"Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure, if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh at you. Oh, it's very well for youyou can go to sleep. You've no thought of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children. You think of nothing but lending umbrellas! No: they shall stop at home and never | No, sir; I won't borrow an umbrella. No; learn anything-the blessed creatures!- and you shan't buy one. Now, Mr. Caudle, sooner than go and get wet. And when only listen to this: if you bring home they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to another umbrella, I'll throw it in the street. thank for knowing nothing, who, indeed, I'll have my own umbrella, or none at all. but their father? People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers. "But I know why you lent the umbrella. O, yes; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow-you knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more. No: and I won't have a cab. Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteen-pence at least sixteen-pence! two-and-eightpence for there's back again. Cabs, indeed I should like to know who's to pay for 'em; I can't pay for 'em, and I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children-buying umbrellas! me. "Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care-I'll go to mother's to-morrow: I will; and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way, and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman; it's you that is the foolish man. You know that I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold, it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course! wear 'em. "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 wantthen you may go to your club, and do as you like and then, nicely my poor dear children will be used-but then, sir, then you'll be happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you'd never lent the umbrella! "You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and, of course, you can't go. No, indeed, you don't go without the umbrella. You may lose the debt for what I care-it won't be so much as spoiling your clothes-better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas! "And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella? Oh, don't tell me that I said I would go-that's nothing to do with it; nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her, and the litItle money we were to have, we shan't have at all-because we've no umbrella. "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 "Nice clothes I shall get too, trapesing all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. through weather like this. My gown and But they shall go to school. Don't tell me bonnet will be spoilt quite. Needn't I wear I said they shouldn't; you are so aggrava'em, then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall ting, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an No, sir, I'm not going out a angel. They shall go to school; mark dowdy to please you or anybody else. that. And if they get their deaths of cold, Gracious knows! it isn't often that I step it's not my fault-I didn't lend the umover the threshold; indeed, I might as well brella.” be a slave at once,-better, I should say. But when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go like a lady. Oh! that rain-if it isn't enough to break in the windows. "Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow! How I'm going to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die, I'll do it. "At length," writes Caudle, "I fell asleep; and dreamt that the sky was turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs that, in fact, the whole world turned round under a tremendous umbrella!" THE SEVENTH LECTURE. MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMON STRANCE ON HIS DAY'S DINNER: COLD DLE DEFENDS THE COLD SHOULDER. "I'm sure! Well! I wonder what it will be next? There's nothing proper, nownothing at all. Better get somebody else to keep the house, I think. I can't do it now, it seems; I'm only in the way here: I'd better take the children, and go. "What am I grumbling about, now? It's very well for you to ask that! I'm sure I'd better be out of the world than there now, Mr. Caudle; there you are again! I shall speak, sir. It isn't often I open my mouth, Heaven knows! But you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. You ought to have married a negro slave, and not any respectable woman. You're to go about the house looking like thunder all the day, and I'm not to say a word. Where do you think pudding's to come from every day? You show a nice example to your children, you do; complaining, and turning your nose up at a sweet piece of cold mutton, because there's no pudding! You go a nice way to make 'em extravagant-teach 'em nice lessons to begin the world with. Do you know what puddings cost; or do you think they fly in at the window? brought home a pair of fowls; I know it; but you were mean enough to want to stop 'em out of my week's money! Oh, the selfishness-the shabbiness of men! They can go out and throw away pounds upon pounds with a pack of people who laugh at 'em afterwards; but if it's anything wanted for their own homes, their poor wives may hunt for it. I wonder you don't blush to name those fowls again! I wouldn't be so little for the world, Mr. Caudle! "What are you going to do? Going to get up? Don't make yourself ridiculous, Mr. Caudle; I can't say a word to you like any other wife, but you must threaten to get up. Do be ashamed of yourself. "Puddings, indeed! Do you think I'm made of puddings? Didn't you have some boiled rice three weeks ago? Besides, is this the time of the year for puddings? It's all very well if I had money enough allowed me like any other wife to keep the house with: then, indeed, I might have preserves like any other woman; now, it's impossible; and it's cruel-yes, Mr. Caudle, cruel-of you to expect it. I "Apples ar'n't so dear, are they? know what apples are, Mr. Caudle, without your telling me. But I suppose you want something more than apples for dumplings? I suppose sugar costs something, doesn't it? And that's how it is. That's how one expense brings on another, and that's how people go to ruin. "Pancakes? What's the use of your lying muttering there about pancakes? Don't you always have 'em once a year— every Shrove Tuesday? And what would any moderate, decent man want more? "You hate cold mutton. The more shame for you, Mr. Caudle. I'm sure you've the stomach of a lord, you have. No, sir; I didn't choose to hash the mutton. It's very easy for you to say hash it; but I know what a joint loses in hashing: it's a day's "Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle— dinner the less, if it's a bit. Yes, I dare no, it's no use your saying fine words to me say; other people may have puddings with to let you go to sleep; I sha'n't!-pray do cold mutton. No doubt of it; and other you know the price of eggs just now? people become bankrupts. But if ever you There's not an egg you can trust to under get into the Gazette, it sha'n't be my fault- seven and eight a shilling; well, you've no; I'll do my duty as a wife to you, Mr. only just to reckon up how many eggsCaudle: you shall never have it to say that don't lie swearing there at the eggs in that it was my housekeeping that brought you to manner, Mr. Caudle; unless you expect the beggary. No; you may sulk at the cold bed to let you fall through. You call yourmeat-ha! I hope you'll never live to want self a respectable tradesman, I suppose? such a piece of cold mutton as we had to- Ha! I only wish people knew you as well as day! and you may threaten to go to a tav- I do! Swearing at eggs, indeed! But I'm ern to dine; but, with our present means, tired of this usage, Mr. Caudle; quite tired not a crumb of pudding do you get from me. of it; and I don't care how soon it's You shall have nothing but the cold joint-ended! nothing, as I'm a Christian sinner. "Yes; there you are, throwing those fowls in my face again! I know you once "I'm sure I do nothing but work and labor, and think how to make the most of everything: and this is how I'm rewarded. I should like to see anybody whose joints | go further than mine. But if I was to throw away your money into the street, or lay it out in fine feathers on myself, I should be better thought of. The woman who studies her husband and her family is always made a drudge of. It's your fine fal-ral wives who've the best time of it. "What's the use of your lying groaning there in that manner? That won't make me hold my tongue, I can tell you. You think to have it all your own way-but you won't, Mr. Caudle! You can insult my dinner; look like a demon, I may say, at a wholesome piece of cold mutton-ah! the thousands of far better creatures than you are who'd been thankful for that mutton!— and I'm never to speak. But you're mistaken-I will! Your usage of me, Mr. Caudle, is infamous-unworthy of a man. I only wish people knew you for what you are; but I've told you again and again they shall some day. "Puddings! And now I suppose I shall hear of nothing but puddings! Yes, and I know what it will end in. First, you'd have a pudding every day;-oh, I know your extravagance-then you'd go for fish-then I shouldn't wonder if you'd have soup; turtle, no doubt: then you'd go for a dessert; and-oh! I see it all as plain as the quilt before me-but no, not while I'm alive! What your second wife may do, I don't know; perhaps she'll be a fine lady; but you sha'n't be ruined by me, Mr. Caudle; that I'm determined. Puddings, indeed! Pu-dding-s! Pud "Exhausted nature," says Mr. Caudle, could hold out no longer. She went to sleep." THE EIGHTH LECTURE. between man and wife-if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em! Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul, tell me what it's all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still,-not that I care much about it, still I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it: I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle; just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well? "Caudle, you're enough to vex a saint! Now, don't you think you're going to sleep; because you're not. Do you suppose I'd ever suffer you to go and be made a mason, if I didn't suppose I was to know the secrets 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 tyrannize over 'em; to make 'em your slaves; especially your wives. It must be something of the sort, or you wouldn't be ashamed to have it known. What's right and proper never need be done in secret. It's an insult to a woman for a man to be a freemason, and let his wife know nothing of it. But, poor soul! she's sure to know it somehow-for nice husbands they all make. Yes, yes: a part of the secret is to think better of all the world than their own wives and families. I'm sure men have quite enough to care for-that is, if they act properly-to care for them they have at home. They can't have much care to spare for the world besides. "And I suppose they call you Brother Caudle? A pretty brother, indeed! Going MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON.-MRS. and dressing yourself up in an apron like a CAUDLE INDIGNANT AND CURIOUS. "Now, Mr. Caudle,-Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know now what I mean to say is this; there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle, I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow I quit the house. No, no, there's an end of the marriage state, I think-an end of all confidence turnpike man-for that's what you look like. And I should like to know what the apron's for? There must be something in it not very respectable, I'm sure. Well, I only wish I was Queen for a day or two. I'd put an end to freemasonry, and all such trumpery, I know. "Now, come, Caudle; don't let's quarrel. Eh! you're not in pain, dear? What's it all about? What are you lying laughing there at? But I'm a fool to trouble my head about you. "And you're not going to let me know the secrets, eh? You mean to say-you're not? Now Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion-not that I care about the secret itself: I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about: it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason-when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha, you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have 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 hearta secret place in his mind-that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage! "Caudle, you sha'n't close your eyes for a week-no, you sha'n't-unless you tell me some of it. Come, there's a good creature; there's a love. I'm sure, Caudle, I wouldn't refuse you anything-and you know it, or ought to know it by this time. I only wish I had a secret! To whom should I think of confiding it but to my dear husband? I should be miserable to keep it to myself, and you know it. Now, Caudle? "Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute !-yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle; I dare say it's a very good thing; I dare say it is-it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me —you'll tell your own Margaret? you won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle. "But I know why: oh, yes, I can tell. The fact is, you're ashamed to let me know what a fool they've been making of you. That's it. You, at your time of life-the father of a family! I should be ashamed, of myself, Caudle. "And I suppose you'll be going to what you call your Lodge every night, now? Lodge, indeed! Pretty place it must be, where they don't admit women. Nice goings on, I dare say. Then you call one another brethren. Brethren! I'm sure you'd relations enough; you didn't want any more. "But I know what all this masonry's about. It's only an excuse to get away from your wives and families, that you may feast and drink together: that's all. That's the secret. And to abuse women, as if they were inferior animals, and not to be trusted. That's the secret, and nothing else. "Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel. Yes, I know you're in pain. Still, Caudle, my love; Caudle! Dearest, I say-Caudle!" "I recollect nothing more," says Caudle, "for I had eaten a hearty supper, and somehow became oblivious." THE NINTH LECTURE. MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO GREENWICH FAIR. "So, Mr. Caudle: I hope you've 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 today. 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 en joy yourself out, with I don't know who go out, and make yourself very pleasant, I dare say. Don't tell me; I hear what a nice companion Mr. Caudle is; what a goodtempered person. Ha! I only wish people could see you at home, that's all. But so it is with men. They can keep all their good temper for out-of-doors-their wives never see any of it. Oh dear! I'm sure I don't know who'd be a poor woman! "Now, Caudle, I'm not in an ill temper; not at all. I know I used to be a fool when we were first married; I used to worry and fret myself to death when you went out; but I've got over that. I wouldn't put myself out of the way now for the best man that ever trod. For what thanks does a poor woman get? None at all. No; it's those who don't care for their families, who are the best thought of. I only wish I could bring myself not to care for mine. "And why couldn't you say, like a man, you were going to Greenwich Fair when you went out? It's no use your saying that, Mr. Caudle; don't tell me that you didn't think of going; you'd made 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 your self, Mr. Caudle. Ha! few wives would have been what I've been to you. I only wish my time was to come over again, that's all; I wouldn't be the fool I have been. Going to a fair! and I suppose you had your fortune told by the gipsies? You needn't have wasted your money. I'm sure I can tell you your fortune if you go on as you do. Yes, the jail will be your fortune, Mr. Caudle. And it would be no matternone at all-if your wife and children didn't suffer with you. don "And then you must go riding upon keys. You didn't go riding upon donkeys? Yes; it's very well for you to say so, but I dare say you did. I tell you, Caudle, I know what you are when you're out. I wouldn't trust any of you-you, especially, Caudle. "Then you must go in the thick of the fair, and have the girls scratching your coat with rattles! You couldn't help it, if they did scratch your coat? Don't tell me; people don't scratch coats unless they're encouraged to do it. And you must go in a swing, too. You didn't go in a swing? Well, if you didn't it was no fault of yours: you wished to go, I've no doubt. "And then you must go into the shows? There, you don't deny that. You did go into a show. What of it, Mr. Caudle? A good deal of it, sir. Nice crowding and squeezing in those shows, I know. Pretty places! And you a married man and the father of a family. No, I won't hold my tongue. It's very well for you to threaten to get up. You're to go to Greenwich Fair, and race up and down the hill, and play at kiss in the ring. Pah! it's disgusting, Mr. Caudle. Oh, I dare say you did play at it; if you didn't, you'd have liked, and that's just as bad, and you can go into swings, and shows, and roundabouts. If I was you I should hide my head under the clothes, and be ashamed of myself. "And what is most selfish-most mean of you, Caudle-you can go and enjoy yourself, and never so much as bring home for the poor children a gingerbread nut. Don't tell me that your pocket was picked of a pound of nuts! Nice company you must have been in to have your pocket picked. "But I dare say I shall hear all about it to-morrow. I've no doubt, sir, you were dancing at the Crown-and-Anchor. I should like to have seen you. No; I'm not making myself ridiculous. It's you that's making yourself ridiculous, and everybody that knows you says so. Everybody knows what I have to put up with from you. 'Going to a fair, indeed! And at your time THE TENTH LECTURE. ON MR. CAUDLE'S SHIRT-BUTTONS. "Well, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were in 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 that you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night: besides, it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows! "Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button you must almost swear the roof off the house! You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do |