I ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~.
DOUGLASi JEROLD




M RS. CAUDLE'S
CURTAIN LECTURES:
MRS. BIB'S BABY.
By DOUGLAS JERROLD.
WITH MEMOIR BY BLANCHARD JERROLD.
CAUDLE!!!
SCRIBNER, WELFORD, & CO., NEW YORK.
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., LONDON.
I87 3.








INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
BIOGRAPHICAL introduction to any writings of a working man of letters is useful,
as explaining many of the characteristics
of the author's mind, and how he reached
the fields in which he fed his imagination, or built up
his theories.  There is pleasure in tracing the thread
of his own life, that, whether thin as spider's silk, or
broad and clear, the author draws through his writings.
We appear to gain a personal acquaintance with the man
whose pen has charmed us, or has taught us wisdom. I
believe that this is the chief reason why the lives of literary
men, even when most uneventful, are welcome to the
public. Readers are delighted to learn how the man
who, from his silent study, so long entranced them, appeared in his slippers. Did he eat, and drink, and sleep
like other men? He had genius: what, then, were his
eccentricities? For-authors shall spend the most hum.
drum lives, living on roast and boiled duly paid for;
reading at the club; and keeping all the business of their
days by double entry; and it shall still be some time




vi           INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
before their readers will believe that a man may be a
genius, and have no more eccentricity than a city banker
There are crowds of people who hold that a great scientific thinker must, of necessity, use a lady's finger as a
tobacco-stopper. I remember sitting, at a continental
table d'hote, near an enthusiastic family, who were thrown
into a condition of dangerous mental excitement, by the
arrival of a quiet, gentlemanly man; who took his seat at
the lower end of the table, and talked easily and cheerfully to his neighbours. They had discovered that he
was the great Mr. Blank, whose last novel they had been
reading. Every ear was stretched to catch Mr. Blank's
lightest word. But Mr. Blank, having arrived with a good
appetite, confined his conversation to the merits of the
dinner, with a passing allusion to the probable state of
the weather; and, his dinner over, lighted a cigar in the
court-yard, and walked smartly away-to the port.
"Who would have thought that was the great Mr.
Blank?" cried the enthusiastic family. "Why, he might
have been Mr. Brown or Jones! "
The difficulty is to persuade enthusiastic readers, that
most modern men of letters have the appearance and
manners of ordinary English gentlemen; and never go to
balls or routs in shooting jackets, nor wear their hair
curled to the waist.
A traveller early on his way to Richmond, passing over
the then picturesque heath of Putney, some ten years ago,
in the summer time, would probably see, by the gipsies'




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.              vii
tent, a short gentleman, with wild iron-grey hair peeping
from under his straw hat; a sharp, bright eye; and a lip
with mocking corners to it; chattering with the gipsies,
who would lie upon the grass, shielding their eyes from
the sun, with their chestnut hands; and laugh at their
neighbour from the snug Lodge yonder, curtained in limetrees, and musical with a little farm-yard at the back. I
am sure the stranger would hardly have paused to listen
to the badinage, nor to mark a point of eccentricity in the
owner of the Lodge. I am quite certain the gipsies
themselves, who were old friends and neighbours of
Douglas Jerrold, never saw anything more in him than a
lively gentleman, who was very fond of early morning on
the heath; who appeared to love the yellow furze very
much, and pick it very often, and hold it apparently with
great pleasure between his lips, while, bending himself
back, a little painfully, leaning on his stick, he watched
the sky-promises of the opening day.
A man of the simplest habits; with the nature of childhood as fresh in him in his fiftieth year as when he first
looked over the broad sea from a Sheerness garret, and
saw the great war-ships dip under the horizon-going, he
longed to know whither. My father, the subject of this
memoir, would have been remarked anywhere, not for an
eccentricity, but for a simple freshness of manner; the
manner of a country gentleman brightened by the sea.
All his life the boy shone through the man. The laugh
remained clear and loud; the spirit free and adventurous;




viii        INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
the mind as bent upon the realisation of shining dreams,
as in the days when two boys, unknown to fame, stood
out of the rain under a London doorway, dreaming of the
gallant things they would do, under Lord Byron, in behalf
of the Greeks. Since these young soldiers of Independence, who were to have become volunteers Douglas
William Jerrold and Samuel Laman Blanchard, dreamed
that glorious dream in the rain and fog of London; the
lives of both have been fought in the fields of literature,
far away from Greece!
The time and atmosphere in which my father was born
and spent his youth, were calculated to give him that free,
gallant, and cheerful spirit which appeared, in after life,
too strong and impetuous for the slight, weak frame in
which it was housed. He was born in London, on the
3rd of January, I803; but his first recollections were of
Sheerness, where his father owned and managed a theatre.
In those days, war made Sheerness a lively place to live
in. To a boy of quick imagination, the tramp of the
gallant old salts through the streets, the brave Lord
Cochrane among them, and their rough stories of their
exploits; with the ships roaring their salutes, and the
press-gangs kidnapping more food for powder; life in the
old seaport must have had endless attractions. Then
there was his father's theatre, with its scenic wonders,
amid which my father actually appeared more than once,
carried on by Edmund Kean, in Rolla. Being early a
greedy reader, his mind strengthened soon, fed from




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.             ix
within and without. His Christmas piece and the book
his baby-hands held, and over the pages of which his
great blue eyes wandered; are treasures we, who belonged
to him, reverently keep, to remind us of the mere flash of
childhood he enjoyed.
In December, I8I3, a slight, frail child was carried on
board the Namur guard-ship at the Nore, to become a
midshipman in the service of the king! A boy for the
captain's lady to pet, not for the hoarse throat of Mars to
thunder at! But these children in uniform had the blood
of the gentle and brave in them; and it was a good sight
to behold how proudly they sported the dirk, and bore
their duties, while their mothers were mournful in the
empty nursery. Childhood was gone, to them. Among
these my father stood, through the influence of Captain
Austin, relative of the novelist, and met a brave sailor on
the ship-who has since, with a master's hand, painted
the sea he once sailed-Clarkson Stanfield. In those
rough days of the old war, a young gentleman on board
one of the king's ships did not lie on a bed of roses. The
discipline was hard, and the kicks were many. They
sickened, and I have no doubt well nigh broke the hearts
of crowds of delicate boys. What a story for the cock-pit
must my father's grandmother have unconsciously made,
when she sent to the captain to beg that her dear young
Douglas might be allowed to wear pattens on the sloppy
decks! Dear Douglas must, on his side, pray to be
transferred to a ship that was something more than a log




x            INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR,
anchored at the Nore. He touched his hat to the captain,
and begged to be sent to glory. His petition was granted,
and he went to the Ernest gun-brig; and dipped, in his
turn, under the horizon he had watched from his Sheerness nursery. Of the war he saw nought, save its last
horror. The ship in which he sailed, conveyed troops to
Belgium for Waterloo, and brought back a cargo of
wounded.' He has described the gun-brig in Jack
Runnymede.  This last service in which our young
midshipman was engaged, was a horror that lived ever
after in his mind, and tinctured all his thoughts of war.
When he met a parade of laurels, his mind flew back to
the gory stumps he used to see dressed of mornings, as
he sailed from the Belgian coast with a cargo of heroes.
A braver spirit never stood; and he has been heard to
say, glowing with his memories of the sea, that, had he
been somewhat taller and stronger, he would have been
heard of from British oak; but the normal state of my
father's mind was one of disgust for fighting. Although
a man of combative temperament, and quite prepared to
give his sons a lesson in boxing; he could not but be won
through his imagination, that loved the harmonies of
nature, to the quiet and Christian glories of peace.
He brought from his ship, when he was put ashore at
Sheerness after the peace, a love of the salt water and of
salt water heroes, that possessed him to his death. It
appeared to brace and strengthen his mind, and to
intensify his wit. It gave him that strong manliness




INTRODUCTORY MEMOI1R.             xi
which triumphed over the feebleness and spareness of
his body, and made his presence redoubtable.  He
flashed his sayings across the table, as from a port hole;
and everybody remembered, there was a gallant little
gunner in company, who had more powder and shot at
hand.
He needed all the strength and courage he could
bring from the sea to London, on that chill new year's
day, I8T6, when he landed from the Chatham boat.
His father was now a man of broken fortune, from whose
exertions there was little more to hope. Alone with his
father, the ex-midshipman tasted what sharp food
Poverty offers to the adventurers who meet her, in
London. He turned to a printing-office, and brought
to his father the little money he could earn. They
shared it in the court where they lived; and saved
enough to hire volumes of Walter Scott to read. There
can be no doubt in the minds of men who knew my
father intimately, that his early days in London gave a
bitterness to his mind, which would burst out from time
to time. He abhorred tyranny; he passionately hated
injustice; and his attacks were vehement when a tyrant
appeared, or an unjust thing was done. Through the
younger half of his life he suffered much. He was galled
by hard taskmasters, and buffeted rudely by men whom
he despised. When he had emancipated himself (while
he was yet a boy) from the drudgery of a printing-office,
to which he was not born, and for which the position of




xii          INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
"officer and gentleman" in the king's service had not
fitted him-he sought to live by his pen. Men who
knew him in these his boyish days, attest how bravely
he fought, with his head high, and a resolve in his heart
that never forsook him. The labour he performed was
so great, and was so broadly spread, that it has become
impossible to trace all of it. Scraps of poetry, squibs,
dramatic criticisms, and dramatic pieces of all descriptions, flowed from his pen; but brought no great supply
of grist to the mill;-and grist was wanted.
In his twenty-first year, my father had married Miss
Mary Ann Swann of Wetherby, in Yorkshire; and his
friend Blanchard had duly congratulated him in verse.
A young family was increasing his responsibilities.  The
grist must come therefore; and so, he struck his bargains
in fetters. His pieces made successes on the boards of
the minor theatres; and the scene-painters received
more money than the author. He had to deal with
dishonourable men, who would never give him his due.
What wonder, then, if, now and then, he impaled a
scoundrel on " the wasp's edge of an epigram "?  His
dear friend Laman Blanchard, who was the more fortunate of the two, in early times, would sing to him" _   The time shall be
When men will find a music in thy name "but he wanted now, what success should bring to wife
and children. It was unfortunate that chance threw him




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.             xiii
in the way of bad men, who duped him when he was
generous to them; and cheated him, when they professed to serve him. If I insist upon this early and
comparatively obscure part of his career, it is because it
explains a phase of his mind, and the intensity of his
passion when, in later days, he took up the cudgels of
the poor and defenceless. Richter has said, " It is long
ere the wounds inflicted by an unjust man are healed."
My father's first success, that made his name known
in London, was his nautical drama entitled, "BlackEyed Susan:" an inspiration brought with him, like
Lieutenant Tackle, Captain Channel, and others, from
the sea. In after life he was not proud of its authorship
-being rich in better, that is, in higher, things. The
nautical drama holds the stage, however, because it has
strong human interest in it. Its pathos goes quite round
the house. Its jollity tastes of the salt; and the British
public relish the rough jargon from before the mast.
Actor and manager made a fortune by it. Mr. T. P.
Cooke was on the point of being hanged from a yardarm, at the Surrey and Drury Lane theatres, every
evening. Money was turned from the box offices: but
only a few pounds from the groaning exchequer reached
the author's pocket. He gained reputation, however;
this no manager could take from him: and still, with
unabated courage, he wrote for the minor theatres —
making his way steadily, but with toil and trouble, to
Covent Garden and Drury Lane.




xiv            INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR.
And all this time he was educating himself. He
would have his fire laid over night, and rise by candlelight on winter's mornings, to read his Latin and French;
and to make ready for his Italian master (he still lives in
Boulogne to tell the story), who was to come presently.
He read all the old dramatists and poets; and he was
not content until he could enjoy Rabelais easily in the
original. He was a diligent student of Jeremy Taylor, and
an enthusiastic Shakspearian. He worshipped the genius
of the Bard of Avon, and bade every young man read his
Bible and his Shakspeare. Wit like his belongs to a
serious mind.* Where other men saw only a black hole
in the bottom of the well, he caught a sparkle from the
water. It is the privilege of the dull to sneer at wits, as
shallow, or, at least, not learned men. He never condescended to be a mere comic talker; and when he was
expected to shine, was silent. He had a respect for that
which was deeper in him than his wit. The poetic
germ that bubbled up in him, was that which he
cherished, and was at pains to cultivate through his life.
He used his force as a satirist with a will, because by it
* "I am convinced that the world will get tired (at least I hope so,)
of this eternal guffaw at all things. After all, life has something serious
in it. It cannot be all a comic history of humanity. Some men would,
I believe, write the comic Sermon on the Mount. Think of a comic
History of England; the drollery of Alfred; the fun of Sir Thomas
More in the Tower; the farce of his daughter begging the dead head,
and clasping it in her coffin, on her bosom. Surely the world will be
sick of this blasphemy."-Letter to Charles Dickens.




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.              xv
he could best chastise those he deemed to be political or
social wrong-doers. He had felt all the poor feel, with
the acuteness of an exquisitely sensitive nature. He was
a liberal by instinct, and the accidents of his life had
sharpened this instinct, by proving to him that it was
good. No man ever had less of the agitator in him,
The coarse forms-not to say company —which were the
belongings of Chartists and demagogues in his time,
were detestable to him. His was a pure literary mind,
that was satisfied to dwell in literature for ever; and
never sought for power beyond the library.
My father had strong political feelings which came
from a heart that had suffered much. He grew serious
in windy weather, because he had sailed the stormy seas.
All the powers he had in him were in battle array in a
moment, when a great calamity had happened, or a
grievous wrong had been committed. He did not coolly
divide the question into three heads, and examine each:
he poured out that which he deemed to be the truth in
him. It would be impossible to evolve a political system
from his newspaper writings: but they abound in bits
of most eloquent pleading for the helpless and the
oppressed. The Corn-laws did not appear to him as
they would appear to the editor of the "Economist."
He simply called for a big free-trade loaf for the workman's cupboard, instead of the little protection loaf,
which was to keep the children hungry and rents high.
In this way he was the friend of the tenant and not of




xvi          INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR.
the landlord, seeing that the latter was quite able to
protect his rights, and was not unlikely to get a little
more than his just due. Thus " The Rent Day " is as
political as any-of his leading articles.
And so the gallant spirit that was in the sailor-boythat chafed at the idleness of a guard-ship-removed to
London, did battle with poverty, and amended the faults
of a most limited education. It would not be subdued,
nor wander from its object. The spirit was pliant withal
-springing up easily after a trial, and facing the world
for more punishment. Gentle Laman Blanchard, in some
letters I have, reproves the haste and temper with which
my father was getting his'vantage ground; and in this
letter the difference in the temperaments of the two men,
whose mutual friendship sweetened the lives of both, is
manifest. I see the two figures before me. The one
with a fiery eye, a dilated nostril, a firm Napier face, with
wild hair over it; the other placid, quiet, and with a
beauty almost feminine.   The two men must have
approached each other from opposite ends of the earth:
the one fiery, and resolute to conquer-the other calm,
content to wait, and to do some other day, when the sun
is brighter. They quarrelled, like children, about the
way of the world; and they parted for a time, because
they could not meet like men who have a coolness-and
are still on speaking terms. The daring and impatience
of the one, shook the nerves of the other. Blanchard
gently sang that the day when the world would find "a




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.              xvii
music " in his friend's name, was to come; and his friend
was not patient enough.
Through a series of circumstances on which it is not
needful to dwell; where friends were false and the victim
was too trustful; my father passed, even when his name
was known, through trials, in which it was difficult not to
be a little at war with the world. He afforded help to
men who proved thankless and dishonest; and years of
work at his desk, paid the penalty of his indiscretion.
He was generous to a fault; and gave where it was
almost foolish to give. It was a hearty way with him to
accede to any request made on his purse, his influence,
or his time. And when he found he had been cheated
of his sympathy, he was roused to fury. With all his
penetration and his experience of the world, which he
began to learn roughly as he stepped from his cradle, no
man was more easily imposed on.  When a stranger
advanced into his presence, he began by believing him;
and so, half the stranger's point was gained at the outset.
The begging-letter impostor found an easy dupe in him.
He had the revenge of painting a few of his enemies;
but they were dear models. In the hard times of his
life, most of his minor pieces, as The Schoolfellows, Doves
in a Cage, The Hazard of the 9ie, Nell Gwynne, 7he
Housekeeper, The Wedding Gown, and the one-act tragedy
called The Painter of Ghent (in which, for a few nights,
he tried his fortune on the stage), these and a host of
others, were produced. In these years also he wrote




xviii       INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
dramatic criticisms and leaders for the Aforning Herald;
stories and articles for the annuals; magazine papers, for
Blackwood, &c., some of which were collected into three
volumes, entitled Men of Charac/er; he edited and contributed largely to The Reads of the People; and he made
a second collection of magazine articles under the title of
Cakes and Ale. These great literary activities gave him
an acknowledged position among the known writers of
the day; but still his fame might be said to rest mainly
on his successful contributions to the stage. He had,
indeed, founded a domestic drama, of which he said"it is a small thing, but mine own." That impatience
which, as I have remarked, always manifested itself in
him, when there was a wrong to be set right; led him to
take an active part in the contention against the
monopoly of the patent theatres, and in behalf of the
rights of dramatic authors.
It was when " Punch" was started, in the year I841,
while my father was at Boulogne, that a permanent
channel, most happily and completely adapted to his
genius, was first opened to it. His wit, his passion, his
quaintnesses-all the forms in which he sought to communicate himself to the world, and be understood by it
at last, would here find a place. The heartiness with
which he threw himself into what was almost a new life
to him, was characteristic. He saw all the developments
his new friend with the hunch, might take. He might be
a wild buffoon, or a wise fool, in his generation. " Punch"




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.              xix
was not intended to be a merely comic periodical.
"Punch" was to be a grave philosopher, a tender
romancist. He should have his political strength. He
should bring his wit and humour and satire, to bear upon
very great shams indeed.  The rapid hold which the
now world-renowned and most puissant "Punch," took
of the British public, fairly astonished all the heavy wiseacres who had foretold the speedy discomfiture of a
mountebank. The cap and bells were fitted upon wise
heads: the fooling was not purposeless, and was even
learned. The hunchback had been removed from the
street-corner to the drawing-room, and the library; and
might be seen in the palace of the Sovereign, and in the
cabinet of the premier. He was a relief —a relaxationa new stimulant to grave professors and fagged students.
Just as men whose lives are spent in grave pursuits that
stretch the intellect to its extremest tension, run away
from the laboratory, or the study, or the studio, to some
club where they will see their fellow-workers roaring like
lions, and wagging their tails (being members of the
British Lions) - so reverend readers and lecturers,
pacing the quiet quadrangles of ancient colleges, found
"Punch" a right welcome hour's laughter once a week.
From the establishment of " Punch" to within one
week of his death, my father was an incessant contributor
to it. Into its columns he poured an infinite variety of
quaint papers, satires, stories, essays, humorous and
grave, and facetiae and mots, by the hundred. " Punch "




xx          INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
gave his mind a holiday, where it could play freely. Here
was a public channel for the sudden thought, the spontaneous joke, and all the ideas to which the passing
events gave rise, at the reading of the morning paper.
He had a storehouse, where he could deposit all the
lighter play of his rich fancy; and save for others, the
peals of laughter that were, before Mr. Punch came into
the field, reserved for his friends.
The first series of contributions in which he was of undoubted value to the rising fame of " Punch," were those
which were signed "Q."  These are a most fanciful,
vigorous, pungent, and sarcastic set of political squibs.
They stir the blood, and provoke the laugh; aye, and
attune the mind to thoughts that have no laughter in
them. They were written in fine Saxon English; and
went home to the hearts of thousands. Some were
thunderbolts which Mr. Punch sent with his compliments
to enemies of the people, and purveyors of shams, and
unconscionable pluralists, and to the martinets who held
up the cat-o'-nine-tails as real commander-in-chief of Her
Majesty's forces. Others were sharp lance-thrusts at
bigots and noodles. I make no doubt, however, that
many hole-and-corner politicians of the day decided that
they didn't go far enough. There are men who would
look upon a leader who should head the mob into the
wine cellars of Buckingham Palace, as a mere trimmer
who had only made a feint in the right direction. There
are extreme men tacked to all political parties: and these




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.             xxi
hate the moderate and rational men of their own party,
with a deeper hatred than they bear to their political
opponents. I remember a wild democrat of the famous
roth of April, who was disgusted, and declared he
despaired of the Liberal party, when some rational men
whom he addressed, declined to help him in getting
up an organisation, the object of which was to blow up
Westminster Bridge by penny subscriptions!
The opening of the Punch campaign-where Mr.
Punch's political creed was explained to the British
public-was hinged upon the celebrated Bed-chamber
plot. My father's first contribution to the new periodical
appeared on the I3th of September, I84I, and was
entitled "Peel Regularly Called In." My father had
been a passionate reader of natural history always (he
had a copy of Buffon with him on board the Namur),
and in this article, and in a hundred others, he turned
this reading to witty account. Le Vaillant speaks of a
turtle that continued to live after its brain was taken
from its skull, and the cavity stuffed with cotton. "Is
not," says "Q.," "England, with spinning-jenny Peel at
the head of its affairs, in this precise predicament?" The
Tories were giving themselves a new name; and " Q."
writes, "When adders shall become eels, then will we
believe that Conservatives cannot be Tories." The times
in which these papers were begun and continued, were
big with events: and great changes impended at home.
It was a time when Toryism was powerful; and my father
b




xxii        INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
could speak in his own way, that which he knew from his
heart, aye, and from his suffering. It is almost inconceivable that so shrewd a man as the late Duke of
Wellington should have said, in hard times too, that every
poor man, if only "sober and industrious," was "quite
certain" of acquiring a competency,-a monstrous assertion to make of any country on the face of the earth.
My father's pen was dipped in gall most wholesomely
bitter. He declared that if this were the Duke's belief,
he knew no more of England than the Icelander in his
sledge. This was hard hitting; but a calumny as heartless as it was absurd had been spoken of the suffering
thousands who were in the United Kingdom. "Q."
concludes, in no mood to mince matters, "Gentlemen
Tories, shuffle the cards as you will, the Duke of
Wellington either lacks principle or brains." The reader
who should be at the trouble of following these papers
through " Punch," as the daily newspapers suggested
subjects to " Q.," will see how closely the man and the
author stood together; and how the strength was always
put forth for the weak side. The picture of pure Christianity in London, for one day, is in my father's happiest
manner. Dr. Chalmers would have nought to do with
getting a big loaf for the poor; he was for "universal
Christian education for the poor." " Q." applied the
doctor's test. Everybody has been made, or is to be
made, a practising Christian. The bench of bishops
meet at Lambeth Palace, and-" discovering that locusts




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.              xxiii
and wild honey —the Baptist's diet-may be purchased
for something less than ten thousand a year-and after a
minute investigation of the Testament, failing to discover
the name of St. Peter's coach-maker, or of St. Paul's
footman, his valet, or his cook, take counsel one with
another, and resolve to forego at least nine-tenths of their
yearly incomings."  A  Christian Sunday! " Had one
page," " Q." writes, " ten thousand times its amplitude,
it would not contain the briefest register of the changes
of that day." " Q." concludes with Dr. Chalmers: "We
are with Dr. Chalmers for Christianity, but not Christianity of one side." There are whimsical as well as
solemn papers. The masons who were building the
Houses of Parliament, struck during a distress. " Q."
suggested that the members should build their own roof,
like beavers. Shall cuckoos and members of Parliament
alone be lodged at others' pains? Follow some humorous
suggestions. As-Sir James Graham would do the dovetailing. Disraeli was to do the light interior work. " His.
logic, it is confessed, will support nothing; but we think
he would be a very smart hand at a hat-peg." The
article on Politics of the Outward Man —a propos of
some fashionable reporter's sneers at fustian-coated men,
&c., is full of indignation most forcibly expressed. Man's
covering-" the livery of original sin, bought with the
pilfered apples-is worn into a hole; and Opinion, that
sour-breathed hag, claps her blue lips to the broken web,
gives a puff, and out goes man's immortal spark! From
b 2




xxiv         INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
this moment the creature is but a carcass "-that can
work. Poor Sir Peter Laurie's woful mistakes and persevering blunders did not escape the satirist.  The
opening fire is heavy. "Q." has no more thought of
dedicating a whole page of " Punch" to one Sir Peter
Laurie than the Zoological Mr. Cross would think of
devoting an acre of his gardens to one ass, simply
because it happened to be the largest known specimen
of the species; still, for the alderman's benefit, he paints
life by Comfort and then by Penury. Sir Peter had
committed a starving man to the treadmill for a month,
for having attempted to put an end to his life. " Q."
ends thus, on this theme: " The surest way for the rich
and powerful of the world to make the poor man more
careful of his life, is to render it of greater value to him."
Running over the papers-and there is deep feeling and
abundant wit in all of them-my eye is arrested by the
name of the Marquis de Boissy-so far back as I842talking the nonsense of the withered brains of the
Quartier St. Germains, in Louis Philippe's Chamber of
Peers.  Said the Marquis-" The worst enemies of
government are persons without property." This speech
from a cruel heart, speaking through a head where only
the smallest cavity had been left for brains, was twisted
scornfully, a thousand ways, by " Q.," under the head of
"The Traitor' Nothing."' There was a prophecy in
the peroration.  "And, alas! we fear it is too trueNothing is an enemy of the Government! And Nothing




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.               xx'
-let the Government be sure of it-has a hundred
thousand emissaries."  Nothing proved too strong for
the Marquis de Boissy's then master in I848.
When the county courts were under discussion, "Q."
was, of course, on the side of cheap law. "Turkey,"
he said, "has her eunuchs, Russia her Cossacks, and
England her attorneys." And again, of the clamour
made by lawyers for dear law: " It is because lawyers
are not wedded to justice that, like other profligates with
their nominal wives, they would have her dress finely."
I give these as instances of the kind of political writer
my father was; and how he attacked with new weapons,
and had tactics and ammunition all his own. The
following, of direct and indirect taxation, is a good
example. Mr. Charles Buller preferred indirect taxation
to direct taxation.  " Q." likens indirect taxation to the
activity of the vampire bat-he is the indirect taxgatherer. " For we are told that the creature, in the
silence,of night, fixes itself upon the toes of the sleeper,
and drinks and drinks its greedy draughts of blood, and
while it drinks, benevolently fans its victim with its
wings; and so the sleeper, i.e., the tax-payer, sleeps on
until the vampire is gorged; and then the creature goes
away, leaving the man in perfect ignorance of the amount
of income he has, in his slumber, subscribed. Now, this
is the sort of tax-gatherer proposed by Mr. Charles
Buller. Dr. Peel, however, says,' No; I want so many
ounces of blood from every man, according to his capa



xxvi         INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
bilities of losing the same. I will take them, weigh
them fairly; so hold out your arm, and-where's the
basin?' "
Enough-to give the reader an idea of the manner in
which Douglas Jerrold touched political questions. He
was enthusiastic on the popular side, as Shelley was.
He dealt with great indisputable wrongs, and drove sharp
epigrams into the vital marrow of them; or wrapped them
in quaint story or happy metaphor. Of these papers of
his contributed to "Punch," whether signed "Q.," or
called "Punch's Letters to his Son," or " Punch's Complete Letter Writer," it may be equally said-in the
words of Mr. Hannay: the paper-" stands out by itself
from all the others —the sharp critical knowingness,
sparkling with puns, of A'Beckett-the inimitable, wise,
easy, playful, worldly, social sketch of Thackeray. In
imagery he has no rivals there; for his mind had a very
marked tendency to the ornamental and illustrativeeven to the grotesque. In satire, again, he had fewer
competitors than in humour; sarcasms lurk under his
similes, like wasps in fruit or flowers. I will just quote
one specimen from a casual article of his, because it
happens to occur to my memory, and because it illustrates his manner. The' Chronicle' had been attacking
some artists in whom he took an interest. In replying,
he set out by telling how, in some vine countries, they
repress the too luxuriant growths by sending in asses to
crop the shoots. Then he remarked gravely, that young




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.             xxvii
artists required pruning, and added,'How thankful we
ought all to be that the "Chronicle" keeps a donkey!' In
sterner moods he was grander.  Of a Jew money-lender
he said, that' he might die like Judas, but that he had
no bowels to gush out;' also, that'he' (the moneylender)' would have sold our Saviour for more money.'
An imaginative colour distinguished his best satire, and
it had the deadly and wild glitter of war rockets. This
was the most original quality, too, of his satire, and just
the quality which is least common in our present satirical
literature. He had read the old writers-Browne, Donne,
Fuller, and Cowley-and was tinged with that richer and
quainter vein which so emphatically distinguishes them
from the prosaic wits of our day. His weapons reminded
you of Damascus rather than Birmingham."
Bushels of articles of every description were carved
with this poetic weapon, during the sixteen years that
intervened between the establishment of " Punch" and
my father's death. In addition to the miscellaneous list
-the titles of which would fill pages-he contributed to
"Punch " —the tender "Story of a Feather," and " Our
Honeymoon."  " Mrs. Bib's Baby," and "The Female
Robinson Crusoe," were soon abandoned. But ", Mrs.
Caudle's Curtain Lectures" sprang into a wild popularity
that travelled over Europe. I have a Dutch translation
of what Mr. Job Caudle suffered, in my possession. The
" Story of a Feather" had a success which my father
valued more than the noisy triumphs of Mrs. Caudle.




xxviii       INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
Mr. Dickens wrote to congratulate him on his "wise
and beautiful book." A well-known critic wrote of it:
" The predominant characteristic of this story is power,
and the moral character of it, earnestness; it is painted
with intensity, for it has feeling in every paragraph. No'wit' could have written it, any more than he could have
written the funeral service." The same critic remarks
on the manner in which my father got under weigh with
a subject, and how he conducted the journey with " pomp
and plentifulness."
This active work continued for "Punch" to within
eight days of Douglas Jerrold's death. I suspect a
fragment I have entitled "Adam's Apples," was the
beginning of a new " Punch" series.
Let the reader observe what manner of worker my
father was, even in the prosperous times to which
"Punch" and his brilliant success on the stage introduced him. He edited successively " The Illuminated
Magazine," "Douglas Jerrold's Weekly Newspaper,"
" Douglas Jerrold's Shilling Magazine," and for the last
five years of his life "Lloyd's Weekly London Newspaper."  Let the reader run down the list of his republished dramatic works only (and they are not half
he wrote for the stage), and he must be astonished to
find that the writer had time to edit a newspaper and a
magazine, and contribute every week to " Punch " into
the bargain.  In his Shilling Magazine he wrote his
story of " St. Giles's and St. James's." He was attacked,




INDRODUCTORY MEMOIR.              xxix
hereupon, as a writer who desired at all times to rob the
rich for the benefit of the poor. He appealed against
this charge, which angered him always. "It has been
my endeavour," he says, " to show, in the person of St.
Giles, the victim of an ignorant disregard of the social
claims of the poor upon the rich; of the governed million
upon the governing few; to present-I am well aware
how imperfectly-but with no wilful exaggeration of the
portraiture-rthe picture of the infant pauper reared in
brutish ignorance, a human waif of dirt and darkness.
Since the original appearance of this story, the reality of
this picture in all its vital and appalling horror, has forced
itself upon the Legislature, has engaged its anxious
thoughts, and will ultimately triumph in its humanising
sympathies. I will only add that, upon an after revision
of this story, I cannot think myself open to the charge
of bedizening St. Giles at the cost of St. James; or of
making Hog Lane the treasury of all the virtues, to the
moral sacking of Mayfair. * * * Some of it has
been called' bitter;' indeed,'bitter' has, I think, been
a little too often the ready word when certain critics have
condescended to bend their eyes upon my page; so
ready that, were my ink redolent of myrrh and frankincense, I well know the sort of ready-made criticism that
would cry, with a denouncing shiver,'Aloes, aloes!'"
My father's last work of fiction was "A Man Made of
Money," begun in that, to him, fruitful literary year 1851.
There are sound critics who believe that it will be read




xxx          INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
longer than any of his works. It has been ranged with
"Peter Schlemil " and "Zanoni;" and has been said to
deserve rank with the philosophic stories so fashionable
in the last century. The philosophy on the moneygrubber's fate, permeates the story. In his literary
estimate of my father Mr. Hannay says, alluding to "A
Man Made of Money," it "is the completest of his books
as a creation, and the most characteristic in point of
style-is based on a principle which predominated in his
mind-is the most original in imaginativeness, and the
best sustained in point and neatness, of the works he has
left." Even in this the middy turns up-as it does in
the last fragment he left in MS. The fragment is in
"Adam's Apples:" "Adam lay beneath the oak. An
acorn dropped into his hand. His world-reading eye
dwelt upon the seed. He saw forests. He heard the
hammers of shipwrights; and he saw the oaks, bowed
into ships, take water, breasting it like swans. And
then, with somewhat of the saddest look, he saw Horatio
Nelson smitten on the deck."
Between I85r and his death, my father made three
more appearances on the stage, viz., with " Retired from
Business," " St. Cupid; or Dorothy's Fortune," and
"The Heart of Gold."  In I854 he resolved not to
write again for the theatre.
I believe the happiest time of my father's life was
when, feeling that he had made his ground good, he
could take his occasional leisure; pass his summers in




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.            xxxi
the country-and when having had successes at both the
patent houses with "The Bride of Ludgate," "The
Bubbles of the Day," " The Prisoner of War," &c., he
brought a five-act comedy to the Haymarket in 1845.
For about twelve years of his life-and these the lasthe enjoyed the fruit of forty years of as hard fighting as
ever man, who took up literature as a profession, could
know. The long summer he spent in an ivy-covered
cottage, near Herne Bay, appeared to open a bright way
into the future. He enjoyed that holiday like a boy.
He was in the orchard while the dew was on the grass:
he played upon the haycocks. He was known in the
Bay, for his lively talk with the bathing folk. In the
villages round about, he would watch the sports, and
laugh as though he had just come out of school. Every
minute, the beauty of the country enraptured him. He
would pick a beetle from a rose bush, and laying it upon
the back of his hand, would watch it for half an hour;
and then put it upon the flower again. As he sat
reading, or taking his claret under the trees with a friend,
he would raise his face to the heavens, and draw in the
pure air, and vow that the daywas exquisite. He prided
himself on his botanical knowledge; and went from
bush to bush, and flower to flower, absolutely revelling in
the nature about him. He would turn suddenly upon
the nearest companion-" And this, sir, is within five
hours of Fleet Street! " The thought seemed to sadden
him. He had spent nearly all his life hardly clear from




xxxii        INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
London smoke: but he was never of London. He
hated the stony streets and noisy thoroughfares: and so,
rich or poor, he generally contrived to stow his household gods somewhere where there was, as he said, " a bit
of green." He once took a cottage in the Vale of
Health, towards the end of one of the severest
Decembers I can call to mind; and was surprised to
find that the family did not entirely approve of the
measure.
His Kentish walks suggested to him some of his best
papers, and they were written in the ivy-covered cottage,
after rambles. In this way the article on "The Reculvers," that on "The Old Man at the Gate," and
"The Two Windows," were written —and printed in his
Illuminated Magazine, which he was then publishing.
With his pet spaniel, and his stick, he would stroll off
slowly between the Kentish hedgerows-and sit, to watch
the sea, from the ruined churchyard of the Reculvers.
He could see the breezy entourage of his old home at
Sheerness-and past these two turrets he sailed, when he
brought back those maimed men from Waterloo. Sometimes he would dip down to the valley behind, past
King Ethelbert's gateway.
"The Two Windows " were seen on a summer's day.
We had strolled through the lovely English village from
which Herne Bay gets its name, and had gone through
the churchyard to the park beyond. The rise and swell
of the finely-timbered land, dotted with sheep, and white




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.            xxxiii
and yellow with daisies and buttercups, woke all my
father's enthusiasm. He lingered, and turned aboutand could not feast enough on the beauties before
him. As we turned the angle of a clump of trees, a
long, low white building appeared, on the brow of the
hill.
"There's a lovely situation!" said my father-" What
a view!"
View! There was a long blank wall-stretched to the
beauties of one of the loveliest spots in lovely Kentwith two little windows, about large enough for a hen to
pass through. He wondered what the strange building
could be.
"The House," said a passing rustic.
It was the workhouse: and the humane authorities,
had denied the poor the comfort of this view of the
meadow, with Herne Church in the distance, and the
blue sea beyond. My father turned abruptly back from
his walk, declaring again and again, that it was the most
detestable bit of wickedness he could remember. He
sent me back to sketch the scene, and the lightless wall:
and he wrote "The Two Windows" for the "Illuminated
Magazine," while I put my sketch upon wood. I remember the fervour of the concluding lines: "If God
punish man for sins, as man punishes man for poverty,
woe to the sons of Adam! "
But the chief result of the summer in Kent-among
the wheat and hops, and under the noble chestnuts, and




xxXiv       INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
amid the Saxon peasantry: the result of endless solitary
rambles through sunny villages, under creaking signs
where steaming horses were slaking their thirst; and
past doorways where bacon could be espied smoking in
the chimney corners: —of days spent with a rich Kentish
farmer hard by-who may have sat for the Hermit of
Bellyfulle, and whose homestead seemed to be greasy
with the plenty there and thereabouts-was the sunny
book, which my father held chief among all his works, as
the truest fragment of him he had managed to throw off
-" The Chronicles of Clovernook."
The Chronicles are a fragment of what it was originally intended by the author they should be; but the
fragment, it was his belief, had a better chance of
reaching the hands of future generations, than the rest of
his works. All the qualities of his genius shine their
brightest here. The study of benignant nature is rich
and rare. Sunday in the country is a picture of peace
and beauty and simple worship, away from " the bemummying wrappers of sect." The legends have "purposes"
in them, from which the author, being a man in downright earnest with the world, could never long wean his
fancy. The painting of " The Gratis," is in sunbeams.
The Hermit is delightful in his oily and sensuous
content.  The scenery-the air of rich  quiet-are
Kentish. The reader can almost smell the dreamy
perfume of distant hop-fields. No where, save in the
house under the ivy, in the plenty and beauty of Kent,




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.            xxxv
would the "Chronicles" have been written. Not in
Boulogne, for instance, where "The Prisoner of War "
and "Gertrude's Cherries " were constructed-the latter
in a curious cottage (wherein poor, forgotten Mrs. Jordan
died, in a sad plight), up a muddy, picturesque, precipitous lane, between high hedge-rows. It was a place
only my father could have found. A rough, more than
homely cottage, with a little terraced garden behind, and
a colony of old French maids babbling round about. I
have heard magpies on entering a Swedish village; but
I would have defied them to stand five minutes against
the ancient demoiselles-who were wont to talk over the
wall-i(their voices would have gone as easily through it)
of my father's garden. There was not a meadow, worthy
of the name, near us; but a few miles off was the Valley
Du Denacre, through which I have seen many men
whose names are familiar as household words, amble
upon the backs of patient donkeys, to eat omelettes and
fresh salad at Souverain Mroulin. In this retreat comedies with French or Belgian scenes, did not come amiss.
Weather-surroundings-had so strong an effect on my
father, that a few clouds would stop his morning's work,
or put off even a long trip. He could do nothing where
he was in the least ill at his ease; although years before,
he had slaved at his inkstand under every discomfiture.
He must take up a thing in his own way, and at his own
time. Quick to take in all he saw, and to bear the
effect of it, and re-produce it-on fitting occasion; he




xxxvi       INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
could never report his observations, nor go about for the
express purpose of observing.
He went to Paris while Lamartine was paramount in
i848, intending to write a series of articles on the aspect
of Paris in Revolution, and on the state of parties. He
was accompanied by a secretary; Mr. George Hodder.
A most important series of papers were to be produced.
My father carried letters of introduction to all the most
notable men in and out of the Government.' He could
not accomplish his mission.  He could not pick up
information-make notes on the spot-nor push his way
with letters of introduction. So he returned to London
with his introductions in his pocket-having written one
letter-which he could have written without stirring from
London. It was exceedingly important to the fortunes
of his own paper that the projected series should have a
marked success: but he could not vanquish his repugnance for the work-the fact being that he was totally
unfitted for it. He was angry with himself, and could
not bear an allusion to the subject. I mention this as
illustrative of the way in which he observed: not by eye,
and note-book, and to order, and with the deliberately
proposed object of making copy of what he saw. His
reply when some friends stopped him in Jermyn-street,
and asked him whether he was picking up character,
and he answered-" No: but I understand a great deal
is lost here"-is suggestive to any man who knew him,
of the impatience he would manifest at the degradation




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.            xxxvii
of a faculty to a mechanical operation. Albeit there are
men who, ordered to describe the noisy realm of an
animal fancier, would begin by counting the hairs in the
eyelashes of the guinea-pigs. In my father's descriptions
there is the fidelity of the artist, and not that of the
camera. All he wrote-the time once passed when he
could not choose but write-came to him. I except, of
course, his writing for his own newspaper, and for
"Lloyd's Weekly Paper," his connection with which he
made one of the great successes of his life. Custom
makes comments on passing events natural to the
practised writer; and these are distinct and apart from
the genius that is in him. This work is a relief to the
more exhaustive process of creation.
The dream of my father's later days, was to break with
the work-day life of literature, and to spend the close of
his career in some sunny place in the South; where, at
ease and in peace, he might work out one or two ideas
that he had long held floating in his brain; and through
which he should make his appeal to the judgment of
posterity. He had done enough to tire him of the wear
and tear of life. I have books full of his notes of his
reading for these pet ideas, that were to be worked out
far away from London. They are materials thrown pellmell together, that give no clue to the design of the
building which they were to decorate.  They are
monuments of patient closet-work, to be glanced over by
all who value what my father actually accomplished,
~




xxxviii     INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
with regret. If he never obtained the settled leisure he
anticipated-and that would have enabled him to carry
out a few of his ambitious projects-at any rate, as I
have already observed, he enjoyed about twelve years
of absolute prosperity-of welcome change from one
new scene to another, before he died. He had risen to
the position for which he had toiled. He saw himself
recognised from one end of the country to the other.
Public invitations flocked to him from all sides. He
presided at one or two great ceremonies. He presented
the Shakspeare testimonial to Kossuth. He took the
chair at an annual soiree of the Birmingham Literary
Institution. But he disliked public appearances, and
never cared to speak to an audience. On one great
occasion, cheered to the echo by a crowded meeting of
working men, whose cause he had espoused throughout
his public life; he muttered a few words, and declared
that his heart was too full, —he must sit down-he must
be excused. In vain, at a later period of the evening,
patronising stump orators invited him to make a second
attempt. He was not equal to a sentence. A deputation
of Birmingham working men presented him with an onyx
ring: and he could only stammer his thanks. These
few essays proved to him that nature had not fitted him
to shine at deputations nor upon platforms; nor to twirl
an eye-glass playfully while thunders of applause were
ringing in his ears: and so he turned a deaf ear to the
friends who suggested Parliament to him.




INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR.                  xxxix
"I speak with this —and this only," he said, showing
his pen.   He  was not ambitious socially.   Nothing
would have persuaded him to scheme for a place: nor
to back a minister.   He used to amuse all who were
near him when he dwelt on the value of business
qualities: he being a man who had so little of the
practical quality about him. A punctual correspondent
he was, confining himself strictly to the questions he had
to ask and answer. I have letters from him just half a
line long.   He was accused of unfriendly abruptness
occasionally: but there was not the least ill-feeling in
the fewness  of the  words.  He  talked  against the
practice of writing private letters-with an eye to some
printer and  publisher  in  the  distance.   There  are
humorous bits here and there in his notes, but at long
intervals.*  In his letters he was "business-like;" but
on the prospects of a profession for a boy; on profitable
* In the year I843, Mr. Webster offered a prize of 500. for the best
five-act comedy; whereupon my father wrote, a very long letter-for
him-to Mr. Dickens. I take a bit of it:-" Of course you have flung' Chuzzlewit' to the winds, and are hard at work upon a comedy.
Somebody-I forget his name-told me that you were seen at the Haymarket door, with a wet newspaper in your hand, knocking frantically
for Webster. Five hundred pounds for the best English comedy! As
I think of the sum, I look loftily around this apartment of full twelve by
thirteen-glance with poetic frenzy on a lark's turf that does duty for a
lawn-take a vigorous inspiration of the'double Bromptons' that are
nodding defyingly at me through the diamond panes-and think the
cottage, land, pigsty, all are mine, evoked from an ink-bottle, and
labelled'freehold,' by the call of Webster."
c2




xl          INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
practical combinations; on commercial matters, he
could not give an opinion. He was not a worldlywise man. His emotions, his strong impulses, and the
rapidity with which he acted-could not belong to a
man of the world; who never loses sight of his own
interests; and who best knows how to promote them,
having made them the exclusive study of his life. My
father would point to great examples of successful men
-architects of their own fortune-who had risen from
the depths of poverty, to a mighty independence. Men
who have made great strides themselves, are apt to
think that all people may walk in seven league boots
who choose to put them on. My father was a little of
this way of thinking. He had dared, and had won.
The courage of daring went far; but the build of the
athlete was extraordinary.  He loved to see men or
women beating down difficulties of all or any kinds: or,
the heroism of patience plodding through dull years,
cheerful to the end of the task.  In his study, if a
passage from Shakspeare was in question, he would go
to his shelves, lift Mrs. Cowden Clarke's "Concordance"
from its well-known corner, and, laying his hand upon
the cover, would say invariably-before opening it" The work of a noble little woman."
He would turn the closely-printed pages over, and
bid everybody present mark the extraordinary quantity
of matter that was contained between the solid morocco
boards. And then he would close the volume, and as he




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.              xli
carried it back to its honoured place upon his shelves,
he would repeat"And all that was done, by one noble little woman."
It was my custom —and he was not pleased when it
was broken-to dine with my father every Sunday, when
as he told his intimate friends, he kept open house.
Very often only a few young, very young, men of letters
made up the party. The walk round the garden, into
the poultry-yard, and upon the heath, was de rigueur.
The garden was a picture of neatness, packed with
flowers. The owner was in the fulness of his fame; was
prosperous,-and in his country house on Putney Heath.
He was still at work for the stage, having achieved a
triumph with "Time Works Wonders."  Mrs. Caudle
was giving her weekly lectures in " Punch." There was
not a cloud overhead. He went among great peopleborne naturally into their society-but he kept his simple
habits and his country fare, saying-" If my lord comes,
he comes to the leg of mutton and a welcome, like the
rest"
It was this simplicity that attracted Lord Nugent so
often to West Lodge. But the Sundays were the
brightest days, when the notabilities were away. Sundays
in the study-where (it may be useful to tell certain
clerical critics who wrote most uncharitably some six years
ago of a man whom they knew not) the host never missed
his morning alone with his Bible,-which he called his
Church. It would have spared him many years of keen




xlii        INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
annoyance, could some of his critics, who delighted in
painting him as a savage misanthrope with a sharp
tongue; have seen him talking and laughing, and not saying
severe things, in his study, on these Sundays.  They
might have seen the man who could be severe; because
they would have seen a man whose eye flashed fire over
some outrage done yesterday, which he had just read of
in his Sunday paper: but the sweet, childishfond of the
satirist would have been apparent also. The playful
fancy, the light badinage with children (who never
approached him without loving him); the petted dog;
the friendly proffer of influence to some beginner; the
chivalrous defence of an absent friend; the willing
forgiveness of an old injury-these traits would have
surely disarmed a few, who misrepresented a generous
friend and a delightful and wise companion, as a man
whose heart was full of gall.
Past rancours are buried, as he was the first who
desired they should be. I would not, in this short
introduction, lift the least corner of a veil from one of
them. The mission I have striven to discharge, in
reverent affection for my father's memory, is one of peace
between him and those who misunderstood him-between
him and the few in the world who may have been taught
to regard him as he certainly was not. This is why, in
this introduction to the permanent form which my father's
writings are about to take, I have been at some pains to
put him in a right attitude for the world's judgment. I




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.              xliii
have described the difficult conditions under which he
wrote. I have not explained away faults: I have rather
confined myself to the proof that faults were laid to his
charge, which were not his. I speak of him from an
intimate view of him: with the partiality of a son who
has gratitude and a loving remembrance in his heart, it is
true; but only one placed in the relation of affection in
which I stood to him could, with authority, undertake to
draw a picture sufficiently close to life-not of the author
— but of the man. I saw that his sharpness in attack
came from a deep heart.
It is with a vivid idea of Douglas Jerrold at home,
that I should like every reader to make acquaintance
with his writings. This idea would explain what is
called his bitterness here and there. He was a wit
always and everywhere; and he wounded —sometimes
even his friends. The sudden rush of a witticism that
springs from a bright brain to the tongue, and is shot
forth because it is a witticism and must fly, must be taken
into account. The shaft is void of malice, if it have
other poison in it. I can remember dozens of arrows,
pointed as needles, that stung me; but they left no scar.
In the midst of some of our pleasantest and most genial
evenings at West Lodge, a shaft would fly and hit home.
The victim might wince; but all would laugh, and the
victim with the rest. Did these arrows, so often feathered
from "Wisdom's pinion," keep a friend from the wit's
study fire, where the beech-wood crackled, lighting up




xliv            INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR.
faces that beamed under the welcome which made them
children, for a time, of the family? For a joke which
might escape, there would be hours of talk over books,
passing literary news, or the political event of the day,
or the whimsicalities of the last club night. These
friendly meetings happened weekly, year after year; they
travelled, with the host's household gods, to Circus
Road, St. John's Wood, and lastly to Kilburn Priory,
where death broke them up, and left not one of the
company that had been so long happy together, with a
dry eye. Was it not one of these near and dear friends
who wrote-" If every one who had received a kindness
at his hands, should lay a flower upon his tomb, a
mountain of roses would rise over the grave of Douglas
Jerrold"?  I could fill many pages with letters from
persons, to me unknown, that reached me after my
father's death; written in grateful memory of kindnesses
received. Mr. R. H. Horne wrote his grateful offering
from Australia.* Humble witnesses sent their testimony
* The kindness done to Mr. R. H. Home, was, when he, finding
himself in a pecuniary strait, proposed to write a novel. It was " The
Dreamer and the Worker." Mr. Horne writes from Melbourne:" The publication of this, by monthly chapters, in'Jerrold's Magazine,'
was the means of giving me peace of mind for a twelvemonth. Those
who have ever known what it is to expect a twelvemonth of struggle
and doubts, perhaps disappointments, and probably a thousand'vexations of spirit' in dismal highways of the battle of life, and who have
suddenly seen all this transformed into a sunny course for a fair exercise
of the energies opened out before them, can best appreciate the kind
and degree of such a service rendered at once; and in so frank and off



INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.                 xlv
of help given to them, from all parts of the country. The
verse written in Douglas Jerrold's honour, would fill a
goodly volume.
The author of " Tangled Talk" could not hold back
his testimony to my father's kindly nature. He said:
"Within these three years" (writing in I857) "I have
been once or twice his debtor for kind and encouraging
words, and I would willingly throw my little flower. On
the very few occasions upon which I saw him personallynot more than twice or thrice, and under his own roofI found him  the most genial, sincere, and fatherly of
men; perfectly simple, a man who looked straight at
you, and spoke without arriere pensee —without any of
that double consciousness which makes the talk of some
men of talent disagreeable-and most thoroughly human.
That' abounding humanity,' which I once said elsewhere
is the distinguishing characteristic of Mr. Jerrold's writing,
shone out conspicuously in all his behaviour. It was never
necessary, as it is in conversing with too many, to say,
by implication,'Never mind the book, and the reputation, and the wit, and the wits, and what I am thinking
of you-am I not a man and a brother?' Mr. Jerrold
recognised the manhood and the brotherhood so fully at
starting, that there was nothing to be said about it; and
hand a manner. The grateful memory of that year's peace of mind is
the flower I now send half across the globe, to be affectionately laid
upon the grave of Douglas Jerrold. Hail! and farewell!' Vale, vale!
nos te ordine quo natura permittet sequemur."




xlvi        INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
your intercourse with him went smoothly upon its true
basis —the natural'proclivity' of one human creature for
another. * * * His writings are full of a gracious domestic purity, quite distinct from the claptrap of the playwright or the novelist. The poetry that was in Mr.
Jerrold has, I suspect, been much underrated by the
general public."
I cannot altogether pass over the aspect of my father
as C a clubable man." He was a most social man: and
in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden-the region
sacred to social clubs-it was that, when a very young
man, he met a number of friends who were clubbed
together, in an humble tavern, under the magic name of
Shakspeare, each member contributing a poem, essay,
or drawing, in the poet's honour. The club was called
"The  Mulberries "-and  the  book in  which  the
members' contributions were kept, were-The Mulberry
Leaves. The young men were all destined to be heard
of in the world-save poor William Godwin (the great
Godwin's son) who died young, smitten with cholera;
but who had, as my father testified-" an unfolded
genius worthy of his name." When Elton, the actor,
one of the Mulberries, was drowned; my father took
occasion to produce one of Elton's mulberry leaves, as
illustrative of his " graceful intelligence." He then said
of the Mulberries: "The society in which these poems
were produced, is now dissolved. In its early strength it
numbered some who, whatever may have been, or may




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.             xlvii
yet be their success in life, cannot look back to that
society of kindred thoughts and sympathising hopes,
without a sweetened memory-without the touches of an
old affection. My early boy-friend, Laman Blanchard;
and Kenny Meadows, a dear friend too, whose names
have become musical in the world's ear, were of that
society-of that knot of wise and jocund men, then
unknown, but gaily struggling." The Mulberry Club
blossomed into the Shakspeare Club,-and with great
names on its list-died. My father contributed "Shakspeare's Crab-tree" to the leaves, and on rare occasions,
when the friends were few, would sing it, in that soft,
sweet voice, he had to the last. He wrote other things
also for "the leaves." The theme ever tempted himto essay some new and quaint tapestry work on the
beloved poet-now it was "Shakspeare at Bankside,"
and now "Shakspeare in China."  I can well imagine
how his mind was set to music, and winged with dreams,
when he read this passage from Godwin's " Essay on
Sepulchres."-" I cannot tell that the wisest mandarin
now living in China is not indebted for part of his
energy and sagacity to Shakspeare and Milton, even
though it should happen that he never heard of their
names." This subtlety was exactly suited to treatment
by my father.
Other clubs succeeded the Mulberries. The coterie
of literary men and artists who were struggling together
" through difficulties to fame " felt that " the bow should




xlviii          INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR.
be sometimes loose."  Their clubs were merry meetings
of wise men: and many wise heads still meet, to play
like boys-and then go home to the studio again, the
better for the laugh and the song. In all classes this
loosening of the bow is sought. My father, true to his life,
tried to extend club luxuries to the many. He founded
the Whittington Club. * Gartered notabilities delight to
have a steak, from a gridiron within view, and to drink
from pewter pots, and smoke long clay pipes. The
" Hooks and Eyes," and " Our Club," were clubs, which,
in later life, my father founded: and he was the life and
soul of the wisely merry meetings of men, to meet whom,
a traveller making notes, would give half he possessed.
* At the opening, after a desperate effort, he nerved himself to take
the chair at the first meeting, and to say:-" If we have clubs composed, I may say, of canes with gold heads-or, if not always with gold
heads, at least with plenty of gold about them-if we have clubs of
nobles, wherefore not clubs of clerks? For my own part, there are
lions and tigers, even in the highest heraldry, for which I have certainly
not more respect than for the cat, the legendary cat of Richard Whittington. Nevertheless, the proposed institution of our club has, in two
or three quarters, been criticised as an impertinence-as almost a
revolutionary movement, disrespectful to the vested interests of worshipful society. It has really been inferred that the social advantages
contemplated by our institution would be vulgarised by being made
cheap. These pensive prophets seem to consider the refinements of life
to be like the diamond-rarity making its only worth; and with these
people, multiply diamonds ten thousandfold, and for such reason, they
would no longer be considered fit even for a gentleman. These folks
have only sympathy with the past. They love to contemplate the
world with their heads over their shoulders, turned as far back as
anatomy will permit to them that surpassing luxury."




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.             xlix,
He was welcome, as much for the overflowing humanity
and the boy-freshness that were in him, as for the flashes
of his wit and the brilliancy of his conversation. He
brought fresh air with him into the room. Professor
Masson said of him: " There was, perhaps, no conversation in which Mr. Jerrold took part, that did not elicit
from him half a dozen good things. To recollect such
good things is proverbially difficult; and hence many of
Jerrold's died within the week, or never got three miles
from Covent Garden. Some, however, lived, and got
into circulation-a little the worse for wear-in the provinces; and not a few have been exported. One joke
of his was found lately beating about the coast of Sweden,
seeking in vain for a competent Swedish translation; and
the other day a tourist from London, seeing two brawny
North Britons laughing together immoderately on a rock
near Cape Wrath, with a heavy sea dashing at their feet,
discovered that the cause of their mirth was a joke of
Mr. Jerrold's, which they had intercepted on its way to
the Shetlands. Another club friend wrote in the Quarterly Review, "In the bright sallies of conversational
wit he has no surviving equal." Mr. Hepworth Dixon,
who was also a club friend, said: " His wit was all steel
points, and his talk was like squadrons of lancers in
evolution. Not one pun, we have heard, is to be found
in his writings. His wit stood nearer to poetic fancy
than to broad humour."
These clubs of kindred men could not but delight a




1            INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
man of his strongly social temperament. He insisted,
however, that all the club appointments should be
simple: plain, clean service, and little more than hermit's fare. He was no public speaker, as I have
observed: but at a social board-among club friends, he
would break out into a bouquet of fireworks.
At a dinner given, at the Museum Club, to Mr. Leigh
Hunt, he was especially happy, in proposing the health
of the guest of the evening. He said of Hunt-" even
in his hottest warfare his natural sense of beauty and
gentleness was so great that, like David of old, he armed
his sling with shining pebbles of the brook, and never
pelted even his fiercest enemy with mud." Hunt was
happy in reply. He said that " if his friend Jerrold had
the sting of the bee, he had also his honey."
I have not space here for further examples of the good
things that rained, when, in happy mood and congenial
company, my father was talking.
Death reached him in the full tide of his life. The
ship came to anchor in mid-stream. When my father
had fairly settled himself in his house at Kilburn Priory,
in I856; and had arranged his study leading to his
garden —so that he could see his noble rhododendrons
from his desk: he felt that he had settled at last, for the
remainder of his days. He had projects enough, of
travel that was not to be confined to Europe: but here
his house and centre would be, henceforth. If he did
not travel much-he was, in imagination, the circumnavi



INTRODUCTORY MEMLOIR.              I
gator of the globe. He never put his hat on without
wishing it was a wide-awake, shielding him from an
Italian sun, or shading his eyes on the Nile. At one
time he had a project for buying Sark,-he was so enraptured with its wildness. " I am here," he wrote to Mr.
John Forster, "in this most wild, most solitary, and most
beautiful place. No dress-no fashion-no respectability
-nothing but beauty and grandeur, with the sea rolling
and roaring, at times,'tween me and Fleet Street, as
though I should never walk there again." In the winter
of I856, and the spring of I857, what projects of travel
to be done in the coming summer, were discussed in the
snug study! Nice, Portugal, Rome! were to be visited.
Friend Baron de Forrester's boat was to receive a laughing company, when the summer came. My father had
been ill recently-and desponding-but he was betterand it was spring. The birds chattered at his dressingroom windows: and the buds were bursting! He turned
a gay face upon life; and laughing said, again and again
-" a man was exactly as old as he felt." Yet he had
received a shock in the autumn-when Mr. Gilbert'a
Beckett died at Boulogne.  He wrote to Mr. John
Forster, his heart full: " Never was a family so united,
so suddenly and so wholly made desolate. Competence,
position, mutual affection,'and all that makes the happier man,' and all now between four boards!"  This
feeling lasted in his mind. The spring, the bright mornings, however, gave him a new lease of life. He trained




lii         INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.
his flowers: strolled upon his lawn: saw his friendsand he had many-and was never in happier circumstances.
It was in the last week of May that he accompanied
Mr. Dickens to a dinner given by Mr. W. H. Russell, at
Greenwich. He was ailing then: but he attributed his
illness to the smell of the new paint on the garden steps
leading from his study. He battled with his weakness,
as he walked to the boat, with Mr. Dickens and Mr.
Russell.  " I have a lively recollection of him," Mr.
Dickens wrote to me, "stamping about Elm-tree Court
(with his hat in one hand, and the other pushing his
hair back), laughing in his heartiest manner, at a ridiculous remembrance we had in common, which I had presented in some exaggerated light, to divert him. We
found our boat, and went down the river, and looked at
the Leviathan which was building, and talked all the
way." A happy day was spent at Greenwich, and my
father returned home in better health than he had left.
"I went down to Gad's Hill next morning," writes Mr.
Dickens, "where he was to write to me after a little
while, appointing his own time for coming to see me
there. A week afterwards, another passenger in the railway carriage in which I was on my way to London
Bridge, opened his morning paper, and said,'Douglas
Jerrold is dead!'"
It was but too true. He breathed his last, in our
arms, at noon, on the 8th day of June, I857. To the




INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.             liii
last he was calm, and resigned; with most Christian
courage took leave of all; and left directions-and died,
saying-seeing us all about his bed-" This is as it
should be." We laid him in Norwood Cemetery, on a
sunny day in June (Is5th) near the grave of his boy-friend
Laman Blanchard, who had gone before him: and in one
year and eleven months afterwards, we laid at his side,
the remains of her who had sweetened and sustained him
through his life: the best wife I have ever seen in this
world-and a mother whose loving eyes, no worldly
pleasures could ever turn, for one moment, from her
children.
I most cordially thank his old and dear friends the
publishers of this work, and of all his works, for having
given me an opportunity of putting the brief story of
his literary life with this most popular product of his
lightest vein; because I feel that the reader's knowledge
of his story is necessary to the full enjoyment of his
writings. Where I have ventured upon criticism, the
venture has been made in the hope that it might lead to
a knowledge at once true and close, of the subject of my
memoir.
BLANCHARD JERROLD.
d








CONTENTS.
MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE I.
PAGE
MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT FIVE POUNDS TO A FRIEND.   I
LECTURE II.
MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN AT A TAVERN WITH A FRIEND,
AND "IS ENOUGH TO POISON A WOMAN" WITH TOBACCO,
SMOKE......... 5
LECTURE  III.
MR. CAUDLE JOINS A CLUB,-"-THE SKYLARKS."           9
LECTURE IV.
MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN CALLED FROM HIS BED TO BAIL MR.
PRETTYMAN FROM THE WATCH-HOUSE                      13
LECTURE V.
MR. CAUDLE HAS REMAINED DOWN STAIRS TILL PAST ONE,
WITH A FRIEND......15
LECTURE  VI.
MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE  FAMILY
UMBRELLA.                                          Is8
d2




lvi                  CONTENTS.
PAGE
LECTURE VII.
MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMONSTRANCE ON HIS DAY'S
DINNER: COLD MUTTON, AND NO PUDDING. MRS. CAUDLE
DEFENDS THE COLD SHOULDER.. 22
LECTURE VIII.
CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON. MRS. CAUDLE INDIGNANT
AND CURIOUS.26
LECTURE IX.
MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO GREENWICH FAIR.... 30
LECTURE X.
ON MR. CAUDLE'S SHIRT-BUTTONS..                33
LECTURE XI.
MRS. CAUDLE SUGGESTS THAT HER DEAR MOTHER SHOULD
" COME AND LIVE WITH THEM"   ~.. 37
LECTURE XII.
MR. CAUDLE, HAVING COME HOME A LITTLE LATE, DECLARES
THAT HENCEFORTH C"HE WILL HAVE A KEY".   ~ 42
LECTURE XIII.
MRS. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO SEE HER DEAR MOTHER. CAUDLE,
ON THE "JOYFUL OCCASION," HAS GIVEN A PARTY, AND
ISSUED THE SUBJOINED CARD OF INVITATION... 46
LECTURE XIV.
MRS. CAUDLE THINKS IT "HIGH TIME" THAT THE CHILDREN
SHOULD HAVE SUMMER CLOTHING..... 50




CONTENTS.                    lvii
PAGE
LECTURE XV.
R F CA UDLE HAS AGAIN STAYED OUT LATE. MRS. CAUDLE,
AT FIRST INJURED AND VIOLENT, MELTS... 55
LECTURE XVI.
BABY IS TO BE CHRISTENED; MRS. CAUDLE CANVASSES THE
MERITS OF PROBABLE GODFATHERS.                 59
LECTURE XVII.
CAUDLE IN THE COURSE OF THE DAY HAS VENTURED TO
QUESTION THE ECONOMY OF " WASHING AT HOME". 64
LECTURE XVIII.
CAUDLE, WHILST WALKING WITH HIS WIFE, HAS BEEN BOWED
TO BY A YOUNGER AND EVEN PRETTIER WOMAN THAN
MRS. CAUDLE.68
LECTURE XIX.
MRS. CAUDLE THINKS "IT WOULD LOOK WELL TO KEEP
THEIR WEDDING-DAY".. 72
LECTURE  XX.
"~BROTHER" CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO A MASONIC CHARITABLEDINNER. MRS. CAUDLE HAS HIDDEN THE "BROTHER'S"
CHEQUE-BOOK.. 77
LECTURE XXI.
MR. CAUDLE HAS NOT ACTED "LIKE A HUSBAND" AT THE
WEDDING DINNER....                          8I




lviii                 CONTENTS.
PAGE
LECTURE  XXII.
CAUDLE COMES HOME IN THE EVENING, AS MRS. CAUDLE HAS
" jUST STEPPED OUT, SHOPPING." ON HER RETURN, AT
TEN, CAUDLE REMONSTRATES.                       86
LECTURE XXIII.
MRS. CAUDLE " WISHES TO KNOW IF THEY'RE GOING TO THE
SEA-SIDE, OR NOT, THIS SUMMER-THAT'S ALL",. 91
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.95
LECTURE  XXV.
MRS. CAUDLE, WEARIED OF MARGATE, HAS "A GREAT DESIRE
TO SEE FRANCE.. IOO
LECTURE XXVI.
MRS. CAUDLE'S FIRST NIGHT  IN  FRANCE — " SHAMEFUL
INDIFFERENCE" OF CAUDLE AT THE BOULOGNE CUSTOM
HOUSE....105
LECTURE XXVII.
MRS. CAUDLE RETURNS TO HER NATIVE LAND.' UNMANLY
CRUELTY " OF CAUDLE, WHO HAS REFUSED a"TO SMUGGLE
A FEW THINGS" FOR HER.......
LECTURE XXVIII.
MRS. CAUDLE HAS RETURNED HOME.-THE HOUSE (OF COURSE)
" NOT FIT TO BE SEEN." MR. CAUDLE, IN SELF-DEFENCE,
TAKES A BOOK.1.14




CONTENTS.                     lix
PAGE
LECTURE XXIX.
MRS. CAUDLE THINKS " THE TIME HAS COME TO HAVE A
COTTAGE OUT OF TOWN".                          I18
LECTURE XXX.
MRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS OF THE "TURTLE-DOVERY."- DISCOVERS BLACK-BEETLES. -THINKS IT " NOTHING BUT
RIGHT  THAT CAUDLE SHOULD SET UP A CHAISE.  123
LECTURE XXXI.
MRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS VERY BITTERLY THAT MR. CAUDLE
HAS "BROKEN HER CONFIDENCE".1.27
LECTURE XXXII.
MRS. CAUDLE DISCOURSES OF MAIDS-OF-ALL-WORK AND MAIDS
IN GENERAL.  MR. CAUDLE'S " INFAMOUS BEHAVIOUR"
TEN YEARS AGO.132
LECTURE  XXXIII.
MRS. CAUDLE HAS DISCOVERED THAT CAUDLE IS A RAILWAY
DIRECTOR.......... I36
LECTURE  XXXIV.
MRS. CAUDLE, SUSPECTING THAT MR. CAUDLE HAS MADE HIS
WILL, IS " ONLY ANXIOUS AS A WIFE" TO KNOW ITS
PROVISIONS..1. 40
LECTURE  XXXV.
MRS. CAUDLE  "HAS BEEN TOLD"  THAT CAUDLE HAS
"TAKEN TO PLAY " AT BILLIARDS.                I45
LECTURE  THE  LAST.
MRS. CAUDLE HAS TAKEN COLD; THE TRAGEDY OF THIN SHOES 149




LKa                       CONTENTS.
MRS. BIB'S BABY.
PAGE
CHAP.  I..........  I62,,   II......1.,.., I67,, III...........I72
" IV.                                         1 I77,,    V.......... I82,,   VI....  I187




MRS. CAUDLE'S
CURTAIN LECTURES.








PREFACE.
T 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 iAfrs. Caudle 
How could such a thing' have entered any man's mind? "
There are subjects that seem like raindrops 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 play-ground 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!




lxiv                PREFACE.
— 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-they in
their immortality of boyhood had the redder faces, and
the nimbler blood for it.
And the writer, looking dreamily into that play-ground,
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 schoolground-wherefore, among a crowd of holiday schoolboys, should appear MRS. CAUDLE?
For the LECTURES themselves, it is feared they must
be given up as a farcical desecration of a solemn timehonoured privilege; it may be, exercised once in a lifetime,-and that once having the effect of a hundred
repetitions: as JOB lectured his wife. And Job's wife, a




PREFACE.                  Ixv
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
helpmate; for he smote her once with a palm-branch
having a hundred leaves.
D. J.








INTRODUCTION.
OOR 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.




lxviii           INTRODUCTION.
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.




INTRODUCTION.                 lxix
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 gillyflowers.
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,
6




lxx              INTRODUCTION.
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-two. 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 by-gone 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




INTRODUCTION.                ixxi
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.








MRS. CAUDLE'S
CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE I.
MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT FIVE POUNDS TO A FRIEND.
cc isj~~   OU 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
la




2      MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.'em-but now they must go without. Of course, they
belong to you: and anybody but your own flesh and
blood, 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 shuttle-cock through his bed-room 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 itand 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.




-MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        3
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
B 2




4      MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
people to afford mouse-traps, when every day they lose
five pounds?
"Hark! I'm sure there's a noise down stairs. 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 tomorrow. 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,



MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        5
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.
"c'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 sinzg? How do I know you never sing? It's very
well for you to say so; but if I could hear you, I dare
say 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 latch-key. 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
yoursef? What of that? If you go among people who




6      MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 I 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
now get home 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 tomorrow 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 morn-.
ing! But don t you think I'm going to let you have your
breakfast in bed, like Mrs. Prettyman. I'll not be such




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         7
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




8      MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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-andby'twill be all night. But don't you think, Mr. Caudle,
you shall ever have a key. I know you. Yes; you'dl
do exactly like that Prettyman, and what did he do,
only last Wednesday? Why, he let himself in about
fouri 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 bed-side. And where
was the wretch, her husband? Why, he was drinking
down stairs-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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         9
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."
ELL, 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 deal children,




10     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 dare say 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        II
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'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 publichouses 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?' 1 —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 eighteen-pence on a
Saturday. You can't be all those hours, and only spend
eighteen-pence. 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. 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




12     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 read? No-I dare say notbut 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 mte




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         I3
"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.
"Eighteen-pence a week —and drinking brandy-and
water, enough to swim a boat! And smoking like the
funnel of a steam-ship! 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.
ES, 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 destruc



14     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
tion. 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 illused. 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 arn't locked up for
that. No, it's for robbery, or something worse, perhaps.
"And as you've 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




i/t ti
"A pretty cold you'll have to-morrow morning, being called out of your
warm bed this weather."                       P. 14







MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         15
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 DOWN STAIRS TILL PAST
ONE, WITH A FRIEND.," ".-~ -  RETTY 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 cup-board.
" I wonder who'll be so ready to give you a supper
when you want one: for want one you will, unless you




O6     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 youto 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         17
doctor's bill. And you'll pay it, I can tell you-for I
won't.
" You wish you zwere 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! Arn't you afraid that the bed will
open and swallow you? And don't swing about in that
way. That will do no good. Thai 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,-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.
C




18   ~MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE VI.
MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY
UMBRELLA.
c'K;j~sle  HAT'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
hihm 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 shan'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,




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         19
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 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'ern, 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 dare say I shall-and a pretty
doctor's bill there'll be. 1 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
C2




20     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 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 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!




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         21
"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 clothesbetter 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 shan't have at all-because we've no
umbrella.
" The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet: for they shan't stop at home —they shan'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!"




22     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE VII.
MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMONSTRANCE ON HIS
DAY'S DINNER: COLD MUTTON, AND NO PUDDING.
MRS. CAUDLE DEFENDS THE COLD SHOULDER.
"'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.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    23
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 shan'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 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-nothing as I'm a Christian sinner.
"Yes; there you are, throwing those fowls in my face
again i I know you once brought home a pair of fowls;
I know it: and wer'n'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




24     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 arn'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 shan'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 whQ




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        25
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-ha! 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 shan't be ruined by
me, Mr. Caudle; that I'm determined. Puddings, in.
deed! Pu-dding-s! Pudd-"
"Exhausted nature," says Caudle, "could hold out no
longer. She went to sleep."




26     MRS. CAUDIE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE VIII.
CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON. MRS. CAUDIE
INDIGNANT AND CURIOUS.
CC"::M  OW, 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 wifeif 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's it 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.          27
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 free-mason, 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 free-masonry, and all
such trumpery, I know.
"Now, come, Caudle; don't let's quarrel.  Ehl!
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 passionnot that I care about the secret itself: no. I wouldn't




28     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 shan't close your eyes for a weekno, you shan'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 isit'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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         29
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."




30     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE IX.
MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO GREENWICH FAIR.
" ]jji     O, 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 Idon'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-doorstheir 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        31
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 your mind up 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 I 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




32     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 wish'd 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        33
pound of nuts! Nice company you must have been in
to have your pocket picked.
" But I dare say I shall hear all about it to-morrow.
I've no doubt, sir, you were dancing at the Crown-andAnchor. I should like to have seen you. No: I'm not
making myself ridiculous. It's you that's making yourselfridiculous, 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.
<'" ~5~      ELL,  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!
D




34     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
"Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a
button, you must almost swear the roof off the house!
You didn't swear 7 Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know
what you do when you're in a passion.  You were not in
a passion? Wer'n'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 needleand-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, AMr. Caudle? Why, do
much better without you, I'm certain.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         35
"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 shan'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
1. 2




36     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         37
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."
s' 6:S  S 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 won't 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 always is
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




38     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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.
Haow 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 t' 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're out, if
your slippers arn'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 per



MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        39
suade 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 giftquite a gift.
" And then you recollect her marrow puddings? You
don't recollect'ee? 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
(to 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?
Whly 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,




40     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 never would 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 hav'n'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-the-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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        41
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 needlewoman! And
the darning and mending for the children, it regally 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-dleCau-dle —— "
"Here Mrs. Caudle," says her husband, " suddenly went
into tears; and I went to sleep."




42     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE XII.
MR. CAUDLE, HAVING COME HOME A LITTLE LATE, DECLARES THAT HENCEFORTH "C HE WILL HAVE A KEY."
"..1... 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...1 MfWhy did I sit up, then? Because I choose
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 udp?
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 fireand sometimes thinking that 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!




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         43
"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 dare
say 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 cluD, 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




44     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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'erm? Ha! you won't hear'em, you
mean: I hear'em. No, Mr. Caudle; it isn't the wind
whistling in the key-hole; 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,




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         45
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 the 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 streetdoor 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 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 sayirig 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
failing sentences of'take children into a lodging'separate maintenance' —' won't be made a slave of'and so forth."




46     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE XIII.
MRS. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO SEE HER DEAR MOTHER.
CAUDLE, ON THE "JOYFUL OCCASION," HAS GIVEN
A PARTY, AND ISSUED THE SUBJOINED CARD OF
INVITATION.
AJlt. Caube'6 compliments to JfTi. teuznij
VtettJlctma, and expects to have the honour of his company on this joyful occasion, at half-past Eioght o' Cloek.
T 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 i-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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.          47
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 nave been in a nice condition? What
do you say?  You took nothing?  Took nothing, didn't




48     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 of 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 tea-cup. Do you suppose I'm to find sugar
for punch for fifty men? What do you say? There
Twasn't fifty? That's no matter; the more shame for'em, sir. I'm sure they drunk enough for fifty.  Do you
suppose out of my housekeeping money I'm to find sugar
for punch for all the world? 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,




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        49
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 good
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 dare say
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 perhe ps-"
I




50     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.' I was resolved," says 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.
F 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 dothe 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 Jainfil, 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 only wish you thought as much as I do, you'd be a better man than
you are, Caudle."                        P. 51




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         51
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 merinoes, 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 shan't; and
there's an end of it. I won't have'em exposed to the
Briggses 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
E 2




52     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 shan'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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         53
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?.Twentyfiddlesticks? 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?  IHow 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 uJp 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 Briggses, 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 your



54     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
self 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 thlat 
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 andparrots! I only want to make'em respectable and —what do you say?  You'llgive 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 shan't close an eye until you promise the
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."




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         55
LECTURE XV.
MR. CAUDLE HAS AGAIN STAYED OUT LATE. MRS.
CAUDLE, AT FIRST INJURED AND VIOLENT, MELTS.
"',~so;j_ ERHAPS,  Mr. Caudle, you'll tell me where:X  this is to end?  Though, goodness knows,
I needn't ask that. The end is plain enough.
[._t  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 doesand 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.




56     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 ]
hear your story? Oh, you may tell it if you please; go
on: only mind, I shan'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 same 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!




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         57
"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




58     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 Pretzman? Ha! 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 debtthat'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 spongingNow 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 boundfor Mr. Prettyman! You may say, bound! Yesyou've your hands nicely tied, now. How he laughs




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         59
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
dropt tears as he wrote.
LECTURE XVI.
BABY IS TO BE CHRISTENED; MRS. CAUDLE CANVASSES
THE MERITS OF PROBABLE GODFATHERS.
OME, 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 I am 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!




60     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
"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? Ain'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 Waystaff, 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         6i
you say?  Pugsby's a wickedfellow? 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 fidgeting 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 wifewhat 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.




62     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
"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 l 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         63
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 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 shan't be
christened at all. As for Prettyman, or any such raffno, 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 shan'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."




04     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE XVII.
CAUDLE IN THE COURSE OF THE DAY HAS VENTURED
TO QUESTION THE ECONOMY OF " WASHING AT
HOME."
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.  /vas there ever such
a woaman? 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 wouldyou'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'd 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.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         65
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 meant. 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 fortnigh/t' 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
F




66     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 washerwomen? —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 cost a pound, I dare sayyou must swear at a sweet, wholesome joint like a lord.
What?  You didz'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:




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        67
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 holdlmy 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,
F 2




68     MRS. CATJDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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-morrownothing 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..c      F 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         69
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 today'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 nmy
ill-manners I  I should like to have seen her blush!




70     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.,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?




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         71
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?  Hrow  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 in-doors. 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




72     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
then I'll take care and let all the world know how you've
used me. What do you say? I may say my zworst?
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."
AUDLE, 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



MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        73
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 alljust 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  surecertainly 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 daytime,-but here
you can't leave me.  You needn't groan again, Mr.
Caudle.
" Now, Caudle, dear, do let us talk comfortably. After




74     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES,
all, love, there's a good many folks, who, I dare say, 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 hyj5ocrisy?  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; andI 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!




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        75
"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'll let you
go to sleey? 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 shan'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




76     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 ike? 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."




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         77
LECTURE XX.
" BROTHER"  CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO A MASONIC CHARITABLE DINNER. MRS. CAUDLE HAS HIDDEN THE
"BROTHER'S " CHEQUE-BOOK.
"~b~is~ LL 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 itnothing 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.




78     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
" 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 mustfindyour watch? And you'llget upfor 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?  411 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 tomorrow morning; now, it's thrown away upon you.
" Where's your cheque-book? Never mind your chequebook. I took care of that. TWhat business had I to take
it out of yourpocket? Every business. No, no. If you
choose to go 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 chequebook again with you. What! Didn't I see your name
down last year for ten pounds?'Job Caudle, Esq., Iol.'
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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        79
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 itor I've no doubt you would; none at all. Some men
would do anything. What? You've a bit of a head-ache?
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 hurra-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 allrigt? 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 youto save you from ruin, Mr. Caudle. You're not going to
be ruinzed? Ha! you don't know anything when you're




80     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
out! I know what they do at those public dinnerscharities, 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've 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 sugarplum 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 vwatch? 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 tonight.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        8I
"And now, Mr. Caudle, I should like to know whose
hat it is 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 itbut 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 Caudie 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.
it sC1i~  H 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,
G




82     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
I see you now in your blue coat, with bright buttons,
and your white watered-satin waistcoat, and a moss rosebud 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, andWhat? 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-Wlhat 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 allyour 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. H]ow have you used me!
"Well, that the same tongue could make a speech
like that, and then talk as it did to-day! RSHow 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         83
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 your 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.  What do I mean? Oh, the meaning's plain
enough. She came to see how she should like the
rooms-how she should like my seat at the fire-place;
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 cyphers on the spoons as if she already
saw mine scratched out and her's there? No, I shan't
drive you mad, Mr. Caudle; and if I do it's your own
G 2




84     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
fault. No other man would treat the wife of his bosom
in-What do you say?  You mnight as well have married
a hedlgehoog? 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 merrythought. 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 shan'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're 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         85
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 trumpshe 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 wont 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




86     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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
sayno 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.
"! ~SisB~   OOU 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.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         87
"What do you say?  Where's mny Seelings, to go a
shojpping 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 shan'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




88     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 newfangled 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 arn't to
be told when they shall come and lay their money out,
and when they shan'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: its
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
candlelight. 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.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        89
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 hmy ozwnfireside? 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 call
look outside of our own fenders, Mr. Caudle. And if we
can't, its 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 shan'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




go     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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. 0 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 all 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 pockethandkerchiefs-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!'"




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         9!
LECTURE XXIII.
MRS. CAUDLE "WISHES TO KNOW IF THEY RE GOING TO
THE SEA-SIDE, OR NOT, THIS SUMMER —THAT'S ALL.'
"a fi      OT? 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 seaside 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?  Thlere 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.




92     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
"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. WXhat do you say?  Margate's so exjensive 
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 eat 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 anythingf? Yes, it's very well for you to lie there and say so.
WAat 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.          93
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! Teow can you sleep
wiih such a sprinter in yourflesh? 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?  1VWhy 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?
" Thy can't I tdl you what it will cost? How can I
or any woman tell exactly what it will cost? Of course




94     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 arn't there the
packets, with the donkeys; and the last new novelwhatever 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-sidespecially 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? Whatwillitcost? 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?




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.        95
"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 C CRUEL NEGLECT "
OF HER ON BOARD THE "4 RED  ROVER."  MRS.
CAUDLE SO "~ ILL WITH THE SEA," THAT THEY PUT
UP AT THE DOLPHIN, HERNE BAY.
cc         AUDLE, have you looked under the bed?
HWhat 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 hear 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!




96     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
".-..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.
WVhy 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 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
shan'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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         97
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 comewhat 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 you didn't care a pin about; whilst the
health of your own lawful wife was nothing. Three glasses
of brandy-and-water, and Z left-as I may say-alone!
You dind'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.?
I




98     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 newsjpaper?  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're 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 call 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 that 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.         99
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?'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
shan'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 upthe waves bellowed-and, soothed by the sweet lullaby (to
say nothing of the Dolphin's brandy-and-water), I somehow sank to repose."
Xi 




I00    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE XXV.
MRS. CAUDLE, WEARIED OF MARGATE, HAS ~"A GREAT
DESIRE TO SEE FRANCE."
"skCbl iii RN'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 usit'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 youalways. 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 hazve 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?  IHow 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    Iox
talking about. It's a heart-breakinig 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, its 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 aswell, Caudle! I wouldn't be the hypocrite you are for
the world!
"There, now; I've heard all that story. I dare say




102    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 dare say 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? Yesthat'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 itand you needn't groan when I say it. Good night,
Caudle. What do you say Bless me I 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 




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    ro3
Now, why should you snap me up in that way.  YL)!
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. Yosu 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 tor youMiss 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




1o4    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
-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 doneshouting 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 shan'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."




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    I05
LECTURE XXVI.
MRS. CAUDLE'S FIRST NIGHT IN FRANCE-" SHAMEFUL
INDIFFERENCE" OF CAUDLE AT THE  BOULOGNE
CUSTOM HOUSE.
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 fot the dear
children far away in blessed Englandl-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 t




xo6   SMRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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
Englanc. 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 moustachios 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 was any duster. I dare
say if it had been Miss Prettyman's night-cap-oh, I
-Idn't care about your groaning-if it had been her night



ii,,         I,1,
"And you could stand by, and see that fellow with mustach os rummage
my basket."                            P. io6








MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    I07
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 thzat? 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




ro8    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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. Iam! 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,




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    0og
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 enquired 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.
HERE, 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 wit/ silk
stockings?  Well,-it's come to something now! There




TIO    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 MAiss 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 fidgetted, 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 heip it?  Humph! And you call yourself a
person of strong mind, I believe? One of the lords of
the creation! Ha! ha! could'nt 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.
WVell, and if it was yours first, that's nothing to do with it.
No; I hav'n'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.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    tII
"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




II2    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
that they should. I dare say 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?    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
riht?  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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    I13
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 to 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 needlecase! 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."




II4    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE XXVIII.
MRS. CAUDLE HAS RETURNED HOME.-THE HOUSE (OF
COURSE) "' NOT FIT TO BE SEEN." MR. CAUDLE, IN
SELF-DEFENCE, TAKES A BOOK.
FTER 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 staid 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 pigsty! I thought I could have trusted that Mrs. Closepeg
with untold gold; and did you only see the hearth-rug?
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 shan'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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    II5
it uZp 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 shan'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 seaside 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
12




ii6    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 arn'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 arn'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
areat 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?




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.   uX7
Jfilton'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.  /hat 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 light."




ri8    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE XXIX.
MRS. CAUDLE THINKS "THE TIME HAS COME TO HAVE
A COTTAGE OUT OF TOWN."
AUDLE, 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES:    xt9
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
Clajpham? 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?  2Too high?  What a man you are! Well thenBattersea? Too low? You're an aggravating creature,
Caudle, you must own that I 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




120    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 itI 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.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES         I21
"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 meanbut 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 ear-rings, you never objected
before. What?  You've learned better now? Yes, that's
all with your filthy politics again. You'd shake all the




I22    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 ear-rings,
I should like to know?  If you knew any thing of the
world, you'd know what a nice diamond ear-ring will
sometimes do-when one can get it-before this. But I
know why you can't abide ear-rings 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 farfrom 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 TurtleDovery.'"




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    123
LECTURE XXX.
AIRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS OF THE " TURTLE-DOVERY. " —DISCOVERS BLACK-BEETLES.-THINKS IT s" NOTHING
BUT RIGHT" THAT CAUDLE SHOULD SET UP A CHAISE.
-C ma~W~ OU'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




I24    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
strikes eight, out they march. What? They're very
yunctual? 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 bed-room.
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 blackbeetles 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 1
christen it myselfo   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 tc,
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? Stills
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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    125
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 omnibusses; 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 arms beautifully painted on the panels.  What?
Arms are rubbish; andyou don't know thatyou 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
dipt 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




X26    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 hav'n'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?  4
mangle in a stone-kitchen proper?  Mr. Caudle, yclu're
always insulting my family-always: but you shall r:ot
put me out of temper to-night. Still, if you don't like
our arms, find your own. I dare say 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 black-beetles 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 fullblown livery. At least, not just yet. I'm told the
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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    127
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 table cloths, 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.
AMRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS VERY BITTERLY THAT MR.
CAUDLE HAS "BROKEN HER CONFIDENCE."
cc ~9~p~   OU'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 very 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.




r23    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
"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 shan'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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    I29
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 had come out. What do you say? Badgerly was
rizht? 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.hus.
bands 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
K




130     MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
anything about you,-and I might, and you know itand 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 went.'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 dropt a syllable that as a wife I ought to have kept
to myself-no, I'm not at all forgetting what I've saidand 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 teople you'd a false front tooth?




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    r3I
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-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."
K 2




r32    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
LECTURE XXXII.
MRS. CAUDLE DISCOURSES OF MAIDS-OF-ALL-WORK AND
MAIDS IN  GENERAL.  MR. CAUDLE'S " INFAMOUS
BEHAVIOUR" TEN YEARS AGO.
HERE 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 mantel-piece, 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 of mind if I always could. Don't say that. I'm not a foolish woman,








~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ial-~  ~ 
~ I:i'   I
All~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.'~ I.Saw you when the breature was just behind mry chair, you took up a
glass of wine."   P. I33.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    133
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 arn'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?  1
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? Soyou 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 who
ought to ask for that: I'm safe enough, I am: it's you who
should ask to be forgiven.




1~4    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
" 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 hopeso? Themoreshame
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
shan'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 arenow, 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? Perhapsyou did?  You don't
blush to confess it? If your principles, Mr. Caudle, ar'n'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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    t35
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 trollopnow 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!"




r36    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
"She slept," writes Caudle, "and poor Kitty left on
Tuesday."
LECTURE XXXIII.
MRS. CAUDLE HAS DISCOVERED THAT CAUDLE IS A
RAILWAY DIRECTOR
C' ".........HEN 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 at 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    I37
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 EelPie 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 stockbroker'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
be only 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 shan'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 come 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




138    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 patch-work
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 tellyou 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 may 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.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    139
"'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 EelPie 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 eelpies will be brought home to the business and bosoms of
Ratcliffe-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 1 I'm not using




140    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 e Then 1
know what they're worth-they'Il 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..c 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, arn'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 a




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    I4r
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




142    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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?  Ishall
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.
ATell, all I ask is, love, because it's only for your sake,
and it would make no difference to me then —how should




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    143
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, arn'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 men's wickedness, just as
fire brings out spots of grease.  What didyou 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




144    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 that 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."




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    145
LECTURE XXXV.
MRS. CAUDLE "HAS BEEN TOLD" THAT CAUDLE HAS' TAKEN TO PLAY' AT BILLIARDS.
a'~s~l~.OU'RE very late to-night, dear. It's not
latee 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 staid 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
L




146    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 childrenthough, to be sure, you never thought anything of themto 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 youyou 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    147
man never broke the bread of life: he took to billiards,
and he didn't live with aunt a month afterwards. A
lcky 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,
L 




148    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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 playnow 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.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    149
"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.'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




150    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
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'tisrl'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 itbut 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 key-.
hole. That was my death, Caudle, though don't let that
make you uneasy, love; for I don'tthink 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.




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES,   rt5
"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 sha'n'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 lay 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 shoescertainly not. I never would wear'em thick, and you
know it, and they never gave me 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?




152    MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.
"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 keyhole; 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 but 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




MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.    153
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 task-master, 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!
THE END OF MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.








MRS. BIB'S BABY.








MRS. BIB'S BABY.
INTRODUCTION.
EN o'clock. Ten, P.M., by the parish church,
and ere we shall have written this first paragraph, Mrs. Bib's Baby will be one month
old. It has almost been through the Fishes
without knowing it. Unconscious little Jonah!
Without knowing it?  Indeed! who shall say?  You
may have forgotten all about it, reader; but for our part,
with all respect for your opinion-and you may take just
as much of the quality as you honestly think your opinion
worth-for our part, we are not callous enough to swear
that we had not the liveliest and minutest knowledge of
every matter that passed about us during the first four
weeks of our citizenship of this world. Does not a philosopher avow that the soul of every baby is, at its birth,
wrapt in a sheet of blank paper,-like a Maintenon
cutlet? Well, who shall define the exact moment when
the said baby begins to take notes? —the precise point of
time when baby discriminates the nose of Father from
the nose of Mother? —at what instant a judge between
the Roman and, it may be, the pug.




158             MRS. BIB'S BABY.
We speak not from conceit. We would arrogate to
ourselves nothing superior, when we avow-and with
quite as much gravity as though we talked to a bishopthat we were perfectly conscious of all that, in our first
month of human breath, looked and stirred, and sounded
about us. It may not be readily believed, but really and
truly, we were a remarkably quiet baby. We had a
grave-a somewhat wan, and contemplative spirit. We
remember catching the first glance of ourself in the
looking-glass. We were not flattered by the reflection.
We were somewhat withered, shrunken; as though a little
fagged upon our journey into this world. We can well
remember the ancient woman who-when we were sixand-thirty hours old-remarked that we were "wonderfully like Billy Pitt." We have since seen the portrait of
the man, and can forgive even that woman! Perhaps,
indeed, we have a lingering touch of vanity —a wish that
the woman was still alive: that we might confound her
with her present Grecian nose and hyacinthine curls.
We well remember our first impressions of this world.
We thought it a dull, cold, shabby place. We had a
feeling that somehow -it was nothing like the place we had
come from. It seemed to us that there lingered in our
brain little flecks and dots of light, which, though they
grew fainter and fainter, still made all other things about
us look dim and cold. It somehow seemed to us as
though we had fallen asleep, and had awakened disgraced. Of course, this could not be; but we give our
impressions.
We very soon turned author,-or rather note-taker.
When we were not above a quarter of an hour old, we
felt contempt, pity, yes, and ire for our nurse. How she




MRS. BIB'S BABY.'59
rolled us up! The ignorant creature thought we only
cried. Little did she know with what abdominal energy
at that moment we swore at her! It was wrong; but we
know what we felt. Consider; a tender piece of Adam's
clay swathed and swathed, that even the very heart of a
baby is not permitted to throb and bound, but is made to
lie as still as a frog in a stone. If we have hard hearts in
the world, who shall say how much of their hardness they
owe to hard nursing?
And then the foolish, wicked want of respect that is
shown to babies! The difficulty they have to assert their
intelligence against the tyrannous ignorance of nurses!
We remember our own experience. Again and again,
when about a month old, we have lain and looked about
us, and, without saying anything, have made capital jokes
to ourself, laughing enjoyingly but silently at their tremendous humour.  In these moments, the nurse has
said-" Poor thing! it's wind!"  Yes: we have been
full of frolic, and such the cold, depreciatory comment.
However, in our later days, with our very best fancies, we
have sometimes met with no better interpretation.
Hence, it is a conviction of the great injustice suffered
by millions of babies-it is a profound and stirring
sympathy for the wrongs of their tops-and-bottoms lifethat, as with an arm of steel, has fixed us in our chair,
so that we may render up the secrets of an infant soul to
the foolscap spread to receive them.  Yes; it is our
solemn purpose to give the biography of Mrs. Bib's Baby
while in arms. We shall minutely narrate the various
persecutions it endured until the momentous period when
it was first enabled to achieve the dignified posture of
Adam, when rising from the bosom of his mother, he




I60              MRS. BIB'S BABY.
walked as walked the angels.  In plain, working-day
phrase, Mrs. Bib's Baby will leave the reader the very
moment it runs alone. How we have become the depositary of Baby's precious secrets, it matters not in the
present page to tell. When the whole book is completed,
the reader may be informed thereof-and he may not.
Our great difficulty will be to reduce our materials into
a modest, volumable compass. We have matter enough
for two thick folios of the good old times, when an author
stretched himself in his page as in a bed-when he had
one; and was not, as in these days, cramped head to
heel, in twelvemo-duodecimo. If the reader will but
think a moment-will but reflect on the manifold sufferings and disquietudes of a baby that, for the first twelvemonth, is rarely considered other than a doll that cries,
and sucks, and eats-the said baby's germinating opinions
being either contemptuously neglected, or tyrannously
oppressed-if the reader will but take to heart these
daily doings suffered by a plastic, ductile creature, at the
very time it should receive most reverential care, —he
must, without pause, acknowledge that we have a mass of
matter that needs the most delicate handling. We shall
however, do with the twelvemonth's history of Baby, what
Mrs. Bib-good thrifty woman! —did with Baby's garments: we shall cut away all flowing superfluities; and
so reduce the needless longs into succinct shorts.
For the reader must remember that we have the various
wisdom of father and mother —and grandfather and grandmother on both sides-and godfathers and godmothersand nurses, and bosom friends, and kind acquaintance,all of whom are apt to consider a baby as a thing sent
into a house to provoke and suffer moral experiments,



MRS. BIB'S BABY.              r61
we say the reader must remember that we have to
chronicle all the many-coloured thoughts of these many
people, and he must therefore indulgently consider the
difficulty of our task; for we must at once be brief yet
full, like a wren's egg.
From a painful consideration of the early sufferings of
Baby Bib-to say nothing of our own personal recollections-we are profoundly convinced that the first year of
a child's life is the most tremendously important of any
succeeding twelvemonth, though the creature shall number
three-score and ten. It is, therefore, with more than ten
tin-trumpet voice, we would preach the very earliest respect for the very earliest babies. Consider the blank
sheet of paper with which the head of every baby-according to the philosopher-is lined. Think of it, and
shudder, when you see nurses and nurse-maids writing
their pot-hooks and hangers upon it, as though they wrote
with rolling-pins, or, at the best, wooden skewers! Poor
human papyrus! How many after-scratchings, and cuttlefish rubbings it shall take to scratch and rub out the
marks, —that, after all, may never wholly be effaced, but
remain dingy and dark under snow-white hairs!
Or think, Mrs. Gotobed-portly, jolly monthly nurse
as you are —think upon, and if you will, believe in the
doctrine of innate ideas, which doctrine we will essay to
render familiar to your fat-bound apprehension. Did you
ever, in the long-past and almost forgotten years of your
virginity, did you ever pen a secret missive in colourless
fluid to the adoring, for yet unfettered Gotobed? You
have! Sometimes you wrote with milk-sometimes with
juice of lemon. And Peter took the piece of seeming
blankness, and holding it to the kitchen fire, what words
M




162             MRS. BIB'S BABY,
of tenderness and passion dawned on the sheet, called
into vital expression by the favouring heat! And this,
Mrs. Gotobed, is no other than the doctrine of innate
ideas. All babies-say some philosophers-have them
ready written in their brains, only awaiting a timely heat
to bring them out: all the ideas are thus invisibly written,
though whether in the milk of human kindness, or in the
acidity of the lemon, we leave it to the worldly experience
of Mrs. Gotobed and the reader to determine.
Now, good nurse, believe in which philosophy you
will-you must believe in the solemn nature and destination of that little cloud-capped head lying upon your knee;
that head, to your former ignorance as void of thought as
any one of the turnips that, with broth and mutton, you
consumed at dinner. It is, therefore, our purpose-but
hold; for this week we have said enough.
Reader, turn the page without rustling, or you'll wake
Baby.
CHAPTER I.
iABY, hush! "Sarah, what can this blessed
baby want? Can't you remember? It must
be roast pig." Thus spoke Mrs. Daffy,
mother of young Mrs. Bib; and by consequence, grandmother of the month-old baby lying on her
lap, and as it seemed, continually tasting its own lips. "My
dear, it must be pig," again averred Mrs. Daffy.
"Impossible," said young Mr. Bib, confidently, as




MRS. BIB'S BABY.              z63
though he resolved some mathematical proposition.
"What can so young a creature know of the taste of
pig?"
It is a great, a proud triumph for woman, when she can
look down upon the ignorance of the male animalloftily down, as from a garret window. Thus, Mr. Bib
no sooner spoke, than Mrs. Daffy enjoyed such conquest
suddenly. How very small in grandmother's wise eyes
was Mr. Bib! He had sunk to the dimensions and intelligence of a mere domestic piece of furniture; a chattel
-a three-legged stool. He had forfeited his divine
diploma as a rational creature, and stood at his own hearthstone-in the presence of the wife of his bosom and the
child of his loins-a nincompoop-a nobody.
Now, be it remembered, Mr. and Mrs. Bib were both
young-some people declared, foolishly young.  It is
true, they had crowned themselves with the glory of a
parent; but then, what could they know of children?
Everybody asked it. And so, what a treasure at their
fire-side was Mrs. Daffy! We have watered our ink from
the well of Truth; and therefore must certify that in the
common, prose events of prose life, Mrs. Daffy was in no
way a very remarkable person. She ruled Daffy, rated
her servants, and glorified her own domestic wisdom, as
exercised in her various functions of wife and housewife
in no manner to distinguish her from a million of her
sisterhood. But in the matter of babies, she was an extraordinary woman! Let a baby be born to any of her
friends, and how Mrs. Daffy would rise with the occasion!
With what dignity-the natural result of conscious power!
-would she quietly swim into their houses, and elect
herself-a sort of chancellor in petticoats-the guardian
M 2




164              MRS. BIB'S BABY.
of infants. She at once combined in her own majestic
maternity the person of father and mother, of grandfathers
and grandmothers, of uncles and aunts of the newly-born.
The baby was her baby; her privilege; her property. Its
mere mother was just tolerated-and that only when very
meek indeed-whilst the father was just a sort of person
allowed the run of the house. Mrs. Daffy adopted the
child-made it her own from the moment of its birthand only now and then, from an unbounded generosity of
temper, permitted father and mother to assume an interest in their own flesh. Her look and manner, when
nursing baby, seemed continually to say-" I am myself solely responsible for this transaction; and, save
when I choose to condescend, admit of no interlopers.
Father and mother, and all sorts of relations, know your
places."
And it must be confessed that, to a great extent,
Mrs. Daffy had earned a right to this supremacy; for her
passion was babies-and like green peas, the younger
they were, the better she loved them. In her own words,
"the sweeter they were to her." This moral epicureanism
-this love of human novelty-this craving for the last
new baby, as for the last new bonnet, was not to be disguised by Mrs. Daffy. No: it was plain that as baby's
clothes were shortened, Mrs. Daffy's interest in the thing
diminished; and when it once ran alone, it almost
seemed to her that the creature had achieved a fair start
in the world, and had therefore released her sympathies, that they might engage themselves to the next new
comer. And it must be owned, she never permitted them
to be long out of employment.
It is known that some people have a strange, a fearful




MRS. BIB'S BABY.              I65
relish for death-beds: that they will run-aye, much faster
than the present serious generation to a bran-new playto see their brethren lay down their parts of life. It is possible that such sight-seers seek the show — a show wherein
they must some day be the hero-to learn decency or
dignity for themselves, at their final leave-taking. Now,
the more cheerful, hopeful taste of Mrs. Daffy, made her
seek precisely the opposite scene. She delighted to contemplate the renewal of the world. To her ears the first
cry of a baby was the music of hope; a sound as of
psaltery and timbrel,-though we do not insist that she
very clearly comprehended what such instruments werebreathing the triumph of life, and the rejoicing of man's
spirit: a sound, speaking of the activities of the worldof mortal striving, and mortal conquest. Something of
this kind-though we own we have put the thoughts into
holiday clothes-always, at such seasons, stirred in the
brain of Mrs. Daffy. Hence, when summoned from her
home-and how blithely, with what a radiant look she
would take leave of Daffy!-for her delicious missionto welcome another small citizen to the world, to hear
him wailingly take up his freedom of the universe —Mrs.
Daffy was always beautifully impressed with the solemnity
of her task. Queen Sheba, setting forth to meet King
Solomon, must have felt something of the dignity of
purpose that always possessed Mrs. Daffy when summoned to meet the unknown, mysterious little one, that
might turn out a King Solomon, or might be-for the
dynasty will never be extinct —a King Noodle! And
then, how all matters-even the most trifling-appertaining to the expected stranger, became heightened and
beautified in the eyes of Mrs. Daffy! No astronomer




x66              MRS. BIB'S BABY.
with greater rapture could decipher the immortal meaning
of the sky-writ eternally as it is in starry thoughts-no
scholar, dipt in the depths of Egyptian lore, could with
keener pleasure pluck out the subtle soul from the husk
of hieroglyphs-than would Mrs. Daffy, for the hundredth time, gaze upon the pin-cushion whereon were
writ the time-old syllables of love and hope-" Welcome,
little stranger!"
It was this devotion to babies that made Mrs. Daffy
consider them as sent from heaven to man's fireside, as
man's best reward.  "You're a good man,"-she has
been known, in rare moments of enthusiasm, to declare
to the patronised father,-" You're a good man, and
quite deserve the babe you have." As if a babe were a
sort of medal bestowed by fate upon a man, for early
hours and good conduct.
With these self-imposed duties, so rigidly carried out,
it was natural —it was very proper-that Mrs. Daffy
should have her moments of pride. And then her indulgence of the feeling was of a touching sort, expressed
too, at times, with a truly feminine contempt for logic.
We give a case.
A young clergyman-one of Mrs. Daffy's babiespreached his maiden sermon in Mrs. Daffy's parish pulpit,
and received from the congregation rounds and rounds
of mute applause.
" He's a sweet preacher! " cried one gentleman. "So
impressive!" cried another.  "So very orthodox!" said
a third. Whereupon Mrs. Daffy, with a sweet smile,
clinched-for there are most clinching smiles-such flattering opinions., For, drawing herself up, she said, " He
is orthodox. I put on his first things."




MRS. BIB'S BABY.             x67
To go back, however, to the beginning. Baby still
smacks its lips.
" Sarah, my dear,"-says Mrs. Daffy,-" what can this
blessed infant want?"
But this question we must endeavour to answer in
another chapter.
CHAPTER II.
C"   W HE~ic HAT can this blessed infant want? "for the third time, and with increased
concern, asked Mrs. Daffy.
As she spoke the door opened, and
the elder Mrs. Bib-mother of Baby's father, and therefore Baby's paternal grandmother-entered the room.
There was a frozen smile upon her face that spoke of
injuries endured with the serenity of a martyr. She trod
her own son's carpet with the most cutting assumption of
humility-the satire especially intended for Mrs. Daffyand begged, in the very softest tones, to assure the company that she could not stop half a moment; that she
had merely called in as it were-and particularly hoping
it was not a liberty-to inquire about Baby; her son's
Baby.
Whereupon Mrs. Daffy, making suddenly a very small
mouth, answered, " Thank you, ma'am-my daughter's
darling boy is beautiful."
It was a plain case. The two grandmothers could not
agree; and it was equally plain that they tended and




I68             MRS. BIB'S BABY.
nurtured their mutual difference as though it was a precious plant —a flower: something to love and take delight in. They had had the politest quarrel in the world,
when Baby was only half-an hour old. Grandmother Bib
had ventured some small suggestion for Baby's good,
when Grandmother Daffy thanked her very much indeed
-but she knew very well all about babies, or why —she
wished to ask-should she have had seven?  Moreover,
she should never think of interfering with Mrs. Bib's
daughter's child, if, indeed, she should ever have one.
Grandmother Bib was immovably polite. She always
smiled. Look at her face as you would, in any light, it
always beamed and shone-even when, like a richly-cut
vinegar cruet, acid dropt from its brightness. Hence, she
was no sooner rebuked than she begged ten thousand
pardons. " Of course, it was only her son's child; the
little creature only belonged to Edward: and what right,
indeed, had she to speak?  She herself had had six
children at least; but of course, Mrs. Daffy must know
better than she." Whereupon Mrs. Daffy, silently, but
with a graceful undulation of neck-that would have
honoured any grandmother swan-took the compliment
as her undisputed right. Mrs. Bib, however, though for
the time silent, expressed —but still in her smiling waya very strong after-opinion. For that very night, ubton
quitting the house, she gently laid her hand upon the arm
of Martha, the maid; and her eyes, despite of her,
beaming, and her face in shining plaits, as though she
spoke of a great coming treat-albeit her heart was cut
in twain for the moment-she said-" My dear Becky,
they'll kill that infant. Certainly kill it. Good night."
Possibly the reader may now imagine the ceremonious




MRS. BIB'S BABY.              169
feelings with which the two grandmothers met, at the very
moment that Grandmother Daffy put the question that
heads our chapter.
" We're thinking," said Bib, with all the stupidity and
hopeless ignorance of a man; "we're thinking, mother,
what it is that baby wants. For my part, with what's
about it, I can't see that it wants anything."
Grandmother Bib loved her son: but even she, filled
to the lips as she was with maternal tenderness, could
not help smiling one of her smiles upon him, that spoke
a very eloquent volume of pity. She merely said —"You
can't see! Of course not: how should you? But this
comes of boys and girls marrying! What should either of
you know? "  Mrs. Daffy said nothing: but it was plain
she was labouring at some withering reply. It was not
her fault that she could not speak a very pointed dagger:
for it was evident that she was violently rummaging her
brain for such a weapon. Nothing, however, came to
hand: not even the dagger of wood that, in default of
steel, will sometimes present itself-a shabby substitute.
There was a short pause, and baby-rno doubt, conscious of the lull-improved the opportunity by giving
another and another smack with its lips. The sweet
sound-the eloquent look of the child-for a moment
took down the dignity of Grandmother Bib: for, kissing
the child, and with a burst of eloquence that seemed
rather a liberty to Mrs. Daffy, the paternal grandmother
said, "Bless its darling rosebud of a mouth! Wants!
the precious pipkin!  I know what it wants!  It's
salmon I "
"Mrs. Bib!" said Mrs. Daffy, in so many syllables;
but her meaning cried-" Foolish woman!"




170            WMRS. BIB'S BABY.
Heroically unmindful of the reproach, Grandmother
Bib repeated her opinion, strengthening it with an adjective, " Salmon! pickled salmon! It was the same with
its father! "
" I should be very sorry to give any child of a
daughter of mine any such poison," said Mrs. Daffy.
"Sorry, indeed, to have anything of the sort on my
conscience."
"I'm sure," cried Grandmother Bib, "'tis the only thing
will satisfy it. If anything happens, I'll answer for it."
" Very good; very kind, indeed," replied Mrs. Daffy,
digging her words very politely at Mrs. Bib. "You'll
pardon me,-but if anything should happen to this child
-my daughter's child-you'll excuse me, but I should
like to know how you would make it good, indeed."
" My dear ma'am-that is, Mrs. Daffy "-for Grandmother Bib suddenly felt that she was becoming too
familiar-" nothing can happen to it. Look at the blessed
creature; "-Baby was still smacking its lips, tasting with
great gust an imaginary something;-" look at it.  I
know it's salmon; " and this opinion Grandmother Bib
delivered with an earnestness, a solemnity, that she intended to be convincing-final.
At length Baby's father, Mr. Bib, ventured to intrude
a word. He had been so remarkably well disciplined by
the two grandmothers, that he spoke upon the subject
of his own child with a very respectful timidity. Hovwever, he did take heart, and prepared to have his say.
Whereupon, when his mother appealed to him, if the one
thing necessary for his infant's peace of mind was not
salmon-pickled salmon-he begged, with the very
greatest deference, to differ from  such opinion.  "If




MRS. BIB'S BABY.               I7T
there's anything in these whimsies at all," said the ignorant,
unphilosophic father-" if a child really wants what its
mother wished for"" If!" exclaimed the two grandmothers-for once in
concert, and both looking on the man with pitying wonder
" If! "
" I should say that the thing at this moment nearest
Baby's heart was a real Cashmere shawl, and a box at
the opera."
" How can you, Edward? " said young Mrs. Bib.
"I can't remember anything else," said the very
waggish Bib.
The two grandmothers, treating the unfeeling levity of
the man and the father with the full measure of contempt
it merited, made no further reply. They were, however,
in no way to be diverted from the interesting subject of
their contest. Again they began the battle; Grandmother
Bib returning refreshed with a reinforcement of pickled
salmon, which Grandmother valiantly met with her roast
pig. The combat was supported with admirable energy
on either side: its subject, we trust, all unconscious
lying in Mrs. Daffy's lap. Happy babe! Yes, we hope
it knew nothing of either of the experiments threatening
its inward infancy. There it lay, fought for by contending love! A tender sacrifice for killing kindness!
It was plain, however, that Mrs. Daffy-who would
enlist her daughter on her side-must, in the end, carry
the day. It was plain, even to Grandmother Bib, that
roast pig, as suggested by Mrs. Bib in our first chapter,
must conquer. Whereupon she prepared to retreat with
dignity. Wrapping her shawl tightly about her, she
smiled very fiercely, and said



172              MRS. BIB'S BABY.
" nDo as you like: of course you will. But you'll kill
that child! Good morning."
CHAPTER III.
HERE'S Master's mother, Mrs. Bib, has sent
to know how baby is, if you please, ma'am,"
said Becky, the next morning.  "And she
begs to say, that she wouldn't take the freedom to inquire, only that how she's had a dream. What,
if you please, shall I tell the girl, ma'am? "
" That woman's always dreaming," cried Mrs. Daffy.
"And did she say nothing else?"
"Only this, ma'am; that if Joanna saw the house
shut up, she wasn't to inquire at all-but to go back as
fast as her legs would carry her. That's what Joanna told
me of herself, ma'am."
" Sarah," said Mrs. Daffy to her daughter, sinking her
voice to a somewhat solemn pitch, and playing with her
fingers on Baby's back as though Baby was a piano-the
Baby answering the fingering as if its treble keys alone
were struck. " Sarah, it's my belief there's some people
wouldn't care if even death came into a house, so that
some people's words might seem to come true. Mrs.
Bib is your dear husband's mother, and therefore, of
course, I shall say nothing: it isn't likely. But if ever
there was a woman to bring mischief into a house —not
that it's any affair of mine; none.  Nevertheless, I can
see it; we can't help having one's eyes-she looks at me




MRS. BIB'S BABY.              I73
as if I was an interloper.  Now, if it was her daughter's
child, I think I should know my place."  And here Mrs.
Daffy, addressing the screaming infant, bawled out, " I
think I should-a dear! "
" It can't be well; —it never would cry so-I'm sure it
can't be well," said young Mrs. Bib, her countenance
shadowed and anxious.
" Wind, Sarah-nothing but wind," averred Mrs. Daffy,
and still she played on Baby's back, and looked heroically about her like one invulnerable to the screams of
infants. They might do their worst, and still was she
serene and deaf to them.
" I'm certain, mother, it can't be well," said sweet Mrs.
Bib, looking all the sweeter for the mother's look that
perplexed her pretty face.  "If anything should happen
to it "" Ha! that's just like you, child. I wonder how I
should have brought all of you up, if I'd been half as
foolish. Tell Mrs. Bib "-here Mrs. Daffy turned to
Becky, hallooing through Baby's screams-" tell Mrs.
Bib that Baby's charming; a little fractious, that's all;
and Becky "-this was given as private and confidential
-" not a word about the pig."
In our last chapter, we expressed a belief that Mrs.
Daffy would carry her point, and-in such matters she
was not a woman to be baulked-a fragment of roast pig
had been silently, stealthily procured, Becky being the
sworn purveyor on the occasion, and secretly administered to the yearning infant; that, in its eager relish of
the morsel, gave tremendous evidence of the sagacity of
Mrs. Daffy. Great, indeed, was the satisfaction —sweet
the triumph of that wise woman-as she looked down




174              MRS. BIB'S BABY.
upon Baby, sucking the pig as vehemently as the pig
itself had ever sucked its parent.  Fragmentary but
beautiful were the sentences addressed by Grandmother
to Babe, some of which went to assure the infant that " it
was a love —a pig-a-wiggy-the pig of pigs itself."
And Baby was, in due season-but after long sucking
at the sweet, porcine morsel-satisfied, and with greasy
lips, and little shining cheeks, subsided into deep sleep.
Poor little fellow! this was its first transgression; its
first outbreak from a milk diet-from the sweet simplicity
of nature-to feast upon the flesh-pots of a fallen, carnivorous world. This was the first time that death had
administered to its life-this the first morsel that, with all
its delicate flavour, nevertheless smacked of the fall of
man,-albeit Baby smacked its lips, luxuriously unconscious of the disgrace of his first father. This the first
tit-bit of the thousands and thousands of various joints,
and steaks, and chops, and merry-thoughts, and wings
"to follow "-things that, to the eye of a philosopher,
make adult, bow-bellied man, seem no other than a sort
of breathing, human Noah's Ark; a machine carrying
transformed within it always two of every living thing.
Prophetic imagination looking down upon Baby Bibits lips still wet and beaded with its first sweet sin of
animal flesh-might parcel out its little body, even as
cattle-breeders parcel out Smithfield, as a future temporary abiding-place for oxen, and calves, and sheep, and
pigs. What a living cattle market in little had Grandmother Daffy on her knees, and yet-good thick soul!how very distant from her the thought of it!
But beautiful is the regularity, the clock-work of nature;
and certain and severe the penalty on man for playing




MRS. BIB'S BABY,             175
tricks with it. Though Bacchus himself over night lend
you his thyrsus to advance the hands and push on the
hours,-it is ten to one that in the morning, you will
have a smart knock upon the head for your boldness:
and even if the knock be delayed, why it is only deferred
that it may pay itself with interest, all the single knocks
coming down in after years, as double ones. For timewhen it trusts at all-takes huge interest of intemperance.
" Now, bless me! what is all this about —and what
can it have to do with an infant eating pig?" With ears
quite long enough to hear into next week, when these
scratches shall be made legible by type, we hear many
female voices-silveriest sounds, when silver!-asking
this. We will answer; we will show, from the after-conIfession of Baby Bib itself, what infants may suffer from
early dissipation, when forced upon their innocence by
bad-that is, by ignorant-company.
Baby Bib fastened hold of the roast pig as the one sole
thing of this multitudinous world-the one dear, mysterious object-the sweet unknown-that in its long
experience of the earth-for it was more than a monthold citizen of the globe-it had yearned, and grieved for.
No sooner had Baby the morsel in its lips, than all the
common-places about it (for time and custom had made
all things very dull and usual) grew and changed into
beauty. Its own grandmother-Mrs. Daffy-was very
soon an altered person; her dull yellow face shone with
golden lustre; her cap seemed like a cloud of glory; and
her incomprehensible gibberish, invented by nurses for
the especial purpose of insulting babies, was most delightful-most eloquent harmony. Baby Bib-still sucking




r76             MRS. BIB'S BABY.
the pig-sank pleased, melted, soaked in delight to sleep.
The little creature was drunk'witc satisfaction.
But babies, like men, must pay a common penalty.
How beautiful would be the bottle, if there was no tomorrow morning in it! Baby Bib, by foolish company,
had been forced into dissipation; had been at once
tempted and compelled into a debauch-its first transgression-and it awoke in a condition that probably the
reader may much more readily conceive than our penfor we write with only the quill of a goose, temperate
waterfowl as it is-can express.  Baby had the bile:
Baby's head ached; Baby's eyes were fixed like the eyes
of a dead fish; Baby looked heavily at all things about it,
and saw strange characters written upon them: odd
marks that were not there last night. The forms of these
new things, however, remained in Baby's memory;
strange, cabalistic marks, that even now move much
of the world.  Baby-become a man-has since put
them down; and they run somehow thus:-..2t,..And then Baby-not having yet learned to disguise
the effects of its intemperance-began to scream, and
clench its little fists —and turn purple-and hold its
breath, as though it was Baby's own property, and it
would not give it up, let them smack its back as they
would. And in this disreputable condition, for the present, we leave it.




MRS. BIB'S BABY.              177
CHAPTER IV.
EALLY Mr. Bib was a good, working-day
husband.  We do not mean to back him
against any romantic sample of a spouse;
such husbands being too often worked in silk
or painted on satin, like rosebuds and canary-birds, solely
for the amusement of young spinsters. He loved his wife
in a plain, straightforward fashion; and as he was never
lavishly tender to her before company, there is the
greater reason to believe that he was neither savage nor
silent to her when alone. For some married folks will
keep their love like their jewellery, for the eyes of the
world; thinking it too fine and too precious to wear
every day at their fire-side. Mr. Bib, too, was reasonably
proud of his child.  His wife-dear soul!-had her
private opinion that, old as the world was, and multitudinous as were its children, there had never-until the
advent of her Babe-been a proper child born. They
had been very well; they had served to keep up the
stock of mankind, but they were not like Baby Bib. And
who shall blame her for so sweet a prejudice? Natural
to her as her mother's milk?
In our last chapter we left Baby in a tremendous passion; and the roast-pig, lying heavily on its stomach, it
would not be comforted. Mrs. Daffy was somewhat
ruffled by the perverseness of the child-whose ill-humour
was, in truth, a reflection on her judgment; a condemnation of her election of pig as the one thing needful for
its peace of mind and body. She was, we say it, a little
N




178              MRS. BIB'S BABY.
angry with Baby; but her greater cause of concern was,
lest Grandmother Bib should bounce into the family
circle, and-for she could not help it-enjoy the triumph
conveyed by Baby's ill-humour. Mrs. Daffy dreaded
that icy smile, those coldly gleaming eyes, and that prophecy-uttered with a sort of relish —of Baby's certain
decease, if certain people would have their way with it.
And still Baby screamed; and with an energy that gave
high promise of its future strength of character.
"I do think, Sarah," said Mrs. Daffy, " that a little
aniseed would quiet it. Just a drop."
Mr. Bib entered the room as his mother-in-law delivered the above opinion. He stopt short; looked, for
him, a little sternly in that gentlewoman's face, and with
a kind of menace, wagging his forefinger, said,-" Mrs.
Daffy, you will, I trust, allow me to have some property
-just a little-in my own child."
"Why, of course, Mr. Bib, it's your own-nobody
that looked at it could doubt that," said Mrs. Daffy.
" To be sure it's your own, and though'tis my daughter's
child-which is something more-still I must say this,
the blessed infant does you credit."
" Being then, my own property," said Bib, "it is my
intention, Mrs. Daffy, not to have it tampered with."
"Tampered! La!" cried Mrs. Daffy. "Who'd think
of doing it? Bless its little heart i I'm sure I could eat
it." So spoke a grandmother's love.
" I'll not dispute that," said Bib. " It may speak a great
deal for your affection, though I can't very well allow
that it says much for your taste."
Mrs. Daffy looked at her son-in-law with a perplexed
face. Could the man be such a simpleton as to believe




MRS. BIB'S BABY.,79
that she could really digest her grandson?  But then, in
the matter of babies, men were such fools. "Why," she
at length observed, " you didn't think I meant what I
said? But you're all alike-you men do so like to take
women up. It's just the same with her father. You're
all alike," and Mrs. Daffy essayed a slight laugh, though
not from her heart; for there way something odd and
strange-almost rude in the manner of her son-in-law.
Here Baby took new breath, and began to scream afresh.
"Sarah," said Mrs. Daffy, very earnestly, " it must have
some aniseed."
" Not a drop," said Bib; and he knitted his brow, and
looked authority.
"Well, Mr. Bib, if you like to kill your child," and
Mrs. Daffy spoke as though she sarcastically allowed
Bib's perfect right to such enjoyment —"if you like to
kill your child."
" I neither intend to kill it myself," said Bib, " nor to
let anybody else poison it."
Different thoughts started into Mrs. Daffy's brain, and
starting from different points and jostling one another,
leaving the owner in an interesting state of irresolution.
The first tremendous thought was to ask Mr. Bib what
he really meant. Thought the second was to rise from
the chair, and majestically depositing Baby in the arms
of its mother, to leave the house and never again to enter
it. Thought the third was merely to echo Bib, and cry
" poison 1" Another thought was to take out a pockethandkerchief. At length Mrs. Daffy made her election.
She chose thought three, and did say "Poison  "
" Exactly so: poison," said Bib. "I heard you speak
of giving the Baby aniseed."
N 2




I80              MRS. BIB'S BABY.
"To be sure: why not?  I gave it to all of mine,"
replied Mrs. Daffy very courageously.
"Well, I dare say their brains have proved none the
stronger for that," said the coarse, uncivil Bib; his sweet
little wife rather opening her eyes at the strange ill-manners of Edward.
"I am sure, Mr. Bib, I don't know what you mean,"
said Mrs. Daffy, in tones that declared she too acutely
felt the insult of every syllable. " I believe I've had nine
children." Mrs. Daffy was suddenly touched with such
humility that she would not, on her own responsibility,
vouch for the number. " I believe I've had nine; and
a finer family never-but that's nothing to do with it.
Nothing. I'm sure, too, their brains-not that I wish to
say anything; I've no right, I know-still their brains
have been quite as good as other people's.  The Daffys
were never fools, Mr. Bib." And here the good, insulted
soul did take out her handkerchief.  In fact, if Bib had
had any knowledge of human nature, he must have known
that that white flag of female distress would be duly
hoisted at the rounding of the proper period.
" There's no necessity for crying," said Bib; for he
saw his wife begin to wink her pretty eyelids, and try to
swallow the tears that were coming up; tears at times
being very catching.  " Can't I say that I won't have the
child drugged and poisoned without having such a highservice of water played upon me?'
" Now, don't be unfeeling, Edward," said meek Mrs.
Bib. " I'm sure, dear mother means for the best."
"To be sure she does. I know that," said Bib; "I
don't complain of her evil intentions, good soul, but only
of her ignorance! "




MRS. BIB'S BABY.              i81
Ignorance was the word. And the hearth-rug was not
suddenly rolled up like a scroll, and the flooring did not
open at the feet of Mrs. Daffy. After a moment's pause
of consternation she smiled a smile, intended to cut like
a razor, and said, with a slight hysteric chuckle,-" Ignorance! Ninle children-only nine! I never knew that
aniseed could hurt a baby yet! But you've such strange
ways, Mr. Bib: you'd bring up a Baby like a little heathen
savage, and not like a Christian child. If it's a cripple,
it isn't my fault, for it isn't half rolled-up enough. I don't
know who'd be your Baby, I'm sure, to have such newfangled tricks played with it. I never heard any other
man talk about babies as you do. For my part-not that
I've any right to speak-I don't see what fathers have to
do with children at all till they're called upon to pay the
school-bills. Daffy never meddled. I took care of that.
But some people are so clever, talking about a natural
way of bringing up children, just as if precious children
were to be brought up like kittens. I should like to
know what sense was given to us for, if not to invent
aniseed, and peppermint, and such things, to comfort
their dear little hearts. It's all very well with black
savages, that don't know what' Godfrey's' is-that never
heard of the' Soothing Syrup' no more than of King Solomon, —it's very well for them to trust to what they call
nature,-but I should hope that Christians know a little
better."
Bib would not continue the fight. Taking his hat he
emphatically said, " Mind-I insist-not a drop of your
comfort as you call it, to stupefy the child-not a drop.',
With this injunction he quitted the room.
Mrs. Daffy suffered due time to elapse for the master




182             MRS. BIB'S BABY.
of the house to get a safe distance from it, when —tugging
at the bell-rope-she said, "Sarah, my dear, we'll now
send Becky for the aniseed."
CHAPTER V.
RS. BIB, sweet Mrs. Bib, with the dut) and
affection of a wife, would not consent to
the aniseed. No; Bib had forbidden it:
and she had never yet failed in her obedience and respect for his wishes, and-no, she could not
bring herself to do it. Besides, she averred, Bib was a
very clever person; he had read so many things; there
was nothing he did not know something of; andthere could be no doubt of it-dear Edward must be
right.
"And this blessed creature is to scream itself to death!
Sarah, you're getting as great a fool as your husband.
Talking about Nature having its course! You've learnt
that gibberish from him! A pretty pickle Nature would be
in, if we let it have its own way. No; I've had nine of
you: but in my time people never talked nonsense about
Nature. It's only a new-fangled word that's come upthat people use to excuse their tricks with. He talked
about Nature when he wanted Baby not to wear a capas if it was born like a Hottentot, covered with wool.
Not to wear a cap! Yes-and he called it Nature! Now,
Sarah, I wouldn't find- fault with your dear husband for
the world. But it wasn't Nature, my love-no; it was




MRS. BIB'S BABY.               183
meanness. Ha! you don't know yet what men are. Yes,
meanness: for he only wanted to save his money, and
not to buy the lace."
"Oh, mother! How can you?" cried Mrs. Bib.
"Ha! my dear," said Mrs. Daffy, with a compassionating
smile, "you're a young creature, and so believe anything
your husband tells you. It was the same with me when
I first married your father. I soon learnt better, Sarah.
Nothing but meanness, my dear. You heard, too, what
he said about a coral and bells! His child, he said,
should have no such trumpery. Nothing like a good
hard crust of bread-he said-to bring through the
teeth. Of course; a crust's cheap enough-a coral
costs money. That's just like the men, Sarah; and so
you'll find it."
" Not with Edward, I'm sure," said the nice little wife.
"He's the best creature in all the world."
"Of course. It's right to think so-it's your duty,
my dear, to think so. Nevertheless, you'll see he's just
like the rest of'em. Oh! where is Becky "-and again
Mrs. Daffy rang the bell-" for this aniseed?"
"No, mother; it shan't be.  I never disobeyed
Edward's will yet "" Well, my dear "-and Mrs. Daffy laughed heartily at
the thought-" you're sure to do it some day-don't tell
me, it isn't to be expected that you shouldn't-and now,
when your dear child's suffering, is the best time to begin.
I'm sure its cries would pierce a stone. And how can a
little aniseed hurt it? "
" But Edward always said it never should be drugged,"
observed Mrs. Bib, evidently giving way.
"Who wants to drug it? You don't call aniseed a




184             MRS. BIB'S BABY.
drug, do you?  And only half a drop-just as much as
would fill the eye of a needle.  You always took it-and
how can it hurt your child?"
Silently, yet sorrowfully, did Mrs. Bib hear her mother
give Becky the fatal order. Becky —well acquainted with
the ignorant whims, as she contemptuously considered
them, of her master-looked appealingly at her mistress;
and in a moment took her silence for assent. With considerable alacrity did Becky hasten for the cordial. Most
pleasing to her was the errand; for it was to circumvent
and confound the nonsense of one of the sex that never
did, and never could know anything about babies. It
was practically to rebuke the ignorance and presumption
of man.
The aniseed was bought. Mrs. Daffy, with considerable presence of mind, poured the liquor into a spoon,
proving, by the quantity, her gigantic notions of the eye
of a needle. Very curious-very interesting-was it to
consider the various expressions of that family group.
No Donna Tofana, no Brinvilliers-not even Anna
Maria Zwanziger-not one of these sweet poisoners did
or could administer the mortal dram that was to send the
drinker to sleep in his coffin —not one of these bold,
white-handed women, we say, could show a finer sample
of serenity than Mrs. Daffy, with the child roaring in her
lap, and the brimming spoon held firmly in her hand.
There was a calmness in her face, sweetened by a look
of conscious benevolence: it was plain she felt that she
was about to do Baby a world of good, and at the same
time to triumph over Baby's father. It was a double
pleasure. Anxious-more than anxious-was the face of
Mrs. Bib. Does the reader remember Michael Angelo's




MRS. BIB'S BABY.                185
Eve, with her hand among the apples? She cannot but
pluck the fruit. Yet in her face, throughout her form,
there seems to creep a shuddering sense of the after evil
of the inevitable act. It is as if at the very moment the
wings of the Angel of Death shadow her paradisaical
brightness. Something after this-a sort of prose version
of it-looked Mrs. Bib.  Can we wonder at it?  For,
considering Mrs. Bib-whose heart was grown into Bib's
heart, both were so tightly hooped about by that little
round of marriage metal which gives the legal "hall
mark." to love-Mrs. Bib, we say, felt that for the first
time she was committing disobedience to the behests of
her natural and amen-made lord. The first disobedience!
It is a truth, ladies —a truth as truthful as the connubial
manacle. Happy couple, Mr. and Mrs. Bib! They
were proud, delighted with their chains. And is it not a
charming sight —a touching matter to think of-to see
Married Love, like the thief in the Beggar's Opera,
dancing to the music of his own fetters?
One twelvemonth had Mrs. Bib been married, and it
was her first disobedience. It must be confessed, as was
afterwards said of Baby Bib's running alone, she took to
it very late. The first disobedience! And who shall
reveal the emotion-what moral line and lead shall
fathom the depths of that woman's soul, as she felt that
there-standing upon her own hearth, a hearth endeared
to her by many teas and toasts-she was coolly, calmly,
deliberately, and with malice aforethought, breaking her
marriage vow? Or if not breaking it, certainly cracking
it? We fear that this domestic wickedness, this treason
— for which, by the defect of our laws, there is no hurdle
-is done every day. But shall its familiarity reconcile




I86             MRS. BIB'S BABY.
us to its terrible iniquity? Assuredly no. And Mrs. Bib
felt the awfulness of that moment. As her marriage vow
was flawed-(it went off with a short lick, like a cold
glass receiving hot water)-she saw the church wherein
she gave her virgin hand to Bib. The words, "love,
honour, and OBEY," pealed upon her remorseful soul with
~. solemn organ swell.  She saw her own little hand
shaking in the hand of Bib. She saw the round facestreaked like a streaked tulip-of the Vulcanic clergyman, welding two hearts together. In that brief moment
-yes, again she saw everything. She saw her own weeping face reflected in the double gilt buttons of Bib. She
saw her dear mother letting fall a heavy shower of tears
upon a very large nosegay; she saw the pug-nose of her
bridesmaid Jemima-(one of those charming, almost eatable pugs; dear little knobs, especially made for men to
hang their hearts, like hats upon)-she saw her, looking
a little misty, yet looking as though she wondered when
her turn would come. All these recollections-and many
more, too numerous for this page-fell smitingly upon the
soul of Mrs. Bib in that sad, rebellious moment. However, so callous does the conjugal mind become, that, in
after years, Mrs. Bib every day committed the same sort
of treason, and, in her own bravado words, thought nothing
of it. Women, be warned!
We must finish our painting of the group. Becky, the
maid-half grinningly, half anxiously looked, now at the
spoonful of aniseed-and now at the door. Master might
come.
It is done.  Baby has swallowed the intemperate
juice; the subtle prologue to who shall say how much
after brandy-and-water?




MRS. BIB'S BABY.              I87
And the household gods squeak like mice in the waistcoat at the disobedience of Mrs. Bib. And Bib himself
-whilst this treason is acting, where is he? Unconscious
man! he is doing business in the City, to stock his cupboard at home.
Baby turns blue. Baby clenches its fists. Mrs. Bib
thinks Baby is dying. Mrs. Daffy turns Baby round upon
its belly, and pats its back. And whilst employed in this
domestic operation, she serenely says to her daughter" Sarah, my dear, when Bib comes home, don't let him
kiss the child, else he'll smell it."
CHAPTER VI.
ABY BIB is a doomed infant-a ruined child
-a tippler in long clothes; the seductive
aniseed curdling "the innocent milk in its
most innocent mouth."  Only a few weeks
old, it is given to drinking, and the sweet vice growing
with it, makes it in a very few days a roaring, screaming,
fighting, bullying, most disreputable Baby. Its character
as the best of infants, was gone for ever. There it would
lie upon the threshold of the world-like a sot upon a
door-step-very drunk indeed.  And the callous, destructive grandmother would smile upon her victim, as
though particularly proud of the ruin accomplished. The
one spoonful of aniseed soon became one and a half;
then two; then three; —and when at length Baby Bib
was in the depths of sleep and liquor, Mrs. Daffy would




zS8               MRS. BIB'S BABY.
cackle a laugh, and cry she "knew what the blessed
darling wanted; just a drop-only a drop,-to comfort
it."
Search every nursery throughout the kingdom-canvass
the merits of every Baby, from the very best porcelain
babies of the best houses, to the common red clay babies
of Indian wigwams, and it would be impossible to find
any individual in long clothes, born with sweeter disposition-with more temperate habits-than Baby Bib.
With what an earnest, business-like faculty it would
imbibe the blessed fluid —heaven-distilled-to nourish it.
Every atom of it would seem engaged in that most comfortable employment: every pore of it seemed to drink,
drink, drink.* It looked neither to the right nor the
left, but, with the vigour of new life, did nothing but
drink. And then would an angel of Peace-one of the
host appointed, whose duty it is to linger at mothers' laps
-at cradles and cots, and wheresoever the human nestling rests-its soul scarce breaking through its baby eyes
-then would an angel, with its harmonious wings, fan
Baby to sleep, and its little upturned bud of a face would
look beautiful with the spirit of quiet that had entered it,
and at its little half-closed mouth would seem some halfuttered sound! But this was in the days of Baby's innocence and unmixed milk.
Thus was Baby Bib taken from the pure path-from its
true via lactea —by its dissipated old grandmother, and
the change in its peaceful, sober habits were shocking for
* St. Augustine-we fear no such remorse ever smote Baby Bib in
after life-vehemently accuses his babyhood of gluttony "at the breast."
See his Confessions for both the melancholy fact and the after penitence.




MRS. BIB'S BABY.              189
even the most stolid nursery-maid-albeit used, indeed
hardened to children-to look upon. That which before
was Baby Bib's great solace and delight-the blest and
blessing point of its existence, whence it drew forth life,
and happiness, and marble-looking sleep-became a thing
of second thoughts: Nay, at times Baby Bib would
scream at it, and grow red in the face at it, and by no
manner of coaxing be made for a moment to endure it,
but with both fists fight wildly about it. And, in a word,
from the very best and most mother-loving of babes, it
became little better than a mad little Nero in long
clothes.
It is an astounding truth-a truth little considered by
man, when, in his bridegroom best, he stands before the
altar, for the moment manipulating the ring end of the
chain ere he fixes it-it is an astounding truth that there
is no household noise like the noise of a baby, when determined to make a ruffian of itself. There was not a macaw
in the Ark that would not have been silenced by Shem's
Baby, had the little one resolved to test its screams. Now
Baby Bib could get anything by crying for it. At a remarkably early time of life Baby became acquainted with
the value of this truth, and therefore shrieked and cried
with amazing sagacity. And so, with a growing love for
aniseed, with a determination not to go to bed without
it, passing to sleep upon the mere insipidity of milk,
Baby Bib never saw its night-gown unfolded-never felt
itself turned upon its stomach to be undone at the back
-that Baby did not begin to shout, and roar, and scream,
and threaten to stop its breath, and go out of the world
at once in a spasm.
" What would it have, then? Would it have its corn



X90             MRS. BIB'S BABY.
fort, and be good?"  Comfort! At the word the red
and purple-faced little rebel would kick, and turn up its
nose, and halloo, as though the proffered comfort was a
vinegar-cruet. No: it had been used to aniseed; and it
would no more go to bed and be quiet, and let its father
rest without it, than would any sea-captain pass into the
sheets without his stiff nightcap of stiff grog. No: Baby
Bib would have its tipple; it looked and roared determination upon that point. And if it did not have it,
why it would make such a noise about midnight, that
Father Bib, roused in his first sleep, would say something
impatient, something disrespectful of babies in general;
whereupon Mamma Bib would meekly remonstrate, and
then meekly weep,-and then get out of bed, and walk
the room with the sweetest, dearest, noisiest, little precious
that was ever made,-the father of the blessing rolling
his head in the bed-clothes, and muttering deep bass in
the sheets.
"Sarah, my dear," said Mrs. Daffy, as Baby Bib lay
upon her lap helpless in all but shrieking-" Sarah, this
dear infant must have something. It's plain aniseed's
no good now-not powerful enough. For the child is
wonderful strong; wonderful indeed; quite gets up in
my lap. Sarah, you must try some Godfrey's."
"Not a drop; no, that I'm determined upon, mother.
I'm only sorry that the dear love has had anything but
its natural food, as Bib says. Very sorry, indeed," said
Mrs. Bib.
"Sarah," observed Mrs. Daffy, considerably hurt, but
kindly endeavouring to control her feelings, " Sarah, you
don't think I'd injure your blessed child, do you?
Natural food, indeed! Well, it isn't for me to interfere,




MRS. BIB'S BABY.             191
of course, with other people's children; but I've had
nine-only nine babies." (Mrs. Daffy always invoked
her tuneful nine.) " Bib will have no rest again to-night,
and of course come down like a fury to breakfast. And
then the names he sometimes calls the blessed infant,
when he's only been kept awake, is dreadful to think of.
He doesn't deserve such a child, and I only hope he
won't lose it, —that's all. All I know is, Sarah, if your
father-ha! the nights he used to walk the room with
my first three! — if your father, Sarah, had said a
twentieth as much against any of you, I'd have-but,
of course, Bib's your husband, and I've no business to
say a word. I should never forgive myself if I did.
Never, Sarah.  Still, I can't see this blessed creature
suffer as it does, when I know that a few drops-just a
few-drops of Godfrey's, as innocent as mother's milk,
would comfort its little inside, and make it as good as
any angel. And I'm sure, Sarah, you look quite wornout; and I know you've been crying because of Bib's illtemper. Now, don't let him know it, Sarah; don't-if
you wouldn't be an unhappy woman. If I'd have given
in to crying with your father-and I was very near it —a
pretty time I should have had of it.  Now, you must
send for the Godfrey's."-The bell was rung.
"If Bib should know it!" cried the weak Mrs. Bib,
the weaker that she had given in to aniseed-" if he
should know it!"" How should he know it? He'll know that he'll get
a good sleep to-night; and that's all men —if they spoke
in their hearts-care about. He'll sleep, and this dear
creature will be pacified. Becky, run for some Godfrey's."




192              MRS. BIB'S BABY.
Cherub Drops —Eden Balm-Paradise Elixir-Nectar
of Poppies-the Cream of Peace-the Mother's Blessing
-all these anodynes discovered by inquiring wisdom,
and further legalised by the solemnity of a stamp, were
one after one swallowed by Baby Bib ere he counted
twelve months old.
Before Baby Bib was short-coated, Baby was a confirmed drunkard.
THE END.
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.