you don't mean +it,--but I only say again, don't attempt it. You'd rue it till the +day of your death, Mr. Caudle. + +"Going and sitting for four hours at a tavern! What men, unless they +had their wives with them, can find to talk about, I can't think. No +good, of course. + +"Eighteenpence a week--and drinking brandy-and-water, enough to swim +a boat! And smoking like the funnel of a steamship! And I can't +afford 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 fell +asleep." + + + +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 of +their beds at all hours of the night, to bail a set of fellows who +are never so happy as when they're leading sober men to destruction. +I should like to know what the neighbours will think of you, with +people 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 be +ill-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 to +know what's the use of my working and slaving to save a farthing, +when you throw away pounds upon your precious Skylarks. A pretty +cold you'll have to-morrow morning, being called out of your warm bed +this weather; but don't you think I'll nurse you--not I; not a drop +of gruel do you get from me. + +"I'm sure you've plenty of ways of spending your money--not throwing +it away upon a set of dissolute peace-breakers. It's all very well +for 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 in +the matter, because I know there is; it's for something more than +quarrelling with the policeman that he was locked up. People aren't +locked 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 he +is. Don't tell me you couldn't help bailing him; you should have +shown yourself a respectable man, and have let him been sent to +prison. + +"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 would +matter 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 name +with it. I shouldn't wonder, too, if they give your picture as they +do the other folks of the Old Bailey. A pretty thing that, to go +down to your children. I'm sure it will be enough to make them +change their name. No, I shall not go to sleep; it's all very well +for you to say, go to sleep, after such a disturbance. But I shall +not go to sleep, Mr. Caudle; certainly not." + + +"Her will, I have no doubt," says Caudle, "was strong; but nature was +stronger, and she did sleep; this night inflicting upon me a +remarkably short lecture." + + + +LECTURE V--MR. CAUDLE HAS REMAINED DOWNSTAIRS TILL PAST ONE, WITH A +FRIEND + + + +"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 I +wish you'd think first what's for supper. That beautiful leg of pork +would 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, if +you 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 be +laughed at. I know the world. No, indeed, Mr. Caudle, I don't think +ill of everybody; don't say that. But I can't see a leg of pork +eaten up in that way, without asking myself what it's all to end in +if such things go on? And then he must have pickles, too! Couldn't +be content with my cabbage--no, Mr. Caudle, I won't let you go to +sleep. It's very well for you to say let you go to sleep, after +you'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 was +below drinking up your substance in brandy-and-water? for he couldn't +be content upon decent, wholesome gin. Upon my word, you ought to be +a rich man, Mr. Caudle. You have such very fine friends, I wonder +who gives you brandy when you go out! + +"No, indeed, he couldn't be content with my pickled cabbage--and I +should like to know who makes better--but he must have walnuts. And +you, too, like a fool--now, don't you think to stop me, Mr. Caudle; a +poor 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 girl +going out for pickled walnuts. And in such a night too! With snow +upon 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 your +friend, too--a pretty brute he is, I'm sure--that the poor girl had +got a cold and I dare say chilblains on her toes. But I know what +will be the end of that; she'll be laid up, and we shall have a nice +doctor'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't +swear in that dreadful way! Aren't you afraid that the bed will open +and swallow you? And don't swing about in that way. THAT will do no +good. THAT won't bring back the leg of pork, and the brandy you've +poured down both of your throats. Oh, I know it, I'm sure of it. I +only recollected it when I'd got into bed--and if it hadn't been so +cold, you'd have seen me downstairs again, I can tell you--I +recollected it, and a pretty two hours I've passed--that I left the +key in the cupboard,--and I know it--I could see by the manner of you +when 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 best +brandy--the very best--for your other friend, who called last +Wednesday. Ha! ha! It was British--the cheapest British--and nice +and 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 get +nothing else for dinner, I can tell you. It's a dreadful thing that +the 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 brandy +and a leg of pork. A leg of--leg--leg--pint--" + + +"And mumbling the syllables," says Mr. Caudle's MS., "she went to +sleep." + + + +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 certain +there was nothing about HIM that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He +doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have +better 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 it +isn'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 a +shower 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 no +stirring 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 would +think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever DID return an +umbrella! 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 blessed +creatures!--sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I +wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing--who, indeed, +but their father? People who can't feel for their own children ought +never to be fathers. + +"But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I +was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow--you knew that; and +you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and +take 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 the +more. No: and I won't have a cab. Where do you think the money's +to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A +cab, indeed! Cost me sixteenpence at least--sixteenpence! two-and- +eightpence, for there's back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to +know who's to pay for 'em; _I_ can't pay for 'em, and I'm sure you +can't, if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and +beggaring your children--buying umbrellas! + +"Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I +don'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 my +death. Don't call me a foolish woman, it's you that's the foolish +man. You know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's +sure to give me a cold--it always does. But what do you care for +that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I +daresay I shall--and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope +there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I +shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent +the 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 a +dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows! it isn't often +that I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at +once,--better, I should say. But when I do go out,--Mr. Caudle, I +choose to go like a lady. Oh! that rain--if it isn't enough to break +in the windows. + +"Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow! How I am to go to +mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die I'll do it. No, sir; I +won'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 at +all. + +"Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that +umbrella. I'm sure, if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might +have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other +people to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you--you can go +to sleep. You've no thought of your poor patient wife, and your own +dear 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 what +you 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'll +be happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you'd never +have lent the umbrella! + +"You have to go on Thursday about that summons and, of course, you +can't go. No, indeed, you DON'T go without the umbrella. You may +lose the debt for what I care--it won't be so much as spoiling your +clothes--better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend +umbrellas! + +"And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the +umbrella! Oh, don't tell me that I said I WOULD go--that's nothing +to do with it; nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her, and +the little money we were to have we sha'n't have at all--because +we've no umbrella. + +"The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet; for they +sha'n't stop at home--they sha'n't lose their learning; it's all +their 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; mark +that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault--I +didn't lend the umbrella." + + +"At length," writes Caudle, "I fell asleep; and dreamt that the sky +was turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs; that, in fact, the +whole world turned round under a tremendous umbrella!" + + + +LECTURE VII--MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMONSTRANCE ON HIS DAY'S +DINNER: COLD MUTTON, AND NO PUDDING.--MRS. CAUDLE DEFENDS THE COLD +SHOULDER + + + +"Umph! I'm sure! Well! I wonder what it will be next? There's +nothing proper, now--nothing at all. Better get somebody else to +keep the house, I think. I can't do it now, it seems; I'm only in +the 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 my +mouth, Heaven knows! But you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. +You ought to have married a negro slave, and not any respectable +woman. + +"You're to go about the house looking like thunder all the day, and +I'm not to say a word. Where do you think pudding's to come from +every day? You show a nice example to your children, you do; +complaining, and turning your nose up at a sweet piece of cold +mutton, because there's no pudding! You go a nice way to make 'em +extravagant--teach 'em nice lessons to begin the world with. Do you +know 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 sure +you've the stomach of a lord, you have. No, sir: I didn't choose to +hash the mutton. It's very easy for you to say hash it; but _I_ know +what a joint loses in hashing: it's a day's dinner the less, if it's +a bit. Yes, I daresay; other people may have puddings with cold +mutton. No doubt of it; and other people become bankrupts. But if +ever you get into the Gazette, it sha'n't be MY fault--no; I'll do my +duty as a wife to you, Mr. Caudle: you shall never have it to say +that it was MY housekeeping that brought you to beggary. No; you may +sulk at the cold meat--ha! I hope you'll never live to want such a +piece of cold mutton as we had to-day! and you may threaten to go to +a tavern to dine; but, with our present means, not a crumb of pudding +do 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 know +you once brought home a pair of fowls; I know it: and weren't you +mean enough to want to stop 'em out of my week's money? Oh, the +selfishness--the shabbiness of men! They can go out and throw away +pounds 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 may +hunt for it. I wonder you don't blush to name those fowls again! I +wouldn'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 to +you like any other wife, but you must threaten to get up. DO be +ashamed of yourself. + +"Puddings, indeed! Do you think I'm made of puddings? Didn't you +have some boiled rice three weeks ago? Besides, is this the time of +the year for puddings? It's all very well if I had money enough +allowed 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 I +suppose you want something more than apples for dumplings? I suppose +sugar costs something, doesn't it? And that's how it is. That's how +one 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't +you always have 'em once a year--every Shrove Tuesday? And what +would any moderate, decent man want more? + +"Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle,--no, it's no use your saying +fine words to me to let you go to sleep; I sha'n't!--pray do you know +the price of eggs just now? There's not an egg you can trust to +under seven and eight a shilling; well, you've only just to reckon up +how 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. You +call yourself a respectable tradesman, I suppose? Ha! I only wish +people knew you as well as I do! Swearing at eggs, indeed! But I'm +tired of this usage, Mr. Caudle; quite tired of it; and I don't care +how soon it's ended! + +"I'm sure I do nothing but work and labour, and think how to make the +most of everything; and this is how I'm rewarded. I should like to +see anybody whose joints go further than mine. But if I was to throw +away your money into the street, or lay it out in fine feathers on +myself, I should be better thought of. The woman who studies her +husband and her family is always made a drudge of. It's your fine +fal-lal wives who've the best time of it. + +"What's the use of your lying groaning there in that manner? That +won't make me hold my tongue, I can tell you. You think to have it +all your own way--but you won't, Mr. Caudle! You can insult my +dinner; look like a demon, I may say, at a wholesome piece of cold +mutton--ah! the thousands of far better creatures than you are who'd +been thankful for that mutton!--and I'm never to speak! But you're +mistaken--I will. Your usage of me, Mr. Caudle, is infamous-- +unworthy of a man. I only wish people knew you for what you are; but +I'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 pudding +every 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: then +you'd go for a dessert; and--oh! I see it all as plain as the quilt +before me--but no, not while I'm alive! What your second wife may do +I don't know; perhaps SHE'LL be a fine lady; but you sha'n't be +ruined by me, Mr. Caudle; that I'm determined. Puddings, indeed! +Pu-dding-s! Pud--" + + +"Exhausted nature," says Caudle, "could hold out no longer. She went +to sleep." + + + +LECTURE VIII--CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON--MRS. CAUDLE INDIGNANT AND +CURIOUS + + + +"Now, Mr. Caudle--Mr. Caudle, I say: oh: you can't be asleep +already, I know now, what I mean to say is this; there's no use, none +at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but, at last +my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all +you'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 all +confidence between man and wife--if a husband's to have secrets and +keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own +wife can't know 'em! Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm +sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's +a good soul, tell me what it's all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare +say; still--not that I care much about it,--still I SHOULD like to +know. 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 good +deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure +I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well? + +"Caudle, you're enough to vex a saint! Now don't you think you're +going to sleep; because you're not. Do you suppose I'd ever suffered +you to go and be made a mason, if I didn't suppose I was to know the +secret too? Not that it's anything to know, I dare say; and that's +why I'm determined to know it. + +"But I know what it is; oh yes, there can be no doubt. The secret +is, to ill-use poor women; to tyrannise over 'em; to make 'em your +slaves: especially your wives. It must be something of the sort, or +you wouldn't be ashamed to have it known. What's right and proper +never need be done in secret. It's an insult to a woman for a man to +be 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 than +their own wives and families. I'm sure men have quite enough to care +for--that is, if they act properly--to care for them they have at +home. 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 turnpike +man--for that's what you look like. And I should like to know what +the 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 put +an 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 to +say,--you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me +in a passion--not that I care about the secret itself: no, I +wouldn'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's +the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of +going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't +let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how +that can be when a man's a mason--when he keeps a secret that sets +him and his wife apart? Ha, you men make the laws, and so you take +good care to have all the best of 'em to yourselves: otherwise a +woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason: when +he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart--a secret place in +his 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 had +a secret! To whom should I think of confiding it, but to my dear +husband? I should be miserable to keep it to myself, and you know +it. 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, and +you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a mason: not at +all, 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 tell +me--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 ashamed +to 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 be +ashamed of myself, Caudle. + +"And I suppose you'll be going to what you call your Lodge every +night, now. Lodge, indeed! Pretty place it must be, where they +don't admit women. Nice goings on, I dare say. Then you call one +another brethren. Brethren! I'm sure you'd relations enough, you +didn't want any more. + +"But I know what all this masonry's about. It's only an excuse to +get away from your wives and families, that you may feast and drink +together, that's all. That's the secret. And to abuse women,--as if +they were inferior animals, and not to be trusted. That's the +secret; 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 hearty +supper, 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 you +think I know. I thought there was something in the wind. Yes, I was +sure of it, when you went out of the house to-day. I knew it by the +looks of you, though I didn't say anything. Upon my word! And you +call yourself a respectable man, and the father of a family! Going +to a fair among all sorts of people,--at your time of life. Yes; and +never think of taking your wife with you. Oh no! you can go and +enjoy yourself out, with I don't know who: go out, and make yourself +very pleasant, I dare say. Don't tell me; I hear what a nice +companion Mr. Caudle is: what a good-tempered person. Ha! I only +wish people could see you at home, that's all. But so it is with +men. They can keep all their good temper for out-of-doors--their +wives never see any of it. Oh dear! I'm sure I don't know who'd be +a poor woman! + +"Now, Caudle, I'm not in an ill-temper; not at all. I know I used to +be a fool when we were first married: I used to worry and fret +myself to death when you went out; but I've got over that. I +wouldn't put myself out of the way now for the best man that ever +trod. 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 thought +of. 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 Greenwich +Fair 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 mind +to it, and you know it. Pretty games you've had, no doubt! I should +like to have been behind you, that's all. A man at your time of +life! + +"And I, of course, I never want to go out. Oh no! I may stay at +home with the cat. You couldn't think of taking your wife and +children, like any other decent man, to a fair. Oh no, you never +care to be seen with us. I'm sure, many people don't know you're +married at all: how can they? Your wife's never seen with you. Oh +no; anybody but those belonging to you! + +"Greenwich Fair, indeed! Yes,--and of course you went up and down +the hill, running and racing with nobody knows who. Don't tell me; I +know 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 my +tongue, and I'm not a foolish woman. It's no matter, sir, if the +pink 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 talking +of it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Caudle. Ha! few +wives would have been what I've been to you. I only wish my time was +to 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 the +gipsies? You needn't have wasted your money. I'm sure I can tell +you your fortune if you go on as you do. Yes, the gaol will be your +fortune, Mr. Caudle. And it would be no matter--none at all--if your +wife 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. I +tell you, Caudle, I know what you are when you're out. I wouldn't +trust any of you--you especially, Caudle. + +"Then you must go in the thick of the fair, and have the girls +scratching 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 encouraged +to 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've +no 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 a +family. No: I won't hold my tongue. It's very well for you to +threaten to get up. You're to go to Greenwich Fair, and race up and +down 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'd +have liked, and that's just as bad;--and you can go into swings, and +shows, and roundabouts. If I was you, I should hide my head under +the clothes and be ashamed of myself. + +"And what is most selfish--most mean of you, Caudle--you can go and +enjoy yourself, and never so much as bring home for the poor children +a gingerbread nut. Don't tell me that your pocket was picked of a +pound of nuts! Nice company you must have been in to have your +pocket 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 have +seen you. No: I'm not making myself ridiculous. It's you that's +making 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 you +were this morning? There--you needn't begin to whistle: people +don'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 the +best 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 to +you, and you SHALL hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very +hard if I can't speak a word at night: besides, it isn't often I +open my mouth, goodness knows. + +"Because ONCE in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button you must +almost 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 I +think 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 button +off your shirt. If you'd SOME wives, you would, I know. I'm sure +I'm never without a needle and thread in my hand. What with you and +the 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 looked +after than yours. I only wish I had kept the shirts you had when you +were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons +then? + +"Yes, it IS worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put +me down. You fly into a rage, and then if I only try to speak you +won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to +yourselves: 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 think +of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of +marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through. +What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd never tie +themselves 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 something +to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for +anything! All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off +the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's +buttons than I am. I only say, it's very odd. + +"However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death +with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may +laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's +your 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 how +your second wife will look after your buttons. You'll find out the +difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I +hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back. + +"No, I'm not a vindictive woman, Mr. Caudle; nobody ever called me +that, 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 your +aggravating temper, Caudle, for mines of gold. It's a good thing I'm +not as worrying as you are--or a nice house there'd be between us. I +only wish you'd had a wife that WOULD have talked to you! Then you'd +have known the difference. But you impose upon me, because, like a +poor 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 as +bad as yourself. Talking as you did all breakfast time about your +buttons! And of a Sunday morning, too! And you call yourself a +Christian! I should like to know what your boys will say of you when +they grow up? And all about a paltry button off one of your +wristbands! 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 mind +destroyed--I'm to be worried into my grave for a miserable shirt +button, 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 may +drop off, and I won't so much as put a thread to 'em. And I should +like to know what you'll do then? Oh, you must get somebody else to +sew 'em, must you? That's a pretty threat for a husband to hold out +to a wife! And to such a wife as I've been, too: such a negro-slave +to 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 I +have 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't +wonder. Oh no! I should be surprised at nothing, now! Nothing at +all! It's what people have always told me it would come to,--and now +the buttons have opened my eyes! But the whole world shall know of +your cruelty, Mr. Caudle. After the wife I've been to you. Somebody +else, indeed, to sew your buttons! I'm no longer to be mistress in +my own house! Ha, Caudle! I wouldn't have upon my conscience what +you 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's +worse! I can't even so much as speak of a shirt button, but that I'm +threatened to be made nobody of in my own house! Caudle, you've a +heart like a hearth-stone, you have! To threaten me, and only +because a button--a button--" + + +"I was conscious of no more than this," says Caudle; "for here nature +relieved me with a sweet, deep sleep." + + + +LECTURE XI--MRS. CAUDLE SUGGESTS THAT HER DEAR MOTHER SHOULD "COME +AND 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! You +don't take care enough of yourself, Caudle, you don't. And you +ought, I'm sure, if only for my sake. For whatever I should do, if +anything was to happen to you--but I think of it; no, I can't bear to +think OF THAT. Still, you ought to take care of yourself; for you +know you're not strong, Caudle; you know you're not. + +"Wasn't dear mother so happy with us to-night? Now, you needn't go +to 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 is +always happier here than anywhere else. Ha! what a temper that dear +soul has! I call it a temper of satin; it is so smooth, so easy, and +so soft. Nothing puts her out of the way. And then, if you only +knew how she takes your part, Caudle! I'm sure, if you had been her +own son ten times over, she couldn't be fonder of you. Don't you +think so, Caudle? Eh, love? Now, do answer. + +"HOW CAN YOU TELL? + +"Nonsense, Caudle; you must have seen it. I'm sure nothing delights +the dear soul so much as when she's thinking how to please you. + +"Don't you remember Thursday night, the stewed oysters when you came +home? That was all dear mother's doings! 'Margaret,' says she to +me, 'it's a cold night; and don't you think dear Mr. Caudle would +like something nice before he goes to bed?' And that, Caudle, is how +the oysters came about. Now, don't sleep, Caudle: do listen to me +for five minutes; 'tisn't often I speak, goodness knows. + +"And then, what a fuss she makes when you are out, if your slippers +aren't put to the fire for you. + +"SHE'S VERY GOOD? + +"Yes,--I know she is, Caudle. And hasn't she been six months--though +I promised her not to tell you--six months working a watch-pocket for +you! 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 of +next to nothing! I try hard enough to follow her: but, I'm not +ashamed to own it, Caudle, she quite beats me. Ha! the many nice +little things she'd simmer up for you--and I can't do it; the +children, you know it, Caudle, take so much of my time. I can't do +it, love; and I often reproach myself that I can't. Now, you shan't +go to sleep, Caudle; at least not for five minutes. You must hear +me. + +"I've been thinking, dearest--ha! that nasty cough, love!--I've been +thinking, darling, if we could only persuade dear mother to come and +live with us. Now, Caudle, you can't be asleep; it's impossible--you +were coughing only this minute--yes, to live with us. What a +treasure we should have in her! Then, Caudle, you never need go to +bed 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're +not. + +"I'm sure, the money she'd save us in housekeeping. Ha! what an eye +she has for a joint! The butcher doesn't walk that could deceive +dear mother. And then, again, for poultry! What a finger and thumb +she 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 my +face, wanting to know why I couldn't make 'em? And I wouldn't +pretend 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 marrow +puddings every day. Now, don't fling yourself about and begin to +swear at marrow puddings; you know you like 'em, dear. + +"What a hand, too, dear mother has for a pie crust! But it's born +with 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 uttered +such a reproach to you for the whole world. Consider, dear; people +can't be born as they like. + +"How often, too, have you wanted to brew at home! And I never could +learn 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 was +nothing like it. + +"YOU DARE SAY NOT? + +"No; it wasn't indeed, Caudle. Then, if dear mother was only with +us, what money we should save in beer! And then you might always +have your own nice pure, good, wholesome ale, Caudle; and what good +it 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 always +had a pudding. Now if mother was with us, in the matter of fruit +puddings she'd make it summer all the year round. But I never could +preserve--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 of +it! And I know I never have it made to please you! Well, what a +relief to me it would be if dear mother was always at hand, that you +might have a stew when you liked. What a load it would be off my +mind. + +"Again, for pickles! Not at all like anybody else's pickles. Her +red cabbage--why, it's as crisp as biscuit! And then her walnuts-- +and her all-sorts! Eh, Caudle? You know how you love pickles; and +how we sometimes tiff about 'em? Now if dear mother was here, a word +would never pass between us. And I'm sure nothing would make me +happier, for--you're not asleep, Caudle?--for I can't bear to +quarrel, can I, love? + +"The children, too, are so fond of her! And she'd be such a help to +me with 'em! I'm sure, with dear mother in the house, I shouldn't +care a fig for measles, or anything of the sort. As a nurse, she's +such a treasure! + +"And at her time of life, what a needle-woman! And the darning and +mending 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 the +house. + +"And then, when you're out late, Caudle--for I know you must be out +late 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 delight +the dear soul half so much. + +"And so, Caudle, love, I think dear mother had better come, don't +you? Eh, Caudle? Now, you're not asleep, darling; don't you think +she'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; and +I went to sleep." + + + +LECTURE XII--MR. CAUDLE HAVING COME HOME A LITTLE LATE, DECLARES THAT +HENCEFORTH "HE WILL HAVE A KEY." + + + +"'Pon my word, Mr. Caudle, I think it a waste of time to come to bed +at all now! The cocks will be crowing in a minute. Keeping people +up till past twelve. Oh yes! you're thought a man of very fine +feelings out of doors, I dare say! It's a pity you haven't a little +feeling for those belonging to you at home. A nice hour to keep +people 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 use +your talking, Caudle; I never WILL let the girl sit up for you, and +there'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 sit +up 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 up +because I may have the pleasure of talking about it; and you're an +ungrateful, unfeeling creature to say so. I sit up because I choose +it; and if you don't come home all the night long--and 'twill soon +come to that, I've no doubt--still, I'll never go to bed, so don't +think it. + +"Oh, yes! the time runs away very pleasantly with you men at your +clubs--selfish creatures! You can laugh and sing, and tell stories, +and never think of the clock; never think there's such a person as a +wife belonging to you. It's nothing to you that a poor woman's +sitting up, and telling the minutes, and seeing all sorts of things +in the fire--and sometimes thinking something dreadful has happened +to you--more fool she to care a straw about you!--This is all +nothing. Oh no; when a woman's once married she's a slave--worse +than a slave--and must bear it all! + +"And what you men can find to talk about I can't think! Instead of a +man sitting every night at home with his wife, and going to bed at a +Christian hour,--going to a club, to meet a set of people who don't +care 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 every +night; and I daresay you will soon. But if you do, you may get in as +you can: _I_ won't sit up for you, I can tell you. + +"My health's being destroyed night after night, and--oh, don't say +it's only once a week; I tell you that's nothing to do with it--if +you had any eyes, you would see how ill I am; but you've no eyes for +anybody belonging to you: oh no! your eyes are for people out of +doors. It's very well for you to call me a foolish, aggravating +woman! 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 my +health, and to be abused for it. Nice principles you've got at that +club, Mr. Caudle! + +"But there's one comfort--one great comfort; it can't last long: I'm +sinking--I feel it, though I never say anything about it--but I know +my own feelings, and I say it can't last long. And then I should +like to know who will sit up for you! Then I should like to know how +your second wife--what do you say? + +"YOU'LL NEVER BE TROUBLED WITH ANOTHER? + +"Troubled, indeed! I never troubled you, Caudle. No; it's you +who've troubled me; and you know it; though like a foolish woman I've +borne 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 she +was married--Don't tell me you want to go to sleep! If you want to +go to sleep, you should come home at proper hours! It's time to get +up, for what I know, now. Shouldn't wonder if you hear the milk in +five minutes--there's the sparrows up already; yes, I say the +sparrows; 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; it +ISN'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! But +you're now another person--quite an altered creature. But I suppose +you're all alike--I dare say, every poor woman's troubled and put +upon, though I should hope not so much as I am. Indeed, I should +hope 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 bed +with 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 you +say? + +"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 put +me in a passion; but all I say is,--try it. + +"A respectable thing, that, for a married man to carry about with +him,--a street-door key! That tells a tale I think. A nice thing +for the father of a family! A key! What, to let yourself in and out +when you please! To come in, like a thief in the middle of the +night, 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 I +choose to sit up what's that to you? Some wives, indeed, would make +a noise about sitting up, but YOU'VE no reason to complain--goodness +knows! + +"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; but +for a married man to leave his wife and children in a house with a +door 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 to +say that you only want the key for peace and quietness--what's it to +you, if I like to sit up? You've no business to complain; it can't +distress 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 a +policeman; as I'm your married wife, I will. + +"No, I think when a man comes to have the street-door key, the sooner +he turns bachelor altogether the better. I'm sure, Caudle, I don't +want to be any clog upon you. Now, it's no use your telling me to +hold 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 my +life! there's no saying a word to you! You go out, and treat +yourself like an emperor--and come home at twelve at night, or any +hour 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 falling +sentences 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 OF +INVITATION + + + +"It IS hard, I think, Mr. Caudle, that I can't leave home for a day +or two, but the house must be turned into a tavern: a tavern?--a +pothouse! Yes, I thought you were very anxious that I should go; I +thought you wanted to get rid of me for something, or you would not +have insisted on my staying at dear mother's all night. You were +afraid I should get cold coming home, were you? Oh yes, you can be +very tender, you can, Mr. Caudle, when it suits your own purpose. +Yes! and the world thinks what a good husband you are! I only wish +the world knew you as well as I do, that's all; but it shall, some +day, I'm determined. + +"I'm sure the house will not be sweet for a month. All the curtains +are poisoned with smoke; and what's more, with the filthiest smoke I +ever knew. + +"TAKE 'EM DOWN, THEN? + +"Yes, it's all very well for you to say take 'em down; but they were +only cleaned and put up a month ago; but a careful wife's lost upon +you, Mr. Caudle. You ought to have married somebody who'd have let +your house go to wreck and ruin, as I will for the future. People +who don't care for their families are better thought of than those +who do; I've long found out THAT. + +"And what a condition the carpet's in! They've taken five pounds out +of it, if a farthing, with their filthy boots, and I don't know what +besides. 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 you +wanted to have a few friends, why couldn't you invite 'em when your +wife's at home, like any other man? not have 'em sneaking in, like a +set of housebreakers, directly a woman turns her back. They must be +pretty gentlemen, they must; mean fellows, that are afraid to face a +woman! Ha! and you all call yourselves the lords of the creation! I +should only like to see what would become of the creation, if you +were left to yourselves! A pretty pickle creation would be in very +soon! + +"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 empty +bottles, I haven't had the heart to count 'em. And punch, too! you +must have punch! There's a hundred half-lemons in the kitchen, if +there'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 OWN +HOUSE? + +"Will you? If you don't alter, Mr. Caudle, you'll soon have no house +to 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 suppose +I'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 drank +enough for fifty. Do you suppose I'm to find sugar for punch for all +the 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 a +shilling extra, the house is in a blaze. And yet a whole loaf of +sugar can you throw away upon--No, I WON'T be still; and I WON'T let +you 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 night +with a pack of people who don't care for you, and your poor wife +can't get in a word! + +"And there's that china image that I had when I was married--I +wouldn't have taken any sum of money for it, and you know it--and how +do I find it? With its precious head knocked off! And what was more +mean, more contemptible than all besides, it was put on again, as if +nothing had happened. + +"YOU KNEW NOTHING ABOUT IT? + +"Now, how can you lie there, in your Christian bed, Caudle, and say +that? You know that that fellow, Prettyman, knocked off the head +with 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 knew +was precious to me. Oh no, if the truth was known, you were glad to +see it broken for that very reason. + +"Every way I've been insulted. I should like to know who it was who +corked whiskers on my dear aunt's picture? Oh! you're laughing, are +you? + +"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 dear +face,--and she was a dear soul to you, Caudle, and you ought to be +ashamed of yourself to see her ill-used. Oh, you may laugh! It's +very easy to laugh! I only wish you'd a little feeling, like other +people, that's all. + +"Then there's my china mug--the mug I had before I was married--when +I was a happy creature. I should like to know who knocked the spout +off that mug? Don't tell me it was cracked before--it's no such +thing, Caudle; there wasn't a flaw in it--and now, I could have cried +when I saw it. Don't tell me it wasn't worth twopence. How do you +know? You never buy mugs. But that's like men; they think nothing +in a house costs anything. + +"There's four glasses broke, and nine cracked. At least, that's all +I'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 I +should like to know who broke the bell-pull--and perhaps you don't +know there's a leg off a chair,--and perhaps--" + + +"I was resolved," said Caudle, "to know nothing, and so went to sleep +in my ignorance." + + + +LECTURE XIV--MRS. CAUDLE THINKS IT "HIGH TIME" THAT THE CHILDREN +SHOULD HAVE SUMMER CLOTHING + + + +"There, Caudle! If there's anything in the world I hate--and you +know 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 more +shame 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 pride +for 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 any +money of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing; never; it's +painful 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 wish +you'd think a little more of people's feelings, and less of your +jokes. As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there is +anything that humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocket +for 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 may +go 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 nobody +else's children? + +"WHAT WAS THE MATTER WITH THEM? + +"Oh, Caudle! How can you ask? Poor things! weren't they all in +their 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, in +their new chips, turned their noses up at 'em? And you didn't see +how the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our dear girls, as +much 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 a +parent--but I'm sorry to say, Caudle, you haven't. I'm sure those +Briggs's girls--the little minxes!--put me into such a pucker, I +could 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 your +children appear at church like other people's children, that make 'em +uncomfortable at their devotions, poor things! for how can it be +otherwise, when they see themselves dressed like nobody else? + +"Now, Caudle, it's no use talking; those children shall not cross the +threshold next Sunday, if they haven't things for the summer. Now +mind--they sha'n't; and there's an end of it. I won't have 'em +exposed to the Briggs's and the Browns again: no, they shall know +they have a mother, if they've no father to feel for 'em. What do +you say, Caudle? + +"A GOOD DEAL I MUST THINK OF CHURCH, IF I THINK SO MUCH OF WHAT WE GO +IN? + +"I only wish you thought as much as I do, you'd be a better man than +you 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, and +you want to put me off with something about the church; but that's so +like you, Caudle! + +"I'M ALWAYS WANTING MONEY FOR CLOTHES? + +"How can you lie in your bed and say that? I'm sure there's no +children in the world that cost their father so little: but that's +it; the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. It's the +wives who don't care where the money comes from who're best thought +of. 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 to +laugh, Caudle--very easy, to people who don't feel. + +"Now, Caudle, dear! What a man you are! I know you'll give me the +money, because, after all, I think you love your children, and like +to 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 it +take? 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 do +credit 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 what +they've to do with your children; you know what I meant. But you ARE +so hasty, Caudle. + +"HOW MUCH? + +"Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good pinching--and +you know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch closer than I +can--I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. What did +you 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 is +nothing to do with it. + +"What do you say? + +"TEN POUNDS ARE ENOUGH? + +"Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for women; but +you 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 at +all 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 make +of 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 of +themselves: and what, indeed, CAN the poor things think when they +see the Briggs's, and the Browns, and the Smiths--and their fathers +don't make the money you do, Caudle--when they see them as fine as +tulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody; and to think +yourself nobody--depend upon it, Caudle,--isn't the way to make the +world 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 a +farthing. 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, it +would seem as if I wanted to waste your money: and I'm sure, when I +come to think of it, twenty pounds will hardly do. Still, if you'll +give me twenty--no, it's no use your offering fifteen, and wanting to +go 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 sticking +firmly to the fifteen; but in the morning Mrs. Caudle assured me, as +a woman of honour, that she wouldn't let me wink an eye before I +promised the twenty: and man is frail--and woman is strong--she had +the money." + + + +LECTURE XV--MR. CAUDLE HAS AGAIN STAYED OUT LATE. MRS. CAUDLE, AT +FIRST 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 come +home at reasonable hours have no business with wives: they have no +right to destroy other people, if they choose to go to destruction +themselves. Ha, lord! Oh, dear! I only hope none of my girls will +ever marry--I hope they'll none of 'em ever be the slave their poor +mother 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 to +speak; I don't wonder that you can't open your mouth. I'm only +astonished that at such hours you have the confidence to knock at +your own door. Though I'm your wife, I must say it, I do sometimes +wonder at your impudence. What do you say? + +"NOTHING? + +"Ha! you are an aggravating creature, Caudle; lying there like the +mummy of a man, and never as much as opening your lips to one. Just +as if your own wife wasn't worth answering! It isn't so when you're +out, I'm sure. Oh no! then you can talk fast enough; here, there's +no getting a word from you. But you treat your wife as no other man +does--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 out +all the week as once--just! And I should like to know what could +keep you out till these hours? + +"BUSINESS? + +"Oh, yes--I dare say! Pretty business a married man and the father +of 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 better +man, Caudle, if you had. + +"WILL I LISTEN TO YOU? + +"What's the use? Of course you've some story to put me off with--you +can 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 what +in my time I've put up with there isn't anybody in the world that +knows. + +"WILL I HEAR YOUR STORY? + +"Oh, you may tell it if you please; go on: only mind, I sha'n't +believe a word of it. I'm not such a fool as other women are, I can +tell you. + +"There, now--don't begin to swear--but go on--" - + +"--And that's your story, is it? That's your excuse for the hours +you keep! That's your apology for undermining my health and ruining +your family! What do you think your children will say of you when +they 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's +that Prettyman! Yes, to be sure it is! Upon my life! Well, if I've +hardly patience to lie in the bed! I've wanted a silver teapot these +five 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 and +family, 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 running +from lawyer to lawyer to get bail, and settle the business, as you +call 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 the +bail! That any man who isn't a born fool should do such a thing for +another! 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 only +wish you were in a condition to try 'em. I should only like to see +you arrested. You'd find the difference--that you would. + +"What's other people's affairs to you? If you were locked up, depend +upon it, there's not a soul would come near you. No; it's all very +fine now, when people think there isn't a chance of your being in +trouble--but I should only like to see what they'd say to you if YOU +were in a sponging-house. Yes--I should enjoy THAT, just to show you +that 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're +not in means, I know, to think so well of people as all that. And of +course they only laugh at you. 'Caudle's an easy fool,' they cry--I +know it as well as if I heard 'em--'Caudle's an easy fool; anybody +may lead him.' Yes anybody but his own wife;--and she--of course--is +nobody. + +"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'll +soon know every sponging-house and every sheriff's officer in London. +Your business will have to take care of itself; you'll have enough to +do 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't +put it off till to-morrow. It isn't often I speak, but I WILL speak +now. + +"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 just +like him. He looks like a man that's always in debt--that's always +in a sponging-house. Anybody might swear it. I knew it from the +very first time you brought him here--from the very night he put his +nasty dirty wet boots on my bright steel fender. Any woman could see +what 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 upon +heaven in that way, and ask me to be quiet, for I won't. Why +couldn't you let him stop there? He got himself in; he might have +got himself out again. And you must keep me awake, ruin my sleep, my +health, and for what you care, my peace of mind. Ha! everybody but +you can see how I'm breaking. You can do all this while you're +talking with a set of low bailiffs! A great deal you must think of +your 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 he +laughs at you--and serve you right! Why, in another week he'll be in +the East Indies; of course he will! And you'll have to pay his +debts; yes, your children may go in rags, so that Mr. Prettyman--what +do you say? + +"IT ISN'T PRETTYMAN? + +"I know better. Well, if it isn't Prettyman that's kept you out,--if +it isn't Prettyman you're bail for--who is it, then? I ask, who is +it, then? What? + +"MY BROTHER? BROTHER TOM? + +"Oh, Caudle! dear Caudle--" + + +"It was too much for the poor soul," says Caudle; "she sobbed as if +her heart would break, and I--" and here the MS. is blotted, as +though Caudle himself had dropped tears as he wrote. + + + +LECTURE XVI--BABY IS TO BE CHRISTENED; MRS. CAUDLE CANVASSES THE +MERITS OF PROBABLE GODFATHERS + + + +"Come, now, love, about baby's name? The dear thing's three months +old, and not a name to its back yet. There you go again! Talk of it +to-morrow! No; we'll talk of it to-night. There's no having a word +with you in the daytime--but here you can't leave me. Now don't say +you 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 I +speak but I DO believe you'd like never to hear the sound of my +voice. I might as well have been born dumb! + +"I suppose the baby MUST have a godfather; and so, Caudle, who shall +we 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 hope +I've the feelings of a mother; and what's the use of a godfather if +he gives nothing else to the child but a name? A child might almost +as well not be christened at all. And so who shall we have? What do +you say? + +"ANYBODY? + +"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Caudle? Don't you think something +will happen to you, to talk in that way? I don't know where you pick +up such principles. I'm thinking who there is among our acquaintance +who 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 very +fond of babies. He's plenty of money, Caudle; and I think he might +be got. Babies, I know it--babies are his weak side. Wouldn't it be +a blessed thing to find our dear child in his will? Why don't you +speak? I declare, Caudle, you seem to care no more for the child +than if it was a stranger's. People who can't love children more +than 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've +their families to provide for, mustn't think of their feelings. I +don'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're +not. + +"What do you think of Pugsby? I can't bear his wife; but that's +nothing to do with it. I know my duty to my babe: I wish other +people did. What do you say? + +"PUGSBY'S A WICKED FELLOW? + +"Ha! that's like you--always giving people a bad name. We mustn't +always believe what the world says, Caudle; it doesn't become us as +Christians 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, if +Pugsby--Now, don't fly out at the man in that manner. Caudle, you +ought 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 that +way, letting the cold air into the bed! What's the matter with +Sniggins? + +"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, has +good interest in the Customs; and there's nice pickings there, if one +only goes the right way to get 'em. It's no use, Caudle, your +fidgetting 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 by +their 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 could +almost swear to the place? And then there was your fine friend +Hartley's wife--what did she give to Caroline? Why, a trumpery lace +cap 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 do +better than that have no business to take the responsibility of +godmother. 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 have +such 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 who +come after him? I'm sure it's well there's some people in the world +who save money, seeing the stupid creatures who throw it away. But +you are the strangest man! I really believe you think money a sin, +instead of the greatest blessing; for I can't mention any of our +acquaintance that's rich--and I'm sure we don't know too many such +people--that you haven't something to say against 'em. It's only +beggars that you like--people with not a shilling to bless +themselves. Ha! though you're my husband, I must say it--you're a +man of low notions, Caudle. I only hope none of the dear boys will +take after their father! + +"And I should like to know what's the objection to Goldman? The only +thing against him is his name; I must confess it, I don't like the +name of Lazarus: it's low, and doesn't sound genteel--not at all +respectable. But after he's gone and done what's proper for the +child, the boy could easily slip Lazarus into Laurence. I'm told the +thing's done often. No, Caudle, don't say that--I'm not a mean +woman--certainly not; quite the reverse. I've only a parent's love +for 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-pipe +friend, 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; and +it's no use your denying it--a beggar and a tippler, and that's the +man 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 hear +you 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's +proper, the child sha'n't be christened at all. As for Prettyman, or +any such raff--no, never! I'm sure there's a certain set of people +that 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 spittoon +acquaintance, I can tell you. + +"No; unless I can have MY way, the child sha'n't be christened at +all. What do you say? + +"IT MUST HAVE A NAME? + +"There's no 'must' at all in the case--none. No, it shall have no +name; 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 the +godfather I like. Number Six Caudle! ha! ha! I think that must make +you ashamed of yourself if anything can. Number Six Caudle--a much +better name than Mr. Prettyman could give; yes, Number Six. What do +you say? + +"ANYTHING BUT NUMBER SEVEN? + +"Oh, Caudle, if ever--" + + +"At this moment," writes Caudle, "little Number Six began to cry; and +taking advantage of the happy accident I somehow got to sleep." + + + +LECTURE XVII--CAUDLE IN THE COURSE OF THE DAY HAS VENTURED TO +QUESTION 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's +always the way; whenever I get up a few things, the house can hardly +hold you! Nobody cries out more about clean linen than you do--and +nobody leads a poor woman so miserable a life when she tries to make +her husband comfortable. Yes, Mr. Caudle--comfortable! You needn't +keep 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 put +upon as I am! It's all very well for you. I can't have a little +wash at home like anybody else but you must go about the house +swearing to yourself, and looking at your wife as if she was your +bitterest 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 have +all the children in their dirt, like potatoes: anything, so that it +didn't disturb you. I wish you'd had a wife who never washed--SHE'D +have suited you, she would. Yes; a fine lady who'd have let your +children go that you might have scraped 'em. She'd have been much +better cared for than I am. I only wish I could let all of you go +without clean linen at all--yes, all of you. I wish I could! And if +I 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 was +Noah's Ark. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk of +Noah's Ark in that loose manner. I'm sure I don't know what I've +done to be married to a man of such principles. No: and the whole +house DOESN'T taste of soap-suds either; and if it did, any other man +but yourself would be above naming it. I suppose I don't like +washing-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 it +makes everybody else uncomfortable. No; and I ought not to have been +born a mermaid, that I might always have been in water. A mermaid, +indeed! What next will you call me? But no man, Mr. Caudle, says +such things to his wife as you. However, as I've said before, it +can'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 know +what you mean. A pretty speech to a woman who's been the wife to you +I have! You'll repent it when it's too late: yes, I wouldn't have +your 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 had +some wives, they'd wash once a week! Besides, if once a fortnight's +too much for you, why don't you give me money that we may have things +to 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 rinsed +again? Don't say that; I'm NOT made happy by the blacks, and they +DON'T prolong my enjoyment; and, more than that, you're an unfeeling +man to say so. You're enough to make a woman wish herself in her +grave--you are, Caudle. + +"And a pretty example you set to your sons! Because we'd a little +wash to-day, and there wasn't a hot dinner--and who thinks of getting +anything hot for washer-women?--because you hadn't everything as you +always have it, you must swear at the cold mutton--and you don't know +what that mutton costs a pound, I dare say--you must swear at a +sweet, 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're +swearing; and you swear when you little think it; and I say you must +go on swearing as you did, and seize your hat like a savage, and rush +out of the house, and go and take your dinner at a tavern! A pretty +wife people must think you have, when they find you dining at a +public-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 of +that, first; for I'll wash a stocking a day if that's all, sooner +than 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's +very hard that I can't say a single word to you, but you must almost +raise the place. + +"YOU DIDN'T SHOUT? + +"I don't know what you call shouting, then! I'm sure the people must +hear 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--I +know 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, that +I know very well how to take care of my family without Mrs. +Prettyman's advice. Mrs. Prettyman, indeed! I only wish she'd come +here, that I might tell her so! Mrs. Prettyman! But, perhaps she'd +better come and take care of your house for you! Oh, yes! I've no +doubt she'd do it much better than I do--MUCH. No, Caudle! I WON'T +HOLD MY TONGUE. I think I ought to be mistress of my own washing by +this time--and after the wife I've been to you, it's cruel of you to +go on as you do. + +"Don't tell me about putting the washing out. I say it isn't so +cheap--I don't care whether you wash by the dozen or not--it isn't so +cheap; I've reduced everything, and I save at least a shilling a +week. What do you say? + +"A TRUMPERY SHILLING? + +"Ha! I only hope to goodness you'll not come to want, talking of +shillings 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 worth +a 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 take +two pound twelve a year for, let us say, thirty years, and--well, you +needn'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 before +that--and if it wasn't for my dear children's sake I shouldn't care +how soon. You know my mind--and so, good-night, Mr. Caudle." + + +"Thankful for her silence," writes Caudle, "I was fast dropping to +sleep; when, jogging my elbow, my wife observed--'Mind, there's the +cold 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 BOWED +TO BY A YOUNGER AND EVEN PRETTIER WOMAN THAN MRS. CAUDLE + + + +"If I'm not to leave the house without being insulted, Mr. Caudle, I +had better stay indoors all my life. + +"What! Don't tell me to let you have ONE night's rest! I wonder at +your impudence! It's mighty fine, I never can go out with you and-- +goodness knows!--it's seldom enough without having my feelings torn +to 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 pretty +person she must be to nod to a man walking with his own wife! Don't +tell 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 there +was 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 twist +and 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 when +I was a fool and believed anything; but--I thank my stars!--I've got +over that. + +"A bold minx! You suppose I didn't see her laugh, too, when she +nodded to you! Oh yes, I knew what she thought me--a poor miserable +creature, of course. I could see that. No--don't say so, Caudle. I +DON'T always see more than anybody else--but I can't and won't be +blind, however agreeable it might be to you; I must have the use of +my senses. I'm sure, if a woman wants attention and respect from a +man, 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 her +so. 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 of +court 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 been +rather difficult, Mr. Caudle, for a blush to come through all that +paint. No--I'm not a censorious woman, Mr. Caudle; quite the +reverse. No; and you may threaten to get up, if you like--I will +speak. 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 quite +forgotten that: I think I once had a colour--before your conduct +destroyed it. Before I knew you, people used to call me the Lily and +Rose; but--what are you laughing at? I see nothing to laugh at. But +as I say, anybody before your own wife. + +"And I can't walk out with you but you're bowed to by every woman you +meet! + +"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 you +when I'm not by? Everybody of course. And if they don't look at +you, why you look at them. Oh! I'm sure you do. You do it even +when 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 such +a dreadful habit with you, that you don't know when you do it, and +when you don't. But I do. + +"Miss Prettyman, indeed! What do you say? + +"YOU WON'T LIE STILL AND HEAR ME SCANDALISE THAT EXCELLENT YOUNG +WOMAN? + +"Oh, of course you'll take her part! Though, to be sure, she may not +be so much to blame after all. For how is she to know you're +married? You're never seen out of doors with your own wife--never. +Wherever you go, you go alone. Of course people think you're a +bachelor. 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 their +husbands: 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 own +fault. 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 a +figure. And when you ask me to go, you know very well that my bonnet +isn't as it should be--or that my gown hasn't come home--or that I +can't leave the children--or that something keeps me indoors. You +know 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, you +needn't repeat my words. SUFFER FOR IT. But you suppose I have no +feelings: 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 be +sure; a poor forlorn creature I must look in everybody's eyes. But I +knew you couldn't be at Mr. Prettyman's house night after night till +eleven o'clock--and a great deal you thought of me sitting up for +you--I knew you couldn't be there without some cause. And now I've +found 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! And +pretty slaves you make of the poor creatures who're tied to you. But +I'll be separated, Caudle; I will; and then I'll take care and let +all 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 I +wouldn't answer for what I said. + +"Miss Prettyman, indeed, and--oh yes! now I see! Now the whole light +breaks 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 nearly +doing it. But now, as I say, my eyes are open! And you'd have +brought her under my own roof--now it's no use your bouncing about in +that fashion--you'd have brought her into the very house, where--" + + +"Here," says Caudle, "I could endure it no longer. So I jumped out +of bed, and went and slept somehow with the children." + + + +LECTURE XIX--MRS. CAUDLE THINKS "IT WOULD LOOK WELL TO KEEP THEIR +WEDDING-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 should +ever 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 to +groan! + +"Oh, dear! That's fourteen years ago. You were a very different man +then, 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 on +the pillow in that way: I say, just the same. Well, then, if I'm +altered, 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 as +well then as I can now; only then I hadn't the same cause. It's you +who'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, and +would have done anything for me. Yes, yes, if a woman would be +always cared for, she should never marry. There's quite an end of +the charm when she goes to church! We're all angels while you're +courting 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 to +hear nobody talk but yourself. Nobody ever tells me that I talk +nonsense but you. Now, it's no use your turning and turning about in +that 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; for +I've locked the door and hid the key. There's no getting hold of you +all the day-time--but here you can't leave me. You needn't groan +again, 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 well +as we've done. We've both our little tempers, perhaps; but you ARE +aggravating; you must own that, Caudle. Well, never mind; we won't +talk 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 nice +day 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 ever +man was happy, you ought to be. No, Caudle, no; it isn't nonsense to +keep 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 a +man owes to his wife. Look at the Winkles--don't they give a dinner +every year? Well, I know, and if they do fight a little in the +course of the twelvemonth, that's nothing to do with it. They keep +their wedding-day, and their acquaintance have nothing to do with +anything else. + +"As I say, Caudle, it's only a proper compliment that a man owes to +his wife to keep his wedding-day. It's as much as to say to the +whole world--'There! if I had to marry again, my blessed wife's the +only 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'm +sure, what would have become of you if you hadn't married as you have +done--why, you'd have been a lost creature! I know it; I know your +habits, Caudle; and--I don't like to say it, but you'd have been +little better than a ragamuffin. Nice scrapes you'd have got into, I +know, if you hadn't had me for a wife. The trouble I've had to keep +you respectable--and what's my thanks? Ha! I only wish you'd had +some 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't +say you don't care--that isn't the way to speak to a wife; and +especially the wife I've been to you, Caudle. Well, you agree to the +dinner, eh? Now, don't grunt, Mr. Caudle, but speak out. You'll +keep your wedding-day? What? + +"IF I LET YOU GO TO SLEEP? + +"Ha! that's unmanly, Caudle. Can't you say 'Yes,' without anything +else? I say--can't you say 'Yes'? There, bless you! I knew you +would. + +"And now, Caudle, what shall we have for dinner? No--we won't talk +of it to-morrow; we'll talk of it now, and then it will be off my +mind. 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 I +should try to please you. We never had one, Caudle; so what do you +think 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 was +with 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 nice +turbot? No, Mr. Caudle, brill won't do--it shall be turbot, or there +sha'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 the +soup in that manner; you know there must be soup. Well, once in a +way, and just to show our friends how happy we've been, we'll have +some real turtle. + +"NO, YOU WON'T, YOU'LL HAVE NOTHING BUT MOCK? + +"Then, Mr. Caudle, you may sit at the table by yourself. Mock-turtle +on 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 fourteen +years ago. And, Caudle, you'll look after the venison? There's a +place 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 you +like. I suppose the Prettymans must come? But understand, Caudle, I +don't have Miss Prettyman: I'm not going to have my peace of mind +destroyed under my own roof! if she comes, I don't appear at the +table. What do you say? + +"VERY WELL? + +"Very well be it, then. + +"And now, Caudle, you'll not forget the venison? In the City, my +dear? You'll not forget the venison? A haunch, you know; a nice +haunch. And you'll not forget the venison--?" + + +"Three times did I fall off to sleep," says Caudle, "and three times +did my wife nudge me with her elbow, exclaiming--'You'll not forget +the venison?' At last I got into a sound slumber, and dreamt I was a +pot 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 do +you 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, if +I HAD been born a man, you'd never have married me. That's a pretty +sentiment, I think; and after the wife I've been to you. And now I +suppose you'll be going to public dinners every day! It's no use +your telling me you've only been to one before; that's nothing to do +with it--nothing at all. Of course you'll be out every night now. I +knew what it would come to when you were made a mason: when you were +once made a 'brother,' as you call yourself, I knew where the husband +and 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 have +any to spare for people out of doors. Indeed, I should like to see +the 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 mother +of 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 made +a '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 to +be sure, people who go to public dinners never know where anything is +when they come home. You've lost it, no doubt; and 'twill serve you +quite right if you have. If it should be gone--and nothing more +likely--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 the +mantelpiece. Ha! isn't it a good thing for you, you've somebody to +take 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, you +don't know what you're talking about to-night. I'm a fool to open my +lips 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 do +to-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 fools +men 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 year +for ten pounds? 'Job Caudle, Esq., 10 pounds.' It looked very well +in 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 a +piece of my mind, I'm not alive. Ten pounds indeed! and the world +thinks you a very fine person for it. I only wish I could bring the +world here, and show 'em what's wanted at home. I think the world +would 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: you +can'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 right +place for it. No--I won't hold my tongue. It's all very well for +you men to go to taverns--and talk--and toast--and hurrah--and--I +wonder you're not all ashamed of yourselves to drink the Queen's +health with all the honours, I believe, you call it--yes, pretty +honours you pay to the sex--I say, I wonder you're not ashamed to +drink that blessed creature's health, when you've only to think how +you 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 be +feeling 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 there +ever 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 at +those 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 of +your 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't +know 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 a +lord, or a duke, if they can catch him--anything to make people say +they dined with nobility, that's it--yes, they get one of these +people, with a star perhaps in his coat, to take the chair--and to +talk all sorts of sugar-plum things about charity--and to make +foolish men, with wine in 'em, feel that they've no end of money; and +then--shutting their eyes to their wives and families at home--all +the while that their own faces are red and flushed like poppies, and +they think to-morrow will never come--then they get 'em to put their +hand to paper. Then they make 'em pull out their cheques. But I +took your book, Mr. Caudle--you couldn't do it a second time. What +are you laughing at? + +"NOTHING? + +"It's no matter: I shall see it in the paper to-morrow; for if you +gave 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--over +your head--of course. Can't you hear it tick? No: you can hear +nothing to-night. + +"And now, Mr. Caudle, I should like to know whose hat you've brought +home? 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 no +Jew in his senses would give me fivepence for. I couldn't even get a +pot of primroses--and you know I always turn your old hats into +roots--not a pot of primroses for it. I'm certain of it now--I've +often thought it--but now I'm sure that some people dine out only to +change 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 HAS +APPENDED NO COMMENT. THE MAN HAD NOT THE FACE TO DO IT. + + + +LECTURE XXI--MR. CAUDLE HAS NOT ACTED "LIKE A HUSBAND" AT THE WEDDING +DINNER + + + +"Ah, me! It's no use wishing--none at all: but I do wish that +yesterday fourteen years could come back again. Little did I think, +Mr. Caudle, when you brought me home from church, your lawful wedded +wife--little, I say, did I think that I should keep my wedding dinner +in the manner I have done to-day. Fourteen years ago! Yes, I see +you now, in your blue coat with bright buttons, and your white +watered-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, was +buttered 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 are +not 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 me +pearls and diamonds to eat if I could have swallowed 'em. Yes, I +say, 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't +speak but you fly off to something else. Ha! and when the health of +the young couple was drunk, what a speech you made then! It was +delicious! How you made everybody cry as if their hearts were +breaking; and I recollect it as if it was yesterday, how the tears +ran down dear father's nose, and how dear mother nearly went into a +fit! Dear souls! They little thought, with all your fine talk, how +you'd use me. + +"HOW HAVE YOU USED ME? + +"Oh, Mr. Caudle, how can you ask that question? It's well for you I +can't see you blush. HOW have you used me? + +"Well, that the same tongue could make a speech like that, and then +talk 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 to +make 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, a +pretty speech of thanks for a husband! And everybody could see that +you 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 think +I don't know that that was all settled between you? And she must be +a nice person to come unasked to a woman's house? But I know why she +came. Oh yes; she came to look about her. + +"Oh, the meaning's plain enough.--She came to see how she should like +the rooms--how she should like my seat at the fireplace; how she--and +if it isn't enough to break a mother's heart to be treated so!--how +she should like my dear children. + +"Now, it's no use your bouncing about at--but of course that's it; I +can't mention Miss Prettyman but you fling about as if you were in a +fit. Of course that shows there's something in it. Otherwise, why +should you disturb yourself? Do you think I didn't see her looking +at the ciphers on the spoons as if she already saw mine scratched out +and hers there? No, I sha'n't drive you mad, Mr. Caudle; and if I do +it's your own fault. No other man would treat the wife of his bosom +in--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. A +hedgehog! 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 a +hedgehog--do you, Mr. Caudle? + +"Well, I only hope Miss Prettyman had a good dinner, that's all. I +had none! You know I had none--how was I to get any? You know that +the only part of the turkey I care for is the merry-thought. And +that, of course, went to Miss Prettyman. Oh, I saw you laugh when +you put it on her plate! And you don't suppose, after such an insult +as that, I'd taste another thing upon the table? No, I should hope I +have more spirit than that. Yes; and you took wine with her four +times. What do you say? + +"ONLY TWICE? + +"Oh, you were so lost--fascinated, Mr. Caudle; yes, fascinated--that +you didn't know what you did. However, I do think while I'm alive I +might be treated with respect at my own table. I say, while I'm +alive; for I know I sha'n't last long, and then Miss Prettyman may +come and take it all. I'm wasting daily, and no wonder. I never say +anything about it, but every week my gowns are taken in. + +"I've lived to learn something, to be sure! Miss Prettyman turned up +her nose at my custards. It isn't sufficient that you are always +finding fault yourself, but you must bring women home to sneer at me +at 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 it +up quite enough for her already. And she must give herself airs over +my custards! Oh, I saw her mincing with the spoon as if she was +chewing 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 of +thanks. No, Caudle, if I was to live a hundred years--you needn't +groan, Mr. Caudle, I shall not trouble you half that time--if I was +to live a hundred years, I should never forget it. Never! You +didn'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 shall +not 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 THAT +Miss Prettyman were always partners at whist? + +"HOW WAS IT MANAGED? + +"Why, plain enough. Of course you packed the cards, and could cut +what you liked. You'd settled that between you. Yes; and when she +took 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 Miss +Prettyman: who's she, indeed, that I shouldn't talk of her? I +suppose 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 exposes +herself. She might, I think, have chosen another song. 'I LOVE +SOMEBODY,' 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 it +was done for, nothing else. + +"However, Mr. Caudle, as my mind's made up, I shall say no more about +the matter to-night, but try to go to sleep." + +"And to my astonishment and gratitude," writes Caudle, "she kept her +word." + + + +LECTURE XXII--CAUDLE COMES HOME IN THE EVENING, AS MRS. CAUDLE HAS +"JUST STEPPED OUT, SHOPPING." ON HER RETURN, AT TEN, CAUDLE +REMONSTRATES + + + +"Mr. Caudle, you ought to have had a slave--yes, a black slave, and +not a wife. I'm sure, I'd better been born a negro at once--much +better. + +"WHAT'S THE MATTER NOW? + +"Well, I like that. Upon my life, Mr. Caudle, that's very cool. I +can't leave the house just to buy a yard of riband, but you storm +enough to carry the roof off. + +"YOU DIDN'T STORM? YOU ONLY SPOKE? + +"Spoke, indeed! No, sir: I've not such superfine feelings; and I +don't cry out before I'm hurt. But you ought to have married a woman +of stone, for you feel for nobody: that is, for nobody in your own +house. I only wish you'd show some of your humanity at home, if ever +so 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 like +a gipsy's? I don't see anything to laugh at, Mr. Caudle; but you +think 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 Miss +Prettyman's face--now, now, Mr. Caudle! What are you throwing +yourself about for? I suppose Miss Prettyman isn't so wonderful a +person 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 you +call yourself a religious man, Mr. Caudle. I'd advise you to take +down the Prayer Book, and read over the Marriage Service. A separate +room, indeed! Caudle, you're getting quite a heathen. A separate +room! Well, the servants would talk then! But no: no man--not the +best that ever trod, Caudle--should ever make me look so +contemptible. + +"I SHA'N'T go to sleep; and you ought to know me better than to ask +me to hold my tongue. Because you come home when I've just stepped +out to do a little shopping, you're worse than a fury. I should like +to 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 poor +woman 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 at +eleven and twelve, as you come home, then you might talk; but seven +or eight o'clock--why, it's the cool of the evening; the nicest time +to 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 just +as much as you; but that's nothing at all to do with it. I know what +you'd have. You'd have all those young men let away early from the +counter to improve what you please to call their minds. Pretty +notions you pick up among a set of free-thinkers, and I don't know +what! When I was a girl, people never talked of minds--intellect, I +believe 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 late +and early too? And what are shopmen, if they're not always to attend +upon their customers? People pay for what they have, I suppose, and +aren't to be told when they shall come and lay their money out, and +when they sha'n't? Thank goodness! if one shop shuts, another keeps +open; and I always think it a duty I owe to myself to go to the shop +that's open last: it's the only way to punish the shopkeepers that +are 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 of +tall, strapping young fellows--some of 'em big enough to be shown for +giants! And what have they to do? Why nothing, but to stand behind +a counter, and talk civility. Yes, I know your notions; you say that +everybody works too much: I know that. You'd have all the world do +nothing half its time but twiddle its thumbs, or walk in the parks, +or go to picture-galleries, and museums, and such nonsense. Very +fine, indeed; but, thank goodness! the world isn't come to that pass +yet. + +"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 I +can't go out shopping a little with my dear friend Mrs. Wittles--what +do you laugh at? Oh, don't they? Don't women know what friendship +is? Upon my life, you've a nice opinion of us! Oh yes, we can--we +can 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 be +for their wives and children if men couldn't either. You wouldn't +have lent that five pounds--and I dare say a good many other five +pounds that I know nothing of--if you--a lord of the creation!--had +half the sense women have. You seldom catch us, I believe, lending +five pounds. I should think not. + +"No: we won't talk of it to-morrow morning. You're not going to +wound my feelings when I come home, and think I'm to say nothing +about it. You have called me an inhuman person; you have said I have +no thought, no feeling for the health and comfort of my fellow- +creatures; I don't know what you haven't called me; and only for +buying 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 ten +o'clock. You've a great deal of fine compassion, you have! I'm sure +the 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 can +be 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 you +treated 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 other +people. Oh yes, I DO know what mercy means; but that's no reason I +should go shopping a bit earlier than I do--and I won't. No; you've +preached this over to me again and again; you've made me go to +meetings to hear about it: but that's no reason women shouldn't shop +just as late as they choose. It's all very fine, as I say, for you +men to talk to us at meetings, where, of course, we smile and all +that--and sometimes shake our white pocket-handkerchiefs--and where +you say we have the power of early hours in our own hands. To be +sure we have; and we mean to keep it. That is, I do. You'll never +catch me shopping till the very last thing; and--as a matter of +principle--I'll always go to the shop that keeps open latest. It +does the young men good to keep 'em close to business. Improve their +minds indeed! Let 'em out at seven, and they'd improve nothing but +their billiards. Besides, if they want to improve themselves, can't +they 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 this +hope, 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 nine +at night!" + + + +LECTURE XXIII--MRS. CAUDLE "WISHES TO KNOW IF THEY'RE GOING TO THE +SEA-SIDE, OR NOT, THIS SUMMER--THAT'S ALL" + + + +"Hot? Yes, it IS hot. I'm sure one might as well be in an oven as +in town this weather. You seem to forget it's July, Mr. Caudle. +I've been waiting quietly--have never spoken; yet, not a word have +you 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 was +going to say--but I won't--that the sooner, perhaps, I'm out of this +world, the better. Oh, yes; I dare say you think so--of course you +do, else you wouldn't lie there saying nothing. You're enough to +aggravate a saint, Caudle; but you shan't vex me. No; I've made up +my mind, and never intend to let you vex me again. Why should I +worry 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 as +well 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 little +enjoyment, but you fling business in my teeth. I'm sure you never +let business stand in the way of your own pleasure, Mr. Caudle--not +you. It would be all the better for your family if you did. + +"You know that Matilda wants sea-bathing; you know it, or ought to +know 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 the +matter. What do you say? + +"MARGATE'S SO EXPENSIVE? + +"Not at all. I'm sure it will be cheaper for us in the end; for if +we 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 a +breakfast at, and yet you talk of Gravesend! But what's my eating to +you? You wouldn't care if I never ate at all. You never watch my +appetite like any other husband, otherwise you'd have seen what it's +come to. + +"What do you say? + +"HOW MUCH WILL IT COST? + +"There you are, Mr. Caudle, with your meanness again. When you want +to go yourself to Blackwall or to Greenwich you never ask, how much +will it cost? What? + +"YOU NEVER GO TO BLACKWALL? + +"Ha! I don't know that; and if you don't, that's nothing at all to +do with it. Yes, you can give a guinea a plate for whitebait for +yourself. No, sir: I'm not a foolish woman: and I know very well +what I'm talking about--nobody better. A guinea for whitebait for +yourself, 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 of +us, all but you; and nothing ever makes you ill. I've no doubt we +shall all be laid up, and there'll be a doctor's bill as long as a +railroad; but never mind that. It's better--much better--to pay for +nasty physic than for fresh air and wholesome salt water. Don't call +me 'woman,' and ask 'what it will cost.' I tell you, if you were to +lay 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'll +be pleased. + +"That's right, Mr. Caudle; go to sleep. It's like your unfeeling +self! 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 pretty +insult! + +"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've +been 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 upon +any such person now. + +"What? + +"DON'T? + +"Ha! that's your ingratitude! But none of you men deserve that any +woman should love you. My poor heart! + +"Everybody else can go out of town except us. Ha! If I'd only +married 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 a +little better, I think. He WAS a gentleman. + +"YOU CAN'T TELL? + +"May be not: but I can. With such weather as this, to stay melting +in 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 of +us 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 course +lodgings--and at Margate, too--are a little dearer than living at +your own house. + +"POOH! YOU KNOW THAT? + +"Well, if you did, Mr. Caudle, I suppose there's no treason in naming +it. Still, if you take 'em for two months, they're cheaper than for +one. 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 get +home again. To be sure, I was tired of Margate three years ago, when +you used to leave me to walk about the beach by myself, to be stared +at 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 there +the packets, with the donkeys; and the last new novel, whatever it +is, to read?--for the only place where I really relish a book is at +the 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 jokes +for the daytime, I think. But as I was saying--only you always will +interrupt me--the ocean always seems to me to open the mind. I see +nothing to laugh at; but you always laugh when I say anything. +Sometimes at the sea-side--especially when the tide's down--I feel so +happy: 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 for +the 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 be +turned 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, with +buff 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 pounds +and 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 the +trip, for I thought I might sleep better in a change of bed." + + + +LECTURE XXIV--MRS. CAUDLE DWELLS ON CAUDLE'S "CRUEL NEGLECT" OF HER +ON BOARD THE "RED ROVER." MRS. CAUDLE SO "ILL WITH THE SEA," THAT +THEY 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'd +sleep in a strange bed without? Don't tell me it's nonsense! I +shouldn't sleep a wink all night. Not that you'd care for that; not +that you'd--hush! I'm sure I heard somebody. No; it's not a bit +like a mouse. Yes; that's like you--laugh. It would be no laughing +matter if--I'm sure there IS somebody!--I'm sure there is! + +"--Yes, Mr. Caudle; now I AM satisfied. Any other man would have got +up and looked himself; especially after my sufferings on board that +nasty ship. But catch you stirring! Oh, no! You'd let me lie here +and be robbed and killed, for what you'd care. Why you're not going +to 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. And +yawning, too, in that brutal manner! Caudle, you've no more heart +than that wooden figure in a white petticoat at the front of the +ship. + +"No; I COULDN'T leave my temper at home. I dare say! Because for +once in your life you've brought me out--yes, I say once, or two or +three 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 deal +of pleasure I'm to have, if I'm told to hold my tongue. A nice way +that of pleasing a woman. + +"Dear me! if the bed doesn't spin round and dance about! I've got +all that filthy ship in my head! No: I sha'n't be well in the +morning. But nothing ever ails anybody but yourself. You needn't +groan in that way, Mr. Caudle, disturbing the people, perhaps, in the +next room. It's a mercy I'm alive, I'm sure. If once I wouldn't +have given all the world for anybody to have thrown me overboard! +What are you smacking your lips at, Mr. Caudle? But I know what you +mean--of course, you'd never have stirred to stop 'em; not you. And +then you might have known that the wind would have blown to-day; but +that'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 Margate +ought to pray for him; so attentive in sea-sickness, and so much of a +gentleman! How I should have got down stairs without him when I +first began to turn, I don't know. Don't tell me I never complained +to you; you might have seen I was ill. And when everybody was +looking like a bad wax-candle, you could walk about, and make what +you call your jokes upon the little buoy that was never sick at the +Nore, and such unfeeling trash. + +"Yes, Caudle; we've now been married many years, but if we were to +live together for a thousand years to come--what are you clasping +your hands at?--a thousand years to come, I say, I shall never forget +your conduct this day. You could go to the other end of the ship and +smoke a cigar, when you knew I should be ill--oh, you knew it; for I +always 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, hardly +able to hold my head up, I was watching you all the time. Three +glasses of cold brandy-and-water; and you sipped 'em, and drank the +health of people who you didn't care a pin about; whilst the health +of 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, but +everybody 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 that +young goose--a thing, I may say, just out of the shell--with the +slightest 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 eaten +more. What? + +"GOOSEBERRY PIE? + +"Well, if you'll name that you'll name anything. Ate too much +indeed! Do you think I was going to pay for a dinner, and eat +nothing? No, Mr. Caudle; it's a good thing for you that I know a +little 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, of +course. 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 smallest +newspaper I ever saw, that's all. But of course, a letter from Miss +Prettyman--Now, Caudle, if you begin to cry out in that manner, I'll +get up. Do you forget that you are not at your own house? making +that noise! Disturbing everybody! Why, we shall have the landlord +up! 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 Miss +Prettyman wasn't with you! I'm sure nothing could be too forward for +her. No, I won't hold my tongue; and I ought not to be ashamed of +myself. It isn't treason, is it, to speak of Miss Prettyman? After +all I've suffered to-day, and I'm not to open my lips! Yes; I'm to +be 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 that +their father would have cared, so long as he could have had his +brandy 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 inquisitive +boy he is, and how he likes to wander among steam-engines. No, I +won'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 one +could never have a little rational conversation. No, I sha'n't be +too late for the Margate boat in the morning; I can wake up at what +hour 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 so +ill, 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 'em +tapping at the door, and making all sorts of kind inquiries-- +something like husbands and I was left to be ill alone? Yes; and you +want to get me into an argument. You want to know, if I was so ill +that I knew nothing, how could I know that you didn't come to the +cabin-door? That's just like your aggravating way; but I'm not to be +caught in that manner, Caudle. No." + + +"It is very possible," writes Caudle, "that she talked two hours +more, but, happily, the wind got suddenly up--the waves bellowed-- +and, soothed by the sweet lullaby (to say nothing of the Dolphin's +brandy-and-water) I somehow sank to repose." + + + +LECTURE XXV--MRS. CAUDLE, WEARIED OF MARGATE, HAS "A GREAT DESIRE TO +SEE FRANCE." + + + +"Bless me! aren't you tired, Caudle? + +"NO? + +"Well, was there ever such a man! But nothing ever tires you. Of +course, it's all very well for you: yes, you can read your +newspapers and--What? + +"SO CAN I? + +"And I wonder what would become of the children if I did! No; it's +enough for their father to lose his precious time, talking about +politics, and bishops, and lords, and a pack of people who wouldn't +care 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, and +it isn't likely I should begin now. But that's always the way with +you--always. I'm sure we should be the happiest couple alive, only +you do so like to have all the talk to yourself. We're out upon +pleasure, 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: otherwise +we shall quarrel--I know we shall. What have you done, indeed! That +I 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! Of +course it was a planned thing!--regularly settled before you left +London. Oh yes! I like your innocence, Mr. Caudle; not knowing what +I'm talking about. It's a heart-breaking thing for a woman to say of +her own husband; but you've been a wicked man to me. Yes: and all +your 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 very +dear, indeed, to you, when you bring down Miss Prettyman to--there +now; you needn't shout like a wild savage. Do you know that you're +not in your own house--do you know that we're in lodgings? What do +you suppose the people will think of us? You needn't call out in +that manner, for they can hear every word that's said. What do you +say? + +"WHY DON'T I HOLD MY TONGUE THEN? + +"To be sure; anything for an excuse with you. Anything to stop my +mouth. 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 a +magistrate, and take a shilling oath to the contrary, I wouldn't +believe you. No, Caudle; I wouldn't. + +"VERY WELL, THEN? + +"Ha! what a heart you must have, to say 'very well'; and after the +wife I've been to you. I'm to be brought from my own home--dragged +down here to the sea-side--to be laughed at before the world--don't +tell me. Do you think I didn't see how she looked at you--how she +puckered 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 without +meaning anything by it! And you--I could see you looked as cold and +as formal at her as--well, Caudle! I wouldn't be the hypocrite you +are for the world! + +"There, now; I've heard all that story. I daresay she did come down +to join her brother. How very lucky, though, that you should be +here! Ha! ha! how very lucky that--ugh! ugh! ugh! and with the cough +I'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 daresay +you'd like to see me in ploughman's boots; 'twould be no matter to +you how I disfigured myself. Miss Prettyman's foot, NOW, would be +another thing--no doubt. + +"I thought when you would make me leave home--I thought we were +coming here on pleasure: but it's always the way you embitter my +life. The sooner that I'm out of the world the better. What do you +say? + +"NOTHING? + +"But I know what you mean, better than if you talked an hour. I only +hope 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 my +tongue. But we won't quarrel. I'm sure if it depended upon me, we +might be as happy as doves. I mean it--and you needn't groan when I +say it. Good-night, Caudle. What do you say? + +"BLESS ME! + +"Well, you are a dear soul, Caudle; and if it wasn't for that Miss +Prettyman--no, I'm not torturing you. I know very well what I'm +doing, and I wouldn't torture you for the world; but you don't know +what 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've +promised 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, and +go nicely. + +"NONSENSE? + +"Of course; if I want anything it's always nonsense. Other men can +take their wives half over the world; but you think it quite enough +to bring me down here to this hole of a place, where I know every +pebble on the beach like an old acquaintance--where there's nothing +to be seen but the same machines--the same jetty--the same donkeys-- +the same everything. But then, I'd forgot; Margate has an attraction +for you--Miss Prettyman's here. No; I'm not censorious, and I +wouldn't backbite an angel; but the way in which that young woman +walks the sands at all hours--there! there!--I've done: I can't open +my lips about that creature but you always storm. + +"You know that I always wanted to go to France; and you bring me down +here only on purpose that I should see the French cliffs--just to +tantalise me, and for nothing else. If I'd remained at home--and it +was against my will I ever came here--I should never have thought of +France; but--to have it staring in one's face all day, and not be +allowed to go! it's worse than cruel, Mr. Caudle--it's brutal. Other +people can take their wives to Paris; but you always keep me moped up +at home. And what for? Why, that I may know nothing--yes; just on +purpose 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's +little blessed by you. She's been kept a prisoner all her life--has +never gone anywhere--oh yes! that's your old excuse,--talking of the +children. I want to go to France, and I should like to know what the +children have to do with it? They're not babies NOW--are they? But +you'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 have +the face to look at 'em to-morrow morning? I sha'n't--breaking +people's rest in that way! + +"Well, Caudle--I declare it's getting daylight, and what an obstinate +man you are!--tell me, shall I go to France?" + + +"I forget," says Caudle, "my precise answer; but I think I gave her a +very wide permission to go somewhere, whereupon, though not without +remonstrance as to the place--she went to sleep." + + + +LECTURE XXVI--MRS. CAUDLE'S FIRST NIGHT IN FRANCE--"SHAMEFUL +INDIFFERENCE" OF CAUDLE AT THE BOULOGNE CUSTOM HOUSE + + + +"I suppose, Mr. Caudle, you call yourself a man? I'm sure such men +should never have wives. If I could have thought it possible you'd +have behaved as you have done--and I might, if I hadn't been a +forgiving creature, for you've never been like anybody else--if I +could only have thought it, you'd never have dragged me to foreign +parts. Never! Well, I DID say to myself, if he goes to France, +perhaps he may catch a little politeness--but no; you began as +Caudle, 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 but +wretchedness--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 children +far away in blessed England--if it wasn't for them, I'd never go back +with you. No: I'd leave you in this very place. Yes; I'd go into a +convent; 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 to +laugh at, Mr. Caudle; that you should be shaking the bed-things up +and down in that way. But you always laugh at people's feelings; I +wish 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 my +blood's up. You've trod upon the worm long enough; some day won't +you be sorry for it! + +"Now, none of your profane cryings out! You needn't talk about +Heaven in that way: I'm sure you're the last person who ought. What +I 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 be +insulted; you'd no other reason for dragging me from England. Ha! +let me once get home, Mr. Caudle, and you may wear your tongue out +before you get me into outlandish places again. + +"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? + +"There, now; that's where you're so aggravating. You behave worse +than any Turk to me,--what? + +"YOU WISH YOU WERE A TURK? + +"Well, I think that's a pretty wish before your lawful wife! Yes--a +nice 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 must +blush. 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 who +respected his wife would. And you could stand by, and see that +fellow with mustachios rummage my basket; and pull out my night-cap +and rumple the borders, and--well! if you'd had the proper feelings +of a husband, your blood would have boiled again. But no! There you +stood 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 Miss +Prettyman's night-cap--oh, I don't care about your groaning--if it +had been her night-cap, her hair-brush her curl-papers, you'd have +said something then. Oh, anybody with the spirit of a man would have +spoken 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 me +in that manner. I know your art, but it won't do. It wasn't enough +that my basket was turned topsy-turvy, but before I knew it, they +spun me into another room, and - + +"HOW COULD YOU HELP THAT? + +"You never tried to help it. No; although it was a foreign land, and +I don't speak French--not but what I know a good deal more of it than +some people who give themselves airs about it--though I don't speak +their nasty gibberish, still you let them take me away, and never +cared 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 been +glad enough to have got rid of me in that cowardly manner. If I +could only know your secret thoughts, Caudle, that's what you brought +me 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 have +suffered 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 the +way 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 was +nobody 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 me +worse. To be treated so--and 'specially by one's own sex!--it's THAT +that 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 I +shall sew the strings on again, I can't tell. If they didn't turn me +out 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; but +I do. + +"And a pretty place you have brought me to! A most respectable +place, I must say! Where the women walk about without any bonnets to +their heads, and the fish-girls with their bare legs--well, you don't +catch 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 you +can. Especially with a door that has such a lock as that to it. How +do 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 only +shows how you value me. + +"Well, I dare say you are tired. I am! But then, see what I've gone +through. Well, we won't quarrel in a barbarous country. We won't do +that. Caudle, dear,--what's the French for lace? I know it, only I +forget 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 world +can put his hand upon his heart in bed and say that. French for +lace, dear? Say it again. + +"DENTELLE? + +"Ha! Dentelle! Good-night, dear. Dentelle! Den-telle." + + +"I afterwards," writes Caudle, "found out to my cost wherefore she +inquired about lace. For she went out in the morning with the +landlady to buy a veil, giving only four pounds for what she could +have bought in England for forty shillings!" + + + +LECTURE XXVII--MRS. CAUDLE RETURNS TO HER NATIVE LAND. "UNMANLY +CRUELTY" 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 aboard +the boat could behave like a husband--but I was left to shift for +myself. To be sure, that's nothing new; I always am. Every other +man, worthy to be called a man, could smuggle a few things for his +wife--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; and +everybody 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, when +I had a foot--yes, and an ankle, too; but when once a woman's +married, she has nothing of the sort; of course. No: I'm NOT a +cherub, 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 Miss +Prettyman? Silk stockings become her! + +"YOU WISH MISS PRETTYMAN WAS IN THE MOON? + +"Not you, Mr. Caudle; that's only your art--your hypocrisy. A nice +person too she'd be for the moon: it would be none the brighter for +her being in it, I know. And when you saw the Custom House officers +look at me, as though they were piercing me through, what was your +conduct? Shameful. You twittered about and fidgeted, and flushed up +as if I really WAS a smuggler. + +"SO I WAS? + +"What had that to do with it? It wasn't the part of a husband, I +think, 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 my +reward. 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 out +of the house allowance. No: it's nothing to you where I got the +money from to buy so many things. The money was my own. Well, and +if it was yours first, that's nothing to do with it. No; I haven't +saved it out of the puddings. But it's always the woman who saves +who's despised. It's only your fine-lady wives who're properly +thought of. If I was to ruin you, Caudle, then you'd think something +of me. + +"I sha'n't go to sleep. It's very well for you, who're no sooner in +bed 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 you +could listen to Miss Prettyman--oh, I don't care, I will speak. It +was a little more than odd, I think, that she should be on the jetty +when the boat came in. Ha! she'd been looking for you all the +morning with a telescope, I've no doubt--she's bold enough for +anything. And then how she sneered and giggled when she saw me,--and +said '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 me +searched. She laughed on purpose. + +"I only wish I'd taken two of the dear girls with me. What things I +could have stitched about 'em! No--I'm not ashamed of myself to make +my innocent children smugglers: the more innocent they looked, the +better; 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 of +it--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 of +the tumblers and decanters. No: I didn't look as if I wanted a +direction, for fear somebody should break me. That's another of what +you 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 been +fined a hundred pounds if they'd searched me; but I never meant that +they should. I daresay you wouldn't smuggle--oh no! you don't think +it 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 I +made you smuggle whether or not. + +"HOW? + +"Why, when you were out at the Cafe, I got your great rough coat, and +if I didn't stitch ten yards of best black velvet under the lining +I'm a sinful woman! And to see how innocent you looked when the +officers 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 that +beautiful English novel, that I've forgot the name of. And if they +didn't take it out of my hand, and chopped it to bits like so much +dog's-meat. + +"SERVED ME RIGHT? + +"And when I so seldom buy a book! No: I don't see how it served me +right. If you can buy the same book in France for four shillings +that 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 if +there 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--and +we mayn't do that--we shall save it again in living. But you're such +a man! Your home's the last place with you. I'm sure I don't get a +wink 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 no +keeping you out of the libraries, Caudle. You're getting quite a +gambler. 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. But +that's not the worst; you never win anything. Oh, I forgot. Yes; a +needle-case, that under my nose you gave to Miss Prettyman. A nice +thing for a married man to make presents: and to such a creature as +that, too! A needle-case! I wonder whenever she has a needle in HER +hand! + +"I know I shall feel ill with anxiety if I stop here. Nobody left in +the 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. You +know, Caudle, I'm never happy when I'm away from home; and yet you +will stay here. No, home's my comfort! I never want to stir over +the threshold, and you know it. If thieves were to break in, what +could that Mrs. Closepeg do against 'em? And so, Caudle, you'll go +home on Saturday? Our dear--dear home! On Saturday, Caudle?" + + +"What I answered," says Caudle, "I forget; but I know that on the +Saturday 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 never +can think of making myself comfortable, but you wound my feelings. +If you cared for your own bed like any other man, you'd not have +stayed out till this hour. Don't say that I drove you out of the +house as soon as we came in it. I only just spoke about the dirt and +the dust,--but the fact is, you'd be happy in a pig-sty! I thought I +could have trusted that Mrs. Closepeg with untold gold; and did you +only 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's +very well for you to swear at the tiger, but swearing won't revive +the rug again. Else you might swear. + +"You could go out and make yourself comfortable at your club. You +little 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! Talking +about getting health at Margate; all my health went away directly I +went into the kitchen. There's dear mother's china bowl cracked in +two places. I could have sat down and cried when I saw it: a bowl I +can 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 had +been your punch-bowl; but, thank goodness! I think that's chipped. + +"Well, you haven't answered about the windows--you can't guess how +many? + +"YOU DON'T CARE? + +"Well, if nobody caught cold but you, it would be little matter. Six +windows 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 respectable +the 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--but +I'll never stir out again. Then you can go to the sea-side by +yourself; then, perhaps, you can be happy with Miss Prettyman?--Now, +Caudle, if you knock the pillow with your fist in that way, I'll get +up. It's very odd that I can't mention that person's name but you +begin to fight the bolster, and do I don't know what. There must be +something in it, or you wouldn't kick about so. A guilty conscience +needs no--but you know what I mean. + +"She wasn't coming to town for a week; and then, of a sudden, she'd +had a letter. I dare say she had. And then, as she said, it would +be company for her to come with us. No doubt. She thought I should +be ill again, and down in the cabin, but with all her art, she does +not 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--to +suit your own ends; but I can't go to sleep with my head full of the +house. The fender in the parlour will never come to itself again. I +haven'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't +make myself unhappy before the time; but of course that's my thanks +for caring about your property. If there aren't spiders in the +curtains as big as nutmegs, I'm a wicked creature. Not a broom has +the 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 to +look at my pickles; but for all I left the door locked, I'm sure the +jars have been moved. Yes; you can swear at pickles when you're in +bed; 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 what +my feelings are. That poor cat, too--What? + +"YOU HATE CATS? + +"Yes, poor thing! because she's my favourite--that's it. If that cat +could only speak--What? + +"IT ISN'T NECESSARY? + +"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Caudle: but if that cat could only +speak, she'd tell me how she's been cheated. Poor thing! I know +where 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 wife +to bring a book to bed, I don't know what wedlock is. But you +sha'n't read, Caudle; no, you sha'n't; not while I've strength to get +up and put out a candle. + +"And that's like your feelings! You can think a great deal of +trumpery books; yes, you can't think too much of the stuff that's put +into print; but for what's real and true about you, why, you've the +heart 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 nice +book, I think, to read in bed; and a very respectable person he was +who wrote it. + +"WHAT DO I KNOW OF HIM? + +"Much more than you think. A very pretty fellow, indeed, with his +six 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 no +doubt, Mr. Caudle, you'd like to follow Mr. Milton's example; else +you wouldn't read the stuff he wrote. But you don't use me as he +treated the poor souls who married him. Poets, indeed! I'd make a +law against any of 'em having wives, except upon paper; for goodness +help the dear creatures tied to them! Like innocent moths lured by a +candle! Talking of candles, you don't know that the lamp in the +passage 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 put +out the night." + + + +LECTURE XXIX--MRS. CAUDLE THINKS "THE TIME HAS COME TO HAVE A COTTAGE +OUT OF TOWN" + + + +"Oh, Caudle, you ought to have had something nice to-night; for +you'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 can +tell, Caudle. The eye of a wife--and such a wife as I've been to +you--can at once see whether a husband's well or not. You've been +turning like tallow all the week; and what's more, you eat nothing +now. It makes me melancholy to see you at a joint. I don't say +anything 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 eat +as much as ever: and if you do, you don't eat with a relish, I'm +sure of that. You can't deceive me there. + +"But I know what's killing you. It's the confinement; it's the bad +air you breathe; it's the smoke of London. Oh yes, I know your old +excuse: you never found the air bad before. Perhaps not. But as +people grow older, and get on in trade--and, after all, we've nothing +to complain of, Caudle--London air always disagrees with 'em. +Delicate health comes with money: I'm sure of it. What a colour you +had once, when you'd hardly a sixpence; and now, look at you! + +"'Twould add thirty years to your life--and think what a blessing +that 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 really +genteel you can't abide. Now Brixton and Baalam Hill I think +delightful. So select! There, nobody visits nobody, unless they're +somebody. To say nothing of the delightful pews that make the +churches so respectable! + +"However, do as you like. If you won't go to Brixton, what do you +say 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 and +children, 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 I +don't believe it. And after all, people should keep to their +station, or what was this life made for? Suppose a tallow-merchant +does keep himself above a tallow-chandler,--I call it only a proper +pride. What? + +"YOU CALL IT THE ARISTOCRACY OF FAT? + +"I don't know what you mean by 'aristocracy'; but I suppose it's only +another of your dictionary words, that's hardly worth the finding +out. + +"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's +what you want. But you don't deserve anybody to think of your health +or your comforts either. There's some pretty spots, I'm told, about +Fulham. Now, Caudle, I won't have you say a word against Fulham. +That must be a sweet place: dry and healthy, and every comfort of +life about it--else is it likely that a bishop would live there? +Now, Caudle, none of your heathen principles--I won't hear 'em. I +think what satisfies a bishop ought to content you; but the politics +you 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 the +dear children! + +"A nice little house and a garden! I know it--I was born for a +garden! There's something about it makes one feel so innocent. My +heart somehow always opens and shuts at roses. And then what nice +currant 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 as +sweet! What? + +"AND TWENTY TIMES AS DEAR? + +"Yes; there you go! Anything that I fancy, you always bring up the +expense. + +"No, Mr. Caudle, I should not be tired of it in a month. I tell you +I was made for the country. But here you've kept me--and much you've +cared 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 your +wife and family to keep 'em here to be all smoked like bacon. I can +see it--it's stopping the children's growth; they'll be dwarfs, and +have 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! he +makes no breakfast. What! + +"HE ATE SIX SLICES THIS MORNING? + +"A pretty father you must be to count 'em. But that's nothing to +what the dear child could do, if, like other children, he'd a fair +chance. + +"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 come +up to business every morning; and what pleasure it would be for me to +put a tulip or a pink in your button-hole, just, as I may say, to +ticket you from the country. + +"But then, Caudle, you never were like any other man! But I know why +you won't leave London. Yes, I know. Then, you think, you couldn't +go to your filthy club--that's it. Then you'd be obliged to be at +home, like any other decent man. Whereas you might, if you liked, +enjoy yourself under your own apple-tree, and I'm sure I should never +say anything about your tobacco out of doors. My only wish is to +make you happy, Caudle, and you won't let me do it. + +"You don't speak, love? Shall I look about a house to-morrow? It +will be a broken day with me, for I'm going out to have little pet's +ears 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 a +cave, 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, I +say, were bored, and so were dear mother's, and grandmother's before +her; and I suppose there were no more savages in our family than in +yours, Mr. Caudle? Besides,--why should little pet's ears go naked +any more than any of her sisters'? They wear earrings; you never +objected before. What? + +"YOU'VE LEARNED BETTER NOW? + +"Yes, that's all with your filthy politics again. You'd shake all +the world up in a dice-box, if you'd your way: not that you care a +pin about the world, only you'd like to get a better throw for +yourself,--that's all. But little pet SHALL be bored, and don't +think to prevent it. + +"I suppose she's to be married some day, as well as her sisters? And +who'll look at a girl without earrings, I should like to know? If +you knew anything of the world, you'd know what a nice diamond +earring will sometimes do--when one can get it--before this. But I +know 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's +Miss Prettyman who - + +"There, Caudle, now be quiet, and I'll say no more about pet's ears +at present. We'll talk when you're reasonable. I don't want to put +you 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 on +your late nights you may always be at home, have your supper, get to +bed, and all by eleven. Eh,--sweet one?" + + +"I don't know what I answered," says Caudle, "but I know this: in +less than a fortnight I found myself in a sort of a green bird-cage +of a house, which my wife--gentle satirist--insisted upon calling +'The Turtle Dovery.'" + + + +LECTURE XXX--MRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS OF THE "TURTLE DOVERY." DISCOVERS +BLACK-BEETLES. THINKS IT "NOTHING BUT RIGHT" THAT CAUDLE SHOULD SET +UP 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 to +command 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 your +power; but that's nothing to do with it. I talk about one thing, and +you always start another. But that's your art. + +"I'm sure a woman might as well be buried alive as live here. In +fact, I am buried alive; I feel it. I stood at the window three +hours this blessed day, and saw nothing but the postman. No: it +isn't a pity that I hadn't something better to do; I had plenty: but +that's my business, Mr. Caudle. I suppose I'm to be mistress of my +own 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 all +over with a black cloth, I'm a story-teller. What are you coughing +at, Mr. Caudle? I see nothing to cough at. But that's just your way +of sneering. Millions of black-beetles! And as the clock strikes +eight, 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 or +two, 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 ever +touches you: but you know how they come to me; and that's why you're +so 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 must +think of the dear children. A nice place, too, to be called the +Turtle 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 anybody +passes to see ours. Didn't Mrs. Digby insist on calling their new +house 'Love-in-Idleness,' though everybody knew that that wretch +Digby 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 as +things. + +"That cough again! You've got a cold, and you'll always be getting +one--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, and +thought 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 been +thinking 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 reckoning +what 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. And +then, 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, if +you'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 expect +you always to run home directly to me: and I don't, Caudle; and you +know 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 me +so happy to think you don't depend upon an omnibus. A sweet little +carriage, 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 be +had for money. I wonder where Chalkpit's, the milkman's arms, came +from? I suppose you can buy 'em at the same place. He used to drive +a green cart; and now he's got a close yellow carriage, with two +large tortoise-shell cats, with their whiskers as if dipped in cream, +standing on their hind legs upon each door, with a heap of Latin +underneath. You may buy the carriage if you please, Mr. Caudle; but +unless 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's +arms are quite as good as a husband's. I'll write to-morrow to dear +mother, 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 you +shall not put me out of temper to-night. Still, if you don't like +our arms, find your own. I daresay you could have found 'em fast +enough, if you'd married Miss Prettyman. Well, I will be quiet; and +I won't mention that lady's name. A nice lady she is! I wonder how +much she spends in paint! Now, don't I tell you I won't say a word +more, and yet you will kick about! + +"Well, we'll have the carriage and the family arms? No, I don't want +the family legs too. Don't be vulgar, Mr. Caudle. You might, +perhaps, talk in that way before you'd money in the Bank; but it +doesn't at all become you now. The carriage and the family arms! +We've a country house as well as the Chalkpits! and though they +praise their place for a little paradise, I dare say they've quite as +many blackbeetles as we have, and more too. The place quite looks +it! + +"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 told +that Chalkpits dress their boy on a Sunday like a dragon-fly; and I +don'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 nobody +else--you don't love liveries. I suppose when people buy their +sheets, or their tablecloths, or any other linen, they've a right to +mark what they like upon it, haven't they? Well, then? You buy a +servant, and you mark what you like upon him, and where's the +difference? None, that _I_ can see." + +"Finally," says Caudle, "I compromised for a gig; but Sam did not +wear 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, I +don't want to have any noise: I don't wish you to put yourself in a +passion. All I say is this; never again do I open my lips to you +about anybody. No: if man and wife can't be one, why there's an end +of everything. Oh, you know well what I mean, Mr. Caudle: you've +broken 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 quiet +woman. I haven't done trembling yet! You know the state of my +nerves, 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 answer +for, I think. The Badgerlys are going to separate: she takes the +girls, and he the boys, and all through you. How you can lay your +head 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 my +confidence, Mr. Caudle: you've taken advantage of my tenderness, my +trust in you as a wife--the more fool I for my pains!--and you've +separated a happy couple for ever. No; I'm not talking in the +clouds; 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 not +going to sleep till I have this properly explained; for Mrs. Badgerly +sha'n't lay her separation at my door. You won't deny that you were +at the club last night? No, bad as you are, Caudle--and though +you're my husband, I can't think you a good man; I try to do, but I +can'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 poor +woman to-day, you'd have a heart of stone to laugh. What did you say +of his whiskers? Didn't you tell everybody he dyed 'em? Didn't you +hold 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 in +earnest, slept all night upon the sofa. He said it was the dearest +secret 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 to +me and a few friends, as we were all laughing at tea together, quite +in 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! she +never 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't +keep 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 her +hard words--after she went away, I'm sure my heart quite bled for +her. 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 much +obliged to you, only there's not a bit of truth in it. No, we women +don't get together, and pick our husbands to pieces, just as +sometimes mischievous little girls rip up their dolls. That's an old +sentiment of yours, Mr. Caudle; but I'm sure you've no occasion to +say 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 say +anything about you,--and I might, and you know it--and there's +somebody 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 with +me. 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't +know 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, to +make 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 Prettyman +left. 'Twould be odd if you could remember much about it, after +that. + +"And now you've gone and separated man and wife, and I'm to be blamed +for it. You've not only carried misery into a family, but broken my +confidence. You've proved to me that henceforth I'm not to trust you +with anything, Mr. Caudle. No; I'll lock up whatever I know in my +own breast,--for now I find nobody, not even one's own husband, is to +be relied upon. From this moment, I may look upon myself as a +solitary woman. Now, it's no use your trying to go to sleep. What +do 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 dropped +a syllable that as a wife I ought to have kept to myself--no, I'm not +at all forgetting what I've said--and whatever you've got to ask me +speak out at once. No--I don't want you to spare me; all I want you +is 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 knew +it--besides, I was aggravated to do it; yes, aggravated. I remember +it was that very day, at Mrs. Badgerly's, when husbands' whiskers +came up. Well, after we'd done with them, somebody said something +about teeth. Whereupon, Miss Prettyman--a minx! she was born to +destroy the peace of families, I know she was: she was there; and if +I'd only known that such a creature was--no I'm not rambling, not at +all, and I'm coming to the tooth. To be sure, this is a great deal +you've got against me, isn't it? Well, somebody spoke about teeth, +when Miss Prettyman, with one of her insulting leers, said 'she +thought Mr. Caudle had the whitest teeth she ever HAD beheld.' Of +course my blood was up--every wife's would be: and I believe I might +have said, 'Yes, they were well enough; but when a young lady so very +much praised a married man's teeth, she perhaps didn't know that one +of the front ones was an elephant's.' Like her impudence!--I set HER +down for the rest of the evening. But I can see the humour you're in +to-night. You only came to bed to quarrel, and I'm not going to +indulge you. All I say is this, after the shameful mischief you've +made 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. Not +for one moment did I think to prevent her." + + + +LECTURE XXXII--MRS. CAUDLE DISCOURSES OF MAIDS-OF-ALL-WORK AND MAIDS +IN 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 through +to-day, and with the headache I've got,--and if I haven't left my +smelling-salts on the mantelpiece, on the right-hand corner just as +you go into the room--nobody could miss it--I say, nobody could miss +it--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 it +may open and shut, and what do you care? + +"Yes, that's like your feeling, just. I want my salts, and you tell +me there's nothing like being still for a headache. Indeed? But I'm +not going to be still; so don't you think it. That's just how a +woman's put upon. But I know your aggravation--I know your art. You +think to keep me quiet about that minx Kitty,--your favourite, sir! +Upon my life, I'm not to discharge my own servant without--but she +shall go. If I had to do all the work myself, she shouldn't stop +under my roof. I can see how she looks down upon me. I can see a +great 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 my +peace and mind if I always could. Don't say that. I'm not a foolish +woman, and I know very well what I'm saying. I suppose you think I +forget THAT Rebecca? I know it's ten years ago that she lived with +us--but what's that to do with it? Things aren't the less true for +being old, I suppose. No; and your conduct, Mr. Caudle, at that +time--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 my +own house. Now, don't think of going to sleep, Caudle; because, as +you'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 what +you think, as if you did. I suppose you'll say that you didn't drink +a 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 very +time--if you please to recollect--at that very time little Jack was a +baby. I shouldn't have so much cared but for that; but he was hardly +running alone, when you nodded and drank a glass of wine to that +creature. No; I'm not mad, and I'm not dreaming. I saw how you did +it,--and the hypocrisy made it worse and worse. I saw you when the +creature was just behind my chair; you took up a glass of wine, and +saying to me, 'Margaret,' and then lifting up your eyes at the bold +minx, and saying 'my dear,' as if you wanted me to believe that you +spoke only to me, when I could see you laugh at her behind me. And +at 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 safe +enough, 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's +character 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 well +remember all that. And serve you right; if you hadn't laughed at +her, it wouldn't have happened. But if you will make free with such +people, of course you're sure to suffer for it. 'Twould have served +you 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 your +children growing up about you, to - + +"WHAT AM I TALKING OF? + +"I know very well; and so would you, if you had any conscience, which +you haven't. When I say I shall discharge Kitty, you say she's a +very good servant, and I sha'n't get a better. But I know why you +think her good; you think her pretty, and that's enough for you; as +if girls who work for their bread have any business to be pretty,-- +which she isn't. Pretty servants, indeed! going mincing about with +their fal-lal faces, as if even the flies would spoil 'em. But I +know what a bad man you are--now, it's no use your denying it; for +didn't I overhear you talking to Mr. Prettyman, and didn't you say +that 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 might +have believed it; but I know a little more of you now. You like to +see pretty servants, just as you like to see pretty statues, and +pretty pictures, and pretty flowers, and anything in nature that's +pretty, just, as you say, for the eye to feed upon. Yes; I know your +eyes,--very well. I know what they were ten years ago; for shall I +ever forget that glass of wine when little Jack was in arms? I don't +care if it was a thousand years ago, it's as fresh as yesterday, and +I never will cease to talk of it. When you know me, how can you ask +it? + +"And now you insist upon keeping Kitty, when there's no having a bit +of crockery for her? That girl would break the Bank of England--I +know she would--if she was to put her hand upon it. But what's a +whole set of blue china to her beautiful blue eyes? I know that's +what you mean, though you don't say it. + +"Oh, you needn't lie groaning there, for you don't think I shall ever +forget Rebecca. Yes,--it's very well for you to swear at Rebecca +now,--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. Which +is 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 tell +you. 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 this +world--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 RAILWAY +DIRECTOR + + + +"When I took up the paper to-day, Caudle, you might have knocked me +down with a feather! Now, don't be a hypocrite--you know what's the +matter. And when you haven't a bed to lie upon, and are brought to +sleep upon coal sacks--and then I can tell you, Mr. Caudle, you may +sleep by yourself--then you'll know what's the matter. Now, I've +seen 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 I +speak; 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 the +blessed children in tatters--I see you in a gaol, and the carpets +hung out of the windows. + +"And now I know why you talk in your sleep about a broad and narrow +gauge! 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 that +I wish you'd remember--but you're turned quite a heathen: yes, you +think 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 risks +for me. Yes, it's all very well to talk about fortunes made in no +time: they're like shirts made in no time--it's ten to one if they +hang long together. + +"And now it's plain enough why you can't eat or drink, or sleep, or +do anything. All your mind's allotted into railways; for you shan't +make me believe that Eel-Pie Island's the only one. Oh, no! I can +see by the looks of you. Why, in a little time, if you haven't as +many lines in your face as there are lines laid down! Every one of +your 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 as +smooth 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 and +sure! You to make heads-and-tails of your money in this way! It's +that stock-broker's dog at Flam Cottage--he's bitten you, I'm sure of +it. You're not fit to manage your own property now; and I should +only 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 soul +knock at the door after this that I sha'n't think it's the man coming +to take possession. 'Twill be something for the Chalkpits to laugh +at when we're sold up. I think I see 'em here, bidding for all our +little 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 taking +me up. + +"If I can tell what's coming to the world, I'm a sinner! Everybody's +for turning their farthings into double sovereigns and cheating their +neighbours of the balance. And you, too--you're beside yourself, +Caudle--I'm sure of it. I've watched you when you thought me fast +asleep. And then you've lain, and whispered and whispered, and then +hugged yourself, and laughed at the bed-posts, as if you'd seen 'em +turned to sovereign gold. I do believe that you sometimes think the +patchwork quilt is made of thousand-pound bank-notes. + +"Well, when we're brought to the Union, then you'll find out your +mistake. But it will be a poor satisfaction for me every night to +tell 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 to +you! But now I recollect. I think I've heard you praise that Union +before; though, like a fond fool as I've always been, I never once +suspected 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 with +nothing but my thoughts, thinking when the broker will come, and +you'll be with your brother directors. I may slave and I toil to +save sixpences; and you'll be throwing away hundreds. And then the +expensive tastes you've got! Nothing good enough for you now. I'm +sure you sometimes think yourself King Solomon. But that comes of +making 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 one +draught; it gets into their head, and they don't know what they're +about. And you're in that state now, Mr. Caudle: I'm sure of it, by +the way of you. There's a tipsiness of the pocket as well as of the +stomach--and you're in that condition at this very moment. + +"Not that I should so much mind--that is, if you HAVE made money--if +you'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't +get out of 'em: or, if they do, it's often without a feather to fly +with. No: if you've really made money by the Eel-Pie line, and will +give 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 your +aggravating spirit. In a day or two I shall see another fine +flourish in the paper, with a proposal for a branch from Eel-Pie +Island to the Chelsea Bun-house. Give you a mile of rail, and--I +know you men--you'll take a hundred. Well, if it didn't make me +quiver to read that stuff in the paper,--and your name to it! But I +suppose it was Mr. Prettyman's work; for his precious name's among +'em. How you tell the people 'that eel-pies are now become an +essential element of civilisation'--I learnt all the words by heart, +that I might say 'em to you--'that the Eastern population of London +are cut off from the blessings of such a necessary--and that by means +of the projected line eel-pies will be brought home to the business +and bosoms of Ratcliff Highway and the adjacent dependencies.' Well, +when you men--lords of the creation, as you call yourselves--do get +together to make up a company, or anything of the sort--is there any +story-book can come up to you? And so you look solemnly in one +another's faces, and, never so much as moving the corners of your +mouths, 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 for +it. 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 my +lap--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 into +sleep, when she elbowed me, and cried, 'Caudle, do you think they'll +be up to-morrow?'" + + + +LECTURE XXXIV--MRS. CAUDLE, SUSPECTING THAT MR. CAUDLE HAS MADE HIS +WILL, IS "ONLY ANXIOUS, AS A WIFE," TO KNOW ITS PROVISIONS + + + +"There, I always said you'd a strong mind when you liked, Caudle; and +what you've just been doing proves it. Some people won't make a +will, because they think they must die directly afterwards. Now, +you're above that, love, aren't you? Nonsense; you know very well +what 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 suppose +there's a way of telling things without speaking them. And when I +put the question to him, lawyer as he is, he hadn't the face to deny +it. + +"To be sure, it can be of no consequence to me whether your will is +made or not. I shall not be alive, Mr. Caudle, to want anything: I +shall 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 to +let her affection for a man be known, for then she's always taken +advantage of--though I know it's foolish and weak to say so, still I +don'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 another +husband too. What a gross idea, Caudle! To imagine I'd ever think +of 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 thing +is horrible, and always was. Yes, I know very well that some do +marry 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 that +their widows, to hold it, must keep widows. Now, if there is +anything in the world that is mean and small, it is that. Don't you +think so, too, Caudle? Why don't you speak, love? That's so like +you! I never want a little quiet, rational talk, but you want to go +to 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 my +lips upon a subject but you try to put me off. I've no doubt when +Miss Prettyman speaks, you can answer HER properly enough. There you +are, again! Upon my life, it IS odd; but I never can in the most +innocent 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 her +name. + +"What was I saying, Caudle? Oh, about the way some men bind their +widows. To my mind, there is nothing so little. When a man forbids +his wife to marry again without losing what he leaves--it's what I +call selfishness after death. Mean to a degree! It's like taking +his 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 in +that mean manner. A man who'd do that would have his widow burnt +with him, if he could--just as those monsters, that call themselves +men, do in the Indies. + +"However, it's no matter to me how you've made your will; but it may +be 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 at +all the woman I was. I say nothing about 'em, but very often you +don't know my feelings. And as we're on the subject, dearest, I have +only one favour to ask. When you marry again--now it's no use your +saying that. After the comforts you've known of marriage--what are +you sighing at, dear?--after the comforts, you must marry again--now +don't forswear yourself in that violent way, taking an oath that you +know you must break--you couldn't help it, I'm sure of it; and I know +you better than you know yourself. Well, all I ask is, love, because +it'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 ask +is, don't. After the way you've been thought of, and after the +comforts you've been used to, Caudle, she wouldn't be the wife for +you. Of course I could then have no interest in the matter--you +might 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 anything +against her; not at all; but there's a flightiness in her manner--I +dare say, poor thing, she means no harm, and it may be, as the saying +is, only her manner after all--still, there is a flightiness about +her that, after what you've been used to, would make you very +wretched. Now, if I may boast of anything, Caudle, it is my +propriety of manner the whole of my life. I know that wives who're +very 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. And +virtue, Caudle--no, I'm not going to preach about virtue, for I never +do. No; and I don't go about with my virtue, like a child with a +drum, making all sorts of noises with it. But I know your +principles. I shall never forget what I once heard you say to +Prettyman: and it's no excuse that you'd taken so much wine you +didn't know what you were saying at the time; for wine brings out +man'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, when +they don't make so much noise about it: but there's some women who +think virtue was given 'em, as claws were given to cats'--yes, cats +was the word--'to do nothing but scratch with.' That's what you +said. + +"YOU DON'T RECOLLECT A SYLLABLE OF IT? + +"No, that's it; when you're in that dreadful state, you recollect +nothing: but it's a good thing I do. + +"But we won't talk of that, love--that's all over: I dare say you +meant nothing. But I'm glad you agree with me, that the man who'd +tie up his widow not to marry again, is a mean man. It makes me +happy 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 her +hands from marrying again, he shows what a dependence he has upon her +love. He proves to all the world what a wife she's been to him; and +how, after his death, he knows she'll grieve for him. And then, of +course, a second marriage never enters her head. But when she only +keeps his money so long as she keeps a widow, why, she's aggravated +to take another husband. I'm sure of it; many a poor woman has been +driven into wedlock again, only because she was spited into it by her +husband'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 to +do it,--yet, though you were dead and gone, I'd show you I'd a +spirit, and marry again directly. Not but what it's ridiculous my +talking in such a way, as I shall go long before you; still, mark my +words, 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 slumber +in such assurance." + + + +LECTURE XXXV--MRS. CAUDLE "HAS BEEN TOLD" THAT CAUDLE HAS "TAKEN TO +PLAY" 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 tell +when it's late. You were late on Tuesday, too; a little late on the +Friday before; on the Wednesday before that--now, you needn't twist +about in that manner; I'm not going to say anything--no; for I see +it's now no use. Once, I own, it used to fret me when you stayed +out; 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 whether +you ever come home or not. I never thought I could be brought to +think so little of you; but you've done it: you've been treading on +the 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 enough +for you to quarrel with,--I don't, Caudle, as true as I'm in this +bed. 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 where +you were on Tuesday? You were not at dear mother's, though you know +she's not well, and you know she thinks of leaving the dear children +her 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 at +any theatre. + +"HOW DO I KNOW? + +"Ha, Mr. Caudle! I only wish I didn't know. No; you were not at any +of 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 show +you 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; for +you're a lost man, Caudle. Only once, indeed! I wonder, if I was to +say 'Only once,' what would you say to me? But, of course, a man can +do no wrong in anything. + +"And you're a lord of the creation, Mr. Caudle; and you can stay away +from the comforts of your blessed fireside, and the society of your +own wife and children--though, to be sure, you never thought anything +of them--to push ivory balls about with a long stick upon a green +table-cloth. What pleasure any man can take in such stuff must +astonish any sensible woman. I pity you, Caudle! + +"And you can go and do nothing but make 'cannons'--for that's the +gibberish they talk at billiards--when there's the manly and athletic +game of cribbage, as my poor grandmother used to call it, at your own +hearth. You can go into a billiard-room--you, a respectable +tradesman, or as you set yourself up for one, for if the world knew +all, there's very little respectability in you--you can go and play +billiards with a set of creatures in mustachios, when you might take +a nice quiet hand with me at home. But no! anything but cribbage +with your own wife! + +"Caudle, it's all over now; you've gone to destruction. I never knew +a man enter a billiard-room that he wasn't lost for ever. There was +my uncle Wardle; a better man never broke the bread of life: he took +to 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 'lucky +fellow'? But, to be sure, what can I expect? We shall not be +together long, now: it's been some time coming, but, at last, we +must separate: and the wife I've been to you! + +"But I know who it is; it's that fiend Prettyman. I WILL call him a +fiend, and I'm by no means a foolish woman: you'd no more have +thought 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 wear +mustachios--I suppose you'll let yours grow now; though they'll be a +good deal troubled to come. I know that. Yes, they've all a yellow +and sly look; just for all as if they were first cousins to people +that picked pockets. And that will be your case, Caudle: in six +months the dear children won't know their own father. + +"Well, if I know myself at all, I could have borne anything but +billiards. The companions you'll find! The Captains that will be +always borrowing fifty pounds of you! I tell you, Caudle, a +billiard-room's a place where ruin of all sorts is made easy, I may +say, to the lowest understanding, so you can't miss it. It's a +chapel-of-ease for the devil to preach in--don't tell me not to be +eloquent: I don't know what you mean, Mr. Caudle, and I shall be +just as eloquent as I like. But I never can open my lips--and it +isn'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 on +this matter I WILL speak. I know you can't play at billiards; and +never 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 me +all 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 to +look about him for a fat goose--and they'll eat you up, Caudle; I +know they will. + +"Billiard-balls, indeed! Well, in my time I've been over Woolwich +Arsenal--you were something like a man then, for it was just before +we 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 these +balls--well, I know I've said that before; but I choose to say it +again--and there's not one of 'em, iron as they are, that could do +half the mischief of a billiard-ball. That's a ball, Caudle, that's +gone 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 your +family with. Don't tell me you'll not play! When once a man's given +to it--as my poor aunt used to say--the devil's always tempting him +with a ball, as he tempted Eve with an apple. + +"I shall never think of being happy any more. No; that's quite out +of 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 green +cloth. Green, indeed! It's red, crimson red, Caudle, if you could +only properly see it--crimson red, with the hearts those balls have +broken. Don't tell me not to be pathetic--I shall: as pathetic as +it suits me. I suppose I may speak. However, I've done. It's all +settled now. You're a billiard-player, and I'm a wretched woman." + + +"I did not deny either position," writes Caudle, "and for this +reason--I wanted to sleep." + + + +LECTURE THE LAST--MRS. CAUDLE HAS TAKEN COLD; THE TRAGEDY OF THIN +SHOES + + + +"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't +wish to upbraid you neither; I'm too ill for that; but it's not +getting 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 cure +a woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can't +reach 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 way +about thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn't mean; she +can't help it. You've always gone on about my shoes; when I think +I'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say,--'twould +be all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots; but I'm not +going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never got +cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and 'tisn't likely I should begin +now. + +"No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you: no, +goodness knows, I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world,--but +the cold I've got, I got ten years ago. I have never said anything +about it--but it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago the day +before yesterday. + +"HOW CAN I RECOLLECT IT? + +"Oh, very well: women remember things you never think of: poor +souls! they've good cause to do so. Ten years ago, I was sitting up +for you,--there now, I'm not going to say anything to vex you, only +do let me speak: ten years ago, I was waiting for you, and I fell +asleep, and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I was sitting +right 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 you +meant to do it. + +"Ha! it's all very well for you to call it nonsense; and to lay your +ill conduct upon my shoes. That's like a man, exactly! There never +was a man yet that killed his wife, who couldn't give a good reason +for it. No: I don't mean to say that you've killed me: quite the +reverse: still there's never been a day that I haven't felt that +key-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 why +she came. A little indecent, I think, Mr. Caudle; she might wait; I +shan'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 soul +now? Well, I do believe you. I dare say you do mean it; that is, I +hope you do. Nevertheless, you can't expect I can lie quiet in this +bed, and think of that young woman--not, indeed, that she's near so +young 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 in +my grave if--well, I won't say anything more about her; but you know +what I mean. + +"I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I'm +gone. 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 to +be the shoes--certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and you +know it, and they never gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's +ten years ago that did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matter +to hurt you. I'd die first. + +"Mother, you see, knows all your little ways; and you wouldn't get +another wife to study you and pet you up as I've done--a second wife +never does; it isn't likely she should. And after all, we've been +very 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 help +their 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 all +that, it isn't the shoes. God bless you, Caudle; no,--it's NOT the +shoes. I won't say it's the key-hole; but again I say, it's not the +shoes. God bless you once more--But never say it's the shoes." + + +The above significant sketch is a correct copy of a drawing from the +hand of Caudle at the end of this Lecture. It can hardly, we think, +be imagined that Mrs. Caudle, during her fatal illness, never mixed +admonishment with soothing as before; but such fragmentary Lectures +were, doubtless, considered by her disconsolate widower as having too +touching, too solemn an import to be vulgarised by type. They were, +however, printed on the heart of Caudle; for he never ceased to speak +of 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 fulfilled +the task of selection from a large mass of papers. We could have +presented 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 woman +with even one argument in her unequal contest with that imperious +creature, man--if we have awarded to a sex, as Mrs. Caudle herself +was wont to declare, "put upon from the beginning," the slightest +means of defence--if we have supplied a solitary text to meet any one +of the manifold wrongs with which woman, in her household life, is +continually pressed by her tyrannic taskmaster, man,--we feel that we +have only paid back one grain, hardly one, of that mountain of more +than 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 divinely +composed, has in her ichor-flowing veins one drop--"no bigger than a +wren's eye"--of Caudle; that Eve herself may now and then have been +guilty 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." + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 6054 *** diff --git a/6054-h/6054-h.htm b/6054-h/6054-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..077163d --- /dev/null +++ b/6054-h/6054-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4716 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures | Project Gutenberg</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 6054 ***</div> + +<h1>MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES BY DOUGLAS JERROLD</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>AUTHOR’S PREFACE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It has happened to the writer that two, or three, or ten, or twenty +gentlewomen have asked him - and asked in various notes of wonder, pity, +and reproof -</p> +<p>“<i>What could have made you think of Mrs. Caudle</i>?</p> +<p>“<i>How could such a thing have entered any man’s mind</i>?”</p> +<p>There are subjects that seem like rain drops to fall upon a man’s +head, the head itself having nothing to do with the matter. The +result of no train of thought, there is the picture, the statue, the +book, wafted, like the smallest seed, into the brain to feed upon the +soil, such as it may be, and grow there. And this was, no doubt, +the accidental cause of the literary sowing and expansion - unfolding +like a night-flower - of MRS. CAUDLE.</p> +<p>But let a jury of gentlewomen decide.</p> +<p>It was a thick, black wintry afternoon, when the writer stopt in +the front of the playground of a suburban school. The ground swarmed +with boys full of the Saturday’s holiday. The earth seemed +roofed with 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 world of frolic, had no thought of the full-length men they would +some day become; drawn out into grave citizenship; formal, respectable, +responsible. To them the sky was of any or all colours; and for +that keen east wind - if it was called the east wind - cutting the shoulder-blades +of old, old men of forty <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a> +- they in their immortality of boyhood had the redder faces, and the +nimbler blood for it.</p> +<p>And the writer, looking dreamily into that playground, still mused +on the robust jollity of those little fellows, to whom the tax-gatherer +was as yet a rarer animal than baby hippopotamus. Heroic boyhood, +so ignorant of the future in the knowing enjoyment of the present! +And the writer still dreaming and musing, and still following no distinct +line of thought, there struck upon him, like notes of sudden household +music, these words - CURTAIN LECTURES.</p> +<p>One moment there was no living object save those racing, shouting +boys; and the next, as though a white dove had alighted on the pen hand +of the writer, there was - MRS. CAUDLE.</p> +<p>Ladies of the jury, are there not then some subjects of letters that +mysteriously assert an effect without any discoverable cause? +Otherwise, wherefore should the thought of CURTAIN LECTURES grow from +a school ground - wherefore, among a crowd of holiday school-boys, should +appear MRS. CAUDLE?</p> +<p>For the LECTURES themselves, it is feared they must be given up as +a farcical desecration of a solemn time-honoured privilege; it may be, +exercised once in a life time, - and that once having the effect of +a hundred repetitions, as Job lectured his wife. And Job’s +wife, a certain Mohammedan writer delivers, having committed a fault +in her love to her husband, he swore that on his recovery he would deal +her a hundred stripes. Job got well, and his heart was touched +and taught by the tenderness to keep his vow, and still to chastise +his help-mate; for he smote her once with a palm-branch having a hundred +leaves.</p> +<p>DOUGLAS JERROLD.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Poor Job Caudle was one of the few men whom Nature, in her casual +bounty 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 impress +upon him, for she was not a woman to wear chains without shaking them +- took whole and sole possession of. They were her entire property; +as expressly made to convey to Caudle’s brain the stream of wisdom +that continually flowed from the lips of his wife, as was the tin funnel +through which Mrs. Caudle in vintage time bottled her elder wine. +There was, however, this difference between the wisdom and the wine. +The wine was always sugared: the wisdom, never. It was expressed +crude from the heart of Mrs. Caudle; who, doubtless, trusted to the +sweetness of her husband’s disposition to make it agree with him.</p> +<p>Philosophers have debated whether morning or night is most conducive +to the strongest and clearest moral impressions. The Grecian sage +confessed that his labours smelt of the lamp. In like manner did +Mrs. Caudle’s wisdom smell of the rushlight. She knew that +her husband was too much distracted by his business as toyman and doll-merchant +to digest her lessons in the broad day. Besides, she could never +make sure of him: he was always liable to be summoned to the shop. +Now from eleven at night until seven in the morning there was no retreat +for him. He was compelled to lie and listen. Perhaps there +was little magnanimity in this on the part of Mrs. Caudle; but in marriage, +as in war, it is permitted to take every advantage of the enemy. +Besides, Mrs. Caudle copied very ancient and classic authority. +Minerva’s bird, the very wisest thing in feathers, is silent all +the day. So was Mrs. Caudle. Like the owl, she hooted only +at night.</p> +<p>Mr. Caudle was blessed with an indomitable constitution. One +fact will prove the truth of this. He lived thirty years with +Mrs. Caudle, surviving her. Yes, it took thirty years for Mrs. +Caudle to lecture and dilate upon the joys, griefs, duties, and vicissitudes +comprised within that seemingly small circle - the wedding-ring. +We say, seemingly small; for the thing, as viewed by the vulgar, naked +eye, is a tiny hoop made for the third feminine finger. Alack! +like the 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 may +be Arabia Felix, and it may be Arabia Petrea.</p> +<p>A lemon-hearted cynic might liken the wedding-ring to an ancient +circus, in which wild animals clawed one another for the sport of lookers-on. +Perish the hyperbole! We would rather compare it to an elfin ring, +in which dancing fairies made the sweetest music for infirm humanity.</p> +<p>Manifold are the uses of rings. Even swine are tamed by them. +You will see a vagrant, hilarious, devastating porker - a full-blooded +fellow that would bleed into many, many fathoms of black pudding - you +will see him, escaped from his proper home, straying in a neighbour’s +garden. How he tramples upon the heart’s-ease: how, with +quivering snout, he roots up lilies - odoriferous bulbs! Here +he gives a reckless snatch at thyme and marjoram - and here he munches +violets and gilly-flowers. At length the marauder is detected, +seized by his owner, and driven, beaten home. To make the porker +less dangerous, it is determined that he shall be <i>ringed</i>. +The sentence is pronounced - execution ordered. Listen to his +screams!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Would you not think the knife was in his throat?<br />And +yet they’re only boring through his nose!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Hence, for all future time, the porker behaves himself with a sort +of forced propriety - for in either nostril he carries a ring. +It is, for the greatness of humanity, a saddening thought, that sometimes +men must be treated no better than pigs.</p> +<p>But Mr. Job Caudle was not of these men. Marriage to him was +not made a necessity. No; for him call it if you will a happy +chance - a golden accident. It is, however, enough for us to know +that he was married; and was therefore made the recipient of a wife’s +wisdom. Mrs. Caudle, like Mahomet’s dove, continually pecked +at the good man’s ears; and it is a happiness to learn from what +he left behind that he had hived all her sayings in his brain; and further, +that he employed the mellow evening of his life to put such sayings +down, that, in due season, they might be enshrined in imperishable type.</p> +<p>When Mr. Job Caudle was left in this briary world without his daily +guide and nocturnal monitress, he was in the ripe fulness of fifty-seven. +For three hours at least after he went to bed - such slaves are we to +habit - he could not close an eye. His wife still talked at his +side. True it was, she was dead and decently interred. His +mind - 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 her Tongue still talked as in the life; and again and again did Job +Caudle hear the monitions of bygone years. At times, so loud, +so lively, so real were the sounds, that Job, with a cold chill, doubted +if he were really widowed. And then, with the movement of an arm, +a foot, he would assure himself that he was alone in his holland. +Nevertheless, the talk continued. It was terrible to be thus haunted +by a voice: to have advice, commands, remonstrance, all sorts of saws +and adages still poured upon him, and no visible wife. Now did +the voice speak from the curtains; now from the tester; and now did +it whisper to Job from the very pillow that he pressed. “It’s +a dreadful thing that her tongue should walk in this manner,” +said Job, and then he thought confusedly of exorcism, or at least of +counsel from the parish priest.</p> +<p>Whether Job followed his own brain, or the wise direction of another, +we know not. But he resolved every night to commit to paper one +curtain lecture of his late wife. The employment would, possibly, +lay the ghost that haunted him. It was her dear tongue that cried +for justice, and when thus satisfied, it might possibly rest in quiet. +And so it happened. Job faithfully chronicled all his late wife’s +lectures; the ghost of her tongue was thenceforth silent, and Job slept +all his after nights in peace.</p> +<p>When Job died, a small packet of papers was found inscribed as follows:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Curtain Lectures delivered in the course of Thirty Years +by Mrs. Margaret Caudle</i>,<i> and suffered by Job</i>,<i> her Husband</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>That Mr. Caudle had his eye upon the future printer, is made pretty +probable 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 - to the +lecture of the night. He had also, with an instinctive knowledge +of the dignity of literature, left a bank-note of very fair amount with +the manuscript. Following our duty as editor, we trust we have +done justice to both documents.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE I - MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT FIVE POUNDS TO A FRIEND</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“You ought to be very rich, Mr. Caudle. I wonder who’d +lend you five pounds? But so it is: a wife may work and may slave! +Ha, dear! the many things that might have been done with five pounds. +As if people picked up money in the street! But you always were +a fool, Mr. Caudle! I’ve wanted a black satin gown these +three years, and that five pounds would have entirely bought it. +But it’s no matter how I go, - 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 called liberal +- and your poor family pays for it.</p> +<p>“All the girls want bonnets, and where they’re to come +from I can’t tell. Half five pounds would have bought ’em +- but now they must go without. Of course, <i>they</i> belong +to you: and anybody but your own flesh and body, Mr. Caudle!</p> +<p>“The man called for the water-rate to-day; but I should like +to know how people are to pay taxes, who throw away five pounds to every +fellow that asks them?</p> +<p>“Perhaps you don’t know that Jack, this morning, knocked +his shuttlecock through his bedroom window. I was going to send +for the glazier to mend it; but after you lent that five pounds I was +sure we couldn’t afford it. Oh, no! the window must go as +it is; and pretty weather for a dear child to sleep with a broken window. +He’s got a cold already on his lungs, and I shouldn’t at +all wonder if that broken window settled him. If the dear boy +dies, his death will be upon his father’s head; for I’m +sure we can’t now pay to mend windows. We might though, +and do a good many more things too, if people didn’t throw away +their five pounds.</p> +<p>“Next Tuesday the fire-insurance is due. I should like +to know how it’s to be paid? Why, it can’t be paid +at all! That five pounds would have more than done it - and now, +insurance is out of the question. And there never were so many +fires as there are now. I shall never close my eyes all night, +- but what’s that to you, so people can call you liberal, Mr. +Caudle? Your wife and children may all be burnt alive in their +beds - as all of us to a certainty shall be, for the insurance <i>must</i> +drop. And after we’ve insured for so many years! But +how, I should like to know, are people to insure who make ducks and +drakes of their five pounds?</p> +<p>“I did think we might go to Margate this summer. There’s +poor little Caroline, I’m sure she wants the sea. But no, +dear creature! she must stop at home - all of us must stop at home - +she’ll go into a consumption, there’s no doubt of that; +yes - sweet little angel! - I’ve made up my mind to lose her, +<i>now</i>. The child might have been saved; but people can’t +save their children and throw away their five pounds too.</p> +<p>“I wonder where poor little Mopsy is! While you were +lending that five pounds, the dog ran out of the shop. You know, +I never let it go into the street, for fear it should be bit by some +mad dog, and come home and bite all the children. It wouldn’t +now at all astonish me if the animal was to come back with the hydrophobia, +and give it to all the family. However, what’s your family +to you, so you can play the liberal creature with five pounds?</p> +<p>“Do you hear that shutter, how it’s banging to and fro? +Yes, - I know what it wants as well as you; it wants a new fastening. +I was going to send for the blacksmith to-day, but now it’s out +of the question: <i>now</i> it must bang of nights, since you’ve +thrown away five pounds.</p> +<p>“Ha! there’s the soot falling down the chimney. +If I hate the smell of anything, it’s the smell of soot. +And you know it; but what are my feelings to you? <i>Sweep the +chimney</i>! Yes, it’s all very fine to say sweep the chimney +- but how are chimneys to be swept - how are they to be paid for by +people who don’t take care of their five pounds?</p> +<p>“Do you hear the mice running about the room? I hear +them. If they were to drag only you out of bed, it would be no +matter. <i>Set a trap for them</i>! Yes, it’s easy +enough to say - set a trap for ’em. But how are people to +afford mouse-traps, when every day they lose five pounds?</p> +<p>“Hark! I’m sure there’s a noise downstairs. +It wouldn’t at all surprise me if there were thieves in the house. +Well, it <i>may</i> be the cat; but thieves are pretty sure to come +in some night. There’s a wretched fastening to the back-door; +but these are not times to afford bolts and bars, when people won’t +take care of their five pounds.</p> +<p>“Mary Anne ought to have gone to the dentist’s to-morrow. +She wants three teeth taken out. Now, it can’t be done. +Three teeth that quite disfigure the child’s mouth. But +there they must stop, and spoil the sweetest face that was ever made. +Otherwise, she’d have been 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 the world. But what do +you care for that? Nothing; so you can squander away five pounds.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>And thus</i>,” comments Caudle, “<i>according +to my wife</i>,<i> she - dear soul</i>!<i> - couldn’t have a satin +gown - the girls couldn’t have new bonnets</i> - <i>the water-rate +must stand over - Jack must get his death through a broken window - +our fire-insurance couldn’t be paid</i>,<i> so that we should +all fall victims to the devouring element - we couldn’t go to +Margate</i>,<i> and Caroline would go to an early grave - the dog would +come home and bite us all mad - the shutter would go banging for ever +- the soot would always fall - the mice never let us have a wink of +sleep - thieves be always breaking in the house - our dear Mary Anne +be for ever left an unprotected maid</i>,<i> - and with other evils +falling upon us</i>,<i> all</i>,<i> all because I would go on lending +five pounds</i>!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE II - MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN AT A TAVERN WITH A FRIEND, AND +IS “ENOUGH TO POISON A WOMAN” WITH TOBACCO-SMOKE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Poor me! Ha! I’m sure I don’t know +who’d be a poor woman! I don’t know who’d tie +themselves up to a man, if they knew only half they’d have to +bear. A wife must stay at home, and be a drudge, whilst a man +can go anywhere. It’s enough for a wife to sit like Cinderella +by the ashes, whilst her husband can go drinking and singing at a tavern. +<i>You never sing</i>? How do I know you never sing? It’s +very well for you to say so; but if I could hear you, I daresay you’re +among the worst of ’em.</p> +<p>“And now, I suppose, it will be the tavern every night? +If you think I’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’t have a latchkey. +I’m not going to sleep with the door upon the latch, to be murdered +before the morning.</p> +<p>“Faugh! Pah! Whewgh! That filthy tobacco-smoke! +It’s enough to kill any decent woman. You know I hate tobacco, +and yet you will do it. <i>You don’t smoke yourself</i>? +What of that? If you go among people who <i>do</i> smoke, you’re +just as bad, or worse. You might as well smoke - indeed, better. +Better smoke yourself than come home with other people’s smoke +all in your hair and whiskers.</p> +<p>“I never knew any good come to a man who went to a tavern. +Nice companions he picks up there! Yes! people who make it a boast +to treat their wives like slaves, and ruin their families. There’s +that wretch Harry Prettyman. See what he’s come to! +He doesn’t get home now till two in the morning; and then in what +a state! He begins quarrelling with the door-mat, that his poor +wife may be afraid to speak 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 that ever trod. You’ll +not make me afraid to speak to you, however you may swear at the door-mat. +No, Mr. Caudle, that you won’t.</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t intend to stay out till two in the morning</i>?</p> +<p>“How do you know what you’ll do when you get among such +people? Men can’t answer for themselves when they get boozing +one with another. They never think of their poor wives, who are +grieving and wearing themselves out at home. A nice headache you’ll +have to-morrow morning - or rather <i>this</i> morning; for it must +be past twelve. <i>You won’t have a headache</i>? +It’s very well for you to say so, but I know you will; and then +you may nurse yourself for me. Ha! that filthy tobacco again! +No; I shall not go to sleep like a good soul. How’s people +to go to sleep when they’re suffocated?</p> +<p>“Yes, Mr. Caudle, you’ll be nice and ill in the morning! +But don’t you 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 discredit brought upon the house by sending +for soda-water early, for all the neighbourhood to say, ‘Caudle +was drunk last night.’ No: I’ve some regard for the +dear children, if you haven’t. No: nor you shan’t +have broth for dinner. Not a neck of mutton crosses my threshold, +I can tell you.</p> +<p>“<i>You won’t want soda</i>,<i> and you won’t want +broth</i>? All the better. You wouldn’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 +you are. Talking about getting divorced, - I’m sure tobacco +ought to be good grounds. How little does a woman think, when +she marries, that she gives herself up to be poisoned! You men +contrive to have it all of your own side, you do. Now if I was +to go and leave you and the children, a pretty noise there’d be! +You, however, can go and smoke no end of pipes and - <i>You didn’t +smoke</i>? It’s all the same, Mr. Caudle, if you go among +smoking people. Folks are known by their company. You’d +better smoke yourself, than bring home the pipes of all the world.</p> +<p>“Yes, I see how it will be. Now you’ve once gone +to a tavern, you’ll always be going. You’ll be coming +home tipsy every night; and tumbling down and breaking your leg, and +putting out your shoulder; and bringing all sorts of disgrace and expense +upon us. And then you’ll be getting into a street fight +- oh! I know your temper too well to doubt it, Mr. Caudle - and +be knocking down some of the police. And then I know what will +follow. It <i>must</i> follow. Yes, you’ll be sent +for a month or six weeks to the treadmill. Pretty thing that, +for a respectable tradesman, Mr. Caudle, to be put upon the treadmill +with all sorts of thieves and vagabonds, and - there, again, that horrible +tobacco! - and riffraff of every kind. I should like to know how +your children are to hold up their heads, after their father has been +upon the treadmill? - No; I <i>won’t</i> 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 be ruined and I wouldn’t so much as speak +about it, but - oh, dear, dear! at least you might go where they smoke +<i>good</i> tobacco - but I can’t forget that I’m their +mother. At least, they shall have <i>one</i> parent.</p> +<p>“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 name in the Gazette! For it <i>must</i> happen. +Your business is sure to fall off; for what respectable people will +buy toys for their children of a drunkard? You’re not a +drunkard! No: but you will be - it’s all the same.</p> +<p>“You’ve begun by staying out till midnight. By-and-by +’twill be all night. 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 did he do, only last Wednesday? +Why, he let himself in about four in the morning, and brought home with +him his pot-companion, Puffy. His dear wife woke at six, and saw +Prettyman’s dirty boots at her bedside. And where was the +wretch, her husband? Why, he was drinking downstairs - swilling. +Yes; worse than a midnight robber, he’d taken the keys out of +his dear wife’s pockets - ha! what that poor creature has to bear! +- and had got at the brandy. A pretty thing for a wife to wake +at six in the morning, and instead of her husband to see his dirty boots!</p> +<p>“But I’ll not be made your victim, Mr. Caudle, not I. +You shall never get at my keys, for they shall lie under my pillow - +under my own head, Mr. Caudle.</p> +<p>“You’ll be ruined, but if I can help it, you shall ruin +nobody but yourself.</p> +<p>“Oh, that hor - hor - hor - i - ble tob - ac - co!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p><i>To this lecture</i>,<i> Caudle affixes no comment. A certain +proof</i>,<i> we think</i>,<i> that the man had nothing to say for himself.</i></p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE III - MR. CAUDLE JOINS A CLUB - “THE SKYLARKS.”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“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 care if you are tired, I <i>shan’t</i> +let you go to sleep. No, and I won’t say what I have to +say in the morning; I’ll say it now. It’s all very +well for you to come home at what time you like - it’s now half-past +twelve - 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.</p> +<p>“And so you’ve gone and joined a club? The Skylarks, +indeed! A pretty skylark you’ll make of yourself! +But I won’t stay and be ruined by you. No: I’m determined +on that. I’ll go and take the dear children, and you may +get who you like to keep your house. That is, as long as you have +a house to keep - and that won’t be long, I know.</p> +<p>“How any decent man can go and spend his nights in a tavern! +- oh, yes, Mr. Caudle; I daresay you <i>do</i> go for rational conversation. +I should like to know how many of you would care for what you call rational +conversation, if you had it without your filthy brandy-and-water; yes, +and your more filthy tobacco-smoke. I’m sure the last time +you came home, I had the headache for a week. But I know who it +is who’s taking you to destruction. It’s that brute, +Prettyman. He has broken his own poor wife’s heart, and +now he wants to - but don’t you think it, Mr. Caudle; I’ll +not have my peace of mind destroyed by the best man that ever trod. +Oh, yes! I know you don’t care so long as you can appear +well to all the world, - but the world little thinks how you behave +to me. It shall know it, though - that I’m determined.</p> +<p>“How any man can leave his own happy fireside to go and sit, +and smoke, and drink, and talk with people who wouldn’t one of +’em lift a finger to save him from hanging - how any man can leave +his wife - and a 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 the least love for his wife could do it.</p> +<p>“And I suppose this is to be the case every Saturday? +But I know what I’ll do. I know - it’s no use, Mr. +Caudle, your calling me a good 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 regular at your fireside as the kettle. +That was when you were a decent man, and didn’t go amongst Heaven +knows who, drinking and smoking, and making what you think your jokes. +I never heard any good come to a man who cared about jokes. No +respectable tradesman does. But I know what I’ll do: I’ll +scare away your Skylarks. The house serves liquor after twelve +of a Saturday; and if I don’t write to the magistrates, and have +the licence taken away, I’m not lying in this bed 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 foolish man; you’re +a wicked one. If you were to die to-morrow - and people who go +to public-houses do all they can to shorten their lives - I should like +to know who would write upon your tombstone, ‘A tender husband +and an affectionate father’? <i>I</i> - I’d have no +such falsehoods told of you, I can assure you.</p> +<p>“Going and spending your money, and - nonsense! don’t +tell me - no, if you were ten times to swear it, I wouldn’t believe +that you only spent eighteenpence on a Saturday. You can’t +be all those hours and only spend eighteenpence. I know better. +I’m not quite a fool, Mr. Caudle. A great deal you could +have for eighteenpence! And all the Club married men and fathers +of families. The more shame for ’em! Skylarks, indeed! +They should call themselves Vultures; for they can only do as they do +by eating up their innocent wives and children. Eighteenpence +a week! And if it was only that, - do you know what fifty-two +eighteenpences come to in a year? Do you ever think of that, 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 six months. No - not so much as a ball of cotton. +But what do you care so you can get your brandy-and-water? There’s +the girls, too - the things they want! They’re never dressed +like other people’s children. But it’s all the same +to their father. Oh, yes! So he can go with his Skylarks +they may wear sackcloth for pinafores, and packthread for garters.</p> +<p>“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 in a spittoon. A man who has a +pipe in his mouth as constant as his front teeth. A sort of tavern +king, with a lot of fools like you to laugh 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 hardly know what’s the use of coming to bed at all now.</p> +<p>“The Skylarks, indeed! I suppose you’ll be buying +a ‘Little Warbler,’ and at your time of life, be trying +to sing. The peacocks will 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 getting redder already: and you’ve just +one of the noses that liquor always flies to. <i>You don’t +see it’s red</i>? No - I daresay not - but <i>I</i> see +it; <i>I</i> see a great many things you don’t. And so you’ll +go on. In a little time, with your brandy-and-water - don’t +tell me that you only take two small glasses: I know what men’s +two small glasses are; in a little time you’ll have a face all +over as if it was made of red currant jam. And I should like to +know who’s to endure you then? I won’t, and so don’t +think it. Don’t come to me.</p> +<p>“Nice habits men learn at clubs! There’s Joskins: +he was a decent creature once, and now I’m told he has more than +once boxed his wife’s ears. He’s a Skylark too. +And I suppose, some day, you’ll be trying to box <i>my</i> ears? +Don’t attempt it, Mr. Caudle; I say don’t attempt it. +Yes - it’s all very well for you to say you don’t mean it, +- but I only say again, don’t attempt it. You’d rue +it till the day of your death, Mr. Caudle.</p> +<p>“Going and sitting for four hours at a tavern! What men, +unless they had their wives with them, can find to talk about, I can’t +think. No good, of course.</p> +<p>“Eighteenpence a week - and drinking brandy-and-water, enough +to swim a boat! And smoking like the funnel of a steamship! +And I can’t afford myself so much as a piece of tape! It’s +brutal, Mr. Caudle. It’s ve-ve-ve - ry bru - tal.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>And here</i>,” says Caudle - “<i>Here</i>,<i> +thank Heaven</i>!<i> at last she fell asleep</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE IV - MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN CALLED FROM HIS BED TO BAIL MR. +PRETTYMAN FROM THE WATCH-HOUSE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Fie, Mr. Caudle, I knew it would come to this. I said +it would, when you joined those precious Skylarks. People being +called out of their beds at all hours of the night, to bail a set of +fellows who are never so happy as when they’re leading sober men +to destruction. I should like to know what the neighbours will +think of you, with people 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 be ill-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 to know what’s the +use of my working and slaving to save a farthing, when you throw away +pounds upon your precious Skylarks. A pretty cold you’ll +have to-morrow morning, being called out of your warm bed this weather; +but don’t you think I’ll nurse you - not I; not a drop of +gruel do you get from me.</p> +<p>“I’m sure you’ve plenty of ways of spending your +money - not throwing it away upon a set of dissolute peace-breakers. +It’s all very well for 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 +in the matter, because I know there is; it’s for something more +than quarrelling with the policeman that he was locked up. People +aren’t locked up for that. No, it’s for robbery, or +something worse, perhaps.</p> +<p>“And as you have bailed him, people will think you are as bad +as he is. Don’t tell me you couldn’t help bailing +him; you should have shown yourself a respectable man, and have let +him been sent to prison.</p> +<p>“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 would matter 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 name with it. I shouldn’t wonder, +too, if they give your picture as they do the other folks of the Old +Bailey. A pretty thing that, to go down to your children. +I’m sure it will be enough to make them change their name. +No, I shall not go to sleep; it’s all very well for you to say, +go to sleep, after such a disturbance. But I shall not go to sleep, +Mr. Caudle; certainly not.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Her will</i>,<i> I have no doubt</i>,” says Caudle, +“<i>was strong</i>; <i>but nature was stronger</i>,<i> and she +did sleep; this night inflicting upon me a remarkably short lecture</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE V - MR. CAUDLE HAS REMAINED DOWNSTAIRS TILL PAST ONE, WITH +A FRIEND</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“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!</p> +<p>“<i>I shouldn’t have locked up the coals</i>?</p> +<p>“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 I wish you’d think first what’s +for supper. That beautiful leg of pork would have served for our +dinner to-morrow, - and now it’s gone. <i>I</i> can’t +keep the house upon the money, and I won’t pretend to do it, if +you bring a mob of people every night to clear out the cupboard.</p> +<p>“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 be laughed at. I know +the world. No, indeed, Mr. Caudle, I don’t think ill of +everybody; don’t say that. But I can’t see a leg of +pork eaten up in that way, without asking myself what it’s all +to end in if such things go on? And then he must have pickles, +too! Couldn’t be content with my cabbage - no, Mr. Caudle, +I won’t let you go to sleep. It’s very well for you +to say let you go to sleep, after you’ve kept me awake till this +time.</p> +<p>“<i>Why did I keep awake</i>?</p> +<p>“How do you suppose I could go to sleep when I knew that man +was below drinking up your substance in brandy-and-water? for he couldn’t +be content upon decent, wholesome gin. Upon my word, you ought +to be a rich man, Mr. Caudle. You have such very fine friends, +I wonder who gives you brandy when you go out!</p> +<p>“No, indeed, he couldn’t be content with my pickled cabbage +- and I should like to know who makes better - but he must have walnuts. +And you, too, like a fool - now, don’t you think to stop me, Mr. +Caudle; a poor 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 girl going out for pickled walnuts. And in such a night +too! With snow upon 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 your friend, too - a pretty brute he is, I’m +sure - that the poor girl had got a cold and I dare say chilblains on +her toes. But I know what will be the end of that; she’ll +be laid up, and we shall have a nice doctor’s bill. And +you’ll pay it, I can tell you - for <i>I</i> won’t.</p> +<p>“<i>You wish you were out of the world</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh! yes, that’s all very easy. I’m sure +<i>I</i> might wish it. Don’t swear in that dreadful way! +Aren’t you afraid that the bed will open and swallow you? +And don’t swing about in that way. <i>That</i> will do no +good. <i>That</i> won’t bring back the leg of pork, and +the brandy you’ve poured down both of your throats. Oh, +I know it, I’m sure of it. I only recollected it when I’d +got into bed - and if it hadn’t been so cold, you’d have +seen me downstairs again, I can tell you - I recollected it, and a pretty +two hours I’ve passed - that I left the key in the cupboard, - +and I know it - I could see by the manner of you when 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 best brandy - +the very best - for your other friend, who called last Wednesday. +Ha! ha! It was British - the cheapest British - and nice and ill +I hope the pair of you will be to-morrow.</p> +<p>“There’s only the bare bone of the leg of pork! but you’ll +get nothing else for dinner, I can tell you. It’s a dreadful +thing that the poor children should go without, - but if they have such +a father, they, poor things, must suffer for it.</p> +<p>“Nearly a whole leg of pork and a pint of brandy! A pint +of brandy and a leg of pork. A leg of - leg - leg - pint - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>And mumbling the syllables</i>,” says Mr. Caudle’s +MS., “<i>she went to sleep</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE VI - MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY UMBRELLA</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Bah! That’s the third umbrella gone since Christmas.</p> +<p>“<i>What were you to do</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I’m +very certain there was nothing about <i>him</i> that could spoil. +Take cold, indeed! He doesn’t look like one of the sort +to take cold. Besides, he’d have better 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 it isn’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 a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you +<i>do</i> hear it! Well, that’s a pretty flood, I think, +to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. +Pooh! don’t think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don’t insult +me. <i>He</i> return the umbrella! Anybody would think you +were born yesterday. As if anybody ever <i>did</i> return an umbrella! +There - do you hear it! Worse and worse! Cats and dogs, +and for six weeks, always six weeks. And no umbrella!</p> +<p>“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 blessed creatures! - sooner than go and get wet. And when +they grow up, I wonder who they’ll have to thank for knowing nothing +- who, indeed, but their father? People who can’t feel for +their own children ought never to be fathers.</p> +<p>“But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know +very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother’s to-morrow +- you knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don’t tell me; +you hate me to go there, and take 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 the more. No: and I won’t +have a cab. Where do you think the money’s to come from? +You’ve got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, +indeed! Cost me sixteenpence at least - sixteenpence! two-and-eightpence, +for there’s back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like +to know who’s to pay for ’em; <i>I</i> can’t pay for +’em, and I’m sure you can’t, if you go on as you do; +throwing away your property, and beggaring your children - buying umbrellas!</p> +<p>“Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear +it? But I don’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 my death. Don’t call me +a foolish woman, it’s you that’s the foolish man. +You know I can’t wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet’s +sure to give me a cold - it always does. But what do you care +for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you +care, as I daresay I shall - and a pretty doctor’s bill there’ll +be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrellas +again. I shouldn’t wonder if I caught my death; yes: and +that’s what you lent the umbrella for. Of course!</p> +<p>“Nice clothes I shall get too, trapesing through weather like +this. My gown and bonnet will be spoilt quite.</p> +<p>“<i>Needn’t I wear ’em then</i>?</p> +<p>“Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I <i>shall</i> wear ’em. No, +sir, I’m not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. +Gracious knows! it isn’t often that I step over the threshold; +indeed, I might as well be a slave at once, - better, I should say. +But when I do go out, - Mr. Caudle, I choose to go like a lady. +Oh! that rain - if it isn’t enough to break in the windows.</p> +<p>“Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow! +How I am to go to mother’s I’m sure I can’t tell. +But if I die I’ll do it. No, sir; I won’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 at all.</p> +<p>“Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that +umbrella. I’m sure, if I’d have known as much as I +do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new +nozzles, for other people to laugh at you. Oh, it’s all +very well for you - you can go to sleep. You’ve no thought +of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children. You think +of nothing but lending umbrellas!</p> +<p>“Men, indeed! - call themselves lords of the creation! - pretty +lords, when they can’t even take care of an umbrella!</p> +<p>“I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. +But that’s what you 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’ll be happy. Oh, don’t tell +me! I know you will. Else you’d never have lent the +umbrella!</p> +<p>“You have to go on Thursday about that summons and, of course, +you can’t go. No, indeed, you <i>don’t</i> go without +the umbrella. You may lose the debt for what I care - it won’t +be so much as spoiling your clothes - better lose it: people deserve +to lose debts who lend umbrellas!</p> +<p>“And I should like to know how I’m to go to mother’s +without the umbrella! Oh, don’t tell me that I said I <i>would</i> +go - that’s nothing to do with it; nothing at all. She’ll +think I’m neglecting her, and the little money we were to have +we sha’n’t have at all - because we’ve no umbrella.</p> +<p>“The children, too! Dear things! They’ll +be sopping wet; for they sha’n’t stop at home - they sha’n’t +lose their learning; it’s all their father will leave ’em, +I’m sure. But they <i>shall</i> 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 <i>shall</i> go +to school; mark that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it’s +not my fault - I didn’t lend the umbrella.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>At length</i>,” writes Caudle, “<i>I fell asleep; +and dreamt that the sky was turned into green calico</i>,<i> with whalebone +ribs; that</i>,<i> in fact</i>,<i> the whole world turned round under +a tremendous umbrella</i>!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE VII - MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMONSTRANCE ON HIS DAY’S +DINNER: COLD MUTTON, AND NO PUDDING. - MRS. CAUDLE DEFENDS THE COLD +SHOULDER</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Umph! I’m sure! Well! I wonder what +it will be next? There’s nothing proper, now - nothing at +all. Better get somebody else to keep the house, I think. +I can’t do it now, it seems; I’m only in the way here: I’d +better take the children, and go.</p> +<p>“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 +<i>shall</i> speak, sir. It isn’t often I open my mouth, +Heaven knows! But you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. +You ought to have married a negro slave, and not any respectable woman.</p> +<p>“You’re to go about the house looking like thunder all +the day, and I’m not to say a word. Where do you think pudding’s +to come from every day? You show a nice example to your children, +you do; complaining, and turning your nose up at a sweet piece of cold +mutton, because there’s no pudding! You go a nice way to +make ’em extravagant - teach ’em nice lessons to begin the +world with. Do you know what puddings cost; or do you think they +fly in at the window?</p> +<p>“You hate cold mutton. The more shame for you, Mr. Caudle. +I’m sure you’ve the stomach of a lord, you have. No, +sir: I didn’t choose to hash the mutton. It’s very +easy for you to say hash it; but <i>I</i> know what a joint loses in +hashing: it’s a day’s dinner the less, if it’s a bit. +Yes, I daresay; other people may have puddings with cold mutton. +No doubt of it; and other people become bankrupts. But if ever +you get into the Gazette, it sha’n’t be <i>my</i> fault +- no; I’ll do my duty as a wife to you, Mr. Caudle: you shall +never have it to say that it was <i>my</i> housekeeping that brought +you to beggary. No; you may sulk at the cold meat - ha! I hope +you’ll never live to want such a piece of cold mutton as we had +to-day! and you may threaten to go to a tavern to dine; but, with our +present means, not a crumb of pudding do you get from me. You +shall have nothing but the cold joint - nothing as I’m a Christian +sinner.</p> +<p>“Yes; there you are, throwing those fowls in my face again! +I know you once brought home a pair of fowls; I know it: and weren’t +you mean enough to want to stop ’em out of my week’s money? +Oh, the selfishness - the shabbiness of men! They can go out and +throw away pounds 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 may hunt for it. I wonder you don’t blush to +name those fowls again! I wouldn’t be so little for the +world, Mr. Caudle.</p> +<p>“What are you going to do?</p> +<p>“<i>Going to get up</i>?</p> +<p>“Don’t make yourself ridiculous, Mr. Caudle; I can’t +say a word to you like any other wife, but you must threaten to get +up. <i>Do</i> be ashamed of yourself.</p> +<p>“Puddings, indeed! Do you think I’m made of puddings? +Didn’t you have some boiled rice three weeks ago? Besides, +is this the time of the year for puddings? It’s all very +well if I had money enough allowed 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.</p> +<p>“<i>Apples aren’t so dear</i>,<i> are they</i>?</p> +<p>“I know what apples are, Mr. Caudle, without your telling me. +But I suppose you want something more than apples for dumplings? +I suppose sugar costs something, doesn’t it? And that’s +how it is. That’s how one expense brings on another, and +that’s how people go to ruin.</p> +<p>“<i>Pancakes</i>?</p> +<p>“What’s the use of your lying muttering there about pancakes? +Don’t you always have ’em once a year - every Shrove Tuesday? +And what would any moderate, decent man want more?</p> +<p>“Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle, - no, it’s +no use your saying fine words to me to let you go to sleep; I sha’n’t! +- pray do you know the price of eggs just now? There’s not +an egg you can trust to under seven and eight a shilling; well, you’ve +only just to reckon up how 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. You call yourself a respectable tradesman, +I suppose? Ha! I only wish people knew you as well as I +do! Swearing at eggs, indeed! But I’m tired of this +usage, Mr. Caudle; quite tired of it; and I don’t care how soon +it’s ended!</p> +<p>“I’m sure I do nothing but work and labour, and think +how to make the most of everything; and this is how I’m rewarded. +I should like to see anybody whose joints go further than mine. +But if I was to throw away your money into the street, or lay it out +in fine feathers on myself, I should be better thought of. The +woman who studies her husband and her family is always made a drudge +of. It’s your fine fal-lal wives who’ve the best time +of it.</p> +<p>“What’s the use of your lying groaning there in that +manner? That won’t make me hold my tongue, I can tell you. +You think to have it all your own way - but you won’t, Mr. Caudle! +You can insult my dinner; look like a demon, I may say, at a wholesome +piece of cold mutton - ah! the thousands of far better creatures than +you are who’d been thankful for that mutton! - and I’m never +to speak! But you’re mistaken - I will. Your usage +of me, Mr. Caudle, is infamous - unworthy of a man. I only wish +people knew you for what you are; but I’ve told you again and +again they shall some day.</p> +<p>“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 pudding every 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: then you’d go for a dessert; and +- oh! I see it all as plain as the quilt before me - but no, not while +I’m alive! What your second wife may do I don’t know; +perhaps <i>she’ll</i> be a fine lady; but you sha’n’t +be ruined by me, Mr. Caudle; that I’m determined. Puddings, +indeed! Pu-dding-s! Pud - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Exhausted nature</i>,” says Caudle, “<i>could +hold out no longer. She went to sleep</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE VIII - CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON - MRS. CAUDLE INDIGNANT +AND CURIOUS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Now, Mr. Caudle - Mr. Caudle, I say: oh: you can’t be +asleep already, I know now, what I mean to say is this; there’s +no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; +but, at last my mind’s made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. +Either I know all you’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 all confidence between man and wife - if +a husband’s to have secrets and keep ’em all to himself. +Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can’t know ’em! +Not fit for any decent person to know, I’m sure, if that’s +the case. Now, Caudle, don’t let us quarrel, there’s +a good soul, tell me what it’s all about? A pack of nonsense, +I dare say; still - not that I care much about it, - still I <i>should</i> +like to know. 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 good deal in it. +Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I’m sure I’d +tell you anything. You know I would. Well?</p> +<p>“Caudle, you’re enough to vex a saint! Now don’t +you think you’re going to sleep; because you’re not. +Do you suppose I’d ever suffered you to go and be made a mason, +if I didn’t suppose I was to know the secret too? Not that +it’s anything to know, I dare say; and that’s why I’m +determined to know it.</p> +<p>“But I know what it is; oh yes, there can be no doubt. +The secret is, to ill-use poor women; to tyrannise over ’em; to +make ’em your slaves: especially your wives. It must be +something of the sort, or you wouldn’t be ashamed to have it known. +What’s right and proper never need be done in secret. It’s +an insult to a woman for a man to be 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 than their own wives and families. +I’m sure men have quite enough to care for - that is, if they +act properly - to care for them they have at home. They can’t +have much care to spare for the world besides.</p> +<p>“And I suppose they call you <i>Brother</i> Caudle? A +pretty brother, indeed! Going and dressing yourself up in an apron +like a turnpike man - for that’s what you look like. And +I should like to know what the 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 put an end to +freemasonry, and all such trumpery, I know.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“And you’re not going to let me know the secret, eh? +You mean to say, - you’re not? Now, Caudle, you know it’s +a hard matter to put me in a passion - not that I care about the secret +itself: no, I wouldn’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’s the studied insult +that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world +keeping something to himself which he won’t let her know. +Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be +when a man’s a mason - when he keeps a secret that sets him and +his wife apart? Ha, you men make the laws, and so you take good +care to have all the best of ’em to yourselves: otherwise a woman +ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason: when he’s +got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart - a secret place in his mind +- that his poor wife isn’t allowed to rummage!</p> +<p>“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 had a secret! +To whom should I think of confiding it, but to my dear husband? +I should be miserable to keep it to myself, and you know it. Now +Caudle?</p> +<p>“Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute! +- yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige +me, and you won’t. I’m sure I don’t object to +your being a mason: not at all, 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 tell me - you’ll tell +your own Margaret? You won’t! You’re a wretch, +Mr. Caudle.</p> +<p>“But I know why: oh, yes, I can tell. The fact is, you’re +ashamed to 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 be ashamed of myself, Caudle.</p> +<p>“And I suppose you’ll be going to what you call your +Lodge every night, now. Lodge, indeed! Pretty place it must +be, where they don’t admit women. Nice goings on, I dare +say. Then you call one another brethren. Brethren! +I’m sure you’d relations enough, you didn’t want any +more.</p> +<p>“But I know what all this masonry’s about. It’s +only an excuse to get away from your wives and families, that you may +feast and drink together, that’s all. That’s the secret. +And to abuse women, - as if they were inferior animals, and not to be +trusted. That’s the secret; and nothing else.</p> +<p>“Now, Caudle, don’t let us quarrel. Yes, I know +you’re in pain. Still, Caudle, my love; Caudle! Dearest, +I say! Caudle!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I recollect nothing more</i>,” says Caudle, “<i>for +I had eaten a hearty supper</i>,<i> and somehow became oblivious</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE IX - MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO GREENWICH FAIR</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Ho, Mr. Caudle: I hope you enjoyed yourself at Greenwich.</p> +<p>“<i>How do I know you’ve been at Greenwich</i>?</p> +<p>“I know it very well, sir: know all about it: know more than +you think I know. I thought there was something in the wind. +Yes, I was sure of it, when you went out of the house to-day. +I knew it by the looks of you, though I didn’t say anything. +Upon my word! And you call yourself a respectable man, and the +father of a family! Going to a fair among all sorts of people, +- at your time of life. Yes; and never think of taking your wife +with you. Oh no! you can go and enjoy yourself out, with I don’t +know who: go out, and make yourself very pleasant, I dare say. +Don’t tell me; I hear what a nice companion Mr. Caudle is: what +a good-tempered person. Ha! I only wish people could see +you at home, that’s all. But so it is with men. They +can keep all their good temper for out-of-doors - their wives never +see any of it. Oh dear! I’m sure I don’t know +who’d be a poor woman!</p> +<p>“Now, Caudle, I’m not in an ill-temper; not at all. +I know I used to be a fool when we were first married: I used to worry +and fret myself to death when you went out; but I’ve got over +that. I wouldn’t put myself out of the way now for the best +man that ever trod. 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 thought of. I only wish I could bring +myself not to care for mine.</p> +<p>“And why couldn’t you say, like a man, you were going +to Greenwich Fair 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 mind to it, and you know it. Pretty +games you’ve had, no doubt! I should like to have been behind +you, that’s all. A man at your time of life!</p> +<p>“And I, of course, I never want to go out. Oh no! +I may stay at home with the cat. You couldn’t think of taking +your wife and children, like any other decent man, to a fair. +Oh no, you never care to be seen with us. I’m sure, many +people don’t know you’re married at all: how can they? +Your wife’s never seen with you. Oh no; anybody but those +belonging to you!</p> +<p>“Greenwich Fair, indeed! Yes, - and of course you went +up and down the hill, running and racing with nobody knows who. +Don’t tell me; I know 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 my tongue, and I’m +not a foolish woman. It’s no matter, sir, if the pink 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 talking of +it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Caudle. Ha! +few wives would have been what I’ve been to you. I only +wish my time was to come over again, that’s all; I wouldn’t +be the fool I have been.</p> +<p>“Going to a fair! and I suppose you had your fortune told by +the gipsies? You needn’t have wasted your money. I’m +sure I can tell you your fortune if you go on as you do. Yes, +the gaol will be your fortune, Mr. Caudle. And it would be no +matter - none at all - if your wife and children didn’t suffer +with you.</p> +<p>“And then you must go riding upon donkeys.</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t go riding upon donkeys</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes; it’s very well for you to say so: but I dare say +you did. I tell you, Caudle, I know what you are when you’re +out. I wouldn’t trust any of you - you especially, Caudle.</p> +<p>“Then you must go in the thick of the fair, and have the girls +scratching your coat with rattles!</p> +<p>“<i>You couldn’t help it</i>,<i> if they did scratch +your coat</i>?</p> +<p>“Don’t tell me; people don’t scratch coats unless +they’re encouraged to do it. And you must go in a swing, +too.</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t go in a swing</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, if you didn’t it was no fault of yours; you wished +to go I’ve no doubt.</p> +<p>“And then you must go into the shows? There, - you don’t +deny that. You did go into a show.</p> +<p>“<i>What of it</i>,<i> Mr. Caudle</i>?</p> +<p>“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 a family. No: I won’t hold my tongue. +It’s very well for you to threaten to get up. You’re +to go to Greenwich Fair, and race up and down the hill, and play at +kiss in the ring. Pah! it’s disgusting, Mr. Caudle. +Oh, I dare say you <i>did</i> play at it; if you didn’t, you’d +have liked, and that’s just as bad; - and you can go into swings, +and shows, and roundabouts. If I was you, I should hide my head +under the clothes and be ashamed of myself.</p> +<p>“And what is most selfish - most mean of you, Caudle - you +can go and enjoy yourself, and never so much as bring home for the poor +children a gingerbread nut. Don’t tell me that your pocket +was picked of a pound of nuts! Nice company you must have been +in to have your pocket picked.</p> +<p>“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 have seen you. No: I’m not making myself ridiculous. +It’s you that’s making yourself ridiculous; and everybody +that knows you says so. Everybody knows what I have to put up +with from you.</p> +<p>“Going to a fair, indeed! At your time - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Here</i>,” says Caudle, “<i>I dozed off hearing +confusedly the words</i> - <i>hill - gipsies - rattles - roundabouts +- swings - pink bonnet - nuts</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE X - ON MR. CAUDLE’S SHIRT-BUTTONS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you’re in a little better +temper than you were this morning? There - you needn’t begin +to whistle: people don’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 the best creature living; now +you get quite a fiend.</p> +<p>“<i>Do let you rest</i>?</p> +<p>“No: I won’t let you rest. It’s the only +time I have to talk to you, and you <i>shall</i> hear me. I’m +put upon all day long: it’s very hard if I can’t speak a +word at night: besides, it isn’t often I open my mouth, goodness +knows.</p> +<p>“Because <i>once</i> in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button +you must almost swear the roof off the house!</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t swear</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don’t know what you do when you’re +in a passion.</p> +<p>“<i>You were not in a passion</i>?</p> +<p>“Weren’t you? Well, then, I don’t know what +a passion is - and I think I ought by this time. I’ve lived +long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.</p> +<p>“It’s a pity you haven’t something worse to complain +of than a button off your shirt. If you’d <i>some</i> wives, +you would, I know. I’m sure I’m never without a needle +and thread in my hand. What with you and the 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 +‘<i>oh</i>’ 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 looked after than yours. I only wish I +had kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should +like to know where were your buttons then?</p> +<p>“Yes, it <i>is</i> worth talking of! But that’s +how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then +if I only try to speak you won’t hear me. That’s how +you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn’t +allowed to get a word in.</p> +<p>“A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she’s nothing +to think of but her husband’s buttons. A pretty notion, +indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what +they had to go through. What with buttons, and one thing and another! +They’d never tie themselves up, - no, not to the best man in the +world, I’m sure.</p> +<p>“<i>What would they do</i>,<i> Mr. Caudle</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, do much better without you, I’m certain.</p> +<p>“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 something to talk about. Oh, you’re aggravating +enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it’s +very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I’m sure +no woman’s a greater slave to her husband’s buttons than +I am. I only say, it’s very odd.</p> +<p>“However, there’s one comfort; it can’t last long. +I’m worn to death with your temper, and sha’n’t trouble +you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you +would laugh! I’ve no doubt of it! That’s your +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 how your second wife will look after your buttons. +You’ll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you’ll +think of me, then; for then, I hope, you’ll never have a blessed +button to your back.</p> +<p>“No, I’m not a vindictive woman, Mr. Caudle; nobody ever +called me that, but you. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Nobody ever knew so much of me</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s nothing at all to do with it. Ha! +I wouldn’t have your aggravating temper, Caudle, for mines of +gold. It’s a good thing I’m not as worrying as you +are - or a nice house there’d be between us. I only wish +you’d had a wife that <i>would</i> have talked to you! Then +you’d have known the difference. But you impose upon me, +because, like a poor fool, I say nothing. I should be ashamed +of myself, Caudle.</p> +<p>“And a pretty example you set as a father! You’ll +make your boys as bad as yourself. Talking as you did all breakfast +time about your buttons! And of a Sunday morning, too! And +you call yourself a Christian! I should like to know what your +boys will say of you when they grow up? And all about a paltry +button off one of your wristbands! A decent man wouldn’t +have mentioned it.</p> +<p>“<i>Why won’t I hold my tongue</i>?</p> +<p>“Because I <i>won’t</i> hold my tongue. I’m +to have my peace of mind destroyed - I’m to be worried into my +grave for a miserable shirt button, and I’m to hold my tongue! +Oh! but that’s just like you men!</p> +<p>“But I know what I’ll do for the future. Every +button you have may drop off, and I won’t so much as put a thread +to ’em. And I should like to know what you’ll do then? +Oh, you must get somebody else to sew ’em, must you? That’s +a pretty threat for a husband to hold out to a wife! And to such +a wife as I’ve been, too: such a negro-slave to 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 I have 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!</p> +<p>“<i>You’re not snoring</i>?</p> +<p>“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’t wonder. Oh no! I +should be surprised at nothing, now! Nothing at all! It’s +what people have always told me it would come to, - and now the buttons +have opened my eyes! But the whole world shall know of your cruelty, +Mr. Caudle. After the wife I’ve been to you. Somebody +else, indeed, to sew your buttons! I’m no longer to be mistress +in my own house! Ha, Caudle! I wouldn’t have upon +my conscience what you 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’s worse! I can’t +even so much as speak of a shirt button, but that I’m threatened +to be made nobody of in my own house! Caudle, you’ve a heart +like a hearth-stone, you have! To threaten me, and only because +a button - a button - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I was conscious of no more than this</i>,” says Caudle; +“<i>for here nature relieved me with a sweet</i>,<i> deep sleep</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XI - MRS. CAUDLE SUGGESTS THAT HER DEAR MOTHER SHOULD “COME +AND LIVE WITH THEM.”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“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! You don’t take care enough of yourself, +Caudle, you don’t. And you ought, I’m sure, if only +for my sake. For whatever I should do, if anything was to happen +to you - but I think of it; no, I can’t bear to think <i>of that</i>. +Still, you ought to take care of yourself; for you know you’re +not strong, Caudle; you know you’re not.</p> +<p>“Wasn’t dear mother so happy with us to-night? +Now, you needn’t go to sleep so suddenly. I say, wasn’t +she so happy?</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t know</i>?</p> +<p>“How can you say you don’t know? You must have +seen it. But she is always happier here than anywhere else. +Ha! what a temper that dear soul has! I call it a temper of satin; +it is so smooth, so easy, and so soft. Nothing puts her out of +the way. And then, if you only knew how she takes your part, Caudle! +I’m sure, if you had been her own son ten times over, she couldn’t +be fonder of you. Don’t you think so, Caudle? Eh, +love? Now, do answer.</p> +<p>“<i>How can you tell</i>?</p> +<p>“Nonsense, Caudle; you must have seen it. I’m sure +nothing delights the dear soul so much as when she’s thinking +how to please you.</p> +<p>“Don’t you remember Thursday night, the stewed oysters +when you came home? That was all dear mother’s doings! +‘Margaret,’ says she to me, ‘it’s a cold night; +and don’t you think dear Mr. Caudle would like something nice +before he goes to bed?’ And that, Caudle, is how the oysters +came about. Now, don’t sleep, Caudle: do listen to me for +five minutes; ’tisn’t often I speak, goodness knows.</p> +<p>“And then, what a fuss she makes when you are out, if your +slippers aren’t put to the fire for you.</p> +<p>“<i>She’s very good</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, - I know she is, Caudle. And hasn’t she been +six months - though I promised her not to tell you - six months working +a watch-pocket for you! And with <i>her</i> eyes, dear soul - +and at <i>her</i> time of life!</p> +<p>“And then what a cook she is! I’m sure the dishes +she’ll make out of next to nothing! I try hard enough to +follow her: but, I’m not ashamed to own it, Caudle, she quite +beats me. Ha! the many nice little things she’d simmer up +for you - and I can’t do it; the children, you know it, Caudle, +take so much of my time. I can’t do it, love; and I often +reproach myself that I can’t. Now, you shan’t go to +sleep, Caudle; at least not for five minutes. You must hear me.</p> +<p>“I’ve been thinking, dearest - ha! that nasty cough, +love! - I’ve been thinking, darling, if we could only persuade +dear mother to come and live with us. Now, Caudle, you can’t +be asleep; it’s impossible - you were coughing only this minute +- yes, to live with us. What a treasure we should have in her! +Then, Caudle, you never need go to bed without something nice and hot. +And you want it, Caudle.</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t want it</i>?</p> +<p>“Nonsense, you do; for you’re not strong, Caudle; you +know you’re not.</p> +<p>“I’m sure, the money she’d save us in housekeeping. +Ha! what an eye she has for a joint! The butcher doesn’t +walk that could deceive dear mother. And then, again, for poultry! +What a finger and thumb she has for a chicken! I never could market +like her: it’s a gift - quite a gift.</p> +<p>“And then you recollect her marrow-puddings?</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t recollect ’em</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, fie! Caudle, how often have you flung her marrow +puddings in my face, wanting to know why I couldn’t make ’em? +And I wouldn’t pretend 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 marrow puddings every day. Now, don’t +fling yourself about and begin to swear at marrow puddings; you know +you like ’em, dear.</p> +<p>“What a hand, too, dear mother has for a pie crust! But +it’s born with some people. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Why wasn’t it born with me</i>?</p> +<p>“Now, Caudle, that’s cruel - unfeeling of you; I wouldn’t +have uttered such a reproach to you for the whole world. Consider, +dear; people can’t be born as they like.</p> +<p>“How often, too, have you wanted to brew at home! And +I never could learn anything about brewing. But, ha! what ale +dear mother makes!</p> +<p>“<i>You never tasted it</i>?</p> +<p>“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 was nothing like it.</p> +<p>“<i>You dare say not</i>?</p> +<p>“No; it wasn’t indeed, Caudle. Then, if dear mother +was only with us, what money we should save in beer! And then +you might always have your own nice pure, good, wholesome ale, Caudle; +and what good it would do you! For you’re not strong, Caudle.</p> +<p>“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 always had a pudding. Now if mother was with +us, in the matter of fruit puddings she’d make it summer all the +year round. But I never could preserve - now mother does it, and +for next to no money whatever. What nice dogs-in-a-blanket she’d +make for the children!</p> +<p>“<i>What’s dogs-in-a-blanket</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, they’re delicious - as dear mother makes ’em.</p> +<p>“Now, you <i>have</i> tasted her Irish stew, Caudle? +You remember that? Come, you’re not asleep - you remember +that? And how fond you are of it! And I know I never have +it made to please you! Well, what a relief to me it would be if +dear mother was always at hand, that you might have a stew when you +liked. What a load it would be off my mind.</p> +<p>“Again, for pickles! Not at all like anybody else’s +pickles. Her red cabbage - why, it’s as crisp as biscuit! +And then her walnuts - and her all-sorts! Eh, Caudle? You +know how you love pickles; and how we sometimes tiff about ’em? +Now if dear mother was here, a word would never pass between us. +And I’m sure nothing would make me happier, for - you’re +not asleep, Caudle? - for I can’t bear to quarrel, can I, love?</p> +<p>“The children, too, are so fond of her! And she’d +be such a help to me with ’em! I’m sure, with dear +mother in the house, I shouldn’t care a fig for measles, or anything +of the sort. As a nurse, she’s such a treasure!</p> +<p>“And at her time of life, what a needle-woman! And the +darning and mending 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 the house.</p> +<p>“And then, when you’re out late, Caudle - for I know +you must be out late 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 delight the dear soul half so much.</p> +<p>“And so, Caudle, love, I think dear mother had better come, +don’t you? Eh, Caudle? Now, you’re not asleep, +darling; don’t you think she’d better come? You say +<i>No</i>?</p> +<p>“You say <i>No</i> again? <i>You won’t have her</i>, +you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You won’t</i>,<i> that’s flat</i>?</p> +<p>“Caudle - Cau-Cau-dle - Cau - dle - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Here Mrs. Caudle</i>,” says her husband, “<i>suddenly +went into tears; and I went to sleep</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XII - MR. CAUDLE HAVING COME HOME A LITTLE LATE, DECLARES +THAT HENCEFORTH “HE WILL HAVE A KEY.”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“’Pon my word, Mr. Caudle, I think it a waste of time +to come to bed at all now! The cocks will be crowing in a minute. +Keeping people up till past twelve. Oh yes! you’re thought +a man of very fine feelings out of doors, I dare say! It’s +a pity you haven’t a little feeling for those belonging to you +at home. A nice hour to keep people out of their beds!</p> +<p>“<i>Why did I sit up</i>,<i> then</i>?</p> +<p>“Because I chose to sit up - but that’s my thanks. +No, it’s no use your talking, Caudle; I never <i>will</i> let +the girl sit up for you, and there’s an end. What do you +say?</p> +<p>“<i>Why does she sit up with me</i>,<i> then</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s quite a different matter: you don’t suppose +I’m going to sit up alone, do you? What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>What’s the use of two sitting up</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s my business. No, Caudle, it’s no +such thing. I <i>don’t</i> sit up because I may have the +pleasure of talking about it; and you’re an ungrateful, unfeeling +creature to say so. I sit up because I choose it; and if you don’t +come home all the night long - and ’twill soon come to that, I’ve +no doubt - still, I’ll never go to bed, so don’t think it.</p> +<p>“Oh, yes! the time runs away very pleasantly with you men at +your clubs - selfish creatures! You can laugh and sing, and tell +stories, and never think of the clock; never think there’s such +a person as a wife belonging to you. It’s nothing to you +that a poor woman’s sitting up, and telling the minutes, and seeing +all sorts of things in the fire - and sometimes thinking something dreadful +has happened to you - more fool she to care a straw about you! - This +is all nothing. Oh no; when a woman’s once married she’s +a slave - worse than a slave - and must bear it all!</p> +<p>“And what you men can find to talk about I can’t think! +Instead of a man sitting every night at home with his wife, and going +to bed at a Christian hour, - going to a club, to meet a set of people +who don’t care a button for him - it’s monstrous! +What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You only go once a week</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s nothing at all to do with it: you might as well +go every night; and I daresay you will soon. But if you do, you +may get in as you can: <i>I</i> won’t sit up for you, I can tell +you.</p> +<p>“My health’s being destroyed night after night, and - +oh, don’t say it’s only once a week; I tell you that’s +nothing to do with it - if you had any eyes, you would see how ill I +am; but you’ve no eyes for anybody belonging to you: oh no! your +eyes are for people out of doors. It’s very well for you +to call me a foolish, aggravating woman! I should like to see +the woman who’d sit up for you as I do.</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t want me to sit up</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, yes; that’s your thanks - that’s your gratitude: +I’m to ruin my health, and to be abused for it. Nice principles +you’ve got at that club, Mr. Caudle!</p> +<p>“But there’s one comfort - one great comfort; it can’t +last long: I’m sinking - I feel it, though I never say anything +about it - but I know my own feelings, and I say it can’t last +long. And then I should like to know who will sit up for you! +Then I should like to know how your second wife - what do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll never be troubled with another</i>?</p> +<p>“Troubled, indeed! I never troubled you, Caudle. +No; it’s you who’ve troubled me; and you know it; though +like a foolish woman I’ve borne it all, and never said a word +about it. But it <i>can’t</i> last - that’s one blessing!</p> +<p>“Oh, if a woman could only know what she’d have to suffer +before she was married - Don’t tell me you want to go to sleep! +If you want to go to sleep, you should come home at proper hours! +It’s time to get up, for what I know, now. Shouldn’t +wonder if you hear the milk in five minutes - there’s the sparrows +up already; yes, I say the sparrows; and, Caudle, you ought to blush +to hear ’em.</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t hear ’em</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! you won’t hear ’em, you mean: <i>I</i> hear +’em. No, Mr. Caudle; it <i>isn’t</i> the wind whistling +in the keyhole; I’m not quite foolish, though you may think so. +I hope I know wind from a sparrow!</p> +<p>“Ha! when I think what a man you were before we were married! +But you’re now another person - quite an altered creature. +But I suppose you’re all alike - I dare say, every poor woman’s +troubled and put upon, though I should hope not so much as I am. +Indeed, I should hope not! Going and staying out, and -</p> +<p>“What!</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll have a key</i>?</p> +<p>“Will you? Not while I’m alive, Mr Caudle. +I’m not going to bed with the door upon the latch for you or the +best man breathing.</p> +<p>“<i>You won’t have a latch - you’ll have a Chubb’s +lock</i>?</p> +<p>“Will you? I’ll have no Chubb here, I can tell +you. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll have the lock put on to-morrow</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, try it; that’s all I say, Caudle; try it. +I won’t let you put me in a passion; but all I say is, - try it.</p> +<p>“A respectable thing, that, for a married man to carry about +with him, - a street-door key! That tells a tale I think. +A nice thing for the father of a family! A key! What, to +let yourself in and out when you please! To come in, like a thief +in the middle of the night, 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 I choose to sit up what’s that to you? +Some wives, indeed, would make a noise about sitting up, but <i>you’ve</i> +no reason to complain - goodness knows!</p> +<p>“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; but for a married man to leave his wife and +children in a house with a door 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 to say that you only +want the key for peace and quietness - what’s it to you, if I +like to sit up? You’ve no business to complain; it can’t +distress 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 a policeman; as I’m your married wife, I will.</p> +<p>“No, I think when a man comes to have the street-door key, +the sooner he turns bachelor altogether the better. I’m +sure, Caudle, I don’t want to be any clog upon you. Now, +it’s no use your telling me to hold my tongue, for I - What?</p> +<p>“<i>I give you the headache</i>,<i> do I</i>?</p> +<p>“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 my life! there’s no saying a word to you! +You go out, and treat yourself like an emperor - and come home at twelve +at night, or any hour for what I know, and then you threaten to have +a key, and - and - and - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I did</i> <i>get to sleep at last</i>,” says Caudle, +“<i>amidst the falling sentences of</i> ‘<i>take children +into a lodging</i>’ - ‘<i>separate maintenance</i>’ +- ‘<i>won’t be made a slave of</i>’ - <i>and so forth</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XIII - MRS. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO SEE HER DEAR MOTHER. - CAUDLE, +ON THE “JOYFUL OCCASION,” HAS GIVEN A PARTY, AND ISSUED +A CARD OF INVITATION</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“It <i>is</i> hard, I think, Mr. Caudle, that I can’t +leave home for a day or two, but the house must be turned into a tavern: +a tavern? - a pothouse! Yes, I thought you were very anxious that +I should go; I thought you wanted to get rid of me for something, or +you would not have insisted on my staying at dear mother’s all +night. You were afraid I should get cold coming home, were you? +Oh yes, you can be very tender, you can, Mr. Caudle, when it suits your +own purpose. Yes! and the world thinks what a good husband you +are! I only wish the world knew you as well as I do, that’s +all; but it shall, some day, I’m determined.</p> +<p>“I’m sure the house will not be sweet for a month. +All the curtains are poisoned with smoke; and what’s more, with +the filthiest smoke I ever knew.</p> +<p>“<i>Take ’em down</i>,<i> then</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, it’s all very well for you to say take ’em +down; but they were only cleaned and put up a month ago; but a careful +wife’s lost upon you, Mr. Caudle. You ought to have married +somebody who’d have let your house go to wreck and ruin, as I +will for the future. People who don’t care for their families +are better thought of than those who do; I’ve long found out <i>that.</i></p> +<p>“And what a condition the carpet’s in! They’ve +taken five pounds out of it, if a farthing, with their filthy boots, +and I don’t know what besides. And then the smoke in the +hearthrug, and a large cinder-hole burnt in it! I never saw such +a house in <i>my</i> life! If you wanted to have a few friends, +why couldn’t you invite ’em when your wife’s at home, +like any other man? not have ’em sneaking in, like a set of housebreakers, +directly a woman turns her back. They must be pretty gentlemen, +they must; mean fellows, that are afraid to face a woman! Ha! +and you all call yourselves the lords of the creation! I should +only like to see what would become of the creation, if you were left +to yourselves! A pretty pickle creation would be in very soon!</p> +<p>“You must all have been in a nice condition! What do +you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You took nothing</i>?</p> +<p>“Took nothing, didn’t you? I’m sure there’s +such a regiment of empty bottles, I haven’t had the heart to count +’em. And punch, too! you must have punch! There’s +a hundred half-lemons in the kitchen, if there’s one: for Susan, +like a good girl, kept ’em to show ’em me. No, sir; +Susan <i>shan’t leave the house</i>! What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>She has no right to tell tales</i>,<i> and you</i> WILL +<i>be master in your own house</i>?</p> +<p>“Will you? If you don’t alter, Mr. Caudle, you’ll +soon have no house to 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 suppose I’m to find sugar for punch +for fifty men? What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>There wasn’t fifty</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s no matter; the more shame for ’em, sir. +I’m sure they drank enough for fifty. Do you suppose I’m +to find sugar for punch for all the world out of my housekeeping money?”</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t ask me</i>?</p> +<p>“Don’t you ask me? You do; you know you do: for +if I only want a shilling extra, the house is in a blaze. And +yet a whole loaf of sugar can you throw away upon - No, I <i>won’t</i> +be still; and I <i>won’t</i> let you 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 night with a pack of people +who don’t care for you, and your poor wife can’t get in +a word!</p> +<p>“And there’s that china image that I had when I was married +- I wouldn’t have taken any sum of money for it, and you know +it - and how do I find it? With its precious head knocked off! +And what was more mean, more contemptible than all besides, it was put +on again, as if nothing had happened.</p> +<p>“<i>You knew nothing about it</i>?</p> +<p>“Now, how can you lie there, in your Christian bed, Caudle, +and say that? You know that that fellow, Prettyman, knocked off +the head with 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 knew was precious to me. Oh no, if the truth was known, +you were glad to see it broken for that very reason.</p> +<p>“Every way I’ve been insulted. I should like to +know who it was who corked whiskers on my dear aunt’s picture? +Oh! you’re laughing, are you?</p> +<p>“<i>You’re not laughing</i>?</p> +<p>“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 dear face, - and she was a dear soul to you, Caudle, +and you ought to be ashamed of yourself to see her ill-used. Oh, +you may laugh! It’s very easy to laugh! I only wish +you’d a little feeling, like other people, that’s all.</p> +<p>“Then there’s my china mug - the mug I had before I was +married - when I was a happy creature. I should like to know who +knocked the spout off that mug? Don’t tell me it was cracked +before - it’s no such thing, Caudle; there wasn’t a flaw +in it - and now, I could have cried when I saw it. Don’t +tell me it wasn’t worth twopence. How do you know? +You never buy mugs. But that’s like men; they think nothing +in a house costs anything.</p> +<p>“There’s four glasses broke, and nine cracked. +At least, that’s all I’ve found out at present; but I daresay +I shall discover a dozen to-morrow.</p> +<p>“And I should like to know where the cotton umbrella’s +gone to - and I should like to know who broke the bell-pull - and perhaps +you don’t know there’s a leg off a chair, - and perhaps +- ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I was resolved</i>,” said Caudle, “<i>to know +nothing</i>,<i> and so went to sleep in my ignorance</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XIV - MRS. CAUDLE THINKS IT “HIGH TIME” THAT +THE CHILDREN SHOULD HAVE SUMMER CLOTHING</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“There, Caudle! If there’s anything in the world +I hate - and you know 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 more shame of you to let me, but - there, now! +there you fly out again!</p> +<p>“<i>What do I want now</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, you must know what’s wanted, if you’d any +eyes - or any pride for your children, like any other father.</p> +<p>“<i>What’s the matter - and what am I driving at</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, nonsense, Caudle! As if you didn’t know! +I’m sure if I’d any money of my own, I’d never ask +you for a farthing; never; it’s painful to me, goodness knows! +What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>If it’s painful</i>,<i> why so often do it</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! I suppose you call that a joke - one of your club +jokes? I wish you’d think a little more of people’s +feelings, and less of your jokes. As I say, I only wish I’d +any money of my own. If there is anything that humbles a poor +woman, it is coming to a man’s pocket for every farthing. +It’s dreadful!</p> +<p>“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 may go 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 nobody else’s children?</p> +<p>“<i>What was the matter with them</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, Caudle! How can you ask? Poor things! weren’t +they all in their thick merinos and beaver bonnets? What do you +say? -</p> +<p>“<i>What of it</i>?</p> +<p>“What! you’ll tell me that you didn’t see how the +Briggs’s girls, in their new chips, turned their noses up at ’em? +And you didn’t see how the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then +at our dear girls, as much as to say, ‘Poor creatures! what figures +for the month of May!’</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t see it</i>?</p> +<p>“The more shame for you - you would, if you’d had the +feelings of a parent - but I’m sorry to say, Caudle, you haven’t. +I’m sure those Briggs’s girls - the little minxes! - put +me into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for ’em +over the pew. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>I ought to be ashamed of myself to own it</i>?</p> +<p>“No, Mr. Caudle; the shame lies with you, that don’t +let your children appear at church like other people’s children, +that make ’em uncomfortable at their devotions, poor things! for +how can it be otherwise, when they see themselves dressed like nobody +else?</p> +<p>“Now, Caudle, it’s no use talking; those children shall +not cross the threshold next Sunday, if they haven’t things for +the summer. Now mind - they sha’n’t; and there’s +an end of it. I won’t have ’em exposed to the Briggs’s +and the Browns again: no, they shall know they have a mother, if they’ve +no father to feel for ’em. What do you say, Caudle?</p> +<p>“<i>A good deal I must think of church</i>,<i> if I think so +much of what we go in</i>?</p> +<p>“I only wish you thought as much as I do, you’d be a +better man than you 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, and you want to put me off with something about +the church; but that’s so like you, Caudle!</p> +<p>“<i>I’m always wanting money for clothes</i>?</p> +<p>“How can you lie in your bed and say that? I’m +sure there’s no children in the world that cost their father so +little: but that’s it; the less a poor woman does upon, the less +she may. It’s the wives who don’t care where the money +comes from who’re best thought of. 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 to laugh, +Caudle - very easy, to people who don’t feel.</p> +<p>“Now, Caudle, dear! What a man you are! I know +you’ll give me the money, because, after all, I think you love +your children, and like to 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.</p> +<p>“<i>How much money do I want</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, let me see, love. There’s Caroline, and Jane, +and Susannah, and Mary Anne, and - What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>I needn’t count ’em; you know how many there +are</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! that’s just as you take me up. Well, how much +money will it take? 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 do credit 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 what they’ve to do with your +children; you know what I meant. But you <i>are</i> so hasty, +Caudle.</p> +<p>“<i>How much</i>?</p> +<p>“Now, don’t be in a hurry! Well, I think, with +good pinching - and you know, Caudle, there’s never a wife who +can pinch closer than I can - I think, with pinching, I can do with +twenty pounds. What did you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Twenty fiddlesticks</i>?</p> +<p>“What?</p> +<p>“<i>You won’t give half the money</i>?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“<i>You gave me twenty pounds five months ago</i>?</p> +<p>“What’s five months ago to do with now? Besides, +what I <i>have</i> had is nothing to do with it.</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Ten pounds are enough</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for +women; but you don’t care how much you lay out upon yourselves.</p> +<p>“<i>They only want bonnets and frocks</i>?</p> +<p>“How do you know what they want? <i>How</i> should a +man know anything at all about it? And you won’t give more +than ten pounds? Very well. Then you may go shopping with +it yourself, and see what <i>you’ll</i> make of it. I’ll +have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you. No, sir, - no; you +have no cause to say that.</p> +<p>“<i>I don’t want to dress the children up like countesses</i>?</p> +<p>“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 of themselves: and what, indeed, <i>can</i> the poor things +think when they see the Briggs’s, and the Browns, and the Smiths +- and their fathers don’t make the money you do, Caudle - when +they see them as fine as tulips? Why, they must think themselves +nobody; and to think yourself nobody - depend upon it, Caudle, - isn’t +the way to make the world think anything of you.</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Where did I pick up that</i>?</p> +<p>“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 <i>will</i> have, if I’ve +any - or not a farthing. No, sir, no.</p> +<p>“<i>I don’t want to dress up the children like peacocks +and parrots</i>!</p> +<p>“I only want to make ’em respectable and - what do you +say?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll give fifteen pounds</i>?</p> +<p>“No, Caudle, no - not a penny will I take under twenty; if +I did, it would seem as if I wanted to waste your money: and I’m +sure, when I come to think of it, twenty pounds will hardly do. +Still, if you’ll give me twenty - no, it’s no use your offering +fifteen, and wanting to go 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 - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>My impression is</i>,” writes Caudle, “<i>that +I fell asleep sticking firmly to the fifteen; but in the morning Mrs. +Caudle assured me</i>,<i> as a woman of honour</i>,<i> that she wouldn’t +let me wink an eye before I promised the twenty: and man is frail - +and woman is strong - she had the money</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XV - MR. CAUDLE HAS AGAIN STAYED OUT LATE. MRS. CAUDLE, +AT FIRST INJURED AND VIOLENT, MELTS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Perhaps, Mr. Caudle, you’ll tell me where this is to +end? Though, goodness knows, I needn’t ask <i>that</i>. +The end is plain enough. Out - out - out! Every night - +every night! I’m sure, men who can’t come home at +reasonable hours have no business with wives: they have no right to +destroy other people, if they choose to go to destruction themselves. +Ha, lord! Oh, dear! I only hope none of my girls will ever +marry - I hope they’ll none of ’em ever be the slave their +poor mother is: they shan’t, if I can help it. What do you +say?</p> +<p>“<i>Nothing</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, I don’t wonder at that, Mr. Caudle? you ought +to be ashamed to speak; I don’t wonder that you can’t open +your mouth. I’m only astonished that at such hours you have +the confidence to knock at your own door. Though I’m your +wife, I must say it, I do sometimes wonder at your impudence. +What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Nothing</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! you are an aggravating creature, Caudle; lying there like +the mummy of a man, and never as much as opening your lips to one. +Just as if your own wife wasn’t worth answering! It isn’t +so when you’re out, I’m sure. Oh no! then you can +talk fast enough; here, there’s no getting a word from you. +But you treat your wife as no other man does - and you know it.</p> +<p>“Out - out every night! What?</p> +<p>“<i>You haven’t been out this week before</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s nothing at all to do with it. You might +just as well be out all the week as once - just! And I should +like to know what could keep you out till these hours?</p> +<p>“<i>Business</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, yes - I dare say! Pretty business a married man +and the father of a family must have out of doors at one in the morning. +What?</p> +<p>“<i>I shall drive you mad</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, no; you haven’t feelings enough to go mad - you’d +be a better man, Caudle, if you had.</p> +<p>“<i>Will I listen to you</i>?</p> +<p>“What’s the use? Of course you’ve some story +to put me off with - you can all do that, and laugh at us afterwards.</p> +<p>“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 what in my time I’ve put +up with there isn’t anybody in the world that knows.</p> +<p>“<i>Will I hear your story</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, you may tell it if you please; go on: only mind, I sha’n’t +believe a word of it. I’m not such a fool as other women +are, I can tell you.</p> +<p>“There, now - don’t begin to swear - but go on - ” +-</p> +<p>“ - And that’s your story, is it? That’s +your excuse for the hours you keep! That’s your apology +for undermining my health and ruining your family! What do you +think your children will say of you when they grow up - going and throwing +away your money upon good-for-nothing pot-house acquaintance?</p> +<p>“<i>He’s not a pot-house acquaintance</i>?</p> +<p>“Who is he, then? Come, you haven’t told me that; +but I know - it’s that Prettyman! Yes, to be sure it is! +Upon my life! Well, if I’ve hardly patience to lie in the +bed! I’ve wanted a silver teapot these five years, and you +must go and throw away as much money as - what?</p> +<p>“<i>You haven’t thrown it away</i>?</p> +<p>“Haven’t you? Then my name’s not Margaret, +that’s all I know!</p> +<p>“A man gets arrested, and because he’s taken from his +wife and family, 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 running from lawyer to lawyer to get bail, and +settle the business, as you call 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 the bail! That any man who isn’t +a born fool should do such a thing for another! Do you think anybody +would do as much for you?</p> +<p>“<i>Yes</i>?</p> +<p>“You say yes? Well, I only wish - just to show that I’m +right - I only wish you were in a condition to try ’em. +I should only like to see you arrested. You’d find the difference +- that you would.</p> +<p>“What’s other people’s affairs to you? If +you were locked up, depend upon it, there’s not a soul would come +near you. No; it’s all very fine now, when people think +there isn’t a chance of your being in trouble - but I should only +like to see what they’d say to you if <i>you</i> were in a sponging-house. +Yes - I should enjoy <i>that</i>, just to show you that I’m always +right. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You think better of the world</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! that would be all very well if you could afford it; but +you’re not in means, I know, to think so well of people as all +that. And of course they only laugh at you. ‘Caudle’s +an easy fool,’ they cry - I know it as well as if I heard ’em +- ‘Caudle’s an easy fool; anybody may lead him.’ +Yes anybody but his own wife; - and she - of course - is nobody.</p> +<p>“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’ll soon know every sponging-house and +every sheriff’s officer in London. Your business will have +to take care of itself; you’ll have enough to do 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’t +put it off till to-morrow. It isn’t often I speak, but I +<i>will</i> speak now.</p> +<p>“I wish that Prettyman had been at the bottom of the sea before +- what?</p> +<p>“<i>It isn’t Prettyman</i>?</p> +<p>“Ah! it’s very well for you to say so; but I know it +is; it’s just like him. He looks like a man that’s +always in debt - that’s always in a sponging-house. Anybody +might swear it. I knew it from the very first time you brought +him here - from the very night he put his nasty dirty wet boots on my +bright steel fender. Any woman could see what the fellow was in +a minute. Prettyman! a pretty gentleman, truly, to be robbing +your wife and family!</p> +<p>“Why couldn’t you let him stop in the sponging - Now +don’t call upon heaven in that way, and ask me to be quiet, for +I won’t. Why couldn’t you let him stop there? +He got himself in; he might have got himself out again. And you +must keep me awake, ruin my sleep, my health, and for what you care, +my peace of mind. Ha! everybody but you can see how I’m +breaking. You can do all this while you’re talking with +a set of low bailiffs! A great deal you must think of your children +to go into a lawyer’s office.</p> +<p>“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 he laughs at you - and serve you right! Why, in +another week he’ll be in the East Indies; of course he will! +And you’ll have to pay his debts; yes, your children may go in +rags, so that Mr. Prettyman - what do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>It isn’t Prettyman</i>?</p> +<p>“I know better. Well, if it isn’t Prettyman that’s +kept you out, - if it isn’t Prettyman you’re bail for - +who is it, then? I ask, who is it, then? What?</p> +<p>“<i>My brother</i>?<i> Brother Tom</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, Caudle! dear Caudle - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>It was too much for the poor soul</i>,” says Caudle; +“<i>she sobbed as if her heart would break</i>,<i> and I</i> - +” and here the MS. is blotted, as though Caudle himself had dropped +tears as he wrote.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XVI - BABY IS TO BE CHRISTENED; MRS. CAUDLE CANVASSES THE +MERITS OF PROBABLE GODFATHERS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Come, now, love, about baby’s name? The dear thing’s +three months old, and not a name to its back yet. There you go +again! Talk of it to-morrow! No; we’ll talk of it +to-night. There’s no having a word with you in the daytime +- but here you can’t leave me. Now don’t say you 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 I +speak but I <i>do</i> believe you’d like never to hear the sound +of my voice. I might as well have been born dumb!</p> +<p>“I suppose the baby <i>must</i> have a godfather; and so, Caudle, +who shall we 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 hope I’ve the feelings of a mother; and what’s +the use of a godfather if he gives nothing else to the child but a name? +A child might almost as well not be christened at all. And so +who shall we have? What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Anybody</i>?</p> +<p>“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Caudle? Don’t +you think something will happen to you, to talk in that way? I +don’t know where you pick up such principles. I’m +thinking who there is among our acquaintance who can do the most for +the blessed creature, and you say, - ‘<i>Anybody</i>!’ +Caudle, you’re quite a heathen.</p> +<p>“There’s Wagstaff. No chance of his ever marrying, +and he’s very fond of babies. He’s plenty of money, +Caudle; and I think he might be got. Babies, I know it - babies +are his weak side. Wouldn’t it be a blessed thing to find +our dear child in his will? Why don’t you speak? I +declare, Caudle, you seem to care no more for the child than if it was +a stranger’s. People who can’t love children more +than you do, ought never to have ’em.</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t like Wagstaff</i>?</p> +<p>“No more do I much; but what’s that to do with it? +People who’ve their families to provide for, mustn’t think +of their feelings. I don’t like him; but then I’m +a mother, and love my baby.</p> +<p>“<i>You won’t have Wagstaff and that’s flat</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha, Caudle, you’re like nobody else - not fit for this +world, you’re not.</p> +<p>“What do you think of Pugsby? I can’t bear his +wife; but that’s nothing to do with it. I know my duty to +my babe: I wish other people did. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Pugsby’s a wicked fellow</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! that’s like you - always giving people a bad name. +We mustn’t always believe what the world says, Caudle; it doesn’t +become us as Christians 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, if Pugsby - Now, don’t fly out at the +man in that manner. Caudle, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! +You can’t speak well of anybody. Where <i>do</i> you think +to go to?</p> +<p>“What do you say, then, to Sniggins? Now, don’t +bounce round in that way, letting the cold air into the bed! What’s +the matter with Sniggins?</p> +<p>“<i>You wouldn’t ask him a favour for the world</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, it’s a good thing the baby has somebody to care +for it: <i>I</i> will. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>I shan’t</i>?</p> +<p>“I will, I can tell you. Sniggins, besides being a warm +man, has good interest in the Customs; and there’s nice pickings +there, if one only goes the right way to get ’em. It’s +no use, Caudle, your fidgetting about - not a bit. I’m not +going to have baby lost - sacrificed, I may say, like its brothers and +sisters.</p> +<p>“<i>What do I mean by sacrificed</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, you know what I mean very well. What have any of +’em got by their 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 could almost swear to the place? And then there was your +fine friend Hartley’s wife - what did she give to Caroline? +Why, a trumpery lace cap it made me blush to look at. What?</p> +<p>“<i>It was the best she could afford</i>?</p> +<p>“Then she’d no right to stand for the child. People +who can’t do better than that have no business to take the responsibility +of godmother. They ought to know their duties better.</p> +<p>“Well, Caudle, you can’t object to Goldman?</p> +<p>“<i>Yes</i>,<i> you do</i>?</p> +<p>“Was there ever such a man! What for?</p> +<p>“<i>He’s a usurer and a hunks</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, I’m sure, you’ve no business in this world, +Caudle; you have such 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 who come after him? I’m sure +it’s well there’s some people in the world who save money, +seeing the stupid creatures who throw it away. But you are the +strangest man! I really believe you think money a sin, instead +of the greatest blessing; for I can’t mention any of our acquaintance +that’s rich - and I’m sure we don’t know too many +such people - that you haven’t something to say against ’em. +It’s only beggars that you like - people with not a shilling to +bless themselves. Ha! though you’re my husband, I must say +it - you’re a man of low notions, Caudle. I only hope none +of the dear boys will take after their father!</p> +<p>“And I should like to know what’s the objection to Goldman? +The only thing against him is his name; I must confess it, I don’t +like the name of Lazarus: it’s low, and doesn’t sound genteel +- not at all respectable. But after he’s gone and done what’s +proper for the child, the boy could easily slip Lazarus into Laurence. +I’m told the thing’s done often. No, Caudle, don’t +say that - I’m not a mean woman - certainly not; quite the reverse. +I’ve only a parent’s love for my children; and I must say +it - I wish everybody felt as I did.</p> +<p>“I suppose, if the truth was known, you’d like your tobacco-pipe +friend, your pot-companion, Prettyman, to stand for the child?</p> +<p>“<i>You’d have no objection</i>?</p> +<p>“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; and it’s no use your denying it - a beggar and a +tippler, and that’s the man 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 hear you talk.</p> +<p>“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’s proper, the child sha’n’t be christened +at all. As for Prettyman, or any such raff - no, never! +I’m sure there’s a certain set of people that 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 spittoon +acquaintance, I can tell you.</p> +<p>“No; unless I can have <i>my</i> way, the child sha’n’t +be christened at all. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>It must have a name</i>?</p> +<p>“There’s no ‘must’ at all in the case - none. +No, it shall have no name; 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 the godfather I like. Number Six Caudle! +ha! ha! I think that must make you ashamed of yourself if anything +can. Number Six Caudle - a much better name than Mr. Prettyman +could give; yes, Number Six. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Anything but Number Seven</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, Caudle, if ever - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>At this moment</i>,” writes Caudle, “<i>little +Number Six began to cry; and taking advantage of the happy accident +I somehow got to sleep</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XVII - CAUDLE IN THE COURSE OF THE DAY HAS VENTURED TO QUESTION +THE ECONOMY OF “WASHING AT HOME.”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“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’s always the way; whenever I get up a +few things, the house can hardly hold you! Nobody cries out more +about clean linen than you do - and nobody leads a poor woman so miserable +a life when she tries to make her husband comfortable. Yes, Mr. +Caudle - comfortable! You needn’t keep chewing the word, +as if you couldn’t swallow it.</p> +<p>“<i>Was there ever such a woman</i>?</p> +<p>“No, Caudle; I hope not: I should hope no other wife was ever +put upon as I am! It’s all very well for you. I can’t +have a little wash at home like anybody else but you must go about the +house swearing to yourself, and looking at your wife as if she was your +bitterest 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 have all the children in their dirt, +like potatoes: anything, so that it didn’t disturb you. +I wish you’d had a wife who never washed - <i>she’d</i> +have suited you, she would. Yes; a fine lady who’d have +let your children go that you might have scraped ’em. She’d +have been much better cared for than I am. I only wish I could +let all of you go without clean linen at all - yes, all of you. +I wish I could! And if I wasn’t a slave to my family, unlike +anybody else, I should.</p> +<p>“No, Mr. Caudle; the house isn’t tossed about in water +as if it was Noah’s Ark. And you ought to be ashamed of +yourself to talk of Noah’s Ark in that loose manner. I’m +sure I don’t know what I’ve done to be married to a man +of such principles. No: and the whole house <i>doesn’t</i> +taste of soap-suds either; and if it did, any other man but yourself +would be above naming it. I suppose I don’t like washing-day +any more than yourself. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Yes</i>,<i> I do</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! you’re wrong there, Mr. Caudle. No; I don’t +like it because it makes everybody else uncomfortable. No; and +I ought not to have been born a mermaid, that I might always have been +in water. A mermaid, indeed! What next will you call me? +But no man, Mr. Caudle, says such things to his wife as you. However, +as I’ve said before, it can’t last long, that’s one +comfort. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You’re glad of it</i>?</p> +<p>“You’re a brute, Mr. Caudle! No, you <i>didn’t</i> +mean washing: I know what you mean. A pretty speech to a woman +who’s been the wife to you I have! You’ll repent it +when it’s too late: yes, I wouldn’t have your feelings when +I’m gone, Caudle; no, not for the Bank of England.</p> +<p>“And when we only wash once a fortnight! Ha! I +only wish you had some wives, they’d wash once a week! Besides, +if once a fortnight’s too much for you, why don’t you give +me money that we may have things to go a month? Is it <i>my</i> +fault if we’re short? What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>My ‘once a fortnight’ lasts three days</i>?</p> +<p>“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 rinsed again? Don’t say that; I’m <i>not</i> +made happy by the blacks, and they <i>don’t</i> prolong my enjoyment; +and, more than that, you’re an unfeeling man to say so. +You’re enough to make a woman wish herself in her grave - you +are, Caudle.</p> +<p>“And a pretty example you set to your sons! Because we’d +a little wash to-day, and there wasn’t a hot dinner - and who +thinks of getting anything hot for washer-women? - because you hadn’t +everything as you always have it, you must swear at the cold mutton +- and you don’t know what that mutton costs a pound, I dare say +- you must swear at a sweet, wholesome joint like a lord. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t swear</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes; it’s very well for you to say so; but I know when +you’re swearing; and you swear when you little think it; and I +say you must go on swearing as you did, and seize your hat like a savage, +and rush out of the house, and go and take your dinner at a tavern! +A pretty wife people must think you have, when they find you dining +at a public-house. A nice home they must think you have, Mr. Caudle! +What?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll do so every time I wash</i>?</p> +<p>“Very well, Mr. Caudle - very well. We’ll soon +see who’s tired of that, first; for I’ll wash a stocking +a day if that’s all, sooner than 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.</p> +<p>“Now, if you begin to shout in that manner, I’ll leave +the bed. It’s very hard that I can’t say a single +word to you, but you must almost raise the place.</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t shout</i>?</p> +<p>“I don’t know what you call shouting, then! I’m +sure the people must hear 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 - I know 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?</p> +<p>“What?</p> +<p>“<i>Why can’t I put the washing out</i>?</p> +<p>“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?</p> +<p>“<i>Mrs. Prettyman says it’s quite as cheap</i>?</p> +<p>“Pray, what’s Mrs. Prettyman to me? I should think, +Mr. Caudle, that I know very well how to take care of my family without +Mrs. Prettyman’s advice. Mrs. Prettyman, indeed! I +only wish she’d come here, that I might tell her so! Mrs. +Prettyman! But, perhaps she’d better come and take care +of your house for you! Oh, yes! I’ve no doubt she’d +do it much better than I do - <i>much</i>. No, Caudle! <i>I +won’t hold my tongue</i>. I think I ought to be mistress +of my own washing by this time - and after the wife I’ve been +to you, it’s cruel of you to go on as you do.</p> +<p>“Don’t tell me about putting the washing out. I +say it isn’t so cheap - I don’t care whether you wash by +the dozen or not - it isn’t so cheap; I’ve reduced everything, +and I save at least a shilling a week. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>A trumpery shilling</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! I only hope to goodness you’ll not come to +want, talking of shillings 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 worth a 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 take two pound twelve +a year for, let us say, thirty years, and - well, you needn’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 before +that - and if it wasn’t for my dear children’s sake I shouldn’t +care how soon. You know my mind - and so, good-night, Mr. Caudle.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Thankful for her silence</i>,” writes Caudle, “<i>I +was fast dropping to sleep; when</i>,<i> jogging my elbow</i>,<i> my +wife observed - ‘Mind</i>,<i> there’s the cold mutton to-morrow +- nothing hot till that’s gone. Remember</i>,<i> too</i>,<i> +as it was a short wash to-day</i>,<i> we wash again on Wednesday</i>.’”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XVIII - CAUDLE, WHILST WALKING WITH HIS WIFE, HAS BEEN BOWED +TO BY A YOUNGER AND EVEN PRETTIER WOMAN THAN MRS. CAUDLE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“If I’m not to leave the house without being insulted, +Mr. Caudle, I had better stay indoors all my life.</p> +<p>“What! Don’t tell me to let you have <i>one</i> +night’s rest! I wonder at your impudence! It’s +mighty fine, I never can go out with you and - goodness knows! - it’s +seldom enough without having my feelings torn to pieces by people of +all sorts. A set of bold minxes!</p> +<p>“<i>What am I raving about</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, you know very well - very well, indeed, Mr. Caudle. +A pretty person she must be to nod to a man walking with his own wife! +Don’t tell me that it’s Miss Prettyman - what’s Miss +Prettyman to me? Oh!</p> +<p>“<i>You’ve met her once or twice at her brother’s +house</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, I dare say you have - no doubt of it. I always +thought there was 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 twist and 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 when I was a fool and believed anything; but - +I thank my stars! - I’ve got over that.</p> +<p>“A bold minx! You suppose I didn’t see her laugh, +too, when she nodded to you! Oh yes, I knew what she thought me +- a poor miserable creature, of course. I could see that. +No - don’t say so, Caudle. I <i>don’t</i> always see +more than anybody else - but I can’t and won’t be blind, +however agreeable it might be to you; I must have the use of my senses. +I’m sure, if a woman wants attention and respect from a man, she’d +better be anything than his wife. I’ve always thought so; +and to-day’s decided it.</p> +<p>“No; I’m not ashamed of myself to talk so - certainly +not.</p> +<p>“<i>A good</i>,<i> amiable young creature indeed</i>!</p> +<p>“Yes; I dare say; very amiable, no doubt. Of course, +you think her so. 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 of court plaster about her face?</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t see ’em</i>?</p> +<p>“Very likely; but I did. Very amiable, to be sure! +What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>I made her blush at my ill manners</i>?</p> +<p>“I should have liked to have seen her blush! ’Twould +have been rather difficult, Mr. Caudle, for a blush to come through +all that paint. No - I’m not a censorious woman, Mr. Caudle; +quite the reverse. No; and you may threaten to get up, if you +like - I will speak. I know what colour is, and I say it <i>was</i> +paint. I believe, Mr. Caudle, <i>I</i> once had a complexion - +though of course you’ve quite forgotten that: I think I once had +a colour - before your conduct destroyed it. Before I knew you, +people used to call me the Lily and Rose; but - what are you laughing +at? I see nothing to laugh at. But as I say, anybody before +your own wife.</p> +<p>“And I can’t walk out with you but you’re bowed +to by every woman you meet!</p> +<p>“<i>What do I mean by every woman</i>,<i> when it’s only +Miss Prettyman</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s nothing at all to do with it. How do I +know who bows to you when I’m not by? Everybody of course. +And if they don’t look at you, why you look at them. Oh! +I’m sure you do. You do it even when 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 such a dreadful habit with you, that you don’t know when +you do it, and when you don’t. But I do.</p> +<p>“Miss Prettyman, indeed! What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You won’t lie still and hear me scandalise that excellent +young woman</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, of course you’ll take her part! Though, to +be sure, she may not be so much to blame after all. For how is +she to know you’re married? You’re never seen out +of doors with your own wife - never. Wherever you go, you go alone. +Of course people think you’re a bachelor. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You well know you’re not</i>?</p> +<p>“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 their husbands: but, as I’ve often said, I’m +not like any other woman. What are you sneering at, Mr. Caudle?</p> +<p>“<i>How do I know you’re sneering</i>?</p> +<p>“Don’t tell me: I know well enough, by the movement of +the pillow.</p> +<p>“No; you never take me out - and you know it. No; and +it’s not my own fault. 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 a figure. And +when you ask me to go, you know very well that my bonnet isn’t +as it should be - or that my gown hasn’t come home - or that I +can’t leave the children - or that something keeps me indoors. +You know all this well enough before you ask me. And that’s +your art. And when I <i>do</i> go out with you, I’m sure +to suffer for it. Yes, you needn’t repeat my words. +<i>Suffer for it</i>. But you suppose I have no feelings: oh no, +nobody has feelings but yourself. Yes; I’d forgot: Miss +Prettyman, perhaps - yes, she may have feelings, of course.</p> +<p>“And as I’ve said, I dare say a pretty dupe people think +me. To be sure; a poor forlorn creature I must look in everybody’s +eyes. But I knew you couldn’t be at Mr. Prettyman’s +house night after night till eleven o’clock - and a great deal +you thought of me sitting up for you - I knew you couldn’t be +there without some cause. And now I’ve found 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! And pretty slaves you make of the poor creatures +who’re tied to you. But I’ll be separated, Caudle; +I will; and then I’ll take care and let all the world know how +you’ve used me. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>I may say my worst</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! don’t you tempt any woman in that way - don’t, +Caudle; for I wouldn’t answer for what I said.</p> +<p>“Miss Prettyman, indeed, and - oh yes! now I see! Now +the whole light breaks 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 nearly doing it. But now, as I say, my eyes are +open! And you’d have brought her under my own roof - now +it’s no use your bouncing about in that fashion - you’d +have brought her into the very house, where - ”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Here</i>,” says Caudle, “<i>I could endure +it no longer. So I jumped out of bed</i>,<i> and went and slept +somehow with the children</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XIX - MRS. CAUDLE THINKS “IT WOULD LOOK WELL TO KEEP +THEIR WEDDING-DAY.”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Caudle, love, do you know what next Sunday is?</p> +<p>“<i>No</i>!<i> you don’t</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, was there ever such a strange man! Can’t +you guess, darling? Next Sunday, dear? Think, love, a minute +- just think.</p> +<p>“<i>What</i>!<i> and you don’t know now</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! if I hadn’t a better memory than you, I don’t +know how we should ever 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 to groan!</p> +<p>“Oh, dear! That’s fourteen years ago. You +were a very different man then, Mr. Caudle. What do you say - +?</p> +<p>“<i>And I was a very different woman</i>?</p> +<p>“Not at all - just the same. Oh, you needn’t roll +your head about on the pillow in that way: I say, just the same. +Well, then, if I’m altered, 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 as well then as I can now; only +then I hadn’t the same cause. It’s you who’ve +made me talk. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You’re very sorry for it</i>?</p> +<p>“Caudle, you do nothing but insult me.</p> +<p>“Ha! you were a good-tempered, nice creature fourteen years +ago, and would have done anything for me. Yes, yes, if a woman +would be always cared for, she should never marry. There’s +quite an end of the charm when she goes to church! We’re +all angels while you’re courting 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 to hear nobody talk but yourself. +Nobody ever tells me that I talk nonsense but you. Now, it’s +no use your turning and turning about in that way, it’s not a +bit of - what do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll get up</i>?</p> +<p>“No you won’t, Mr. Caudle; you’ll not serve me +that trick again; for I’ve locked the door and hid the key. +There’s no getting hold of you all the day-time - but here you +can’t leave me. You needn’t groan again, Mr. Caudle.</p> +<p>“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 well as we’ve done. We’ve both our +little tempers, perhaps; but you <i>are</i> aggravating; you must own +that, Caudle. Well, never mind; we won’t talk 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 nice day +to have our friends. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>They’d think it hypocrisy</i>?</p> +<p>“No hypocrisy at all. I’m sure I try to be comfortable; +and if ever man was happy, you ought to be. No, Caudle, no; it +isn’t nonsense to keep 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 a man owes to his wife. +Look at the Winkles - don’t they give a dinner every year? +Well, I know, and if they do fight a little in the course of the twelvemonth, +that’s nothing to do with it. They keep their wedding-day, +and their acquaintance have nothing to do with anything else.</p> +<p>“As I say, Caudle, it’s only a proper compliment that +a man owes to his wife to keep his wedding-day. It’s as +much as to say to the whole world - ‘There! if I had to marry +again, my blessed wife’s the only 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’m sure, what would have +become of you if you hadn’t married as you have done - why, you’d +have been a lost creature! I know it; I know your habits, Caudle; +and - I don’t like to say it, but you’d have been little +better than a ragamuffin. Nice scrapes you’d have got into, +I know, if you hadn’t had me for a wife. The trouble I’ve +had to keep you respectable - and what’s my thanks? Ha! +I only wish you’d had some women!</p> +<p>“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’t say you don’t care - +that isn’t the way to speak to a wife; and especially the wife +I’ve been to you, Caudle. Well, you agree to the dinner, +eh? Now, don’t grunt, Mr. Caudle, but speak out. You’ll +keep your wedding-day? What?</p> +<p>“<i>If I let you go to sleep</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! that’s unmanly, Caudle. Can’t you say +‘Yes,’ without anything else? I say - can’t +you say ‘Yes’? There, bless you! I knew you +would.</p> +<p>“And now, Caudle, what shall we have for dinner? No - +we won’t talk of it to-morrow; we’ll talk of it now, and +then it will be off my mind. 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?</p> +<p>“<i>What do I want</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, you know I want to settle about the dinner.</p> +<p>“<i>Have what I like</i>?</p> +<p>“No: as it’s your fancy to keep the day, it’s only +right that I should try to please you. We never had one, Caudle; +so what do you think of a haunch of venison? What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Mutton will do</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! that shows what you think of your wife: I dare say if +it was with 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?</p> +<p>“<i>Let it be venison</i>?</p> +<p>“Very well. And now about the fish? What do you +think of a nice turbot? No, Mr. Caudle, brill won’t do - +it shall be turbot, or there sha’n’t be any fish at all. +Oh, what a mean man you are, Caudle! Shall it be turbot?</p> +<p>“<i>It shall</i>?</p> +<p>“Very well. And now about the soup - now, Caudle, don’t +swear at the soup in that manner; you know there must be soup. +Well, once in a way, and just to show our friends how happy we’ve +been, we’ll have some real turtle.</p> +<p>“<i>No, you won’t, you’ll have nothing but mock</i>?</p> +<p>“Then, Mr. Caudle, you may sit at the table by yourself. +Mock-turtle on a wedding-day! Was there ever such an insult? +What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Let it be real, then, for once</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha, Caudle! As I say, you were a very different person +fourteen years ago. And, Caudle, you’ll look after the venison? +There’s a place I know, somewhere in the City, where you get it +beautiful! You’ll look to it?</p> +<p>“<i>You will</i>?</p> +<p>“Very well.</p> +<p>“And now who shall we invite?</p> +<p>“<i>Who I like</i>?</p> +<p>“Now, you know, Caudle, that’s nonsense; because I only +like whom you like. I suppose the Prettymans must come? +But understand, Caudle, I don’t have Miss Prettyman: I’m +not going to have my peace of mind destroyed under my own roof! if she +comes, I don’t appear at the table. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Very well</i>?</p> +<p>“Very well be it, then.</p> +<p>“And now, Caudle, you’ll not forget the venison? +In the City, my dear? You’ll not forget the venison? +A haunch, you know; a nice haunch. And you’ll not forget +the venison - ?”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Three times did I fall off to sleep</i>,” says Caudle, +“<i>and three times did my wife nudge me with her elbow, exclaiming</i> +- ‘<i>You’ll not forget the venison</i>?’ <i>At +last I got into a sound slumber, and dreamt I was a pot of currant jelly</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XX - “BROTHER” CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO A MASONIC +CHARITABLE DINNER. MRS. CAUDLE HAS HIDDEN THE “BROTHER’S” +CHEQUE-BOOK</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“But all I say is this: I only wish I’d been born a man. +What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You wish I had</i>?</p> +<p>“Mr. Caudle, I’ll not lie quiet in my own bed to be insulted. +Oh, yes, you <i>did</i> mean to insult me. I know what you mean. +You mean, if I <i>had</i> been born a man, you’d never have married +me. That’s a pretty sentiment, I think; and after the wife +I’ve been to you. And now I suppose you’ll be going +to public dinners every day! It’s no use your telling me +you’ve only been to one before; that’s nothing to do with +it - nothing at all. Of course you’ll be out every night +now. I knew what it would come to when you were made a mason: +when you were once made a ‘brother,’ as you call yourself, +I knew where the husband and 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 have any to spare for people +out of doors. Indeed, I should like to see the 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 mother of a family, who has +only to look to her own husband and children, ought to love ’em.</p> +<p>“A ‘brother,’ indeed! What would you say, +if I was to go and be made a ‘sister’? Why, I know +very well the house wouldn’t hold you.</p> +<p>“<i>Where’s your watch</i>?</p> +<p>“How should I know where your watch is? You ought to +know. But to be sure, people who go to public dinners never know +where anything is when they come home. You’ve lost it, no +doubt; and ’twill serve you quite right if you have. If +it should be gone - and nothing more likely - I wonder if any of your +‘brothers’ will give you another? Catch ’em +doing it.</p> +<p>“<i>You must find your watch</i>?<i> And you’ll +get up for it</i>?</p> +<p>“Nonsense! - don’t be foolish - lie still. Your +watch is on the mantelpiece. Ha! isn’t it a good thing for +you, you’ve somebody to take care of it?</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>I’m a dear creature</i>?</p> +<p>“Very dear, indeed, you think me, I dare say. But the +fact is, you don’t know what you’re talking about to-night. +I’m a fool to open my lips to you - but I can’t help it.</p> +<p>“<i>Where’s your watch</i>?</p> +<p>“Haven’t I told you - on the mantelpiece?</p> +<p>“<i>All right, indeed</i>!</p> +<p>“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 do to-night. You’ll be able to listen +to reason to-morrow morning; now, it’s thrown away upon you.</p> +<p>“<i>Where’s your cheque-book</i>?</p> +<p>“Never mind your cheque-book. I took care of that.</p> +<p>“<i>What business had I to take it out of your pocket</i>?</p> +<p>“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 fools men 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 year for ten pounds? ‘Job +Caudle, Esq., £10.’ It looked very well in 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 a +piece of my mind, I’m not alive. Ten pounds indeed! and +the world thinks you a very fine person for it. I only wish I +could bring the world here, and show ’em what’s wanted at +home. I think the world would alter their mind then; yes - a little.</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>A wife has no right to pick her husband’s pocket</i>?</p> +<p>“A pretty husband you are, to talk in that way! Never +mind: you can’t prosecute her for it - or I’ve no doubt +you would; none at all. Some men would do anything. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ve a bit of a headache</i>?</p> +<p>“I hope you have - and a good bit, too. You’ve +been to the right place for it. No - I won’t hold my tongue. +It’s all very well for you men to go to taverns - and talk - and +toast - and hurrah - and - I wonder you’re not all ashamed of +yourselves to drink the Queen’s health with all the honours, I +believe, you call it - yes, pretty honours you pay to the sex - I say, +I wonder you’re not ashamed to drink that blessed creature’s +health, when you’ve only to think how you use your own wives at +home. But the hypocrites that the men are - oh!</p> +<p>“<i>Where’s your watch</i>?</p> +<p>“Haven’t I told you? It’s under your pillow +- there, you needn’t be feeling for it. I tell you it’s +under your pillow.</p> +<p>“<i>It’s all right</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes; a great deal you know of what’s right just now! +Ha! was there ever any poor soul used as I am!</p> +<p>“<i>I’m a dear creature</i>?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“<i>Why did I take your cheque-book</i>?</p> +<p>“I’ve told you - to save you from ruin, Mr. Caudle.</p> +<p>“<i>You’re not going to be ruined</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! you don’t know anything when you’re out! +I know what they do at those 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>I’m +not a stony-hearted creature</i>: and you ought to be ashamed to say +so of your wife and the mother of your 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’t know what I was +going to say!</p> +<p>“<i>Thank Heaven</i>?</p> +<p>“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 a lord, or a duke, if they can catch +him - anything to make people say they dined with nobility, that’s +it - yes, they get one of these people, with a star perhaps in his coat, +to take the chair - and to talk all sorts of sugar-plum things about +charity - and to make foolish men, with wine in ’em, feel that +they’ve no end of money; and then - shutting their eyes to their +wives and families at home - all the while that their own faces are +red and flushed like poppies, and they think to-morrow will never come +- then they get ’em to put their hand to paper. Then they +make ’em pull out their cheques. But I took your book, Mr. +Caudle - you couldn’t do it a second time. What are you +laughing at?</p> +<p>“<i>Nothing</i>?</p> +<p>“It’s no matter: I shall see it in the paper to-morrow; +for if you gave anything, you were too proud to hide it. I know +<i>your</i> charity.</p> +<p>“<i>Where’s your watch</i>?</p> +<p>“Haven’t I told you fifty times where it is? In +the pocket - over your head - of course. Can’t you hear +it tick? No: you can hear nothing to-night.</p> +<p>“And now, Mr. Caudle, I should like to know whose hat you’ve +brought home? 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 no Jew in his senses would give me fivepence for. +I couldn’t even get a pot of primroses - and you know I always +turn your old hats into roots - not a pot of primroses for it. +I’m certain of it now - I’ve often thought it - but now +I’m sure that some people dine out only to change their hats.</p> +<p>“<i>Where’s your watch</i>?</p> +<p>“Caudle, you’re bringing me to an early grave!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p><i>We hope that Caudle was penitent for his conduct; indeed, there +is, we think, evidence that he was so: for to this lecture he has appended +no comment. The man had not the face to do it.</i></p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXI - MR. CAUDLE HAS NOT ACTED “LIKE A HUSBAND” +AT THE WEDDING DINNER</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Ah, me! It’s no use wishing - none at all: but +I do wish that yesterday fourteen years could come back again. +Little did I think, Mr. Caudle, when you brought me home from church, +your lawful wedded wife - little, I say, did I think that I should keep +my wedding dinner in the manner I have done to-day. Fourteen years +ago! Yes, I see you now, in your blue coat with bright buttons, +and your white watered-satin waistcoat, and a moss-rose bud in your +button-hole, which you said was like me. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You never talked such nonsense</i>?</p> +<p>“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, was buttered with happiness, and - What? +No, Mr. Caudle, don’t say that; <i>I</i> have not wiped the butter +off - not I. If you above all men are not happy, you ought to +be, gracious knows!</p> +<p>“Yes, I <i>will</i> 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 me pearls and diamonds to eat if I could have +swallowed ’em. Yes, I say, you sat beside me, and - What +do you talk about?</p> +<p>“<i>You couldn’t sit beside me to-day</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s nothing at all to do with it. But it’s +so like you. I can’t speak but you fly off to something +else. Ha! and when the health of the young couple was drunk, what +a speech you made then! It was delicious! How you made everybody +cry as if their hearts were breaking; and I recollect it as if it was +yesterday, how the tears ran down dear father’s nose, and how +dear mother nearly went into a fit! Dear souls! They little +thought, with all your fine talk, how you’d use me.</p> +<p>“<i>How have you used me</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, Mr. Caudle, how can you ask that question? It’s +well for you I can’t see you blush. <i>How</i> have you +used me?</p> +<p>“Well, that the same tongue could make a speech like that, +and then talk as it did to-day!</p> +<p>“<i>How did you talk</i>?</p> +<p>“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 to make the best of. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>And bad’s the best</i>?</p> +<p>“If you say that again, Caudle, I’ll rise from my bed.</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t say it</i>?</p> +<p>“What, then, did you say? Something very like it, I know. +Yes, a pretty speech of thanks for a husband! And everybody could +see that you 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?</p> +<p>“<i>I made you invite ’em</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, Caudle, what an aggravating man you are!</p> +<p>“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?</p> +<p>“<i>Didn’t I hear him say so</i>?</p> +<p>“Of course I did; but do you suppose I’m quite a fool? +Do you think I don’t know that that was all settled between you? +And she must be a nice person to come unasked to a woman’s house? +But I know why she came. Oh yes; she came to look about her.</p> +<p>“Oh, the meaning’s plain enough. - She came to see how +she should like the rooms - how she should like my seat at the fireplace; +how she - and if it isn’t enough to break a mother’s heart +to be treated so! - how she should like my dear children.</p> +<p>“Now, it’s no use your bouncing about at - but of course +that’s it; I can’t mention Miss Prettyman but you fling +about as if you were in a fit. Of course that shows there’s +something in it. Otherwise, why should you disturb yourself? +Do you think I didn’t see her looking at the ciphers on the spoons +as if she already saw mine scratched out and hers there? No, I +sha’n’t drive you mad, Mr. Caudle; and if I do it’s +your own fault. No other man would treat the wife of his bosom +in - What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You might as well have married a hedgehog</i>?</p> +<p>“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. A hedgehog! 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 a hedgehog - do you, Mr. +Caudle?</p> +<p>“Well, I only hope Miss Prettyman had a good dinner, that’s +all. I had none! You know I had none - how was I to get +any? You know that the only part of the turkey I care for is the +merry-thought. And that, of course, went to Miss Prettyman. +Oh, I saw you laugh when you put it on her plate! And you don’t +suppose, after such an insult as that, I’d taste another thing +upon the table? No, I should hope I have more spirit than that. +Yes; and you took wine with her four times. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Only twice</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, you were so lost - fascinated, Mr. Caudle; yes, fascinated +- that you didn’t know what you did. However, I do think +while I’m alive I might be treated with respect at my own table. +I say, while I’m alive; for I know I sha’n’t last +long, and then Miss Prettyman may come and take it all. I’m +wasting daily, and no wonder. I never say anything about it, but +every week my gowns are taken in.</p> +<p>“I’ve lived to learn something, to be sure! Miss +Prettyman turned up her nose at my custards. It isn’t sufficient +that you are always finding fault yourself, but you must bring women +home to sneer at me at my own table. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>She didn’t turn up her nose</i>?</p> +<p>“I know she did; not but what it’s needless - Providence +has turned it up quite enough for her already. And she must give +herself airs over my custards! Oh, I saw her mincing with the +spoon as if she was chewing sand. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>She praised my plum-pudding</i>?</p> +<p>“Who asked her to praise it? Like her impudence, I think!</p> +<p>“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 of thanks. No, Caudle, if I was to live a hundred years +- you needn’t groan, Mr. Caudle, I shall not trouble you half +that time - if I was to live a hundred years, I should never forget +it. Never! You didn’t even so much as bring one of +your children into your speech. And - dear creatures! - what have +<i>they</i> done to offend you? No; I shall not drive you mad. +It’s you, Mr. Caudle, who’ll drive me mad. Everybody +says so.</p> +<p>“And you suppose I didn’t see how it was managed that +you and <i>that</i> Miss Prettyman were always partners at whist?</p> +<p>“<i>How was it managed</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, plain enough. Of course you packed the cards, and +could cut what you liked. You’d settled that between you. +Yes; and when she took 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 <i>her</i> heart should mistake! +And this, Mr. Caudle, before people - with your own wife in the room!</p> +<p>“And Miss Prettyman - I won’t hold my tongue. I +<i>will</i> talk of Miss Prettyman: who’s she, indeed, that I +shouldn’t talk of her? I suppose she thinks she sings? +What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>She sings like a mermaid</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, very - very like a mermaid; for she never sings but she +exposes herself. She might, I think, have chosen another song. +‘<i>I love somebody</i>,’ 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 it was done for, nothing else.</p> +<p>“However, Mr. Caudle, as my mind’s made up, I shall say +no more about the matter to-night, but try to go to sleep.”</p> +<p>“<i>And to my astonishment and gratitude</i>,” writes +Caudle, “<i>she kept her word</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXII - CAUDLE COMES HOME IN THE EVENING, AS MRS. CAUDLE +HAS “JUST STEPPED OUT, SHOPPING.” ON HER RETURN, AT +TEN, CAUDLE REMONSTRATES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Mr. Caudle, you ought to have had a slave - yes, a black slave, +and not a wife. I’m sure, I’d better been born a negro +at once - much better.</p> +<p>“<i>What’s the matter now</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, I like that. Upon my life, Mr. Caudle, that’s +very cool. I can’t leave the house just to buy a yard of +riband, but you storm enough to carry the roof off.</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t storm</i>?<i> you only spoke</i>?</p> +<p>“Spoke, indeed! No, sir: I’ve not such superfine +feelings; and I don’t cry out before I’m hurt. But +you ought to have married a woman of stone, for you feel for nobody: +that is, for nobody in your own house. I only wish you’d +show some of your humanity at home, if ever so little - that’s +all.</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Where’s my feelings, to go shopping at night</i>?</p> +<p>“When would you have me go? In the broiling sun, making +my face like a gipsy’s? I don’t see anything to laugh +at, Mr. Caudle; but you think 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 Miss Prettyman’s face - now, now, Mr. +Caudle! What are you throwing yourself about for? I suppose +Miss Prettyman isn’t so wonderful a person that she isn’t +to be named? I suppose she’s flesh and blood. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t know</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! I don’t know that.</p> +<p>“What, Mr. Caudle?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll have a separate room - you’ll not be +tormented in this manner</i>?</p> +<p>“No, you won’t, sir - not while I’m alive. +A separate room! And you call yourself a religious man, Mr. Caudle. +I’d advise you to take down the Prayer Book, and read over the +Marriage Service. A separate room, indeed! Caudle, you’re +getting quite a heathen. A separate room! Well, the servants +would talk then! But no: no man - not the best that ever trod, +Caudle - should ever make me look so contemptible.</p> +<p>“I <i>sha’n’t</i> go to sleep; and you ought to +know me better than to ask me to hold my tongue. Because you come +home when I’ve just stepped out to do a little shopping, you’re +worse than a fury. I should like to know how many hours I sit +up for you? What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Nobody wants me to sit up</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! that’s like the gratitude of men - just like ’em! +But a poor woman can’t leave the house, that - what?</p> +<p>“<i>Why can’t I go at reasonable hours</i>?</p> +<p>“Reasonable! What do you call eight o’clock? +If I went out at eleven and twelve, as you come home, then you might +talk; but seven or eight o’clock - why, it’s the cool of +the evening; the nicest time to 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 just as much as you; but that’s nothing +at all to do with it. I know what you’d have. You’d +have all those young men let away early from the counter to improve +what you please to call their minds. Pretty notions you pick up +among a set of free-thinkers, and I don’t know what! When +I was a girl, people never talked of minds - intellect, I believe you +call it. Nonsense! a new-fangled thing, just come up; and the +sooner it goes out, the better.</p> +<p>“Don’t tell me! What are shops for, if they’re +not to be open late and early too? And what are shopmen, if they’re +not always to attend upon their customers? People pay for what +they have, I suppose, and aren’t to be told when they shall come +and lay their money out, and when they sha’n’t? Thank +goodness! if one shop shuts, another keeps open; and I always think +it a duty I owe to myself to go to the shop that’s open last: +it’s the only way to punish the shopkeepers that are idle, and +give themselves airs about early hours.</p> +<p>“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 of tall, strapping young fellows - some of ’em big enough +to be shown for giants! And what have they to do? Why nothing, +but to stand behind a counter, and talk civility. Yes, I know +your notions; you say that everybody works too much: I know that. +You’d have all the world do nothing half its time but twiddle +its thumbs, or walk in the parks, or go to picture-galleries, and museums, +and such nonsense. Very fine, indeed; but, thank goodness! the +world isn’t come to that pass yet.</p> +<p>“What do you say I am, Mr. Caudle?</p> +<p>“<i>A foolish woman, that can’t look beyond my own fireside</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh yes, I can; quite as far as you, and a great deal farther. +But I can’t go out shopping a little with my dear friend Mrs. +Wittles - what do you laugh at? Oh, don’t they? Don’t +women know what friendship is? Upon my life, you’ve a nice +opinion of us! Oh yes, we can - we can 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 be for their +wives and children if men couldn’t either. You wouldn’t +have lent that five pounds - and I dare say a good many other five pounds +that I know nothing of - if you - a lord of the creation! - had half +the sense women have. You seldom catch us, I believe, lending +five pounds. I should think not.</p> +<p>“No: we won’t talk of it to-morrow morning. You’re +not going to wound my feelings when I come home, and think I’m +to say nothing about it. You have called me an inhuman person; +you have said I have no thought, no feeling for the health and comfort +of my fellow-creatures; I don’t know what you haven’t called +me; and only for buying 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 ten o’clock. You’ve +a great deal of fine compassion, you have! I’m sure the +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 can be 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 you treated +your poor wife!</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>For the love of mercy let you sleep</i>?</p> +<p>“Mercy, indeed! I wish you could show a little of it +to other people. Oh yes, I <i>do</i> know what mercy means; but +that’s no reason I should go shopping a bit earlier than I do +- and I won’t. No; you’ve preached this over to me +again and again; you’ve made me go to meetings to hear about it: +but that’s no reason women shouldn’t shop just as late as +they choose. It’s all very fine, as I say, for you men to +talk to us at meetings, where, of course, we smile and all that - and +sometimes shake our white pocket-handkerchiefs - and where you say we +have the power of early hours in our own hands. To be sure we +have; and we mean to keep it. That is, I do. You’ll +never catch me shopping till the very last thing; and - as a matter +of principle - I’ll always go to the shop that keeps open latest. +It does the young men good to keep ’em close to business. +Improve their minds indeed! Let ’em out at seven, and they’d +improve nothing but their billiards. Besides, if they want to +improve themselves, can’t they get up, this fine weather, at three? +Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Mr. Caudle.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I thought</i>,” writes Caudle, “<i>that she +had gone to sleep. In this hope, I was dozing off when she jogged +me, and thus declared herself</i>: ‘<i>Caudle, you want nightcaps; +but see if I budge to buy ’em till nine at night</i>!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXIII - MRS. CAUDLE “WISHES TO KNOW IF THEY’RE +GOING TO THE SEA-SIDE, OR NOT, THIS SUMMER - THAT’S ALL”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Hot? Yes, it <i>is</i> hot. I’m sure one +might as well be in an oven as in town this weather. You seem +to forget it’s July, Mr. Caudle. I’ve been waiting +quietly - have never spoken; yet, not a word have you 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 was going to say +- but I won’t - that the sooner, perhaps, I’m out of this +world, the better. Oh, yes; I dare say you think so - of course +you do, else you wouldn’t lie there saying nothing. You’re +enough to aggravate a saint, Caudle; but you shan’t vex me. +No; I’ve made up my mind, and never intend to let you vex me again. +Why should I worry myself?</p> +<p>“But all I want to ask you is this: do you intend to go to +the sea-side this summer?</p> +<p>“<i>Yes</i>?<i> you’ll go to Gravesend</i>?</p> +<p>“Then you’ll go alone, that’s all I know. +Gravesend! You might as well empty a salt-cellar in the New River, +and call that the sea-side. What?</p> +<p>“<i>It’s handy for business</i>?</p> +<p>“There you are again! I can never speak of taking a little +enjoyment, but you fling business in my teeth. I’m sure +you never let business stand in the way of your own pleasure, Mr. Caudle +- not you. It would be all the better for your family if you did.</p> +<p>“You know that Matilda wants sea-bathing; you know it, or ought +to know 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 +the matter. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Margate’s so expensive</i>?</p> +<p>“Not at all. I’m sure it will be cheaper for us +in the end; for if we 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 a breakfast at, and yet you talk of Gravesend! +But what’s my eating to you? You wouldn’t care if +I never ate at all. You never watch my appetite like any other +husband, otherwise you’d have seen what it’s come to.</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>How much will it cost</i>?</p> +<p>“There you are, Mr. Caudle, with your meanness again. +When you want to go yourself to Blackwall or to Greenwich you never +ask, how much will it cost? What?</p> +<p>“<i>You never go to Blackwall</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! I don’t know that; and if you don’t, +that’s nothing at all to do with it. Yes, you can give a +guinea a plate for whitebait for yourself. No, sir: I’m +not a foolish woman: and I know very well what I’m talking about +- nobody better. A guinea for whitebait for yourself, when you +grudge a pint of shrimps for your poor family. Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t grudge ’em anything</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, it’s very well for you to lie there and say so.</p> +<p>“<i>What will it cost</i>?</p> +<p>“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 of us, all but you; and nothing ever +makes you ill. I’ve no doubt we shall all be laid up, and +there’ll be a doctor’s bill as long as a railroad; but never +mind that. It’s better - much better - to pay for nasty +physic than for fresh air and wholesome salt water. Don’t +call me ‘woman,’ and ask ‘what it will cost.’ +I tell you, if you were to lay 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’ll be pleased.</p> +<p>“That’s right, Mr. Caudle; go to sleep. It’s +like your unfeeling self! 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 pretty insult!</p> +<p>“<i>How can you sleep with such a splinter in your flesh</i>?</p> +<p>“I suppose you mean to call me the splinter? - and after the +wife I’ve been 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 upon any such person now.</p> +<p>“What?</p> +<p>“<i>Don’t</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! that’s your ingratitude! But none of you men +deserve that any woman should love you. My poor heart!</p> +<p>“Everybody else can go out of town except us. Ha! +If I’d only married Simmons - What?</p> +<p>“<i>Why didn’t I</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, that’s all the thanks I get.</p> +<p>“<i>Who’s Simmons</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, you know very well who Simmons is. He’d have +treated me a little better, I think. He <i>was</i> a gentleman.</p> +<p>“<i>You can’t tell</i>?</p> +<p>“May be not: but I can. With such weather as this, to +stay melting in London; and when the painters are coming in!</p> +<p>“<i>You won’t have the painters in</i>?</p> +<p>“But you must; and if they once come in, I’m determined +that none of us 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?</p> +<p>“<i>Why can’t I tell you what it will cost</i>?</p> +<p>“How can I or any woman tell exactly what it will cost? +Of course lodgings - and at Margate, too - are a little dearer than +living at your own house.</p> +<p>“<i>Pooh</i>!<i> You know that</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, if you did, Mr. Caudle, I suppose there’s no treason +in naming it. Still, if you take ’em for two months, they’re +cheaper than for one. 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 get home again. To be sure, I was tired +of Margate three years ago, when you used to leave me to walk about +the beach by myself, to be stared at through all sorts of telescopes. +But you don’t do that again, Mr. Caudle, I can tell you.</p> +<p>“<i>What will I do at Margate</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, isn’t there bathing, and picking up shells; and +aren’t there the packets, with the donkeys; and the last new novel, +whatever it is, to read? - for the only place where I really relish +a book is at the 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 jokes for the daytime, I think. But as I was +saying - only you always will interrupt me - the ocean always seems +to me to open the mind. I see nothing to laugh at; but you always +laugh when I say anything. Sometimes at the sea-side - especially +when the tide’s down - I feel so happy: quite as if I could cry.</p> +<p>“When shall I get the things ready? For next Sunday?</p> +<p>“<i>What will it cost</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, there - don’t talk of it. No: we won’t +go. I shall send for the painters to-morrow. What?</p> +<p>“<i>I can go and take the children, and you’ll stay</i>?</p> +<p>“No, sir: you go with me, or I don’t stir. I’m +not going to be turned loose like a hen with her chickens, and nobody +to protect me. So we’ll go on Monday? Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>What will it cost</i>?</p> +<p>“What a man you are! Why, Caudle, I’ve been reckoning +that, with buff 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 pounds and 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 -</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll see</i>?</p> +<p>“There’s a dear. Then, Monday.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Anything for a chance of peace</i>,” writes Caudle. +“<i>I consented to the trip, for I thought I might sleep better +in a change of bed</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXIV - MRS. CAUDLE DWELLS ON CAUDLE’S “CRUEL +NEGLECT” OF HER ON BOARD THE “RED ROVER.” MRS. +CAUDLE SO “ILL WITH THE SEA,” THAT THEY PUT UP AT THE DOLPHIN, +HERNE BAY.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Caudle, have you looked under the bed?</p> +<p>“<i>What for</i>?</p> +<p>“Bless the man! Why, for thieves, to be sure. Do +you suppose I’d sleep in a strange bed without? Don’t +tell me it’s nonsense! I shouldn’t sleep a wink all +night. Not that you’d care for that; not that you’d +- hush! I’m sure I heard somebody. No; it’s +not a bit like a mouse. Yes; that’s like you - laugh. +It would be no laughing matter if - I’m sure there <i>is</i> somebody! +- I’m sure there is!</p> +<p>“ - Yes, Mr. Caudle; now I <i>am</i> satisfied. Any other +man would have got up and looked himself; especially after my sufferings +on board that nasty ship. But catch you stirring! Oh, no! +You’d let me lie here and be robbed and killed, for what you’d +care. Why you’re not going to sleep? What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>It’s the strange air - and you’re always sleepy +in a strange air</i>?</p> +<p>“That shows the feelings you have, after what I’ve gone +through. And yawning, too, in that brutal manner! Caudle, +you’ve no more heart than that wooden figure in a white petticoat +at the front of the ship.</p> +<p>“No; I <i>couldn’t</i> leave my temper at home. +I dare say! Because for once in your life you’ve brought +me out - yes, I say once, or two or three 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 deal of pleasure +I’m to have, if I’m told to hold my tongue. A nice +way that of pleasing a woman.</p> +<p>“Dear me! if the bed doesn’t spin round and dance about! +I’ve got all that filthy ship in my head! No: I sha’n’t +be well in the morning. But nothing ever ails anybody but yourself. +You needn’t groan in that way, Mr. Caudle, disturbing the people, +perhaps, in the next room. It’s a mercy I’m alive, +I’m sure. If once I wouldn’t have given all the world +for anybody to have thrown me overboard! What are you smacking +your lips at, Mr. Caudle? But I know what you mean - of course, +you’d never have stirred to stop ’em; not you. And +then you might have known that the wind would have blown to-day; but +that’s why you came.</p> +<p>“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 Margate ought to pray for him; so attentive in sea-sickness, +and so much of a gentleman! How I should have got down stairs +without him when I first began to turn, I don’t know. Don’t +tell me I never complained to you; you might have seen I was ill. +And when everybody was looking like a bad wax-candle, you could walk +about, and make what you call your jokes upon the little buoy that was +never sick at the Nore, and such unfeeling trash.</p> +<p>“Yes, Caudle; we’ve now been married many years, but +if we were to live together for a thousand years to come - what are +you clasping your hands at? - a thousand years to come, I say, I shall +never forget your conduct this day. You could go to the other +end of the ship and smoke a cigar, when you knew I should be ill - oh, +you knew it; for I always 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, hardly able to hold my head up, I was watching you +all the time. Three glasses of cold brandy-and-water; and you +sipped ’em, and drank the health of people who you didn’t +care a pin about; whilst the health of your own lawful wife was nothing. +Three glasses of brandy-and-water, and <i>I</i> left - as I may say +- alone! You didn’t hear ’em, but everybody was crying +shame of you.</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>A good deal my own fault</i>?<i> I took too much +dinner</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, you are a man! If I took more than the breast +and leg of that young goose - a thing, I may say, just out of the shell +- with the slightest bit of stuffing, I’m a wicked woman. +What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Lobster salad</i>?</p> +<p>“La! - how can you speak of it? A month-old baby would +have eaten more. What?</p> +<p>“<i>Gooseberry pie</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, if you’ll name that you’ll name anything. +Ate too much indeed! Do you think I was going to pay for a dinner, +and eat nothing? No, Mr. Caudle; it’s a good thing for you +that I know a little more of the value of money than that.</p> +<p>“But, of course, you were better engaged than in attending +to me. Mr. Prettyman came on board at Gravesend. A planned +thing, of course. You think I didn’t see him give you a +letter.</p> +<p>“<i>It wasn’t a letter; it was a newspaper</i>?</p> +<p>“I daresay; ill as I was, I had my eyes. It was the smallest +newspaper I ever saw, that’s all. But of course, a letter +from Miss Prettyman - Now, Caudle, if you begin to cry out in that manner, +I’ll get up. Do you forget that you are not at your own +house? making that noise! Disturbing everybody! Why, we +shall have the landlord up! And you could smoke and drink ‘forward,’ +as you called it. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You couldn’t smoke anywhere else</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s nothing to do with it. Yes; forward. +What a pity that Miss Prettyman wasn’t with you! I’m +sure nothing could be too forward for her. No, I won’t hold +my tongue; and I ought not to be ashamed of myself. It isn’t +treason, is it, to speak of Miss Prettyman? After all I’ve +suffered to-day, and I’m not to open my lips! Yes; I’m +to be 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.</p> +<p>“It’s a mercy some of the dear children were not drowned; +not that their father would have cared, so long as he could have had +his brandy and cigars. Peter was as near through one of the holes +as -</p> +<p>“<i>It’s no such thing</i>?</p> +<p>“It’s very well for you to say so, but you know what +an inquisitive boy he is, and how he likes to wander among steam-engines. +No, I won’t let you sleep. What a man you are! What?</p> +<p>“<i>I’ve said that before</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s no matter; I’ll say it again. Go +to sleep, indeed! as if one could never have a little rational conversation. +No, I sha’n’t be too late for the Margate boat in the morning; +I can wake up at what hour I like, and you ought to know that by this +time.</p> +<p>“A miserable creature they must have thought me in the ladies’ +cabin, with nobody coming down to see how I was.</p> +<p>“<i>You came a dozen times</i>?</p> +<p>“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 so ill, 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 ’em tapping at the door, and making +all sorts of kind inquiries - something like husbands and I was left +to be ill alone? Yes; and you want to get me into an argument. +You want to know, if I was so ill that I knew nothing, how could I know +that you didn’t come to the cabin-door? That’s just +like your aggravating way; but I’m not to be caught in that manner, +Caudle. No.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>It is very possible</i>,” writes Caudle, “<i>that +she talked two hours more, but, happily, the wind got suddenly up - +the waves bellowed - and, soothed by the sweet lullaby (to say nothing +of the Dolphin’s brandy-and-water) I somehow sank to repose</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXV - MRS. CAUDLE, WEARIED OF MARGATE, HAS “A GREAT +DESIRE TO SEE FRANCE.”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Bless me! aren’t you tired, Caudle?</p> +<p>“<i>No</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, was there ever such a man! But nothing ever tires +you. Of course, it’s all very well for you: yes, you can +read your newspapers and - What?</p> +<p>“<i>So can I</i>?</p> +<p>“And I wonder what would become of the children if I did! +No; it’s enough for their father to lose his precious time, talking +about politics, and bishops, and lords, and a pack of people who wouldn’t +care 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, and it isn’t likely I should begin now. But that’s +always the way with you - always. I’m sure we should be +the happiest couple alive, only you do so like to have all the talk +to yourself. We’re out upon pleasure, and therefore let’s +be comfortable. Still, I must say it: when you like, you’re +an aggravating man, Caudle, and you know it.</p> +<p>“<i>What have you done now</i>?</p> +<p>“There, now; we won’t talk of it. No; let’s +go to sleep: otherwise we shall quarrel - I know we shall. What +have you done, indeed! That I can’t leave my home for a +few days, but I must be insulted! Everybody upon the pier saw +it.</p> +<p>“<i>Saw what</i>?</p> +<p>“How can you lie there in the bed and ask me? Saw what, +indeed! Of course it was a planned thing! - regularly settled +before you left London. Oh yes! I like your innocence, Mr. +Caudle; not knowing what I’m talking about. It’s a +heart-breaking thing for a woman to say of her own husband; but you’ve +been a wicked man to me. Yes: and all your tossing and tumbling +about in the bed won’t make it any better.</p> +<p>“Oh, it’s easy enough to call a woman ‘a dear soul.’ +I must be very dear, indeed, to you, when you bring down Miss Prettyman +to - there now; you needn’t shout like a wild savage. Do +you know that you’re not in your own house - do you know that +we’re in lodgings? What do you suppose the people will think +of us? You needn’t call out in that manner, for they can +hear every word that’s said. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Why don’t I hold my tongue then</i>?</p> +<p>“To be sure; anything for an excuse with you. Anything +to stop my mouth. Miss Prettyman’s to follow you here, and +I’m to say nothing. I know she <i>has</i> followed you; +and if you were to go before a magistrate, and take a shilling oath +to the contrary, I wouldn’t believe you. No, Caudle; I wouldn’t.</p> +<p>“<i>Very well, then</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! what a heart you must have, to say ‘very well’; +and after the wife I’ve been to you. I’m to be brought +from my own home - dragged down here to the sea-side - to be laughed +at before the world - don’t tell me. Do you think I didn’t +see how she looked at you - how she puckered up her farthing mouth - +and - what?</p> +<p>“<i>Why did I kiss her, then</i>?</p> +<p>“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 without meaning anything by it! And you - I could +see you looked as cold and as formal at her as - well, Caudle! +I wouldn’t be the hypocrite you are for the world!</p> +<p>“There, now; I’ve heard all that story. I daresay +she did come down to join her brother. How very lucky, though, +that you should be here! Ha! ha! how very lucky that - ugh! ugh! +ugh! and with the cough I’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 daresay you’d +like to see me in ploughman’s boots; ’twould be no matter +to you how I disfigured myself. Miss Prettyman’s foot, <i>now</i>, +would be another thing - no doubt.</p> +<p>“I thought when you would make me leave home - I thought we +were coming here on pleasure: but it’s always the way you embitter +my life. The sooner that I’m out of the world the better. +What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Nothing</i>?</p> +<p>“But I know what you mean, better than if you talked an hour. +I only hope you’ll get a better wife, that’s all, Mr. Caudle. +What?</p> +<p>“<i>You’d not try</i>?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Caudle, if you roar in that way, the people will give us warning +to-morrow.</p> +<p>“<i>Can’t I be quiet, then</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes - that’s like your artfulness: anything to make +me hold my tongue. But we won’t quarrel. I’m +sure if it depended upon me, we might be as happy as doves. I +mean it - and you needn’t groan when I say it. Good-night, +Caudle. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Bless me</i>!</p> +<p>“Well, you are a dear soul, Caudle; and if it wasn’t +for that Miss Prettyman - no, I’m not torturing you. I know +very well what I’m doing, and I wouldn’t torture you for +the world; but you don’t know what the feelings of a wife are, +Caudle; you don’t.</p> +<p>“Caudle - I say, Caudle. Just a word, dear.</p> +<p>“<i>Well</i>?</p> +<p>“Now, why should you snap me up in that way?</p> +<p>“<i>You want to go to sleep</i>?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t recollect it</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes - that’s like you; you don’t recollect many +things you’ve promised me; but I do. There’s a boat +goes on Wednesday to Boulogne, and comes back the day afterwards.</p> +<p>“<i>What of it</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, for that time we could leave the children with the girls, +and go nicely.</p> +<p>“<i>Nonsense</i>?</p> +<p>“Of course; if I want anything it’s always nonsense. +Other men can take their wives half over the world; but you think it +quite enough to bring me down here to this hole of a place, where I +know every pebble on the beach like an old acquaintance - where there’s +nothing to be seen but the same machines - the same jetty - the same +donkeys - the same everything. But then, I’d forgot; Margate +has an attraction for you - Miss Prettyman’s here. No; I’m +not censorious, and I wouldn’t backbite an angel; but the way +in which that young woman walks the sands at all hours - there! there! +- I’ve done: I can’t open my lips about that creature but +you always storm.</p> +<p>“You know that I always wanted to go to France; and you bring +me down here only on purpose that I should see the French cliffs - just +to tantalise me, and for nothing else. If I’d remained at +home - and it was against my will I ever came here - I should never +have thought of France; but - to have it staring in one’s face +all day, and not be allowed to go! it’s worse than cruel, Mr. +Caudle - it’s brutal. Other people can take their wives +to Paris; but you always keep me moped up at home. And what for? +Why, that I may know nothing - yes; just on purpose to make me look +little, and for nothing else.</p> +<p>“<i>Heaven bless the woman</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! you’ve good reason to say that, Mr. Caudle; for +I’m sure she’s little blessed by you. She’s +been kept a prisoner all her life - has never gone anywhere - oh yes! +that’s your old excuse, - talking of the children. I want +to go to France, and I should like to know what the children have to +do with it? They’re not babies <i>now</i> - are they? +But you’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 have the face to look at ’em to-morrow morning? +I sha’n’t - breaking people’s rest in that way!</p> +<p>“Well, Caudle - I declare it’s getting daylight, and +what an obstinate man you are! - tell me, shall I go to France?”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I forget</i>,” says Caudle, “<i>my precise +answer; but I think I gave her a very wide permission to go somewhere, +whereupon, though not without remonstrance as to the place - she went +to sleep</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXVI - MRS. CAUDLE’S FIRST NIGHT IN FRANCE - “SHAMEFUL +INDIFFERENCE” OF CAUDLE AT THE BOULOGNE CUSTOM HOUSE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“I suppose, Mr. Caudle, you call yourself a man? I’m +sure such men should never have wives. If I could have thought +it possible you’d have behaved as you have done - and I might, +if I hadn’t been a forgiving creature, for you’ve never +been like anybody else - if I could only have thought it, you’d +never have dragged me to foreign parts. Never! Well, I <i>did</i> +say to myself, if he goes to France, perhaps he may catch a little politeness +- but no; you began as Caudle, 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 but wretchedness - I’ve +made up my mind to misery, now.</p> +<p>“<i>You’re glad of it</i>?</p> +<p>“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 children far away in blessed England - if it wasn’t +for them, I’d never go back with you. No: I’d leave +you in this very place. Yes; I’d go into a convent; 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 to laugh +at, Mr. Caudle; that you should be shaking the bed-things up and down +in that way. But you always laugh at people’s feelings; +I wish you’d only some yourself. I’d be a nun, or +a Sister of Charity.</p> +<p>“<i>Impossible</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! Mr. Caudle, you don’t know even now what I +can be when my blood’s up. You’ve trod upon the worm +long enough; some day won’t you be sorry for it!</p> +<p>“Now, none of your profane cryings out! You needn’t +talk about Heaven in that way: I’m sure you’re the last +person who ought. What I 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 be insulted; you’d no other +reason for dragging me from England. Ha! let me once get home, +Mr. Caudle, and you may wear your tongue out before you get me into +outlandish places again.</p> +<p>“<i>What have you done</i>?</p> +<p>“There, now; that’s where you’re so aggravating. +You behave worse than any Turk to me, - what?</p> +<p>“<i>You wish you were a Turk</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, I think that’s a pretty wish before your lawful +wife! Yes - a nice Turk you’d make, wouldn’t you? +Don’t think it.</p> +<p>“<i>What have you done</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, it’s a good thing I can’t see you, for I’m +sure you must blush. Done, indeed!</p> +<p>“Why, when the brutes searched my basket at the Custom House!</p> +<p>“<i>A regular thing, is it</i>?</p> +<p>“Then if you knew that, why did you bring me here? No +man who respected his wife would. And you could stand by, and +see that fellow with mustachios rummage my basket; and pull out my night-cap +and rumple the borders, and - well! if you’d had the proper feelings +of a husband, your blood would have boiled again. But no! +There you stood 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 Miss Prettyman’s night-cap - oh, I don’t care about +your groaning - if it had been her night-cap, her hair-brush her curl-papers, +you’d have said something then. Oh, anybody with the spirit +of a man would have spoken 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!</p> +<p>“Now, don’t hope to go to sleep, Mr. Caudle, and think +to silence me in that manner. I know your art, but it won’t +do. It wasn’t enough that my basket was turned topsy-turvy, +but before I knew it, they spun me into another room, and -</p> +<p>“<i>How could you help that</i>?</p> +<p>“You never tried to help it. No; although it was a foreign +land, and I don’t speak French - not but what I know a good deal +more of it than some people who give themselves airs about it - though +I don’t speak their nasty gibberish, still you let them take me +away, and never cared 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 been glad enough to have got rid of me +in that cowardly manner. If I could only know your secret thoughts, +Caudle, that’s what you brought me here for, to lose me. +And after the wife I’ve been to you!</p> +<p>“What are you crying out?</p> +<p>“<i>For mercy’s sake</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes; a great deal you know about mercy! Else you’d +never have suffered 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 the way 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 was nobody 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 me worse. +To be treated so - and ’specially by one’s own sex! - it’s +<i>that</i> that aggravates me.</p> +<p>“And that’s all you can say?</p> +<p>“<i>What could you do</i>?</p> +<p>“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 I shall sew the strings on again, I can’t tell. +If they didn’t turn me out like a ship in a storm, I’m a +sinner! And you laughed!</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t laugh</i>?</p> +<p>“Don’t tell me; you laugh when you don’t know anything +about it; but I do.</p> +<p>“And a pretty place you have brought me to! A most respectable +place, I must say! Where the women walk about without any bonnets +to their heads, and the fish-girls with their bare legs - well, you +don’t catch me eating any fish while I’m here.</p> +<p>“<i>Why not</i>?</p> +<p>“Why not, - do you think I’d encourage people of that +sort?</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Good-night</i>?</p> +<p>“It’s no use your saying that - I can’t go to sleep +so soon as you can. Especially with a door that has such a lock +as that to it. How do we know who may come in? What?</p> +<p>“<i>All the locks are bad in France</i>?</p> +<p>“The more shame for you to bring me to such a place, then. +It only shows how you value me.</p> +<p>“Well, I dare say you are tired. I am! But then, +see what I’ve gone through. Well, we won’t quarrel +in a barbarous country. We won’t do that. Caudle, +dear, - what’s the French for lace? I know it, only I forget +it. The French for lace, love? What?</p> +<p>“<i>Dentelle</i>?</p> +<p>“Now, you’re not deceiving me?</p> +<p>“<i>You never deceived me yet</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh! don’t say that. There isn’t a married +man in this blessed world can put his hand upon his heart in bed and +say that. French for lace, dear? Say it again.</p> +<p>“<i>Dentelle</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! Dentelle! Good-night, dear. Dentelle! +Den-telle.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I afterwards</i>,” writes Caudle, “<i>found +out to my cost wherefore she inquired about lace. For she went +out in the morning with the landlady to buy a veil, giving only four +pounds for what she could have bought in England for forty shillings</i>!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXVII - MRS. CAUDLE RETURNS TO HER NATIVE LAND. “UNMANLY +CRUELTY” OF CAUDLE, WHO HAS REFUSED “TO SMUGGLE A FEW THINGS” +FOR HER</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“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 aboard the boat could behave like a husband - but +I was left to shift for myself. To be sure, that’s nothing +new; I always am. Every other man, worthy to be called a man, +could smuggle a few things for his wife - 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; and everybody else was rolled in lace, and +I don’t know what. Eh? What, Mr. Caudle?</p> +<p>“<i>What do I want with silk stockings</i>?</p> +<p>“Well - it’s come to something now! There was a +time, I believe, when I had a foot - yes, and an ankle, too; but when +once a woman’s married, she has nothing of the sort; of course. +No: I’m <i>not</i> a cherub, Mr. Caudle; don’t say that. +I know very well what I am.</p> +<p>“I dare say now, you’d have been delighted to smuggle +for Miss Prettyman? Silk stockings become her!</p> +<p>“<i>You wish Miss Prettyman was in the moon</i>?</p> +<p>“Not you, Mr. Caudle; that’s only your art - your hypocrisy. +A nice person too she’d be for the moon: it would be none the +brighter for her being in it, I know. And when you saw the Custom +House officers look at me, as though they were piercing me through, +what was your conduct? Shameful. You twittered about and +fidgeted, and flushed up as if I really <i>was</i> a smuggler.</p> +<p>“<i>So I was</i>?</p> +<p>“What had that to do with it? It wasn’t the part +of a husband, I think, to fidget in that way, and show it.</p> +<p>“<i>You couldn’t help it</i>?</p> +<p>“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!</p> +<p>“But I may do all I can to save the money, and this is always +my reward. Yes, Mr. Caudle; I shall save a great deal.</p> +<p>“<i>How much</i>?</p> +<p>“I sha’n’t tell you: I know your meanness - you’d +want to stop it out of the house allowance. No: it’s nothing +to you where I got the money from to buy so many things. The money +was my own. Well, and if it was yours first, that’s nothing +to do with it. No; I haven’t saved it out of the puddings. +But it’s always the woman who saves who’s despised. +It’s only your fine-lady wives who’re properly thought of. +If I was to ruin you, Caudle, then you’d think something of me.</p> +<p>“I sha’n’t go to sleep. It’s very well +for you, who’re no sooner in bed 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.</p> +<p>“<i>No: I can’t think in silence</i>!</p> +<p>“There’s much enjoyment in that, to be sure! I’ve +no doubt now you could listen to Miss Prettyman - oh, I don’t +care, I will speak. It was a little more than odd, I think, that +she should be on the jetty when the boat came in. Ha! she’d +been looking for you all the morning with a telescope, I’ve no +doubt - she’s bold enough for anything. And then how she +sneered and giggled when she saw me, - and said ‘how fat I’d +got:’ like her impudence, I think. What?</p> +<p>“<i>Well she might</i>?</p> +<p>“But I know what she wanted; yes - she’d have liked to +have had me searched. She laughed on purpose.</p> +<p>“I only wish I’d taken two of the dear girls with me. +What things I could have stitched about ’em! No - I’m +not ashamed of myself to make my innocent children smugglers: the more +innocent they looked, the better; 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 of it - 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 of the tumblers +and decanters. No: I didn’t look as if I wanted a direction, +for fear somebody should break me. That’s another of what +you call your jokes; but you should keep ’em for those who like +’em. I don’t.</p> +<p>“<i>What have I made, after all</i>?</p> +<p>“I’ve told you - you shall never, never know. Yes, +I know you’d been fined a hundred pounds if they’d searched +me; but I never meant that they should. I daresay you wouldn’t +smuggle - oh no! you don’t think it worth your while. You’re +quite a conjuror, you are, Caudle. Ha! ha! ha!</p> +<p>“<i>What am I laughing at</i>?</p> +<p>“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 I made you smuggle whether or not.</p> +<p>“<i>How</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, when you were out at the <i>Café</i>, I got your +great rough coat, and if I didn’t stitch ten yards of best black +velvet under the lining I’m a sinful woman! And to see how +innocent you looked when the officers walked round and round you! +It was a happy moment, Caudle, to see you.</p> +<p>“What do you call it?</p> +<p>“<i>A shameful trick - unworthy of a wife</i>?<i> I couldn’t +care much for you</i>?</p> +<p>“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 that beautiful English novel, that I’ve forgot +the name of. And if they didn’t take it out of my hand, +and chopped it to bits like so much dog’s-meat.</p> +<p>“<i>Served me right</i>?</p> +<p>“And when I so seldom buy a book! No: I don’t see +how it served me right. If you can buy the same book in France +for four shillings that people here have the impudence to ask more than +a guinea for - well, if they <i>do</i> steal it, that’s their +affair, not ours. As if there was anything in a book to steal!</p> +<p>“And now, Caudle, when are you going home? What?</p> +<p>“<i>Our time isn’t up</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s nothing to do with it. If we even lose +a week’s lodging - and we mayn’t do that - we shall save +it again in living. But you’re such a man! Your home’s +the last place with you. I’m sure I don’t get a wink +of a night, thinking what may happen. Three fires last week; and +any one might as well have been at our house as not.</p> +<p>“<i>No - they mightn’t</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, you know what I mean - but you’re such a man!</p> +<p>“I’m sure, too, we’ve had quite enough of this +place. But there’s no keeping you out of the libraries, +Caudle. You’re getting quite a gambler. 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. But that’s +not the worst; you never win anything. Oh, I forgot. Yes; +a needle-case, that under my nose you gave to Miss Prettyman. +A nice thing for a married man to make presents: and to such a creature +as that, too! A needle-case! I wonder whenever she has a +needle in <i>her</i> hand!</p> +<p>“I know I shall feel ill with anxiety if I stop here. +Nobody left in the 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. You know, Caudle, I’m never happy when I’m +away from home; and yet you will stay here. No, home’s my +comfort! I never want to stir over the threshold, and you know +it. If thieves were to break in, what could that Mrs. Closepeg +do against ’em? And so, Caudle, you’ll go home on +Saturday? Our dear - dear home! On Saturday, Caudle?”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>What I answered</i>,” says Caudle, “<i>I forget; +but I know that on the Saturday we were once again shipped on board +the</i> ‘<i>Red Rover</i>’.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXVIII - MRS. CAUDLE HAS RETURNED HOME. THE HOUSE +(OF COURSE) “NOT FIT TO BE SEEN.” MR. CAUDLE, IN SELF-DEFENCE, +TAKES A BOOK</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“After all, Caudle, it is something to get into one’s +own bed again. I <i>shall</i> sleep to-night. What!</p> +<p>“<i>You’re glad of it</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s like your sneering; I know what you mean. +Of course; I never can think of making myself comfortable, but you wound +my feelings. If you cared for your own bed like any other man, +you’d not have stayed out till this hour. Don’t say +that I drove you out of the house as soon as we came in it. I +only just spoke about the dirt and the dust, - but the fact is, you’d +be happy in a pig-sty! I thought I could have trusted that Mrs. +Closepeg with untold gold; and did you only 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’s very well for you +to swear at the tiger, but swearing won’t revive the rug again. +Else you might swear.</p> +<p>“You could go out and make yourself comfortable at your club. +You little 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! Talking about getting health at Margate; all my +health went away directly I went into the kitchen. There’s +dear mother’s china bowl cracked in two places. I could +have sat down and cried when I saw it: a bowl I can recollect when I +was a child. Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>I should have locked it up, then</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes: that’s your feeling for anything of mine. +I only wish it had been your punch-bowl; but, thank goodness! +I think that’s chipped.</p> +<p>“Well, you haven’t answered about the windows - you can’t +guess how many?</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t care</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, if nobody caught cold but you, it would be little matter. +Six windows clean out, and three cracked!</p> +<p>“<i>You can’t help it</i>?</p> +<p>“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 respectable the 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 - but I’ll +never stir out again. Then you can go to the sea-side by yourself; +then, perhaps, you can be happy with Miss Prettyman? - Now, Caudle, +if you knock the pillow with your fist in that way, I’ll get up. +It’s very odd that I can’t mention that person’s name +but you begin to fight the bolster, and do I don’t know what. +There must be something in it, or you wouldn’t kick about so. +A guilty conscience needs no - but you know what I mean.</p> +<p>“She wasn’t coming to town for a week; and then, of a +sudden, she’d had a letter. I dare say she had. And +then, as she said, it would be company for her to come with us. +No doubt. She thought I should be ill again, and down in the cabin, +but with all her art, she does not know the depth of me - quite. +Not but what I was ill; though, like a brute, you wouldn’t see +it.</p> +<p>“What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Good-night, love</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes: you can be very tender, I dare say - like all of your +sex - to suit your own ends; but I can’t go to sleep with my head +full of the house. The fender in the parlour will never come to +itself again. I haven’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’t make myself unhappy before +the time; but of course that’s my thanks for caring about your +property. If there aren’t spiders in the curtains as big +as nutmegs, I’m a wicked creature. Not a broom has the 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 to look at my pickles; but for all I left the door locked, +I’m sure the jars have been moved. Yes; you can swear at +pickles when you’re in bed; but nobody makes more noise about +’em when you want ’em.</p> +<p>“I only hope they’ve been to the wine-cellar: then you +may know what my feelings are. That poor cat, too - What?</p> +<p>“<i>You hate cats</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, poor thing! because she’s my favourite - that’s +it. If that cat could only speak - What?</p> +<p>“<i>It isn’t necessary</i>?</p> +<p>“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Caudle: but if that +cat could only speak, she’d tell me how she’s been cheated. +Poor thing! I know where the money’s gone to that I left +for her milk - I know. Why, what have you got there, Mr. Caudle? +A book? What!</p> +<p>“<i>If you aren’t allowed to sleep, you’ll read</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, now it is come to something! If that isn’t +insulting a wife to bring a book to bed, I don’t know what wedlock +is. But you sha’n’t read, Caudle; no, you sha’n’t; +not while I’ve strength to get up and put out a candle.</p> +<p>“And that’s like your feelings! You can think a +great deal of trumpery books; yes, you can’t think too much of +the stuff that’s put into print; but for what’s real and +true about you, why, you’ve the heart of a stone. I should +like to know what that book’s about. What!</p> +<p>“<i>Milton’s</i> ‘<i>Paradise Lost</i>’?</p> +<p>“I thought some rubbish of the sort - something to insult me. +A nice book, I think, to read in bed; and a very respectable person +he was who wrote it.</p> +<p>“<i>What do I know of him</i>?</p> +<p>“Much more than you think. A very pretty fellow, indeed, +with his six wives. What?</p> +<p>“<i>He hadn’t six - he’d only three</i>?</p> +<p>“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 no doubt, Mr. Caudle, you’d like +to follow Mr. Milton’s example; else you wouldn’t read the +stuff he wrote. But you don’t use me as he treated the poor +souls who married him. Poets, indeed! I’d make a law +against any of ’em having wives, except upon paper; for goodness +help the dear creatures tied to them! Like innocent moths lured +by a candle! Talking of candles, you don’t know that the +lamp in the passage 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?</p> +<p>“<i>In the Garden of Eden</i>?</p> +<p>“Are you? Then you’ve no business there at this +time of night.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>And saying this</i>,” writes Caudle, “<i>she +scrambled from the bed and put out the night</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXIX - MRS. CAUDLE THINKS “THE TIME HAS COME TO HAVE +A COTTAGE OUT OF TOWN”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Oh, Caudle, you ought to have had something nice to-night; +for you’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 can tell, Caudle. The eye of a wife - +and such a wife as I’ve been to you - can at once see whether +a husband’s well or not. You’ve been turning like +tallow all the week; and what’s more, you eat nothing now. +It makes me melancholy to see you at a joint. I don’t say +anything 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 eat as much as ever: and if you do, you don’t +eat with a relish, I’m sure of that. You can’t deceive +me there.</p> +<p>“But I know what’s killing you. It’s the +confinement; it’s the bad air you breathe; it’s the smoke +of London. Oh yes, I know your old excuse: you never found the +air bad before. Perhaps not. But as people grow older, and +get on in trade - and, after all, we’ve nothing to complain of, +Caudle - London air always disagrees with ’em. Delicate +health comes with money: I’m sure of it. What a colour you +had once, when you’d hardly a sixpence; and now, look at you!</p> +<p>“’Twould add thirty years to your life - and think what +a blessing that 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.</p> +<p>“<i>You hate Brixton</i>?</p> +<p>“I must say it, Caudle, that’s so like you: any place +that’s really genteel you can’t abide. Now Brixton +and Baalam Hill I think delightful. So select! There, nobody +visits nobody, unless they’re somebody. To say nothing of +the delightful pews that make the churches so respectable!</p> +<p>“However, do as you like. If you won’t go to Brixton, +what do you say 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 and children, because you’re in the +retail way. What?</p> +<p>“<i>The retired wholesales never visit the retired retails +at Clapham</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! that’s only your old sneering at the world, Mr. +Caudle; but I don’t believe it. And after all, people should +keep to their station, or what was this life made for? Suppose +a tallow-merchant does keep himself above a tallow-chandler, - I call +it only a proper pride. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You call it the aristocracy of fat</i>?</p> +<p>“I don’t know what you mean by ‘aristocracy’; +but I suppose it’s only another of your dictionary words, that’s +hardly worth the finding out.</p> +<p>“What do you say to Hornsey or Muswell Hill? Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>Too high</i>?</p> +<p>“What a man you are! Well, then - Battersea?</p> +<p>“<i>Too low</i>?</p> +<p>“You’re an aggravating creature, Caudle, you must own +that! Hampstead, then?</p> +<p>“<i>Too cold</i>?</p> +<p>“Nonsense; it would brace you up like a drum, - Caudle; and +that’s what you want. But you don’t deserve anybody +to think of your health or your comforts either. There’s +some pretty spots, I’m told, about Fulham. Now, Caudle, +I won’t have you say a word against Fulham. That must be +a sweet place: dry and healthy, and every comfort of life about it - +else is it likely that a bishop would live there? Now, Caudle, +none of your heathen principles - I won’t hear ’em. +I think what satisfies a bishop ought to content you; but the politics +you 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 the +dear children!</p> +<p>“A nice little house and a garden! I know it - I was +born for a garden! There’s something about it makes one +feel so innocent. My heart somehow always opens and shuts at roses. +And then what nice currant 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 as sweet! What?</p> +<p>“<i>And twenty times as dear</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes; there you go! Anything that I fancy, you always +bring up the expense.</p> +<p>“No, Mr. Caudle, I should not be tired of it in a month. +I tell you I was made for the country. But here you’ve kept +me - and much you’ve cared 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 your wife and family to keep ’em here +to be all smoked like bacon. I can see it - it’s stopping +the children’s growth; they’ll be dwarfs, and have 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! he makes no breakfast. What!</p> +<p>“<i>He ate six slices this morning</i>?</p> +<p>“A pretty father you must be to count ’em. But +that’s nothing to what the dear child could do, if, like other +children, he’d a fair chance.</p> +<p>“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 come up to business every morning; and what pleasure +it would be for me to put a tulip or a pink in your button-hole, just, +as I may say, to ticket you from the country.</p> +<p>“But then, Caudle, you never were like any other man! +But I know why you won’t leave London. Yes, I know. +Then, you think, you couldn’t go to your filthy club - that’s +it. Then you’d be obliged to be at home, like any other +decent man. Whereas you might, if you liked, enjoy yourself under +your own apple-tree, and I’m sure I should never say anything +about your tobacco out of doors. My only wish is to make you happy, +Caudle, and you won’t let me do it.</p> +<p>“You don’t speak, love? Shall I look about a house +to-morrow? It will be a broken day with me, for I’m going +out to have little pet’s ears bored - What?</p> +<p>“<i>You won’t have her ears bored</i>?</p> +<p>“And why not, I should like to know?</p> +<p>“<i>It’s a barbarous, savage custom</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, Mr. Caudle! the sooner you go away from the world, and +live in a cave, the better. You’re getting not fit for Christian +society. What next? My ears were bored and - What?</p> +<p>“<i>So are yours</i>?</p> +<p>“I know what you mean - but that’s nothing to do with +it. My ears, I say, were bored, and so were dear mother’s, +and grandmother’s before her; and I suppose there were no more +savages in our family than in yours, Mr. Caudle? Besides, - why +should little pet’s ears go naked any more than any of her sisters’? +They wear earrings; you never objected before. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ve learned better now</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, that’s all with your filthy politics again. +You’d shake all the world up in a dice-box, if you’d your +way: not that you care a pin about the world, only you’d like +to get a better throw for yourself, - that’s all. But little +pet <i>shall</i> be bored, and don’t think to prevent it.</p> +<p>“I suppose she’s to be married some day, as well as her +sisters? And who’ll look at a girl without earrings, I should +like to know? If you knew anything of the world, you’d know +what a nice diamond earring will sometimes do - when one can get it +- before this. But I know 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’s Miss +Prettyman who -</p> +<p>“There, Caudle, now be quiet, and I’ll say no more about +pet’s ears at present. We’ll talk when you’re +reasonable. I don’t want to put you out of temper, goodness +knows! And so, love, about the cottage? What?</p> +<p>“’<i>Twill be so far from business</i>?</p> +<p>“But it needn’t be far, dearest. Quite a nice distance; +so that on your late nights you may always be at home, have your supper, +get to bed, and all by eleven. Eh, - sweet one?”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I don’t know what I answered</i>,” says Caudle, +“<i>but I know this: in less than a fortnight I found myself in +a sort of a green bird-cage of a house, which my wife - gentle satirist +- insisted upon calling</i> ‘<i>The Turtle Dovery</i>.’”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXX - MRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS OF THE “TURTLE DOVERY.” +DISCOVERS BLACK-BEETLES. THINKS IT “NOTHING BUT RIGHT” +THAT CAUDLE SHOULD SET UP A CHAISE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“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 to command 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 +your power; but that’s nothing to do with it. I talk about +one thing, and you always start another. But that’s your +art.</p> +<p>“I’m sure a woman might as well be buried alive as live +here. In fact, I am buried alive; I feel it. I stood at +the window three hours this blessed day, and saw nothing but the postman. +No: it isn’t a pity that I hadn’t something better to do; +I had plenty: but that’s my business, Mr. Caudle. I suppose +I’m to be mistress of my own house? If not, I’d better +leave it.</p> +<p>“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 all +over with a black cloth, I’m a story-teller. What are you +coughing at, Mr. Caudle? I see nothing to cough at. But +that’s just your way of sneering. Millions of black-beetles! +And as the clock strikes eight, out they march. What?</p> +<p>“<i>They’re very punctual</i>?</p> +<p>“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!</p> +<p>“Last night they came into the parlour. Of course, in +a night or two, 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 ever touches you: but you know how they +come to me; and that’s why you’re so quiet. A pleasant +thing to have black-beetles in one’s bed!</p> +<p>“<i>Why don’t I poison ’em</i>?</p> +<p>“A pretty matter, indeed, to have poison in the house! +Much you must think of the dear children. A nice place, too, to +be called the Turtle Dovery!</p> +<p>“<i>Didn’t I christen it myself</i>?</p> +<p>“I know that, - but then, I knew nothing of the black-beetles. +Besides, names of houses are for the world outside; not that anybody +passes to see ours. Didn’t Mrs. Digby insist on calling +their new house ‘Love-in-Idleness,’ though everybody knew +that that wretch Digby 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 as things.</p> +<p>“That cough again! You’ve got a cold, and you’ll +always be getting one - 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, and thought you might be in it. What?</p> +<p>“<i>I’m very good</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, I trust so: I try to be so, Caudle. And so, dear, +I’ve been thinking that we’d better keep a chaise.</p> +<p>“<i>You can’t afford it, and you won’t</i>?</p> +<p>“Don’t tell me: I know you’d save money by it. +I’ve been reckoning what 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. And then, 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, if you’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 expect you always +to run home directly to me: and I don’t, Caudle; and you know +it.</p> +<p>“A nice, neat, elegant little chaise. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll think of it</i>?</p> +<p>“There’s a love! You are a good creature, Caudle; +and ’twill make me so happy to think you don’t depend upon +an omnibus. A sweet little carriage, with our own arms beautifully +painted on the panels. What?</p> +<p>“<i>Arms are rubbish; and you don’t know that you have +any</i>?</p> +<p>“Nonsense: to be sure you have - and if not, of course they’re +to be had for money. I wonder where Chalkpit’s, the milkman’s +arms, came from? I suppose you can buy ’em at the same place. +He used to drive a green cart; and now he’s got a close yellow +carriage, with two large tortoise-shell cats, with their whiskers as +if dipped in cream, standing on their hind legs upon each door, with +a heap of Latin underneath. You may buy the carriage if you please, +Mr. Caudle; but unless your arms are there, you won’t get me to +enter it. Never! I’m not going to look less than Mrs. +Chalkpit.</p> +<p>“Besides, if you haven’t arms, I’m sure my family +have, and a wife’s arms are quite as good as a husband’s. +I’ll write to-morrow to dear mother, to know what we took for +our family arms. What do you say? What?</p> +<p>“<i>A mangle in a stone kitchen proper</i>?</p> +<p>“Mr. Caudle, you’re always insulting my family - always: +but you shall not put me out of temper to-night. Still, if you +don’t like our arms, find your own. I daresay you could +have found ’em fast enough, if you’d married Miss Prettyman. +Well, I will be quiet; and I won’t mention that lady’s name. +A nice lady she is! I wonder how much she spends in paint! +Now, don’t I tell you I won’t say a word more, and yet you +will kick about!</p> +<p>“Well, we’ll have the carriage and the family arms? +No, I don’t want the family legs too. Don’t be vulgar, +Mr. Caudle. You might, perhaps, talk in that way before you’d +money in the Bank; but it doesn’t at all become you now. +The carriage and the family arms! We’ve a country house +as well as the Chalkpits! and though they praise their place for a little +paradise, I dare say they’ve quite as many blackbeetles as we +have, and more too. The place quite looks it!</p> +<p>“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 told that Chalkpits dress their +boy on a Sunday like a dragon-fly; and I don’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 -</p> +<p>“<i>You won’t; and I know it</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh yes! that’s another of your crotchets, Mr Caudle; +like nobody else - you don’t love liveries. I suppose when +people buy their sheets, or their tablecloths, or any other linen, they’ve +a right to mark what they like upon it, haven’t they? Well, +then? You buy a servant, and you mark what you like upon him, +and where’s the difference? None, that <i>I</i> can see.”</p> +<p>“<i>Finally</i>,” says Caudle, “<i>I compromised +for a gig; but Sam did not wear pepper-and-salt and a gold band</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXXI - MRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS VERY BITTERLY THAT MR. CAUDLE +HAS “BROKEN HER CONFIDENCE.”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“O you’ll catch me, Mr. Caudle, telling you anything +again. Now, I don’t want to have any noise: I don’t +wish you to put yourself in a passion. All I say is this; never +again do I open my lips to you about anybody. No: if man and wife +can’t be one, why there’s an end of everything. Oh, +you know well what I mean, Mr. Caudle: you’ve broken 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.</p> +<p>“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 quiet woman. I haven’t done trembling +yet! You know the state of my nerves, too; you know - yes, sir, +I <i>had</i> nerves when you married me; and I haven’t just found +’em out. Well, you’ve something to answer for, I think. +The Badgerlys are going to separate: she takes the girls, and he the +boys, and all through you. How you can lay your head upon that +pillow and think of going to sleep, I can’t tell.</p> +<p>“<i>What have you done</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, you have a face to ask the question. Done? +You’ve broken my confidence, Mr. Caudle: you’ve taken advantage +of my tenderness, my trust in you as a wife - the more fool I for my +pains! - and you’ve separated a happy couple for ever. No; +I’m not talking in the clouds; I’m talking in your bed, +the more my misfortune.</p> +<p>“Now, Caudle - yes, I shall sit up in the bed if I choose; +I’m not going to sleep till I have this properly explained; for +Mrs. Badgerly sha’n’t lay her separation at my door. +You won’t deny that you were at the club last night? No, +bad as you are, Caudle - and though you’re my husband, I can’t +think you a good man; I try to do, but I can’t - bad as you are, +you can’t deny you were at the club. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t deny it</i>?</p> +<p>“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 poor woman to-day, you’d +have a heart of stone to laugh. What did you say of his whiskers? +Didn’t you tell everybody he dyed ’em? Didn’t +you hold the candle up to ’em, as you said, to show the purple?</p> +<p>“<i>To be sure you did</i>?</p> +<p>“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 in earnest, +slept all night upon the sofa. He said it was the dearest secret +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?</p> +<p>“<i>Badgerly was right. I did tell you</i>?</p> +<p>“I know I did: but when dear Mrs. Badgerly mentioned the matter +to me and a few friends, as we were all laughing at tea together, quite +in 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! +she never thought it was to be talked of in the world again. Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>Then I had no right to tell you of it</i>?</p> +<p>“And that’s the way I’m thanked for my confidence. +Because I don’t keep 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 her hard words - after she went away, I’m +sure my heart quite bled for her. What do you say, Mr. Caudle?</p> +<p>“<i>Serves her right - she should hold her tongue</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes; that’s like your tyranny - you’d never let +a poor woman speak. Eh - what, what, Mr. Caudle?</p> +<p>“That’s a very fine speech, I dare say; and wives are +very much obliged to you, only there’s not a bit of truth in it. +No, we women don’t get together, and pick our husbands to pieces, +just as sometimes mischievous little girls rip up their dolls. +That’s an old sentiment of yours, Mr. Caudle; but I’m sure +you’ve no occasion to say 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 say anything about you, - and I might, and +you know it - and there’s somebody 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 with me. 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’t know 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, to make a common feast +for the whole set.’ Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t remember it</i>?</p> +<p>“But I do: and I remember, too, what brandy was left when Prettyman +left. ’Twould be odd if you could remember much about it, +after that.</p> +<p>“And now you’ve gone and separated man and wife, and +I’m to be blamed for it. You’ve not only carried misery +into a family, but broken my confidence. You’ve proved to +me that henceforth I’m not to trust you with anything, Mr. Caudle. +No; I’ll lock up whatever I know in my own breast, - for now I +find nobody, not even one’s own husband, is to be relied upon. +From this moment, I may look upon myself as a solitary woman. +Now, it’s no use your trying to go to sleep. What do you +say?</p> +<p>“<i>You know that</i>?</p> +<p>“Very well. Now I want to ask you one question more. +Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>You want to ask me one</i>?</p> +<p>“Very well - go on - I’m not afraid to be catechised. +I never dropped a syllable that as a wife I ought to have kept to myself +- no, I’m not at all forgetting what I’ve said - and whatever +you’ve got to ask me speak out at once. No - I don’t +want you to spare me; all I want you is to speak.</p> +<p>“<i>You will speak</i>?</p> +<p>“Well then, do.</p> +<p>“What?</p> +<p>“<i>Who told people you’d a false front tooth</i>?</p> +<p>“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 knew it - besides, I was aggravated to do it; +yes, aggravated. I remember it was that very day, at Mrs. Badgerly’s, +when husbands’ whiskers came up. Well, after we’d +done with them, somebody said something about teeth. Whereupon, +Miss Prettyman - a minx! she was born to destroy the peace of families, +I know she was: she was there; and if I’d only known that such +a creature was - no I’m not rambling, not at all, and I’m +coming to the tooth. To be sure, this is a great deal you’ve +got against me, isn’t it? Well, somebody spoke about teeth, +when Miss Prettyman, with one of her insulting leers, said ‘she +thought Mr. Caudle had the whitest teeth she ever <i>had</i> beheld.’ +Of course my blood was up - every wife’s would be: and I believe +I might have said, ‘Yes, they were well enough; but when a young +lady so very much praised a married man’s teeth, she perhaps didn’t +know that one of the front ones was an elephant’s.’ +Like her impudence! - I set <i>her</i> down for the rest of the evening. +But I can see the humour you’re in to-night. You only came +to bed to quarrel, and I’m not going to indulge you. All +I say is this, after the shameful mischief you’ve made at the +Badgerlys’, you never break my confidence again. Never - +and now you know it.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Caudle hereupon writes - “<i>And here she seemed inclined to +sleep. Not for one moment did I think to prevent her</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXXII - MRS. CAUDLE DISCOURSES OF MAIDS-OF-ALL-WORK AND +MAIDS IN GENERAL. MR. CAUDLE’S “INFAMOUS BEHAVIOUR” +TEN YEARS AGO</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“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 through to-day, and with the headache I’ve got, +- and if I haven’t left my smelling-salts on the mantelpiece, +on the right-hand corner just as you go into the room - nobody could +miss it - I say, nobody could miss it - 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 it may open and shut, and what +do you care?</p> +<p>“Yes, that’s like your feeling, just. I want my +salts, and you tell me there’s nothing like being still for a +headache. Indeed? But I’m not going to be still; so +don’t you think it. That’s just how a woman’s +put upon. But I know your aggravation - I know your art. +You think to keep me quiet about that minx Kitty, - your favourite, +sir! Upon my life, I’m not to discharge my own servant without +- but she shall go. If I had to do all the work myself, she shouldn’t +stop under my roof. I can see how she looks down upon me. +I can see a great 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 my peace and mind if I always could. Don’t +say that. I’m not a foolish woman, and I know very well +what I’m saying. I suppose you think I forget <i>that</i> +Rebecca? I know it’s ten years ago that she lived with us +- but what’s that to do with it? Things aren’t the +less true for being old, I suppose. No; and your conduct, Mr. +Caudle, at that time - if it was a hundred years ago - I should never +forget. What?</p> +<p>“<i>I shall always be the same silly woman</i>?</p> +<p>“I hope I shall - I trust I shall always have my eyes about +me in my own house. Now, don’t think of going to sleep, +Caudle; because, as you’ve brought this up about that Rebecca, +you shall hear me out. Well, I do wonder that you can name her! +Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>You didn’t name her</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s nothing at all to do with it; for I know just +as well what you think, as if you did. I suppose you’ll +say that you didn’t drink a glass of wine to her?</p> +<p>“<i>Never</i>?</p> +<p>“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 very time - if you please to recollect - at that very time +little Jack was a baby. I shouldn’t have so much cared but +for that; but he was hardly running alone, when you nodded and drank +a glass of wine to that creature. No; I’m not mad, and I’m +not dreaming. I saw how you did it, - and the hypocrisy made it +worse and worse. I saw you when the creature was just behind my +chair; you took up a glass of wine, and saying to me, ‘Margaret,’ +and then lifting up your eyes at the bold minx, and saying ‘my +dear,’ as if you wanted me to believe that you spoke only to me, +when I could see you laugh at her behind me. And at that time +little Jack wasn’t on his feet. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>Heaven forgive me</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! Mr. Caudle, it’s you that ought to ask for +that: I’m safe enough, I am: it’s you who should ask to +be forgiven.</p> +<p>“No, I wouldn’t slander a saint - and I didn’t +take away the girl’s character 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 well remember all that. And serve you right; +if you hadn’t laughed at her, it wouldn’t have happened. +But if you will make free with such people, of course you’re sure +to suffer for it. ’Twould have served you right if the lawyer’s +bill had been double. Damages, indeed! Not that anybody’s +tongue could have damaged her!</p> +<p>“And now, Mr. Caudle, you’re the same man you were ten +years ago. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You hope so</i>?</p> +<p>“The more shame for you. At your time of life, with all +your children growing up about you, to -</p> +<p>“<i>What am I talking of</i>?</p> +<p>“I know very well; and so would you, if you had any conscience, +which you haven’t. When I say I shall discharge Kitty, you +say she’s a very good servant, and I sha’n’t get a +better. But I know why you think her good; you think her pretty, +and that’s enough for you; as if girls who work for their bread +have any business to be pretty, - which she isn’t. Pretty +servants, indeed! going mincing about with their fal-lal faces, as if +even the flies would spoil ’em. But I know what a bad man +you are - now, it’s no use your denying it; for didn’t I +overhear you talking to Mr. Prettyman, and didn’t you say that +you couldn’t bear to have ugly servants about you? I ask +you, - didn’t you say that?</p> +<p>“<i>Perhaps you did</i>?</p> +<p>“You don’t blush to confess it? If your principles, +Mr. Caudle, aren’t enough to make a woman’s blood run cold!</p> +<p>“Oh, yes! you’ve talked that stuff again and again; and +once I might have believed it; but I know a little more of you now. +You like to see pretty servants, just as you like to see pretty statues, +and pretty pictures, and pretty flowers, and anything in nature that’s +pretty, just, as you say, for the eye to feed upon. Yes; I know +your eyes, - very well. I know what they were ten years ago; for +shall I ever forget that glass of wine when little Jack was in arms? +I don’t care if it was a thousand years ago, it’s as fresh +as yesterday, and I never will cease to talk of it. When you know +me, how can you ask it?</p> +<p>“And now you insist upon keeping Kitty, when there’s +no having a bit of crockery for her? That girl would break the +Bank of England - I know she would - if she was to put her hand upon +it. But what’s a whole set of blue china to her beautiful +blue eyes? I know that’s what you mean, though you don’t +say it.</p> +<p>“Oh, you needn’t lie groaning there, for you don’t +think I shall ever forget Rebecca. Yes, - it’s very well +for you to swear at Rebecca now, - 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 -</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t look at me</i>?</p> +<p>“The more shame for you.</p> +<p>“I can only say, that either Kitty leaves the house, or I do. +Which is it to be, Mr. Caudle? Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t care</i>?<i> Both</i>?</p> +<p>“But you’re not going to get rid of me in that manner, +I can tell you. But for that trollop - now, you may swear and +rave as you like -</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t intend to say a word more</i>?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 this world - never. A soup-plate and a basin!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>She slept</i>,” writes Caudle, “<i>and poor +Kitty left on Tuesday</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXXIII - MRS. CAUDLE HAS DISCOVERED THAT CAUDLE IS A RAILWAY +DIRECTOR</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“When I took up the paper to-day, Caudle, you might have knocked +me down with a feather! Now, don’t be a hypocrite - you +know what’s the matter. And when you haven’t a bed +to lie upon, and are brought to sleep upon coal sacks - and then I can +tell you, Mr. Caudle, you may sleep by yourself - then you’ll +know what’s the matter. Now, I’ve seen 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 I speak; but seeing what I do, I won’t be silent.</p> +<p>“<i>What do I see</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, there, Mr. Caudle, at the foot of the bed, I see all +the blessed children in tatters - I see you in a gaol, and the carpets +hung out of the windows.</p> +<p>“And now I know why you talk in your sleep about a broad and +narrow gauge! 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 that I wish you’d remember - but +you’re turned quite a heathen: yes, you think of nothing but money +now.</p> +<p>“<i>Don’t I like money</i>?</p> +<p>“To be sure I do; but then I like it when I’m certain +of it; no risks for me. Yes, it’s all very well to talk +about fortunes made in no time: they’re like shirts made in no +time - it’s ten to one if they hang long together.</p> +<p>“And now it’s plain enough why you can’t eat or +drink, or sleep, or do anything. All your mind’s allotted +into railways; for you shan’t make me believe that Eel-Pie Island’s +the only one. Oh, no! I can see by the looks of you. +Why, in a little time, if you haven’t as many lines in your face +as there are lines laid down! Every one of your 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 as +smooth as any china, and now your face is like the Map of England.</p> +<p>“At your time of life, too! You, who were for always +going small and sure! You to make heads-and-tails of your money +in this way! It’s that stock-broker’s dog at Flam +Cottage - he’s bitten you, I’m sure of it. You’re +not fit to manage your own property now; and I should only be acting +the part of a good wife if I were to call in the mad-doctors.</p> +<p>“Well, I shall never know rest any more now. There won’t +be a soul knock at the door after this that I sha’n’t think +it’s the man coming to take possession. ’Twill be +something for the Chalkpits to laugh at when we’re sold up. +I think I see ’em here, bidding for all our little articles of +bigotry and virtue, and - what are you laughing at?</p> +<p>“<i>They’re not bigotry and virtue; but bijouterie and +vertu</i>?</p> +<p>“It’s all the same: only you’re never so happy +as when you’re taking me up.</p> +<p>“If I can tell what’s coming to the world, I’m +a sinner! Everybody’s for turning their farthings into double +sovereigns and cheating their neighbours of the balance. And you, +too - you’re beside yourself, Caudle - I’m sure of it. +I’ve watched you when you thought me fast asleep. And then +you’ve lain, and whispered and whispered, and then hugged yourself, +and laughed at the bed-posts, as if you’d seen ’em turned +to sovereign gold. I do believe that you sometimes think the patchwork +quilt is made of thousand-pound bank-notes.</p> +<p>“Well, when we’re brought to the Union, then you’ll +find out your mistake. But it will be a poor satisfaction for +me every night to tell you of it. What, Mr. Caudle?</p> +<p>“<i>They won’t let me tell you of it</i>?</p> +<p>“And you call that ‘some comfort’? And after +the wife I’ve been to you! But now I recollect. I +think I’ve heard you praise that Union before; though, like a +fond fool as I’ve always been, I never once suspected the reason +of it.</p> +<p>“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 with nothing but my thoughts, thinking when the +broker will come, and you’ll be with your brother directors. +I may slave and I toil to save sixpences; and you’ll be throwing +away hundreds. And then the expensive tastes you’ve got! +Nothing good enough for you now. I’m sure you sometimes +think yourself King Solomon. But that comes of making money - +if, indeed, you have made any - without earning it. No; I don’t +talk nonsense: people <i>can</i> make money without earning it. +And when they do, why it’s like taking a lot of spirits at one +draught; it gets into their head, and they don’t know what they’re +about. And you’re in that state now, Mr. Caudle: I’m +sure of it, by the way of you. There’s a tipsiness of the +pocket as well as of the stomach - and you’re in that condition +at this very moment.</p> +<p>“Not that I should so much mind - that is, if you <i>have</i> +made money - if you’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’t get out of ’em: or, if +they do, it’s often without a feather to fly with. No: if +you’ve really made money by the Eel-Pie line, and will give it +to me to take care of for the dear children, why, perhaps, love, I’ll +say no more of the matter. What?</p> +<p>“<i>Nonsense</i>?</p> +<p>“Yes, of course: I never ask you for money, but that’s +the word.</p> +<p>“And now, catch you stopping at the Eel-Pie line! Oh +no; I know your aggravating spirit. In a day or two I shall see +another fine flourish in the paper, with a proposal for a branch from +Eel-Pie Island to the Chelsea Bun-house. Give you a mile of rail, +and - I know you men - you’ll take a hundred. Well, if it +didn’t make me quiver to read that stuff in the paper, - and your +name to it! But I suppose it was Mr. Prettyman’s work; for +his precious name’s among ’em. How you tell the people +‘that eel-pies are now become an essential element of civilisation’ +- I learnt all the words by heart, that I might say ’em to you +- ‘that the Eastern population of London are cut off from the +blessings of such a necessary - and that by means of the projected line +eel-pies will be brought home to the business and bosoms of Ratcliff +Highway and the adjacent dependencies.’ Well, when you men +- lords of the creation, as you call yourselves - do get together to +make up a company, or anything of the sort - is there any story-book +can come up to you? And so you look solemnly in one another’s +faces, and, never so much as moving the corners of your mouths, pick +one another’s pockets. No, I’m not using hard words, +Mr. Caudle - but only the words that’s proper.</p> +<p>“And this I <i>must</i> say. Whatever you’ve got, +I’m none the better for it. You never give me any of your +Eel-Pie shares. What do you say?</p> +<p>“<i>You will give me some</i>?</p> +<p>“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 my lap - what?</p> +<p>“<i>You’ll think of it</i>?<i> When the Eel-Pies +go up</i>?</p> +<p>“Then I know what they’re worth - they’ll never +fetch a farthing.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>She was suddenly silent</i>” - writes Caudle - “<i>and +I was sinking into sleep, when she elbowed me, and cried</i>, ‘<i>Caudle, +do you think they’ll be up to-morrow</i>?’”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXXIV - MRS. CAUDLE, SUSPECTING THAT MR. CAUDLE HAS MADE +HIS WILL, IS “ONLY ANXIOUS, AS A WIFE,” TO KNOW ITS PROVISIONS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“There, I always said you’d a strong mind when you liked, +Caudle; and what you’ve just been doing proves it. Some +people won’t make a will, because they think they must die directly +afterwards. Now, you’re above that, love, aren’t you? +Nonsense; you know very well what I mean. I know your will’s +made, for Scratcherly told me so. What?</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t believe it</i>?</p> +<p>“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 suppose there’s a way of telling things +without speaking them. And when I put the question to him, lawyer +as he is, he hadn’t the face to deny it.</p> +<p>“To be sure, it can be of no consequence to me whether your +will is made or not. I shall not be alive, Mr. Caudle, to want +anything: I shall 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 to let her affection for a man be +known, for then she’s always taken advantage of - though I know +it’s foolish and weak to say so, still I don’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 another +husband too. What a gross idea, Caudle! To imagine I’d +ever think of marrying again. No - never! What?</p> +<p>“<i>That’s what we all say</i>?</p> +<p>“Not at all; quite the reverse. To me the very idea of +such a thing is horrible, and always was. Yes, I know very well +that some do marry again - but what they’re made of I’m +sure I can’t tell. Ugh!</p> +<p>“There are men, I know, who leave their property in such a +way that their widows, to hold it, must keep widows. Now, if there +is anything in the world that is mean and small, it is that. Don’t +you think so, too, Caudle? Why don’t you speak, love? +That’s so like you! I never want a little quiet, rational +talk, but you want to go to sleep. But you never were like any +other man! What?</p> +<p>“<i>How do I know</i>?</p> +<p>“There now - that’s so like your aggravating way. +I never open my lips upon a subject but you try to put me off. +I’ve no doubt when Miss Prettyman speaks, you can answer <i>her</i> +properly enough. There you are, again! Upon my life, it +<i>is</i> odd; but I never can in the most innocent way mention that +person’s name that -</p> +<p>“<i>Why can’t I leave her alone</i>?</p> +<p>“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 her name.</p> +<p>“What was I saying, Caudle? Oh, about the way some men +bind their widows. To my mind, there is nothing so little. +When a man forbids his wife to marry again without losing what he leaves +- it’s what I call selfishness after death. Mean to a degree! +It’s like taking his wife into the grave with him. Eh?</p> +<p>“<i>You never want to do that</i>?</p> +<p>“No, I’m sure of that, love: you’re not the man +to tie a woman up in that mean manner. A man who’d do that +would have his widow burnt with him, if he could - just as those monsters, +that call themselves men, do in the Indies.</p> +<p>“However, it’s no matter to me how you’ve made +your will; but it may be to your second wife. What?</p> +<p>“<i>I shall never give you a chance</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha! you don’t know my constitution after all, Caudle. +I’m not at all the woman I was. I say nothing about ’em, +but very often you don’t know my feelings. And as we’re +on the subject, dearest, I have only one favour to ask. When you +marry again - now it’s no use your saying that. After the +comforts you’ve known of marriage - what are you sighing at, dear? +- after the comforts, you must marry again - now don’t forswear +yourself in that violent way, taking an oath that you know you must +break - you couldn’t help it, I’m sure of it; and I know +you better than you know yourself. Well, all I ask is, love, because +it’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 ask is, don’t. After the way you’ve +been thought of, and after the comforts you’ve been used to, Caudle, +she wouldn’t be the wife for you. Of course I could then +have no interest in the matter - you might 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 anything against her; not at all; +but there’s a flightiness in her manner - I dare say, poor thing, +she means no harm, and it may be, as the saying is, only her manner +after all - still, there is a flightiness about her that, after what +you’ve been used to, would make you very wretched. Now, +if I may boast of anything, Caudle, it is my propriety of manner the +whole of my life. I know that wives who’re very 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. +And virtue, Caudle - no, I’m not going to preach about virtue, +for I never do. No; and I don’t go about with my virtue, +like a child with a drum, making all sorts of noises with it. +But I know your principles. I shall never forget what I once heard +you say to Prettyman: and it’s no excuse that you’d taken +so much wine you didn’t know what you were saying at the time; +for wine brings out man’s wickedness, just as fire brings out +spots of grease.</p> +<p>“<i>What did you say</i>?</p> +<p>“Why, you said this: - ‘Virtue’s a beautiful thing +in women, when they don’t make so much noise about it: but there’s +some women who think virtue was given ’em, as claws were given +to cats’ - yes, cats was the word - ‘to do nothing but scratch +with.’ That’s what you said.</p> +<p>“<i>You don’t recollect a syllable of it</i>?</p> +<p>“No, that’s it; when you’re in that dreadful state, +you recollect nothing: but it’s a good thing I do.</p> +<p>“But we won’t talk of that, love - that’s all over: +I dare say you meant nothing. But I’m glad you agree with +me, that the man who’d tie up his widow not to marry again, is +a mean man. It makes me happy that you’ve the confidence +in me to say that.</p> +<p>“<i>You never said it</i>?</p> +<p>“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 her hands from marrying again, he shows what a +dependence he has upon her love. He proves to all the world what +a wife she’s been to him; and how, after his death, he knows she’ll +grieve for him. And then, of course, a second marriage never enters +her head. But when she only keeps his money so long as she keeps +a widow, why, she’s aggravated to take another husband. +I’m sure of it; many a poor woman has been driven into wedlock +again, only because she was spited into it by her husband’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 to do it, - yet, +though you were dead and gone, I’d show you I’d a spirit, +and marry again directly. Not but what it’s ridiculous my +talking in such a way, as I shall go long before you; still, mark my +words, 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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I did not contradict her</i>,” says Caudle, “<i>but +suffered her to slumber in such assurance</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE XXXV - MRS. CAUDLE “HAS BEEN TOLD” THAT CAUDLE +HAS “TAKEN TO PLAY” AT BILLIARDS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Ah, you’re very late to-night, dear.</p> +<p>“<i>It’s not late</i>?</p> +<p>“Well, then, it isn’t, that’s all. Of course, +a woman can never tell when it’s late. You were late on +Tuesday, too; a little late on the Friday before; on the Wednesday before +that - now, you needn’t twist about in that manner; I’m +not going to say anything - no; for I see it’s now no use. +Once, I own, it used to fret me when you stayed out; 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 whether you ever come +home or not. I never thought I could be brought to think so little +of you; but you’ve done it: you’ve been treading on the +worm for these twenty years, and it’s turned at last.</p> +<p>“Now, I’m not going to quarrel; that’s all over: +I don’t feel enough for you to quarrel with, - I don’t, +Caudle, as true as I’m in this bed. 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 where you were on Tuesday? +You were not at dear mother’s, though you know she’s not +well, and you know she thinks of leaving the dear children her 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 at +any theatre.</p> +<p>“<i>How do I know</i>?</p> +<p>“Ha, Mr. Caudle! I only wish I didn’t know. +No; you were not at any of these places; but I know well enough where +you were.</p> +<p>“<i>Then why do I ask if I know</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s it: just to prove what a hypocrite you are: just +to show you that you can’t deceive me.</p> +<p>“So, Mr. Caudle - you’ve turned billiard-player, sir.</p> +<p>“<i>Only once</i>?</p> +<p>“That’s quite enough: you might as well play a thousand +times; for you’re a lost man, Caudle. Only once, indeed! +I wonder, if I was to say ‘Only once,’ what would you say +to me? But, of course, a man can do no wrong in anything.</p> +<p>“And you’re a lord of the creation, Mr. Caudle; and you +can stay away from the comforts of your blessed fireside, and the society +of your own wife and children - though, to be sure, you never thought +anything of them - to push ivory balls about with a long stick upon +a green table-cloth. What pleasure any man can take in such stuff +must astonish any sensible woman. I pity you, Caudle!</p> +<p>“And you can go and do nothing but make ‘cannons’ +- for that’s the gibberish they talk at billiards - when there’s +the manly and athletic game of cribbage, as my poor grandmother used +to call it, at your own hearth. You can go into a billiard-room +- you, a respectable tradesman, or as you set yourself up for one, for +if the world knew all, there’s very little respectability in you +- you can go and play billiards with a set of creatures in mustachios, +when you might take a nice quiet hand with me at home. But no! +anything but cribbage with your own wife!</p> +<p>“Caudle, it’s all over now; you’ve gone to destruction. +I never knew a man enter a billiard-room that he wasn’t lost for +ever. There was my uncle Wardle; a better man never broke the +bread of life: he took to billiards, and he didn’t live with aunt +a month afterwards.</p> +<p>“<i>A lucky fellow</i>?</p> +<p>“And that’s what you call a man who leaves his wife - +a ‘lucky fellow’? But, to be sure, what can I expect? +We shall not be together long, now: it’s been some time coming, +but, at last, we must separate: and the wife I’ve been to you!</p> +<p>“But I know who it is; it’s that fiend Prettyman. +I <i>will</i> call him a fiend, and I’m by no means a foolish +woman: you’d no more have thought 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 wear mustachios - I suppose you’ll let yours +grow now; though they’ll be a good deal troubled to come. +I know that. Yes, they’ve all a yellow and sly look; just +for all as if they were first cousins to people that picked pockets. +And that will be your case, Caudle: in six months the dear children +won’t know their own father.</p> +<p>“Well, if I know myself at all, I could have borne anything +but billiards. The companions you’ll find! The Captains +that will be always borrowing fifty pounds of you! I tell you, +Caudle, a billiard-room’s a place where ruin of all sorts is made +easy, I may say, to the lowest understanding, so you can’t miss +it. It’s a chapel-of-ease for the devil to preach in - don’t +tell me not to be eloquent: I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Caudle, +and I shall be just as eloquent as I like. But I never can open +my lips - and it isn’t often, goodness knows! - that I’m +not insulted.</p> +<p>“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 on this matter I <i>will</i> speak. +I know you can’t play at billiards; and never 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 me all 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 to look about him for a fat goose - and they’ll +eat you up, Caudle; I know they will.</p> +<p>“Billiard-balls, indeed! Well, in my time I’ve +been over Woolwich Arsenal - you were something like a man then, for +it was just before we 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 these balls - well, I know I’ve said +that before; but I choose to say it again - and there’s not one +of ’em, iron as they are, that could do half the mischief of a +billiard-ball. That’s a ball, Caudle, that’s gone +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 +your family with. Don’t tell me you’ll not play! +When once a man’s given to it - as my poor aunt used to say - +the devil’s always tempting him with a ball, as he tempted Eve +with an apple.</p> +<p>“I shall never think of being happy any more. No; that’s +quite out of 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 green cloth. Green, indeed! It’s +red, crimson red, Caudle, if you could only properly see it - crimson +red, with the hearts those balls have broken. Don’t tell +me not to be pathetic - I shall: as pathetic as it suits me. I +suppose I may speak. However, I’ve done. It’s +all settled now. You’re a billiard-player, and I’m +a wretched woman.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>I did not deny either position</i>,” writes Caudle, +“<i>and for this reason - I wanted to sleep</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LECTURE THE LAST - MRS. CAUDLE HAS TAKEN COLD; THE TRAGEDY OF THIN +SHOES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“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’t wish to upbraid you neither; I’m too +ill for that; but it’s not getting 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 cure a woman of anything; +and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can’t reach 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 way about +thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn’t mean; she +can’t help it. You’ve always gone on about my shoes; +when I think I’m the fittest judge of what becomes me best. +I dare say, - ’twould be all the same to you if I put on ploughman’s +boots; but I’m not going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell +you. I’ve never got cold with the shoes I’ve worn +yet, and ’tisn’t likely I should begin now.</p> +<p>“No, Caudle; I wouldn’t wish to say anything to accuse +you: no, goodness knows, I wouldn’t make you uncomfortable for +the world, - but the cold I’ve got, I got ten years ago. +I have never said anything about it - but it has never left me. +Yes; ten years ago the day before yesterday.</p> +<p>“<i>How can I recollect it</i>?</p> +<p>“Oh, very well: women remember things you never think of: poor +souls! they’ve good cause to do so. Ten years ago, I was +sitting up for you, - there now, I’m not going to say anything +to vex you, only do let me speak: ten years ago, I was waiting for you, +and I fell asleep, and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I +was sitting right 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 you meant to do it.</p> +<p>“Ha! it’s all very well for you to call it nonsense; +and to lay your ill conduct upon my shoes. That’s like a +man, exactly! There never was a man yet that killed his wife, +who couldn’t give a good reason for it. No: I don’t +mean to say that you’ve killed me: quite the reverse: still there’s +never been a day that I haven’t felt that key-hole. What?</p> +<p>“<i>Why won’t I have a doctor</i>?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Peggy tells me, Miss Prettyman called to-day.</p> +<p>“<i>What of it</i>?</p> +<p>“Nothing, of course. Yes; I know she heard I was ill, +and that’s why she came. A little indecent, I think, Mr. +Caudle; she might wait; I shan’t be in her way long; she may soon +have the key of the caddy, now.</p> +<p>“Ha! Mr. Caudle, what’s the use of your calling +me your dearest soul now? Well, I do believe you. I dare +say you do mean it; that is, I hope you do. Nevertheless, you +can’t expect I can lie quiet in this bed, and think of that young +woman - not, indeed, that she’s near so young 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 in my grave if - well, +I won’t say anything more about her; but you know what I mean.</p> +<p>“I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when +I’m gone. 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 to be the shoes - certainly not. +I never would wear ’em thick, and you know it, and they never +gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it’s ten years ago +that did it; not that I’ll say a syllable of the matter to hurt +you. I’d die first.</p> +<p>“Mother, you see, knows all your little ways; and you wouldn’t +get another wife to study you and pet you up as I’ve done - a +second wife never does; it isn’t likely she should. And +after all, we’ve been very 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 help their tempers always, +- especially men. Still we’ve been very happy, haven’t +we, Caudle?</p> +<p>“Good-night. Yes, - this cold does tear me to pieces; +but for all that, it isn’t the shoes. God bless you, Caudle; +no, - it’s <i>not</i> the shoes. I won’t say it’s +the key-hole; but again I say, it’s not the shoes. God bless +you once more - But never say it’s the shoes.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The above significant sketch is a correct copy of a drawing from +the hand of Caudle at the end of this Lecture. It can hardly, +we think, be imagined that Mrs. Caudle, during her fatal illness, never +mixed admonishment with soothing as before; but such fragmentary Lectures +were, doubtless, considered by her disconsolate widower as having too +touching, too solemn an import to be vulgarised by type. They +were, however, printed on the heart of Caudle; for he never ceased to +speak of the late partner of his bed as either “his sainted creature,” +or “that angel now in heaven.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>POSTSCRIPT</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Our duty of editorship is closed. We hope we have honestly +fulfilled the task of selection from a large mass of papers. We +could have presented 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 woman with even one argument in her unequal contest with that imperious +creature, man - if we have awarded to a sex, as Mrs. Caudle herself +was wont to declare, “put upon from the beginning,” the +slightest means of defence - if we have supplied a solitary text to +meet any one of the manifold wrongs with which woman, in her household +life, is continually pressed by her tyrannic taskmaster, man, - we feel +that we have only paid back one grain, hardly one, of that mountain +of more than gold it is our felicity to owe her.</p> +<p>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 divinely composed, has in +her ichor-flowing veins one drop - “no bigger than a wren’s +eye” - of Caudle; that Eve herself may now and then have been +guilty of a lecture, murmuring it balmily amongst the rose-leaves. +It may be so; still, be it our pride never to believe it. NEVER!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Footnotes:</p> +<p><a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> The author +was just 42 when he began the “Caudle Lectures.”</p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 6054 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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