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 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 of it, Mr. Caudle; I'll not have my peace of mind destroyed by the themselves Vultures; for they can only do 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. 66 How any man can leave his own happy fireside to go and sit and smoke, and drink, and talk to 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 license taken away, I am 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 as they do by eating up their innocent wives and children. Eighteen-pence a week! And if it was only that, do you know what fifty-two eighteen-pences 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 pincushion; 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 sack-cloth 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 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 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 neighborhood; 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 dare say 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-andwater-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 certain to run off; it isn't likely he'll go 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. Yesit's all very well for you to say you don't mean it, but I only say again, Don't at tempt 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. "Eighteen-pence 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." upon his trial, and you'll be fixed with the bail. Don't tell me that there's no trial in the matter, because I know there is; it's for something more than quarreling with the policeman that he was locked up. People ar'n't locked up for that. No, it's for robbery, or something worse, perhaps. "And as you 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. 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 Of "And here," says Caudle,-"here, thank they do the other folks of the Old Bailey. Heaven at last she fell asleep." THE FOURTH LECTURE. MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN CALLED FROM HIS 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." ture." THE FIFTH LECTURE. MR. CAUDLE HAS REMAINED DOWN-STAIRS "YES, Mr. Caudle, I knew it would come "Her will, I have no doubt," says to this. I said it would, when you joined Caudle, was strong; but Nature was those precious Skylarks. People being stronger, and she did sleep; this night called out of their beds at all hours of the inflicting upon me a remarkably short lecnight, 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 neighbors 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 pack 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 "PRETTY time of night to come to bed, Mr. Caudle. Ugh! As cold, too, as 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 tomorrow, 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 However, there's one comfort: you told me to send for the best brandy-the very bestfor 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. a supper when you want one; for want one-and I know it-I could see by the manyou will unless you change your plans. ner of you, when you came into the room— Don't tell me! I know I'm right. You'll I know you've got at the other bottle. 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's it 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 "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. 66 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." THE SIXTH LECTURE. FAMILY UMBRELLA. poor woman may be trampled to death, and MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE A 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 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. toes. "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! Ar'n'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 down-stairs again, I can tell you; I recollected it and a pretty two hours I've passed that I left the key in the cupboard "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. and you shan'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 very well for youyou 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! No: they shall stop at home and never | No, sir; I won't borrow an umbrella. No; 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. O, 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 sixteen-pence at least sixteen-pence! 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! "Men, indeed!-call themselves lords of the creation I-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 wantthen 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 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 litItle money we were to have, we shan't have at all-because we've no umbrella. "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 is the foolish man. You know that 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 dare say I shall and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder "The children, too! Dear things! They'll if I caught my death; yes: and that's what be sopping wet: for they shan't stop at you lent the umbrella for. Of course! home-they shan't lose their learning: it's "Nice clothes I shall get too, trapesing all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. through weather like this. My gown and But they shall go to school. Don't tell me bonnet will be spoilt quite. Needn't I wear I said they shouldn't; you are so aggrava'em, then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall ting, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out a angel. They shall go to school; mark dowdy to please you or anybody else. that. And if they get their deaths of cold, Gracious knows! it isn't often that I step my fault I didn't lend the um 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'm going to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die, I'll do it. it's not "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!" THE SEVENTH LECTURE. MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMON- MUTTON AND NO PUDDING.-MRS. CAU DLE DEFENDS THE COLD SHOULDER. "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? brought home a pair of fowls; I know it; but you were 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. I "Apples ar'n't so dear, are they? 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 yearevery Shrove Tuesday? And what would any moderate, decent man want more? 66 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 dare say; 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 faultno; 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 today! 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-ended! nothing, as I'm a Christian sinner. "Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudleno, 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 eggsdon'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 "I'm sure I do nothing but work and "Yes; there you are, throwing those labor, and think how to make the most of fowls in my face again! I know you once everything: and this is how I'm rewarded. |