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    Title: The greatest plague of life, or
           The Adventures of a Lady in search of a good servant.

    Author: Augustus Mayhew
            Henry Mayhew

    Illustrator: George Cruikshank

    Release Date: October 23, 2019 [EBook #60562]

    Language: English

    Character set encoding: UTF-8

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Contents. Introduction I. Introduction II. Introductionr III. Chapter I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., X., XI., XII., XIII., XIV., XV., XVI. List of Plates.

Nearly “worried to Death" by the “Greatest Plagues of one’s Life”.

# THE
GREATEST PLAGUE OF LIFE:

OR
The Adventures of a Lady
IN SEARCH OF A GOOD SERVANT.
BY
ONE WHO HAS BEEN “ALMOST WORRIED TO DEATH.”
EDITED BY THE BROTHERS MAYHEW.
Illustrated by George Cruikshank.
LONDON: DAVID BOGUE, 86, FLEET STREET.
{1}

# THE
GREATEST PLAGUE OF LIFE:
OR
The Adventures
OF
A LADY IN SEARCH OF A GOOD SERVANT.

## INTRODUCTION I.
HOW I BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH THE SUBJECT OF MY LITTLE BOOK.

“Is there a heart that never loved,
Or felt soft Woman’s sigh?
Is there a man can mark unmoved
Dear Woman’s tearful eye?
Oh, bear him to some distant shore,
Or solitary cell:
Where none but savage monsters roar,
Where love ne’er deigned to dwell.”
Popular Ballad.

It has been as wisely as beautifully remarked by the Rev. Robert Montgomery, in his delightfully truthful and sweet, pretty Poem, entitled “Woman an Angel!” that the lovely daughters of Eve (I quote from memory, giving rather the sentiment than the words of that talented and elegant divine,) were born to suffer; for not only have they their own severe afflictions to put up with, but they are expected also to become willing partners in those of the sons of Adam by whom they have been led to the altar, and whose hands and fortunes they have consented to accept and share. Without lovely Woman to soothe, restrain, and look after them, I should like to know what would be the fate of those impatient, obstinate, selfish, and poor helpless creatures—Men?{2} Would they not unpick every social tie? and go about like the brutes of the fields, with scarcely a thing fit to put on, and their stockings all full of holes—a prey to their all-devouring appetites—the slaves of their ungovernable passions, and be robbed right and left by their servants? And why, I ask, would this be the case?—why, because every Woman, with her proper feelings about her, knows as well as I do that it certainly would.

The immortal Swan of Avon has somewhere charmingly said—

“Give me that man who is not passion’s slave,
And I will wear him in my heart of hearts;”

and if such a being was ever created, I certainly must say that I should not hesitate to follow so worthy an example as that of the immortal Swan,—that is, indeed, were I not a married woman.

Yes, lovely daughters of Eve! ours is a horrid, bitter cup. To us the Earth is truly a Vale of Tears, without e’en one pretty flower growing up among the shoals and quicksands that beset our briery path, to gladden us on our way. Indeed, the trials of us poor, dear, confiding Women form a sad—sad history; and, Goodness knows! that the humble individual who is now addressing the courteous Reader has had her share of worldly troubles to bear up against. What I have suffered in my time few would believe, and none but myself can tell. In fact, if I had not had a very fine constitution of my own, my frame must have given way under it,—for I am sure the heart-rending ordeals that I have been condemned to go through with—in a word, the overwhelming—but more of this hereafter.

It was a cold Autumnal midnight, and the wind was blowing frightfully, and the rain was beating against the windows, and not a sound was to be heard in the streets, unless I mention the noise of some two or three cabs tearing past the house, and bearing homewards their gay and youthful votaries of fashion from some festive ball or joyous theatre. Indeed, it was just such a night as makes the sympathizing heart of Woman, when seated quietly by her{3} own comfortable fire-side, bleed with pity to think of the poor houseless wanderer, who is obliged to pace the streets without e’en so much as a shoe to his feet, or anything to live upon. I was sitting up-stairs, in my snug little bed-room, my thoughts fixed only on Edward’s (that is, my husband’s) return; for having a heavy cause which stood for trial in the Exchequer on the morrow, he was, I knew, detained at his Chambers, in L—nc—n’s I—n, on important business.

I always made it a rule, even when I had an establishment of my own, (why I have not one now, the reader shall learn by-and-by,) of sitting up for Edward myself, in preference to letting the servants do so. For, in the first place, we never dine until six o’clock, although I am naturally a small eater; and, secondly, it is unreasonable to expect that, if the servants are kept up over-night, they can be down stairs in the morning, in time to get through with their next day’s work; and, thirdly, I have always found Edward come home much earlier when he knew that I was staying up for him, instead of the maid.

I was then, as I said before, sitting up for my husband; and, to pass the time, I was unpicking my green silk pelisse, with the view of making it into a couple of best frocks for my sweet little pets, Kate and Annie (my two dear good girls); and as I had worn it, I should think, not more than one or two winters altogether, and it was getting to look quite old-fashioned, I thought it would be better to make it up for my darling girls, and try and prevail upon dear Edward to buy me a new one next time we went out for a walk together.

So, as I said before, I was sitting up for my husband, and whilst I was busy at work, I could not help contrasting my then new situation in life (I had been in the house only one day,—but more of this hereafter,) with the domestic comfort I once thought I should have enjoyed. “Here am I,” (I said to myself,) “closely connected with one of the oldest families in the kingdom,—the wife of a highly respectable professional man,—the mother of five strong and (thank Heaven!) healthy children,—and three of whom are boys, and the other two girls,—without an establishment that I can call my own,—positively driven from my home,—obliged to sell my elegant furniture at a sacrifice of five hundred and eighty pounds{4} and odd,—glad to take refuge in the venal hospitality of a Boarding House!! in G—ldf—rd St—t, R—ss—ll Sq—re, near the F—ndl—ng H—sp—t—l, and at the mercy of a set of people that one really knows little or nothing about.” And why is this?—alas! why? Why, because we were obliged to leave our own house, and all through a pack of ungrateful, good-for-nothing things called servants, who really do not know when they are well off.

Ever since we first commenced housekeeping, I cannot say the creatures have let me know one day’s perfect peace. A more indulgent master and mistress I am sure they never could have had. For myself, if they had been my own children I could not have looked after them more than I did—continually instructing them, and even sometimes condescending to do part of their work for them myself, out of mere kindness, just to show them how; and never allowing a set of fellows from those dreadful barracks in Alb—ny Str—t to come running after them, turning the heads of the poor ignorant things, and trifling with their affections, and borrowing their wages, and living upon me. And yet the only return the minxes made me was to fly in my face directly my back was turned, and to drive me nearly mad; so that at times I have been in that state of mind that I really did not know whether I was standing on my head or my heels. For what with their breakages—and their impudence—and their quarrelling among themselves—and their followers—and their dirt and filth—and their turning up their noses at the best of food—and their wilful waste and goings on—and their neglect and ill treatment of the dear children—and their pilferings—and their pride, their airs, and ill tempers—and those horrid soldiers—(but more of this hereafter)—I’m sure it was enough to turn the head of ten Christians. But I do verily believe that both my body and mind were giving way under it; and, indeed, our medical adviser, Mr. J——pp, (as I afterwards learnt,) told Edward as much, and that if he did not get me away, he wouldn’t answer for the consequences; adding, that it was only the very fine constitution I had of my own that had kept me alive under it all. So that when Edward communicated to me what our medical adviser had said, and proposed that we should break up our establishment, and retire to a boarding-house, where at least{5} we might enjoy peace and quiet, I told him that I had long felt (though I never liked to confess as much to him) that my domestic cares had been making inroads upon my health and constitution that I never could restore, and that I would gladly give my consent to any course that he thought might add to his comfort; that all my anxiety had been to protect his property, and prevent his furniture from going to rack and ruin before my very eyes, but that if he wished to part with it, I would not stand in the way; for, to tell the truth, I was sick and tired of house-keeping and servants, and only too glad to wash my hands of them altogether.

And now that they have driven me and my husband to seek an asylum in a respectable boarding-house, (and where, thank goodness! I have nothing at all to do with the creatures, or the furniture—for as the things about one are not one’s own, why, of course it’s no matter to me whether they’re broken to bits or not; and it isn’t likely, indeed, that I should be quite such a stupid as to go putting myself out of the way about another person’s property,) I suppose I shall be allowed to taste a little peace, and quiet, and comfort, for the first time since my marriage. For, indeed, such has been, as I said before, my wear and tear, both of mind and body, that, though Edward and I have been married scarcely fourteen summers, I’m sure that if my courteous readers could only see me, they would take me to be at least ten years older than I really am—which I am not.

As I was saying, then, these thoughts floated through my mind the second night after we had entered our new abode, and I inwardly wished to myself that I had my time to come over again—when suddenly!—all of an instant!—a brilliant idea rushed across my brain. It was a noble idea!—one that would have done honour to any of our great philanthropists, or even Mrs. Ellis herself. And, yet, was I capable of doing justice to the idea? Alas! I feared not. Then, would it not be rashness to attempt it? Alas! I feared it would. Still, it had so benevolent an object, that I should be ten times worse than a blind heathen to shrink from it. But, even if I decided upon entertaining the idea, how was I, weak, timid, and bashful as I was, (I have always been of a retiring disposition ever since I was a child,) ever to be able to carry it out? It seemed to be madness to think any more of the idea.{6} It might all come to Edward’s ears, and he would chide his dear, foolish Caroline (that is, myself) for undertaking it. Yet I might be the proud means of saving hundreds of my fellow-creatures, who have unfortunately got weak constitutions of their own, from suffering as I have.

And when I thought of this, I no longer hesitated, but determined to publish to the world all my long experience with servants of all kinds, and countries, and colours, so that I might, as it were, become the pilot of young wives, to steer their fragile little barks through the rocks and precipices of domestic life, and prevent their happiness being wrecked as mine has been—I may say, at my own fire-side—and their household gods turned neck and crop into the streets, to wander to and fro, without so much as a place to put their heads in.

But how was all this to be done? Who was to help me in bringing this charitable work before the world? At length I remembered having bought some books of a publisher in Fleet-street, who had been, on two or three occasions, very polite to me. To him I would go in the morning, and get him to assist me in my noble undertaking. I did so. But the courteous reader shall learn what transpired in another chapter.

## INTRODUCTION II.
HOW I BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH THE PUBLISHER OF MY LITTLE BOOK.

“We met: ’twas in a crowd,
And I thought he would shun me!
He came: I could not breathe,
For his eyes were upon me.
He spoke: his words were cold;
And his smile was unalter’d.”
“We Met.”—Haynes Bayly.

The next morning, as soon as ever breakfast was over, and Edward had gone down to his office in L—nc—n’s I—n, I retired from the public sitting-room, to my private bed{7} room; and as it was a fine morning, and would be the first time that I had ever spoken to Mr. B——e on business, I thought it would be better to put on my best bonnet (a black velvet one, with a black bird of Paradise in it,) which I had worn as yet only on Sundays, at church; and having done so, I made the best of my way towards Fleet-street.

When I reached the door of the shop, I really had scarcely courage to turn the handle; I had often heard of the nervousness of Genius, but never before had experienced the feeling myself. I’m sure, I felt as if my heart were in my mouth; and anybody that had wished, might have knocked me down with a feather. So, to bring myself round, I looked at some of the sweet, pretty engravings in the front of the shop; and having just passed my handkerchief over my face, and arranged my bonnet and hair as well as I could, in the plate-glass windows, I at last summoned up strength to enter.

Standing by the fire, in the shop, was a good-looking young man, of a dark complexion, and dressed in a tail-coat, who advanced towards me as I entered. “Mr. B——e, I presume,” I said, addressing him, with an amiable smile.

“In the next room, if you please, ma’m,” he replied, in a tone of becoming diffidence.

“Thank you,” I replied, with a lady-like curtsey, and immediately stepped into the room alluded to.

He was engaged in packing some elegantly bound books, and was a tall, thin, young man, in a surtout, with not much colour in his face, which was, nevertheless, full of meaning. As soon as I had caught his eye—(which was a black one,)—I said, in a graceful manner, “I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. B——e.”

“In the next room, if you please, ma’m,” he replied, with charming respect.

“You are extremely good,” I answered, curtseying, as before; and passing on into the adjoining apartment, which was a counting-house. There I observed a young man, with a Grecian nose, and grey Irish eyes, and a buff kerseymere waistcoat, seated at a desk, very busy.

“Mr. B——e, if I’m not mistaken?” I asked, in an attractive, bland voice.

He looked up, and answered, evidently moved by my manner,{8} “That is Mr. B——e, ma’m;” and he pointed to a gentleman, of prepossessing exterior, who was seated on the opposite side of the desk, with his thoughts evidently wrapt up in a brown paper parcel (probably the manuscript of some popular author) he was undoing.

I advanced towards him, and found him to be a man, looking very young considering all he must have upon his shoulders. As he walked across the room to meet me, he appeared to run about upon five feet and three-quarters, being neither tall nor short. He has got my eldest girl’s hair, and my second boy’s eyes, (the one being gold-coloured, and the other blue). He was dressed in an invisible green surtout, with a black velvet collar, and seems to be naturally of a retiring disposition, like myself: and, as far as I can judge, from appearances, I should think he has a very fine constitution of his own. I do not know whether he is a family man, but I must say, that he certainly does appear to be a gentleman of very good breeding. And, though his diffidence makes his manner, at first, appear grave, still he seems to be naturally of a cheerful disposition; for, do what he could, it was impossible for him to prevent his inward man from peeping out of his expressive eyes.

“Mr. B——e, I presume,” I first began, in my quiet, lady-like way.

“Yes, ma’m,” he answered, with a bland smile; “will you take a chair, by the fire?”

“Thank you; you are very kind,” I answered, arranging my dress as I sat down. As he said nothing further, and evidently expected me to open the business, I at length, after a short pause, summoned courage to break the ice, and remarked—“It is a very fine day, Mr. B——e.”

Mr. B——e was of the same opinion, and replied—“It is, ma’m, very fine.”

There was another pause, which made me feel (to use an expressive figure of speech) far from at-home, and wholly drove out of my mind the charming little address that, on my road, I had arranged, as an elegant introduction to the business.

At length, however, having cleared my throat, I began.—“I have come to see you, Mr. B——e, about publishing a little book I am determined to write. The subject of it relates principally to the great plague {9}occasioned by servants. And, when we reflect, Mr. B——e,” I continued, recollecting a portion of the speech I had prepared, “how much of our happiness depends upon those persons, and that there is no work of the kind designed to pilot the tender young wife when first launched into the sea of domestic life, through the rocks and precipices that beset her briary path——”

“Perhaps,” he delicately interrupted me, “you are not acquainted, ma’m, with Dean Swift’s celebrated work on the subject.”

“No, Mr. B——e,” I answered, with a pleasing smile; “I am not acquainted with Mr. Dean Swift’s book; but, as he never could have had the experience of a wife, and a mother, of such long standing as myself, I am satisfied that it will not, in any way, clash with the one I purpose. Besides, no one, I am sure, Mr. B——e, can have suffered a millionth part of what I have, from servants; for, what with the worry, and vexation, and trouble that they have caused me, together with, I may say, the wear and tear of both mind and body, it’s really, Mr. B——e, a wonder that I’m here now. Indeed, as our medical adviser says, if I hadn’t had a very fine constitution of my own, I should never have been able to have gone through with it all. So that I think, Mr. B——e, my troubles would make a very interesting and instructive little book.”

“Yes, ma’m,” he answered, hesitatingly; “but I’m sorry to say, domestic troubles don’t go off at all in the trade; the public seem to have lost all taste for them. Now, if you could work up any horrible fact, or make a heroine out of some lady poisoner, ma’m, I think that might do. Sir Edward’s book has been quite a hit, and there is a great demand with us for lady poisoners just now.”

“Oh, indeed, Mr. B——e,” I answered; “but there will be some most dreadful facts in my little book. Now, there was our Footman, who stole the spoons; and an Irish Cook, who I really thought would have been the death of the whole family. I intend to give the disclosure of all the circumstances in my interesting little work. Do you think that would do, Mr. B——e?”

“Yes, ma’m,” he answered: “but I’m afraid the book, although I’ve no doubt (he was kind enough to add) it would be exceedingly interesting, wouldn’t exactly suit me. I really should not like to risk it.{10}”

“Oh! I perceive, now, Mr. B——e,” I returned, as, with my customary sagacity, I at once saw the reason of his refusal. “My motives for publishing my interesting little work are dictated purely by benevolence, I can assure you. I hope you do not imagine I am one of the people who write for money. No, Mr. B——e; I am happy to say, I am not yet necessitated to fly to my pen as a means of support.”

The worthy gentleman seemed pleased with the nobility of my disposition; and after a long talk I had with him, in which I explained to him all I intended to do, he was so kind as to say that he thought a good deal might be made out of the subject. So that I had the proud satisfaction of finding that I had not used my abilities in vain, for he at last, in a most gentlemanly way, not only consented to publish my interesting little work for me, but was also good enough to suggest that it should be illustrated; and actually was so polite as to give me a letter to that highly-talented artist, Mr. George Cruikshank, though I told him that I was afraid he would be too funny for a work of so serious a character. But he quelled all my doubts, by telling me that Mr. Cruikshank was a man of such versatile genius, that he was sure that the drawings from his intellectual pencil would be quite in keeping with the book; so, taking the letter of introduction, I left Mr. B——e, (my publisher,) quite charmed with the conquest I had made.

Moral reflection after writing the above.—It has been very truly remarked, by the greatest philosophers of our time, and it is likewise my opinion, that London is the finest city in this transitory world. But I cannot help observing, that Fleet-street, as it stands at present, is a crying evil, and a perfect disgrace to it. Is it not wonderful, that in these enlightened times, so little attention should be paid to the feelings of fair woman, at the crossings of this great metropolis? Englishmen, ever since charming Raleigh took his cloak off his very back, to prevent sweet Elizabeth soiling her lovely feet, have been acknowledged to be a highly polite and intellectual nation; but the way in which I was jostled and hustled, and pushed about, by a set of low London barbarians, who once or twice knocked my beautiful best black velvet bonnet nearly off my head, makes me fear that we are all going backwards, (if I might be allowed the expression,) and that our boasted civi{11}lization is only a golden dream and a fib. What the Lord Mayor can be about, at the crossings in the City, I am at a loss to say. As they are at present regulated, it seems to me as if the civic authorities were all asleep at their posts. Three times did I attempt to get across the street, from Mr. B——’s, and three times was I driven back by the bears who are permitted to drive the omnibuses and cabs of the first city in Europe. Though the fellows saw my distress, they never once offered to stop and make way for a lone, unprotected female, but only seemed to take a savage delight in my alarms. And even when I did get across, I’m sure it was at the peril of my very life. It’s only a wonder to me that I didn’t go into hysterics in the middle of the road; and however people, who have weak constitutions of their own, can manage to get over it, is an inscrutable mystery to me.

* * * * * * * * * *

## INTRODUCTION III.
HOW I BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH THE ARTIST TO MY LITTLE BOOK.

“He shook! ’twas but an instant,
For speedily the pride
Ran crimson to his heart,
Till all chances he defied:
It threw boldness on his forehead;
Gave firmness to his breath;
And he stood like some grim Warrior,
New risen up from death.”
Barry Cornwall, (The Admiral.)

What heartfelt joy it imparts to find a gentleman willing to lend a helping hand to the ideas of the good, and assist a virtuous female in distress. And how true and poetic it was of the Greeks to make Charity a woman; for does not charity begin at home, and does not the proud empire of lovely woman begin there also. And would not every respectable female be overflowing with goodness were it not for the harsh sway of the fell tyrant Man, who, with a heavy hand,{12} alas! too often skims their milk of human kindness, and takes all the cream off the best feelings of their nature.

When I reached Mr. Cruikshank’s door, though it was the first time I had ever the pleasure of visiting that great person, still from the beautiful appearance that the threshold of his establishment presented, I at once knew my man. The door-step was so sweetly white and clean that one might have been tempted to eat one’s dinner off of it, while the brass plate was as beautiful a picture as I ever remember to have seen. In that door-plate I could see the workings of a rightly-constituted mind. And here let me remark to my courteous Reader, by what slight incidents we deduce——(but I will reserve my observations on door-plates in general for my moral reflections at the end of this chapter).

When the door was opened, I was delighted to find that everything within bore out the conclusion I had drawn of this great man’s character from his simple door-step. Though it could scarcely have been more than half-past twelve in the day, I was agreeably surprised to find that the maid who let me in had cleaned herself, and was dressed in a nice, neat cotton gown, of a small pattern, and anything but showy colour, ready to answer the door. I was truly charmed to see this; and indeed, from the young woman’s whole appearance and manner, which was very respectful, I saw at once that Mr. Cruikshank was rich in being possessed of a treasure. What would I not have given once for such a being——but, alas! I am digressing.

Although I looked everywhere, I could not find a speck of dust or dirt anywhere, not even in the corners. “Ah!” (I said to myself, as I was going up the stairs,) “how different is this from the common run of artists.” When I went to have my portrait painted by Mr. Gl—k, in N—wm—n St—t, I am sure you might have taken the dust up in spoonfuls, which convinced me that he was no Genius; for I must and will say, that the man who does not give his mind to the smaller affairs of life, will never succeed with the greater ones; for is it not proverbial that a master-hand is to be seen in everything? And to prove to the courteous Reader how correct my opinion was, Mr. Gl—k turned out to be but an indifferent artist, after all, for he made me look like a perfect fright.{13}

After waiting a few minutes in a delightful ante-room, I was shown into the Study, and for the first time stood face to face with that highly-talented artist and charming man, George Cruikshank, Esquire, whom, as a painter, I don’t think I go too far in calling the Constable of the day.

Were I in this instance to adopt Dr. Watts’s beautiful standard by which to judge of the stature of intellectual men—that is, “that the mind is the measure of the man,” I should say that Mr. George Cruikshank is a perfect Giant, a mental Colossus of Rhodes, or Daniel Lambert; but viewing him in the flesh, he appeared to be of an ordinary height. Directly I saw him, he presented to me the appearance of a fine picture set in a muscular frame, his body being neither stout nor thin.

His features, which are strictly classical, and strike you as a piece of antiquity, and belonging to the Ancients, appear to have been finely chiselled, while Genius (to use an expressive figure of speech) is carved in large, unmistakeable characters on his lofty brow, (though, of course, I do not mean that this is literally the case.) Nature has evidently thrown Mr. Cruikshank’s whole soul in his face; there is (if I may be allowed the expression) a fire in his eye which is quite cheerful to look at; and when he speaks, from the cordial tone of his discourse, you feel as certain, as if his bosom was laid bare to you, that his heart is in its right place. Nor can I omit to mention the picturesque look of his whiskers, which are full and remarkably handsome, and at once tell you that they have been touched by the hand of a great painter.

In disposition, Mr. Cruikshank seems to be peculiarly amiable, (indeed, he was exceedingly kind and attentive to me,) for he appears to have a great partiality for animals of all kinds. In his room was a perfect little love of a spaniel, (very much like our Carlo before he was stolen from us,) and on his mantelpiece was a beautiful plaster model of a horse trotting, while at his window hung a charming singing canary, to all of which he seems to be very much attached.

Over the chimney-piece is a picture—the creation of his highly-talented fingers—of Sir Robert Bruce, in a dreadful pass in Scotland, being attacked by three men, and killing them, while mounted on his rearing charger. It is painted in oil colours, and is a work full of spirit and fire; though, for{14} my own part, I must say that I do not think Mr. Cruikshank shines so much in Oil as he does in Water.

Having in a most polite way begged that I would take a chair, which I did with a graceful curtsey, he stated he had read Mr. B——e’s letter, and added, that he needn’t ask if my interesting little work was to be “moral;” on which I replied, with an agreeable smile, “Eminently so, Mr. Cruikshank,” and told him that it purposed merely to set forth all the plague, and worry, and trouble, which I had been put to by servants, which seemed to please him very much; and I briefly laid before him all I had undergone, adding, that it was a wonder to every one who knew me how I had ever managed to battle through with it, and that our medical adviser had declared that it was merely the very fine constitution I had of my own that had enabled me to do so; and that it was my proud ambition to become the pilot of future young wives in the stormy sea of domestic life. On which he was pleased to compliment me highly, and was kind enough to volunteer to do a sketch of me in that character, for a frontispiece to my interesting little work.

However, I told him that I should prefer appearing in a more becoming garb, and that I had merely used the pilot as an expressive figure of speech; but that as doubtlessly he would like to introduce me into the frontispiece of the book, I told him I thought the best subject would be an engraving of myself, wishing that I was out of the world on the day after our man-servant had run away with the plate; and I asked him if he would like to take a portrait of me then and there, as I could easily step into the next room, and arrange my hair in the glass. But in a most gentlemanly way he stated that he could not think of putting me to that trouble, especially as he had already got my whole form engraved in his mind’s eye, for there were some people, he said, whose figure, when once seen, was always remembered. And he was pleased to say a number of other things equally flattering to me, but which my natural modesty, and the inward dread I have of being thought egotistical, prevent my inserting here.

I told him, moreover, that, from the life-like descriptions of the different servants I had had in my time that he would find given in my interesting little book, a man of his genius, I was sure, would experience no difficulty in delineating their{15} features. Upon which he was so good as to say that he had no doubt he should find the work all I had stated. And then, observing that I was about to depart, he opened the door for me; on which I begged of him not to trouble himself on my account; but he persisted, saying, in the most gentlemanly way, “that he would see me to the door with the greatest pleasure.”

My moral reflections upon the preceding chapter.—How necessary it is for the young house-wife to pay proper attention to all outward appearances; for is it not by them that the hollow world judges, since it is impossible for short-sighted Man to see the secret workings of our hearts within us. The first object that meets the stranger’s eye on coming to our house is the door-plate, and thus a mere bit of brass is made the index of our characters.—If it be highly polished, of course they conclude that we are highly polished also; if, however, it be dirty, shall we not be deprived of our fair name. What a moral duty, then, should it be with the mistress of every establishment to see that her brass is rubbed up regularly every morning, so that she may be able to go through the world without ever knowing shame.{16}

## CHAPTER I.
MY APPEARANCE—MY STATION IN LIFE—MY FAMILY AND PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS.

“Sing! who sings
To her that weareth a hundred rings,
Ah! who is this lady fine?
* * * * *
A roamer is she,
* * * * *
And sometimes very good company.”
Barry Cornwall.

I was born about four o’clock in the morning, on the 23rd day of September, 1810. I am told I was a remarkably fine child, though it is a curious fact that my intellect was some time before it displayed itself. But my dear mamma has since often confessed to me that this rather pleased her than otherwise, observing, with a pardonable fondness, that great geniuses had mostly been distinguished for their stupidity in their youth; so that my parents felt little or no anxiety about me.

Being the only child, I was not weaned until I was more than eighteen months—to which circumstance our medical adviser attributes, in a great measure, the very fine constitution I have of my own. I was always a great pet with papa; indeed, many of our oldest friends, who knew me as a child, have since told me that he quite spoilt me. My childhood was such a golden dream, and fleeted by so quickly, that, though I am little more than thirty years of age, still I cannot at present call to mind any incident that occurred in my youth which might amuse the courteous Reader.

I was not remarkable for my beauty as a young girl, but I{17} am told there was something very interesting in me; and my manners were so winning, that I was a general favourite with all, except the servants, who found me one too many for them.

My maiden name was B—ff—n; and my father, who was a C—l M—rch—nt, in an extensive way of business, resided in K—nt—sh T—wn, and had dealings with some of the first families in the neighbourhood. I was christened Caroline, after my mamma, who was nearly related to the R—msb—tt—ms, whose noble ancestor, F—tz-R—msb—tt—m, came into England with the Conqueror, and mamma says his name was once on the Roll of Battle Abbey. Mr. R—msb—tt—m, who was the uncle of mamma’s first husband’s brother’s wife, is still possessed of an extensive seat near C—nt—rbury, remarkable for its antiquity.

My mamma, who was justly proud of the noble blood which flows in the veins of our family, brought my father considerable property; which, however, owing to his being of a very generous disposition, he soon ran through. So that when I was born, he was endeavouring to recruit his fortune, by carrying on the noble business of a merchant; and was even then possessed of several fine vessels, which used to come up the R—g—nt’s Canal, and be moored off the sweet, pretty little wharf of his, studding its banks.

My education was chiefly superintended by my beloved mamma, who could not bear to part with her little “duck’s-o’-diamonds,” (as she would fondly call me,) until I had reached the advanced age of fourteen, when my papa prevailed upon her to allow him to send me over to a highly fashionable finishing academy at Boulogne-sur-mer, in le belle France, where I learnt every accomplishment that can adorn a lady. I soon became such a proficient in the tongue, and acquired so perfect an accent, that my schoolmistress assured mamma (when she came to fetch me home) that I could speak it “tout-à-fait comme une natif,” (that is, quite like a native of the country,) and which I have found to be of great service to me in after-life.

When I was about sixteen, my personal charms began to develop themselves, and having a fine thick head of hair (of a rich, warm chesnut colour) my mamma would make me wear it in long, beautiful ringlets; and, indeed, even now my back hair is so long that it reaches much lower than my waist.{18} My eyes, which were of light hazel, though small, were considered so full of expression, that they made up in meaning what they wanted in brilliance; while I was blessed with such a remarkably fine, clear complexion of my own, and had such an extremely high colour, (which, indeed, I have retained to this day,) that I have over and over again been accused of rouging; (both my little girls take after me in this respect.) I have my papa’s nose, which is a fine Roman, and my mamma’s mouth and dimple. My greatest drawback, as a young woman, was my exceedingly bashful and retiring disposition, which used to flutter me so, that whenever I was spoken to by a stranger, it invariably threw all the blood in my body into my face; so that I seldom had a word to say for myself—which failing, indeed, I never have been able to get over even to this time.

Long before I was twenty-one, my papa had many advantageous offers for my hand, but he would accept of none of them for me; as he did not then consider me fit to enter upon the stormy path of matrimonial life, for my dear, foolish mamma would never allow me to attend to the housekeeping, from a pardonable pride she felt in her illustrious descent. So that, as things turned out, perhaps it was better that I did not get settled until I had nearly attained my twenty-sixth year.

On the 14th of May, 1840, at the ball of the Caledonians, I met my present husband, Edward Sk—n—st—n, Esquire, who was then a widower without encumbrance, (although, if there had been any children by his former wife, I trust I know myself too well to have done other than treat them as my own flesh and blood.) The poor man was so taken with my tout ensemble at first sight, that he would scarcely leave me for a moment throughout the evening, and would insist upon accompanying both mamma and myself home.

We soon discovered that he was a lawyer, in a very excellent practice; so that mamma, the next time he called, asked him to stop to dinner with us, and introduced him to papa, who was very glad to see him. After dinner, when we had gone to the drawing-room, mamma begged me to sing; and I obliged him with one of my most admired little French “Romans,” when the poor man seemed quite moved by my strains.

The next day, he came to ask mamma and myself to{19} accompany him to Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition; but mamma suddenly remembered a particular call she had to make that afternoon on a friend in the opposite direction, so I was forced to go alone with him. When we were by ourselves, in “the Chamber of Horrors” there, Mr. Sk—n—st—n remarked, in a low voice, choked by emotion, upon the charms of my retiring disposition, and said that I was the very reverse of his poor, dear, sainted wife, who he was kind enough to hope and trust was in heaven.

In about a week, his attentions to me became so marked, that it was the common talk of all our friends, insomuch so that dear papa, out of an over-fondness and anxiety on my account, was obliged to ask him what his intentions were towards me; for he was fearful lest Mr. Sk—n—st—n might be one of those monsters in human form who trifle with a young girl’s best affections, and then fling them aside as they would a dead pink, or any other faded flower that they had taken the bloom off of.

In this interview, Edward, whose heart I always knew was of too noble a nature ever to deal thus vilely with a poor maid, at once declared his passion, and demanded my hand, which my father joyfully gave him, together with his blessing. After this, Edward became a constant visitor at the house; and he arranged to lead me to the altar a month after the first anniversary of his sainted wife’s death, so that the proper decencies of society might not be violated in our case.

I shall never forget the melancholy sentiment that filled my bosom whenever I thought of that joyful event taking place. What an awful step I was about to take! Was it for good—or for evil? Alas! who could say? Perhaps I might become the mother of several beauteous babes! What new feelings and duties would then overwhelm this heart. Was I equal to the task? Alas! who could tell? I was about to leave my dear papa’s Halls, and to quit the embraces of an aged mamma, of noble ancestry, for the arms of one of whom I could know but little; yet a small still voice within me assured me that, come what might, at least Edward would treat me well. His presents to me had already shown him to be a man of great good nature, and I could not forget his affecting emotion when he implored my acceptance of the jewellery that once belonged to his sainted wife.{20}

The night previous to the day that Edward had appointed to swear to love and cherish me in sickness and in health, and take me for better or for worse, as I sat with my dear mamma and the maid completing the body (the skirt was already finished) of my bridal robe, my maternal parent, with tears in her eyes, desired the maid to leave the room, as she wished to speak to me alone.

As soon as the girl had gone, my mamma told me that I was about to take an awful step, and that she hoped and trusted that it would all turn out happily. But that there was one thing that she felt it was her duty, upon my entrance into life as it were, to warn me against—one thing, on which alone domestic happiness could be built—one thing, on which I should find my comfort depended more than any other—one thing, in fact, which might strew either my path with roses, or my bed with thorns. And then she asked me what I thought this one thing was? Probably I might think she meant my husband—but no! it was something of far more consequence to me than that. Or I might think she meant fortune, or economy, or my offspring—(if I were destined to be so blessed.) It was none of these, she told me—nor was it amiability of temper, or a proper pride in appearance, or marital constancy—no! these had but a trifling connexion with the peace and quiet of my future domestic life compared with that which she alluded to. In a word, she said, I should find the key-stone to all my future welfare rested upon those I should have about me. She referred to—servants. It was only by the proper management of them, she said, that I could ever expect to taste happiness; and she warned me not to govern with a light hand, but to do as she had done, and which, she assured me, was the only way of making them respect and obey me, and that was, to rule with a rod of iron. And then, telling me that her words ought to be printed in letters of gold, she bade me dry up my tears and resume my work.

Ha-ah!—Little did I then—giddy, inexperienced child that I was—see the value of the jewels that fell from dear mamma’s mouth; but in my happy innocence I inwardly set them down as the words of one whose naturally sweet disposition had been soured in her dealings with this empty world. Had I but treasured up her truths in my heart, I should not have suffered as I have. (But more of this hereafter.)

It was not until nearly midnight that we had finished my{21} wedding garment; and when I retired to rest, I did so with a fluttering heart; and laying my head on my pillow, I said to myself—“Ah! poor Caroline! fond, foolish girl, what a plunge art thou about to make into the Book of Fate! To-morrow!—to-morrow!”

The occurrences of that day I will reserve for another chapter.

My moral reflections after writing the above.—How beautifully fitting an emblem and becoming an ornament is the orange-flower for the virgin bride! For does not its milky purity tell long—long tales of the snow-like affection of the generous maiden who is about to give away her heart to one whose love she has yet to try? Is it not the silver blossom of a tree that bears rich and golden fruit? And is it not left to man to say whether, by casting on the virgin bud the sunshine of his smiles, he shall ripen it into sweetness; or, by withholding them, she shall remain sour after her green youth has passed away? But, ah! how many a tender young wife, who at the altar sighs that her budding hopes may grow into the sweet fruit of St. Michael, finds them, in the end, alas! only converted into the bitter ones of Seville.

## CHAPTER II.
OF MY WEDDING, AND MY GETTING “SETTLED.”

“I wore my bridal robe,
And I rivalled its whiteness;
Bright gems were in my hair;
How I hated their brightness!”
“We Met.”—Haynes Bayly.

The morrow came, and any one who could have beheld my downcast looks, and heard the sighs that came from the very bottom of my heart, would little have fancied that I was so near that interesting period of a maiden existence, which is erroneously styled the happiest moment of her life.

My mamma was good enough to say that my bridal robe fitted me admirably; remarking that, perhaps, it would have looked richer had the skirt been a trifle more full. Edward{22} had presented me with a splendid Nottingham-lace veil to throw over my head on this occasion, and a superb “Berthe” to match. But in my then state of mind, I looked upon these articles as gaudy nothings, attaching a value to them merely as being the gifts of my bosom’s lord.

My mamma tried in vain to console me. She told me that I had nothing to fear about entering into life, and begged of me to summon up all my inward woman, to give me strength to go through with it. Had she not, she asked me, prevailed upon Edward to leave his old dwelling, and take a pretty little cottage for me in P—rk V—ll—ge, R—g—nt’s P—rk, so that she might always be near to me and him. And she assured me, in a gentle way, that I need not be alarmed, on account of my youthful inexperience, as she would make it a duty to superintend all my domestic arrangements until I got in the way of managing them myself; which, with my natural abilities, she fondly said, would not take me long. And she further told me that, as a start in life, she had a little surprise for me; for she had determined, that in addition to some of her best pickles and preserves, with which she intended to stock my store-room, before my return from the honeymoon, she purposed presenting me with two bottles of her celebrated cherry brandy, which she declared she would not have parted with to any one but her own flesh and blood—although her friends were always welcome to come and taste it whenever they pleased—that she alone knew the true way of making it—and that she was determined the secret should die with her. And, moreover, she said, that as, after the advice she had given me over-night, I could easily perceive how necessary it was for a young wife to have proper people about her, she would kindly relieve me of any anxiety I might feel in suiting myself with my first servant, by finding me, during my short absence from town, such a one as she, from her knowledge of these matters, would answer for proving quite a treasure. I thanked her with only a sorry smile, being at such a time unable to appreciate her goodness, for my thoughts were far—far away.

At a little after 10, the two Misses B—yl—s, whom I had selected for my bridemaids, and who are carriage people, drove up to the door in their papa’s sweet little pony phaeton. Having taken off their cloaks, and changed their bonnets for{23} the white chip ones they had brought with them in a band-box, they looked truly charming; for they are dear, good, showy girls, and were dressed in some elegant robes of book muslin, trimmed with peach-blossom, and carry themselves divinely.

When Edward arrived, I thought I never saw him look better. His hair had been beautifully curled, and he wore the blue coat, and the white trousers of plighted affection; and when he presented me with a charming bouquet, for the first time in my life, I felt the language of flowers.

My father had bespoken two handsome carriages for the festive day; and when we arrived at the church, I really thought, as we moved in procession along the pews, that my limbs would have given way under me, and that I should have dropped in the aisle.

Of the imposing marriage ceremony I recollect little or nothing. It was all a vague, misty dream to me. I was slightly conscious of a ring being put upon the third finger of my left hand, and of saying, quite mechanically, in a voice full of emotion, once or twice, “I will,” though I was so overcome with a sense of the step I was taking, that I had no knowledge at the time of what I was responding to. Edward, as my mother afterwards told me, bore it very well, and quite like a man. I was delighted to learn that he was observed to pay great attention to the service, and seemed to be fully aware of what he was undertaking, in so solemn a manner, to do towards me.

When we returned to my papa’s Halls to breakfast, I was a tender and affectionate wife, so that when old Mr. B—yl—s said, “Mrs. Sk—n—st—n, will you allow me the pleasure of a glass of wine with you?” and I remembered that that was now my name, it came upon me as if some one had just fired a pistol off in my ears.

The breakfast was a sumptuous repast, and included every delicacy of the season; but I remember, I was so affected, that I could only touch part of the wing of a chicken, one jelly, some lobster salad, a custard, and some wedding-cake, which was a very expensive and rich one, being one of the very best that Partrington could make.

After my papa had proposed “bumpers, and all the honours,” and essayed a speech, which he could not proceed with for{24} his emotion, poor man—but which we all knew was intended to call down a blessing on myself, and (to use his own touching words) “the man who had robbed him of me”—Edward returned thanks in a beautiful speech, which he had read to me the day preceding. It was full of lovely quotations from our very best poets, and was intended to solace my poor papa and mamma for the loss of me, by assuring them that he would consider nothing on earth too good for me, and would gladly part with his last sixpence to make me happy.

Previous to leaving town that afternoon, we had some capital fun with passing some of my wedding-cake through my ring, for that sweet girl, Em—ly B—yl—s, and her angelic sister, to sleep upon.

While I changed my bridal robe, I requested my weeping mother to take care and see that a large piece of my wedding-cake was sent round to each of the better class of our friends whom we wished to have the pleasure of visiting, and to whom I had previously addressed cards and “At-homes” for that day month. And then taking a last fond look at my papa’s Halls, I was led, blushing, to the carriage by dear Edward, and we were soon on the road for Brighton, having torn ourselves away from my affectionate mamma, who gave us her blessing and some sandwiches.

I will pass over the happy moments of the first fortnight of my honeymoon. We took apartments in Rottendean, near Brighton, so that we might be able to enjoy the beauty and fashion of the town, with all the quietude of the village. Here it was that Edward cemented the love he had now built up in my heart, by the present of a work-box, with a charmingly-done picture of the extremely elegant Pavilion on the lid.

Well do I remember that precious time, when, arm-in-arm, we would wander, for whole hours together, in our buff slippers, along the golden sands, talking (alas! blind mortals) of the happiness which we thought was never to end. All was beautiful and bright, and seemed to us both like a fairy dream, until the second Saturday after we had been there; when I received a long letter from my beloved mamma, informing me that she had not forgotten her dear Caroline; and that at last, after seeing, she should say, forty servants, she had succeeded in finding the treasure she had been seeking for me—that she had arranged to give her £10 a year, and find her own tea{25} and sugar, as she was just the respectable middle-aged woman that she should like to place with her pet, and had a ten years’ excellent character from her last situation, which had been with a clergyman in the country. She was cleanly, even tempered, an early riser, a good plain cook, and a devout Christian; she was honest, industrious, and sober; in fact, she had just taken the pledge—although, indeed, before that, she had always had a natural aversion to spirits of all kinds—that she had arranged to have the maid in my house about four days before our leaving Brighton, so that she might have it all clean, comfortable, and tidy for us against our return to town; and my dear mamma concluded her affectionate epistle by praying in her heart that her poor, dear girl might find the woman the inestimable blessing that she confidently expected and devoutly wished her to prove to me. (But more of this hereafter.)

I had read my dear mamma’s epistle to my husband, and he remarked that he was sure it was very kind of her—very kind of her, indeed, he said—to put herself to so much trouble on our behalf. Though he hurt my feelings by adding, that he thought it might contribute more to my happiness hereafter if she were to be restrained from taking quite so active an interest in our domestic affairs for the future; for, during all his experience, he had remarked that relations by marriage agreed much better the less they saw of one another. Not that he wanted altogether to estrange me from my family—Heaven forbid! he said; but he wished his darling angel (that is, myself) to undertake the management of his establishment herself—although he could not help allowing that my dear mamma was an excellent woman, and meant very well.

This cut me to the heart; for I had strange, melancholy forebodings of dissensions in store for us, of which I feared the over-anxiety of my dear mamma would be the cause.

After three weeks of continued happiness, we left the shores of honest Rottendean, and returned to hollow-hearted London, and I felt satisfied that my husband would no longer be displeased with dear mamma’s fond care, when he found what a treasure of a maid she had procured for us.

Moral reflection after writing the above.—“Laws were made,” my Edward says, “to protect people’s property;{26}” but my opinion is, that they were made for nothing of the kind; or, if they were, that those who made them knew nothing at all about their business; or else I’m sure there wouldn’t be half the picking and stealing that there is going on every day in the lodging-houses at the sea-side. For the way in which we were robbed right and left, where we lived at Brighton (or at Rottendean, which is the same thing), and the hole that that story-telling old landlady of ours used to make in our cold meat, was enough to turn a right-minded woman like myself crazy. I’m sure we must have been keeping the whole family, we must; for they not only couldn’t keep their fingers off our meat, but they went dipping them into our tea-caddy, and candle-box, and sugar-basin, so that one need have had a purse a mile long to have paid one’s way with any credit to oneself. I declare it was enough to drive any well-disposed body away from the place; and I can only say, that from all I’ve seen and suffered myself there, I can well understand King George the Fourth (who was a perfect gentleman) turning his nose up at the people, and vowing that he’d have nothing more to do with the scurvy set.

## CHAPTER III.

OF THE TERRIBLE GOINGS-ON OF MY FIRST MAID, AND WHOM WE ALL EXPECTED WOULD HAVE TURNED OUT SUCH A “TREASURE.”

“In this bosom what anguish, what hope, and what fear
I endure for my beautiful maid.
In vain I seek pleasure to lighten my grief,
Or quit the gay throng for the shade;
Nor retirement nor solitude yields me relief,
When I think of my beautiful maid.”
Braham’s “Beautiful Maid.”

We quitted Brighton by the stage, and had a delightful drive up as far as Tooting, where we left the coach, and stopped to rest ourselves a short time, as dear Edward was fearful lest I should over-fatigue myself by going through the entire journey at once; after which we ordered a post-chaise, and drove up to our house in great style.{27}

As the equipage rattled up Alb—ny St—t, I could not help having a pleasing vision of the prolonged happiness which I now fancied was within arm’s reach of me, (if the courteous reader will allow me the expression.) When we got to our pretty little cottage orné, and I saw the establishment of which I was to be the future mistress, I felt so honestly proud, so truly gratified, so charmed with the new duties that it had pleased Providence to impose upon me—even though I was rather knocked up with our journey—that I now began to feel myself quite another thing.

It was extremely curious to see the heads of our new neighbours peeping over the blinds of their parlour windows, as our post-chaise dashed up, with lighted lamps, to our door, while the boy thundered at the knocker. I believe this trifling circumstance tickled my girlish vanity at the moment; but I’m sure my courteous readers will think the feeling very excusable, when they recollect I was as yet but a young bride.

I was greatly alarmed, and not a little surprised, to find the door answered by my dear mamma; for I was convinced that she knew her station in life too well ever to dream of doing such a thing, unless compelled by some calamity. Edward seemed to be as much annoyed as myself, and did not scruple to speak out about it; and, indeed, his feelings made him forget himself in the presence of the post-boy; for he knit his fine brow, and wondered why my dear mamma could not let the servant attend to the door. But, alas! how little did we then dream of the cause.

When all our luggage had been got into the hall, and we had dismissed the post-boy with what I’m sure was a very handsome gratuity for himself, my mamma at once broke to us the terrible news which was to welcome us home.

About three that afternoon, the good, kind soul had given herself the trouble of coming over to see that all was nice and comfortable against our arrival. She had knocked for at least a quarter of an hour, and fancying the maid might be out on an errand, she had gone a little further. But on coming back, she had found the same impossibility of making any one in the house hear. She grew extremely alarmed, though naturally far from a nervous woman, like the rest of our family. She thought the house perhaps had been stripped,{28} and the horrid ideas that passed through her mind she told us no one could imagine. At last she determined on forcing an entrance for herself; so she borrowed a pair of steps from next door; and with extreme difficulty, (for mamma is inclined to be stout,) and almost at the peril of some of the bones in her body, got in at the parlour window.

Down in the kitchen, she found the maid lying on her back on the rug, before the fire, in a state of complete insensibility, while our best linen sheets—which mamma had given out to her the day before, in order that they might be properly aired against our return—were hanging on the horse, burnt to perfect rags, so that they could not even be cut up into glass-cloths; and it was a mercy, she said, for which we ought to go down on our bended knees, that we did not come home and find our cottage orné a mass of black, smouldering, heart-rending ruins.

The state into which this dreadful news threw both Edward and myself may be more easily imagined than described. Mamma’s lively picture of the good-for-nothing woman’s sufferings filled our hearts at the time with pity for the disreputable creature. We all thought it was a fit, and that the slut was afflicted with epilepsy; but alas! it was much worse than that; and she was, therefore, totally undeserving of all sympathy. Though we were then so wrapt up in the woman, (if I might be allowed the expression,) that we were unable to see through the minx; which fully convinces me of the truth of the popular saying—“that we are all blind mortals.”

And a nice state we found the place in, indeed—everything topsy turvy throughout the establishment—indeed, any one, to have seen it, would have said that the whole house had been turned out of windows—not even so much as a spark of fire in the parlour grate—no cloth laid, nor things on the table for tea. Indeed, had we been dying of hunger ever so, there was nothing in the house for us but discomfort and misery—nor was there a thing to welcome us but some hot water—and even that we should not have had, if my dear mamma herself had not prepared it for our reception. So that—to use a figure of speech—the place really seemed as if it did not belong to us, and that we were nothing better than intruders in our own house.

I was even forced to stoop to light the fire myself; and my fair readers may well imagine my feelings when I tell them{29} that there was scarcely even a bundle of wood in the establishment. As soon as it was fairly alight, I gave the bellows to poor Edward, who not being, as he said, “used to that sort of thing,” was consequently in a great passion; so I left him alone to blow up the fire, while I went to see that deceitful bit of goods, with the epilepsy, as I thought, up in the front attic—for my mother had put her to bed during her fit—(pretty fit, indeed!—but more of this hereafter.)

When I got there, I found my dear mamma standing by the bed-side with a brandy-bottle, giving her some of the liquor in a dessert-spoon, with the view of bringing her back to her senses. Asking mamma how the poor thing (a deceitful baggage!) was, she told me that she had given her some spirits before, and it seemed to do her a world of good, for she had gone off to sleep afterwards. Presently, the girl opened her eyes, and from the dull, leaden expression they had, I was quite shocked; for at the time she appeared to me to be literally standing at death’s door. I shook her gently, (though if I had known then half as much as I do now, I really think I should have forgotten myself, and shaken the cat to bits,) and asked her how she felt herself now. Upon which she made an effort to speak; but the woman was no longer herself, for she had entirely lost the use of her tongue, and there was no getting anything out of her. My mamma, however, thought she would be able to understand, even if she could not speak; and told Mary that it was very wrong and wicked of her not to have said that she was subject to fits before she entered our service, and tried to learn whether they were periodical or not, but all to no purpose. So we both left her; and I remarked to mamma, as we came down stairs, that, though I should have felt myself bound to have mentioned the circumstance of her fits in her character, still the omission was very excusable in her late mistress; for it really would have been like taking the bread out of the poor creature’s mouth, which no true lady could be expected to do.

When we returned to the parlour, we found Edward with (thanks to goodness!) a nice fire, but he was so surly, (and well he might be,) at the place being so uncomfortable, that he kept banging the things about, though I did not expect he would have done as much so soon after our marriage; and I recollect at the time it struck me as being highly indecent.{30} We described to him the state of the girl, and were much hurt (though we thought it best not to show it) at the strong want of feeling he displayed upon hearing an account of her affliction; for he was too ready to put a bad construction on her illness; and didn’t hesitate to say that he’d forfeit his head if the fits didn’t turn out to be fits of drunkenness after all, calling the girl, to our great horror, “a gin-drinking toad.” This so kindled my mamma’s wrath, that she declared she wondered how he could ever stand there and say such things; and that she should be very much astonished if his words did not rise up in judgment against him some fine day or other; for that she was never more convinced of anything in her life than that we should eventually find Mary, as she had before said, and would say again, and she did not care who heard her—a perfect treasure. Though she could not help allowing that the fits were a slight drawback, and went somewhat against the girl; still, as she could not reasonably be expected to have more than one every six weeks, and would be sure to have warning when they were coming on, why really my mamma said she could not see that there was so much for a body to put up with, after all.

Edward observed, that, considering all things, he was afraid he should have a good deal to put up with, from a certain quarter that was not a hundred miles off. On which my mamma said something that has escaped me; and Edward replied, I can’t exactly at present call to mind what. So that I felt that a storm was gathering round about my head, and that the house (if I may be permitted to use so strong an expression) would shortly be too hot to hold me. Accordingly, with my usual sagacity in such matters, I went up and kissed dear mamma, and got her to go down stairs and look after the tea, for I was anxious to separate them, as I saw they had every disposition to get together by the ears, which I was sure would give rise to a great deal of pain on both sides.

At tea, little was said by either party—and, indeed, it was a sorry meal. For my poor mamma had been thrown into such a flurry by Edward’s cruel, ungrateful treatment, that she could not for the life of her lay her hands upon the lump-sugar, and we were obliged to put up with moist, to which Edward has a horrid dislike—and Mary had forgotten to take in the milk{31} while she was in her fit—and mamma had had the misfortune to cut the bread and butter with an oniony knife, which gave my husband’s stomach quite a turn; so that everything went crooked with us that evening, and we were not sorry when the time came for mamma to leave. As she was putting on her bonnet, she told me that Edward had behaved so rude to her, that he really had quite upset her, (to use a figure of speech,) and she didn’t know how she was ever to manage to get home, for she positively couldn’t say whether she was walking on her head or her heels.

When Edward and I retired for the night, the sheets which were intended for our bed having been burnt to tinder, and having no others aired, we were obliged to sleep between the blankets, which in no way allayed poor Edward’s irritation. So that, from the time we went to bed to the time we got up in the morning, he did nothing but amuse himself by fancying all sorts of uncomfortable things, and would have it that the feather bed was damp; and said that it was ten to one if my mother’s treasure (as he delighted to call her) didn’t make us both get up in the morning with churchyard coughs at least—or, more probably, with such a severe attack of the rheumatics, as we should never get over to our dying days—and which, he nearly frightened me out of my wits by declaring, he confidently expected would render us both cripples for the rest of our lives. Indeed, he actually, at one time, went so far as to jump up, and swear that he would not rest until he took the bed from under me.

I trust I acted during this severe trial as became a woman with her proper feelings about her; for, as this was the first serious difference Edward and I had had since our union, I thought it best to let him know that I was no longer the mere child that he seemed to take me for, and that I was not going to allow myself to be trodden under foot like a worm, (not I, indeed!) For I felt that, if I did not at once give him to understand to the contrary, he might be induced to presume upon my naturally retiring disposition; so I kept on sobbing as if my heart would break half the night through, and did not allow him to have any quiet until I had made him confess that he was in the wrong—and that he had carried his airs too far—and that my dear mamma, at least, had done all for the best—and that he should be very happy to see her to dinner to{32}-morrow—and that her greatest enemy could not but say, that she meant very well.

Thus my courteous readers will see that my first serious trouble in life arose from servants; and I can assure them it took such a hold of my mind, that it made me more than once half repent of the vows of eternal love and constancy that I had made to my beloved Edward; and wish in my heart (though sincerely attached to my husband) that I was not a married woman. For at the time we really believed Mary to be subject to fits, and this made my naturally kind heart bleed with pity for the deceitful minx, so of course I could not bear to find my husband running the girl down whenever he had an opportunity. Though when my courteous readers find out, as I did, that I had a perfect viper for a maid-of-all-work, and learn that I had taken an habitual drunkard to my bosom, I am sure they will sympathize with me rather than blame me, for all I did for the creature; although, perhaps, they will hardly believe it possible that any one could have been such a fool as I was.

The next morning, Mary came to me with her eyes full of tears to apologize for her drunkenness; while I, in my natural simplicity, imagined that the cat was speaking to me on the subject of her fits. She hoped I would look over it this time, as she did not mean to get in the same state again; on which I told the toad that it was no fault of hers, as it must be plain to every rightly constituted mind, that she could have no control over herself in that respect. She said trouble had brought it upon her, and that it came over her so strong, at times, that she had no power to stand up against it; all which I told her was very natural, (as, indeed, it appeared to me then;) and I asked the creature, in my foolish innocence, if she ever took anything when she found the fit coming upon her. To which she replied, that in such a state she was ready to fly to whatever she could get at; but that her stomach was so weak, that anything strong was too much for her, and upset her directly; and that it was the reason of her leaving her last situation. Upon which, in a most simple-minded way, I told the tippling hussy that I didn’t think it much to the credit of a clergyman to have turned her away for that, and I actually was stupid enough (the reader, I’m sure, will hardly believe it) to tell her that{33} whenever she felt the fit coming on, never to attempt to check it, but to let it have its due course. And that if she would come to me, I would gladly give her whatever she might take a fancy to, (and a pretty advantage she took of my offer, as the courteous reader shall shortly see.)

As soon as Edward had gone to business, I ran upstairs and put on my things, and stepped round to my dear mamma, to tell her all that had occurred, and how Edward was exceeding sorry for what he had said, and had asked me to grant him my pardon; and to prevail upon her to forget all that had passed, and to come to dinner that day. My mamma commended me for having been able to bring my husband to a proper sense of his conduct; and said, that she was not the person to bear animosity to any one, she was sure; though she could not help saying that the names he had called that poor servant girl, under her awful affliction, had given her quite a different opinion of his character, and that she was certain she should never be able to like him half so well again. However, she would try and wipe it all from her mind and begin anew, if it was only for the sake of her own sweet Caroline, (that is myself.)

After we had taken a mouthful of some of the best cold roast pork I think I ever tasted in the whole course of my life, and touched a little stout by way of luncheon, my mamma told me that she was glad that things had turned out as they had, for it had made her again determine to present Edward with the valuable old painting of her noble ancestor, F—tz-R—msb—tt—m, who is said to have come into England with the Conqueror, and which relic, after Edward’s conduct last night, she had made a vow should never belong to a man who could behave so unlike a gentleman as he did. But now as all was straight, and I was her only child, and the picture had been handed down in her family for years, and she had always looked upon me as the heir-at-law to it, she would have it brought round and put up in some part of the house where it could always be before my eyes, and be continually reminding me of my station in life, and that the noble blood of a R—msb—tt—m flowed in my veins.

When we went to look at the portrait of my noble ancestor, we could not help remarking what a fine head it was, and that any one to look at him might tell, from the likeness, that{34} he was related to our family. Though when I said I should wish to have it put up in the drawing-room, and observed that it would be a nice thing to have hanging there on our “At-home” day, as it would show Edward’s friends that he had not married an ordinary person, and prove to them that our family were not mere mushrooms who had never been heard of, mamma remarked that, if that was the case, it would be better—now she thought of it—to have our ancestor done up and cleaned a bit, as she said a good deal of the nobility that was in his face was lost from its being so dirty as it was; and that if he was fresh varnished and had a new frame, he would certainly form a splendid ornament for our drawing-room, on our “At-home” day. And that she knew a young man who had just started in business in the H—mpst—d R—d, who would do it so cheaply that she was sure Edward could not grumble at the expense.

My dear mamma kindly undertook to get all this done for me, though how she was ever to manage it, she said, was more than she could tell; for what with the house and the business she had more on her hands at present than she knew what to do with; and, as she truly observed, she was so full of one thing and another, just now, that she really did not know which way to turn.

I thought it best to tell mamma not to mention the subject that evening at dinner to Edward; stating that I wished it to come as a little surprise to him when the picture was brought home. For to tell the truth, I was afraid that she might get talking of her noble ancestors before him; and as I knew that Edward did not entertain the same elevated opinion of the R—msb—tt—ms as my mamma justly did, and had even once gone so far as to call our gracious William the Conqueror, and his noble knights, a set of vagabond robbers, (upon my word, he did,) I thought it would be better not to let my dear mamma have her heart again wrung by another difference with my husband.

We had a very nice plain family dinner that day—a mere simple joint; but so delightfully cooked—done to a turn—and sent up so respectably, that it did me good to see it; and I really thought that our toad of a Mary would turn out a blessing to us, after all. I had told my mother that she must not look for any fuss and ceremony, or expect us to treat her{35} like a stranger, as she was too near and dear a friend for us to put ourselves out of the way for her. Everything went off so admirably no one can tell—and the plates were so nice and hot—and Mary waited at table so well—and looked so clean and respectable—which really, considering she had had to cook the dinner, I was quite surprised and delighted to see. After dinner, dear Edward would open another bottle of port, and made himself so happy, and got to be such good friends with mamma. Though I really sat on thorns, (if I might be allowed the expression,) all the evening; for knowing their disposition as well as I did, I was in fear that every minute something would come on the carpet which would upset all, and make them get knocking their heads against each other again; so that when the dear soul left us, I said to myself, “I really haven’t been so happy for a long time.”

Edward was in such a good humour, that when we went to bed, I thought it a capital time to tell him about the picture, and got him to promise that he would not go on about it before mamma; for though he might not care about our noble ancestors, still, as mamma’s family was her weak point, it was very natural that she should cling to the R—msb—tt—ms as fondly as she did. Besides, I told him that he had a nasty way of his own of saying what he thought—and that if he didn’t take care, he’d find he’d get into nice trouble through it some of these fine days; and I was sure that if I went speaking my mind upon every occasion, my conscience would not allow me to rest quiet in my bed.

Mary went on pretty well for a day or two, when we noticed that the creature began to get rather confused in her intellects, and to be quite beside herself, so that she scarcely seemed to know what she was about, and kept breaking everything she put her hands upon. I, in my innocence, began to fear that another fit was coming on, and I should be having the minx laid up insensible on my “At-home” day—and a nice pickle I should be in then, goodness knows. So, with my usual good nature, I asked her if she would take anything, and whether she thought a little brandy would put her straight. On which the hussy really began to see through my mistake, and to understand that I was treating her for fits instead of drunkenness; and said that she was sure I was very good, and that she would try a glass—which the{36} minx had, and pretended that it quite took her breath away to drink it (the deceitful cat!)—and she actually had the face to come to me and beg another one that evening, saying that the first one had done her a world of good. So that there was I, really and truly encouraging the horrid wretch in the worst of vices; and, as I heard afterwards, she went about the neighbourhood, saying that it was no fault of hers, and that I took a delight in making her tipsy; and the worst of it all was, that it was on that very evening the picture came home.

Dear mamma had stepped round to tell us, that now he was fresh varnished, the dear man looked so heavenly in his new gilt frame, that she felt as if she could hug him. She was in tremendous spirits about it, and told Edward that it was an ornament that she knew she did wrong in not presenting to the British Museum, for that a descendant of the very same family had been Mayor of Norwich three times running. But Edward behaved himself like a perfect gentleman, and only said “he should hardly believe it.” A little after eight, the young man from the H—mpst—d R—d came round with the picture and the bill himself, which dear Edward (who, I regret to say, is naturally mean, being penny wise and pound foolish) said he didn’t consider quite so cheap as my mother had made out. However, when he saw the picture, he seemed to think nothing more of it, and told the young man to go and get some green cord, so that he might have our ancestor hung, as soon as possible, in the drawing-room.

When the young man returned, Edward and myself went to the top of the stairs with the candles, while that good-for-nothing creature, Mary, (whom I’m sure we none of us suspected of being in liquor at the time,) helped the young man up with the picture, and mamma went behind, so that she might take care that it wasn’t grazed against the banisters; and kept telling Mary, for goodness’ sake to mind what she was about, for that she would not have anything happen to it for all she was worth. Mary, who was in the advance, and consequently obliged to come upstairs backwards, went on very well at first, (though how she ever could have managed to do so, in the state she must have been in, is a wonder to us all.) They had nearly reached the first landing when one of the stair-rods being out, the carpet was loose, and we were horrified by seeing Mary’s feet slip from under{37} her, while the drunken cat let go her hold of the picture, so that she might save herself from falling. But what with the liquor the toad had taken on the sly, and what with that which I had given her that afternoon, and what with coming upstairs backwards, she had lost all command over herself, so that, after making one or two vain attempts to keep her balance, we saw her, with horror, pitched head first into the middle of our noble ancestor; at the same time knocking backwards the young man from the H—mpst—d R—d; who would, I am sure, have been killed on the spot, had he not luckily broken his fall by tumbling right upon dear mamma,—who was providentially not more than half-a-dozen stairs from the bottom—and taking her legs from under her, they all three fell one a-top of another, right into the hall—amidst the screams of my mother, the crashing of the frame of our noble ancestor, and (I regret to add) the laughter of my husband. I immediately rushed to poor mamma’s assistance, confidently believing that she hadn’t a sound limb in her poor body. And when I tell my courteous readers that I found my dear parent was nearly smothered underneath the young man from the H—mpst—d R—d, (and he must have been eleven stone, if he was an ounce,) and that that slut, Mary, (who was certainly no sylph,) was right a-top of the young man, I am sure they will agree with me, that it was a perfect miracle how dear mother was ever able to bear it all as she did—for I am happy to say, she was only dreadfully bruised, and that, indeed, no one was seriously hurt by the fall but my poor noble ancestor, from whom my mother dated her descent, and who was literally broken to bits—though my poor dear mamma (as she afterwards told me) was black and blue all over for weeks. At the time, she thought little of her own sufferings, for she was chiefly concerned about the injuries her noble ancestor had sustained; and when she saw the head of her family all knocked in, as it was, her grief knew no bounds. My husband, I am ashamed to say, did not seem to be at all affected by mamma’s distresses; and in a nasty, contrary spirit, no longer grumbled about paying the money for the picture, when it was broken; and, I verily believe, looked upon the accident as a good bit of fun; though I should like to know how he would have liked it himself, the brute!{38}

As soon as we were in the parlour, and my poor mamma had got round again, Edward observed—with a sarcastic grin, that I could almost have shaken him for, I could—“What a pity it was that that poor girl, Mary, should be so subject to fits!” On which my mother burst out, saying, “Fits, indeed! she never saw such fits. It was nothing more nor less than downright drunkenness, that it was; and how she could ever have been imposed upon as she had been, she really couldn’t say; but that it had all come upon her like a thunderbolt immediately after she saw the girl staggering up the stairs; and that, indeed, to tell the truth, she had had her suspicions before; and that on the day of our arrival from Brighton, it struck her that there was a strong smell of spirits in the house, but which, at the time, she attributed to the French polish of the new furniture.” And then I mentioned that the way in which Mary had drunk the brandy I had given her that afternoon—just as if it was so much water—struck me as looking very queer at the time; and that I was sure, that if it wasn’t for our “At-home” day being so near at hand, I should bundle the baggage into the streets directly without a moment’s warning—only half a loaf was better than no bread at all—and it would never do to be left in the house without any one to open the door on such an occasion.

Consequently, as I felt I was in the slut’s power, I thought it would be better to avoid having any words with her, but to go on treating her civilly until such time as I could turn her neck and crop out of the house.

The evening before our “At-home” day, while I was busy in the parlour with a warm flat-iron, taking the creases out of my white satin bridal robe—which had got dreadfully tumbled in the carriage going to church, and which mother had told me I ought to receive my friends in on the morrow—mamma came round to see us, (Edward was going over some of his filthy law papers,) and with her customary good nature—for she is always thinking of something for us—brought with her a darling little pet of a camphine night-lamp that she had picked up that day for a mere nothing; and which she pointed out to dear Edward would be an immense saving to us in the course of the year, as it gave the light of two rushlights, and only cost one farthing for forty-eight hours. And then the dear old soul, who has always had an excellent head for figures,{39} entered into a very nice calculation as to how many rushlights went to the pound, and how many we burnt in the course of the year, and what the expense was; and then putting them against the expense of the camphine, she proved to Edward as clearly as ever I heard anything in all my life, that, with a very little extra, he might be able to buy me another new bonnet every year out of the difference. And then the good old body filled the lamp with some camphine she had brought in her pocket in a phial; and lighted it, just to show us how a child of ten years old might manage the thing, it was so simple; and to let us see how, when turned down, it gave the light of a rushlight, or when turned up, it was nearly equal to that of a mould candle, and certainly superior to that of a long-six. But Edward (just like a lawyer) observing that it smoked when the flame was high, thought such a circumstance might be a slight drawback to its beauty; but dear mamma said that of course no one but a maniac would ever be such an idiot as to go turning it up that height.

As soon as mother had gone, Edward retired to bed, and left me sitting up to finish my dress, and new cover my white satin shoes, which had got dreadfully soiled with the mud in going to and from the carriage on our wedding-day. And besides, I had to clean my white kid gloves, and to let them hang up all night so as to get the filthy smell of the turpentine out of them before the morning. It was long past midnight before I had finished the better part of what I wanted to do; and as I could hear Mary (who had been waiting up to clean the room overnight so that she might have nothing to do in the morning to prevent her being ready dressed long before the visitors came) knocking the things about below in a dreadful ill-humour at being kept up so late; and as it wasn’t worth while having a fresh candle put up just to do the few little odd jobs that remained, I rang the bell for Mary; and lighting mamma’s darling little pet of a camphine lamp, (drat the thing! I wish it had never come into the house,) went up stairs, taking my things with me. When I got to my room, I hung my beautiful bridal robes on the back of a chair, and put out Edward’s nice clean white trousers ready for him in the morning. I could scarcely keep my eyes open while Mary was undoing me, and was so glad to get into bed, that I quite forgot, before doing{40} so, to turn down the camphine lamp. But just as I was dozing off, I remembered it, and told Mary, who was hanging up my things, to be sure and turn it down before she left the room; instead of which, the minx, (who I’m sure was half-fuddled at the time,) went and turned the thing the wrong way, like a stupid; so that there were both dear Edward and myself sleeping in a state of blessed innocence, while the filthy thing was smoking away as hard as it could go all night, just for all the world like the funnel of a steam-boat, and sending out soot enough to have smothered a whole regiment. As I had got all the next day upon my mind, luckily I awoke as soon as it was light in the morning; and when I turned round, and saw my dear Edward’s face an inch thick of black, I really thought at first that I was in bed with a filthy negro. So I gave him a good shaking, and woke him directly; and no sooner had he rubbed his eyes open and looked at me, than the wretch burst out laughing, and declared that I looked just like a chimney-sweep. I gave a scream, and jumped out of bed like lightning—if I might be allowed so strong an expression—and there was the whole place one mass of smuts: and the beautiful clean dimity curtains, that had not been up a week—and the white counterpane—and the toilet-covers—and the window-blinds—and the towels—and my face—and my night-cap—looking just as if they had been all washed in Indian ink; and, what nearly drove me right out of my senses—my beautiful white satin bridal robes were actually the same as if some evil-minded person had been dragging them—just for the pleasure of the thing—up and down the chimney, and positively would have induced one, at first sight, to believe that a body had been led to the altar in bombazeen. I declare the beastly sooty stuff was everywhere,—there was a shovelful, at least, in my white satin shoes—and my white gloves were like black kid both inside and out—and it had even got right up my nostrils—and I do verily believe that a quantity had gone down my throat, for I generally sleep with my mouth open. But what annoyed me so that I could hardly bear myself was, that Edward kept chuckling at all my distress, (just like a man—for of course he knew he wouldn’t have the cleaning of it.) But when I showed him the grubby state that his ducks were in, I was quite glad to see how{41} angry it made him. And then of course it was all his mother-in-law’s fault bringing him her bothering twopenny-halfpenny lamps; and I really thought I should have been obliged to go into hysterics when I heard him say that the next time he caught my dear, respected mamma in his house, he’d pack her off with a flea in her ear!

And a pretty situation I was in, to be sure. I daren’t for the life of me open my mouth, for fear that the hussy should leave me at a moment’s notice, at such a time, when, bad as she was, it was impossible to do without her; and there were my bridal robes spoilt before my very eyes, and I didn’t know how on earth I was ever to receive my friends, as I really hadn’t a single thing to put on.

## CHAPTER IV.

HOW MARY TURNED OUT, AND HOW HER GOINGS-ON ON MY “AT-HOME” DAY NEARLY DROVE ME WILD.

“Ay, laugh, ye fiends! laugh, laugh, ye fiends!
Yes, by Heaven! yes, by Heaven! they’ve driven me mad!
I see her dancing in the hall—I see her dancing in the hall—
I see her dancing—she heeds me not!
Yes, by Heaven! yes, by Heaven! they’ve driven me mad!
Yes, by Heaven! yes, by Heaven! they’ve driven me mad!”
Henry Russell, “The Maniac.”

As soon as I had recovered my scattered senses, I rang the bell for Mary; and when she came up, I declare I could scarcely go near her, she smelt of drink so horridly, though wherever she could have got it at that hour I couldn’t, if any one had given me a hundred guineas, make out at the time. (But I wasn’t long in finding out where my lady went to for it, as the reader will presently see.) And I do verily believe that such a toad never entered a respectable woman’s service before.

With my usual command over myself, I requested her to take my bridal robe down, and shake all the smuts off of it in the garden, and to be sure and take care what she was about with it; as white satin was not to be picked up in the streets every day. When the minx brought it up again, I declare I never saw such a grubby thing as it was; and it looked for{42} all the world like as if it was made out of what the gentlemen call Oxford mixture; for she had been trying to rub the blacks off with a damp duster! And yet, it wasn’t advisable to throw it in her teeth, though I could have given it her well, I could. There was a very handsome and expensive dress completely spoilt, and made as pretty ducks-and-drakes of as anything I ever saw. It was of no use to any one, and only fit to be given away.

I was obliged to put on a high-bodied, quiet-looking, dark, snuff-coloured silk dress, which mamma had bought me before my marriage, as it was a good-wearing, serviceable colour, and one that would not show the dirt. But my troubles were doomed not to cease here; for when I was tout-arrangé, and really thought that I didn’t look so bad, after all, I found that nothing with any spirit in it was safe in the house from that abominable toper of a Mary of mine; and that she had positively been drinking all my Eau-de-Cologne, and filling the bottle up with turpentine; so that when I went to pour some of the perfume down my bosom, I actually saturated my things with the filthy stuff, and smelt just like as if I had been newly French-polished.

But, alas! her thievish propensities didn’t stop here; for if she knew where any drink was kept, she would never rest easy until she had got it—no matter how. As for locks and keys, bless you! they were of no more use than policemen. Actually the hussy couldn’t even keep her fingers off mamma’s excellent cherry brandy; but must go picking and stealing even that; and (as I found out afterwards, to my cost,) filling up the bottles with cold tea and new young cherries instead, (the nasty toad!) And the reader will soon see how it turned out.

I thought I should have gone mad on my At-home day. I really expected it would have been the death of poor, dear Edward. And I’m sure, for myself, I made up my mind that, come what would, I’d never go through another such a time, not even if I was to be made a princess. I declare the door-step had never been touched—nor the hall or the stairs swept—not even so much as a mat shaken—nor a thing dusted—so that you might have written your name on the backs of the chairs and tables in the drawing-room—and it was past{43} twelve in the day before I could get that slut Mary even to clear away the breakfast things out of the parlour—and I had the greatest difficulty in the world to make her go and clean herself, for she was just the same as when she got up in the morning, not fit to be seen. I had to light the fire in the drawing-room, and dust the place, dressed as I was, myself, or else it would never have been done.

I don’t suppose I could have finished a quarter of an hour before the first double-knock came to the door, and that slut Mary not down stairs to answer it. So I rushed up to her room and bundled her down as quick as I could; though she had been at her old tricks again, I could see, and wasn’t really in a fit state to be trusted to go to the door; but what could I do? They had knocked again, and I had only just time to sit myself down, and take up one of the books off the drawing-room table, when the street-door was opened. And then, to my great horror, I heard Mary talking, at the top of her voice, to the visitors in the passage; and demanding to shake hands with them, and calling them a set of stuck-up things, because they wouldn’t. So I ran down as fast as my legs would carry me, and looking at her as if I could have eaten her, told her to go down stairs directly, and remember who she was, and what she was, and where she came from.

I found it was poor Mrs. B—yl—s and her lovely girls that Mary had been insulting in this dreadful manner, and who were quite flurried at her strange goings-on. Luckily, Edward was up-stairs dressing, or there’s no knowing what he wouldn’t have done. And I declare, there was not a single person that came into the house that day that she didn’t insult, in some way or other; and twice I had to go down to her; for she would go, singing and dancing about, like a downright maniac; and it was only by promising her some warm spirits and water in the evening, that I could in any way get her to keep her tongue to herself.

I was so upset, that instead of my friends congratulating me on my improved appearance, they did nothing but tell me that they could perceive Mary was worrying me dreadfully, and that they had never seen me look so bad before. And they kindly advised me to get the jade out of the house as soon as{44} possible, saying, that if she were a servant of theirs, they should expect to be burned alive in their beds, for that drunken people were always so careless with their candles. While dear mamma (who is naturally a long-headed woman,) said, that every morning she confidently expected to find the place destroyed by fire, and that her dear children had perished in the flames. All which took such a hold on my mind, that I couldn’t get a wink of sleep for a week afterwards, and was always fancying I could hear the boards crackling, and kept getting up and going over the house, shivering, in my night-dress, to satisfy myself that all was safe.

We were, at one time, as many as fourteen in the drawing-room, and all of them highly desirable acquaintances, being people very well to do in the world; when mamma, who is so proud of her cherry-brandy, would persuade our friends to take some—if it was only a glassful. So (bother take it!) I had to get my keys, and trot downstairs for her stupid cherry-brandy—which I’m sure I couldn’t see the want of, for there was plenty of excellent red and white wine on the table; and that was good enough for any one any day, I should think. Besides, I had set my mind upon keeping the cherry-brandy quietly to myself, as there were only two bottles of it, and Edward had just laid in several dozen of port and sherry. However, I returned with one of the bottles and an agreeable smile on my countenance to the drawing-room, little thinking that I was about to present some of my best friends with a glass of that horrible wash that that tipsy, thieving Mary had filled up the bottle with. Then giving it to mamma, I told her pleasantly that she should fill the glasses, and have all the credit of it to herself. So, the good, dear old lady did as I said, and handing them round, observed to Mrs. L—ckl—y, (who is the wife of Edward’s best client, and of highly genteel connexions,) that she should like her to try that; for she flattered herself that she would find it very fine, and not to be got everywhere, as she had made it herself, after her own peculiar way; and that she felt convinced that any pastrycook would gladly give her twenty guineas for the receipt any morning; and that she always made a point of using none but the very best cognac that could be got for money, together with the finest Morella cherries that were to be{45} picked up in Covent-garden Market. When they had all got their glasses, dear, unconscious mamma sat down with a self-contented smile, waiting for the approbation and eulogiums which she confidently expected they would overwhelm her with. As soon as Mrs. L—ckl—y had taken one cherry and a spoonful of the wash, all the rest followed her example. Dear mamma observing that Mrs. L—ckl—y made a wry face after it, (as well the poor thing might,) said, “I’m afraid the brandy is too strong for you, Mrs. L—ckl—y; but you needn’t be afraid of it, my dear—a bottle of such as that would not hurt you, I can assure you.” Now, really, I shall begin to think you don’t like it, if you don’t finish it. On which Mrs. L—ckl—y (who is an extremely well-bred woman) answered, “You’re very good—it is very nice, I’m sure.” And then the poor thing put another spoonful of the filthy stuff to her lips. Whereupon poor, dear mamma, (who was determined not to be balked of the compliments she innocently thought she was entitled to) tried to prevail on some of the other poor things (who really, considering all, had borne it like martyrs) to go on with theirs. But Mrs. B—yl—s politely excused herself by saying she thought it was not quite so rich as some of mother’s that she had had the pleasure of tasting before, and that sweet woman, Mrs. C—rt—r, said that she was afraid the brandy had gone off a little, (and so it had, with a vengeance.) On which Edward (lawyer like), fancying something was wrong, and thinking it a good opportunity for teasing his poor, dear, innocent mother-in-law, took a glass himself, and had no sooner tasted it, than, instead of swallowing it, like a gentleman, he spit the whole into the fire-place, declaring he had never in all his life tasted such beastly trash. Whereupon, dear mamma, who believed that he only said as much to annoy her, took a glassful likewise; and scarcely had she put her lips to it, than she gave a scream, and the poor, dear soul spluttered it all out of her mouth again, exclaiming—“Oh that shameful minx of a Mary! I know it’s her!—the drunken hussy! If she hasn’t been and drunk all the brandy, and filled the bottle up again with what I’d swear was nasty filthy cold tea and unripe cherries.” No sooner had she made the discovery, than all the poor dear ladies who had partaken of the filthy mixture uttered a piercing scream, while that{46} unfeeling wretch, Edward, rushed out of the room, and I could actually hear the brute bursting with laughter on the landing-place.

All the dears agreed with poor mamma—who was boiling over, (if I might be allowed the expression,) that it was very shameful conduct on the part of the maid, and hoped that mamma would not let it take any effect upon her on their account, as really they didn’t mind about it. And then taking a glass of sherry wine a-piece, just to take the taste out of their dear mouths, they all hurried away, and in less than ten minutes we were left alone in the drawing-room.

Then we both agreed to make that cat, Mary, finish before our very eyes the whole of the other bottleful, (which we made up our minds she had of course served in the same manner,) and directly after she had eaten it all up, to give her warning, as it would be the best way of punishing her for her wicked goings-on. So down stairs we went, and having got the bottle out of the store-room closet, we made the wretch devour the whole of it on the spot—though from the ready way in which the minx resigned herself to her fate, and from the effect it had upon her shortly afterwards, (for it only made her more tipsy than before,) to our horror we found out that she had never touched that bottle at all—and, indeed, she told us as much when she had drunk up every drop, and had the impudence to say she should like to be punished again. So we immediately gave her warning, and told her not to think of sending to us for a character, indeed. But in the evening, the cherry brandy we had forced her to take, made her so dreadfully bad, that we had to carry her upstairs and put her to bed again. All of which was a mere nothing to us, compared with the good humour it put Edward into; who kept telling us, with a nasty vulgar giggle, that we ought to be ashamed of ourselves for driving the poor girl into another fit; and he said he hoped that dear mamma would take care that the next servant she engaged for him wasn’t subject to epilepsy, (an aggravating monster!)

Next day I stepped round to mother’s, to consult about the best means of getting a new servant as soon as possible; for I was determined on finding some excuse for packing Mary out of the house directly I was suited. Mamma, however,

“Are you not Irish?” “Och! no, Ma’am I’m Corrnwall sure!”

{47}

after what Edward had said, declined, with great, and, I must say, becoming dignity, interfering in the business further than sending any maids she might hear of round for me to look at—as she wasn’t going to put herself in the way again, indeed, of being reproached, as she had been, by her own dear child’s ungrateful husband. But though mamma was kind enough to send me several servants from the tradesmen in the neighbourhood, yet I never saw one for days; for that baggage, Mary, kept setting them against the place, and saying everything that was bad of us directly they came to the house.

One morning, however, as Edward was going out, he met one on the door-step, and sent her into the parlour to me. She was a tall, strong, big-boned, clean-looking, tidy, and respectable ugly woman, and looked as if she wasn’t afraid of work: so with my usual quick-sightedness l saw at a glance that she was just the person to suit me. When I asked her what her name was, she answered, with a curtsey, and a peculiar twang that was far from agreeable: “Norah Connor, sure.” To which I replied: “I am afraid you’re Irish, and I’ve an objection to persons from that country”—(mother had told me never to take an Irish woman in the house on any account.) But the woman answered in a tone so meek, that one would have fancied butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth: “Irish, did ye say? Och! sure now, and isn’t it Cornwall I am?” And so, with my customary sagacity, I at once saw that I was mistaking the Cornwall brogue for the Irish one; for having been bred up in London, I could not of course be expected to be particularly acquainted with the dialects of other countries,—if, indeed, I except that of “Le Belle France.” After asking her the usual questions as to “tea and sugar,” and wages, and cooking, and character, and, in particular, sobriety—in all of which she seemed to be quite comme il faut (as they say in Boulogne)—I arranged with her that I would go after her character directly her late mistress could see me.

Next morning, when we came down, the parlour fire was not even laid, and all the supper-things were on the table just as we had left them over-night. For Mary had got up when I rang the up-stairs bell, at six o’clock, to a moment, and though she had come down and got the street-door key out of our room, she must have gone up-stairs immediately after{48}wards, and tumbled into bed again, for it was clear that she had never shown her face in the kitchen that day.

Edward flew into a tremendous passion, and rushed up to her room, where he thundered at the door so that I thought he would have broken it off its hinges, telling the lazy thing to get up and leave his house that very instant. As soon as she came down, Edward, being determined to see the creature clear off the premises, before he left for business, went and got her trunk and band-box himself, and paying her her wages up to the very day, bundled her into the street, things and all, where the brazen-faced hussy stopped ringing at the bell, and declaring that she would summon us if she did not receive a month’s warning; until she collected quite a crowd all round the house, and kept telling them in a loud voice, so that all the neighbours could hear, that I had behaved to her worse than a slave-driver would—and that she had been half-starved—and forced to live on sprats, (as I’m a living woman, she’d only had them once!) and that I took a delight in making her tipsy, (which the courteous reader knows to be a wicked falsehood,) and that we either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay her her wages. Nor did she cease her abuse, until Edward got the policemen to make her move on; which she did, vowing that she would have it all out before the magistrate, and make us suffer for it.

So that there was I in a pretty state, indeed, left without a servant, and obliged to have a charwoman in until that wild Irish cat—whom I, in my blessed innocence, fancied to be a Cornwall woman—was ready to come into the house, (I wish to goodness gracious, from the bottom of my heart, that I had never seen the face of the fury,) and I hardly know, I’m sure, how I shall be able to wait a whole month before telling the reader all about the shameful way in which she went on towards me—and how I really thought the vixen would have had my life before she had done with me.{49}

## CHAPTER V.
OF THE PRETTY STATE I WAS IN INDEED AFTER MARY LEFT ME.

“Oh, Mary, dear Mary, how lonely and drear
The scenes now ungrac’d by thy presence appear!
Each hall in my dwelling I fondly explore,
And list for thy footstep, but hear it no more.
Oh Mary, dear Mary!”
“Dear Mary.”

No sooner had Edward packed Mary out of the house, than I suddenly found myself thrown into as nice a mess as any lady could well be in. Twist it and turn it which way I would, the blacker it appeared, and I positively thought that I must have sunk under it. But really my husband is so hasty, (though I say it who should not perhaps,) that he never will look before he leaps; and the consequence is, that he is invariably plunging himself headlong into all kinds of pickles, (if I might be allowed the expression.) Indeed, my own dear Edward having no more control over his passions than “a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour,” of course could not keep his tongue between his teeth, but must go flying at our Mary before the proper time came for getting rid of the girl. And dear me! if one has not got strength of mind enough to put up with the faults of other people for a day or two, I should like to know how, in the name of goodness gracious, we can ever hope that men will wink when we walk out of the right path ourselves—or that, if we are so hard upon other persons, how can we expect that they will bear less heavily on us when they sit in judgment upon us. Though for myself, I must say, that I have always made it a rule to let the poisoned arrows of calumny go in at one ear and come out of the other.

I’m sure if Edward had only looked at poor Mary’s love of tippling with a proper spirit, he would have seen that it was not so much for a body to stomach after all, and that perhaps the love of drink, bad as it is, is but a trifling vice as compared with the love of tobacco—to which my husband, I regret to say, is a disgusting martyr. And such being the case,{50} Edward ought to have remembered that those who ride about in glass coaches should not throw stones; for of all habits I must confess that smoking, in my eyes, is the most dreadful, and that if I was called upon to choose whether I would sooner be addicted to liquor or tobacco, I really think I should be inclined to take to drinking in preference.

Not that I was insensible to the wickedness of our Mary’s ways, but still I do think that my husband might have looked with more Christian charity upon the poor thing’s infirmity, until my other servant was ready to come into the house, and then he might have bundled the creature into the street, as she deserved indeed. For in her absence I was so terribly put to it, that really I should have blushed if anybody could have seen me making the shifts I did.

My Irish servant of a Norah (drat her!) couldn’t come in for a week or so, and the consequence was, that I was left all alone without anybody to assist me,—which pulled me down so low that it took several weeks to set me fairly on my legs again. For considering that I had Edward’s dinner every day on my mind, and the whole house thrown upon my hands, it was more than I could bear.

All that precious day long I had to answer every tiresome knock at the door myself, and really just because we had no maid, persons seemed to take a delight in calling. But thanks to goodness, they were all tradespeople, whom (of course) I did not so much care about, though I only opened the door to them just wide enough to take the things in, for fear of the neighbours, who I knew would be but too glad to laugh at me in my distress. Indeed, the only person that I showed myself to that day was the butcher’s boy, when he called for orders; and who being a mere lad, I didn’t mind about seeing me; and I got him, for a glass of table-beer and a penny, to take a letter to dear mother, asking her to look round immediately, and call and see her darling angel (that is myself) in her affliction, which I knew she would be happy to do.

But as it was a wet day, poor dear mother was so long before she dropped in upon me, that I made certain she wouldn’t come that morning, so I set to work to prepare Edward’s dinner. As he is fond of made dishes, I thought I could not do better than give him a sweet little toad in the hole, especially as it was very easy to make, and I could{51} get the baker to take it with him to the bakehouse when he left our daily bread in the afternoon. While I was making the batter to cover the toad with, a tremendous double-knock came to the door, which nearly made me drop the egg I had in my hand at the time. As of course I could not, in the state that I was, go up to the door myself and say I was not at home, I thought it best to let them knock away until they were tired; and it was not until I had heard them do so, I should say, seven or eight times at least, that I went to the kitchen window, and pulled aside the blind I had let down, when who should it be but poor dear mother, whom I had kept waiting all that time in the pouring rain, and who, when she got down in the kitchen, I found to be literally dripping. Having taken off her pattens, and put her umbrella to dry in the back kitchen, I threw up the cinders, and made such a nice comfortable clear fire for her, and got the dear old soul to drink off a glass of scalding-hot spirits and water, which, I assured her, would not hurt her, as it would keep the cold out nicely, and which she consented to take in the light of medicine, as she said she was certain she wanted it; adding, that she felt as if every bone in her body was broken to bits, and she was sure that on her road she had picked up the shivers somewhere.

I told mamma all that had taken place, and how hastily Edward had behaved, without showing the least regard to my feelings, and had set upon poor Mary for all the world like a Turk. But dear mother told me, with her usual kindness, that she wasn’t in the least surprised at my husband’s forgetting himself, as it was just what she had expected from him all along; for, from the insight she had had into Edward’s character of late, she was afraid that I should have a good deal more to bear with from him, and that my time was likely to be a hard one. Still, as the good soul very truly observed, it was no business of hers, and she was the last person to think of setting me against my husband; though, from what I had told her, she could not help saying, that Edward certainly did appear to her to be just like the rest of the men, and no better than he should be; adding, that the best way would be for me to have an understanding with him the very first opportunity, and tell him, that if he couldn’t conduct himself more like a rational creature for the future, that{52} he had better manage the house himself. She begged me, in saying this, however, to remember that she had no wish to figure in quarrels between man and wife; observing, with great truth, that as I had made my bed, so I must lie upon it; and that if my bed were strewed with thorns, however uncomfortable it might be, still it could be no fault of hers, though she pitied me from the bottom of her heart; for, as she said, it must be a sad change for a poor dear that was so thinskinned as myself; adding, with great kindness, that if she could possibly have known half as much of Edward before my marriage as she did now, that she certainly should have thought twice before she had given her consent for the house of the Sk—n—st—ns to be grafted upon the family tree of the B—ff—ns.

Dear mother, however, promised not to desert me in my trouble, and undertook to procure me a charwoman, who would come in until that Irish fury of a Cornwall hussey was ready to be with me. Mrs. Burgess[A] was the name of the charwoman, and mother said that I should find her of great use and comfort to me, as she was a married woman, though she had been deserted by her husband—poor thing!—who had run away to America like a brute, leaving her with a fine family of ten young children on her hands;—that she was a good, hard-working, industrious, stout-made woman; and that the poor babes had nothing but the sweat of their mother’s brow to subsist upon; and that it was only by doing a little charing out and a little washing at home, that the poor creature was enabled to keep her head above water. And mother said, that tired and wet as she was, still she would make it a point that very afternoon to go round to the Mews, where Mrs. Burgess lived, and leave word at her loft, even if she couldn’t see her, for her to come round to me the first thing the next morning; adding, that all the poor thing would want would be eighteenpence a day, two pots of beer, and a glass of spirits before leaving at night.

When Edward came home from business, he wouldn’t make the least allowance for the state I was in, but seemed determined to find fault with everything, and appeared to expect that the house should be in the same apple-pie order as if I’d a regiment of maids of all work at my heels. What made{53} him much worse, too, was, that the baker had forgotten to send round the dinner when it was done, so that he had to wait some trifling twenty minutes until I could get some one to run for it; and when it came home, I declare my nice little toad in the hole was as black as a coal, and quite burnt to a cinder. My husband’s behaviour during dinner nearly broke my heart; and he cut me up so dreadfully, that I really couldn’t say whether my head was on my shoulders or not. Indeed, all that evening he was one too many for me, for I declare he went on just like one beside himself. He made his dinner off bread and cheese, and kept grumbling all the time, saying that he would have been better treated if he had dined at a common “Slap bang” in the City, (those were his very words—though what on earth a “slap bang” can be I haven’t the remotest idea). So I left him to his filthy cigar and bills of costs as soon as I could, and went down stairs and sat by myself all alone by the kitchen fire, as I wished to put an end to his spiteful goings on, and I knew he wouldn’t follow me down stairs, and get pulling me over the coals there.

I took good care that he should feel the want of a servant as much as I did, and that he should know that the poor creatures were useful members of society, if they were only properly treated; for I made a point of keeping him without a mouthful of tea till near bed-time. Though I only punished myself in the end, for the cup that “cheers but not inebriates,” as the poet says, wouldn’t allow him to get a wink of sleep, and he was so restless and cross all the night through, that he only kept getting in and out of bed, and walking up and down the room, and opening the windows, and raving at me like a wild Hottentot let loose from Bedlam, declaring that I was quite an altered woman of late, and that he couldn’t tell what on earth had come to me that day. When I told him that nothing had come to me but dear mamma, he flew out most dreadfully, and said that mother was a snake in the grass, who came poisoning my mind and picking holes in his coat directly he was out of the house; and that, as he knew that one bad sheep would destroy a whole flock, he would take precious good care that my mother should never ruin me, for he would forbid her the house the very next day; adding, that if I encouraged her in coming there, that he would sell the furniture off and run away from us both, and{54} allow me a pound a week for the rest of my life,—which I recollect at the time struck me as being very ungenerous on his part, and not what I should naturally have expected from him; for I thought that, under the circumstances, he really might have made a greater allowance, when he knew that I could get nobody to help me.

In the morning, Mrs. Burgess came as soon as it was light, and it having been, I should say, four o’clock before I closed my eyes, I felt she was knocking me up by waking me so early. However, I slipt on my wrapper, and went down stairs and let her in. I told her to do the parlour immediately, and take care and black-lead the stove before lighting the fire, and after that to wash-up the dinner and tea things I had left overnight, and then just to clean down the door-step a little (for goodness’ sake!) for it was quite grubby to look at—and to sweep the hall and shake the mats a bit, for the passage was as full of dirt as it could hold, and I was really quite ashamed to see it—and I also told her to take in a ha’p’orth of milk when the milkman called—and to have the breakfast ready by eight o’clock precisely, as Mr. Sk—n—st—n was a very punctual man. Then I went up stairs just to finish my night’s rest; and no sooner had I jumped into bed than I fell off again so fast, that I lay there till it was as near ten o’clock as it could be.

Mr. Sk—n—st—n was in a tremendous passion at what he chose to call my want of respect in allowing him to lie in bed so long, and when he came down to breakfast he was as surly as a bear with a scald head, (as the phrase runs.) He must needs go flying in a passion because the baker had left the wrong bread—for Mrs. Burgess, unfortunately, had taken in a cottage for breakfast—and he would have that it was my fault, and not the woman’s, saying, that I ought to have told her that he never eat anything of a morning but “bricks.” As he was going to office, I asked him whether he would dine at home that day, and what he would have; but he was very sulky, and said that he wouldn’t trouble me again, for that, as he was going into the City, he would take a chop at Joe’s; and when I inquired of him who Joe was, he told me it was the name of a chop-house keeper near the Royal Exchange; on which I remarked that he ought to be ashamed of himself{55} to speak in that familiar way of such people. This made him laugh, so that I thought it was a good opportunity to make friends with him, and told him that if he would promise to come home, that I would get him a beautiful leg of mutton; but he said he thought he should like a nice shoulder, well browned, with onion sauce, for the legs we had had in our house lately had not been fit to be seen. But, knowing that he was partial to one with veal stuffing, I told him that if he would only come home to dinner that day, like a good man, I would give him such a treat—I would promise him to put on the table as fine a leg as he had ever beheld, for I intended to stuff it for him, and would take care that it should be beautifully dressed, and quite a picture to look at—all of which seemed to please him very much, and he left quite in good humour.

On going down into the kitchen to prepare the dinner, Mrs. Burgess really seemed to me to be a very superior sort of body; and I thought that she was one of the best disposed and most honest of women, until I found her to be quite the contrary; for at first I really felt interested in the poor thing, on account of her being the mother of such a large family, and all by herself without a husband. I was quite pleased to hear the good woman go on as she did all that day, continually telling me that servants were such a bad lot, and that nothing was good enough for them, and how little gentlemen thought of what we poor women had to undergo for their sakes. And she likewise told me the whole history of how shamefully Mr. Burgess, who drove a cab, had behaved towards her—never treating her as he ought to have done—though she had always been a good wife to him, (the wretch,) and had seldom or never flown in his face, (the brute,)—that her life had been one continued struggle with him from morning to night, she might say, and that after the hard battles they had had together, his going to New Orleans under the disguise of coming back in a few weeks, she must say was a return that she never expected. Upon which I remarked, that for Mr. Burgess, to run away to America in the way he had done, certainly did appear to me to be going a little too far. And then she was so kind as to hope that Mr. Sk—n—st—n would never treat me in the same{56} way, although, as she very truly said, she was afraid that the men were all alike, and that they really were not fit to be trusted out of your sight for two days together.

I couldn’t have left Mrs. Burgess more than five minutes, and was just going to put myself to rights a bit, when I heard a most tremendous scream in the kitchen, and on going down, found the poor woman was nearly fainting, (the deceitful baggage!) for she told me that she had just seen a great rat as big as a Shetland pony scamper across the scullery. This, of course, put me all of a twitter, and made my blood run quite cold down my back, for I didn’t know that there was a rat in the place; and, as Mrs. Burgess observed, with great truth, but bad grammar, “we hadn’t never so much as a cat in the house, and that if I didn’t keep my eyes about me, I should find myself swarming with vermin before I knew where I was.” Then she was kind enough to tell me that she had got a beautiful Tom at home, which I was perfectly welcome to if I liked; for that though she loved the animal as much as if it were her own flesh and blood, still dear mother had been such a true friend to her, that she really couldn’t think of keeping the cat from me; especially, as she said, Tom was such a capital mouser, that he’d soon clear the place, and besides he was so tame, and had been so well brought up, that he was more like a Christian than a dumb animal; for I should find that he would take anything from me, (and so I did, with a vengeance; though I really believe now that the cat had no finger in it after all; but that that smoothfaced old Mrs. Burgess had only brought the animal into our establishment for the worst of purposes—and what’s more, that the tale she told me about the rat was all a cock-and-a-bull story, and made up just to get her Tom into the house, so that she might use the cat as a cloak for her own shameful practices.)

After Mrs. Burgess had taken in the milk that afternoon, the poor woman—who appeared very fond of me—would run round and fetch her fine Tom; and when she brought him, I do think he was the prettiest pet I ever saw. He was so black, that really his coat was for all the world like your hat; and the dear had got three such beautiful white stockings on his feet, and as fine a frill round his neck as I ever beheld in all my life. Nor can I omit to mention Tom’s sweet pretty whiskers,{57} which stood out on each side of his face just like two shaving brushes; so that, indeed, taking the animal altogether, I really don’t think I ever saw so fine a cat. I declare he was quite a duck.

Edward was very good humoured, for once in a way, when he came home to dinner that evening; and it was quite a treat to see him at table, for I never knew him eat so much since we’d been married. I must have helped him three times if I helped him once. As for myself, I do think that it was the sweetest and tenderest leg I ever put my lips to, so that even I was tempted to make so hearty a meal, that I felt quite heavy after dinner, and could scarcely keep my eyes open till tea-time.

When I went down stairs to see about the tea things, (Mrs. Burgess always left immediately after she had cleared away the dinner,) it was very strange I couldn’t find the milk anywhere, though I saw Mrs. Burgess take it in herself; and when I went to get out the butter, if that wasn’t gone as well—a whole half-pound, as I’m a living woman, of the best fresh, at sixteenpence, that I had sent Mrs. Burgess for that very evening! This put me in a nice state, for I had no more fresh in the house, and could give Edward nothing else but salt with his tea, which I knew he couldn’t bear the taste of; though, even when I went to look after that, I could very easily see that some thief had been fingering it into the bargain. I made up my mind, of course, that it was that wretch of a Tom, and I tried to catch him, so that I might rub his nose on the dresser, but the thief was too quick for me, and I could have given it him well, I could.

I thought it best, for the sake of the poor cat, not to say a word to Edward about it; so I made him a round of nice hot toast, and put on it as little salt butter as I possibly could, in the hopes that he wouldn’t discover it. But my husband no sooner put the toast to his mouth, than he declared it was like cart grease; and when I told him about the loss of the milk and fresh butter, he threw it all in my teeth, and I caught it just as I had expected. After which we got to high words again, (drat it,) and I said that I had nothing to do with the bothering milk and butter, and I didn’t see why he should go laying it all on my back in the way he did. What occurred afterwards I will not state; for it is all forgotten, though I{58} cannot say forgiven; for I remember—but never mind, I wont say anything more about it at present.

But my distresses about that brute of a Tom were not to rest here, for what between him and my husband, they led me a very pretty dance I declare, and to as nice a tune as I ever heard in all my life.

In the morning, when I went down stairs to see about dinner, Mrs. Burgess told me that she couldn’t think what on earth could have come to the remainder of our mutton, for it wasn’t to be found anywhere, and she really believed that rogue of a Tom of hers must have walked off with our leg in the night; adding, that she regretted to say that he had been a dreadful thief ever since he was a kitten. But I told her that it couldn’t be the cat, because he had left no bone behind him. Still, as she very wisely observed, most likely he had buried it in the garden, or somewhere about the house; and so indeed it turned out, for Mrs. Burgess brought me the bone the very next day, picked as clean as if a Christian had done it, and which she said she had found in the coal-cellar early that morning.

This loss of the mutton annoyed me very much, for Edward had set his mind upon having the remains of it with pickles for dinner that day. So I was obliged to send Mrs. Burgess out to get a pair of nice soles, and a pound and a quarter of tender beef-steaks, so that I might stew them, (meaning, of course, the steaks, and not the soles.)

In the middle of the day one of Mrs. Burgess’s little boys came to see her, and I was surprised to find what a nice, clean, sharp, intelligent lad he was for his station in life; for his mother said that, young as he was, he could turn his hand to anything. And he couldn’t have left the house above half-an hour, when up Mrs. Burgess came, apparently quite out of breath, and told me that while she was throwing up the cinders on the kitchen fire, that plaguy Tom had jumped on the dresser and galloped off with a whole sole and a large piece of the beef-steak—and that though she ran after him as quick as she could, that he had scampered up the kitchen stairs, and she only got to the garden in time to see him leap right over the wall with the things in his mouth. After a few moments’ deliberation I went to the bedroom closet, and getting Mr. Sk—n—st—n’s little gold headed cane, deter{59}mined to pay master Tom out well for his sly tricks, (I can’t bear deceit, whether in cats or human beings;) and hiding the stick behind my back, I went out into the garden, and called Puss! Puss! Puss! in my sweetest voice, as if I had got something nice to give him; when lo! and behold, my gentleman, who had found his way back, came marching up from the kitchen as coolly, I declare, as if he had been doing nothing at all, (as indeed I verily believe now the poor thing had not.) When he came within arm’s length of me I gave him one or two such good smacks as he wouldn’t forget in a hurry—though it hurt me a good deal more than it did him, to lay my hands upon the poor dumb animal.

When Edward found it all out, of course he flew into a passion, as usual, and went on in such a way that I was obliged to tell him, even though he was my husband, that he was no man; and he vowed that the animal shouldn’t pass another night under his roof, and that Mother Burgess (as he would call her) should take the brute and drown it that very night. Then he had her up and told her as much; and the poor woman, with tears in her eyes, consented to do so; for, as she very truly said, it was so dreadful to have a thief in the house, that if Tom wasn’t made away with, she was afraid we might get to suspect her—and that after what we had lost, much as it might go against her, she would do as Mr. Sk—n—st—n desired, and see the creature safe at the bottom of the R—g—nt’s C—n—l before she went to bed that night.

When I went down to let the woman in the next morning, I was never so surprised in all my life as to find her fondling the cat, whom she said she had found on the door-step with the very brick-bat tied to his neck which she told me she had put on before throwing him into the water overnight—though how on earth he could ever have managed to have got out of the canal alive and crawled back to our house with that great thing round his neck, is more than I’ve ever been able to comprehend. Mrs. Burgess agreed with me that it was perfectly wonderful; adding, that after all she had put upon him, the poor creature’s life certainly must have been spared by some superior power for some hidden purpose; so she begged of me in a most touching manner to try poor Tom for a few days more, as perhaps it would be a lesson to him and he would go on better for the future. I really hadn’t the heart to refuse,{60} though I determined to keep it a secret from Edward, for I knew that he wouldn’t rest easy in his bed until he had killed the poor animal. So I kept Mrs. Burgess’s Tom unknown to my husband until it was impossible to keep him any longer, for really the things that creature would do, and the articles he would steal, no one would credit. It seemed to be more like the work of a Christian than a dumb animal. If we had a fowl for dinner, and I missed it in the morning, the cat was sure to have taken it;—if the tarts disappeared, the cat had eaten them;—if the flour ran short, the cat had upset it;—if I missed a silver spoon, the cat must have hidden it;—if any of the crockery or glass was broken, the cat had knocked them down;—if the cask of table ale was empty long before its time, why the cat had pulled out the spigot. In fact, nothing was missed that the cat didn’t take, and nothing was broken that the cat didn’t break.

And so things went on until just before my Irish servant came in, when all of a sudden I missed a whole pound packet of Orange Pekoe Tea, which Edward had brought home from the City on purpose for me. This Mrs. Burgess assured me Tom must have taken for the mere sake of taking; for she herself had seen him scampering about the house like a mad thing with a bit of paper in his mouth, and which she had no doubt now was what the tea had been done up in—adding, that it really was quite a mercy that it hadn’t been a five-pound note, as, of course, it would have been all the same to a creature so dishonest as he was.

When I told Edward all about it, he called me a fool for my pains, and said he could see that the cat was too good a friend to my old charwoman for her to wish to get rid of him. As for Tom’s stealing the tea, it was all a pack of fiddlesticks, and he verily believed that he had never been into the canal at all, and that some fine day I should find old Mother Burgess at the bottom of it. However, he said he would soon put a stop to that game, for he would lock the cat up in the back attic that night, and take it with him to office in his blue bag in the morning; and when he got it down there we should soon find out who was the thief. I told him it was a very good plan, if he would only keep it a secret from Mrs. Burgess, and take care not to go letting the cat out of the bag before he started.{61}

“The Cat did it!”

Accordingly, I took that naughty Tom up stairs with us when we went to bed, and locked him up in the back attic, safe away from the larder. But not a wink of sleep could we get, for the creature kept on scratching and mee-yowing for better than two hours, and then we were nearly driven out of our wits by hearing a tremendous smash, which Edward said was that brute of a Tom flying at the windows, and told me that if I didn’t jump out of bed directly, that they would all be broken before I could say the name of Mr. John Robinson—for that as the cat was clearly going wild, I had better go up and see what I could do to quiet him. As I went up stairs, I was all of a tremble, and couldn’t keep the candle steady for fright, for I could hear the beast flying about the room, and swearing away like a mad thing, as he was. The very moment I opened the door, he flew at me, for all the world as if he had been a young tiger, and dug his claws (which, I can assure my readers, were just like so many darning needles) so deep into me, that I gave a loud scream, and, letting the night-candlestick fall, I flew down stairs in the dark, with the brute clinging fast to my night-dress. When I got to our room, (though I can’t tell how to goodness I was ever able to do so, I’m sure,) the dragon let go his hold, and ran under our bed, where he stopped, spitting and growling away like anything, and with his eyes like two balls of phosphorus, and his tail as large as a Bologna sausage, or my sable boa. Edward took the poker, and I got a broom, and we kept poking and sh—sh—sh—sh—ewing away as hard as we could, for near upon half an hour, expecting every moment that he would spring out upon us again; in fear of which I kept as close as possible behind dear Edward, who, I must say, displayed more courage, under the circumstances, than I ever gave him credit for, and behaved like another Grace Darling in a moment of such imminent peril. Nor was it until he had thrown a whole jugful of water at the cat, that the savage brute shot out of the room, and rushed down stairs.

The next morning I was telling my husband what a nice little boy that was of Mrs. Burgess’s, and how fond he seemed to be of his mother, for he always came to see her every day just before my usual time of going down stairs to see about dinner, when Edward said that he saw what cat took the meat now; so he’d just take old mother Burgess un{62}awares, and very soon show me whether our Tom was the thief or not. So when we went down to breakfast, dear Edward sent Mrs. Burgess out to get a pint of milk for him, and as soon as she had left the house he slipt down stairs and brought me up the basket that she came with upon her arm every morning, and which, he said, he had discovered stowed away in our copper in the back kitchen. Inside the basket we found nearly the whole of the beautiful beef-steak pie that we had scarcely touched for dinner the day before, and a bottle of pickles that had only been used once, and a bar of yellow soap and a bag of flour and two eggs wrapt up in one of our best glass cloths. Then putting them all back again, Edward hid the basket in the plate warmer under our sideboard; and when my lady came in with the milk, he told her that if she would be so good as to bring up the cold beef-steak pie and the pickles, that he thought he could take a mouthful of it, (no one but a man would ever have thought of such a thing.) Without saying a word, down goes the brazen-faced creature and up she comes with the dish in her hands, and scarcely a bit of the pie left in it. “Oh, mum,” she cries, without even so much as the shadow of a blush on her face, “only do just look here, mum! If that thief of a Tom hasn’t been and devoured all this beautiful pie of yours, and he must have knocked down the pickles, for there was eversomuch broken glass on the floor when I came in this morning. Oh, mum! really it is too bad. Upon my word, that cat is so cunning that I really shouldn’t wonder at anything he did next.” On which Edward very cleverly asked her whether she would wonder if, suppose the next thing Tom did was to put a whole beef-steak pie into her own basket, together with some pickles and some soap, and flour, and a glass cloth, and an egg or two, just to send home as a treat to his old friends her children. Then taking the basket from out of the plate warmer, he told her to look at it, adding, that he himself didn’t wonder now at anything the cat had done since she had so kindly brought him to our house, and that really she ought to take care of the animal, for it was clear that Tom was as good as a fortune to her, and she could never want so long as she could get a situation for her cat in the same family as herself. Whereupon the impudent thing put her apron up to her eyes and pretended to cry, saying that she was a poor lone{63} woman, with ten children, and it was a hard matter to find bread for so many mouths, (as if that was any affair of ours.) So Edward gave her the basket with all our things in it, like a stupid, and packed her out of the house as quick as he could, saying, that if she did not keep a sharp look out, she would find some fine morning, that, like her cat, she wasn’t born to be drowned.

Indeed, I was not sorry that we got rid of her on the spot, for Norah was coming in the evening, only I couldn’t, for the life of me, all that day, get over the idea of Edward (a lawyer too!) being silly enough to let the deceitful creature go off with one of our best glass cloths—though I made up my mind to put it down in the housekeeping next week, and make him give me the money for a new one, if I died for it.

## CHAPTER VI.

WHICH TREATS OF MY IRISH SERVANT NORAH CONNOR, AND OF THE FEARS I REALLY HAD FOR MY LIFE WHILST SHE WAS WITH ME.

“My heart’s with my Norah, for she is my treasure,
And, sleeping or waking—in sunshine or shade—
From morning till nightfall—from nightfall till morning—
I think of my Norah—my own Irish maid.”
“My Heart’s with my Norah.”

Edward put the cat into his blue bag, and took it down to his chambers with him that morning, all along with his law papers, (a dirty man.) When I asked him if he hadn’t better take them out and put them in his pockets, as Tom might go digging his claws into them, he told me they were only two or three rough bills of costs for his clients, and Tom’s claws couldn’t possibly hurt them; for as he hadn’t settled the things yet, it was no matter how much he stuck it into them. Then the stupid man giggled like a ninny, although, as I told him, I couldn’t see anything to giggle at, and that if in the end he found his bills of costs ripped up, that he’d laugh on the other side of his mouth, I’d be bound. So off he went with his cat, like another Whittington, to catch the Waterloo omnibus.{64}

To say the truth, I was quite delighted when I saw my dear husband clear out of the house with that odious Tom in his hand; for really our household expenses had been so heavy for the last two or three weeks, that I hadn’t been able to get even so much as a bit of riband out of the money that Edward allowed me to keep the house with. And upon my word, what with my husband’s being so dreadfully close-fisted as he was—and Mrs. Burgess’s not being able to keep her fingers off anything—and that Tom’s love of clawing hold of whatever he came near, I declare I had been so dreadfully pinched of late, that I positively didn’t know which way to turn, and it made me so uneasy that I couldn’t rest in my bed. Besides, to be tied down to a penny as I was, was such an uncomfortable position for a body to be in, that I felt it was high time for me to get up and look about me; and I even began to have serious thoughts of keeping all the kitchen stuff to myself, for I was sure that our maid must get at least a new silk bonnet every year out of our dripping pan—and that too, when I would willingly have given my own head for it. Moreover, dear mother had advised me always to keep a sharp eye fixed on our grease-pot; for if I didn’t, I should find that every bit of candle I had in the house would run away as fast as if there was a thief in it, as the maids would take very good care that I hadn’t any “dips” of a morning in my candle box, and that my “compositions” would never be more than five and six in the pound.

Norah came in that evening with her things in a bundle in her hand; and I found her such a nice, hard-working body—always cleaning up or doing something—never tired nor minding how much I put upon her—and positively working like a galley-slave from morning till night for me—all of which was so delightful to see, that I really thought I was suited at last. Indeed, she was so quick over her work, that after I had made her scrub all the house well down, from top to bottom, and clean all the paint, and take up and beat all the carpets, and give all the furniture, and tins, and coppers, and stoves, a thorough good rubbing, I declare the mere everyday work of the house was literally a flea-bite in her eyes, (if I may be allowed the expression.) I was hard put to it to find some odd jobs to keep her fully employed; for I had no idea of paying servants the wages I did to support them in{65} idleness and allowing time to hang so heavy on their hands that they must needs sit all the evening picking their fingers to get rid of it. A very praiseworthy and charming point, too, in Norah Connor’s character was, that she was not at all nice about her eating, for as long as the poor ignorant thing had oceans of potatoes, (to use an expressive figure of speech,) she didn’t care about anything else; so, of course, with my usual kindness, I let the good, hard-working soul have just what she wanted, and, in addition, I used to make her eat up all the odds and ends that were in the larder—for I never could bear waste, and didn’t mind what I did for a servant so long as she went on well.

But what pleased me more than all the rest put together indeed, was Mr. Sk—n—st—n’s disgraceful conduct about the business. For when I had finished getting the house to rights—and he couldn’t help noticing how different I had got it to look from the shameful state it was in under Mrs. Burgess’s hands—my husband, in his blessed ignorance, supposed it to be all Miss Norah Connor’s doing; and he even carried it so far as to say to my very face he hoped that now I had got a good servant, I should know how to treat her, and not go disgusting her with the place by working the girl off her legs, as I seemed to have been doing. Of course I told him it was like his impudence, indeed, and that I had no patience with him, for though he was my husband he was no better than a child; and I asked him, how on earth he could ever be such a stupid as to fancy that the improved appearance of the house was all owing to Norah, and how much work he thought she would have done if I had not always been looking after her; for didn’t he know, that the mice would play if the cat was away. I told him moreover I was sorry to see that he was very ready to compliment Norah, though he never thought it worth his while to trouble his head for an instant about the labour and fatigue I had gone through, in being obliged to keep dancing all the day long at the girl’s heels, as I had done. And I wound up by requesting him just for one moment to consider in his own mind what he thought would become of the sailors and the ship, if the pilot didn’t look alive, and neglected to put his best leg foremost for an instant.

But still, on second thoughts, I could hardly be angry with{66} the poor man, for, of course, what could he be expected to know about the plague and worry attendant upon servants. And the more I turned what he said over in my own mind, the more convinced I felt that he was in the wrong and that I was in the right; for, Norah Connor being a new broom, it was only natural that she should sweep clean. Seeing, however, what the woman was capable of getting through, and that she was never happy unless she was doing something, it did seem to me to be quite a sin and a wicked waste of money to go putting out our washing every week as we did—especially as our garden would make such a sweet pretty drying-ground for the things; and the prices I had been giving for Edward’s shirts (4d. each), really did appear to me to be so extravagant. Besides, it is such a dreadful feeling, when you are conscious that you’re paying through the nose for things; and it seems to be so unreasonable for people to make you do so, that it’s quite wonderful to me how they can ever take the money from you in such a way. So, when I came to reflect upon it, I was astonished how I could have been such a stupid as to have gone putting out our washing as I had done, ever since we had been married; and I lost no time in telling Norah that I had forgotten to mention, at the time of engaging her, that we always did our washing at home.

I was quite delighted to see how readily the worthy, industrious creature consented to serve me. As a slight stimulus to further exertions, I told her that I should allow her a pint of beer extra on washing-days, which she seemed to be very grateful for; and I was glad to find that a poor ignorant woman like her was not insensible to my kindness. When it was all settled, I really felt quite happy at having done my duty to dear Edward, for I knew that we were not in a position of life that would warrant our going and flinging our money in the gutter; and that, as his wife, I was bound to save every sixpence of his that I could—especially as, by so doing, I should be able to get a few little odd things for myself out of the housekeeping without bothering him about them.

But though Norah Connor went on very well just at first, still, after a time, she got so frightfully familiar and presuming, that really the woman used to speak to me as if I was her equal; nor could I for the life of me get her to pay me{67} the respect that I felt was due to me. Now, for instance, I remember, one morning, about two months before little Annie was born, I rang the parlour bell, and when the woman came into the room, I said, in a quiet voice, “I want a glass of water to drink, Norah.”

“You want to drink a glass of wather?” she replied. “Well, I’ve no objection. Drink away, darlin’!!

“Then,” I continued, blandly, “I should feel obliged if you would be so good as to let me have one directly.”

“Let you have one?” she exclaimed. “Faith, an’ didn’t I give you permission just now?”

This was past all bearing; but I restrained myself, and merely said, with becoming dignity, “I didn’t have you up stairs, Norah, to know whether you would permit me to drink a glass of water in my own house, or not.”

To which she replied, as familiarly as if she were speaking to the servant next door, “Well, by my sowl, when I heard you ask me if I’d let you have that same, I thought you mighty stupid at the time. An’ what is it you do want, then, mavourneen?”

“Why,” I returned, in measured terms, remembering my station, “I want what I told you before, as plainly as a person could speak—a glass of water.”

“Well, then,” she cried, “by the powers! if I were you, I’d get it! Isn’t there plenty down stairs, honey?”

“But,” I continued, calmly, “perhaps you will be kind enough, Norah, to bring me a glass up here.”

“Och!” she exclaimed, “so, an’ it’s only a glass you’re wantin’ me to fetch you, afther all! A glass wid nothin’ in it, is it you mane?”

“No,” I replied, almost losing my temper, “A glass of water, woman, and not a glass without anything in it! Do you understand me now?”

“Out an’ out,” she cried, with a nasty, low wink. “You’d be havin’ a glass of wather wid somethin’ in it! Oh, go along wid you—wanting a drop on the sly, now! You’re takin’ to the bottle, though, betimes this mornin’, I’m thinkin’.”

I’m sure my fair readers can easily imagine that this threw me into such a passion that it quite made my blood boil. I told the fury to hold her tongue, and never dare to open her mouth about such things again. But the impudent hussey only made me worse, for she kept declaring, “mum was the{68} word with Norah,” and saying, “that I needn’t go flurryin’ mysilf about her findin’ out my sly thricks,” and telling me to be “asy, for that the masther should never hear of it from hersilf.”

So that at last, I declare, I was positively obliged to run up stairs into my own bed-room, in order to get rid of the creature. There I threw myself on the sofa, in the most dreadful state of mind, I think, I ever was in all my life; and, torn with all kinds of horrid ideas, I said to myself, “Norah washes very well, it is true—but alas! what washing can compensate me for this!”

What vexed me, though, even more than Norah, was, that when I went to tell my husband, on his return from business that evening, about how the woman had insulted me, he wouldn’t hear a word of it, and said, like a wretch, he was sick and tired of my complaints against the maids, and he never set foot in the house but I had always got some long rigmarole tale about the servant’s bad conduct; adding that it was impossible they should be invariably in the wrong; and he firmly believed it was quite as much, if not more, my fault than theirs. And he even had the impudence to declare, (I thought it best to let him have his own way for once, and go on till he was tired,) that he had quite worry and bother enough of his own at office, and that when he came home, fagged and worn out, to his own fireside, he was determined at least to enjoy peace and quiet at his hearth; and then he asked what on earth I thought he had married me for, (as if I was going to tell him;) when the cruel wretch said—it was only to have a happy home! I told him that it was a nice insult to my own face, indeed, and that he seemed determined to find fault with everything that day, as nothing, however good it was, would please him; whereupon Mr. Sk—n—st—n went on, I’m sure, without knowing what he said, for he declared that I was a millstone round his neck, and the torment of his life; adding, that he begged me once for all to understand, that he would not be pestered every day with my bickerings with the servants; and he had made up his mind that if ever I opened my mouth to him again on the subject, that he would put on his hat that very moment and go and spend his evening at some tavern, where at least he could enjoy himself. Besides, he told me, he could see that Norah was worth her weight in{69} gold to any person who knew how to humour her; for the house had never been so clean ever since we had been married; and the way in which the girl dressed a potato made her so invaluable in his eyes, that he wasn’t going, he could tell me, to have her driven out of the house by me. So that anybody might have seen, like myself, with half an eye, that my gentleman didn’t care so much about “his own fireside” after all, and instead of “his hearth,” indeed, being uppermost in his mind, that really and truly his stomach was at the bottom of it.

As for the matter of that Norah’s potatoes too, I’m sure I couldn’t see anything so wonderful about them. But, of course, Mr. Edward must go thinking them dressed so beautifully, just because they came up in their jackets; though, for my own part, I never could bear the look of the things in their skins; and what’s more, it wasn’t decent to have them coming to table in such a state. And the next day I told my lady as much, adding that she would be pleased to peel the potatoes before bringing them to the parlour for the future, as they were only fit for pigs to eat in the way she sent them up. Whereupon the vixen flew into such a rage, and abused and swore at me in such a way, calling me everything that was bad, and declaring that she would pay me out for it. And then, in the height of her passion, the spiteful fury, with the greatest coolness in the world, emptied all the dripping out of the frying-pan she was doing some soles in, right into the middle of the nice, brisk, clear fire, and created such a blaze, that I’m sure the flames must have been seen at the top of the house. Knowing that it was just upon our time for having the chimney swept, I felt certain that it must be on fire; and when I rushed out into the garden, there it was, sure enough, raging away, and throwing out volumes of sparks and smoke, just like the funnel of a steam-boat at night-time—with such a horrid smell of burning soot, that all the little boys came running from far and near up to our door, and shrieking out, Fire! Fire! like a pack of wild Indians.

When I went back into the kitchen the spiteful thing was impudent enough to tell me just to look there and see what I had made her do wid my boderations (as she called it), adding, “that it wasn’t herself though that would be afther de{70}sarting me in my distriss.” Feeling, however, that it was not the time to talk to her just then, I made her rake out every bit of fire there was in the grate, and after that I told her to run up to the top of the house with a couple of pails full of water, and to get out on the roof and pour it all down the chimney as quick as she could.

Up she went, while I waited below all of a twitter, expecting every minute that I should have a whole regiment of fire-engines come tearing up to the door, and putting us to goodness knows what expense for nothing; when all of a sudden I heard the water come splashing down right into the parlour overhead, and saw in an instant that that stupid thing of a Norah must have got blinded with the smoke up above, and mistaken the chimney, so that she had gone pouring it down all over my beautiful stove in the dining-room. In an instant I put my head up the kitchen chimney and hallooed out to her as loud as ever I could, “No—rah! you must pour it down here.” I declare the words were scarcely out of my mouth when down came such a torrent of water and soot, right in my face and all over my head and shoulders, and down my neck, that anybody to have seen me would have sworn some one had been breaking a large bottle of blacking over my head; while immediately afterwards, as if only to make matters worse, I heard a tremendous shout in the street, and on running to the window I at once knew that the parish engine was at hand: for, tearing along the pavement on the opposite side of the way was a whole regiment of, I should say, twenty or thirty little dirty boys pulling at a rope, and dragging along a nasty, ugly, red, trumpery little machine, which, I’m sure, if the house had been in flames, could have been of no more use to us than a squirt upon four wheels; while the mischievous young urchins kept hurraing away as if it was a good bit of fun, and little thinking that what was sport to them was (as with the toad in the fable) near upon death to me, and a good bit of money out of my pocket into the bargain.

When Norah Connor came down and saw what a pretty pickle both my cap and face were in, the only thing she did was to cry out, “Och, murther, I niver saw such a fright as ye look. What on airth have ye been gettin’ up to now?” and when I told her what had happened, she actually had the{71} impudence to add, that “sure an’ I wasn’t fit to be trusted alone for two minutes together.” And then, seeing the parish engine at the door, she wanted to go—and I declare it was as much as ever I could do to prevent the fury—rushing out, and (to use her own words) “larruppin’ the Badle—just to tache the dirty blaggeard not to come robbin’ the masther agin in that way.”

However, I was determined not to have the door opened; so after the beadle had hammered away at it like a trunk-maker, for better than half an hour, he grew disgusted and went off with those impudent young monkeys of boys, and that stupid little watering-pot of a parish engine, (if I may be allowed to use so strong an expression.)

When I went into the parlour, it was in such a dreadful state that really it is impossible for me to give my readers any idea of the dirt and filth about it—unless, indeed, I were to say that it was as grubby as one of my father’s coal-barges. I saw that I had got a very pretty week’s work cut out for me, and how Norah would ever be able to get through with it all, I couldn’t say. As for my beautiful bright stove, it was as rusty, and as brown as a poor curate’s coat, and the hearth-rug was as black as the face of that impudent cymbal-player in the Life Guards.

All I know is, that we had to take everything out of the place; and, as I expected Edward to knock at the door every minute, I told Norah to light a fire and lay the cloth for dinner in the drawing-room. When I went up stairs to put myself to rights, it took me full half an hour, and nearly a whole cake of Windsor soap, before even I could bear the look of myself; and all the time I kept inquiring in my own mind, what I had better do in the situation that I was; for positively what between that Norah Connor’s impudence and spite, and my husband’s always taking her side, I really didn’t know how to act; for I felt myself to be (as Edward calls it) on the horns of a dilemma, and was so dreadfully tossed about, that I couldn’t undertake to say whether I was on my head or my heels. So after weighing it well, I determined upon breaking the dreadful news to my husband as gently as I could, directly he set foot in the house, and before he could catch sight of the mess in the dining-room. Accordingly, as soon as I heard his knock I went and opened the door{72} myself, and while he was hanging his hat up in the hall, I said to him—as kindly as I could, I’m sure—“Oh, Edward! Norah has been going on so to-day, you can’t think.”

The more one does, however, the more one may, and I declare there was no pleasing Mr. Sk—n—st—n that day anyhow; for instead of trying to console me in my distress, he only banged his hat on his head again, and saying, that “It was always servants, servants, servants! from morning till night, and he’d be hung if he’d stand it any longer,” he bounced out of the house again, slamming the door after him like a cannon, and went sulking off to some filthy tavern in the neighbourhood, and never thought fit to return till five-and-twenty minutes past midnight—when he came home with his hair smelling of tobacco-smoke fit to knock one down, and the bow of his stock twisted right round to the side of his neck, and his intellects so muddled, that, do what I would, I couldn’t get him to carry the night candlestick straight, so that he would keep dropping the tallow-grease all over the carpets, as he went up stairs to bed.

In the morning, however, I was determined to let him see that I was not going to put up with his tantrums, indeed; so I never spoke to him all breakfast-time, and although he made, I should say, some dozen advances to me, yet I wasn’t to be carneyed over in that way I could tell him, and so merely gave him a plain “Yes” or “No,” as short and snappishly as I could; consequently, my gentleman hadn’t a very pleasant time of it, and went off to business quite early, thoroughly ashamed of himself, I could see. Nor did I choose to make it up with Mr. Sk—n—st—n until the day came for him to go over the housekeeping expenses, when, as dear Edward paid the money without a single question, I thought I might as well forgive him.

Of course these little breezes didn’t make me relish Miss Norah Connor’s airs any the better, though she certainly did her work very well, and I couldn’t find any fault with her about that. Still, as I felt that she was destroying my peace of mind, and was really so impudent to me, I couldn’t help considering it a duty I owed to my husband to get rid of her as quickly as I could. As for her being an excellent servant too, why of course I knew there was as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it; and besides, Norah{73} Connor really appeared to me to have been brought up at Billingsgate.

But in a short time that Norah gave me such a dose, that not knowing what she might treat me to after it, I really should have been worse than a child if I had taken it quietly. For one afternoon I was in the kitchen, and if the hussey didn’t spill a whole basinful of water on the floor, and then actually seemed in no way inclined to wipe up the slop on the boards, so I begged she would just take a cloth, and do it immediately. But the minx replied, “Och! sure an’ don’t it always soak in, in my counthry,” which was a good deal more than I felt I ought to put up with. So I told her very plainly, “that her country, then, whatever it was, must be a filthy dirty place, and only fit for a set of pigs to wallow in.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth, than she turned round sharp upon me, and shrieking out, “Hoo! hubbaboo!” (or some such savage gibberish), seized the kitchen carving-knife, which was unfortunately lying on the table, and kept brandishing it over her head, crying out, “Hurrah for ould Ireland! the first jim of the sa!—and a yard of cowld steel for them as spakes agin’ her!” Then she set to work, chasing me round and round the kitchen table, jumping up in the air all the while, and screaming like one of the celebrated wild cats of Kilkenny. I flew like lightning, and she came after me like anything. I declare the vixen kept so close to my heels, that I expected every minute to feel the knife run into me between my shoulders, just where I had been cupped when I was a child; and the worst of it was there wasn’t even so much as a dish-cover or a saucepan-lid near at hand that I might use as a shield, and I couldn’t help fancying that every moment my gown would go catching in one of the corners of the table, and that the fury would seize hold of me by my back hair in a way, that even if I wasn’t killed by the fright on the spot, would at least turn my head for life. But, luckily, being a slighter-made woman than Norah, the breath of the tigress failed her before mine did, and while she stopped to breathe a bit, I rushed up the kitchen-stairs—shot into the parlour—locking and bolting the door after me—and threw myself into the easy chair, where I sat trembling like a blancmange, determined not to leave the room until Edward came home, when I would{74} certainly tell him all about Norah’s wicked behaviour to me. And yet after he had told me so often as he had that he hoped the subject would drop, I declare I was half afraid to throw myself upon him for protection.

Nor was I mistaken in my man, for directly I said to Mr. Sk—n—st—n, “I have a disagreeable duty to perform this evening, Edward: the fact is, Norah—” the wretch cut me short, and cried out, “What! you’re at it again, eh? Norah! Norah! nothing but Norah? Why the deuce can’t you leave the poor woman alone for a minute.” And so saying, the aggravating monster turned on his heel and went and dined out again.

This had such an effect upon me, that I felt I couldn’t touch a morsel of the dinner, (although it was a rabbit smothered in onions, which I’m very partial to;) so I sat in my chair, sobbing away, until Norah came into the room to know whether she should bring the rabbit up. Yes; there the minx was, as calm and cool as if nothing at all had happened; for, to do the woman justice, her rage never lasted long,—when once it was over, why she had done with it—and I really believe that she couldn’t help it, after all. When the stony-hearted tigress saw me crying, she came up to me, and laying her hand on my back in the most familiar and feeling manner, said, in her usual impudent way, “Come, darlin’! don’t be afther frettin’ the eyes out of your head now! Sure an’ isn’t it mysilf that’s given you my pardin long ago if that’s what you’re wantin’.”

I merely begged of her to leave the room, adding, that I was surprised that she should think of coming up to me.

“Well, may be,” she replied, with all the coolness imaginable, “it does, no doubt, seem mighty kind of me to do the likes, after all ye said and did to me, too,—puttin’ my blood up, and well nigh makin’ me murther ye, as ye did. Ah, it was too bad of ye—so it was! But you’re sorry for it, I see, and Norah isn’t the girl to bear malice, sure.”

The woman’s impudence really took me so aback, that all I could do was to echo her own words and exclaim, in astonishment, “I’m—sorry—for it!”

“I’m glad to hear you say ye are, so I am,” she continued. “But sure an’ you’re my misthress, and I wont let ye be afther lowerin’ yersilf by askin’ for my pardin, as ye{75} are. So come, say no more about it, mavourneen; but just thry to ate a bit, if it’s the smallest taste in life now, or ye’ll go makin’ yersilf out an’ out ill for my sake.”

And really and truly the stupid thing would keep bothering me so, that being frightened out of my wits lest I should offend her again, I had to try and eat some of the rabbit, (which was very delicious,) nor would she leave me until she had made me drink off a glass of wine, (which certainly did me a great deal of good.) Indeed, altogether, the curious compound of a woman pitied me so, and was so kind and attentive to me, that I wished to goodness gracious she could only get rid of her horrible temper, and then I should not be obliged to prevail upon Edward to turn her out of the house, as I must.

The next morning, I took an opportunity, at breakfast, of getting my husband to listen to what Norah had done to me; and then, if he hadn’t the coolness to ask me why I had not told him all about it when he came home to dinner the day before. But I made him heartily ashamed of himself by reminding him that he had bounced out of the house like a cracker directly I opened my mouth to him on the subject. Whereupon he remarked that I had cried “Wolf” so often, that there was no knowing when I was really in trouble.

However, though Mr. Sk—n—st—n has his little peculiarities, still I must say he is not so very bad a man at heart, after all, for he looked at Norah’s shameful goings on towards me in a very proper light, observing, that after what I had said to a woman of her passionate disposition, it was a mercy that she hadn’t killed me on the spot. Though, of course, he couldn’t let well alone, but must go and side with Miss Norah in the end; for he told me that I ought not to have insulted the girl in the way I had, and that if, in her anger, she had put an end to my life—though the woman would have suffered for it—still I should have been nearly as much to blame as she was; adding, that it really struck him, that if I happened to get hold of a good, honest, industrious servant, who merely wanted to be humoured a little, that I must needs go driving continually at her weak point, until I forced her out of the house; for I seemed to think that the wages were all that was due from the mistress to her servants, forgetting{76} that I had undertaken to make my house their home, and that if I stripped it of all the attributes of one, and converted it into a prison instead, where they were to see no friends, and be kept to so many months’ hard labour, why, it was only natural that they, poor things, finding I had forgotten my duty to them, should, in their turn, forget their duty to me. Besides, he added, I should remember that though there was little or no excuse for the mistress’s non-performance of her part of the contract, still some allowance should be made for the poor creatures, whose very deficiencies of education made them often do wrong merely because they had never been lucky enough to have learnt better. And then he had the impudence to ask me what I should say if, when I asked my next servant what kind of a character she could have from her last mistress, the girl in return were to ask me what kind of a character I could have from my last servant? I told him that I should say that it was very like her impudence, indeed, and tell her to get out of the house directly—adding, that I never heard of such an absurd idea in all my life before.

“Of course,” Edward replied, smiling at what I had said, (though I’m sure I could see nothing to laugh at;) “and yet, perhaps, it is not quite so absurd a notion as you seem to fancy. You forget that the girl comes into your house to be subject to your every little whim and caprice, and that not only her bread, but also her comfort and happiness are dependent upon your character; and it stands to reason, from the very nature of things, that the slave must suffer more from the tyrant, than the tyrant can possibly suffer from the slave.”

I told him very plainly that I had no patience with him, talking in such a way about tyrants and slaves, indeed, and that they were sentiments only worthy of a low radical meeting. I was quite pleased, however, when I dumbfounded him, by asking him how he ever thought society would get on upon such dreadful principles?—adding, that for my own part, I would have everybody who went putting such horrid ideas into the poor ignorant things’ heads drawn and quartered as they used to be in the good old times. And I told him, too, that as he seemed to know so much about the management of servants, I should just like to{77} hear how he would behave to Miss Norah after chasing me round the table with a knife in her hand, as she had; and that of course I supposed he would carry out his fine principles with her, and go making the toad a present for it—just as an encouragement for the future. But he merely replied, that he should do no such thing; adding, that I should see how he would act, for he would have her up then and there, and talk to her. Accordingly, he rang the bell, and in my lady came.

“Shut the door, Norah; I want to speak to you,” he began; and when she had done so, he continued—“Your mistress has been telling me about this sad affair with the knife, Norah.”

“Yes, masther,” she replied, with her usual impudence; “but sure an’ I’ve forgotten it all long ago—so I have. Wasn’t it myself that tould her I’d think no more about it.”

“Yes; but, Norah,” he continued, “don’t you think that it’s you who require your mistress’s forgiveness, after attempting her life, as you did yesterday.”

“Thrue, masther,” answered Norah; “but, faith, an’ didn’t she say that ould Ireland, the first jim of the sa, was a pigsty, and I thought of nothing else at all at all.”

“Well, now, listen to me, Norah,” he said. “Perhaps I should astonish you if I were to tell you that you could be transported for what you did to your mistress yesterday.”

“Thransported, did ye say,” she replied. “An’ sure an’ the misthress had no rights to be afther blaggearding my counthry as she did.”

“No, Norah,” he replied; “that was very inconsiderate of her; but it was both wicked and mad of you to think that you could add to your country’s honour by shedding the blood of one whom you were bound to respect.”

“Thrue, again, Masther,” she answered, with consummate impudence. “But, by my sowl, we are a warrm-hearted people, so we are; an’ when the blood’s up, Pat hasn’t time to be thinkin’ of thrifles.”

“Exactly so; and it is for that reason, Norah,” continued my husband, “that persons like ourselves are frightened to live in the same house with you.”

“Frighthined was it ye were saying,” she replied; “sure an’ if you’re good to us, don’t we take it to heart as warrmly as{78} when ye trate us badly. But, by St. Pathrick, it’s the bad we forgit, and the good we remimber. Faith, an’ the masther hisself will say that!”

“I cannot deny it,” returned Edward; “and, indeed, it is solely on that account, Norah, that I speak to you in the temperate manner I am at present doing; for I know that it is the character of your nation to be touched by a kind word, while you are only enraged by a harsh one.”

“Faith, an’ that’s what we are,” cried the woman, who really looked as if she was going out of her wits on the spot. “An’ blessings on the masther who said that same. An’ by the powers, it isn’t Norah that’ll be the dirty blaggeard ever to lave him as long as she lives.”

“Yes, but, Norah,” returned my husband, with certainly more reason than I ever gave him credit for, “after your conduct to your mistress, I should be forgetting my duty to her, were I to consent to your remaining with me.”

“Och, murther!” she exclaimed, as cool as ever. “You niver mane to say that you’ll be afther driving Norah from your door?”

“Yes, Norah,” he answered, with a firmness that astonished me; “this day month, if you please! You can go down to your work again now.”

“Ah, niver say it—niver say it, honey,” she cried, with the tears starting in her eyes—“ah, niver say it. Only let Norah stop wid ye, and by St. Pathrick there’s nothing she’ll be thinking too good for ye. Sure, and wont she work night and day for ye both. Oh! spake a word to him, misthress, and say ye wont be after puttin’ my blood up agin, and I’ll be as kind and good to the pair of ye as if ye were my own dear childer.”

“No, Norah!” my husband replied; “it is useless to think that you and your mistress can ever live amicably together; and my mind is made up. So go down stairs quietly, like a good soul, and don’t let me hear anything more about it.”

I’m sure I never witnessed in all my life such a scene as followed. I declare that Norah went on more like a mad thing than a Christian. At one moment, she was crying like a child, at another, she was raving like a maniac. Now she was all penitence, and the very next minute, her eyes were starting out of her head, and she was swearing to be revenged; and she had{79} no sooner finished blessing us, in case we let her stop, than she would set to work and heap on our heads, if we sent her away, all kinds of the most dreadful curses one could think of, and which quite made my flesh crawl, I declare.

But Edward was very stern, and wouldn’t give in in the least; so that at last, Norah, finding all her tears thrown away upon us, and that she was only wasting her breath by going on in the way she did, turned round, and swearing that we shouldn’t send her away, went down to the kitchen again. On going to the top of the stairs and listening, I could hear her muttering all kinds of dreadful things against me, though I’m sure I hadn’t given her warning, and couldn’t see that I had done so much towards her, after all. But the fact was, the creature I knew had had a spite against me ever since she set foot in the house.

I went back into the parlour, and asked Edward just to come and listen how the woman was raving, but he is such a stupid, obstinate man, that he wouldn’t oblige me, and said that it was a meanness that any decent person would be ashamed of doing.

Really I was so frightened of the woman after what I had heard her say she would do to me, that I asked Edward whether he hadn’t better make it up with her this once, and tell Norah that she might stop—for as she had promised to work night and day for us, it really struck me that she couldn’t do more, and that she was a treasure that we ought not to think of parting with just for a hasty word or so. But of course Mr Sk—n—st—n must have his own way, and can’t believe any one to be in the wrong but his wife, for he merely answered, that it was ridiculous to think of it, for Norah was as combustible as a barrel of gunpowder, and I was no better than a brimstone match to her. Whereupon I very properly said that I didn’t know what on earth he meant by his brimstone indeed, and that as for the matter of matches he needn’t talk, for I could tell him that he was more than a match for anybody—so come! Then he went on with some more of his high-flown rubbish upon what I had said about the woman’s own offer to work night and day for us, telling me that I seemed to look upon all servants as mere bundles of muscles, without for one moment thinking that the poor things had a heart as well as I had; to{80} which I, with my usual satire, answered—“Did I! then it only showed how much he knew about it.”

As soon as Mr. Sk—n—st—n had left the house, and I had seen him well off, I just slipt on my bonnet and shawl, and stept round to dear mother’s, to ask the good soul for some of her valuable advice under the painful circumstances.

Dear mother said she was truly gratified to find me flying to her bosom in my moments of peril, and told me, with beautiful affection, that she only lived for me and my father’s business now; though what with her duty to me and my husband, my coming to her did place her so awkwardly, that she really felt as if she was between two fires, and if she turned her face to one, she would have the other on her back. She said it all amounted to this—If she rowed in the same boat as myself, and went against Edward, she must run him down in my presence, which would pain her much to do; or else she must throw me overboard, and sink her own child in order to find favour in Mr. Sk—n—st—n’s eyes; so that I must see what a trying position hers was, and how wrong it was of me, as matters stood, to ask her to express any opinion upon my husband’s shameful, indecent, and, she would add, unmanly conduct. Of course, it would never do for her, she said, to tell me that he had behaved to me worse than a savage. But still this she would say, that if her husband, my own father, had behaved to her one half as brutally as Mr. Sk—n—st—n had to me, that she would not have stopped in the house of the monster another moment; and that though he had come after her the very next day, begging and praying of her to return—as of course he would—still she would have turned a deaf ear to all his entreaties, and insisted upon having a handsome separate maintenance from the wretch, and never willingly have set eyes upon him again. Not that she wished me to understand that she was counselling me to do anything of the kind—far from it; for, as she truly observed, she trusted she knew herself too well to be in any way instrumental to the separation of husband and wife; as it must be very clear to me, she added, that if through anything she said, I might be induced to pack up whatever dresses and jewellery Mr. Sk—n—st—n had presented me with, and leave my ungrateful husband for ever, that maybe, when my dear little innocent babe was born, I might repent of my rash{81} step, and visit her with it. This, she told me, she felt would be a dreadful punishment to her, and a return, indeed, that she little dreamt of. So she really must again beg and pray to be allowed to remain perfectly neutral in the business; especially as from the insight she had had into Mr. Sk—n—st—n’s character of late, she was sure that he would not act towards me as he ought, but would settle on me an allowance that would scarcely procure me the common necessaries of life. And how I was to live then, she would not attempt to say.

Concerning Norah, however, she said it was quite a different thing, and that she felt no such delicacy about taking that matter in hand, as, from the experience she had had in the management of servants, (which, of course, Mr. Sk—n—st—n could not possibly understand anything about, or he would have known that kindness was utterly thrown away upon the creatures,) she flattered herself that she would very soon bring the woman to her senses, indeed. So she would slip her things on that very moment, and step round with me to Miss Norah, although I told her that she was too good to me, and that I was afraid that I was riding the willing horse to death when I saddled her with the baggage.

When we reached our cottage orné, I allowed dear mother to go down into the kitchen by herself, thinking it best not to interfere between her and that spitfire of a Norah, as there was no knowing what the consequences might be. I shouldn’t think she could have been away five minutes, when up she came rushing into the room, with her face as white as the head of a cauliflower, and all of a tremble, just like a steam-boat. As soon as she had recovered her breath, (which indeed, has been bad for these many years past,) she declared that it was quite a mercy she had even been able to escape with her life up the kitchen stairs, as she never had stood face to face with such a fury in all her born days before; for directly she told the woman that she ought to be ashamed of herself for the way in which she had treated so kind a mistress, and that, for her part, she only wished that she had the management of her, and she would take good care to rule her with a rod of iron,—when, no sooner had she said as much, than the dragon screamed out, “A rod of iron, is it?” and snatching up the heavy kitchen poker, swore{82} that, by the powers, if mother didn’t lave the kitchen directly, she would crack her ugly ould nob for her like a cocoa-nut, saying the likes of her had no rights in the kitchen at all at all, and she’d just tache her not to put her foot in it agin. Then she twisted about the great heavy kitchen poker over her head, and began capering and screaming away, and then, giving vent to a horrible oath, the fury flew after poor dear mother, and followed her half way up the kitchen stairs; and mother said she really believed if the vixen could have caught hold of her, that she would have been a melancholy corpse that moment—adding, that if she were me, she would go down stairs that very minute, and turn the blood-thirsty tigress out of the house, neck and crop. When I very properly observed, that as she had so kindly undertaken the management of the creature for me, I felt I should not like to take it out of her hands, she said that as Norah Connor seemed to object very naturally to her interference, she would have nothing more to do with her—as, upon second thoughts, it certainly was no place of hers.

When my mother found that I was determined not to have anything more to do with Miss Norah, she said that if I chose to let the fury remain in the house, I must abide by the consequences, and that if the spiteful creature poisoned the whole family, I must not blame her. Indeed, the woman was clearly so mad about leaving, that mother would stake her existence that it wouldn’t be long before the vixen gave us such a dose of arsenic—either in the pudding, the soup, or the vegetables, or something—as would put a miserable end to both Edward and myself. And I declare dear mother frightened me so by what she said, that I really couldn’t get the arsenic out of my head for weeks.

Edward only laughed at me for my suspicions, and called me a stupid woman, and pooh-poohed me in a most unfeeling manner. But the worst of it was, that though he assured me he knew the disposition of Norah Connor better than I did, still everything conspired to convince me that I was a doomed woman—for the very day dear mother had filled my mind with the horrid idea, I declare, if I didn’t knock down the looking-glass off the dressing-room table and break it all to shivers, which of course fully persuaded me that a death must shortly occur in the family. And again, one evening,{83} after tea, when I was sitting by the fire with dear Edward, if as perfect a coffin as ever I saw in all my life didn’t jump out from between the bars, and fell upon the hearth-rug just close to my feet, while upon turning round, who can imagine my horror when I saw hanging to the side of the candle one of the clearest winding-sheets that I think I ever beheld.

I now perceived that there was no escape for me; for though the looking-glass might mean any one in the family, and the coffin was quite as near Edward as myself, still, alas! there was no mistaking the winding-sheet, for it pointed right at me, and said, as plainly as it could speak, “Caroline Sk—n—st—n, beware!” so that, when I put the looking-glass, and the coffin, and the winding-sheet together, I wished anybody but myself would stand in my shoes, for it was clear that I had already got one foot in the grave.

All this took such a hold of my mind, and I could see the linger of fate pointing at me so plainly, that I declare I hadn’t courage to eat anything for weeks, and so lost, by my foolish fears, many excellent good dinners; for, indeed, I derived my chief nourishment from common penny buns—and which really had so little in them to satisfy me, that I declare I have very often eaten as many as fourteen a day—though in the end I really found that I was falling away rapidly; for my fair readers must be fully aware that it is utterly impossible to keep body and soul together with penny buns. And I declare I had such a surfeit of the puffy blown-out things, that really I have never been able to bear the sight of them since.

And thus I went on, starving myself to death by inches, until one day, Edward, having won a cause, dined at Westminster with the witnesses; and then if a dog in the street didn’t keep howling and crying all the evening, like anything—just opposite our house. When my husband returned, he let out, quite by accident, whilst I was asking him about what they had given him for dinner, that there were thirteen at table! This completely quieted my fears, for I now plainly saw that all the dreadful omens pointed at my husband and not at myself, while the simple fact of the dog howling all the time the thirteen were at dinner, completely convinced me that I was destined before long to wear weeds.{84}

The next day—as I now saw Fate had singled out its victim, and that my dear Edward, and not myself, was doomed to be the melancholy martyr of Miss Norah’s poisonous designs—I thought I might as well make a good dinner for the first time these three weeks—though, with my usual prudence, I determined to get some favourite dish for my poor husband, so that he might enjoy it all to himself, and so that I might not be called upon to partake of the same food as he did. But, that day, thank goodness, Edward delighted me by bringing home one of his country agents, a Mr. Fl—m—ng, to dinner with him; so I at once saw that, as I carved, I should have an opportunity of trying the effect of the different dishes upon the visitor before allowing my dear husband to peril his precious life by partaking of them. For as I had to choose whether Edward, who is a tolerably good husband, or Fl—m—ng, who is far from a profitable agent, should fall a victim to Norah’s spite, of course I could not help preferring the lesser evil, and sacrificing my guest in order to save my spouse. So I took good care, all through dinner, that directly my Edward expressed a wish to taste such and such a dish, to prevail upon Mr. Fl—m—ng to try some of the same before I allowed my husband to touch it, in order that I might observe what effect it had upon him, poor man, before helping my dear Edward. But with all my care, nothing would satisfy my self-willed husband, of course, but some of the very veal cutlets that I’d had cooked for myself, and which I’d made a point of not asking Mr. Fl—m—ng to touch, in order that I might have them all to myself; so that there was I obliged, after all, to make my dinner off potatoes and cheese.

Indeed, all that week—which, thank heavens, was to be the last of Norah Connor’s stay with us—I took care always to have a friend to dinner; so that, by this innocent ruse de guerre, I might keep my husband at least out of danger. And so, thank goodness, I did; though, as it turned out, I had only been starving myself upon penny buns, and trembling at every meal for the life of Mr. Sk—n—st—n, all to no good at all; for I verily believe now, from the way in which Norah parted with us, and the sorrow she showed at so doing, that the poor woman really was too much attached to us by half ever to dream of putting an end to us in so unfeeling a manner.{85}

When the day came for her to go, I declare the poor thing was dreadfully cut up, and cried like a child; for she said she knew what I had suspected her of, and told me, in quite a touching way, that “maybe her timper was warrm, but still, by the powers, it wasn’t Norah that would iver in cowld blood harrm the hair of my head, and that she wouldn’t have tould me she was Cornwall, sure, hadn’t she known that to say she came from Ould Ireland was like taking the blissed brid from her mouth, and sartin to make me and my counthry people turn our backs upon her, for sure and weren’t the Saxons always puttin’ at the bottom of their adver-tyze-mints, No Irish need apply.”

We parted the best of friends, and I gave the poor, honest, hard-working, open-hearted creature, either five shillings or half-a-crown (I can’t exactly say which now), though I’m nearly certain it was the larger sum, and for a quarter-of-an-hour at least she stood on the door-step and did nothing but call me her mavourneen, and macree, and a quantity of other outlandish names, and kept invoking blessings on my head, and sobbing away as though she really had got, as Edward said a heart to break.

## CHAPTER VII.

OF MY PRETTY MAID, AND THOSE DREADFUL SOLDIERS WHO WOULD COME TURNING HER HEAD, AND PREVENTING THE POOR THING DOING HER WORK.

“Heigho! heigho! I’m afraid,
Too many lovers will puzzle a maid.”
“Young Susan had lovers so many, that she,” &c.

The servant who came in after Norah was a young woman whose godfathers and godmothers (stupid people) had christened Rosetta, as if she had been a Duchess. As of course I wasn’t going to have any of my menials answering to a stuck-up name like that, I gave her to understand that I should allow no such things in my house, indeed, but would take the liberty of altering pretty Rosetta into plain{86} Susan. She was a nice, clean-looking girl, and was—what, I dare say, some persons would call—pretty, for her features were very regular; still it was not my style of beauty. And though her complexion certainly was clear and rosy, still there was too healthy and countrified a look about it to please me; for to be perfectly beautiful, it wanted the interesting air that indisposition always gives the face; for it is universally allowed by all well-bred people that a woman never looks so well as when she appears to be suffering from bad health. She had a pair of very fine blue eyes of her own; but I must confess I never was partial to eyes of that colour, for they always seem to me to want the expression of hazel ones. (Dear Edward says mine are hazel.) To do the girl justice, her mouth was the best feature she had in her face, and yet there was something about it—I can’t exactly tell what—that wasn’t altogether to my liking. Her figure, too, certainly did look very good for a person in her station of life; but all my fair readers must be as well aware as I am that things have lately come to such a pretty pass, and an excellent tournure can be had for so little money, that even one’s maid-servants can walk into any corset-makers and buy a figure, fit for a lady of the highest respectability, for a mere trifle; and such being the case, of course there is so much imposition about a female’s appearance now-a-days, that really it is impossible to tell what is natural and what is not. When the conceited bit of goods came after the situation, she looked so clean, tidy, and respectable, and had on such a nice plain cotton gown, of only one colour—being a nice white spot on a dark green ground,—and such a good, strong, serviceable half-a-crown Dunstable straw bonnet, trimmed very plainly; and such a nice clean quilled net-cap under it; and such a tidy plain white muslin collar over one of the quietest black-and-white plaid shawls I think I ever saw in all my life, that I felt quite charmed at seeing her dressed so thoroughly like what a respectable servant ought to be; and I’m sure I was never so surprised, in all my born days, as when her late mistress (who gave her an excellent character) told me the reason why they parted with Susan was, that she was inclined to be dressy; so that, after what I had seen of the poor girl, I said to myself—Dressy, indeed{87}!—well, if they call her dressy, I should just like to know what dressy is! and engaged her, accordingly.

The first Sunday after she had come into the house, however, I found that her late mistress wasn’t so far out in the character she had given the minx; for lo and behold! my neat, unpretending chrysalis had changed into a flaunting fal-lal butterfly. For after she had gone up stairs to clean herself that afternoon, if my lady didn’t come down dressed out as fine as a sweep on a May-day. Bless us and save us! if the stuck-up thing hadn’t got on a fly-a-way starched-out imitation Balzorine gown, of a bright ultramarine, picked out with white flowers—with a double skirt, too, made like a tunic, and looking so grand, (though one could easily see that it could not possibly have cost more than six-and-six—if that, indeed,) and drat her impudence! if she hadn’t on each side of her head got a bunch of long ringlets, like untwisted bell-ropes, hanging half way down to her waist, and a blonde-lace cap, with cherry-coloured rosettes, and streamers flying about nearly a yard long; while on looking at her feet, if the conceited bit of goods hadn’t got on patent leather shoes, with broad sandals, and open-worked cotton stockings, as I’m a living woman—and net mittens on her hands too, as true as my name’s Sk—n—st—n. I had her in the parlour pretty soon, for I wanted to ask her who the dickens she took me for. Of course, she was very much surprised that I should object to all her trumpery finery and fiddlefaddle; and she knew as well as I did that the terms I made when I engaged her were—ten pounds a year, find her own tea and sugar, and no followers, nor ringlets, nor sandals, allowed; and that if, in the hurry of the moment, I had omitted to mention the ringlets and sandals, it was an oversight on my part, for which I was very sorry; so I told her that I would thank her to go up stairs again, and take that finery off her back as quickly as she could, and never, as long as she remained under my roof, to think of appearing before me in such a disgraceful state again. When she went out that afternoon to church, the girl had made herself look something decent, and was no longer dressed out as showily as if she was the mistress instead of the maid.

Indeed, this love of dress seemed to be quite a mania with{88} the girl; for I am sure the stupid thing must have gone spending every penny of her wages upon her back. And do what I would, I couldn’t prevent the conceited peacock from poking her nasty, greasy bottles of rose hair-oil and filthy combs and brushes all among the plates and dishes over the dresser. And I declare, upon looking in the drawer of the kitchen table one morning, while she was making the beds up stairs, if I didn’t stumble upon a trumpery sixpenny copy of “The Hand-Book of the Toilet,” which soon told me that the dirty messes I had been continually finding in all the saucepans, were either some pomatum, or cream, or wash, which she had been making for her face or hands. And a day or two afterwards, while I was down stairs seeing about the dinner, if the precious beauty hadn’t the impudence to tell me that she wished to goodness that her “hibrows met like mine did, for it was considered very handsome by the hancients;” and in a few minutes afterwards, the dirty puss informed me that the Hand-Book of the Tilet said that you ought to clean your teeth every morning, and that she had lately tried it, and had no hidea that it was so hagreable; and then, with the greatest coolness imaginable, if she didn’t advise me to rub my gums with salt hevery night before I went to bed; for that the lady of rank and fashion who, she said, was the talented hauthoress of the little work, declared that it made your gums look uncommon lovely and red. On which I told her that I was disgusted to find her head filled with such a heap of rubbish as it was.

But really the stupid girl’s vanity carried her to such lengths, that she was silly enough to allow any man to go falling in love with her who liked, although I must say that I don’t think there was any harm in the minx. Still it was by no means pleasant to have a pack of single knocks continually coming and turning the poor thing’s head on your door-step—so that it was really one person’s time to be popping out of the parlour and telling the girl to come in directly, and not stand chatting there with the door in her hand. But when she found that my vigilance had put an end to her courtships on my door-step, she soon discovered another means of corresponding with her admirers in the neighbourhood. For one morning, when I went into the back bed-room to put out{89} some clean pillow-cases, and I happened to go to the window for a moment, I was never so astonished in the whole course of my existence as when I saw that impudent monkey of a footman belonging to the S—mm—ns’s (whose house is just at the bottom of our garden) holding up a tea-tray, on the back of which was written, in large chalk letters, “Hangel, Can I Cum To Tee;” and I immediately saw what the fellow meant by his tricks; so I crept down stairs as gently as I could, and in the back parlour I found, just as I had expected, my precious beauty of a Susan perched on a chair, and holding up my best japanned tea-tray—that cost me I don’t know what all—and on the back she had written with the same elegant writing materials—“Hadoored One! You Carnt Cum—Alas! Missus Will Be Hin.” So I scolded her well for carrying on those games, and daring to chalk her nasty love-letters on my tea-trays, telling her that hers were pretty goings on and fine doings indeed.

And really if it hadn’t been for Edward’s aversion to changing, I do believe I should have packed her out of the house—as indeed I wish I had—then and there; for the way in which she went on towards me really was enough to make a saint swear, (though I’m happy to say I did not.) For, in the first place, the reader should know that I’m more particular about my caps than any other article of dress. Indeed, I do think, that of all things, a pretty cap is the most becoming thing a married woman can wear; and if I can only get them distingué, (as we say,) I don’t mind what expense I go to, especially as it is so easily made up out of the housekeeping by giving my husband a few tarts less every week, and managing the house as prudently and for as little money as I possibly can. But I declare, no sooner did I get a new cap to my head, and one that I flattered myself was quite out of the common, than as sure as the next Sunday came round, that impudent stuck-up bit of goods of a Miss Susan would make a point of appearing in one of the very same shape and trimming—only, of course, made of an inferior and cheaper material; and though I kept continually changing mine, as often as the housekeeping would admit of my doing so, still it was of no use at all; for the girl was so quick with her needle and thread, that she could unpick hers and make{90} it up again like mine for a few pence; and the consequence was, that any party who had seen either of us only once or twice, would be safe to mistake one for the other—which I suppose was her ambition—drat her. This got me nicely insulted, indeed! for one day, after having had a very nice luncheon of two poached eggs and a basin of some delicious mutton broth, together with a glass of Guinness’s bottled stout, I got up and went to look at the window; and I was standing there with my head just over the blinds, when the policeman came sauntering by, and seeing me—I declare if the barefaced monkey didn’t turn his head round and wink at me! I never was so horrified in all my life; for of course I couldn’t tell what on earth the man could mean by behaving in such a low, familiar way towards me; and as I remained rivetted with astonishment to the spot, I saw him stop after he had gone a few paces past the house, and—I never knew such impudence in all my born days!—begin kissing his hand as if he wanted to make love to me. So I shook my fist at him pretty quickly; but the jack-a-napes only grinned; and putting an inquiring look on his face, pointed down to our kitchen window, and made signs with his hands as if he were cutting up something and putting it into his mouth, and eating it. So I very soon saw that my fine gentleman was mistaking me for that stupid, soft, fly-a-way minx of mine down stairs, and only wanted to come paying his pie-crust addresses to Miss Susan and my provisions. So I determined to let him know who I was, indeed; and went to the street-door to show myself, and just take his number, and have the fellow well punished for his impertinent goings on: but no sooner did the big-whiskered puppy see me, than he went off in a hurry, like a rocket, as fast as his legs could carry him. When I had up Miss Susan, and questioned her as to whether she had ever given the man any encouragement, she told me a nice lot of taradiddles, I could see by her manner, which put me in such a passion, that I declared if ever I caught her making up her caps like mine again, I’d throw them right behind the kitchen fire—that I would.

Though, really, when I came to reflect, in my calm moments, upon the girl’s conduct, there was every excuse to be

{91}

“Followers!!!”

made for the poor ignorant thing; for being cursed, as the philosopher says, with—what some people would have called—a pretty face, and having been only a year or so up from the country, it was but natural that the silly creature should have been tickled by the flattery of the pack of fellows who, to my great horror, were continually running after her; for what with the young men in the neighbourhood, and what with those dreadful barracks in Albany Street, I declare if our house wasn’t completely besieged with the girl’s lovers. I do verily believe, so long as that good-looking puss remained with us, that from morning till night we had one of the soldiers walking up and down in front of our door, just like a sentinel—for, upon my word, as fast as one went away, another used to come, for all the world as if they were relieving guard in St. James’s Park; and really and truly, the whole of my valuable time was taken up either in answering single knocks, and telling them for about the hundredth time Mr. Smith did not live there, or else in pulling up the windows, and ordering the vagabonds to go along with them, and mind their own business.

And here let me pause for a minute to remark upon the shameful nuisance that those barracks in Albany Street are to all persons living in that otherwise quiet and pretty neighbourhood—for I’m sure there’s not a person whose house is within half-a-mile of the dreadful place that isn’t wherrited out of their lives by them. Upon my word, the Life Guardsmen there are so frightfully handsome, that they ought not to be allowed by Government to wander at large in those fascinating red jackets, and with those large jet-black mustachios of theirs, sticking out on each side of their face, just like two sticks of Spanish liquorice—nor be permitted to go about as they do, breaking, or at least cracking, the hearts of all the poor servant-girls in the neighbourhood, as if they were so much crockery. And what on earth the hearts of the good-looking wretches themselves can be made of is more than I can say; for either they must be as impenetrable to Cupid’s arrows as bags of sand, or I’m sure else they must be as full of holes as a rushlight-shade. I don’t know what the regiment may cost the nation every year, (but of course it’s no trifling sum, and what they do for it except make love to the{92} maids, I can’t see)—but this I do know for a positive fact, that the expense the Life Guardsmen are to the respectable inhabitants of Albany Street and its neighbourhood is actually frightful; for they seem to be of opinion that love cannot live on air, and consequently always begin by paying their addresses to the cooks, and if the larder be good, I will do them the justice to say, that their constancy is wonderful; and really the sum they cost poor Albany Street and its surrounding districts in the matter of cold meat alone is really so dreadful, that I really do think if a petition were got up, and the case properly represented to Government, the Paymaster of the Forces could not refuse to make them a large allowance every year for the excellent rations served out to the soldiers every day by the maids. Really the amiable fellows’ appetites seem to be as large as their hearts—and they are as big as the Waterloo omnibuses, Heaven knows, and will carry fourteen inside with perfect ease and comfort any day. Talk about locusts in the land—I’d back a regiment of Life Guardsmen for eating a respectable district out of house and home in half the time, for positively the fine-looking vagabonds seem to have nothing else to do but to walk about Albany Street, looking down every area like so many dealers in hare and rabbit skins, crying out—“Any affection or cold meat this morning, cook?” I don’t know if any of my courteous readers have ever been in Albany Street when the bugle is sounded for the fellows to return to their barracks, but upon my word the scene is really heartbreaking to housekeepers, for there isn’t an area down the whole street but from which you will see a Life Guardsman, with his mouth full, ascending the steps, and hurrying off to his quarters for the night. Anybody will agree with me that one Don Giovanni is quite enough to turn the fair heads of a whole parish; but upon my word, when a whole regiment of them are suddenly let loose upon one particular locality, the havoc among the hearts is positively frightful; and there isn’t a man in the Life Guards, I know, (unless he’s afflicted with red mustachios,) that isn’t a regular six-foot two Lothario. Besides, Mrs. Lockley, the wife of one of Edward’s best clients, assures me that there was one fascinating monster of a Life Guardsman who, the day after his regiment was{93} quartered in Albany Street Barracks, began bestowing his affection on the cook at the bottom of the street, near Trinity Church, and loved all up the right-hand side of the way, and then commenced loving down the left; and she says, she verily believes the amiable villain would have got right to the bottom of the street again, had he not been stopped by the Colosseum—so that the wretch was actually obliged to remain constant to the cook who lived at the house next to it for upwards of a month, at an expense of at least a guinea a-week to the master, and half-a-crown to the cook, for tobacco, for the gallant servant-killer.

But to return to that poor simpleton, Susan. One day, Mr. Sk—n—st—n having been obliged to go down to those bothering Kingston Assizes, upon professional business, I was, of course, left all alone, with Susan in the house; and really, from the loneliness of the neighbourhood, and the savage looks of those dreadful soldiers, whom I could not keep away from the place, it had such a dreadful effect upon my nerves, that I got quite stupid and frightened, and kept fancying I heard people trying to open our street door with false keys, and others attempting to break in at the back. So I made up my mind, when it was just close upon eight o’clock, that I wouldn’t sit there trembling any longer, and told that girl Susan to eat her supper directly, but on no account to touch the remains of that delicious beefsteak-pie, as I’d set my heart upon having it cold for dinner to-morrow,—for really, I do think it is as nice a dish as one can eat,—and lock up the doors, and get ready to go to bed. And when she had done so, I went down, and having satisfied myself that the house was all safe, saw little Miss Mischief of a Susan up stairs before me; and as I thought there was something odd about her conduct, I saw her into bed, and took the key of her room, and locked her in.

I don’t think I could have been in bed myself above half-an-hour, when just as I was dozing off into a nice, comfortable sleep, I was roused by our area bell going cling-a-ling-ling so gently, that I at once knew something was in the wind somewhere. In about five minutes, there was another pull, louder than the first, and in about three minutes after that, another. So I jumped out of bed, and slipping on my wrapper,{94} threw up the window, when lo and behold! there was one of those plaguy Life Guardsmen waiting to be let in at our area gate. “Who’s there?” I cried, pretty loudly.

“It’s only me, my charmer!” he answered, in a loud whisper.

“Who are you, and what do you want here at this time of night?” I demanded.

“Come, that’s a good ’un, after asking me to supper with you,” he replied. “Come down, I tell you. It’s only Ned Twist, of the Guards.—How about that cold beefsteak-pie, my heart’s idol?”

“Go along about your business,” I said, in a loud voice. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself—you ought.”

“Come, none of your jokes,” he replied; “I am so plaguy hungry. I’m good for the whole of that pie of your missus’s; so come down, and let us in, there’s a beauty.”

“Go along with you, do!” I said, in a very loud voice, “or I’ll call the police.”

“Hush-sh-sh!” he said, in a whisper, “or you’ll be letting that old she-dragon of a missus of yours hear you, and then it will be all up with my beefsteak-pie, angel! And that will never do, for I’ve just refused a splendid offer of tripe and onions from a lovely cook in Osnaburgh-street. So, once for all, do you mean to come down or not?—or I shall have that angel’s tripe all cold before I get back to her.”

“Go along with you!” I cried out, unable to contain myself any longer, now I had heard all he had got to say—“go along with you—I’m that she-dragon of a mistress, and if you are not off, I’ll give you in custody——”

But the words were scarcely out of my mouth, before Mr. Ned Twist ran away as fast as his legs would carry him; and as he turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of the handsome fellow’s face by the gaslight, and knew that he was one of the very men who were always coming and asking if Mr. Smith lived there.

In the morning, when I inquired of Miss Susan whether she was acquainted with one Ned Twist, in the Life Guards, of course she knew nothing about the gentleman; and, unfortunately, I had forgotten to wheedle out of the man the name of the party he really had come to see, so that I could not fix her with anything positive.

{95}

George Cruikshank “It’s my Cousin M’am!”

But I determined to clear up all doubts about the matter, and so I set a trap, into which my lady fell, and I caught her as nicely as ever she was caught in the whole course of her life. I told her that I was going round to dear mother’s, to tea, (though of course I never intended to be silly enough to do anything of the kind;) and accordingly I left the house, and went to make a few little odd purchases in the neighbourhood, and then returned in about an hour’s time, saying that, unfortunately, mother was from home, (though, for the matter of that, I didn’t know whether she was or not.) It was very easy to see that my lady was quite flustered at my coming back so unexpectedly. Of course I went straight into the parlour, and told her to bring me up the tea-things, and then I shouldn’t want her any more; for I wasn’t going to be such a simpleton as to go down then, as I felt convinced that directly she heard my knock at the door she had stowed away her gallant son of Mars in the coal-cellar. Just as I had expected, the tea things came up in about half-an-hour. When she brought them, I pretended to be fast asleep on the sofa, and about five minutes after she had put them on the table, I crept down stairs so softly that I declare I could scarcely hear my own footstep; and on opening the door suddenly, as if I wanted to go to the wine-cellar, lo, and behold! there my Life Guardsman was, true enough, and as far as I could judge, Mr. Ned Twist himself—and though all the things had been cleared away, still from the gravy and bits of pie-crust that were hanging to the fellow’s mustachios, I could see that my gentleman had been at my beef-steak pie with a vengeance. Miss Susan, however, was far from losing her presence of mind, and was even with me in a minute; for she rose from her chair, and introduced me to Mr. Ned Twist, saying, “My cousin, Mam,” while her cousin (pretty cousin, indeed!) jumped to the other side of the room, and drawing himself as straight up as a six-foot rule, put his hand sideways to his forehead, as a mark of respect to the mistress of his relation, (Augh, I can’t bear such deceit!) As he was a great tall man, and I was a poor lone woman, with my husband in the country, I thought it best to be civil to the good-looking monster, (though I could have given it him well, I could!) so I begged of him not to disturb himself, but to sit down quietly, and make himself quite at home with his cousin. Then I went up{96} stairs, and putting on my bonnet and shawl, slipped out of the house as quick as I could—though, bother take it, I couldn’t get the street-door to close after me without making a noise. Then I went up to the first policeman I met with, and told him he must come with me that instant, as I wanted to give a man in charge for robbing me of my beef-steak pie. But on going back, the bird had flown; so I had to offer the policeman my thanks and a glass of table-beer,—which, however, the good man would not accept, saying that they were forbidden to drink while on duty. I was so surprised at finding such virtue in the police force—especially when I recollected how I had been treated by that big-whiskered monkey—who had winked at me, that I took a good look at this noble man, and at once knew from the quantity of hair about the jackanapes’ face that he was the identical fellow who had not only kissed his hand to me, but had also wanted himself to partake of whatever there might be in my larder. So I sent him off with a flea in his ear; and then turning round sharp upon Miss Susan, I told her that she would go that day month, as sure as her name was Susan, and that I hoped and trusted she would let this be a warning to her—for I knew very well that I could easily pretend to make it up with her again, and so keep her on a month or six weeks after my confinement.

The next day I received a very proper letter from Edward, informing me he was afraid that business would detain him at Kingston for another week, and a very unladylike and rude letter from Mrs. Yapp, the mother of Edward’s poor dear deceased first wife, telling my husband she would be in town to-morrow, and that she purposed making her dear boy’s house her home so long as she remained in London.

Oh, gracious goodness! I said to myself, what will my poor husband do under this awful visitation? for if one mother-in-law is more than he can bear, what on earth will he do when he finds himself afflicted with two?—and the worst of it all was, that I saw that during my confinement—but, alas! I must reserve this for another chapter.{97}

## CHAPTER VIII.

WHICH TREATS OF MRS. YAPP, MRS. B—FF—N, MRS. TOOSYPEGS, LITTLE MISS SK—N—ST—N, AND FLY-AWAY MISS SUSAN.

“It was one winter’s day, about six in the morn,
When my little innocent creature was born;
There were doctor, and nurse, and a great many more,
But none of them saw such a baby before.”
Popular Song.

Mrs. Yapp’s threatened visit took such a hold of me, that I felt myself quite driven up in a corner; and the worst of it was, I saw no way of getting out of it with any decency. Though I couldn’t for the life of me understand what claim she had upon my husband’s hospitality, now that it had pleased Providence in its bountiful mercy to take his first wife from him—and looking at it as I did, it did seem to me to be very like her impudence indeed in calling my husband her “dear boy,” since her daughter had been dead and gone a good two years at least. Besides, of course, I was a mere nobody—I was—and not worth even so much as the mentioning in her letter, for her coming couldn’t put me out in the least—oh no! And what would my lady care if it did, for it was very clear I was nothing to her—not I, indeed! and as to whether it was convenient for me to receive her or not, that was the last thing thought of; for if she turned us all topsy-turvy, and left us without so much as a leg to stand upon, what would it matter to her so long as she was all right and comfortable, and could get her bed and board for nothing—for that was at the bottom of it, I could see—a mean old thing! Making her dear boy’s house her home too!—her home, indeed!—her hotel, more likely; and she has got four hundred a-year long annuities. Sooner than I’d be guilty of such meanness, I declare, upon my word and honour, I’d take the first broom I could get, and sweep the very first crossing I came to.

Still, under the circumstances, it was very clear that it would never do to slam the door in her face, when she came to us, though, I declare, I felt as if nothing would have given me{98} greater pleasure than to have done so; for really I don’t know anything more uncomfortable than to be obliged to go bowing and scraping, and saying a lot of civil things to a creature, when all the time you’re wishing to yourself that she was safe at the bottom of the sea—as every lady with her proper feelings about her knows she has been obliged to do scores and scores of times. Of course, Mrs. Yapp would be professing all kinds of love for her “dear boy,” and be continually crying up to the skies his beloved first wife, and she would naturally expect me to go sympathizing with the poor dear, when really and truly I didn’t care two pins about the thing. And it is so unpleasant to a right-minded female like myself, to be forced to take out one’s handkerchief, and play the crocodile about a bit of goods that one had never been a penny the better for. Of course, too, she would pretend to be so delighted to make my acquaintance, and unable to make enough of me to my face, though, directly my back was turned, she would go picking me to pieces like anything. Augh! I do detest deceit.

However, thank goodness, the next day’s post brought a letter directed to Edward, which being in a woman’s handwriting, I naturally opened, and found to my delight that Mrs. Yapp regretted to say that she couldn’t be with “her pet” until that day week; so that, as Edward was coming home on the Thursday, he could receive the old thing himself, and take that load off my hands at any rate.

Well, on the Thursday home came Edward. Directly I heard his knock, I snatched up a duster and began rubbing down the hall chairs, so that he might not find a speck of dust in the house on his return; and I was quite glad to see that my exertions were not thrown away upon him, for he told me, that it was very wrong of me in my state to go fatiguing myself in that way, and that he wished I would make the servant do it. On which I said that if he expected Susan to take any pride about the look of the furniture he was mightily mistaken, and he would find himself eaten up alive in less than no time, if I wasn’t continually slaving myself to death for him as I was.

Edward was in quite a good humour, for he had won his cause like a clever lawyer, as he certainly is, though, as he said, all the facts, and the law, and justice of the case, were{99} dead against him. So, when I broke to him the impending calamity of Mrs. Yapp’s visit, he took it much better than I had expected, for he laughed, and said he should like to see how old Mother Yapp and Mrs. B—ff—n would get on with one another; for he expected they would come together like two highly-charged thunder-clouds, and go off with a tremendous explosion, which would have the effect of clearing the air of his house, so that he would be left in a perfect heaven. And then the jocular monster tittered, and said that if he had been doomed to have only one mother-in-law, it was clear that he must have ended his days in a madhouse, but that as Providence had blessed him with two, he was as happy as a man who had married an orphan; for as mothers-in-law were the invariable negatives of domestic happiness, it was clear that two of them must make his home an affirmative paradise; adding that one was the poison and the other the antidote, so that, thank Heaven, now, if at any time he was suffering from an over-dose of mother-in-law B—ff—n, he had only to make up his mind to swallow a little of mother-in-law Yapp, and he would be all right again in no time; for the bitter alkali of the one would correct the acidity of the other, and drive off the dreadful effects of both in a twinkling. Then he went on giggling and railing at mothers-in-law in general, and at my dear mother, and the mother of his first wife, in particular, till I lost all patience with him; for he declared that a whole avalanche of treatises had been written on the origin of evil, and a mountain of rubbish shot into the British Museum about the cause of sorrow in this world; but it was very plain, and he had no doubt about it himself, that misery first came in with mothers-in-law, who he considered, to have been sent on earth to try the resignation of Man, and to prevent the over-population of the world, by setting them up as warnings to persons about to marry—in the same way as the horrors of dyspepsia and gout were designed, simply as a means of keeping persons from the excesses of the table. It was all very well to talk about Job’s extraordinary patience, but what he wanted to know was, had Job ever been scourged with a mother-in-law, because if not, it was very clear that his powers of endurance had not been taxed to the full. And he had the wickedness to say, that it was all a pack of rubbish{100} and a cruel imposition for the law to declare that a man couldn’t marry his grandmother—or his mother—or his wife’s mother—or his wife’s sister—for the plain truth was, that when a man married a woman, he married her whole family. But I couldn’t put up with him any longer, when he protested, that if he had his way, he would have an act passed for the total abolition of all mothers-in-law, and insert a clause, that whenever a couple were joined together in holy matrimony, immediately after the wedding breakfast, the mother of the bride should offer herself up as a willing sacrifice, to perfect the happiness of the bridegroom, in the same way as the Hindoo widows immolated themselves out of regard to the husband. On which I very properly told him that he ought to be ashamed of himself to talk in that way of those poor benighted savages, and I begged that he would hold his tongue if he couldn’t find anything better to talk about, saying that his trip out of town seemed to have turned his head; and asking him how he himself would like what he had proposed, if, supposing I was to be blessed with a daughter, and had to be put out of the way when she got married, all for the sake of completing the happiness, as he called it, of some big-whiskered fellow, that I didn’t care twopence about. But it was useless speaking to him, for he only said that he should be delighted to see me setting so good an example.

As I saw that my gentleman was in one of his nasty, teasing, facetious moods, I thought it best to turn the conversation, which I very cleverly did by asking him what kind of a woman Mrs. Yapp was, when he burst out laughing again, assuring me that she was a very nice woman, only she was too fond of her medicine-bottle, and was dreadfully addicted to doctor’s stuff; for she took pills as if they were green peas, and seemed to have as strong a penchant for powders as other people had for snuff. And he considerably alarmed me by saying that the worst of it was, she had a strange conviction that all her friends stood as much in need of medicine as she did, as she was never happy unless she could prevail upon some one to try some of her filthy potions or lotions, and which she always would have it were just the things one wanted; and really she herself had swallowed so much rhubarb, and senna, and camomile,{101} in her time, that she had a complexion for all the world like a Margate slipper, although she would tell you, that if it wasn’t for what she had taken, she would never have had a bit of colour in her cheeks. When she came up to town last time, she wouldn’t let Edward drink a drop of tea; for she would insist that the green was made up of verdigris, and that the black was all coloured with lead, and that the only way to ensure a long life was to take two or three cups of good strong nettle or dandelion for breakfast every morning, and which, she said, she highly recommended for family use. He cautioned me, however, above all things, never to allow her to persuade me to try any of her nostrums, for that he verily believed she had physicked her daughter into an early grave, and that if I allowed her to go playing any pranks with the very fine constitution I have of my own, I should find that her powder and pills would bring me down as safe as powder and shot. So I told him that he wouldn’t catch me taking any of her nasty messes, and I hoped and trusted that he would get her out of the house as soon as ever he possibly could.

At length, the day arrived for my lady’s coming, and Edward would have me get a nice little dinner ready for her. So I warmed up some of the pea-soup we had left the day before, and which was as nice as any I had ever tasted; and then I thought a sweet, tender, juicy steak, well stewed, with a good thick gravy, would be as delicious a thing as she could well sit down to—indeed, I’m very partial to it myself—and with three or four pork chops, well browned, with the kidney in them, just to put at the end of the table, and a sweet little plum-pudding, with brandy sauce, to face me, and a few custards opposite Edward, and after that, just a mouthful of macaroni, with a little cheese grated over it, and a stick or two of celery to follow—I fancied it would be a very nice dinner for her, and one that I felt I could enjoy myself.

Bother take it! Edward would make me go dancing all the way down to the Regent’s Circus, just to meet Mrs. Yapp when she came by the coach, though, as I said at the time, it would seem as if we were too glad to see her. However, as my husband, I regret to say, never will listen to reason, I had to put on my bonnet, and go to the expense of a cab, just to please his foolish whim; and after that, to stand in the{102} coach-office like a ninny, waiting for the stage to come in. When it did, I went up to a middle-aged lady, who looked as bilious as a bar of yellow soap, and asked her, with a pleasing smile, “whether her name happened to be Yapp?” But she looked at me very suspiciously, and said, “It was no such thing.” And then I tried everybody else, but no Mrs. Yapp could I find; so, after all, drat it, I had to jump into the cab again, and get home as fast as I could: and there was three and sixpence for cab hire literally and truly thrown away in the dirt, (which wasn’t coming out of the housekeeping, I could tell Mr. Sk—n—st—n,) besides a dinner good enough for an emperor positively wasted; for Mr. Edward must needs be so clever, that he would have I had made some mistake, and insisted upon the dinner being thrown back for an hour and a half at least; though I declare I was so hungry after my ride, and the very smell of it was so tantalizing, that I was ready to eat the ends of my fingers off. When it did come up, of course it was all as dry as a chip, without so much as a drop of gravy: and if there is one thing, to me, worse than another, it is a rump-steak stewed till it is quite dry. There was the macaroni, too, which I had set my heart upon, all spoilt, so that it was, for all the world, like eating bits of wax taper. And I told Edward, pretty plainly, that I wouldn’t give a thank you for my dinner at that time of night, but would sooner have a mouthful of something with my tea; for I do think that when a body is worn out with the fatigues of the day, and one has gone past one’s regular hour for one’s meals,—I do think, I say, that a nice strong cup of warm tea, with a pinch or two of green in it, is better than all the dinners in the world put together in a heap; for it does revive one so, if one can only get it good, (which I find a great difficulty now-a-days, though I pay six shillings a pound for every spoonful that I use;) besides, I declare I’d sooner go without my dinner than my tea, any day; and I am sure all my fair readers must be of the same way of thinking as myself.

But let me see,—where was I? Oh, I remember: I had left off at our dinner. Well! as I was saying, our miserable, dried-up repast, could scarcely have gone down stairs, and Susan was just sweeping the crumbs off the tablecloth, when I heard a hackney coach draw up at our door, and, lo and{103} behold! who should it contain but that bothering Mrs. Yapp, who had come with three hair trunks, a portmanteau, two bonnet-boxes, one band ditto, and a bundle, as if she was going to stop a whole twelvemonth with us.

When she came in, I declare upon my word and honour, if she was’nt the very woman, with a complexion like fullers-earth, that I had asked at the coach-office, whether her name was Yapp. And on reminding her of it, she said, she was very sorry for the mistake, but really and truly she had heard so much about the tricks of London people, that she could’nt be expected to go telling her name to the first stranger she met with. So she had thought that the safest plan, to prevent being imposed upon, was to jump with her boxes into a hackney coach, and tell the man to drive her to our house. The fellow, however, had been three hours at least galloping about with her, and had taken her over to Stockwell Park, and Highbury Park, and every other park he could think of, in search of Park Village. For of course the man saw that she was fresh from the country, and had determined to make the most of her; so she had to pay upwards of half a sovereign for her nasty suspicions of me, (your bilious people are always so suspicious,) and which I was heartily glad of.

Of course she was so happy to see her dear boy, “whose house she was going to make her home;” and declared she was delighted to make my acquaintance. Edward very imprudently would go inquiring after her health, when immediately off my lady went, and kept us for full half an hour, giving us a whole catalogue of all her illnesses and cures, and telling us how she had discovered a new pill which had really worked miracles with her. As I kept saying, “Indeed,” and “Bless me,” and “You don’t say so,” and appearing very interested—though all the time I could have wished her further—she had the impudence to tell me that, as a treat, she would let me have a couple to try on the morrow, for she could plainly see my liver was out of order—though, as I said to myself at the time, I should like to know what my liver was to her indeed. However, I slipped out of the room to look after Susan and the tray, and made her warm up one of the pork chops, and bring it up with the tea. But no sooner did my lady see it, than she said it would be death to her if{104} she touched it, and before she let me make the tea, she would go and undo one of her boxes in the hall, just to get out a loaf of digestive bread, and a bottle of filthy soda; and if she didn’t force me to put half a teaspoonful at least into the pot, telling me that it would correct all the acidity, and make the tea go twice as far—which I can easily understand, as I’m sure neither Edward nor myself could touch it; for I declare it was more like soap-suds than full-flavoured wiry Pekoe. The worst of it was, too, I was obliged to say it “was very nice, I was sure;” and I could see that Edward, laughing away in his sleeve at every sip I took. Then she would sit all the evening with her shawl over her shoulders, declaring that the draughts came in at our door enough to cut her in two; and, bother take it, she made me go down stairs and see that the sheets for her bed were well aired—and give orders for a fire to be lighted in her room—and the feather-bed put down before it—and a pan of hot water to be taken up for her at ten precisely—and for a few spoonfuls of brown sugar to be put into the warming-pan with the coals, before warming her bed; adding that, with a good large basin of gruel, and a James’s powder in it, she thought she should do for that night. And really I should have thought so too. But what pleased me most was, that she said she was putting me to a great deal of trouble. And I should think she was too—though of course I was forced to assure her that she wasn’t, and that nothing gave me more pleasure than to be able to assist one with such a bad constitution as she appeared to have of her own. Whereupon she flew at me very spitefully, and told me I was never more mistaken in all my life, for every one that knew her allowed, that if it hadn’t been for her very fine constitution, and a score of Morison’s Number Two’s daily, she should have been in Abraham’s bosom long ago; and that I should be a lucky woman if my constitution was half as fine as hers. So as I saw it was useless arguing the point with her, I let her have her own way, and was’nt at all sorry when ten o’clock came, and I had seen her fairly up stairs to her bed-room, where she kept Susan a good three-quarters of an hour at least fiddle-faddleing and tying her flannel petticoat round her head, and tucking her up, and pinning her shawl before the window, and what not.{105}

Next morning, when she came down to breakfast, she told us that she had got the rheumatism in both her legs so bad, that she had been forced to wrap them up in brown paper, which she said she found to be the best of all remedies, and an infallible cure; and sure enough there she was going about the house with her legs done up for all the world like a pair of new tongs in an ironmonger’s shop. All breakfast time, she would tell us how she had made it a duty to try every new cure as fast as it came up, and how she supposed she must have written in her time at least thirty testimonials of wonderful cures effected upon her by different medicines, which, she said, she had since found out had never done her any good at all. At one time, she swore by brandy and salt, and she took so much of it, that, instead of curing her illness, she verily believed she was only curing herself like so much bacon. At another period, she had pinned her faith entirely to cold water, and she was sure she must have swallowed a small river in her time; she had had it pumped upon her too, and sat in it, and bathed in it, and slept in it, she might say, for she went to bed in nothing but damp sheets for a year and more—until really she had washed every bit of colour out of her cheeks; and she felt that if she was to wring her hands, water would run from them like a wet flannel. After that, she had gone raving mad about homœopathy, and had nearly starved herself to death with its finikin infinitessimal doses; for whole weeks she used to take nothing for breakfast but the billionth part of a spoonful of tea in a quart of boiling water, and the ten thousandth part of an ounce of butter to eight sixty-sixths of a quartern loaf; while her dinner had frequently consisted of three ounces and two drachms of the lean of a neck of mutton made into broth with a gallon of water, flavoured with three pennyweights of carrot, and a scruple of greens, and seasoned with two grains and a half of pepper, and the sixteenth of a pinch of salt. Since, however, she had discovered her wonderful pill, she had left all her other specifics, and never felt so well, and consequently so happy, before: and then she pulled out a box, and would make me take a couple of the filthy little things with my tea, saying that they would make me so comfortable and good-tempered, that I should hardly know myself again.{106}

Immediately after the breakfast things had been taken away, I slipt on my things, and stepped round to dear mother’s, just to tell her what a dreadful creature we had got in the house, and that I really began to have fears for my life again. When the dear, affectionate old lady had heard of Mrs. Yapp’s fearful goings-on, she said that it really would not be safe to trust me alone with such a woman during my confinement; and that, as my mother, she insisted upon being allowed to come and sleep in the house, too. Though I told her I didn’t know how we were to manage it, unless she consented to take half of Mrs. Yapp’s bed—which, I regretted to say, was only a small tent, and it was impossible to say how it would ever be able to hold the pair of them. But the dear, good old soul declared, she didn’t mind what hardship she underwent, so long as she was by, to watch over me, and prevent my being poisoned to death by pills, and herbs, and draughts, and such like. I told her, it was very kind indeed of her, and I had no doubt that Mr. Sk—n—st—n would be as grateful to her as I was; and we arranged together that she should sleep in the house that very night.

When I informed Edward of what my mother had so kindly consented to do for me, he began grinning again, and said, that he was delighted to hear it, for that he was sure such a state of things could not last long, and that he should have the pair of them getting together by the ears, and going at it hammer and tongs, and both his dear mothers-in-law leaving the premises in less than a week—thank Heaven! Though when I told him that I didn’t know where on earth I could put him to, unless, indeed, I made him up a nice comfortable bed on the sofa in the back drawing-room, with coats and cloaks, and odd things, to cover him—for Mrs. Yapp, I regretted to say, had got all the spare blankets we had—of course he must go flying into a passion again, and said that matters had come to a pretty pass, when a man’s mothers-in-law walked into his house, and didn’t leave him even a bed to lie upon. And after he had railed against Mrs. B—ff—n and Mrs. Yapp till he was quite out of breath, he got a little better tempered, and said, that as it would be impossible for his two blessed mothers-in-law to sleep in the same bed without falling out, why he didn’t mind what amicable arrange{107}ment he came to, so long as he could make them enemies for life.

Next day, nurse came; and really she was such a nice, goodnatured, fat, motherly old soul, that it was quite pleasant to have a little quiet chat with her. Her name was Mrs. Toosypegs, and she was the widow—poor thing—of a highly respectable eating-house keeper, who, she assured me, used to do such a deal in the eating line, that he would sometimes have as many as five hundred dinners a day. Unfortunately, however, one evening, “the spirit of progress”—as they call it—got into his head, and he would go having an ordinary for the Million, every day, at every half-hour, at only fifteen-pence a head. But the Million—drat ’em!—had every one of them the appetites of a hundred; and the consequence was, that there was no satisfying them, although he gave them oceans of soup, and as much fish as they could eat, by way of what he called a damper to their raging appetites; though really it seemed quite thrown away upon them: for, Lord bless you, when the joint was brought up, they seemed to be as fresh and ravenous as ever, and would fall-to at the meat, as if the Million were a parcel of boa-constrictors, and only in the habit of being fed twice a year. And she declared that, often and often, the waiters had to shake many of the Million to wake them up and get them to pay; and that when they swept up the room of a night, she had, over and over again, collected several gross of waistcoat buttons, which the greedy young ogres had actually burst off with her husband’s food. So that at last the blessed Million positively eat Mr. Toosypegs through the Insolvent Court, and left him little or nothing to satisfy his poor creditors with; and this so preyed upon her dear man’s mind, that in an insane moment of despair, he raised his own boiled-beef knife against himself, and fell, like another Cook, a victim to the Cannibals who prowled about To-heat-he. After which, Mrs. Toosypegs informed me she had been put to it so hard, that she had been obliged to go out nursing; and, thank goodness! she had done as well as could be expected; for though she had no dear little Toosypegs of her own, still she had brought such numbers of children into the world, that she could not help looking upon herself in the light of a mother of a very large family—indeed, she was always speaking of the little{108} pets she had nursed as if they were her own flesh and blood; for at one time she would talk to me of a very fine boy she had had in Torrington Square, and at another, of her beautiful twins at Ball’s Pond; and then, of a sweet little flaxen-haired beauty of a little girl of hers with eleven toes, that she had had at Captain Jones’s, at Puddle Dock. And really, last year, she said she had had as many as eight confinements in the course of the twelvemonth, and which had been almost more than she had strength to go through with. Her last lying-in had been in the suburbs, near Stockwell Park; and what made her month very agreeable was, that the family lived in a long terrace, and she knew all the neighbours’ little secrets; for all kinds of strange reports used to travel from house to house, over the garden walls, or else from door to door, when the maids were cleaning the steps of a morning. And she advised me, if ever I took a house in a terrace a little way out of town, to be very careful that it was the centre one—at least, if I had any regard for my reputation. For I must be well aware that a story never lost by telling; and consequently, if I lived in the middle of a row of houses, it was very clear that the tales which might be circulated against me would only have half the distance to travel on either side of me, and therefore could only be half as bad, by the time they got down to the bottom of the terrace, as the tales that might be circulated against the wretched individuals who had the misfortune to live at the two ends of it; so that I should be certain to have twice as good a character in the neighbourhood as they had. For instance, she informed me of a lamentable case that actually occurred while she was there. The servant at No. 1 told the servant at No. 2 that her master expected his old friends the Baileys to pay him a visit shortly; and No. 2 told No. 3 that No. 1 expected to have the Baileys in the house every day; and No. 3 told No. 4 that it was all up with No. 1, for they couldn’t keep the bailiffs out; whereupon 4 told 5 that the officers were after No. 1, and that it was as much as he could do to prevent himself being taken in execution, and that it was nearly killing his poor, dear wife; and so it went on, increasing and increasing, until it got to No. 32, who confidently assured the last house, No. 33, that the Bow-street officers had taken up the gentleman who lived at No. 1, for killing his poor dear wife with{109} arsenic, and that it was confidently hoped and expected that he would be executed at Horsemonger-lane jail, as the facts of the case were very clear against him. All which, Mrs. Toosypegs said, proved, very clearly, that servants were a “bad lot,” and that there was no trusting ’em with anything, but what they must go wasting their time gossiping and putting it about all over the neighbourhood. Though, for her own part, she always made it a rule to shut her ears against all scandal.

Edward was quite right; for Mrs. Yapp, when she found that dear mother only turned her nose up at her filthy medicines, tried to see how disagreeable she could make herself to my respected parent. And I declare, on the very first night, they both went quarrelling up stairs to bed, where dear mother—who, being a stout woman, has always accustomed herself to sleep cool—would insist upon having two of the blankets, and all the cloaks, taken off the bed, for she protested that, what with the fire, and the shawl pinned before the window, there wasn’t a breath of air stirring in the room, saying, that, for her part, she should like to have the window open. This, that disagreeable old Mrs. Yapp declared would be certain death to her, and she shouldn’t allow anything of the kind; and scarcely had poor dear mother taken the blankets off the bed, than Mrs. Yapp rushed up, and began putting them on again; so there they both stood for a good hour at least, one taking them off as fast as the other put them on, until they got tired, and agreed that if Mrs. Yapp would forego making up the fire for the night, and consent to waive the warming-pan, why, my dear, good, obliging mother would, in her turn, allow the coddling old thing to have as many blankets, and gowns, and cloaks on her side as she liked. But no sooner had they got into the small bed than they both began growling away, and each declaring that the other had got more than her proper share of it, so that mother told me that neither of them got a wink of sleep all night. And really, when they came down to breakfast the next morning, they wouldn’t open their mouths to each other—much to that wicked Edward’s delight, who kept rubbing his hands, and pressing mother to try a couple of tea-spoonfuls of Epsom salts, as Mrs. Yapp did in her tea, and asking the old she-quack whether she did not think Mrs. B—ff—n’s liver{110} was out of order, and what she would recommend for her under the circumstances.

That evening, whilst we were at dinner, a parcel came, with a letter for me, which, on opening, proved to be from those dear, sweet girls, the two Misses B—yl—s’s, saying “they would feel much obliged if I would present the accompanying article to one who would call for it in a day or two.” On undoing the parcel, I declare if it wasn’t a beautiful white satin pincushion, with a superb lace border, while on it was printed in pins—

WELCOME
LITTLE STRANGER.

This, of course, was fine nuts to crack for Mr. Edward; who must go cutting his stupid jokes upon a subject which as I told him at the time, I thought would be much better left alone. But there was no stopping him; and he wanted to send out for a pennyworth of baby-pins, and put an s to the stranger—saying that the Misses B—yl—s’s had sent it to me only half-finished.

On the 22nd of March, 1841, the following advertisement appeared in the Times and the Morning Post:—“On the 20th instant, at Duvernay Villa, P—rk V—ll—ges, R—g—nt’s P—rk, the lady of Edward Sk—n—st—n, Esq., of a daughter.” And quite early on the morning of the day mentioned in the advertisement, anybody passing our house might have seen my dear mother tying up our knocker with a white kid glove.

My baby was the loveliest tiddy ickle sing of a ducks-o’-diamonds that I think I ever saw in all my life—and, thank Heaven! all its little limbs were straight, and it hadn’t a single blemish upon it—if, indeed, I except some strange marks it had on one side of its beautiful little neck, and which I told nurse I was as certain as certain could be was a letter and some figures; for I could make out a perfect F, and a 4 and{111} a 2, and when I cast it up in my own mind, I remembered this was exactly what that impudent, big-whiskered monkey of a policeman, who had frightened me so by winking at me, had got printed on the collar of his coat. At first, I was rather vexed that it wasn’t a boy; for, to tell the truth, I had set my heart upon having one. When, however, I came to turn it over in my mind, I wasn’t at all sorry that it was a girl, for she would be such a nice companion for me when she grew up, and, of course, would take all the trouble of the house off my hands. Besides, I do think boys are such Turks, and so difficult for a woman to manage, so that, as it was a mere toss-up between the two, I do think, if I had had a choice in the matter, I should have cried “woman” after all.

I wish any one could only have seen my dear, dear mother—I can assure them it really was a treat worth living for—sitting by the fireside, with my little unconscious angel lying in her lap, and pulling down its sweet little nose, so as to seduce it into symmetry. She told me the first duty a mother owed to her infant was to pay proper attention to its nose, as really, at that tender age, it was as plastic as putty, and could be drawn out just like so much india-rubber; indeed, Nature, she might say, seemed to have kindly placed the child’s nose in its mother’s hands, and left it for her to say whether the cherub should be blessed with an aquiline, or cursed with a snub. I had to thank herself, she said, for the shape of mine; for when I was born, she really had fears that it would take after my father, and his was a bottle; so that it was only by never neglecting my nasal organ for an instant, and devoting every spare minute she had to its growth and formation, that she had been able to rescue it from the strong likeness it had, at first, to my father’s. And she begged of me to carry this maxim with me to my grave—“That noses might be grown to any shape, like cucumbers; and that it was only for the mother to decide whether the infant nasal gherkin should be allowed to run wild, and twist itself into a ‘turn up,’ or should, by the process of cultivation, be forced to grow straight, and elongate itself into a Grecian.” And then the dear, good body informed me that, touching the dear cherub’s eyes, I should find they would require a great deal of looking after—indeed, quite as much as the nose; for all children naturally squinted,{112} and she thought nothing on earth looked so dreadful and vulgar as to see a pair of eyes wanting to go different ways, for all the world like two perverse greyhounds coupled together; and she was convinced that goggle-eyes and swivel-eyes, and, in fact, every other variety of eye but the right, merely arose from bad nursing. Consequently, I ought to be very careful not to allow any nurse with even so much as a cast to enter my service, until my little dear had learnt to look straight before it. And, above all, I was to be very particular, for some time to come, never to permit my little petsy wetsy to look over its head, for fear its eyes should become fixed in that uncomfortable position, and I should have my poor little girl walking about with them always turned up like a methodist preacher. Then she begged of me, as I loved my baby, never to allow it to yawn without putting my hand under its chin, to prevent it dropping its jaw, or I should have the misery of seeing my eldest daughter going through the world with its mouth always open, like a carriage dog, or one of the French toy nut-crackers. Moreover, she said she hoped I would be very particular with the little darling’s little wee legs; for if I should be imprudent enough to rub them downwards, as sure as her name was B—ff—n, I should have the pleasure of seeing them in after life with no more calf to them than an ostrich’s; whereas, if I took care to rub them upwards every morning, then, when she grew up, I should have the satisfaction of beholding the dear with as fine a pair of legs as an opera-dancer, or, she might say, a fashionable footman. So that, by the time dear mother had finished her instruction, I plainly saw, from what she said, that Nature had not done half its duty to babies, but had sent them into the world with their joints as imperfectly put together as cheap furniture, and that if the greatest care wasn’t taken with them, they would be as certain to warp in all kinds of ways as any of the other articles which are puffed off as such temptations to persons about to marry.

My poor Edward was nearly out of his wits with joy at having such a beautiful child; and the stupid ninny would go giving Mrs. Toosypegs half a sovereign when she declared that it was the very image of its papa—and so the little angel was. But my gentleman must go cutting his stupid jokes again, and saying that as he missed a silver{113} spoon down-stairs, he should like to know whether the child had been born with one in its mouth—which set Mrs. Toosypegs off laughing so violently, that she seemed to think that she might as well work out her half sovereign that way as any other. So, upon that, Mr. Edward went on, and said, that as it hadn’t been born with a silver spoon, perhaps it had with a Britannia metal one, which, he said, would be quite as lucky, as every one knew that it was a very good substitute for silver.

I was much gratified to hear a gentle ring at the street-door bell, which, I felt sure, was some one come to inquire after my health; and as Miss Susan was out, I told Mrs. Toosypegs to tell whoever it was that I had got a very fine little girl, and that we were going on as well as could be expected. When she came up again, she told me that it was a life guardsman, with tremendous big black mustachios, who said he was quite delighted to hear it; so I at once saw that it was none other than that dreadful amorous ogre of a Ned Twist, who was making such violent cupboard love to my maid; and I asked Mrs. Toosypegs whether she had ever noticed any strange goings on in the kitchen, and requested her, as a favour, to keep a sharp eye upon Susan. I felt satisfied, that now she had got me safe in bed, she would be carrying on fine games, and I should be having half the barracks at supper in my kitchen every night; so I begged of Mrs. Toosypegs, whenever she went down-stairs, to make a point of looking in the coal-cellar, saying that was the cage in which she stowed her Robbing Red-breasts—as Edward very cleverly calls them.

Mrs. Yapp, I regret to say, made herself very disagreeable throughout the whole business, and would have it that mother was conspiring against my daughter and myself to kill us. The fact was, they were both at daggers drawn about the way in which my baby and myself ought to be treated; for one was for bathing the little darling in cold water, and the other in warm; and the one for bandaging it up like a little mummy, and the other letting its beautiful little limbs be perfectly free. One would have it that the soothing syrup was really what it professed to be, a blessing to mothers, while the other declared that it was nothing more than a poison to children. As for myself, one said I could{114} never get round if I didn’t have plenty of air, and the other vowed that I should never get up again if the room wasn’t kept as close as possible. Dear mother assured me that I could only gain strength by taking as much solid food as I could manage, while Mrs. Yapp persisted in telling me, that in my state I ought to take nothing but slops—at least, if I wanted to get well; and they used to pester the poor doctor so, whenever he came, that at last he took offence, and said, that as he saw that I was in very good hands, he thought his services were no longer required. Somehow or other, Mrs. Toosypegs seemed to agree with everybody; so that I could not tell what on earth to do. Every day at dinner there was a regular fight at my bedside; for mother would insist upon my just taking a mouthful of the lean of a mutton-chop that she had cooked for me, while Mrs. Yapp declared that it would be the death of me, and would stand begging and praying of me to try a spoonful or two of her nice gruel—so, between the two, I couldn’t get either any rest or food, for they neither would allow me to touch what the other recommended. And I do verily believe, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Toosypegs giving me, on the sly, whatever I took a fancy to, I must, positively and truly, have been starved to death.

Directly the little cherub of a baby, too, used to cry, they both raced after each other up-stairs. One said it had got the wind, and the other the stomach-ache; and mother prescribed a spoonful of dill-water with some sugar, while the other stood out for as much rhubarb and magnesia as would lie on a sixpence.

All this delighted Edward extremely to hear, and he said that things were going on beautifully; and they were both of them getting as miserable and discontented as he could possibly have wished. At the same time, he desired Mrs. Toosypegs never to allow the ladies to come bothering me, and on no account to pay any attention to what either of them said; for the wicked rogue told me, that, in order to bring about the explosion he so devoutly prayed for, he always made it a point of siding with both of them. Accordingly, whenever Mrs. Yapp came complaining to him, he invariably agreed with her that Mrs. B—ff—n knew nothing about the treatment of infants, and he should take it as a favour if she would keep dear mother from interfering with me as much as possible;—while, on{115} the other hand, whenever Mrs. B—ff—n asked him what she had better do, he always told her Mrs. Yapp was quite ignorant of the management of children, and that, of course, he wished my dear mother to prevent her from coming into the bedroom at all. So he supposed it was this that made them both so determined on pursuing their own plans; and though he assured me it was far from comfortable work sleeping upon that wretched sofa in the back drawing-room, with nothing but cloaks to cover him, still, he said, he shouldn’t murmur, if it was stuffed with broken bottles instead of horse-hair, so long as his two mothers-in-law slept together, and had an opportunity of carrying on their quarrels in bed.

So matters went on; until, I declare to goodness, I got nearly as sick and tired of my own dear mother as I was worn out of all patience with the mother of my husband’s poor first wife; and I began to wish to be quit of them both nearly as much as Edward did. I verily believe their continual quarrellings, and bickerings, and squabblings, threw me back frightfully; and, indeed, Mrs. Toosypegs told me, that, with the very fine constitution I have of my own, I ought to have been out of bed and about at least ten days earlier than I was, (it was more than a month before I got thoroughly down-stairs.) To my great horror, just before Mrs. Toosypegs went, she brought me word that the small-pox had broken out among the soldiers in Albany-street Barracks; and as I knew that those soldiers would come bothering after our pretty Susan, of course I saw clear enough that they would be bringing it into the house in their red jackets, and I should have my little girl catching it—poor innocent dear—and perhaps growing up with her face full of holes, and looking for all the world like a sponge. So I determined pretty quickly on getting nurse to go with me to the establishment in Bloomsbury-square, and get the sweet cherub vaccinated.

Accordingly, on the morrow, we jumped into a cab, and went down to the place. When we got there, I may safely say I never saw such a beautiful sight in all my life. If there was one dear little baby, I’m sure there must have been at least a hundred; and I really felt as if I could have taken them all in my arms, and hugged them every one—though,{116} I must say, that the noise they made was almost too much for me, for what with the cries of some fifty of them, and the prattling of the mothers to the rest—I declare it was for all the world like the parrot-room at the Zoological Gardens. When my turn came for going in with my child to the doctor, I told Mrs. Toosypegs she must take the child, for I knew I should never be able to bear the sight of that unfeeling wretch of a doctor poking his great big lancet into its pretty little arms; and that I should go making a stupid of myself, and fainting right off at the first drop of blood I saw. So in went nurse, while I stopped outside, and, to drive the thoughts out of my mind, I began playing with a very nice respectable child that was next to me. While I was amusing myself in this way, a poor woman, seeing my arms empty, came up to me, and asked me if I would be kind enough to hold her child for a few minutes, while she stepped out to get a glass of water, for the heat of the place was really too much for her. Of course, I was very glad to oblige her, like a stupid, and, taking her baby, I said, “Certainly, with a great deal of pleasure”—though, if I had known what was going to happen then, I most assuredly would have seen her further first.

When nurse came back with my own poor dear little thing crying its beautiful blue eyes out, I told her to sit down with it just for a moment, while I went and looked after the other poor thing’s mother, who, I feared, from the time she had been gone for the drop of water she spoke about, must have fainted off in the passage! But though I looked all about for her, both outside and inside the house, to my great horror, she was nowhere to be found. So I marched back, and sat down, and waited until all the mothers and children had gone, and nurse and myself and the two babies were the only people left in the place, when I really began to grow dreadfully alarmed, for I felt assured that some dreadful accident or mistake must have occurred. And when the porter came to tell me I must go, as he wanted to shut up the doors, I informed him of what had happened, and asked him to let me leave the brat with him, so that he might give it to the mother when she called. But the brute would not hear of such a thing, and said that the best way would be for me to take it home with me, and leave my address with him,{117} and then he could send the mother up to me when she came after it. Accordingly I gave the man my card, with particular instructions that he was to make the woman come on to me as fast as her legs would carry her, directly she called; for as I very truly said at the time, I didn’t know how I should ever be able to get through the night with the pair of them.

When we got home, there was a fine piece of work with the pair of them, for the little brat of a stranger wouldn’t eat a thing, though we tried with both the spoon and the bottle, and really squalled in such a way that I was obliged to give it something to pacify it. Edward was so surly at the noise the two children made, that I really thought, what with the noise he and the babies made, I should have gone clean out of my senses; for he said, I didn’t seem to think that two mothers-in-law were sufficient to have in the house at once, but I must go adding to them two babies.

I really do believe it must have been nearly eleven o’clock before I had the doors done up, for I made certain that brute of a mother would never think of leaving her child with me all night. But I soon found myself preciously mistaken, for, on undressing the poor little half-starved thing, I declare if there was not tacked to the body of its little petticoat a strip of paper, on which was written:—“Plese to treet im wel—Is name is Alfred;”—so that it was now as plain as the nose on my face I had been made a regular fool of, and the unfeeling wretch of a mother, observing, I dare say, my love for children, and that I was very well dressed, was induced to single me out, drat her! as her victim; for of course it was her intention, from the first, to make me adopt her brat, whether I liked it or not.

As it was impossible to send the infant round to the workhouse at that late hour of the night, why, I was obliged to take it up-stairs to bed with me, and a precious night both Edward and I had of it, goodness knows! For directly that little brute of an Alfred began to cry, of course he set my little pet of a Kate off, too; consequently, while I was trying to get the one off to sleep with a drop, I was obliged to make Edward set up in bed and rock the other, which he did, all the while grumbling and abusing me in a most shameful manner; wondering how I could ever have been such a born idiot to{118} have allowed myself to have had a strange child put upon me in such a place.

Early in the morning, immediately after Edward had left for business, I sent Susan off to the workhouse with the squalling young urchin, instructing her to tell the parish authorities how shamefully I had been imposed upon, and to say that I felt it to be my duty, under the circumstances, to hand it over to them. But, hang it! there seemed to be no chance of getting rid of the brat, for back came Susan, all in a fluster, and said that the porter at the gate had told her, in a very impudent manner, that I must come round myself the next Board day and represent the case to the Guardians; and if the facts would bear investigation, why, perhaps they might make out an order to have it admitted.

Here was a pretty state to be in; for Susan said the next Board day wasn’t for five days to come, and it was impossible for me ever to think of keeping the child all that time, and I really felt as if I could have put it in the old fish-basket we had in the house, and tied it to the first knocker that I came to. Indeed, as it was, I did go up-stairs to Mrs. Yapp, and both dear mother and myself tried, for upwards of an hour, as hard as ever we could, to get her to adopt the poor little foundling. But of course it was of no use appealing to the maternal feelings of a hard-hearted creature like her; for we couldn’t get her to take it, although both of us kept pointing out to her what a comfort, we had no doubt, it would grow up to be to her in her old age, and what a noble act she would be doing in rescuing the poor little innocent dear from the workhouse, and, might be, a prison; saying that it was impossible, under the circumstances, to tell what would become of it—but it was all to no use. Although she has got four hundred a-year, and no children, still the mean old thing positively refused to have anything to do with the poor dear little “incumbrance,” but I do verily believe that if the child had only had the good luck to be sickly, she would willingly have consented to have acted the part of a mother to it, if it was only for the sake of having some one to physic.

Consequently, I made up my mind to send it down to Edward by Susan, telling him what the workhouse people had said, and begging him to go up to them with it, and make{119} them take it in directly, as I told him he must very well know they were in law bound to do.

In about two hours, Susan came back, like a good girl, to my infinite delight, without the baby. When I asked her what on earth she had done with it, I thought I should have died with laughter; for she told me, that on her way down to Chancery Lane she had met with Mary Hooper,—who had been a fellow-servant of hers, and who is now living as nurserymaid at Mr. C—tl—n’s, the solicitor, in John Street, Bedford Row—and as she was going to take the two little Misses C—tl—n for a walk in Gray’s-inn Gardens, of course my Miss Susan must go in with her.

While she was there, she said, there were some impudent young barristers, whose chambers were on the ground floor, leaning out of one of the windows at the back, and smoking their nasty cigars, and playing the fool with the nursery maids, instead of minding their business. And as she was walking up and down, they must needs go getting into conversation with her; and pretending to admire the baby she had got in her arms, first asking her how old it was, and then declaring that they never before, in the whole course of their lives, saw such a fine boy for his age; and then inquiring whether it was her own, and a whole pack of other rubbish besides. At last one of the gentlemen, who she said had got red hair and sandy whiskers, begged to be allowed to give the dear little baby a kiss, as he was passionately fond of children. So she handed the child up to him, and no sooner had the sharp fellow got hold of it, than he refused to let her have it back again, unless she came round to their chambers and fetched it herself; whereupon Susan told him, that as he wouldn’t give the child up without it, she supposed she must. But no sooner had she got outside the gardens, than it very properly struck her, that as the gentleman was so fond of children, she might just as well leave it with him altogether, instead of letting it go to the workhouse, poor little pet!

I really thought I should have killed myself with laughing, for I remembered I had that very morning, before sending the infant round to the workhouse, sewed on again the identical strip of paper which I had found stitched on to its little petticoat body, just to show it to the workhouse authorities, and which requested the party into whose hands{120} the poor babe fell to treat it kindly, and that its name was Alfred.

I told Susan I was very much pleased with what she had done, and I gave her five shillings, and said she might go out for a holiday as soon as she liked, adding, that she had in a very clever manner given the impudent fellows a good deal more than they sent, and in a way that not only showed she was one too many for them, but would teach them never again to go making love to the child for the sake of the maid.

When Edward came home, he was as pleased as Punch. He declared it just served the lawyers right, and was a bit of sharp practice that did Susan much credit. And then he made a very good pun upon it, for he said that he had a very great mind to go down and stick a board up in the gardens opposite the window of the young fellow to whom Susan had handed the innocent creature, with “Lambs taken in to Gray’s Inn here,” painted in large letters upon it.

## CHAPTER IX.

HOW, WHAT WITH ONE THING AND ANOTHER, IT REALLY IS A MERCY THAT I WAS NOT IN MY GRAVE LONG AGO.

“For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’,
There’s little pleasure in the house,” &c.
“There’s nae luck about the House.”

Positively I was no sooner out of one scrape, than, as sure as the next day came round, I was safe to be in another. The beauty of it was, too, that my unlucky stars (and having been born under Saturn, the reader may well imagine that I’ve had no very pleasant time of it) seemed determined I should invariably be the victim of other people’s misdemeanours. For I always thought that that old quack of a Mrs. Yapp would be the death of some of us, with her filthy medicines, and so she nearly was—indeed, it’s quite a mercy that the whole house wasn’t dead and buried long ago.

I think I mentioned somewhere before, that the old hen had got four hundred a year, but positively, if it had only{121} been five-and-twenty, she couldn’t have been stingier than she was. I never knew her give a penny away to a soul, and as for making any present to my dear little Kitty-pitty, bless you, not even so much as a mere six-and-sixpenny coral and bells did she give the angel, and which I thought was the very least she could have done, after we had been keeping her in the handsome way we had, without expecting the least return for it. If she could save a farthing she would walk her legs off; indeed, I’ve known her go miles just to get a thing a halfpenny a pound cheaper, though she must have worn out at least sixpenny-worth of shoe leather in the journey.

Well, in one of her rambles after bargains, the old thing had stumbled upon a little poking hole of an out-of-the-way chemist’s shop, with a bill in the window, announcing that they (pretty they!) were now selling their best Epsom salts at the low price of seven pounds a shilling; and as my lady was in the habit of paying twopence and threepence for every pound weight of the stuff she swallowed, why this was a temptation that she could not resist; so she must needs go prancing into the shop, saying she would take one pound just to try.

The old thing came home to dinner, quite full of her bargain, and she would undo the parcel, and show us what a beautiful quality the stuff was; declaring, that if it only turned out as good as she expected, she would buy all there was in the place, for they were so cheap, she said, that she felt perfectly satisfied they must have been stolen,—and promising herself a couple of ounces of it, by way of a nice treat in the morning.

At breakfast, the next day, she told us that it seemed as if some superior power had led her to buy her salts yesterday; for she had just heard from Susan that the small-pox had already reached the next door but one, and she had no doubt that it would be our turn next. Then she went on so dreadfully about it, and we all got so terribly alarmed, that we were ready to do anything—for she kept dinning in our ears, that vaccination was only good for seven years, and that the only chance we had of escaping it, and preventing our faces being pitted all over like a honeycomb, was to sweeten our blood with a little cooling medicine, and that really a spoonful or{122} two of her salts all round was just the very thing we wanted. Edward too seemed to take a delight in aggravating the horrors of the disease, and exaggerating the virtues of the remedy which Mrs. Yapp had prescribed for us, and kept on until at last we did as she wished, and swallowed a couple of spoonfuls each. After which I had Miss Susan up, and made her take some, as well, for I had no idea of having her laid up in the house, and paying, goodness knows what amount, in doctor’s bills for her. But she was too much afraid of her complexion and beauty being spoiled to require much persuasion.

Edward had gone to chambers when dear mother, who was reading the advertisements in the Times, gave a loud scream, and cried out, “We are all poisoned!” And sure enough she showed me an advertisement at the top of the second column in the first page, headed Caution, and running as follows:—

“THE stout, elderly Lady, with tortoiseshell spectacles, and dressed in a black straw bonnet, trimmed with canary ribbon, with a small squirrel tippet, and a black German velvet gown, is earnestly requested not to take any of the pound of Salts she bought at the Chemist’s in M—nm—th Str—t, S—v—n D—ls, and said she would have more if she liked them, as through the mistake of an inexperienced apprentice, she was served with Oxalic Acid instead.”

No one can imagine the dreadful state this threw us all into, and it was as much as I could do to prevent mother from flying at Mrs. Yapp and tearing her to pieces, limb by limb, on the spot; only I said that she had much better turn her thoughts to some antidote, and leave the wretched old woman to her own dreadful feelings. Whereupon, dear mother merely called her a murderess some half-dozen times, and gave her to understand, that even if she was lucky enough, to get over it, as sure as their names were Yapp and B—ff—n, she would have her hung for it. The old cat, however, told her not to talk in that foolish way—as she had done it all for the best—but to see about taking as much chalk or lime as we possibly could, as that was the only thing that could save us. And then I declare if the old thing didn’t seize hold of the fire shovel with one hand, and a plate off the breakfast table with the other, and jumping up on a chair, began scraping away at my beautiful ceiling, whilst I ran down-stairs, and, telling Susan what had happened, and what Mrs. Yapp had prescribed as an antidote, we both of us made{123} a rush at the plaster of Paris images that the girl had stuck up over the mantelpiece; and whilst she was devouring her beautiful painted parrot, I eat Napoleon Bonaparte all but his boots.

Dear mother, who wouldn’t believe in anything that Mrs. Yapp said, declared that nothing would do her good but candles, and the poor dear soul had got through a whole rushlight and the better part of a long six, by the time that Mrs. Toosypegs (whom I had packed off in a cab to our doctor, and the chemist who had sold Mrs. Yapp the poison, and for Edward) got back to us again, bringing the chemist himself with her, and who said he was happy to inform us that it was all a mistake, and that the packet of oxalic acid, which they had fancied the young man had served the lady in tortoiseshell spectacles with, had been found, and that we had taken nothing but the very best Epsom salts after all.

Edward came rushing in shortly afterwards; and when he heard that it had only been a false alarm, I declare if he didn’t fall down on the sofa, and nearly split his sides; which made us all so wild, that I really felt as if I could have boxed the ears of the unfeeling monster; and I know for a positive fact that dear mother’s hands were itching to do it as well. As it was, the good old soul rated him soundly; for not being able to contain herself, she flew out at him, and told him that he ought to be ashamed of himself to lie there, as he was, chuckling over the distresses of the very woman whom he had sworn to love and cherish in sickness as well as in health—to say nothing of herself, who was my mother—and that at a time, too, when he ought to go down on his bended knees, and thank his stars for our miraculous escape. But Edward only grinned the more, and kept telling her that it was as good fun as the Derby-day, and that he had never known such capital sport after the Epsom Cup before.

This was too much for my beloved parent; and she didn’t hesitate to tell him that she wouldn’t stop in the house another minute; and, after his inhuman, and, she might say, ungentlemanly conduct, would never set foot in it again so long as she lived. And accordingly, out of the room she bounced, and up-stairs she went, and having packed up her things, off she took herself.

Directly Edward found how well he had got rid of dear{124} mother, he began to see what he could do with Mrs. Yapp. But though he said all kinds of sharp, cutting things to her, still it was no good, for she hadn’t got mother’s fine spirit, and really seemed to be as hard to get out of the house as black beetles are. However, at one time, he did make her say, that directly she learnt that her house in the country was fit to receive her, and the smell of the paint was fairly out of it, she would not trouble us any more with her company.

When at night I talked over the circumstances with Edward, I could not help confessing to him, I was far from sorry that dear mother had left, and that there was a prospect of Mrs. Yapp doing the same shortly—for, what with one and the other, they so tormented poor Susan, that I declare it was one round of noises from morning till night. First Mrs. Yapp would come to me, saying, that Susan had insulted her in a most disrespectful manner; and then Mrs. B—ff—n would march up to tell me that she couldn’t get Susan to do a thing for her. And after that I should have Mrs. Toosypegs come tearing up to say, that Susan had had the impudence to assert that the kitchen was no place of hers; and lastly, up would come Miss Susan herself, to know who was her Missus—and whether it was Mrs. Yapp, Mrs. B—ff—n, Mrs. Toosypegs, or myself; and declaring that it was more than one pair of hands could do to attend to the whole of them. So as Mrs. B—ff—n had gone, and Mrs. Toosypegs was going on the morrow, and Mrs. Yapp had threatened to go in a few days, why, thank heavens, there seemed to be a chance of some peace and comfort at last.

The day after Mrs. Toosypegs had left, Susan came to ask me whether it would be convenient for me to let her have a holiday on the morrow, and as I had been stupid enough to promise her one for getting rid of the strange child in the clever way she had, I didn’t see how I could well refuse, and consented to let her have one accordingly.

On the morrow, hearing my lady come down-stairs, I went to the window to see how she looked; for I felt certain that she would be dressed out to death. Sure enough, there she was, with at least six flounces to her skirt, and a black trumpery imitation blond lace bonnet, with a lot of bright red flowers stuck all about it, and what I would stake my

{125}

“Going out for a Holiday.”

existence was Mrs. Yapp’s green silk parasol—for I knew it by the carved ivory handle; as she had over and over again told me, the stick of it had been presented her by an old flame of hers, who was the third officer of an East Indiaman.

However, as it wasn’t my parasol, of course I had got nothing to do with it, and I had had quite hubbub enough in the house, without going making any more noises about such a trumpery affair as that. Besides, if the woman couldn’t spare time enough to look after her own things, why, I wasn’t going to do it for her; and she had no right to go out for the day as she had that morning, leaving her drawers open as a temptation to the poor girl.

The day afterwards, I thought something was in the wind, for Miss Susan came to me all of a fluster, and said that she should feel obliged if I would let her have ten shillings in advance. I however very properly gave her to understand that, as she had already had one pound fifteen on account of her next quarter, I shouldn’t do anything of the kind, adding that it really was astonishing to me what on earth she did with all her money.

Miss Susan seemed to be dreadfully put out by my refusal, (and well the wicked puss might, from what came out afterwards) for one evening, Edward had just got home from chambers, when he met a man on the door step, and on asking him what he wanted, he said that he wished to speak with the lady who owned the parasol he had brought with him, and which Edward knew very well belonged to Mrs. Yapp. So, when I opened the door, my husband asked the man to step into the parlour, and finding Mrs. Yapp there, told him that that was the lady he wanted. Whereupon the man said he was the head waiter of the Chalk Farm Tavern, and had brought home the parasol that she had left with his missus, on account of her not having money enough to pay the whole of the bill she had incurred when she was there with a life-guardsman. Mrs. Yapp blushed a bright orange right up to her eyes, (for it was impossible for her bilious complexion to blush crimson,) and said that it certainly was her parasol, but how it ever came into the man’s possession she wouldn’t attempt to say; for as to her ever having been inside a tavern with a life-guardsman, it was an abominable, wicked falsehood, that it was, and the man was a scoundrel to dare to come there and try to extort money from her under any such shameful pretences.{126}

I declare I could hardly smother my laughter with my pocket-handkerchief, for, as I whispered in Edward’s ear, it was Susan, I knew, that had been running up the bill there with that vagabond, Ned Twist, and that two or three days before I had seen her going out with that very parasol, I could see Edward was determined to have a bit of fun, for, with a wicked smile, he asked the man whether there might not be some mistake, for Mrs. Yapp was a highly respectable lady, and he could not bring himself to believe that she would, at her time of life, go keeping company with a life-guardsman. But the man said, “What mistake can there be?—didn’t the lady acknowledge that the parasol was hers?—and how should I have known where the owner of it lived, if she hadn’t at the time given her address. But of course she wont acknowledge it, because I’ve mentioned it before company; though I’ll be bound, that if I had seen her alone, she would have recollected all about it pretty quickly; still it’s useless her trying to get out of it; for there’s the bill, and if she’ll look at it, she’ll see what she had, and that there was five shillings paid, and a matter of two and threepence left owing, and that’s what I want; and if I don’t get it, I shall take the parasol back—that’s all.” And the man handed Mrs. Yapp the account, who threw it back upon the table.

“I don’t want to see your bill, sir,” she cried. “It’s all a shameful imposition, and you know it is; and what’s more, if you don’t give me up my parasol this minute, I shall appeal to Mr. Sk—n—st—n to make you. I never heard of such a thing, in all my life, coming here and taking away a respectable woman’s character, in the hopes of getting a trumpery two and threepence. Did you see me at your ‘Chalk Farm,’ as you call it, sir?”

“No,” replied the man; “but the waiter that served you did, and so did missus; and she said, you were with Ned Twist,—and he’s very well known to us, for he brings more business to our house than any other man in the regiment,—and if it hadn’t been for fear of losing his custom, we shouldn’t have trusted you.”

“Well, my good man,” said my husband, with a roguish grin, “as you’re so positive, I’d better pay you the money, rather than have any disturbance about such an unpleasant business.” And Edward having done so, the man left, when Mrs. Yapp flew{127} out in a most dreadful way, and declared, that Edward ought to be ashamed of himself for encouraging the man in the way he did, and going on as if he really believed what the villain had said. But Edward just put it to her, as a woman of the world, to say whether he could have done otherwise, when the facts of the case were so very strong against her; in all of which I of course agreed. And I declare it was such capital fun to see how she went on, when Edward took up the bill, and began reading it aloud as follows:—

| s. | d.
4 Glasses of Rum and Water | 2 | 0
3 Screws and a Pipe | 0 | 3
2 Teas, with Shrimps | 2 | 6
A small Glass of White Wine Negus, and Biscuits | 1 | 0
1 Bottle of Lemonade | 0 | 3
Ditto Soda with Brandy | 0 | 9
3 Cheroots | 0 | 6
| 7 | 3
By Cash | 5 | 0
By Parasol | 2 | 3

Then Edward kept remarking upon the different items, saying that it was very easy to see what was for Mr. Ned Twist, and what was for the lady—whoever it might be that accompanied him. And really and truly, if it was his dear mother-in-law, and she had been foolish enough to go falling in love with any of those good-looking dogs at the barracks, he didn’t see that there was any necessity for concealing her passion; for if the man were respectable, why, he should be very happy to see him, and question him as to whether his intentions were honourable towards her. It would have done any one’s heart as much good as it did mine to see how angry this made the poor bilious old lady, who, all the time that Edward was teasing her, was biting her lips, and shaking her leg up and down with downright passion, while she pretended to be very busy reading a book—(I never saw such reading)—until at last her nasty bile got the better of her, and would not allow her to stand a joke; for, declaring that she would leave the house the very next day, she bounced out of the room, slamming the door after her as hard as she could, till she made all the glasses on the sideboard jingle again, and up{128} she went sulking to her room, where she stopped, and wouldn’t come down to dinner, nor allow us to send any up to her—as if she thought that would hurt us—a stupid old toad! All this, I said to myself, comes of having people in the house who must go getting angry over a mere joke.

I told Edward that, as she had declared she would go on the morrow, and Susan told me that she really was packing up her things in real earnest, he might as well go up and tell her that he had only meant what he said in fun, and get her to come down to tea; or else, perhaps, what with her passion, and starving herself, she might be laid up before she left our house with a bilious fever. But he wouldn’t think of doing anything half so rash, he said, adding, that it would be quite time enough to apologize as soon as she should be dressed ready to go on the morrow.

Next day, Edward wouldn’t go down to chambers, for fear, as he said, that I should go playing the fool, and making it up with Mrs. Yapp. Knowing that she was going by the one o’clock coach, I got a nice little luncheon ready for her (just a few sandwiches cut from the lean part of the silver side of a round of beef, between some digestive bread); and when she came down to wish us good-bye, Edward told her he was sorry that she had taken in earnest what he only intended in joke—and I confessed that I knew it was Susan who had taken her parasol all the while, saying I was sure that if anything similar had occurred to me, I shouldn’t allow so slight a thing as that to ruffle my temper; and that I trusted she wouldn’t think of leaving us so soon—though I really was afraid of pressing her too much, for fear she might think I meant what I said. So, after a little coaxing, we got her to sit down and take a mouthful with us, telling her that Susan should run out to get her a coach, and I would slip on my things and go down with her to the coach-office, and see her off with a great deal of pleasure.

While we were waiting for Susan to come with the coach, there was a ring at the door, and, when I opened it, it was a man who said that he had brought his bill for the tobacco, and which he said he should feel obliged if I would settle. So I showed him in to Edward, as the only person in the house that smoked. But no sooner did he get into the room than he handed the bill to me, and said he believed I should find{129} that it was all correct, and when I looked at it I declare that it was nothing more than a string of near upon twenty half-ounces of “bird’s-eye returns.” So I asked Edward whether he knew anything about it; but the man said it was for me. Whereupon I asked him what he meant; and he had the impudence to persist in saying that I myself was the party who had purchased it for——

“For whom?” I said, with great indignation.

The man put his finger up to his mouth, as much as to say “Mum” before company.

“Say what you have to say, man,” I replied, “and don’t stand there making any of your signs and signals to me.”

On this, he came as close as he dared to me, and keeping his eye fixed on Edward, said, in a low whisper through the corner of his mouth—“You know—for Ned Twist, the life-guardsman.”

I gave a loud scream, and flying to Edward, cried out—“Oh, Edward, here’s a man says I owe him a bill for tobacco for that odious Ned Twist, the life-guardsman!”

Edward went up to him directly, and told him that it must be the servant that he wanted, and not myself, as I was his wife.

“Lord bless you!” replied the man, “as if I hadn’t seen the lady in my shop, along with Ned Twist, scores and scores of times, in the very same black velvet shawl that she’s got on now.”

I forgot what they said to each other after this, but I know they were just getting to high words—for the impudent wretch would keep insisting that it was I, and none other, who had purchased the tobacco of him for Ned Twist; and I was expecting every moment that Edward would be knocking him down, when, to my great joy, I heard Miss Susan come up in the hackney-coach to the door, and I ran to it, and brought her into the room. Then it turned out that all the time during my confinement that minx, Miss Susan, had been in the habit of going out of an evening, two or three times a week, dressed in my black velvet shawl, and running up all kinds of debts for Mr. Ned Twist, all round the neighbourhood.

Of course, this was more than I could bear; so I just told Miss Susan that she would please to provide herself with a new situation that day month; and very luckily, her quarter{130} would be just up then, or else I should certainly have had to have packed her off with a good part of her wages in advance.

The worst of it all was too, that Mrs. Yapp, although she had been living under our roof, and feeding off the fat of the land at our table for near upon a couple of months, must go insulting me before she left our house, and repeated to me in a most tantalising and unladylike way, all that I had said to her in the morning, about putting up with what she was pleased to call a mere joke, and reminding me of what I had very imprudently told her, that if I found a servant wearing my things, I should not care so much about it, after all. So as I wasn’t going to put up with her nasty taunts all the way down to the coach-office, I said I felt very ill, and wasn’t in a fit state to go such a distance. Edward, too, it struck me at the time, might have behaved himself with a little more decency, for he would keep saying all kinds of unpleasant things, and which I dare say, he thought very clever indeed; but I couldn’t see the point of them, though Mrs. Yapp must go giggling at them, as if they were the finest fun alive.

As for that Mr. Ned Twist, all I can say is, that if I could only have caught him, I should have told him a bit of my mind; and, as it was, I was as near as near could be, going round to the colonel of the regiment, and telling him that he ought to be ashamed of himself, to allow his men to go on in that way. For really there was some little excuse to be made for that stupid, conceited, highty-flighty, bit of goods of a Miss Susan of mine, for I’m sure the girl was head over ears in love with the gawky fellow, while he was only playing the fool with her. Every moment she could spare, there she was with a pen in her hand, scribbling a letter off to him, or else with a needle, making some shirts for the rip; and I declare, if she hadn’t gone to the expense of having his portrait cut out in black paper, and had paid at least eighteen pence extra for the sake of having the fellow’s mustachios and whiskers put in with a little trumpery bronze. Whenever, too, the minx could lay her hand upon any of my excellent jams or preserves, she would be sure to go making them up into pies or tarts, or something for that ogre of hers in a red coat; and once I found stowed away in the dresser-drawer a raspberry-jam tart, (we had had a roley-poley{131} pudding for dinner the day before,) with a lot of open-work over it, and a small heart made out of pastry, and the initials E. T. in the same elegant material.

A little while after this, I declare there was no possibility of getting that girl to do a single thing in the house, for it appears that bothering regiment was about to change its quarters. And there she was, sighing and crying away in secret, and going mooning about the place with her eyes as red as two brandy-balls. When I stepped round to Albany Street, to see Mrs. L—ckl—y, in the evening, she told me it was just the same with her Maria—as, indeed, she said, it was with the maids all down the street, on both sides of the way; and when I let fall, by accident, the name of Ned Twist, she knew it directly, and told me she verily believed the fellow supped in her kitchen twice a week at least. Her maid was going clean out of her mind, she said, for his sake—although she had told her, over and over again, that the fellow didn’t care two pins about her; for she, Mrs. L—ckl—y, knew for a positive fact that the good-looking glutton was all the while paying his addresses to the girls at both the pastrycooks in the street, as well as to the maid at the fruiterer’s over the way. Really, she said, there wasn’t a female servant in the whole street that hadn’t been spoiling her head of hair for the rogues, and she was sure that there would be as many locks given away on the day of the fellows’ departure as would stuff a decent-sized mattress; though how that general lover, Mr. Ned Twist, would ever be able to find enough hair for the whole of his sweethearts, was a mystery to her. For if he behaved to them all alike, and gave a lock to each, there was no doubt the amiable villain would be obliged to throw in his whiskers and mustachios, in order that the supply might in any way be equal to the demand; while the good-looking vagabond would be obliged to go about with nearly all his hair cut off, like a French poodle, or else cropped as short as a knapsack.

When the day came for Susan to go, the poor girl had only a matter of eight shillings to receive out of the whole of her quarter’s wages. And Edward asked her how on earth she meant to live until she got a new situation. Whereupon the wretched dupe burst into tears, and said she was sure she couldn’t say; she had spent chief part of her earnings in{132} paying for tobacco and drink for Ned Twist; and had lent him seven half-crowns; but she wouldn’t mind about that so much, only she had sent two letters to him at Windsor, and he had never even answered them. And what was worse than all, she had heard, since he left, that she wasn’t the only girl who had been fool enough to believe what he said, and to squander all her wages upon him; for she knew for a fact that in Albany Street alone, he had borrowed several pounds, in small sums, from different maids-of-all-work like herself, under the pretence of putting up the banns.

“But, my poor girl,” said Edward, “what could ever have induced you to believe the vagabond?”

“I can’t tell, sir,” sobbed Susan; “only he used to come of an evening, and fill my head with a lot of stuff about honour and glory, and bleeding for his country; and saying that whenever the trumpet sounded, he would gladly die upon the battle-plain in defence of the maids of merry England; and then he used to say that the soldier loved only three things as dearly as his life—and they were, his country, his honour, and his sweetheart—and ask me, who was so quick as the gallant Son of Mars to protect a lovely and defenceless woman from the tyrant’s grasp. So I couldn’t help thinking that he was one of the noblest men I ever met, and after all his fine sayings, I never dreamt that he would go borrowing my wages, and running away without paying me, and leaving me perhaps to starve while I’m out of place; for what’s to become of me now, goodness only knows.”

This tale affected us both so much, that we quite pitied the poor girl, for I saw that it had been all along as I had expected; and upon my word, the man was so handsome, that there was every allowance to be made for our simple Susan. As I said before, and say again, Government ought not to allow these men to have so much idle time on their hands as they have, or else make it a rule, that if there must be soldiers, at any rate, that they should be ugly ones; for her Majesty’s ministers ought to know that the red coats and bright buttons alone are quite sufficient to turn the heads of all the young girls, without the irresistible aggravation of a handsome face, and a pair of black mustachios.

Edward, who I must allow, is blessed with a good heart of his own, (though he has sometimes a strange way of showing{133} it,) gave Susan a sovereign, and I added to it a pair of my old black silk stockings, (which cost me, I remember, as much as five and sixpence when they were new,) and an old morning wrapper that I couldn’t wear any longer, and I told her that, if at any time before she got into a situation, she chose to come in and help my new maid, or nurse my little girl, she might always rely upon having her dinner and tea in the house,—though I know it’s foolish to be overkind to servants;—still as this was a case of real charity, I felt that I couldn’t well do less, as I’m sure all my readers will be ready to allow.

Though, after Susan had left me, I regret to say I found she was in no way deserving of my sympathy; for when my butcher’s bill came in, I discovered that she had been in the habit of getting things for that gormandizing Don Giovanni of hers in the life-guards, and having them put down to my account; for, as Mrs. L—ckl—y had given me to understand, that Mr. Ned Twist—drat him!—was particularly partial to bullock’s heart with veal stuffing, and that he would go through fire and water any day to get it, I at once saw by the bill who had been dining with Miss Susan every other day in the kitchen during my confinement; for there it was, sure enough. Leg of mutton, four-and-nine; bullock’s heart, one-and-three; fillet of veal, six-and-two; bullock’s heart, one-and-three; ribs of beef, five-and-seven; bullock’s heart, one-and-three; belly of pork, three-and-one; bullock’s heart, one-and-three. And so it went on, right down to the end of the chapter.{134}

## CHAPTER X.

OF THE DIRTY SLUT OF A GIRL THAT CAME IN TO MIND MY BABY, AND THE EXTRAORDINARY CHARACTER WE HAD TO CLEAN EDWARD’S BOOTS AND SHOES.

“Let us speak of a man as we find him,
And censure alone what we see;
And should any one blame, let’s remind him,
That from faults we are none of us free.”
“Let us speak of a Man as we find him.”
“She wander’d forlorn, without guardian or guide,
To the brink of the flood o’er the precipice side.”
“Ah! did you not hear of a poor Silly Maid.”

After Susan left me, I had one or two maids; but I really can’t say what on earth had come to all the creatures, for none of them would suit me. However, as there was nothing particular about their goings on, and the annoyances they caused me were not of sufficient consequence to interest my readers, I shall merely say that, as I wasn’t going to have any more pretty maids in my house so long as those dreadful barracks remained in the neighbourhood, I took good care to choose the very ugliest that I could pitch upon. I declare to goodness if the woman wasn’t the very image of an ourang-outang in petticoats! Goodness gracious! I never saw such a head on a woman’s shoulders before in all my life. Lord-a’-mercy upon the woman, if she hadn’t nose enough for six! and it was of that peculiar shape which mother calls a bottle, and hairs all growing on the end of it, just like a large ripe red gooseberry. But I’m sorry to say that I had overshot my mark this time; for, upon my word, the woman was so shamefully ill-favoured, and so frightfully bad-looking, that after she came into the house, instead of growing accustomed to her face, as I expected I should, it only seemed to me to grow more and more ugly every day; and Edward vowed that he couldn’t bear to look upon her, and wouldn’t have such a buck-horse, as he called her, in his service; and, more than that, I declare my little ducks-o’-diamonds of a Kate used to scream itself nearly into fits directly the woman came near her. So I was obliged to get rid of her, though I must do the{135} woman the justice to say that she answered my purpose very well, and did capitally for what I had engaged her—viz., to scare all the life-guardsmen away from my larder, which she did so effectually, that from the day after she entered my service, till the time she left, I never saw but one near the place, and he was a red-headed Irishman, and, I suppose, thought that, as the woman was so ugly, she must have a good bit of money in the savings bank; but even he only came once.

The next maid I had was too grand by half to please me, and ought to have been a duchess instead of a servant; as she told me, plump and plain, “that she couldn’t a’bear the taste of ’ashes, and warn’t a-going to have none of the scraps warmed up twice, and shoved off upon her.” So, of course, I soon let the stuck-up thing know that she wouldn’t suit me, and that I only hoped that the day might come when she would be glad to jump out of her skin to get a dishful of sweet and wholesome mutton, instead of standing there turning up her nose at it, as if she were a lady of fashion.

The servant that I had after my fine lady was really a good one; but she objected to clean boots and knives, declaring that she had lived as maid-of-all-work in the first of families—(I never knew such first of families—I had her character from a tobacconist),—where every morning a man used to come in and do them. Indeed, she positively refused to touch either; so, as I wasn’t going to give into her—even if she had been the treasure that my mother promised to find me when I first got married—I determined to let her see who was mistress, and paying her a month in advance, I told her to go back and show her airs in her first of families, for she shouldn’t in mine.

Really, what with all this worry and bother, and what with my nursing at the time, I declare it was pulling me down so low, that my poor bones were all starting through my poor skin, and positively I hadn’t a bit of fat left upon my cheeks. If I drank one pint of porter throughout the day, I must have drunk near upon a dozen; and although the beer in the neighbourhood certainly was very good, still it seemed to be all thrown away upon me; and dear Edward very truly observed, that such a great big child as my Kitty was too much for me, and that either I must make up my mind to wean the{136} poor little dear, (which I couldn’t bear the thoughts of,) or I must take more substantial food, and keep always having something strengthening, and a glass of port wine every two hours throughout the day; for he said, he didn’t wish me to go drinking so much porter; and that, as it was, there was nothing but one series of cries now at our door of “pots” and “beer,” from the first thing in the morning to the last thing at night. Really, he felt quite ashamed to look at our area rails when he got up, for there wasn’t a spike that hadn’t got a pewter-pot hanging to it, so that any one to see the sight would imagine that porter after all was the real blessing to mothers, and that Barclay and Perkins ought to be looked upon as the gigantic wet-nurses to the infants of the metropolis, while Truman and Hanbury might, at the same time, be regarded in the light of the extensive purveyors of milk to the blessed babes of London.

I told him, for goodness’ sake, to hold his tongue, and talk about something that he understood, and that I was sure I didn’t take half as much stout as many ladies that I knew, for that ever since the little pet had been born, I had accustomed it to the bottle.

“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he replied; “teaching a little innocent creature like that to fly for consolation to the bottle already. For my part,” he continued, “I shouldn’t at all wonder if she could, even now, at her tender age, manage her six bottles without being under the cradle.”

“Well, I’m sure!” I exclaimed. “I think you might find something better to joke upon, Mr. Sk—n—st—n, and not go turning your own flesh and blood into ridicule.”

“You know, my dear,” he continued, sipping his wine in the coolest way possible, “I’ve told you at least a hundred times that it’s one of the prettiest and most innocent little lambs I ever saw: so, come, my love, let’s drink the darling’s health; and I’ll give you a toast—‘May we ne’er want a baby, nor a bottle to give it!’”

I let him go on, for I saw that he was in a nasty, tantalizing humour, and that nothing would please him better than to get my blood up; but I wasn’t going to let him. Accordingly, I rang the bell for tea, and asked him, as I was nursing the child, and he seemed to want something to do, just to make it.{137}

I declare I never knew such poor, helpless, ignorant things as the men are!—for, positively and truly, Edward was obliged to ask me to tell him how many spoonfuls he was to put in. And he calls himself a lord of the creation, too! Pretty lord of the creation, indeed, not even to know how to make so much as a simple cup of tea! So I had my laugh at him, and asked him, in my sly, quiet way, how he would ever be able to manage without us. Then I told him, of course, that he was to put in one spoonful for each of us, and one for the pot.

“One for the pot!” he exclaimed; “what do you mean by that? How can the pot want a spoonful? I shan’t do anything of the kind.”

I really thought I should have died of laughter at seeing any one so stupid, and said—“Lord! how foolish you are, Edward! Why, of course it’s only an extra spoonful, to make it better for ourselves; only it’s always customary, when you’re making tea, to say that it is for the pot.”

“Ah!” he returned—“I see! It’s the old story over again: doing something for ourselves, and making it out as if for another. And I’m very much afraid that, in these days of excessive philanthropy, more than one-half of what is termed charity is, after all, nothing more than ‘one for the pot.’”

I knew, if I answered him, he would go on all night, so I held my tongue; and I declare if he didn’t go putting almost every virtue down as “one for the pot,” and had the impudence to say that the shilling I put into the plate after the charity sermon, the Sunday before last, was not done for the sake of the orphans, but out of fear of not doing as other people did, and consequently was really and truly “one for the pot;” and that the beer which I drank, and which I said I took solely on dear little Kitty’s account, might also be put down as “one for the pot.”

After a world of bother, I at length obtained a servant. To be sure she was as stupid as she could well be; but when I came to think of it, what on earth could that matter to me? For, as I said to myself, we don’t want geniuses to wash up our dishes, or women of mind, indeed, to boil our potatoes. So I didn’t care about the poor thing’s deficiency of intellect, especially as it was muscles, and not brains, that I wanted, and she had a very good character from her last place; though{138} really and truly the poor thing seemed to be half-witted, and I had to take great care about what I said to her, or she would be sure to go and take it literally. However, I had had so many knaves in the house before, that really I thought a fool would be agreeable, if it was only for the change. But whilst she was with me, the blunders she kept continually making were such that, whenever she came into my presence, I couldn’t help saying to myself, I never knew a woman approaching so near an idiot, in all my life.

However, my lady had got sense enough left to object to cleaning the knives and the boots and shoes, and to stipulate, when I engaged her, that I should get somebody else to do them; so I told her, if I found she suited me, I should not make that an objection, as, indeed, I should not have done with the other one, had she asked for it with the proper respect that was due to me as her mistress. So there I was again as deep in the mire as ever, and obliged to go trotting about among the tradesmen, asking them if they could recommend me any honest, well-disposed person, that had got his mornings disengaged, and would like to turn an honest penny or two by polishing our knives and boots.

Moreover, as I found that my little girl was getting far too heavy for me, in my weak state, to carry, I, at the same time, told the tradespeople that I should feel obliged if they would send me round any respectable little girl that they might hear of, who was competent to take care of a child.

Next day, the oilman sent a girl round to me. She was a little round fat body, with what I thought at the time was dark brown hair, (though I since found out that it was a bright red, only greased for the occasion into a chestnut;) and she looked so clean and neat, that I was delighted with her. As the oilman said that he knew her father—who was a highly respectable journeyman-painter—and that the girl was a well-behaved child, I made no bones about taking her, but told her she might come, and I should give her two shillings a-week, and food, which would be a great help to her parents, who, I dare say, were anxious that a girl of her age should begin to turn her hand to something for a living.

She went on very well at first, as they all do, indeed, and came with her hair nicely brushed, and her face and hands{139} and apron beautifully clean, for two or three mornings; and then, all of a sudden, a change came o’er the spirit of my dream, as the poet says, and anybody that had seen her look so tidy before, would never have known her again in the grubby state she appeared; for she used to come with her hair just the same as when she got up in the morning, and all frayed out like so much red worsted, and looking as coarse and fuzzy as cocoa-nut fibre—and with the hooks and eyes nearly all off her gown behind—and her nasty rusty black petticoat hanging down below her frock, all caked over with old mud—and her boots burst out, and laced up three holes at a time, just to save herself trouble, with the ends of the laces dangling about her heels, and allowed to drag in the wet, till they really looked for all the world like a bit of string—whilst her apron, I declare, was as dirty as a coal-heaver’s stockings at the end of the week.

At last I found out who and what my lady was. For one day, after I had spoken to her about the disgraceful state of her clothing, and had told her that she really must get her boots mended if she wished to stop in my service, lo, and behold! my little monkey appeared the next day in a pair of old, dirty, worn-out, white satin shoes. And when I asked her what on earth could possess her to think of ever coming into my house in such disgraceful things as she had got on her feet, I declare, if she didn’t tell me that they were the shoes that she wore when she used to dance, as “La Petite Saqui,” on the tight-rope at the Queen’s Theatre, in Tottenham-court-road, until she grew too stout for the business.

I uttered a faint scream at the idea of my sweet cherub being intrusted to the care of such a creature, and asked her what in the world could have induced her to take to such an extraordinary means of getting a living? But she merely said that her father had a large family, and he had apprenticed her at a very early age to her uncle, who, together with her cousin, and a young gentleman of the name of Biler, were the original Bedouin Brothers, and who, she told me, were declared by the public press and her father to be the first posture-masters of the day.

I could scarcely restrain my feelings on hearing this, for, of course, after what I had heard, I imagined that I should go up suddenly into the nursery some fine morning, and{140} catch “La Petite Saqui” doing with my little daughter the same as I had seen Mr. Risley do with his little boy—viz., lying down on her back, tossing up the little pet with the soles of her feet, and catching it again on the palms of her hand. However, I restrained my feelings, and determined to go round that very afternoon to the oilman, and give it him well for sending such a creature to me, with the character he did, and try if I could hear of any other girl in the neighbourhood.

Accordingly, as soon as my little angel of a Kate was fast asleep, I put on my bonnet, and stepped out. To make sure that neither of the girls could be up to any of their tricks in my absence, I took the key of the street-door, and locked them both in.

I couldn’t have been gone above half an hour, and when I got home again, I opened the door with as little noise as I could, in the hopes of seeing what the minxes had been doing in my absence. I had scarcely got half way down the passage, before—goodness gracious me!—if I didn’t see “La Petite Saqui,” as the young monkey called itself, out in the garden, with my longest clothes-pole in her hand, figuring on a tight-rope, which she had made by tying my clothes line from the railings to the garden-seat.

Yes, there she was, now springing up in the air, and now coming down, and sitting on the rope for a minute, and then bounding up again, just like an Indian-rubber ball, and then coming down again, and balancing herself on one leg, whilst she held the other out for a few seconds; and then running along the line towards the house as quick as she could put one foot over the other, and stopping suddenly, with a graceful curtsy, in the first position, just as I made my appearance at the back door. And when I went out into the garden, bless us and save us! if the place wasn’t just like a fair, with all the servants round about stretching their necks out of the windows or poking their noses over the garden walls, and that fool of a maid-of-all-work of an Emma of mine, standing by looking on, with a ball of whiting in her hand, and her mouth wide open with wonder.

They no sooner saw me, than down jumped that fat lump of goods, “La Petite Saqui,” and off she scampered, and I after her, all round the garden, with my parasol, trying to{141} give it her well, amidst roars of laughter from all the servants looking on.

As for my tight-rope dancer, I wasn’t long in getting her out of the house, for directly I caught her, I took her by the scruff of the neck, and, bundling her into the street, threw her bonnet out after her.

Then I went down-stairs, and told that stupid thing of an Emma, that if ever I caught her idling her time away, instead of minding her work—which, I was sure, was quite enough for her to do, and if it wasn’t, I could easily find her some more—I’d serve her just in the same way, and not give her a character into the bargain. For I felt that if a stop were not put to such goings-on, at their very commencement, that really there would be no saying to what lengths such a simpleton as Emma might not go.

All the stupid thing kept saying was, that I had promised her she was not to clean the boots and shoes, and knives and forks, and that she had had to do them ever since she had been with me—as if that had got anything to do with it. But my experience has taught me, that servants, directly one begins to find fault with anything they’ve been doing, have a clever knack of bringing up against one any little indulgence that one may have foolishly promised them, and very naturally forgotten to carry out.

I told Miss Emma that she needn’t be frightened about soiling her delicate hands with the blacking brushes, as she wouldn’t have to do it much longer, for I had engaged a man who was to come in on the day after to-morrow, and would take the boots off her hands.

The publican sent me a very nice, sharp, active man, of the name of Richard Farden, though, he told me, he was better known as Dick Farden. He said, in the low London dialect, “He should be werry glad on the place, as it was just the thing he had been a looken out for for these three weeks gone, as his perfession didn’t require looking arter till it were gone three, or so.”

“Indeed!” I said, in the hopes that he would go on, for really the idea of a professional gentleman coming in to clean my boots and shoes did strike me as being somewhat singular. “And where may your place of business be?”

“Why, marm,” he replied, twiddling his bushy whiskers,{142} “you see, my place o’ business is wery like this ere climate of ourn—wariable. Ven the brometer points to wery vet, then, on course, I knows that it’s a-going to be fine, and then I hangs out in Regent Street; and ven it stands at wery dry, then, as I knows it’s goin’ to rain, I hemigrates to that there public humbrella, the Lowther Harcade.”

As I could make neither head nor tail of what he said, my curiosity was excited all the more; so I told Edward, when he came home, of what a strange creature I had picked up to do the boots and shoes, and he appeared to be as much in the dark as I was; but, as he said, Mr. Dick Farden’s business, whatever it was, could be no business of his, he wasn’t going to bother his brains about it, so long as the man did his duty to his Wellingtons.

However, one evening, Edward informed me that he had found out who Mr. Dick Farden was; for as he was stopping to look into a print-shop in Regent Street, on his way home that afternoon, somebody tapped him on the shoulder, and said in his ear, “Do you want any prime cigars, noble captain?” and on turning round, who should it be but our out-door valet. When he recognised Edward, he only laughed and said, “I hope no offence, master? I merely wanted to do a bit of business in the smuggling line.”

“Oh, dear me!” I cried. “You don’t mean to say that we’ve got a horrid wretch of a smuggler for a servant, now?”

“Lord bless you!” replied Edward, “don’t go frightening yourself about that. You may depend upon it the fellow’s too knowing for that.”

However, after what he had said, I wasn’t going to be put off in that way, and told Edward that I would have the man up the very next morning, before him; and that if he couldn’t give a good account of himself, why he should turn him out of the house then and there.

Next morning at breakfast, I declare I couldn’t rest easy until we had Mr. Dick Farden up in the room, and when Edward reminded him of what had taken place the day before; the impudent fellow only stood there grinning and polishing the top of his oil-skin cap with his elbow, and saying that, of course, a gentleman so well acquainted with London as my husband, was very well aware of what he was after. That he had got no contraband articles to dispose{143} of, and wasn’t such a stupid as to go infringing the laws, and running the chance of paying a hundred pounds odd for supplying the public with foreign articles, when many of them couldn’t tell the difference between them and the real, genuine English goods.

And then the fellow went on and told us a whole pack of things,—how what he called his prime smuggled Havannahs were no more nor less than those that were imported from the extensive cabbage plantations of Fulham, into the snuff and tobacco manufacturies in the Minories, and his very best pale or brown French cognac, and which he always warranted to his customers to be the very best that France could produce, was none other than the real spirit of the potato, commonly known by the name of British brandy; and the whole cargo of it that he had in his possession had been run in a splendid lugger of a chay-cart all the way from Smithfield; although, of course, to give it a genuine foreign flavour, he told the gentlemen a long cock-and-a-bull-story, as to how, at the perils of their lives, and at the outlay of upwards of a hundred pounds spent in bribing the revenue officers, he and his pals had succeeded in running it safe ashore at Deal, after a three hours’ chase by one of the finest cutters in the revenue service.

After this, it was no very difficult matter to see that the man was no more a smuggler than I was, so I asked him how it was that the gentlemen were stupid enough to buy his things? But he very frankly told me the whole secret, saying, that as the parties whom he went up to were mostly young men from the counting-houses, he generally commenced by calling them, “noble captains,” because they liked to be thought to be in the army, and having tickled with this, he said the other part of the business was mere child’s play—for the delicious flavour of a thing being foreign, together with the fine perfume of the idea that it was smuggled, was quite sufficient to make the youths of London buy and swallow anything.

As I saw he was inclined to go on, I wasn’t going to spoil the fun by interrupting him; so he continued saying that the whole world had a taste for smuggling, and the ladies in particular; and for his part, if ever he had any idea of going into the real genuine smuggling profession, he told me that, from the observations he had made while following the imitation busi{144}ness, he should decidedly man all his cutters with women,—that was to say, provided they were “thin ’uns,” as he elegantly expressed it,—for, of course, if the ladies were stout, the extension of their figures with any foreign produce would not only raise the suspicions of the officers, but likewise prevent their getting easily through the custom-house, while, if the angels were slightly made, nothing was simpler than to fatten the poor spare things with lace, or to pad them into perfect Venuses with white kid gloves. Indeed, he said, the corset-makers, knowing the natural propensity of the female sex for contraband goods, seemed to have designed one article of feminine attire simply with a view of defrauding the custom-house; for he had heard of one old lady who had brought home in her bustle alone (and which, asking my pardon, he said was the article of feminine attire that he alluded to) twelve yards of the best French velvet—upwards of forty-two of Valenciennes lace—a dozen of cambric pocket-handkerchiefs—and three dozen of white kid gloves—nine pair of silk stockings—a pair of stays—and a wig. But, to be sure, he added, she was a “werry thin ’un, Mam,”—insomuch so, indeed, that had Captain Johnson, or any other eminent smuggler, known of her natural propensity for infringing the laws, he would have given her any sum she might name to have entered his service; for positively and truly, she would have taken any amount of foreign produce, and would have borne cramming as well as a turkey.

I declare the man was such a chatter-box, that I verily believe he would have gone on talking for a twelvemonth, if we had only let him. But as I saw that he was determined to say all he could against my sex, of course I wasn’t going to sit quietly there and listen to it, while Mr. Edward kept chuckling at all he said against the women, like a ninny; so I told Mr. Dick Farden that he had better go down-stairs, and look after the knives, though really it would, in the end, have been much better for me if I had turned him out of the house on the spot; for—— But as Mr. Savill, my bothering printer, tells me that he can’t possibly squeeze any more of my domestic distresses into this number, why, my gentle readers must wait till the next month before they learn how Mr. Dick Farden served me, after all.{145}

## CHAPTER XI.

MORE ABOUT that MR. DICK FARDEN—HOW REALLY AND TRULY THERE WAS NO TRUSTING THE FELLOW TO DO A SINGLE THING, FOR POSITIVELY HE SPOILT EVERYTHING HE PUT HIS HAND TO, (IF, INDEED TO DO THE MAN JUSTICE, I EXCEPT THE BOOTS AND KNIVES)—AND HOW, WHEN AT LAST HE SO COMPLETELY RUINED MY LOVE OF A PIANO, THAT ACTUALLY MY “BROADWOOD” WAS ONLY FIT FOR FIREWOOD, (IF THAT,) I WISHED TO GOODNESS GRACIOUS I HAD BEEN A MAN FOR HIS SAKE—BUT AS IT WAS, I MERELY TOLD HIM THAT SUCH GOINGS ON WOULD NOT SUIT me, AND THAT HE HAD BETTER GO AND PLAY HIS PRANKS ELSEWHERE, FOR I WASN’T GOING TO PUT UP WITH THEM ANY LONGER, I COULD TELL HIM.

“He seemed confounded—vexed—he stared—
Then vow’d he’d ne’er deceive me;
Says I, ‘Your presence can be spared,
Sir, if you please, do leave me.’”
* * * * *
* * * * *
“Now pray,” says I, “don’t teaze, young man,
You don’t exactly suit me.”
“You don’t exactly Suit Me.”
G. Herbert Rodwell.

The courteous reader will perhaps recollect that Mr. Savill, my bothering printer (as I couldn’t help calling him last month), came in, just at the most interesting part of my narrative about Mr. Dick Farden, and in a most unrelenting manner cut short the thread of my tale with the scissors: “of want of space.” Not that I should have minded so much about it, only the worst of it was, I had warmed so nicely into my story, and really had grown so hot upon it, just at the very moment when in walked Mr. Savill, to throw cold water upon me, with his precious “No more room, ma’m.” And it isn’t easy for a person of poetic mind to have to warm up her feelings a second time, as if the heart were so much cold mutton, or beef, or pork; although, for the matter of that, I think my fair readers will agree with me that pork makes but an indifferent hash, and that nothing on earth can be nicer than a cold boiled leg with a nice mixed pickle, especially in summer time, when hot joints are so disagreeable.

Well, but I think I hear the reader exclaiming, “Good{146}ness gracious, my dear Mrs. Sk—n—st—n, you are allowing your fertile imagination to run away with you, and you have so interested us with your sufferings, that our only happiness lies in listening to your miseries. So “revenons à nos moutons,” and Mr. Dick Farden’s capers.”

Certainly the man had a great deal to answer for. His whole life seemed to have been one round of juggling, and imposition, and deceit. Not that I would visit all the blame upon him, for, from what I could learn, his good-for-nothing father really seemed to have been no better than he should have been. Indeed, Mr. Dick Farden told me one day, while he was rubbing down our dining-room table, that “his old governor” (as he called his paternal parent) had originally been in the hair-dressing, shaving, and perfuming line, and had at one time the heads of at least a hundred families in his care, and the chins of half an entire parish under his hands. Consequently, Mr. Farden, sen. did a very extensive business in “Macassars,” “Circassian creams,” “Balm of Columbias,” “Botanic Waters,” and other only safe and speedy means by which baldness is effectually removed, and the hair renovated, beautified, and preserved; for whilst he was cutting and curling his customers, he used invariably to persuade them that their locks were thinning and falling off dreadfully, and that the hair, being nothing more nor less than a vegetable, and the head merely the field in which it sprouted, of course, whenever the crops were cut, it stood to reason that the soil required manuring with a good top-dressing of bear’s grease, while the roots of the plants naturally needed being occasionally irrigated with “botanic water;” adding, that the days were shortly coming when the barber would be ranked with the farmer, and looked upon as the tiller of the head, or hairgriculturist.

Accordingly, Mr. Dick Farden, sen., finding that his eloquence as to the virtues of the artificial manures for the hair was adding considerably to the incomes of Messrs. Rowland, Ross, Gosnell, and others, it struck him that it was merely a duty he owed to his family to devise some guano for the head which should make his own fortune. So he plunged head over ears into bear’s grease, and kept a manufactory and two roaring Russians in a cage in his front kitchen, so that the passers-by might see through the area gratings the brace of{147} hairy monsters walking backwards and forwards, just where the dresser used to be, and thus have ocular demonstration that he dealt only in the genuine article; while, at the end of his garden, he fitted up a very commodious stye for the fattening of pigs; for, as he said very truly, if bald people were partial to the fat of the bear merely on account of the strength of the hair that grew on the back of that animal, surely good, wholesome pig’s fat would be twice as serviceable to them, seeing that that domestic creature bore nothing weaker than bristles. Consequently, Mr. Farden, sen., now turned his thoughts chiefly to the growth of lard and sale of genuine bear’s grease; and whenever he killed a fat pig, he used to paste up outside his door a large placard, with “Another fine young bear just slaughtered” printed upon it; whilst in his shop window he suspended the body of the defunct porker, dexterously served up in a beautiful bear’s skin that he always kept by him on purpose, and with a card hung with blue ribbon round his neck, on which was written, “Real genuine bear’s grease cut from the carcass, at only 1s. 6d. PER POUND.” As Dick Farden said, “his governor’s” business was very profitable, but very unpleasant, for the exhibition of the two savage monsters in the kitchen, and the domestic animal in the window, raised such a demand for real bear’s grease in the neighbourhood, that the family had nothing but pork, pork, pork, for dinner all the year round.

To his father’s business our Dick Farden in course of time succeeded, but being of a wild and roving turn of mind, he paid little or no attention to the pigs, and as he said, “he went it so fast that he wasn’t long in going through ‘Farden’s magic grease,’” so that in a very little time, the sheriff walked into the shop, and seized the two bears in the kitchen, together with all the wigs, scalps, and moustachios he had on the premises. But this, he said, he thought he might have got over, had he not unfortunately distrained upon several ladies’ fronts which he had been intrusted with to bake, and which he regretted to say, being taken for the benefit of the creditors, obliged him to fly the neighbourhood, and seek a living elsewhere. After this sad affair, things went very crooked with him, and he said that often and often he had been so put to it, that he would have given anything for a mouthful of the crackling of the fine young bears that he used once to turn his{148} nose up at; and he said he must have tried, what he called “no end of dodges,” to earn an honest living, but all to no good, until one day he fell in with a gentleman over his pipe at the “White Hart,” who persuaded him to join him in the British smuggling line; for as the gentleman, who seemed to be a perfect man of the world and to have a wonderfully fine knowledge of the female portion of human nature, expressed it: “You had only to make the ladies believe that you had got several extraordinary bargains, in the shape of cambrics, gloves, or lace, which you could let them have at fifty per cent. under prime cost, and they would buy cart-loads, whether they wanted them or not, and never trouble their dear heads as to whether they were honestly come by.” In fact, he knew scores and scores of enterprising linendrapers, who had made large fortunes by ruining themselves regularly once a twelvemonth, and selling off the whole of their stock, by order of the assignees, for the benefit of the creditors in general, and ladies in particular. For he said it was well known among the gentlemen in the haberdashery line, that the ladies would never enter a linendraper’s shop so long as he asked only a fair profit on his wares, whereas, if he would only make them believe that he was going to the dogs, and that he was selling off his goods for full half less than they were ever made for, down they would come in swarms, as fast as their legs, cabs, and carriages would carry them, and pay whatever prices the spirited proprietor might please to ask. For the idea of “ANOTHER EXTENSIVE FAILURE” seemed to have such a charm to the women, that the only way by which a linendraper could keep himself solvent, was by declaring himself bankrupt, especially as the darling creatures evidently looked upon it as a religious duty to attend every “AWFUL SACRIFICE,” for nothing seemed to them to be so noble as the notion of a man’s immolating himself at the shrine of Basinghall-street for the love of the fair sex. Indeed, the angels of women appeared to be the very reverse of those ungrateful brutes of rats, and instead of leaving a house just as it’s about to tumble to pieces, they seemed to be more like owls, and love to haunt “ruins,” or rather, he might say, they were the very image of Cornwall wreckers, and would, in answer to the very first placard that was hung out as a signal of distress by the stranded linendraper, rush down in hundreds to see what rem{149}nants they could pick up, or get out of the wreck, before the whole concern went to pieces.

Mr. Dick Farden then informed me, that upon this advice he had devoted his labours entirely to the fair sex, and immediately embarked in the “bargain line.” Knowing that the ladies had a natural aversion to parting with their money, and preferred exchanging their dear husbands’ left-off wearing apparel, he made a feeble endeavour to convert old clothes into the current coin of the realm, by carrying about on his arm a beautiful little love of a tame squirrel, which he offered to the passers-by, at the low price of a worn out surtout, and a wonderful piping bullfinch for the exceedingly small charge of a castoff pair of trousers and a waistcoat. In the winter, however, he carried with him a basket of Derbyshire Spa chimney ornaments, with a few glasses and jugs and basins hanging round it. With these, he said, he managed very well, for he could furnish a sweet pretty mantelpiece very elegantly for a lady, with a great coat in the middle and an umbrella on one side, and a mackintosh on the other, while he believed that through his humble means, several husbands had often washed their faces in their old hats, and sipped their gin and water out of their worn-out boots.

By these means he raised money enough to purchase a cargo of contraband goods in the Minories, and succeeded in running them safe into a public-house in the neighbourhood of Regent-street, the sale of which goods occupied his afternoon; while, he added, with a stupid grin on his face, he was proud to say his mornings were devoted to the polishing of our boots and shoes, and knives; for, thank goodness, he continued, there was no pride in him, and he was always willing to pick up a sixpence any day, any how, so that now he could look any of his creditors in the face, and had no need to be, as he so repeatedly was after his father’s death, non est inwentus, though, for the matter of that, Mr. Carstairs, who was one of the most beautiful writers of the day, very truly said—“A nonest man’s the noblest work of Natur.”

I am very much afraid I’ve been wasting a great deal of my own valuable time and space, and of my courteous reader’s equally valuable patience, in giving all I could learn of the history of this worthless man; only my dear Edward (who is as obstinate as a mule) would have it that Dick Farden was{150} quite a character, although I must say that if he was a character, he was a very bad one; and I declare the way in which he served me and my sweet piano, is quite heart-rending to think of, but I will tell the reader all about this in its proper place. Though I can’t help adding, that it was quite as much the work of my dear Edward (who, it pains me to state, always will have his own way, and of course always must be in the right) as it was the work of Mr. Dick Farden, (who certainly was one of the clumsiest and stupidest men that I ever came nigh,) for if Mr. Sk—n—st—n would only have allowed me to have packed the man out of the house when I wanted, of course it never would have happened, and I should have had my sweet Broadwood in my possession at this very minute, but the gentle reader knows as well as I do, that what can’t be, &c., must be, &c.; so I shall say no more about the piano, until I touch upon it in the due course of things; for I’ve quite made up my mind to the loss of the thing a long time ago, and the least said is the soonest mended; still I can’t help adding, that I only wish to goodness gracious that I had never set eyes upon that awkward lout of a Mr. Dick Farden, or that that perverse, headstrong (though good at times) husband of mine would not go interfering about the servants, but just allow me to deal with them as I please, and manage my own affairs myself, for I should be glad to know how he would like me to go meddling with his clerks, indeed. In conclusion, I can only say that the circumstance affected me so much at the time that I only prayed for one thing, and that was that the laws would have allowed me to have had the vagabond transported, as they ought to have done, or at the very least have compelled the man to have given me a new piano, value seventy-five guineas, which I was assured was the cost of ours when it was new, though for myself I can’t speak positively to the fact, for, to tell the truth, we bought it second-hand.

But, methinks I hear the gentle reader saying, what about the piano? You are again forgetting yourself, Mrs. Sk—n—st—n, and allowing your naturally fine, warm feelings to make you wander from your subject. C’est vrai—vous avez raison, courteous reader.

Well, then, the fact is, I never was fond of needle-work at the best of times, and really and truly, I never could see{151} the fun of passing the heyday of one’s youth darning stockings, and cobbling up a pack of old clothes as full of holes as a cinder shovel. So I longed to have an instrument just to amuse myself with for an hour or two in the day, or play over an air or two to Edward of an evening. And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t got any music-books; besides, I really and truly was sick and tired of doing kettle-holders and working a pack of filthy copper kettles in Berlin wool with a stupid “Mind it boils” underneath them, or else working a lot of braces and slippers for Edward, which, in his nasty vulgar way, he said were too fine by half for use, or else sitting for hours with your toe cocked up in the air netting purses and spending a mint of money in steel beads for a pack of people that you didn’t care twopence about, and who never gave you so much as a trumpery ring or brooch in return (I hate such meanness). So I wouldn’t let Edward have any peace until he promised to get me a piano; for, as I very truly observed, I had been out of practice so long, that I should be very much surprised if on sitting down to a piano, I didn’t find the cries of the wounded in the “Battle of Prague” too much for me, and I was sure that I should break down in the runs in the “Bird Waltz,” even supposing I was able to manage the shakes. And as for the matter of my voice, I told him I had serious alarms about losing my G, and if I did I should never forgive myself, after the money that had been spent on my musical education at Boulogne-sur-mer alone, and I was sure that if I had to begin anew with my singing exercises, and was to be put in the scales again, that I should be found wanting. Besides, I concluded the business by giving him to understand, that it wasn’t so much for myself that I wanted the piano, after all, but of course my darling little toodle-loodle-loo of a Kate, in two or three years at least must have an instrument to begin practising upon, and if he didn’t get one before that, I was sure I shouldn’t be able to tell the difference between A flat and a bull’s foot, and he would have to go to I know not what expense in masters for her, and then he would be ready to cut his ears off for not having got me a piano when I begged of him.

I am happy to say that Edward for once was not deaf to reason, but seeing that I wanted the piano more out of love for little Kate than from any selfish motive on my part, he{152} very properly consented to look out for one for me, although my gentleman couldn’t let well alone, but must go cutting his stupid jokes, saying that he was very much afraid that the piano was only “one for the pot” over again; but I very quickly silenced my lord by merely exclaiming, in my most sarcastic way, “Fiddle.”

However, of course, as usual Mr. Sk—n—st—n, if ever he does consent to do a good action must go spoiling it by doing the thing by halves; for instead of going and ordering me one of Broadwood’s very best new grand uprights, he must needs go poking his nose into all the filthy dirty salerooms in London, until he fell in with a trumpery second-hand cottage, and which I had to have French polished all outside, and thoroughly repaired and done up in, before I could do anything with it, for I declare when I came to go over it, half of the keys of the cottage were of no use. Still, thank goodness, it was a Broadwood, although no one would have thought it, if they had seen it in the state in which it came home to me; for a Broadwood, I think it had the most disgraceful legs I ever saw in all my life, and it wasn’t until I had had the whole thing thoroughly cleaned and put in order, that it was fit to be seen in any respectable person’s dining-room.

When I had spent nearly a fortune upon it, I must confess that it wasn’t so bad after all; indeed, no one would have known it again, and I’ve over and over again seen very many worse in the houses of persons far better off in the world than ourselves, but whose names, for many reasons, of course, I’m not going to state. Certainly its tone was heavenly, and, upon my word, when it came home newly done up, and I ran over “The Soldier Tired,” I declare it sounded for all the world like the music of the spheres—such grandeur in the lower notes—such sweetness in the upper ones—such power when you were impassioned—such plaintiveness when you were sentimental—that I declare it seemed to go right through me, and be more than I could bear, for it would move me to tears; and as I playfully ran up and down the notes, really and truly I felt myself lifted from my seat and carried, without knowing it, into another region—Oh! it was such a little duck of a cottage, and such a darling little pet of a dear Broadwood, the reader can’t tell!{153}

I don’t suppose I could have had the cottage in the house more than a fortnight before I began to feel that it was a sin to be possessed of such a beautifully toned instrument, and not give a party just to show it off—for really the quadrilles upon it sounded quite divinely—and if they did so under my humble fingers, I said to myself, what would they sound like under the more skilful execution of those sweet girls and admirable piano-forte players, the Miss B—yl—s’s, who I knew very well would be delighted to take it in turns and play the whole evening through for me. Besides, it wasn’t as if we had been seeing a whole house full of company every evening; on the contrary, I’m sure we had been living as retired as owls, and hadn’t given a party for I couldn’t safely say when, and I do think it is so dreadful to be obliged to sit moping, locked up in a box all day long, without ever seeing a single soul beyond the people you’ve got about you. Moreover, as I very properly observed to myself, it really was not left for us to say whether we liked to give a party or not; but, upon my word, when I looked at it again, I felt that it was a moral obligation, and nothing more nor less than a matter of common honesty on our side to do so; for, of course, having danced at all our friends’ houses, and eaten all our friends’ suppers, they naturally expected that we should make them some return, as indeed, in plain justice, we ought to; besides, how could we hope that we should ever be asked out to our friends again, if we didn’t give them supper for supper and dance for dance. I told Edward, too, that really and truly it would be little or no expense, for we should only want such a small supper that a five pound note would cover it all, I was sure; for I merely intended just to have a ham and beef sandwich or two for the top and bottom, and a chicken or so prettily done up in blue satin ribbon, as if it had been had from the pastrycooks; and then for the matter of confectionary, of course we might have a trifle from Camden Town for a mere nothing, and that with, say one or two custards, and a jelly, would make quite show enough for what we wanted, I was certain; besides, I could easily fill out the table with a few almonds, and raisins, and figs, and candied lemon peel, for, as I very properly said, there was no necessity for our going to the foolish expense of grapes, and surely they could do without crackers for once in a way, and{154} if they couldn’t, why they wouldn’t have them, that was all I knew. And even then, supposing that upon second thoughts we didn’t fancy the table looked crowded and showy enough, why I could easily make a bargain with the pastrycook for the hire of some of their fancy articles, either a beautiful elephant in pound-cake, or a love of a barley-sugar bird-cage, and which we must take care and not press our friends to taste, and then with Edward’s two beautiful plated candelabras with silver edges, I was sure it would be as handsome an entertainment as any one could wish for, and if it wasn’t, why all I could say was, that I wasn’t going to any more expense about the matter,—no! not if the Queen herself were coming—and there’s an end of it!

Well, it was all so nicely arranged, and I sent out all my invitations in such good time, that I think I had only eight refusals, and those not from the best of our acquaintance, so I didn’t break my heart about them. But, as I very truly said to myself, I may as well have my rooms full whilst I am about it, so I packed off a card to some of my friends that I didn’t care very much for, and whom I had consequently made up my mind not to ask at all, with a note apologising for the shortness of the notice, and telling them that owing to the letter having been misdirected, the invitation I had sent them three weeks back had just been returned to me by the Post-office.

Upon my word, the preparations for the party were almost too much for me, and I declare to gracious I worked like a common cab-horse, for I hadn’t even time to sit down and take my meals decently, like a Christian, and when I went to bed, I can assure my lady-readers, I was so tired, that I made a vow to myself that even if the whole world depended upon it, I’d never again be dragged into giving another party,—no, not for ever so much! But I shouldn’t have minded it a very great deal after all, if it hadn’t been for Mr. Sk—n—st—n’s shameful behaviour, and total want of sympathy with my sufferings—for really and truly, if he hadn’t the bare-faced impudence to tell me that I had only myself to blame for it; for that “I (I, indeed!) was always bothering his life out about giving a party,” when all the while the wretch must have known, as well as I did, that it wasn’t for myself that I wanted any of your parties, but merely to oblige him, by keeping all{155} his friends and clients together. But, of course, these are just the thanks one gets for slaving one’s life out, as one does, for the sake of one’s husband. It’s always the way with those selfish things of men, though. Mr. Edward, however, wont catch his dear (pretty dear!) Caroline making such a fool of herself again in a hurry—No! not if she knows it.

As our look out at the back is far from pretty, and to tell the truth never did please me, (for we had only a view of these S—mm—nds’ trumpery garden, and they are always washing at-home, and hanging the things out to dry right under our very noses) why, I thought (as I always had been, from my cradle, of an ingenious turn of mind) that I might as well ornament our staircase-window just a little bit, and so shut out that dreadful eyesore which we had at the back of us, and make the window quite a handsome object; for I must say that of all things in the world for a staircase, give me a stained glass window. Oh! I do think it looks so beautiful—so rich and distingué, to see bunches of roses, and pinks, and camelias, painted on ground glass, just for all the world as if they were growing there. So I set to work, and having a pair of old worn-out chintz bed-curtains up stairs, I cut out some of the best flowers that had had the least of their colour washed out of them, and dabbed some putty over all the panes, until, I declare to goodness gracious, a glazier himself would have sworn that the glass had been ground. Then, with some gum I stuck the chintz flowers in the centre of every one of the panes, and, upon my honour, I can assure the reader, it was the most perfect bit of deception I ever saw in all my life; and I’ll warrant, that even the best judges in stained glass would have had to have passed their fingers over the surface, before they would have been able to have found it out. As any one came in at our street-door, it positively gave the house quite a cathedral air. Oh! it was so beautiful, so chaste, and yet so rich; and when I first saw it from our hall, I couldn’t for the life of me help exclaiming, with the top of the bills of the Colosseum—“’Tis not a picture—it is nature.” Yet, when I think of what happened afterwards, I declare I feel as if I could sit down and cry my eyes out—but more of this hereafter.

Well, I got all the plate nicely cleaned, and all the carpets taken up, and all the papers cut for the wax candles, and the{156} chandelier taken out of its brown holland bag, and had ordered the rout-seats, and the flowers, and the chickens, and the barley sugar bird-cage (which I thought would look best after all, for the man hadn’t a single elephant in his shop that he said would be large enough to place in the middle of the supper-table, and wanted to put me off with a trumpery hedgehog, with half its almond quills out, and which I could very easily see, from the stale look of the thing, had been out to an evening party every night that week.) The only thing that remained to be done was to get that lovely cottage of mine up into the drawing-room, and how the dickens we were ever to manage it, I’m sure I couldn’t tell. When I asked Mr. Edward about it, as he was decantering his wine at the side-board, before he went to business, on the morning of the party, and inquired of him whether he didn’t think Dick Farden could manage it for me, he merely said, stuff-a’-nonsense, I had better have proper people to do it, and then I should be sure to have it done rightly; on which I very justly remarked—“Proper people, indeed! did he know what proper people would come to? He seemed to be talking as if he had got more money in his pockets than he knew what to do with; and I should just like to know what on earth was the use of having Mr. Dick Farden always about the house, if he couldn’t be trusted to move my cottage just from one room to another.” This brought him to his senses, for he said, as I seemed to know so much more about it than he did, I had better do as I liked—only he must go spoiling it, by adding, in his nasty perverse way, “that I mustn’t go blame him if any thing happened to it.”—But I do blame him for it all, and can’t help saying, that it was entirely his own fault, for what business had he to tell me that I knew more about it than he did, and that I had better do it as I liked, when he must have known, as well as I did, that I knew nothing at all about moving cottages, and that something dreadful was going to happen. Oh! that dear, dear Broadwood of mine. But I must restrain myself.

Well, no sooner had I seen my husband fairly out of the house, than I rang the bell for Mr. Dick Farden, and when he came into the parlour, I asked him if he thought he could manage to move that piano of mine up into the drawing-room. So, after measuring the width of it, and then going{157} and looking at our first landing, he said, “he was afeard there would be no getting the thing up the stairs anyhow, for there was no room to turn the corner with it;” and, on going up and looking for myself, sure enough the man was right; though as I told him, what on earth could make the people go building houses in that stupid way, was beyond a person of my limited understanding to comprehend. Dick Farden said that there were only two ways of getting over it, one was to take out my beautiful painted glass window, (which of course I wasn’t going to listen to—though I can’t help wishing now, from the very bottom of my heart, that I had); and the other to “hoist it up” outside the back of the house, and so get it in at the French window in the drawing-room, which, he said, he and a “pal” of his, as he called him, could do very easily for a pot of beer. I asked him whether he was sure that it would be perfectly safe; but he would have it that there was not the least danger, so long as the ropes were good. So I showed him the clothes lines, but my gentleman wanted to persuade me that it would be better to have them just a trifle thicker—though of course I knew what that all meant, and wasn’t going to be foolish enough to give him the money to go buying new ropes with, indeed, and making a pretty penny out of them, I’d be bound. So I quietly told him that as those very ropes had been strong enough to bear the weight of “La petite Saqui,” (and she was no feather,) jumping and frisking about on them, I thought they might manage to lift my Broadwood up to the drawing-room window—though, of course, like master like man, he must go saying, as Mr. Edward did, that I mus’n’t blame him if anything happened on account of the ropes,—and really, from their all talking so about something happening, I positively began to fancy that something was going to happen, (and so it was, too, with a vengeance,) and what I should do then goodness gracious only knows.

Off scampered Mr. Dick Farden for his friend, and I gave him permission to bring the beer in with him, for of course he couldn’t do a thing without tasting his beer first. I declare I never knew such a pig for beer as the man was in all my life; he couldn’t do anything beyond his everyday work without looking for something to drink; in fact, if I asked{158} him to do ever such a trifle, he was always saying, in a nasty begging tone, “You haven’t got such a thing as a pint of beer about you, have you, ma’am?”

When he came back, he and his friend, whom he called Jim, carried my cottage out into the garden; and when they had tied the clothes line all round it, Jim went up stairs to the second-floor window, and threw out a string for us to tie the end of the rope to. As soon as he had got hold of it, Mr. Farden tied what he called the “guider” to one of the legs of my Broadwood, so as to prevent its knocking against the house as it went up. When they were all ready, Farden called out to Jim, “Now, pull steady, lad!” and up went my beautiful cottage in the air, as nicely as ever I saw anything done in all my life. Just as they had got it well over the area railings, and nearly on a level with our back-parlour window, that bothering Jim, who was as strong as a bull, began pulling too hard, and I saw that it was more than Farden could manage to keep the piano away from the house, and that in another minute I should be having it going bang in at our back-parlour window, and perhaps lodging right on the top of the sideboard, where I had put all the jellies and custards not ten minutes before. So I gave a slight scream, and ran up to him as fast as my legs could carry me, and seizing hold of the guider, told him, for goodness gracious sake, to pull the piano over towards the garden wall. But I declare the words were no sooner out of my mouth, than away he must tear, pulling away as hard as ever he could, just for all the world as if my beautiful instrument were made of cast iron, and he had no sooner got it opposite my beautiful staircase window, than all of a sudden off flew the leg of my Broadwood to which the guide rope was attached, and down he tumbled, and I with him; and ah, lor a mercy! I heard something go bang, smash, crash, and on looking up, oh dear! there was my lovely cottage gone right through my beautiful imitation-stained glass window, and dashing backwards and forwards, for all the world like one of those great big swings at a fair, and knocking against the window, as Jim kept pulling it up, until there wasn’t scarcely a bit of the frame or glass left standing. Lord love you, out came all the neighbours’ servants, in a swarm, just like a pack of bees at the{159} sound of a gong; and I’d be bound to say they thought it a fine bit of fun, and a sight worth going a mile any day to see. Farden hallooed out as loud as he could, “Hold hard there, Jim!” but Jim (the stupid oaf!) being, as I afterwards learnt, rather hard of hearing, only kept pulling and pulling as fast as Mr. Farden kept saying, “Hold hard there, will you, Jim; I tell you the rope’s cut!” And sure enough so it had been, by the broken glass; and as I looked at it, I could see thread by thread giving way, until at last, when it was very nearly on a level with our drawing-room window, snap went the clothes lines—and oh! was ever poor woman born to be so tormented before! down came my lovely cottage, like a thunderclap, on to the top of our water-butt, which it upset, so that as my beautiful Broadwood fell smash upon the stones in the yard, whop came that great big heavy water-butt right upon it, crashing it all to shivers, and shooting the whole of its contents, for all the world like a torrent, into both of our kitchens, and flooding the whole place at least two pattens deep I declare—

When we went up stairs to look after that deaf scoundrel of a Jim, oh, lud! if the breaking of the rope hadn’t thrown him back into my darling little Kitty’s beautiful cradle, and as I said to myself, I am sure it was a perfect mercy that the poor dear innocent angel hadn’t been sleeping there at the time, or that heavy lout of a Jim must have killed her on the spot, and as it was, there were all the wicker work ribs of the thing broken in, so that it was impossible ever to think of letting her sleep in it again, for really and truly, it looked more like an old hamper than a respectable baby’s bassinet.

As for the party, it was next to madness to think another moment about that, for when you hadn’t a piano, or a window on the staircase left, I should like to know how it would ever be possible to have a nice comfortable dance; so after I had given it to Mr. Dick Farden well, and told him that I should certainly make a point of stopping the piano out of his wages, and after I had packed Mr. Jim off home to his family with a flea in his ear, there was I obliged in my state of mind to sit down, and scribble off a lot of story-telling letters to all the friends I had invited, saying, that owing to my sweet Kitty’s having been taken suddenly and dangerously ill, I regretted{160} to say that I was compelled to postpone the pleasure of seeing them until some future period, and bundling Mr. Dick Farden into a cab, told him to make as much haste as ever he could and deliver them, though I do verily believe, that from the number of knocks and cabs and hackney coaches that came to the door that dreadful evening, that he put the better part of the fare in his pocket, and never delivered many of them at all; and there was I, obliged to come down every five minutes, from ten till twelve in the evening, and put on a very long face, and tell a pack of taradiddles about the sufferings of my sweet little angel of a Kitty, and how we didn’t expect her to live the whole night through, when actually the little pet was fast asleep in my bed and as well as she had been ever since she was born; and upon my word, it really made my heart bleed to have to send the dear creatures home again, when I saw how nicely their hairs were done, and the expense they had gone to about their dresses, for they had evidently come out determined upon spending a very pleasant evening.

Edward, on his return home, I regret to say, forgot himself as a gentleman and my husband. At one time I thought he had gone clean out of his wits, for he had the impudence to say, that I seemed to take a delight in throwing twenty pounds in the dirt, and that it was all my fault, and none of it Dick Farden’s, and that he would take good care that if ever I wanted any more music, I might whistle for it; and that as for any more pianos, that the next one I had, should come out of my own pocket. As I saw that he wouldn’t be happy until we had had a good quarrel, I thought it best to go off into hysterics, and laughed and sobbed in such a dreadful way that I soon brought him to his senses, and made him begin kissing me, and calling me his dear, foolish, thoughtless Caroline, and telling me to calm myself for heaven’s sake, or I should be laying myself up. But then it came to my turn, for I wasn’t going to let him abuse me like a pickpocket one minute, and make friends with him the next, and I do think that I never should have opened my lips civilly to him again, if he hadn’t brought me home a beautiful Gros de Naples dress, and so showed that he felt he was in the wrong, and was sorry for what he had done.{161}

It was a hard struggle for a person like me, to bring myself ever to look upon that Dick Farden with any pleasure again; for I declare the next morning when he came into the house, I thought I never saw such a nasty, low, vulgar, mean, sly, disreputable looking face in all my life, with his ringlets dangling at his temples, and which he seemed to be as proud of as a life-guardsman is of his moustachios; positively the man was always twiddling either them or his whiskers, and what on earth a fellow like him could ever have wanted with a couple of corkscrews at the side of his forehead is more than I can say; and, la! if they were not as greasy as though they had been twisted round tallow candles! It wasn’t only the fellow’s looks, too, that I had to complain of; but, drat the man! do what I would, I could never prevent him from going about the kitchen, or standing in the knife-house, whistling his “Jim Crows” and “Such a getting up stairs,” and a pack of other low, unmeaning “nigger” songs, that I’m sure I never could see either the fun or the beauty of. Again, if ever I gave him any of Edward’s clothes to brush, there he would be, hissing and fizzing away over them like a bottle of ginger beer in warm weather; and indeed it always was and ever will be a riddle to me what those boots and ostlers can want making all that fuss and noise over their work, as if they were slaving as hard as steam-engines, and obliged to let the steam off, for fear of bursting. I declare whenever I hear them doing it, I feel as if I could go up behind them and give them a good shaking, that I do. It’s nothing more than “great cry and little wool,” and that’s the plain truth of it.

I can assure the reader it would have been much better for me in the long-run, if I had packed the fellow out of the house immediately after the accident, (as indeed I was as near doing as two pins.) Only, of course, in my stupid, kind way, I must go letting my good-nature get the upper hand of my judgment, and endeavouring to read the gentleman a strong lesson, just to teach him how to lift a simple piano for the future, by making him pay a good part of his wages towards buying me a new one in the place of that which he had so wickedly broken. For I’ve always made it a rule to make my servants pay for breakages, as it’s all very fine for a parcel of wiseacres to tell you that we are every one of us liable to accidents, but my answer to such stuff as that, has always been,{162} “Don’t tell me, I know a great deal better—and that servants, one and all, are never happy unless they can be knocking your things about like ninepins, and the only way to let them understand that they cost money, is to make them pay for what they ‘couldn’t help’ breaking.” (Couldn’t help it, couldn’t they—I never knew such couldn’t helps!) Besides, who ever heard of ladies banging the teacups and wineglasses about, as if they were made of cast iron, or pouring boiling water into your very best decanters as though they were foot-baths. Now look at me! why I’m sure that without exaggeration, the things I’ve broken in my time might be put in a nut-shell—but then I knew that they all cost money, and consequently, never was a “butter-fingers.”

However, to talk of another object; I’d been having a whole string of nasty little draggle-tail girls in to nurse my little Kitty for me of a day, but I declare they were all the very counterpart of that “La petite Saqui,” and as dirty and slovenly as dirty and slovenly could be—with their nasty, rusty little old shawl just thrown over their necks, and their cotton gowns with all the colour washed out, excepting where the tuck had been let down, and there it was bright enough, heaven knows! Upon my word, too, they were as careless of my poor little dear, as though it had been a doll made out of wood; and the worst of it was, they were all of them so sly and deceitful, and always kissing and fondling the little pet to my face, though directly my back was turned, they would go knocking it about, and eating up, like a set of greedy pigs, all the sugar I had given out for the angel’s pap. I declare to goodness gracious, whenever they took the child out for an airing, it was a perfect agony to me, for I used to sit upon pins and needles, expecting every knock that came to the door, would be my little cherub brought home on a shutter, and I should find out that it had either been run over, or dropped into the canal, or tossed by a mad bull, or something equally pleasant to a fond mother’s feelings. So I told Edward very quietly, that for the sake of a trumpery five-pound note a year, I wasn’t going to be torn to pieces in the manner I was every hour of my life; and that I had made up my mind to have a regular nurse, who, at least, would be some credit to the family, and on whom I could place some little dependence. Besides, I said with great truth, I was certain we should find a decent, clean woman would be a{163} positive saving in the long run, if it was only in the matter of the baby’s washing—which really seemed to be an expense that there was no end to—for even if I were to put ten frocks on the little angel every day, I assured him it would be as grubby as a chimney-sweeper’s child, all the same; and as for the matter of eating, I would back a good strong growing girl, that’s out in the open air half her time, to get through twice as much, if not more, than a full-grown respectable woman, any day.

Accordingly, I set about looking out for a nurse, and as I had several times, when I had gone out to take a walk and look at the shops in Regent-street, noticed what seemed to me a very nice servants’ institution in Oxford-street, and although I had never tried anything of the kind before, still as I knew they professed a great deal, and made out that they were a great protection to housekeepers against fraud, and said a whole host of other grand things into the bargain—why, I thought I might as well just try that means of getting a servant for once—though I couldn’t help saying to myself at the time, “Fine words butter no parsnips,” but, for the matter of that, how any other kind of words could, was always a mystery to me. Besides, it is such an expense putting advertisement after advertisement in the Times, and certainly the “Institution” would save me a deal of trouble, as well as four or five rows of postage stamps, in writing, prepaid, to a whole regiment of A. B.’s, who, after all, might never suit you.

However, before I set about taking any steps towards suiting myself with a nurse, I made up my mind, that I would have a grass plot laid down in our garden at the back of our house, where the nurse could let the child roll about, and no harm could possibly come to it, as I should always have the little pet under my own eye, instead of being obliged to send it a quarter of a mile off at least, to that bothering Regent’s Park, where the soldiers and a parcel of other idle good-looking vagabonds made it quite as dangerous for the nurse as it was for the child. Besides, it wasn’t as if that garden of ours at the back of the house was of any use to us, and goodness knows if it wasn’t useful it wasn’t ornamental, to say the least of it! I declare it was almost a match for the plantation in Leicester-square, and mercy me! I never saw such a place as that is—with its grubby shrub{164}bery, and its trees dingy—for all the world like so many worn-out birch brooms with an old tea-leaf or two sticking to the end of them—and that sooty statue on horseback perched up in the centre, and looking just like a coalheaver of the Dark Ages astride one of his master’s wagon-horses—for who else it can possibly be, no one can tell, and the only way to solve the mystery would be to have a chimney-sweeper in to sweep the gentleman, and then perhaps somebody might find out.

Upon my word, I do really believe that if there was a pin to choose between Leicester-square and our back garden, certainly the Square had the best of it. For the fact of it was, that stupid, though respected, mother of mine would go making me believe when first we came to our house, that the air up in our neighbourhood was pure enough to grow anything, and that with the ground we had at the back of us, we might very easily get enough vegetables to keep the family all the year round, adding, then we should be sure to have them so sweet, and fresh, and good. Sweet, and fresh, and good, indeed!—upon my word! the whole of our first year’s crop consisted of only about four nasty, smutty, two-penny-halfpenny cabbages, that must have cost us a matter of ten shillings a piece if they did a farthing—and they were all eaten away, and their leaves were as yellow and full of holes as the seat of a cane-bottomed chair; so that I began to find out, after we had been gardening away fit to kill ourselves, for I can’t say how long, that really and truly we were doing nothing more than keeping a small preserve of slugs, snails, and caterpillars. Do what I would, and slave as I might, I could not keep the filthy things away. Cupful after cupful have I taken off the plants of a morning, and yet the next day there they were again as thick as ever. I declare the better part of my day used to be occupied all through the summer, with looking after those plaguy greens, (which, water them as I would, I could not get to be anything equal in colour to the caterpillars that were always in them,) till, ’pon my word, my poor neck was as sunburnt as ginger.

As I couldn’t manage any cabbages I thought I’d try and raise a small crop of peas; but, bless you! then I was nearly driven out of my mind by those impudent vagabonds of birds, the London sparrows—and catch them letting any peas come up (even if they would) within five miles of the General Post{165}-office. As for frightening them away, I declare they were as bold as brass, for if they don’t care for those mischievous monkeys of boys in the street, was it likely that they were to be intimidated by a respectable married woman like myself? Positively, I put up an old bonnet of mine on the end of a stick, which I should have thought would have scared even a philosopher off the premises—but, bless your heart! they only came and perched right on the crown of it, and chirped away as if they were comfortably at home in their nests in Red Lion-square. And just when my lovely peas were beginning to break ground and poke their nice little green heads up out of the earth, I have often gone out into the garden and found a hundred of the young feathered ogres hard at my beautiful Prussian blues, picking away, and making noise enough for an infant school; and though I’d go down to them, sh—sh—sh—, sh—ing away, and shaking my apron as hard as I could, I declare, it wasn’t until I got within arm’s-length of them, that the brazen-faced little chits would condescend to take the least notice of me, and then they’d only just hop up on the top of the wall, where they would stand, with their heads cocked on one side, and looking out at the corners of their eyes at me, and chirping away just as if they were saying, “Peas, peas, peas”—drat ’em!

Though, to be sure, I had this consolation—I wasn’t the only sufferer, for not one of the neighbours could do a bit better than I did—no, not even poor Mr. S—mm—ns, and he tried hard enough, goodness gracious knows! I declare he used to be out in the broiling hot sun all day, digging away in his shirt sleeves, until his poor bald-head used to look like the top of a beef-steak pudding—and, what for, I should like to know? just to raise, in the course of the year, as many radishes, and cauliflowers, and greens, and rhubard, as he might buy any fine morning in Covent Garden market for a mere sixpence, or a shilling at most. Though he tried his hardest to force a cucumber or two, under a broken ground-glass lamp shade, and spent a little fortune in manure, still the only one that came, of course, was nipped in the gherkin; and, notwithstanding some of his beds were covered with old tumblers, just for all the world like a sideboard, yet I’m sure I never could see the good of them, for his crop of lettuces wouldn’t have made more than one good-sized salad{166} after all; while the gooseberry and currant bushes, that he went to the expense of having put all round his garden, never bore more than a pie and a small pudding in the best of seasons—and that not till the middle of November. In fact, I’ve made up my opinion long ago, that gardening in the suburbs of London is a wicked and wilful waste of time and money. Really and truly the whole atmosphere of the place is so dreadfully smokey, that, without joking, one might just as well try to rear cauliflowers all round the top of a steam-boat funnel, as to think of getting one’s vegetables out of a metropolitan hop-skip-and-a-jump kitchen garden. Vegetables for the family, indeed! “chickweed and groundsel for fine singing birds,” more likely.

So, as I said before, I made up my mind, not to go making a stupid of myself any longer, playing at market-gardening, and turning myself into a manufacturing green-grocer and fruiterer, by trying to convert a trumpery band-box full of mould and gravel into a productive orchard. Accordingly I determined to root up the whole of those rat-tailed stalks of cabbages, and have the place nicely turfed in the centre, and a few pretty rose-bushes, and geranium trees, and other odd things, that at any rate would be pleasant to one’s eye and nose, put round the sides. Consequently I had up Mr. Dick Farden, and asked him whether he thought he could manage that for me without spoiling it; but really the fellow was so conceited, and fancied himself so clever, that, of course, he was as confident he could do it for me as he was that he could move my piano—(and a pretty mess he made of that—as the reader knows!) He couldn’t, however, merely give a simple answer to a simple question, and have done with it, but must go on talking his head off, and speaking to me as familiarly as if I was one of his pot-companions, saying that it was very easy to lay the ground out, but he was afraid I should find it quite as hard to raise a nosegay as a salad “in the first city of the world.” For, in all in his experience, he had noticed that Cockney roses were not to be forced beyond the size of grog-blossoms, and he would defy even Mr. Paxton himself to get London tulips any bigger than thimbles. He said that the beautiful climate of Brompton itself, which all the house-agents and physicians cried up as the Devonshire district of{167} London, would only produce hollyhocks in the flower line, and mustard and cress in the vegetable ditto,—and from all he had seen in his time, he had come to the conclusion, that trying to get roses and lilies, this side of Richmond, was really the pursuit of flowers under difficulties; for it appeared to be as if Providence had originally designed that the soil of London should bear nothing beyond bricks and mortar. Though it was not so much the fault of the ground as it was of the cats—and them he could not, for the life of him, help looking upon as the young gardener’s worst companion—for as fast you put in the seed, just as fast would they scratch it up again; and, of course, nothing would satisfy the creatures but they must go lying in your beds of a night. Indeed, the Toms of London seemed, like young Love always to prefer sleeping among the roses. Now, he remembered, he told me, about the time when Walworth went mad about dahlias, and offered a prize of a hundred guineas for the finest specimen that could be grown within two miles of the Elephant and Castle,—he was sure any one might have heard the amateur gardeners firing at the cats, and the guns going off there of a night, for all the world like a review in Hyde-park; but all to no good—for, after all, the prize was carried off by a clever young gentleman, who had no garden at all, and grew the choicest specimen there was at the show in an old black tea-pot, out of his two pair back.

However, I wasn’t going to sit there all day hearing him try to persuade me against what I had set my heart and soul upon, and railing against everything just like an old East Indian with half a liver, for I could easily see that all my fine gentleman wanted was, to save himself the trouble of doing up the garden, and wished, of course, to take our money without doing a single thing for it; but I wasn’t going to encourage him standing all day long with his hands in his pockets—not I indeed. So when he found that I wasn’t quite such a stupid as he seemed to take me for, and was determined upon having the thing done, willy-nilly, then, of course, he must needs try his best to advise me to go to the expense of a lot of box-borders for the place. But I wouldn’t listen to it for a minute, for, as I very plainly told him, I was sure that oyster-shells would be quite good enough for us, especially as dear Edward was so fond of having a dozen{168} or two of Natives before he went to bed of a night, and I knew that I should get a very pretty border out of his suppers in less than a fortnight.

However, upon second thoughts, it struck me that, whilst I was about it, I might just as well have a few really good plants put in, particularly as Mr. Dick Farden said he knew a florist in the neighbourhood, who would do the whole thing for a mere nothing for me, and attend to it afterwards, either by the day, month, or year, on the most reasonable terms. So, as I couldn’t see any great harm in hearing from Mr. Dick Farden’s friend himself what he might consider “a mere nothing,” I arranged in my own mind that the best way would be to let Farden call upon him, and send him round to me on his way down to deliver the letter I intended to write to the director (for there’s nothing but directors now-a-days) of the Servants’ Institution. Accordingly, having scribbled a note to the institution—saying that, as I was in want of a nurse, I should feel obliged if they would send one of their young men round to me as soon as possible, from whom I could learn the terms and advantages of the establishment—I told Mr. Dick Farden to take it to Oxford-street, and, while he was out, to run round and tell his friend the florist to call on me in the evening, so that I might talk over with him about the flowers.

When that precious beauty of a Dick Farden came back, he told me he had brought with him the gentleman I had sent him for, who, he said, had written down a few of the names of such articles as he thought would suit me, and which he could recommend, as they had all been in the nursery a long time. Of course, I imagined the stupid fellow was alluding to the maid I wanted for my little Kitty, and not to a pack of bothering flowers, as I afterwards found out, to my great horror; and there was I going on for upwards of twenty minutes asking all kinds of odd questions of the stranger, fully believing that he was the person from the Servants’ Institution, and not that trumpery friend of Mr. Dick Farden’s, who was in the gardening line.

When the man came in, I said to him, very naturally, “My man-servant tells me that you have brought with you a few of the names of such as you think will suit me. They have all been in the nursery a long time, I believe; and what kind of places have they been accustomed to?{169}”

“Oh, a very nice place,” he replied; “about the same as yours might be, mum. They had a warmish bed, and have always been accustomed to be out in the open air.”

“Yes, I should want them to be out in the open air a great deal,” I answered, though at the time I couldn’t help fancying that it was very funny that the man should allude in particular to their warm beds. “Now I should like you to recommend me one,” I continued, “that’s healthy and strong, and likely to remain with me for some time, for it is so distressing to have to provide yourself with a new one every year.”

“So it is, mum,” he returned. “I think I know the very one you want, mum. It’s a remarkable fine colour, mum.”

“That certainly is a recommendation. I like them to look healthy,” I replied, thinking, of course, that the man was only talking about a nursery maid, and not of some trumpery rose he had got at home.

“It’s a very dark coloured one, mum; indeed, very nearly a black,” he answered; “and of a summer’s evening smells wonderful, I can assure you, mum.”

“Lord a mercy!” I cried out, believing the man wanted to recommend me a negress. “Oh la! all the blacks do, and I wouldn’t have one of them about my house for all I’m worth.”

“Then may be, mum,” he continued, “you’d like one a trifle gayer. Now, there’s a Madame Pompadour we’ve got that I think would just suit you. That’s a remarkable showy one, to be sure, and likes a good deal of raking.”

“Oh, I see,” I replied; “a French bit of goods. No, thank you; they are all of them a great deal too gay by half to please me.”

“Well, mum, if that wont suit you,” he replied, “what would you think of a nice Chinese? We’ve got a perfect beauty, I can assure you—just the very thing for you, mum—climb up anywhere—run all along the area-railings, mum—crawl right over your back-garden door—then up the house into your drawing-room balcony—almost like a wild one, mum.”

“Like a wild one!” I almost shrieked, horror-struck at the idea of intrusting my sweet, little, helpless angel of a Kate to the care of a creature with any such extraordinary propensities. “Too like a wild one for me. I don’t want any such things about my house.{170}”

“But if you object to their running about so much, mum,” he went on, “it’s very easy to tie them up and give them a good trimming occasionally, and then you can keep them under as much as you please.”

“I don’t want one,” I replied, “that will require so much looking after, but one that you know could be trusted anywhere—especially as there will be a little baby to be taken care of.”

“A little baby! Oh! then, if that’s the case, mum,” he had the impudence to say, “I should think you had better have a monthly one while you are about it.”

“A monthly one!” I exclaimed, thinking he was referring to a second Mrs. Toosypegs, instead of a rose; “what can you be thinking of? I tell you I don’t want anything of the kind.”

“Yes, but I’m sure you don’t know how hardy they are, mum,” he added, quite coolly. “I can give you my word, we’ve got one that’s out now, mum, that went through all the severe frosts of last winter with nothing more than a bit of matting as a covering at night-time. Though, for the matter of that, almost all our monthlies are the same, and don’t seem to care where they are put, for really and truly I do think that they would go on just as well, mum, even if their beds were chock full of gravel.”

“I tell you I don’t want anything of the kind,” I said, half offended at what (thanks to that blundering Mr. Dick Farden,) I thought very like the man’s impudence.

“I hope no offence, mum,” he replied; “but you see I must run over what we’ve got. Now, there’s polianthuses. I’m sure you couldn’t have anything much nicer or quieter than that, mum.”

“Polly who?” I inquired.

“Anthus, mum,” he replied.

“Well, what’s that one like?” I asked.

“Oh! the sort is common enough, mum,” he continued—“not very tall, and rather delicate, and will generally have five or six flowers in a cluster at the head—wants a glass, though, if the weather sets in very cold, mum—and——”

“There, that’s enough,” I interrupted, “I’m sick and tired of those common kind of things—they wouldn’t have a glass here, I can tell them.{171}”

“Maybe, then, mum,” he went on, “as it don’t seem as we can suit you with any of those I’ve mentioned, perhaps you don’t want such a thing as an old man.”

“Old man!” I cried. “No, what on earth should I ever do with any old man here, I should like to know?” of course, little dreaming that he was alluding all the while to the plant of that name.

“Oh! I beg your pardon, mum,” he replied, “but I thought yours was just the place for a very fine, and remarkably handsome one that we’ve got, and it struck me that you might have a spare bed that you would like to fill, especially as it would be little or no extra expense for you.”

“No, no, no!” I answered; “I tell you once for all, I’ve no room for any old man here; and, besides, if I had, a nice thing it would be to have him dying directly the cold weather set in.”

“Oh, bless you, mum,” he replied, “a good healthy old man will never die, and look quite lively all the winter through. However, mum, perhaps you’d be kind enough to step round some day to our place, and then we could show you what we’ve got, and you could choose for yourself, mum.”

“Yes,” I answered; “perhaps that would be best, and then I can please myself.”

When the man had gone, I said to myself: “Well, my fine gentleman, I shall never trouble you again,” for I declare that of all the servants I ever heard of, his seemed to be the worst; for, of course, how was I ever to be able to tell that he was only talking of a set of trumpery plants that he had got for sale. I’m sure, if he had two grains of common sense, he ought to have seen that there was some mistake somewhere; though, for the matter of that, I don’t suppose I should ever have found it out myself, had it not been for the gentleman from the Servants’ Institution calling to see me, scarcely half-an-hour afterwards. And then, bless us and save us, if I didn’t go taking him for the nurseryman, though I certainly must do myself the justice to say that I couldn’t help thinking that he looked rather grand for a gardener, with his white cravat, and black coat buttoned up to his chin, and black kid gloves, with the fingers all out, and looking as crumpled and shrivelled as French plums.{172}

No sooner had Mr. Dick Farden told me that the other gentleman that I had sent him for had come, than I had him into the parlour, and told him that if he would step with me into the garden, I would arrange with him what I wanted done to it, and he could let me have his opinion about it. The man opened his eyes, and looked at me as wise as an owl; as, indeed, he might; for what on earth could what my garden wanted doing to it, be to him? When we got there, I declare he must have thought me mad, for I took him right up to the middle of it, and told him, I had made up my mind to have a nice grass plot laid down in the centre, so that my dear little pet might play about on it, without coming to any harm. But he only stared the more, and said, “Very good;” though, of course, if he had spoken his real opinion, he would have said “very strange.” Then I told him I had settled upon having some nice flower-beds all round the sides, and said I thought it would look very pretty; on which he looked at me for a short time, with his mouth wide open, as much as to say, “Surely the woman must be out of her mind;” but he only answered, “Indeed.” After that, I asked him what plants he would advise me to have, and whether he thought the soil would be rich enough for dahlias? But, without looking at the ground, and keeping his eye fixed intently on me, he answered, “Certainly;” and then clutching the handle of his umbrella as tight as he could, he retreated several paces off, in a way that I couldn’t for the life of me understand at the time, but which—now that I come to think of it—clearly convinces me that the poor man must have fancied that I had broken loose from Bedlam, and that he expected every minute I should seize hold of the spade, which was within arm’s length of me, and race round the garden after him with it. When I told him that most likely he was not aware of how hard the ground was, and I stamped on it two or three times, and raised myself up on my toes, just to show him that I couldn’t make any impression upon it, the stupid ninny began jumping about and dancing away, and staring at me, till, I declare, his eyes looked for all the world like two farthings. Coupling this with the whole of the man’s previous strange behaviour, upon my word, I thought he had gone stark raving mad, though it’s quite plain to me now that he thought the same of me, and was{173} only playing those antics just to humour me. I seized the spade and he opened his umbrella, and there we stood, face to face, thrusting away at one another as hard as ever we could, and all the time jumping and skipping about, like two dancing bears. I gave a loud scream, and he, poor man, retreated as quick as he could do so backwards to the door, where he met with that scoundrel of a Dick Farden, who had been the cause of it all, and whom I no sooner saw than I told him, for Heaven’s sake, to seize that mad friend of his. Then, lawk a daisy! out it all came; and I learnt, to my great horror, that I had been confounding the two men. Of course I apologized to the gentleman from the Servants’ Institution as a lady ought to, telling him that I was extremely sorry that I had mistaken him for a gardener and a madman; but the man went as red in the face as a tomata, with passion, declaring that he had never been so insulted before in all his life, and vowing that he would make me pay for having dragged him all that way, through a broiling sun, upon a fool’s errand; and then out of the house he bounced, like a human cracker.

When the man had left, I declare I was so vexed at having been made such a stupid of, by that shameful vagabond of a Mr. Dick Farden—for, of course, if it hadn’t been for him, the mistake would never have occurred, and I shouldn’t wonder at all if he hadn’t brought it about intentionally, just so as to have a good laugh at me, out of sheer spite at my stopping his wages—I was so vexed with the fellow, I repeat, that I had him up then and there, and told him that he had better not let me see his face within my doors again, or, as sure as his name was Mr. Dick Farden, I would give him in custody. Then it was that I found out what kind of a person I had been harbouring in my house, for although, up to that time, he had been so civil-spoken and respectful, that one would have fancied that butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth, then, of course, because it no longer answered his purpose to behave himself, he turned round and abused me like a pickpocket, until I declare I was so mad that, if I hadn’t been a perfect lady, I should have dusted his jacket and combed his hair nicely for him, that I should—a nasty, good-for-nothing, double-faced, clumsy, cowardly, foul-mouthed monster! Augh! if I detest one thing more than another, it’s people that can’t keep a civil tongue in their heads.{174}

## CHAPTER XII.

IN WHICH I JUST LET THE READER KNOW MY OPINION OF THAT HALF-WITTED IDIOT OF AN EMMA OF MINE.—MAIDS OF ALL WORK CERTAINLY ARE NO GREAT GENIUSES AT THE BEST OF TIMES, BUT I DECLARE I DO THINK THAT GIRL HAD NO MORE BRAINS IN HER HEAD THAN WOULD HAVE FILLED AN EGG-CUP, FOR I’VE TRIED A GOOD MANY SERVANTS IN MY DAY, BUT REALLY AND TRULY SHE WAS THE VERIEST BOOBY THAT EVER WENT OUT TO SERVICE, THOUGH PERHAPS I OUGHT TO ADD, IN JUSTICE TO THE GIRL, THAT, FOR A WONDER, I HAD LITTLE OR NO FAULT TO FIND WITH HER IN OTHER RESPECTS.

“I’ve talked and I’ve prattled with some fifty maids,
And changed them as oft, do you see;
But of all the bright beauties, I ever knew,
Miss Emma’s the maid for me.”
Popular Song, with a few slight alterations by myself, and which I was forced to make, for positively all the Maids spoken of in Ballads seem to have been such pinks-of-perfections, and to have come from Llangollen, and Athens, and Judah, and a pack of other such outlandish places, that it is very difficult to find any that will suit me.

I shouldn’t wonder but there are some bilious, discontented people, who will perhaps say that I have been devoting more time and space to Mr. Dick Farden than I ought to have done. But it’s the old fable over again; there was no pleasing everybody, whichever way the man treated the donkey, so of course it’s not to be expected that everybody will be pleased with the account of the way in which Mr. Dick Farden treated me. However, I was determined to do the man justice while I was about him; and now that I’ve come back to Miss Emma, I intend to do the same to her. Perhaps this may meet their eyes some day, and then I dare say it will be a nice blow to them. For, of course, they never thought they were in the wrong, not they, and will be rather surprised to find out what I thought about it.

But before beginning my account of that wretched half-witted girl, I should like the reader to understand that it is far from my nature to blame any menial for want of those intellects which are not in our power to command. Of course, poor servants can’t be expected to have had the{175} inestimable blessings of a finished education, like ourselves, and, therefore, a deficiency of understanding in them should be rather pitied than blamed. Though with respect to my Emma, her abominable stupidity was so hard to bear with, that at times, upon my word, it was as much as ever I could do to keep myself from flying out at her, and giving it her soundly. Often and often have I been forced to have a hard battle with myself, to prevent myself from shaking her well, and trying to knock something like sense into the stupid’s brain. It’s all very well for a pack of self-conceited men to say “that a good woman has no head.” I’m sure for the matter of that, my Emma had none at all, and she was bad enough, heaven knows! But what in my opinion, deprived the pitiable object of all sympathy was, that she wasn’t wholly uneducated, and had been taught to read and write, but la! the benefits of reading and writing were entirely thrown away upon her; and I verily believe that even if her education had extended to the blessings of the use of the globes, she would have been as little like a rational creature, after all. It’s all very well to talk about manuring the soil, but what are you to do, I should like to know, when there’s no soil to manure? As Edward very truly said, as for furnishing her upper story, you might have put in the table of weights and measures and a complete bookcase beside, and even then her head would have been as empty as ever, for it would all have gone in at one ear and come out at the other; and, as he very wittily added, the girl’s knowledge-box was lined with less reading than a hair trunk.

The stupid things the girl would say and do, and the dreadful scrapes she would get me into, all through her horrible simplicity, were enough to make the blood of a gold fish boil. Positively, one was always obliged to be speaking by the card, as Hamlet says in the play, though what speaking by the card means I really can’t say, for I never knew anybody but the sapient pig Toby, who was accustomed to do so. If you wanted anything done, you had to tell it to her in a hundred different ways, or else she would be sure to make some dreadful blunder or other; for, as for the flowers of speech, bless you! she paid no more regard to flowers than a cat does! If a double knock came to the door early in the day, and I had my hair in papers, or was down in the kitchen,{176} seeing about dear Edward’s dinner, or was in the bed-room, making up the dirty linen for the wash, or in the drawing-room, dusting the china, (and consequently not dressed to receive company) and I told her, “I wouldn’t see them, and that I was out,” down stairs she’d frisk, and say to whomever it might be, “Missus says she wont see you, and she’s out.” Now I put it to every respectable married woman (who of course has, over and over again, been obliged to tell hundreds of white fibs like this in her time,) whether it wasn’t enough to ruffle a quaker, to have your best friends—carriage-folks, may be—insulted and turned away from your door in such a dreadful way?

Again, I recollect just as the evenings were getting chilly, I thought Edward would relish a round or two of nice hot toast—not cut too thick, and well buttered—indeed, I thought I could take a mouthful of it myself—and accordingly, having told Miss Emma to make some, she must needs, when she brought it up, go setting it down on the slop basin. So I said to her, “Bless me, Emma, what is that footman down stairs for, I should like to know?”

“There’s no footman down stairs, I can assure you, mum,” answered the stupid thing, staring her eyes half out of her head with wonder.

“I tell you there is,” I exclaimed, “under the dresser. At least, all I can say is, there was this morning—though you know as well as I do, that it’s no business to be lying there, all among the pots and pans—especially when I had a hook put up over the fire-place on purpose to have the footman hung upon. Why don’t you go and bring the thing up directly?” I continued, as she stood lost in astonishment. “Perhaps you will tell me next that it’s walked out of the house!”

“There’s been no footman in the house, mum, ever since I’ve been here,” she answered, sobbing, and wiping her eyes with her apron. “The only one I’ve seen, I’m sure, is Mr. Simmons’ John, and he was sowing potatoes in the garden next door.”

“Bless the child!” I cried out, “was there ever such a stupid!” and actually I had to take her down stairs and teach her that a footman was a thing made of brass, with legs that would go inside any fender, and used in the best of families{177} to stand a hot toast before the fire of a winter’s evening—and that I supposed was the reason why they gave the thing such a name.

I declare it really wasn’t prudent to trust that Emma to do a thing, and even that little lamb of a Kitty of mine was scarcely safe with a stupid, like her, in the house. For I recollect once, I had been thinking the simpleton had a great deal of spare time on her hands, and might just as well do a little needlework, as sit twiddling her finger and thumb of an evening, so I told her that my little poppet of a Kitty was growing so fast that all her things were getting too short for her, and she really wanted a tuck out in her best frock, and would certainly look all the better for it, so I would thank her to attend to it that night, and let it be done before she went to bed. In the evening, I was in the parlour, boiling down some quince pips to make a nice fixature for my hair, and all the while I could hear that sweet little cherub of mine down stairs crying; so I said to myself what the dickens can that idiot be doing with the child in the kitchen at this time of night, when it ought to have been undressed and in bed a good hour ago? Off I trotted to see what precious bit of stupidity my lady was at now. When I reached the kitchen I thought I should have fainted, for there sat that Emma, with my little angel on her knee, dressed out in its best frock, and with its dear little innocent face daubed all over with treacle, just as if it had been tarred. “What on earth have you been doing with the child, Emma?” I exclaimed.

“I thought as you said it was to have a tuck out in its best frock, ma’am,” she replied, “it could have nothing nicer than plenty of bread and treacle.” And then to my horror I learnt from her, that when I told her I fancied the child would look all the better for having a tuck out in its best frock, bless and save us, if the stupid oaf didn’t imagine that I wished it to have a grand feast in its Sunday clothes! “Oh, you stupid, stupid thing!” I said, “and what business have you to go giving the darling all that mess, when the doctor has ordered me to let it have nothing but slops?”

“Nothing but slops, mum!” she exclaimed, with her mouth wide open with astonishment.{178}

“Yes, you stupid, nothing but slops,” I answered; “don’t you even know what slops are now?”

“In course I do, mum,—augh!—oh, la!” she replied; and from the way in which she turned up her nose, and the wry face she made, I could easily see that she fancied that the dear babe was to be fed with the grouts of the tea-cups, or whatever else might be in the slop-basin, when the breakfast things came down.

Positively, nothing was to be done with the woman, I was convinced. She was naturally so thick-headed, that there was no making the least impression upon her; and really I do think one might just as well have tried to drill wisdom into a barber’s block as to have made her understand even the most every-day things imaginable. If a body, without thinking of it, used a word or a phrase with two meanings to it, and one was the right and the other the wrong, of course the bright genius would go and puzzle her brains till she found out the wrong one. And the worst of it was, she never would come and ask, or one wouldn’t have minded, so that I do think, as long as she was in the house, not one day went over our heads without some dreadful blunder or other being committed by the ninny. Now, for instance, Mr. Edward had been saying, in his nasty mean way, as he never had a pudding or a pie for dinner, he supposed ribbon had got so dear the housekeeping couldn’t afford pastry; so I thought I would put a stop to his shabby satire, and let him have a nice “dog in a blanket,” as a treat for dinner one day—especially as he’s very partial to it; and, certainly, if it’s made with a nice thin crust, and plenty of good strawberry—or even I don’t mind if it’s raspberry—jam, I do think it is as nice a dish as can well be put upon table—only the worst of it is, one’s apt to eat too much of it; and, I don’t know whether my fair readers find it so with them or not, but to me it’s rather indigestible, or, I must say, I should let dear Edward have it oftener.

Accordingly, as, of course, I fancied that silly Emma of mine, blockhead as she is, couldn’t well go making any mistake with so simple a dish as a “roley-poley pudding,” and I didn’t feel much in the humour to go messing with flour in that hot kitchen, I had the girl up, and to guard against mis{179}takes, I asked her whether she knew what a dog in a blanket was? Of course the wiseacre did; anybody, she fancied, would know what a dog in a blanket was.

“Well, then,” said I, “do you think you could manage one for me?”

“Oh! yes, certainly, mum,” answered Miss Clever; “I used to have to do one every night at my last missus’s.”

“Very well, then,” I replied, though I really can’t tell how I could ever have been so stupid as to have fancied that any woman—however partial she might be to roley-poleys—could have managed to eat one of the heavy things every night of her life before going to bed—“here’s some strawberry jam for you, and, for heaven’s sake, don’t spare it, but take care and spread it at least an inch thick upon your crust, or else it’s not worth eating!”

“Oh, thank you, mum!” she returned, as she took it, and trotted out of the room with what I thought at the time a highly satisfied air, (as well, indeed, she might.) In about half-an-hour, my lady marched into the parlour as coolly as possible, and saying she had done the dog in a blanket as I had desired, asked if she should bring it up stairs to me.

“No,” I replied, quite innocently, “I don’t want to see it; you can put it on the fire now, and let it boil slowly for about an hour to an hour and a quarter, for I wouldn’t thank you for it unless it’s well done.”

Open went her mouth again, and out came her eyes, while she stammered: “Boil it! why you don’t mean to say you’re going to eat it, mum?”

“Eat it! of course I am—for dinner,” I replied. “Why, what on earth have you been doing with it? You have rolled it up, I suppose.”

“Oh! yes, mum,” she answered, “as nice and snug as ever you seed anything in all your life.”

“And you haven’t spared the jam—have you, simpleton?” I added.

“Oh! no, mum,” she returned; “I emptied the whole pot.”

“You’re sure you spread it on your crust an inch thick, now, as I told you?” I inquired; for I began to have my misgivings from the girl’s manner, that something or other was wrong.{180}

“Certainly, mum,” she replied, “on the crust and on the crumb too; and, with many thanks to you, mum, I eat as many as four slices.”

“You eat my jam!” I screamed; “oh dear! you shameful wicked——! but what on earth has become of my beautiful dog in a blanket?”

“He’s all safe, mum,” she answered, alarmed at my manner; “he’s down stairs—I put him in the baby’s cradle.”

“In my sweet angel’s cradle!” I shrieked, and, saying no more, I rushed down stairs, when, sure enough, there I found that hairy brute of a Carlo of ours rolled up in one of the Witneys belonging to my baby’s bassinet, and, kicking away as if it were half stifled. “Oh, you good-for-nothing bit of goods!” I exclaimed—“how dare you, Emma, ever tell me such an abominable falsehood, as that you used to do a dog in a blanket every night at your last mistress’s!—oh! you wicked story, you!”

“I’m nothing of the kind, mum, and it’s the plain truth!” she answered, sobbing, “and you can go and ask Miss Mackay yourself, if I hadn’t to do her Italian greyhound up in flannel every evening before I went to bed.”

I declare even I—vexed as I was—could hardly give it the girl as she deserved, and I felt inclined to do. But, really, her utter want of even common comprehension did seem to me so pitiable, that I couldn’t bring myself to do more than tell her that I should have that pot of jam out of her next quarter, as sure as she was born—though as, luckily for her, she hadn’t wasted any flour, I should look over her shameful, idiotic conduct once more—giving her this warning, that if she didn’t contrive to cram some more brains into her head for the future, she must look out for another situation.

I’m certain my fair readers will allow that some little credit was due to me for the command I had over my temper throughout this trying occasion—especially when I tell them that do what I would, I never could keep the fleas out of that Carlo’s beautiful coat, so that no wonder my little cherub of a Kitty was so restless the night after that dog had been rolled up in one of her blankets. When I went to dress her in the morning, I declare if the beautiful white skin of the angel wasn’t covered all over with large red spots, for{181} all the world like the sixpenny wooden horse I had bought her for a toy. Nor did the annoyance stop here, for, being accustomed to take the little thing into our bed of a morning, to play with her—goodness gracious me! if Edward and myself were not quite as much tormented with the nasty lively irritating things, as even little Kitty had been, so that really and truly we couldn’t for the life of us get what I call a nice comfortable night’s rest for weeks afterwards.

Even if I had felt inclined to bear with the miserable girl’s wretched stupidity, still her abominable love of gossiping was quite enough to make any respectable, quiet, well-disposed lady, like myself, take her by the ears and bundle her into the streets. Though, of course, her chattering gossip wasn’t to be wondered at, for we all know that empty barrels make the greatest noise, and her head was so empty, that I declare she would make noise enough for fifty women, and talk fourteen to the dozen any day; for, without exaggeration, her tongue was so long that it was impossible for her to keep it between her teeth. If the butcher-boy came with the joint, there she would stand gossiping at the area-gate, wasting her own time and the boy’s too. When the baker brought the bread, it was just the same; or even if it was that little chit from the green-grocer, it made no difference to her. Though what the dickens an empty-headed thing, like she was, could have to say to them all, I never could make out. While as for the servants in the neighbourhood, I declare she was bosom friends with the whole street. If I didn’t keep my eye upon her every moment of the day, off she’d be, out in the garden, chattering away over the wall, either with the housemaid at the Tomlins’s, on the right, or with the cook at the Allen’s, on the left, or with that impudent monkey of a footman at the Simmons’s, at the back. And as for a morning, when she was pretending to be cleaning down that door-step, I do think, if I had to ring once, I had to ring a dozen times for Edward’s hot water to shave with. Of course, she couldn’t hear the bell—how could she?—when she was gossiping away with the next doors, putting a lot of tales about the neighbourhood, all against me, as I felt convinced she was? For positively the maids on both sides of us knew just as much about my affairs as I did myself; and I’m sure, that even if she had lived at{182} the Tomlins’s or the Allen’s, she couldn’t have known more of their secrets; for often and often she has stood for better than half an hour telling me a pack of things about them, that, of course, they wouldn’t have liked anybody to know. I used to think it was very strange, and couldn’t for the life of me make out how it was things that I fancied nobody in the world but Edward and myself were acquainted with, could come round to me in the way they did. Until one fine morning, a little bird whispered in my ear, that it was that beauty of an Emma of mine, who, instead of sweeping round the area-railings, was pulling my character to pieces, and vilifying me to the first of the neighbours’ maids that she could lay hold of, saying Mrs. Sk—n—st—n did this, Mrs. Sk—n—st—n did that, or Mrs. Sk—n—st—n did the other,—(of course, there’s no necessity for me to go repeating what the good-for-nothing minx actually did say of me,)—so that, at last it really came to this—if even Edward and I had a word or two together about any little trifling matter, off the good news went—“There’s been another row at the Sk—n—st—ns’,” right up to the York and Albany; and “There’s been another row at the Sk—n—st—ns’,” right down to Cumberland Market.

I only wanted to catch the beauty in the fact; for I don’t like listening to what other people say, and so determined to wait quietly until I could overhear her telling her fine stories myself. As I expected, it wasn’t long before I pounced upon her very nicely, and then it was, oh dear me, who would have thought it! For the very morning after that affair of the “dog in a blanket,” I thought my lady was a long time hearth-stoning the step, and I just put my head very quietly out of the window, and there sure enough she was, with those two idle sluts of maids, from both the next doors, all three of them in their night-caps, with their hair like door-mats, and their gowns all open behind, and their brooms in their hands, sweeping away, as a make-believe, just for a minute, and then laying their heads together, and standing gossiping for at least five—then off again for a bit more sweeping—and then back again for a bit more scandal. This was just what I wanted, so rubbing my hands with glee, I popped on my flannel dressing-gown, and stole down

The Morning Gossip.

{183}

stairs, as silently as a black-beetle. When I came to the passage, I slipped behind the door, and heard them going on so nicely, no one can tell!

“Did you hever hear of sitch wulgarity, Miss Ginger? honly to think of her calling on a common jam pudden, a dog in a blanket!” said that minx of an Emma of mine.

“Well, I never heerd tell on the likes of sitch low talk—did you hever, Miss Twigg?” exclaimed that slut of a maid at the Tomlins’s.

“Not I, my dear; but then to be sure I’ve only lived in the fust of families,” answered that slip-shod, draggle-tail of a Miss Twigg at the Allens’. “But, after all, it’s no more than I should have looked for from sitch a stuck-up thing as she is, for missus says as how her friends his honly coal-eavers.”

As the reader can well conceive, I felt the tips of my fingers itching to be among the impudent, story-telling jades, but, thank goodness! I restrained my feelings—merely saying to myself, “Coal-heavers, indeed! well, if three barges and one wagon make a coal-heaver, I should like to know what makes a merchant, and that’s what my friends are, as that Mrs. Allen very well knows.”

“What do you think?” continued Miss Emma—“why Mrs. Sk—n—st—n hactually had the himperance to tell me that she’d stop the pot of jam she guv me, as plain as she could speak, hout of my wages. But I aint a goin to let her—no, not if I summonses the stingy old cat for it.”

“You a’nt—a’nt you?” I cried, bursting out from my hiding-place, for upon my word, my blood was up so, that I seized hold of her by the shoulders, and gave her such a shaking as she wont forget in a hurry, while her two friends scampered off with their brooms immediately they caught sight of me. “So you’ll summons me, will you?” I continued, when I couldn’t shake her any longer—“you’ll summons me, will you? and so you may, this day month, if you please—and you may summons me, if you like, for not giving you a character, into the bargain, for you wont get one from me,—you ungrateful, wicked, stupid, double-faced idiot, you!”

The courteous reader will, no doubt, be surprised that I didn’t pack the hussey out of the house then and there, and will, I dare say, be blaming me for allowing such a creature to{184} remain one moment longer in my establishment. But I know I have always been too considerate to servants, and of course that is the reason why they treat me as they do. Besides, dear Edward was unfortunately from home, (having been called away to the Guildford Assizes by professional business,) and he does side with the servants so, that I thought it might prevent his making a noise, if I gave her the usual month’s warning, instead of bundling her and her trumpery box into the streets, as she deserved.

But, of course, it was only the old story over again, the more indulgent I was to her, the more I suffered for it. For I declare it was not more than two days after this that her abominable stupidity again got me into such a dreadful scrape, that I can only say that it was extremely lucky for her that I didn’t find it out till I got in the country, or there’s no telling what I might have done to her.

Mr. Sk—n—st—n had written me a letter to say that he feared that business would detain him in Guildford for at least a fortnight longer, as his cause stood last but three in the list, and the special jury cases had not yet been disposed of. So as I couldn’t, for the life of me, see the fun of being boxed up in town all alone, while my dear husband was enjoying himself in the country, and paying goodness knows what in hotel bills, when I was sure that one-half of the money would keep us very comfortably in lodgings in a country town like that Guildford, so I say I made up my mind, as the fine weather seemed likely to last, to pack up my box, and run down to him on the morrow, especially as I knew it would be such an agreeable surprise to him, and he was entitled by law to a guinea a-day for his expenses, and which I was convinced would be more than sufficient for the two of us.

Accordingly, immediately after breakfast, the next morning, I told that Miss Emma to bring down my hair-trunk, out of the back attic, and I set to work packing it, so that I might be in time to catch the three o’clock train. As it was only for a week or so, I thought one morning and one afternoon dress would be quite sufficient. Still, as there was a chance of my having to see company, (for every one knows how gay a country town is during the assizes, and this year there was to be a grand trial for a dreadfully shocking murder, which I{185} was sure would fill Guildford with all the best people for miles round,) I thought it better, as I felt convinced that, under the circumstances, I should meet with several of the first ladies in the neighbourhood, to put up my beautiful new Barège, which I had just had home from the dressmaker’s, and only worn the Sunday before at church, where it was generally admired.

Really, when I came to turn it over in my mind, it was such heavenly weather that, upon my word, it seemed to me like a sin to go shutting oneself up in those close first and second class carriages, with a set of old molly-coddles, that will have all the windows up, when for half or even a quarter of the money that one is obliged to pay for being stifled alive, one can have all the advantage of travelling in an open carriage, and breathing that beautiful, pure, and balmy country air, which, to a person living in such a smoky place as London, is positively beyond all price. Not that I should wish any one to suppose that it was the paltry difference between the fares that influenced my opinion, for I declare I would sooner any day pay the price of the first class carriages to be allowed to ride in the third. Besides, it wasn’t as if I was likely to meet with any one that I was acquainted with—though for the matter of that, it was little or nothing to me if I did. So (I make no secret about it, for I don’t care who knows it) I made up my mind to go in the third class—especially as I should have to pay that minx of a Miss Emma her board wages for the fortnight, so that what with cab hire, and those shameful impositions of turnpikes, I was fearful lest the money that Edward had left with me for the housekeeping might run short, and I should be driven up in a corner for want of funds. Consequently, I put on an old dress that I didn’t care about spoiling, for I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to run the chance of having an expensive gown entirely ruined by those filthy smuts from the engine, or to go decking oneself out so as to attract notice where you rather wished to avoid it.

When I had finished packing, I sat down, for the first time that day, just to try and coax myself to eat a mouthful of the beautiful little leg of mutton that I had had for dinner the day before, and which had looked such a picture in the butcher’s shop, that I took quite a fancy to it, as I was sure that{186} it would eat as nice and tender as lamb, and so it did. While I was thus occupied, I gave that simpleton of a Miss Emma a card, on which I had written, in a large round hand, “Mrs. Sk—n—st—n, passenger, Guildford,” so that there might be no mistake about my luggage, and told her (as I do like to have my meals in quiet) to fasten it on my box with a tack or two, and then to run round and fetch me a cab as quick as she could; for, on looking at the clock, I found I had no time to spare, and I wanted to cut up the remainder of the mutton into a sandwich or two, as I didn’t see the good of leaving it for that good-for-nothing servant of mine, when I was going to put her upon board wages; and, as I said to myself, who knows but I might be thankful for something to eat on the journey, and even if I shouldn’t be, why it would save me the expense of having any cold meat with my tea.

When the cab came round, and I went to see my trunk safe on the box with the driver, lo and behold! if that blockhead of an Emma hadn’t been sewing the card on to the handle with some cotton, instead of nailing it on to the lid, as I desired her. But of course she would have it that it was all my fault, saying, that when I told her to fasten it on with a tack or two, she naturally fancied that I meant with a needle and thread—instead of a hammer and nails, as any one, with half a grain of sense in their heads, would have understood me. But there was no time to have it altered then, so I jumped into the cab, disgusted with the whole world, and determined to prevent accidents, by not allowing the trunk to go out of my sight for a moment.

What with quarrelling with that Emma, and searching for coppers to give those dreadful cheats at the turnpikes, and the cabman going the longest way round to make me fancy the distance was greater than it was, positively, when I got to the railway, the bell was ringing. While I was quarrelling with that shameful impostor of a cabman about the fare, I turned round, and saw a porter running off with my trunk on his green velveteen shoulder. I screamed after him, telling him to put it down that instant, but it was all to no use. So taking the cabman’s number, and paying what he asked, off I rushed into the office, and whilst I was getting my ticket, told the gentleman that one of their porters had, in a most{187} shameful manner, carried off my trunk, and I should certainly hold the company responsible for any damage or loss that might happen to it. But of course he would have it that I needn’t alarm myself, and would find it all right, saying that if there was a card on it marked “Guildford,” it would be put with the Guildford luggage, and taken out at the proper station. But there was no time for looking into the matter, for when I got on the platform, the second bell rang, and I was no sooner in my place, than off went the train.

I don’t know whether it has ever struck the reader, but it seems to me that it never rains but when you’re going out upon pleasure. No matter if it has been fine for a month previously, only just put on your things for a trip into the country, or down the river, or for a fête at Vauxhall, or even go out in a new bonnet and leave your umbrella at home, and of course down it must pour in torrents, just because you don’t want it; and positively as if the clerk of the weather had got a spite against you. When my peas were coming up, of course there wasn’t a drop of rain for six weeks, and now that I had set my heart upon a beautiful excursion, a few miles out of town, it must begin to spit the very moment the train left Nine Elms, and come down in perfect cataracts by the time we got to Wandsworth. Talk about subscriptions for the damage done to market-gardeners and florists, by a heavy shower, I’m sure I never see it begin to rain but what my bosom bleeds to think of the dreadful destruction that must then be going on among the artificial flowers in the ladies’ bonnets; and, goodness gracious! if mine didn’t hang down and look as pappy as if they had been boiled. To be sure, there was a young man next to me who was also going to Guildford, and who, being a perfect gentleman, was kind enough to offer me a part of his umbrella, for he couldn’t help seeing that my parasol was of no more use to me than an extinguisher, and I declare even then—for what is one umbrella between two, especially when it’s only a small German as his was—even then I say, the rain kept dripping down my neck and all over my shoulders, until my black silk Polka was so wet that it looked as shiny as a policeman’s oil-skin cape, and I was so drenched to the skin, that upon my word I was quite glad to get out of the bothering train, and take{188} shelter even in the little poking lonely railway hotel, where at least I said to myself, I shall be able to change my soaking things, and get dry and comfortable before going on to Guildford.

When I got into the station, I told a porter to look after my luggage, adding that it was merely one box, with “Mrs. Sk—n—st—n, passenger, Guildford,” written on a card, attached to the handle; and presently back he came, saying that the only box in the office was a hair trunk, without any name at all on it.

“Is it a brown hair trunk?” I asked, quite alarmed.

“Yes, mum,” he answered, “a brown hair trunk, with brass nails.”

On going and looking at it, I said, “Yes, that’s mine, and the card has got torn off, just as I expected.”

Directly I got to the hotel, I requested the landlady to let me have a room with a good fire in it, and a cup of hot tea as soon as ever she could, as I was wet through, and afraid of catching my death, unless I had something warm, and put on some nice dry things immediately. Once in my room, with my bonnet off, I couldn’t help saying to myself, “Drat those third-class carriages! I declare if I’m not as wet as a bathing woman!” And so I was, for my hair hung down the sides of my face positively like skeins of silk. As for my poor, beautiful Leghorn bonnet, it had no more shape in it than a basket-woman’s in Covent Garden Market, and whenever I went across the room I declare the wet came dripping from me for all the world as if I was a walking umbrella.

However, I soon had my box up stairs, and set to work about getting my things out. But when I put the key in the lock, do what I would I couldn’t make it turn. Of course, I thought some of the crumbs of the mutton sandwiches I had in my pocket must have got into it, so I kept blowing down it, and knocking it on my hand, but all to no good, till at last, I got into such a passion with it, that I put the end of my parasol into the handle of the key, and at last forced it round.

Oh dear, oh dear! I thought I should have fainted when I lifted up the lid. Goodness gracious me! if I hadn’t got some brute of a man’s box, instead of my own. I flew to the bell and nearly pulled it down. When the landlady came up,{189} I shrieked out, “They’ve given me the wrong box; you must send down to the station directly and see if mine is there, for I know I shall be laid up for months with a cold, if I don’t have it.”

“Mercy me, mum, you don’t say so!” replied that landlady; “and I shouldn’t wonder if yours has gone on to Southampton, now; however, the porter will be here when the next train comes in, and then I can ask him all about it, for really there isn’t a single soul in the house that I can spare at present.”

“Why, my good woman,” I exclaimed, “I’m drenched to the skin, and what am I to do in the meantime?”

“You shall have your tea directly, mum, and the next train wont be above an hour at the most. Would you like a nice hot chop with it, mum?”

“Chop! No!” I screamed, “I don’t want any chops; I want my box.”

“Very well, mum, you shall have it as soon as possible—with a nice mixed pickle, mum;” and then, hearing one of the bells ring, out she flew, leaving me to steam away before the fire, just as if I was a potato.

There I sat, “dratting” the stupidity of that Emma, until positively I felt the shivers coming on, and was convinced that if I didn’t do something, I should be having a doctor’s bill as long as my arm to pay, and be, perhaps, a martyr to the rheumatism for the rest of my days. All of a sudden, just as I was driven to desperation, it struck me that perhaps the plaguy box belonged to a married couple, and there might be a gown or a wrapper in it that one could put on; and as I dare say whoever had got my trunk wouldn’t be very particular with it, I didn’t see why I should go sparing theirs. Accordingly I began unpacking it. The first thing I took out was a great big ugly pilot coat, smelling away of tobacco smoke enough to knock one down,—then, three or four coloured shirts, some with blue stripes like a bed-tick, and others with large red spots, as if they had been made out of a clown’s dress,—then there was a box of shaving soap—and a bottle of whisker-dye—and a fishing-rod—and a couple of pairs of trowsers, with patterns big enough for druggets—and a bothering German flute—a bright blue surtout—a{190} magic razor-strop—a pot of Yarmouth bloaters—a volume of Blair’s Sermons—and some socks, oh, la! as full of large round holes as the front of a peep-show. I really didn’t know what to do. It was impossible for me to sit trembling away there like a jelly, so I made up my mind just to slip on the pilot coat, and a pair of the socks, which at least were dry, while I hung my gown over the chair, before the fire, and then wait patiently until I could gain some tidings of my lost box. When I took a peep at myself in the glass, upon my word, if, with that beastly pilot coat on, I didn’t look more like an old apple-woman in the streets than a respectable married female. However, I did feel more comfortable, and it was not the time to think about looks.

Whilst I was seated in front of the fire, with the collar of the coat turned up so as to keep my neck warm, and longing for a nice cup of warm tea, who should come in but the maid with the tray, but no sooner did she catch sight of me, than she took me for a brute of a man, and saying, “I beg your pardon, sir, I thought it was the lady in the next room,” she whisked out of the place, although I called out—“Here! here! that tea is for me!” as loud as ever I could.

A lady in the next room, then! thought I to myself—I’ll go and ask her to lend me a few things till I can get my own, for I’m sure she can never have the heart to refuse me. So directly I heard the maid go down stairs, I went and knocked at her door, and when she said “Come in,” I positively felt so ashamed of the figure I knew I was, that I declare I hadn’t the courage to look her in the face; so, with my eyes cast down on the ground, I said, “I have to apologize—for intruding upon you—but—I thought that perhaps—you might have a gown or so—that you did not want—and which would be kind enough to let me—have for a short time—for”——and I was going on to explain the distressing situation I was in, when the creature cut me short by hallooing out in a horribly gruff voice, “A gown or two that I don’t want! hang me if I haven’t got a whole box full in the next room that are of no use to me, and that anybody’s welcome to.”

I was about to express my thanks for what appeared to me to be the height of generosity, especially from one that I had never seen before in all my life, when, on turning my eyes{191} towards the stranger, I couldn’t help thinking that whoever it was, she had either got on my beautiful Barège gown, or else one of the very same pattern, and I was just about to march round and see whether it had got a cross body, as mine had, before I accused any one of wearing my things—when, lo and behold! the person called out, “Where the deuce did you get that pea-coat from?”

“Where,” I cried, “did you get that gown from, I should like to know, sir,” for I no sooner saw the creature’s face, than, from the whiskers, I at once knew that it was the young man who had come down with me in the train, and who was sitting there with his coat off, and my beautiful best gown tied by the sleeves in a knot round his neck; and directly he took my plaid shawl off his head, I saw he had split the dress somehow or other all down the back.

“Never mind the gown,” he answered, “what business had you to go meddling with my trunk?”

“I meddle with your trunk!” I exclaimed, “what right had you to go running away with mine in the shameful way you have?”

However, I was too glad to get back my things, to stand asking questions of a person, who, if it hadn’t been for his civility in sharing his umbrella with me, I certainly should have given into custody on the spot. Though when I looked over my box, I declare if the brute hadn’t so tossed about and tumbled all my clean things, and so torn and ruined my beautiful Barège, that as soon as I had sufficiently recovered myself, and put on some dry things, I packed up my box again and made the best of my way back to town; for I saw that it was useless to think of spending a fortnight in Guildford, with nothing but a morning-wrapper to put on—especially as by so doing there could be no chance of Edward’s knowing a word about the occurrence, which I felt convinced he would be certain to say was entirely my fault.

Directly I set foot in my own house again, I had Miss Emma into the parlour, and showing her the state that my gown was in, all through her abominable stupidity, I told her that she really was so dangerous a blockhead to have near one, that although I wouldn’t thrust her into the wide world without a place to put her head in that night, still she would{192} be pleased to quit my service first thing in the morning—which I took very good care she did.

And thus ended my acquaintance with Miss Emma, and I very naturally made a vow that the next woman I had in my service should have some little learning in her head, at least. Though positively, it was only jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire, for when the other creature came in she was, if possible, harder to put up with than the good-for-nothing hussey that I had just turned out of the house. Bless us and save us! if her head wasn’t crammed brim full of trumpery penny novels and rubbishing romantic melo-dramas. Was there ever such a woman—a great big, fat thing, with a currant-jelly complexion, and always marching about the house with a broom in her hand, either fancying herself “Ada the Betrayed,” or “Amy,” in “Love and Madness”—or else sitting for hours, after the parlour dinner was over, all among the dirty plates and dishes, with her feet on the fender, crying her eyes out, over “The Murder at the Old Smithy,” or “The Heads of the Headless,” just, for all the world, as you see her in the picture,—which I will tell the gentle reader all about in the next chapter—and a pretty chapter of accidents it will be—for, of all the plagues of servants I ever had anything to do with, that woman certainly was the greatest, and she got me into one scrape, that I’m sure I shall never forget to my dying hour—but more of this hereafter.{193}

## CHAPTER XIII.

I SHA’N’T SAY ANYTHING AT ALL ABOUT WHAT’S COMING IN THE PRESENT CHAPTER. ALL I KNOW IS, THAT IT NEARLY DROVE ME STARK STARING MAD, AND OFTEN AND OFTEN I HAVE IN MY AGONY OF MIND BEEN FORCED TO EXCLAIM, IN THE WORDS OF THAT SWEET SINGER, MR. BRAHAM, AS FOLLOWS:—

“Oh! (goodness gracious me) I can bear my fate no longer,
E’en hope (’pon my word) is banish’d from my soul!”
Recitative to that beautiful ballad of “Through the forests, through the meadows,” in “Der Freischutz,” and which, indeed, I once had the music of, for that charming girl, Miss Emily B-yl-s, was kind enough to copy it out for me, but where it’s gone to now, goodness only knows; most likely some of my beauties of servants have taken it to light the fire, or put the candles up with, or something equally pretty. All I know is, it isn’t to be found in my Canterbury, and it can’t have walked out of the house by itself, that’s clear.

Before taking up the thread of my story from where I dropped it last month, I should like the gentle reader to know what a dreadful fidget Mr. Sk—n—st—n is. Though it is but right to add, that I have comparatively little or nothing to say against my beloved Edward in other respects. But even if I had been blessed with an angel for a husband, and he had unfortunately been a knag, still, I do verily believe that I should have found my lot just as hard to bear with as I do at present. For if there is one thing more trying than another to one’s good temper, or more calculated to rumple the natural smoothness of one’s amiable disposition, and to put one out of sorts with the whole world, and everybody in it, it is to have a man always at one, worry worry, fidget fidget, knag knag, from the first thing when he gets up in the morning, to the last thing when he goes to bed at night. Really any unprejudiced person like myself would believe that Mr. Sk—n—st—n was never happy unless he was trying to see how miserable he could make me; for literally{194} and truly, without exaggeration, the man’s chief enjoyment seemed to lie in finding fault with, first this thing, then that thing, and then the other. I declare it’s my firm opinion to this very day, that he used to think of nothing else all the way home, but what he could make a noise about directly he set foot in the house. Only just let him be able to write his trumpery name in the dust on the hall chairs, or let the cloth not be laid for dinner ready to receive my fine, greedy gentleman, or let me be in my morning wrapper, and not dressed to the very moment that he knocked at the door (of course it was no matter to him how much I had been slaving all through the hot day, just to make him comfortable, oh, no, of course it wasn’t!)—or even if he couldn’t find fault with any of these, only just let the forks be a little dirty between the prongs, or the soup be cold, or a little twopenny-halfpenny caterpillar be in the greens, and then, oh dear me, there were fine nuts indeed for my lord to crack—he never knew such a house—he didn’t—like a pigstye—of course it always was—be better treated at a common tavern, he would (then why didn’t he go there, I should like to know, instead of coming home always grumbling away, like an old Smellfungus as he is). Then of a morning, too, he had no sooner swallowed his breakfast, than he must go dancing down stairs, and stand fiddling for half an hour in the cellar, pretending to be getting his filthy wine out, though of course I knew what my gentleman was after, as well as he himself did, for up stairs he’d trot, with a face as long as my arm, with a whole pack of trumpery complaints, and, as pleased as Punch with the mare’s-nests that my Mr. Clever thought he had discovered. Then out they would come, one after another—first, why weren’t the blacking brushes in their proper place, instead of on the kitchen dresser?—or else, hadn’t he told me over and over again, that he wouldn’t have the servants’ candlesticks put into the fire?—or, why were the cinders all about the passage?—or else, he declared the stones were as black as his hat, and had never been cleaned for a twelvemonth,—in fact, the whole place was a perfect disgrace to me, and positively, he would go on fidgeting and knagging about this, that, and the other, until I lost all patience with him, and told him as plainly as I could, “that he had no business at all down in the{195} kitchen, poking his nose into what didn’t concern him, and that all I wished to goodness gracious was, that the cook would pin a dishclout to his coat tails, and then, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to let him go down to the court at Westminster with it dangling at his heels, if it was only that the Lord Chief Justice of England might see what a mollycoddle and poking meddling thing he was”—and the beauty of it was, that I used to put him in such a passion by telling him that there was a party I knew, who was not a hundred miles from where I was standing, and who was one of the greatest fidgets that I ever came near, and saying in my most tantalising way, “Well, I wouldn’t be a fidget, no, not if anybody was to make me a present of all the gold in the mines of Peru that very moment.”

Methinks that ever and anon I hear the courteous reader exclaiming, “But, my dear Mrs. Sk—n—st—n, this really has nothing at all to do with the subject of your story.” You are right, courteous reader, no more it has; but the truth is, I feel slightly indisposed this morning; in fact, I may say I have not felt myself for this last day or two—I think it is nothing more than a slight attack of the bile after all, and my fair readers will, I’m sure, agree with me, that when one is bilious, there is nothing does one so much good as to be able to speak one’s mind, without any restraint or the fear of ever being taken to task for it. So, as there is no earthly chance of Mr. Sk—n—st—n’s ever meeting with these few candid remarks, why I’m only too glad to have the opportunity of letting my lady readers know what I really think of my pretty gentleman. However, I will try and rally myself, and coax my wandering thoughts back to my subject, though I’m afraid it will be a difficult task for me to accomplish in my present state of feeling, for I’ve a number of little white stars floating about before my eyes, and my right temple is throbbing and aching as if some imp, out of mere mischief, was thumping away at it with a sledge hammer, and I have a shooting pain just between my shoulders as though some one had got a penknife and was digging it into me every other moment. Our medical adviser says I have gone out and caught that nasty influenza which has been flying about our neighbourhood of late; but don’t tell me! I know i{196}t’s nothing of the kind, and only my old friend the bile that’s come back again to worry my very life out, and it’s my firm opinion that our medical adviser knows nothing at all about it.

Well, as I was saying, that beauty of a husband of mine is such a fidget, and must always be meddling with what he knows nothing at all about, that I declare all the time I was nursing he wouldn’t let me taste even a little pickle. And of course in a family you can’t be having a hot joint every day of the week, and I wouldn’t give a pin for my dinner when it’s cold meat, and you can’t touch even so much as a gherkin, or a walnut, or a simple mouthful of red cabbage, to give it a relish. When the rhubarb was coming in, too, really it was quite heart-rending. I declare, he wouldn’t let me eat a spoonful of it, though I had gone to the expense of two shillings, like a silly, to buy as beautiful a bundle as I think I ever set eyes on in all my life, and which positively quite made my mouth water when I saw it at the greengrocer’s, it looked such a picture. And the worst of it all was, I had fixed my mind on it so, (for, to tell the truth, it’s a favourite dish of mine,) that I only eat half a dinner, so as to be able to do justice to the lovely large tart I had made. But Mr. Edward must know such a deal about what was good and what was bad for me, that of course he would have it that I should go making the child ill, even if I took as much of the fruit as would lie upon a sixpence, only just as a taste, though I told him that I had bought it principally in the light of medicine, as I had heard mother say over and over again that it was a fine thing to sweeten the blood at the change of the year. But, oh dear me, no! of course my Mr. Wiseacre knew a great deal better than people who had lived twice as long and seen twice as much of the world as he had, and wouldn’t let me have even a thimble full, just to see if it had turned out as well as I had expected (drat him!) saying, “I ought to be as well aware as he was, that such things were not fit for me while I was nursing.” Ought I, indeed!—though, if it comes to that, what on earth can he know about nursing—a molly-coddle! (Augh! I do detest molly-coddles, and all I can say is, you wont catch me marrying one again in a hurry.){197}

So as I had got a nurse, and she was coming in shortly, and as my poor little dear pet must be weaned some time or other, I thought it would be better to get that troublesome job over before the new maid entered my service. For I do think it is a perfect cruelty to break a poor thing’s rest every night, for a week at least, with the care of a dear little infant, that of course she doesn’t care a fig about. Besides, I didn’t like to entrust the arduous duty of weaning to a stranger, and my own ever dear mother had made me promise that I would let her have the pleasure of weaning my little chicken. So I thought it would be better, under the circumstances, to make friends with her again, and just get her to take charge of my beautiful little ducks-o’-diamonds for a week or so, especially, too, as Easter Sunday was just coming round; and since I have always made it a religious duty to have a nice little quarter of lamb and a delicious gooseberry pudding with the wood in it, on that day, I felt convinced I should never forgive myself if I wasn’t able to touch a mouthful of the pudding, through Mr. Edward’s taking a mean advantage of my nursing, as I well knew he would only be too glad to do. Besides, to tell the truth, if there’s one thing that I’m more partial to than another, it is to gooseberries with the wood in them, for I do think that, with an egg beaten up in them, just to take the roughness off, you have such an exquisite flavour of the tree in the fruit, that really I should like any lady reader of mine who may be unacquainted with that delicacy of the season, just to try it, (though I can hardly bring myself to believe, that out of the thirty-nine thousand readers I have every month, there can be one among the number who has been wicked heathen enough to have allowed every Easter Sunday of her life to have gone by, without having so much as once partaken of a gooseberry pudding with the wood in it—if so, I blush for her.) Oh! with plenty of sugar, it is delicious; indeed, I may say, heavenly.

While upon this topic, I think it is but right to add, that I have always, ever since I was a child, made it a solemn duty to observe, with the greatest strictness, all the feasts which have been ordained by our venerable mother church. Thank goodness, I can lay my head on my pillow at night{198} and safely say, that I have never allowed a single year to pass over my head without partaking with great devotion and extreme relish of the plum-pudding and mince-pie of Christmas, the pancake of Shrove Tuesday (by the bye, with a spoonful of gin, it eats just like ratafia, I can assure you) and the divine gooseberry tart of Easter Sunday; though, with all my enthusiasm, I regret to state, I can’t say as much for that filthy salt cod of Ash Wednesday. I cannot let the subject drop here, without adding, that it has cut me to the heart to see a nasty barbarous innovating spirit growing up among us of late, which threatens to destroy all the sacred institutions of our country, and to roll the plum-pudding of our forefathers in the dust. Nor can I, before quitting the theme, help giving this solemn warning to the wives and mothers of England, “Hold fast to your pancakes, or they will be snatched from you before many Shrove Tuesdays are over your heads, as sure as my name is Sk—n—st—n.” If the ruthless despoilers must pull down something, why let them tear our salt fish from us; but in the name of all that is great and good, let them spare us the agony of seeing the gooseberry pudding of our best affections trampled under foot.

However, I must leave my gooseberry pudding for awhile, and return to that sentimental novel-reading creature of a Betsy, of whom I spoke in my last chapter. There was a nice bit of goods for a well regulated establishment like mine! How people can ever bring their minds to give characters to such idle, good-for-nothing affected toads, is a mystery to me, and from the character I had with her, I’m sure I expected that she would have proved nothing less than the treasure I had been on the constant look out for ever since I was married. Lord-a’-mercy upon the woman, I don’t suppose there ever was (or ever will be again, let us hope) another creature like her. I declare, unless you kept her right under your nose all day long, there was no getting her to do a single thing properly; for positively she was so wrapt up in her romances, that directly my eye was off her, she was sure to pull the “Heads of the Headless” out of her pocket, or else spread out “Marianne the Child of Charity,” right before her on the kitchen dresser, and no{199} matter what she was at, there she would go rubbing and reading and snivelling away, paying a great deal more attention to her trumpery pennyworth of “soul-stirring interest,” than to my work. I’m sure that to have made her perfectly happy, all she wanted was to have been allowed to scrub down the stairs, with a reading-desk set up before her, or else to stick some highly exciting nautico-domestic rubbish at the top of her broom, and read while she swept—in the same way as the military bands stick their music on their hautboys and things, so that they may play while they march.

For, upon my word, often and often have I, after ringing two or three times for the sentimental cat, gone down in the kitchen, and found her with a snuff to the candle as big as a toad-stool, and all of a tremble like an Italian greyhound, over the “Castle Fiend, or the Fate of the Loved and the Lost, and the Ten Mysteries,” or some other powerfully-written nonsense; and if in my vexation I snatched it from her hand, I was sure to find that, instead of minding the needle-work I had given her, she had been wasting the whole of her evening with such stuff as this:

“Hush! some one comes,” said the Baron Mavaracordo to Canoni—a man of strange aspect and apparel—as they were seated in a richly decorated room in Strademoor Castle.

“My lord,” said a man-at-arms, “there come three travellers through the storm, and demand admittance to the castle.”

“Do they proclaim their calling and degree?”

“They do not; but in the name of hospitality as wanderers, they demand admittance. One is a female, but they are well mounted; and one looks warlike, although clad not in the garments of a knight.” (Clad not! Pretty talk that for a common soldier—of the dark ages, too.)

“Admit them; and, with all imaginable speed, show them to the painted closet. I will see them there.”

When the man-at-arms had left to perform his errand, the baron turned to his companion, and said,—

“It is they.”[B]

It is they!—is it they indeed? There’s soul-stirring interest for you, all about your grand Baron Mavaracordo’s, who can’t speak even good grammar, and Italian gentlemen of astrological skill, who declare, that “if by the occult sciences that are familiar to them they can only find the{200} knave who threw this here, he should suffer such pangs he dreams not of.”[C]

And, bless your heart, she hadn’t been in the house a week or so before, I declare to goodness, I don’t think there was a saucepan in the place that hadn’t its bottom burnt out; for there she would let, no matter what it was, boil and boil away till there wasn’t a drop of water left; for what did she care about the fish or the potatoes so long as she could have a quiet half-hour’s cry over the “Black Pirate,” or else be finding out what became of “Mary, the Primrose Girl,” instead of looking after my greens. It’s a perfect miracle to me, too, that we were not all of us burnt in our beds; for when she found that I was one too many for her, and kept throwing her “Heiresses of Sackville” and her “Children of two Fathers” behind the fire as fast as she got them, then she must needs go reading in her room half the night through, and smuggling either “The Gipsy Boy,” or else “The Maniac Father, or the Victim of Seduction,” up to-bed with her of a night, robbing herself of her proper rest and me of my candles; and even when I took care to see that she had only an end just long enough to light her into bed, why then, drat her impudence, if the nasty toad didn’t burn all the kitchen stuff she could lay her hands upon in the butter-boat, with an old lamp wick stuck up in the middle.

How on earth the horrid silly could ever have managed to pay for all the works she took in out of the wages I allowed her, and what in the name of goodness she could ever have thought was to become of her in her old age, it would, I’m sure, take a much wiser head than mine to say; for independently of being a constant subscriber from the commencement to most of the penny novels, I declare nothing would please her stuck-up literary ladyship but she must needs take in a newspaper of her own every week, and be a constant reader of the “Penny Sunday Times,” though what to gracious she could have seen in the thing, I can’t make out. Positively, it used to make me shudder all over, and the blood run quite cold down my back, to see the large, staring, frightful engraving that there was always in the middle of its{201} front page. For as true as each Saturday came round, there was sure to be some great brute of a man, in a Spanish hat and a large black cloak all flying about, striking some very grand theatrical attitude, and flourishing over his head a big carving-knife, to which three or four heavy notes of admiration were hanging, while a poor defenceless woman lay at his feet, with her throat cut as wide open as a cheese, and weltering in a pool of ink; and the beauty of it was, the thing always had some grand title, like “The Earl in his Jealous Rage slaying the Lady Isoline.”

Any one would naturally have fancied that the Penny Sunday Times and the novels at the same price would have been quite enough to have satisfied my lady’s love of the horrible; but, Lord bless you, no! I declare, there wasn’t a single murder or last dying speech and confession cried out in the streets, but she must rush up, all haste, to the door just to have another pen’orth of horrors; and then she would sit herself down, and never let the bit of paper go out of her hand until she had got the whole of the affecting copy of verses at the end of it by heart, and there I should have her marching about the house for weeks afterwards chanting some such nonsense as the following:—

“Biddle and Sheriff is our sad names,
And do confess we were much to blame,
On the 28th of September last,
We well remember, alas! alas!
The very thoughts causes us to rue,
In Eighteen hundred and forty-two.”

I declare to goodness, there was no keeping the woman away from the door as soon as she heard those husky vagabonds in the street, shouting away at the top of their cracked post-horn voices, all at once, “The full, true, and particular account” of some cock-and-a-bull-story or other; and whether it was the “as-sas-si-nation of Lew-is Philip, the King of the French,” (I’m sure those screaming scoundrels used to assassinate that poor, dear old man at least two or three times a month in our neighbourhood all the winter through,) or whether it was the “full disclosures of an elopement of a certain pretty milliner, not a hundred miles from these parts, with a well-known sporting nobleman, together with authentic copies{202} of all the love-letters found in a silver cigar-case, which was picked up this morning by a respectable butcher in High-street,” or indeed no matter what it was, my Miss Betsy was sure to invest a penny in the rubbish, although directly I told her to let me see the nonsense that she had been stupid enough to go wasting her money about, of course, I used to find that it had nothing at all to do with what the fellows had been crying, and was merely some trumped-up rigmarole story, that would have done just as well for York as it did for Camden Town—a pack of wicked scoundrels coming up, three at a time, at the dusk of evening, alarming a quiet neighbourhood, and frightening one out of one’s wits by bawling their wicked stories out all of a sudden right under one’s window, and robbing the poor maids, who are sure to buy their rubbish, and imposing upon the mistresses, who are certain to read it.

As for the “new and popular songs,” too, it’s impossible to say how many miles of ballads that Betsy must have bought in her time, at three yards for a halfpenny. Positively, if the drawers in the dresser were not crammed with her “Cherry Ripes,” and her “Mistletoe Boughs,” and her “Old Arm Chairs,” and her “Cork Legs,” and a pack of other stuff, as full as they could hold, with the stupid engravings at the top of some of them, that had nothing at all to do with the song, for I declare if there wasn’t a ship in full sail put as an illustration to “Away, Away, to the Mountain’s Brow!” and a trumpery shepherdess, playing on a pipe to two grubby little lambs, as the picture of “Wanted! a Governess!”

However, to come back to my gooseberry pudding and my weaning. Well, thanks to that dear good mother of mine, I got the weaning all over so nicely the reader can’t tell, though, I’m sorry to say that, thanks to that beauty of a Betsy of mine, the gooseberry pudding with the wood in it, that I had set my heart upon having so, wasn’t fit to have been set before a pig, let alone a respectable married female like myself—Augh! I declare I’ve got the taste of it in my mouth to this very day.

Well, as I was saying, I went by myself round to dear, dear mother’s, (who, whatever her faults may be, still{203} I must say has always been a good mother to me,) and after we had had a nice long cry together, and both of us agreed that it was all owing to Mr. Sk—n—st—n’s continually trying, all he could, to set me against my own dear parents, as he was, we kissed each other and made friends again; for, as my darling mother very truly said, I had always been her own dear, good girl, and, she would add, whatever might come of it, (though, far be it from her to make words between man and wife,) that I was a great deal too good for that sour, good-for-nothing husband of mine, who, she couldn’t help saying, was no gentleman. Then the dear, foolish old soul would make me step into the beautiful little back parlour and take a mouthful of luncheon. And then, I declare, she must go having up, expressly for me, the beautiful cold, baked rice-pudding that she’d had for dinner only the day before, and which, if it is well browned, and has got plenty of custard, and a stick or two of cinnamon in it, is to my mind as nice a thing as one can put one’s lips to. Nor, was this all. Really she seemed as if she couldn’t make enough of me, for, do what I would, I could not prevent the affectionate silly from opening a fresh bottle of her lovely, best green-ginger wine on the joyful occasion, for the more I told her that I dare not touch a drop of it for the life of me, the more determined she seemed to be to open it.

Oh! upon my word, I don’t think I ever passed such a pleasant afternoon as that was. I declare, as I sat there, looking out of that lovely little window, and seeing that superb Regent’s Canal winding along like a live eel, with father’s majestic barge dancing on its surface, and his gallant heaver fast asleep in the stern, while here and there a child of charity might be seen fishing on the banks, it seemed to me as if, with a slight stretch of the imagination, you might have fancied yourself to have been far away in beautiful Venice, and the swarthy bargeman the sun-burnt gondolier of that romantic clime, while with a little extra play of fancy one might easily have twisted the charity boys seeking the finny tribe into the yellow-legged kingfishers, which I have heard papa’s old friend, Mr. Glasscock, (who keeps a large Italian warehouse in the neighbourhood, and consequently ought to know something about the country,) over and over again say, delight to haunt the Venetian shores.{204}

Oh! it was so beautiful to sit there, eating that heavenly cold baked rice-pudding till I was afraid I should make myself ill, and hearing dear mother call me everything that was good, and Mr. Sk—n—st—n everything that was bad. “Ah! my dear sweet Caroline,” she said, with much feeling and great truth, “how you can ever have brought yourself to put up with the brutal treatment of that disgraceful tyrant of a husband of yours,—of whose conduct I must beg of you, my darling, not to ask me to express any opinion,—is more than I should like to take upon myself to state. All I can say is, my love, that if you had not been a perfect angel, you would have packed up your things, and left the ungrateful monster long ago. But I can see what he is after, my dear; he wont rest easy until he has fidgetted you into an early grave; for I see as plainly as plainly can be, that you are fast giving way under it, and that your appetite is not half as good as it used to be, and that unless you take as much strengthening food as you possibly can, the wretch will break your heart chip by chip before he has done with you. However, it is no business of mine, and Heaven forbid that I should say a word about it! Only I wish to goodness gracious, with all my heart and soul, that it had pleased Providence to have allowed your father to have blessed you with a big brother, and then Mr. Sk—n—st—n would never have dared to have treated you in the way he does. But, as I said before, it is a subject which it pains me much to touch upon, so I shall let it drop, merely observing, that if your respected father had the spirit of a tadpole in him, he could never sit quietly smoking his pipe of an evening down at that filthy wharf as he does, while he knows, as well as I do, that a big-whiskered fellow is puzzling his wits to find out the quickest way of driving his own innocent, gentle little lamb of a Caroline into a premature coffin. But I have done with the painful theme, my pet; so let me give you a little more ginger, and we will change the conversation to a more lively theme, if you please. By-the-bye, will you, on your return home, remember to mention to that disgraceful husband of yours, that your dear father is now selling the very best screened Wall’s-end coals as low as twenty-one shillings a ton.”

Well, as I said before, I got the weaning over beautifully.{205} Poor dear mother was delighted at having the job, though father—just like all the selfish men—was quite of a different way of thinking. Of course I kept away from the dear little pet for more than a whole week, though I’m sure I needn’t tell my fair readers that it was a hard, very hard struggle for me to do so, as I made certain that the darling was fretting its poor little life out for want of it. However, when I went to fetch the dear, mother told me that it had been as good as gold all the time, and had never cried once for it; for bless the little chick’s heart, it’s got its own mother’s sweet temper—so it has.

And upon my word, I had only just got my new nurse in, and my little toodle-loodle-lumpties (if I may be allowed so strong an expression) was only just beginning to take its food nicely, when, lo and behold, if that Easter Sunday didn’t pop round upon me! I never knew such a price as gooseberries were—three-and-sixpence for a little tiddy basketful, scarcely enough for one person; and Edward is such a pig at pastry, especially if it’s short crust; though I take good care always to make it flakey. However, it was a solemn feast; and if they had been twenty shillings a quart, I should have felt it my bounden duty to have given as much for them.

On the Saturday before Easter Sunday, I saw a little boy come to the door; and as Miss Betsy was up-stairs, busy with the beds, I went and opened it, when, bless us and save us, if it wasn’t a little dirty-faced monkey who had brought round her ladyship’s papers for the week from her twopenny-halfpenny newsvender. Oh, yes! there they were—“Penny Sunday Times,” as usual, with another horrible engraving; and the fifteenth part of “Emily Fitzormond, or the Deserted One;” together with the commencement of “Ela the Outcast, or the Gipsy Girl of Rosemary Dell;” with the first number of which Nos. 2, 3, and 4, were given gratis. Like a good-natured silly as I was, I went, letting her have the highly-exciting rubbish, instead of tearing it all up, as I ought to have done; and nicely I bit my fingers for my folly, for, just as I might have expected, there she was, all the next day, so interested with that stupid outcast of an Ela, that she couldn’t get my lamb down before the{206} fire until it was so late, that when it came to table it was only just warmed through, and every one knows how nice underdone lamb is. However, said I to myself, thank goodness, there’s a good large pudding coming, or else I don’t know what I should do. But, Lord-a-mercy me! when that came up, I thought I should have died of disgust and vexation, for, drat the novel-reading blockhead, if she hadn’t been so taken up with the fate of that bothering fal-lal gipsy-girl of Rosemary Dell, indeed, that I declare, if she didn’t go beating up a nasty, filthy, bad French egg, in my beautiful expensive little green gooseberries, with the wood in them. As she had spoilt the lamb for me, of course I had made little or no dinner, and, let alone my being as hungry as a hunter, I was positively dying to taste my favourite pudding for the first time that year, so that it wasn’t until I had put a large dessert-spoonful into my mouth, that I found out what the minx had been doing. And then, Uch! oh la! of all the messes, I thought I should have fainted! Taken the roughness off, indeed—ay, that she had, with a vengeance. Upon my word I was so vexed, I could have set down and had a good cry, I could; but as it was, I merely said to the jade,—“I’ll make you pay soundly for this, you may depend upon it, Miss Betsy; for if I don’t have another gooseberry pudding out of your next quarter, my name isn’t what it is; and I can tell you this, my fine lady, that if you don’t mind your P’s and Q’s, you’ll find that those trumpery soul-thrilling novels of yours will bring you to a bad end some of these fine mornings, take my word for it.”

Oh! if I’d had my wits about me, and only been able to see my true interests, I should have had none of the stupid scruples of conscience that I had, and have got rid of the girl on the spot—only, thanks to Mr. Edward, he must have it that I was only happy when I was changing, when he knows that all I pray for is that I could get hold of some good, honest, hard-working maid, that would live and die in my service. As for Miss Betsy, she was quite a hopeless job. Upon my word she was so wrapt up in her works of fiction, that really she would believe any trumpery cock-and-a-bull story that was told her. There really was no trusting her out of my sight, and that’s the truth. Once I went out{207} just to get a mouthful of fresh air in the Park, and on my return found that the hall had been stripped, and the gold watch of Edward’s poor dear first wife, which he had given me before we were married, had been carried off the mantelpiece by a fellow, whom she would have was the clergyman of the parish, and who, she said, requested to be allowed to write a letter to me about the Easter offering. If, too, by any accident I let the key of the area-gate out of my possession for more than a minute, she was certain to have down in the kitchen the first gipsy woman, with her trumpery box of sewing cottons to sell, that she could lay hold of, just to tell her rubbishing fortune, and who, after stuffing her head that she saw by the lines in her great ugly, coarse hand, that she was to marry a certain black-eyed young baker, and was to have her nine children and a shay-cart, and promising her, moreover, a large fortune into the bargain, would be certain to wind up by walking off with my silver spoons. The beauty of it was, too, that when I used to rate the romantic idiot soundly for her disgusting simplicity, telling her that she ought to be whipped at the cart’s tail for encouraging a pack of thieves in the way she did, upon my word if she wouldn’t, with all the coolness in the world, go off lamenting the degraded state of the robbers of the present day, saying that they were not half the fine set of people that they used to be in “the good old times and days of yore;” and then she’d actually have the impudence to look me in the face, and ask me if I knew anything about the great Jack Sheppard, declaring that he was the robber for her money, for he never shed blood but once; and whatever his faults might have been, the book that had been written upon him said very beautifully that he never told a lie.

This was the secret of it all. Of course, with the high-flown notions she had got of robbers, and brigands, and pirates, and a pack of other pickpockets, out of her weekly pennyworths of romantic rodomontades; and believing that the vagabonds possessed every virtue under the sun, with merely the slight drawback of occasionally wanting either your money or your life, she was a common victim to every villain that chose to impose upon her. I declare she got me{208} into one scrape by her credulity that nearly proved the death of me, (though it wasn’t the one that I spoke of last month, and for which I sent her away.)

You see, summer was just coming on, and the fine weather had set in; so I went to work, looking up my light dresses; and it’s very lucky I did so, for there was scarcely any of them that were fit to put on. They were all as yellow as marigolds; so I packed them off to the wash, every one excepting a very nice clear muslin, which really was so slightly discoloured, that it seemed to me worse than a sin to go giving a matter of eightpence to have it washed, when with a nice dark shawl it would look nearly clean, and do very well for a walk round the park some fine day at the end of the week. When I saw my beautiful Swiss cambric again, with its sweet pretty little, bright-red flower upon it, and its rich skirt and four rows of deep flounces, I couldn’t for the life of me help saying to myself, “Oh, you are a perfect love, I declare! and when you’re nicely clear-starched you’ll look superb, with my pink drawn silk bonnet and green shot-silk scarf, next Sunday at church.” And the more I looked at it, the more it struck me that I might just as well coax my own dear Edward, the first evening he was in one of his merry humours, to consent to have a one-horse fly for half the day; and then after church we could go round and make a number of calls that I was positively dying to rub off, and afterwards take a drive round Hyde Park, and wind up with a promenade in Kensington Gardens. Nothing on earth would have given me greater pleasure than to have taken my darling good mother with me, as I knew it would do her so much good; but then she always will dress so funny, and I felt convinced that, as matters stood, it would not be safe to trust the dear old soul with Edward a whole afternoon in a shut-up fly, or they would be certain to get to high words again, and then I should never forgive myself.

Well, on the Monday, off I packed my dresses, with the dirty linen, to the wash, and gave the woman a whole string of directions as to how I wanted them done. When the Saturday came, I declare it was such a fine warm day, that I slipped on the clear muslin that I had kept back, and went out in the afternoon to pay the last week’s bills; and while I{209} was in the neighbourhood, I thought I might just as well run round to Mrs. L—ckl—y’s, and ask that sweet woman to take a walk down Oxford-street with me and look at the shops; for, to tell the truth, I felt that I wanted a mouthful of fresh air. So off Mrs. L—ckl—y and I set together; and though there was not so much as a goat’s hair or a mare’s tail to be seen in the sky when we started, of course, as usual, we had no sooner set foot in Regent-street than it began to spit a bit. However, as we thought it would not last, and we didn’t see the fun of spoiling our bonnets, why we both of us agreed that it would be best to step into Hodge and Lowman’s, and just look at a few things that we didn’t want, until it had given over. But, oh dear, no! nothing of the kind; for though we must have stopped there, I should say, a good half-hour, pulling the things over, and having first this dress out of the window, and then that, until we put the poor man to such trouble, that Mrs. L—ckl—y whispered to me that she really thought that she must buy a yard or two of sarsnet ribbon, just for the look of the thing; it really seemed as if the fates had conspired against my clear muslin, for, upon my word, it only kept getting worse and worse, and came down at last in such straight lines, that it really looked as if it was raining iron wires. So, as it was getting close to dinner time, and I thought Edward would be coming home and fidgetting again about the place for want of his dinner, I told Mrs. L—ckl—y, that, since a cab up to her house, in Albany-street, would come to the same money as the bus, why it would be much better to take one, instead of having a parcel of wet umbrellas stuck right against one’s knees, and the dirty boots of those filthy men wiped right on the flounces of one’s dress—especially, too, as I knew Mrs. L—ckl—y had too much of the lady in her ever to be mean enough to accept of my trumpery sixpence towards such a trifle as the shilling fare. Accordingly, we jumped into the first cab we could catch, and on the road I made up my mind pretty quickly not to go taking the thing on to P—rk V—ll—ge, for I saw, as plain as the nose on my face, that I should have the whole fare to pay if I did, for, of course it would look just as bad for me to accept of her beggarly sixpence as it would for her ever to think of taking mine. When{210} the cab stopped at Mrs. L—ckl—y’s, I told her I would step in and arrange my hair just for a minute, and of course, I couldn’t do less than offer to pay the fare, never for an instant fancying that she would be stingy enough to take advantage of my generosity; but, like a stupid, I must go overdoing it, for the more she kept refusing, the more I kept pressing, and when she protested “she wouldn’t listen to such a thing for a moment,” I (just for the look of the thing) directly declared that I would insist upon doing it, whereupon, drat it, if her ladyship wasn’t shabby enough to say, “Well, then, if you insist upon it, my dear, I suppose I must give way,” and scampered off into the house, leaving me with that shameful impostor of a cabman, who wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than eighteenpence. Augh! it isn’t the trumpery one-and-sixpence that I grumble about, but the nasty mean spirit in which I was left to pay it. Thank goodness, I couldn’t be guilty of such meanness—no, not if I was to die for it to-morrow; but then, you know, some people are so different to others.

Well, after I had sat for a minute, twiddling my thumbs in Mrs. L—ckl—y’s front parlour, I said, that as it seemed to be holding up a little, I thought that if she would be kind enough to lend me an umbrella, I should be able to get as far as our house without much inconvenience. So I had my umbrella, and off I started; but then, bother take the thing! it was one of those thin wiry Germans, with ribs no thicker than bodkins, and as the wind was rather high, I declare if, at the very first turning I came to, the trumpery bit of goods didn’t turn right inside out, and do what I would, I could neither get it down nor back again into its proper shape, and there was I obliged to go stalking all up Albany-street, holding up the inverted thing, looking like a great big funnel, and which, instead of keeping the rain off me, of course only served to collect all the water over my head like a cistern, which, being full of holes, of course it let through again, just like a shower-bath, and while I kept continually looking up to see where the dickens all the water that was pouring down upon me could come from, I kept stepping into all kinds of puddles, right up to the cotton tops of my white silk stockings, so that by the time I got home, I was positively soaking, and{211} all my hair and things hung about me, for all the world like the feathers of the cocks and hens on a rainy day.

As soon as I got up-stairs in the bed-room, I rang for Betsy, and asked her if they’d brought the clean things home from the wash, for I thought I’d better put on my clean morning wrapper.

“Oh, yes, mum,” she answered; “they brought them an hour or two ago.”

“Then just bring them up-stairs to me, there’s a good girl,” I replied.

“If you please, mum,” she returned, “a man called immediately after they’d brought them, and said that the wrong basket had been left by mistake, and took it away, saying he would bring ours in a minute or two.”

“And do you mean to stand there, woman, and tell me that you were simpleton enough to give it?” I continued, as the whole truth flashed upon me; for mother had had the very same wicked trick played off upon her, and had cautioned me against it herself.

“Yes, mum, I did,” she answered, quite coolly, “and he’s never been back since.”

“Of course he hasn’t,” I shrieked out, “and never will you set eyes upon him, or my clean linen again. Oh! you good-for-nothing, shameful, novel-reading, story-believing hussy. Now, see what your highly exciting romances have led you to do. Here am I, who have always been the best of mistresses to you, wet to the skin, and without a clean morning wrapper to put on, nor even so much as a dress fit to go to church in to-morrow, to say nothing of the two pairs of beautiful linen sheets that you’ve wilfully lost for me, and the very white trousers that my husband was married in, and which I wouldn’t have parted with for untold gold. There, go down stairs and hide your face, and think how you’ll relish it when you have to pay for it, and find, as you most assuredly will, that you haven’t got a penny to receive at the end of the year.”

However, it was useless fretting; there were three of as beautiful summer dresses as ever were made, and the beautiful afternoon’s ride I had promised myself after church on the morrow, all gone; for my sweet pretty Swiss cambric was{212} among the number, and I could never think of walking in Kensington Gardens in that grubby, seedy, hot, plaid thing, that I had worn all the winter through. As I said before, it was useless fretting, so I changed from top to toe, and put on some of the things I had taken off during the week, which, to say the least, were dry; and, as I wasn’t in the humour to care a pin how I looked, why, I popped on my flannel dressing-gown, for, to tell the truth, I felt rather chilly, and Mr. Edward might tell me, for the hundredth time, that I looked like an old watchman in it, as much as he pleased, for what I cared.

At dinner, just as we were taking cheese, there came that plaguy Saturday night ring at our area-bell, and I could have staked my existence that it was that dirty-faced young monkey of a boy again, bringing Miss Betsy another pen’orth of her precious “Emily Fitzormond,” and the fifth part of that bothering, vagabond “outcast” of an “Ela.”

It was as much as I could do to prevent myself from jumping off my seat, and rushing down stairs, and tearing the whole of the high-flown fustian out of the hussy’s hand, just as she was enjoying that “Sunday Times” picture, as I knew she was. But, luckily for her, I felt far from myself, for I was as sure as sure could be that I had caught such a cold as would play old gooseberry with me,—if I might be allowed so strong an expression,—and I didn’t take it in time.

Nor was I wrong, for scarcely was the dinner cleared away, than on came the shivers, just as I expected, and I kept going hot and cold by turns, and I declare all my joints ached so, that as I walked across the room, I felt as if I could have fallen down and gone all to pieces, just like the dancing skeleton in the Fantoccini, while my poor old knees began to shoot away as if some one was digging a carving-fork into them; and my wretched back was as cold as though a person was amusing himself by pouring buckets of spring-water right down between my shoulders; and though I put on all the shawls and cloaks I had got in the house, and sat with my nose right in the fire, (if I may be allowed the phrase,) still I could not get warm. When I complained to Mr. Edward of how ill I felt, he only{213} answered, “The fact is, my dear, you’ve caught a violent cold,” (as if I didn’t know that as well as he did, the brute,) “and the sooner you get yourself up-stairs to bed the better; and if you follow my advice, you’d have it warmed first, and take a good large basinful of gruel, with a James’s powder, for supper.”

“Gruel and James’s powder, indeed!” I replied, with much sarcasm; “you wont gruel and James’s powder me, I can tell you, sir;—as if I didn’t know what’s good for a cold;—a glass of hot rum-and-water, with a bit of butter, the size of a walnut; and that’s what I call good for a cold.”

“For goodness’ sake mind, my love, and tallow your nose as well,” returned Mr. Knowall.

“Yes, Mr. Edward,” I replied, “I shall tallow my nose as well, and tie my flannel petticoat round my head into the bargain—that’s what I shall do.”

“And a lot of good it’ll do you,” he answered. “A pack of old woman’s rubbish.”

“You call it old woman’s rubbish, do you?—then I don’t,” I continued, with my customary satire. “I call it an excellent remedy—that’s what I call it.”

“But how can the tallow on your nose do you any good, I should like to know!” he returned.

“You’d like to know?” I said, in my bitterest way—“I dare say you would, but I’m not going to tell you.”

“Yes; but why is it an excellent remedy?” he inquired, grinning in a way I didn’t half like.

“Because it is,” I replied, with my usual argument.

“Yes; but what on earth do you use it for?” he continued.

“Because I do,” I answered, determined to have the best of it.

As I wasn’t going to stop there wasting my argumentative powers upon a man who was deaf to reason, I put an end to his sneers by ringing the bell for that Betsy, and told her to get some boiling water ready as soon as she could, for I wanted to have my bed warmed, and to be sure and stand the warming-pan near the fire for a few minutes before putting the water in it, so that I might have it as hot as I could. We always used one of the new patent hot-water{214} warming-pans, because with them one hasn’t that nasty coal-gassy smell that the old-fashioned things invariably leave behind them; and there’s no chance—even if the pan’s left to stand a moment in the bed—of having one’s best linen sheets scorched, and with large brown marks upon them as if they were stuck over with pancakes.

I thought my lady was taking her time nicely to boil a trumpery kettle full of water. So, even ill as I was, I couldn’t help just slipping quietly down stairs, and popping in upon her when she least expected me. Hoity-toity! was there ever such a sight!—I thought I should have dropped down when I saw it. My beautiful kitchen for all the world like a cheap Jack’s cart at a fair—saucepans here, kettles there, crockery everywhere, while my beauty was sitting with her toes cocked up on the fender, and that trumpery “Gipsy Girl of Rosemary Dell” in her hand, as I live, and crying water-spouts over that stupid, disgusting “Outcast” of an “Ela.” There was our cat, too, right in the frying-pan, and the house flannel and the scrubbing-brush in the fish-kettle, and that precious “Emily Fitzormond, or the Deserted One,” lying on the ground, with the “Ranger of the Tomb” by her side, and “Fatherless Fanny, or the Mysterious Orphan,” as the thing was called, all over grease, and without even so much as a wrapper to its back, pitched about anywhere. There were all the dirty plates and dishes besides, just as they had come down from dinner more than an hour ago, side by side with the breakfast things, which she had got to wash up before we could have even a mouthful of tea; and although it was nearly dark, I declare she hadn’t so much as cleaned a single candlestick all the day through, for they were standing on the hob with all the hot tallow running out of them, and dripping into one of my best new block-tin saucepans. As I’m a Christian, drat the woman, if she hadn’t stuck my beautiful bright copper warming-pan, too, (that hadn’t been used more than twice, and which I picked up, quite a bargain, at a broker’s only a year ago,) right on the top of the oven, and so close to the fire, that, upon my word, when I went to take hold of it, it was nearly red hot, while of course her head was so full of her romantic rubbish, that she hadn’t so much as thought about the hot water; for,

The Sentimental-Novel Reader.

{215}

instead of putting the kettle on, she hadn’t even taken the nasty, greasy gridiron on which she had done our pork chops off the fire.

This, I must confess, was more than common flesh and blood like mine could bear; so I flew at my duchess, and snatching out of her hand her grand works,—“which should be in every person’s library!” indeed,—I bundled them all into what, to my mind, was a much fitter place for them—the fire; and what’s more, I put the kettle right on top of them, and by the time I had done reading the minx such a lecture as she wont forget in a hurry, thank goodness I had the kettle boiling away quite nicely.

All this exertion—ill as I was—took such an effect on my delicate nerves, that I determined upon going to bed directly. So I told her to fill the warming-pan, and take it up stairs as quick as she could, while I went to make myself a glass of nice hot rum-and-water, with a bit of butter and plenty of sugar in it, and which, with a bit of tallow (despite all Mr. Edward’s low sneers) just the size of a pea rubbed over the bridge of my nose, is—as my lady readers will agree with me—as good a thing as one can fly to when one’s got a nasty cold coming on one.

When I got up stairs, there was my lady in her sulks, of course, warming the bed as if she had fallen asleep over it. So as I wasn’t going to put up with any of her tantrums, I went behind her, and telling her that I would show her how to warm the bed, I seized hold of her arm and pushed it backwards and forwards so fast that I could hear all the water wabble again in it—little dreaming at the time that the solder of the nasty twopenny halfpenny bit of goods had got melted, all through Miss Betsy’s standing it so long and so close to the fire as she had, and that I was actually shaking the water out of it all over my bed, as fast as if the thing had been a watering-pot. The worst of it was too, that the beastly new-fangled warming-pan must have held a gallon if it did a spoonful; and seeing that Miss Betsy wanted to get down stairs again, to some more of her trumpery novels, as I thought, I wouldn’t let her go, but made her stand shaking the leaky thing up and down the sheets—particularly on my side too—until I had tied my flannel petticoat nicely{216} over my night-cap, and finished all my rum-and-water, and had put all my things by, just out of aggravation, to keep her up there as long as I could, and was quite ready to get into bed.

When Miss Betsy had gone, and I had let down the night-bolt—I declare I had been dawdling about so long in the cold, that I was quite frightened lest I should have taken another chill—putting out the candle, I jumped into bed as quick as ever I could. And then, oh lud-a’-mercy me! what a pretty pickle it was in, to be sure. If the linen sheets weren’t positively just like sheets of water, and the whole bed as wet as the bed of the River Thames. I tumbled out again like lightning, as any one may easily imagine, when, drat it! if all my night clothes weren’t as wet and cold as a dog’s nose, and the worst of it was, they would keep clinging to me as if they were so much wet blotting-paper. I rushed to the bell, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled away, until Mr. Sk—n—st—n must have thought either that I had set the house on fire, or overlaid my dear little lamb, or found a brute of a man under the bed; for up he came, gasping away, crying out, “What on earth is the matter, Caroline?” and five minutes afterwards, up Miss Betsy sauntered, as leisurely as if nothing at all had happened.

“The matter,” I cried, pulling off the bed-clothes, and throwing aside the sheet, that was so wet you might have wrung it—“Look here,” I said, holding up the soaking blanket; and which, when I let it go, I declare, fell with a flop upon the ground, for all the world as if it had been a batter-pudding—“And look here, too,” I cried, showing him the feather-bed tick, which really looked as dark as a slate with the wet—“Just come and feel it yourself, and say if it isn’t like a sponge, and then ask yourself how you’ll like to sleep upon it all night, for sleep upon it you must, as there isn’t another in the house. What’s more, too, these are the only sheets that you can have to lie upon to-night, for, thanks to that Miss Betsy there, she must not only think fit to give away all the clean ones I had home from the wash this very day, to the first person that chose to come and ask for them, but to make the thing complete, she must needs go burning a hole in the hot water warming-pan, and drenching my only{217} remaining pair; and just because she knew I had caught a severe cold, and wanted a comfortable warm bed to set me right again. Oh, you wicked, abominable, novel-reading hussy you! you’ll be the death of me before you’ve done with me, you will! How you can have the impudence to stand there and look me in the face, and not expect the floor to open and swallow you up for your shameful goings on—and how you, too, Mr. Edward,” I continued, turning to Mr. Sk—n—st—n, “how you can stand there, as quiet as a common cab-horse, and see your poor wife worried into her grave in this way by that wicked woman, and not send her about her business this very moment, is beyond my limited powers to comprehend.”

But of course the only answer my gentleman could make me was to tell Miss Betsy to go down stairs; and then, if he didn’t turn round as cool as a cucumber, and tell me to my own face, that it was all my fault (my fault!—mark, if you please, gentle reader.) But it was just what I had expected—indeed, I had said as much to myself—of course, it was all my fault! I had done it all, I had—and that minx of a Betsy had had nothing to do with it—of course I had burnt the hole in the warming-pan, and filled it with water, to be sure; and more than that, I had warmed the bed, I suppose—though, as I very cleverly told my lord duke, if I had, I had done it in my sleep, and there was an end of it. Then I gave it Mr. Edward so soundly, and told him what I thought of him so plainly, and made him so heartily ashamed of himself, that, upon my word, at last he marched up to the drawers, and taking his razors and a clean nightgown and night-cap, with all the impudence in the world, told me to my face he was going to sleep out. So I told him very quietly that he might do just as he pleased about that, but if he did, to rest assured, that as sure as his and my name were Sk—n—st—n, I’d never pass another night under his roof. But my gentleman only turned on his heel and walked himself off as grandly down stairs as if he were doing some mighty fine action, and thinking, of course, that I should run after him and call him back. But, oh dear, no!—I wasn’t going to make such a silly of myself as that—no!—not if he were the only man in the world.{218}

But, thank goodness, I’ve got a spirit of my own, and however much I might have felt the absence of the monster, still I was determined not to show it. So directly I heard the street-door slam, I marched up stairs, and ringing the bell for Betsy, made her carry down her own mattress and blankets for me to sleep on, telling her that she might lie upon the bare bedstead, if she pleased, and that if, in the morning, she got up and found herself striped all over with the marks of the bits of wood at the bottom of it, like a herring just taken off a gridiron, why she needn’t blame me, as she would have only herself to thank for it.

Not so much as a wink of sleep could I get, but did nothing but cry and fidget all that miserable night through. Not that I cared about Mr. Edward leaving me all alone in my distress at a time when he didn’t know whether I had a bed to lie down upon or not, or whether my severe cold might not take a serious turn, and end in a rheumatic fever, or goodness knows what,—it wasn’t this I cared about, I say; but it was the nasty, callous way in which he did it—not even so much as saying where a person might find him, supposing anything happened to one, and which I felt I never should be able to forget to my dying day. But I wasn’t going to submit to be treated worse than a parish orphan, so directly I heard the chimney-sweeps in the street, I tumbled out of bed, and merely taking the child and my hair-brush and such things as I couldn’t do without for a day or two, I went down stairs, and having cut off a slice of bread-and-butter, just to keep the wind out of my stomach, I wrote my lord a short letter, telling him that I had left his house

For Ever!!!

and signing it—“Your heart-broken and affectionate—though she-can-never-consent-to-live-with-you-again—wife Caroline,” and then putting the key of the tea-caddy inside the note, I left it with Betsy, telling her to give it to her master when he came home, and to be sure and have the breakfast all ready and comfortable for him by nine o’clock at the latest—and that I was going to Mrs. B—ff—n’s, but on no account to tell Mr. Sk—n—st—n where I had gone, as I wouldn’t have him know it for the world. Then off I{219} went, with Kate in my arms and a tear in my eye, and made the best of my way round to dear mother’s, as I felt convinced, even if Betsy didn’t tell my husband, that would be the first place to which he would fly to seek me, and that I should have him come rushing round to me and begging and praying of me to return to his disconsolate home, before a couple of hours were over my head.

When I reached my own dear mother’s, and told what had happened, oh, it would have done any married lady’s heart good to have seen the affectionate old thing kiss me and fondle me, vowing I had got her own fine spirit, and that she was so delighted to find I was no worm, and that the noble way in which I had acted would teach Mr. Sk—n—st—n as much. When I asked her whether she was perfectly sure that Edward would come after me, she tried to make my mind easy by telling me that it was as sure as coals were coals—though this far from quelled my fears; for from the quality of the ton father had last sent us, I had my doubts upon that subject. But mother went on, saying, “The men are always sure to come after one the first time, my angel—though a second, I must confess, grows a little dangerous; and with a person of Mr. Sk—n—st—n’s disposition, however much I might recommend you once to declare you had separated yourself from him for ever, still I should not, as a mother, like to advise you to try it twice, unless, indeed, you could get him beforehand to agree to allow you a very handsome separate maintenance, as the wretch ought to do, my dove. Now, I recollect about three years after you were born, sweetest, I had a serious quarrel with Mr. B—ff—n, your father, about the parson’s nose, I think, of as fine and fat a duck as ever came to table—and which tit-bit we were both extremely partial to. And the long and short of it was, he said such things to me that I felt I ought not to stop another minute in the house of such a man. So, accordingly, since all my relations lived in Kent, I engaged a small bed out by the night, and left your wretch of a father, my love—for ever!! But, as I expected, he soon found out where I had gone to, and, rushing round, he threw himself at my feet, and began tearing his poor dear bald head so frightfully, that I was obliged to consent to return to his home, and see{220} whether the contrition he professed was really sincere or not by the present he made me; but, when I tell you, my life, that the next day he only brought me home a trumpery plated ale tankard, which, of course, was more for himself than it was for me, you will be able to judge of the deceitfulness of man, and, if you take my advice, you will stipulate to have from Mr. Sk—n—st—n whatever you may want before you are weak enough to consent to make him happy by returning home. Remember, my angel, such chances seldom occur more than once in a poor woman’s lifetime; so, if you will listen to me, you will not throw away this golden opportunity, but sit down quietly now, and just turn over in your mind whether you think you could bring yourself ever to live under the same roof with Mr. Sk—n—st—n again, even if he were to promise to insure his life in your favour, so as to make you comfortable after his death, my angel, or else to double the money he allows you for the housekeeping every week, or any other little trifling sign of repentance which you think he ought to show, my poppet. Only mark my words—‘If you don’t strike the iron whilst it’s hot, you’ll live to repent it, as your too trusting mother has over and over again done, my lamb!’”

Upon my word, if dear mother wasn’t as good as a witch, for, in about a couple of hours, round came Mr. Sk—n—st—n all of a fluster. Then, of course, he was all sorrow and affection, and nothing was too good for me, and, if I would only consent to come back again, he’d be the happiest of men. Oh! I was so glad to think that poor I had humbled my grand lord, no one can tell; and, when I saw that tear twinkling in the corner of his eye, I really couldn’t for the life of me help smiling inwardly, with honest pride, to think of the triumph I had gained, and that I had brought my headstrong gentleman to his proper senses, and made him conscious of my worth. Though, of course, he must go begging and praying of me, after a bit, that I would keep all my troubles about my servants to myself for the future, and not be always tormenting him with them when he came home of an evening, tired, from business, saying that then he was sure we should go on so comfortably together. So I told him that it was foolish of him to expect that we could ever{221} get a good servant who would do all the work of that great big house, and clean the boots and knives, and be dressed in the afternoon to answer the door as well; and, as I saw that he was just in the humour not to refuse me anything, and I had made up my mind long ago to have a page in the house, just like the boy at the L—ckl—y’s, directly I could wheedle my husband into it, I said that, unless some alteration was made in our establishment, I was sure I should be in my grave before long. And when he said, “What alteration do you propose, my dear?—for goodness’ sake, have anything you like, if it will only put an end to these disturbances between us,”—I pretty soon clenched the business, and got him to promise I might get a nice genteel youth, and put him in a handsome livery, who could follow us to church with the prayer-books, (which I do think looks so respectable;) or, if ever I went out for a walk, could come trotting after me, and enable me to go past the barracks in Albany-street without the fear of being insulted by those soldier fellows!

So we went home so pleasantly together, the reader don’t know; and, bless my Edward’s kind heart, when I reminded him of the dresses, and sheets, and things I had lost, if he didn’t give me a very handsome cheque indeed, to buy some new ones with, though I said at the time, when I took it, that it was more than I wanted. But, to do my husband justice, though he is very hasty, I’m sure no one can strive more than he does to make amends for it afterwards.

I’ll warrant he doesn’t go sleeping out again in a hurry!{222}

## CHAPTER XIV.

NOW THANK GOODNESS I’VE COME TO THAT MISCHIEVOUS YOUNG MONKEY Of A PAGE, WHO CERTAINLY WAS MORE THAN ONE POOR WOMAN COULD MANAGE, AND LITERALLY AND TRULY NOTHING LESS THAN A MILLSTONE ROUND MY NECK, (IF I MAY BE ALLOWED SO STRONG AN EXPRESSION,) AND WHILE MY HAND’S IN, I SHALL JUST TAKE THE LIBERTY OF SPEAKING MY MIND VERY FREELY ABOUT THE GOINGS ON, TOO, OF THAT HIGHTY-FLIGHTY BEAUTY OF A NURSE (I NEVER KNEW SUCH A NURSE) OF A MISS SARAH OF MINE.

“My pretty page.”
Popular Duet, which I remember when I was at school at Boulogne, poor Miss Rippon was so fond of singing with that impudent wretch of a French music-master, whom she afterwards ran away with; though what she could ever have seen in the man, is more than I could ever make out.
“With a few alterations, oh, la!
We’ll make a beautiful boy.”
Comic Song.
“Of all the girls that are so smart,
There’s none like pretty Sally.”
Sally in our Alley.

It strikes me, now I come to think of it, that I have mentioned somewhere before, that the only thing I prayed for when I went to bed of a night was, that Providence would send me a servant that would live and die with me. Consequently, it seemed to me that now or never was my time to pitch upon some nice well-disposed lad, who would do for my page in my prime, and grow up to be a footman to me in my old age. So what did my stupid good-nature prompt me to do, but to march down one fine morning to St. Giles’ workhouse, where often and often, on my way down to Edward’s chambers, I had noticed several nice-looking boys, with particularly clean collars, standing on the steps waiting to be taken as apprentices. For of course I was not going to be such a silly as to take some young monkey into my service, and then just after I had taught him his business, to have him wanting to be off to better him{223}self, indeed!—before his livery was thoroughly worn out, too, may be. Besides, as we had a young family growing up about us, I felt that it was my duty to save when I could, for all the world knows that a penny saved is twopence gained—though I never could, for the life of me, make out how that could be, notwithstanding I have had it explained to me by a pack of wiseacres over and over again. And, under the circumstances, I’m sure I didn’t see the joke of paying a matter of ten pounds a year or so to a little chit of a thing, that would have to get on a chair to rub down my parlour tables. So as I could have an apprentice from the workhouse without paying any wages at all, and they’d give five pounds into the bargain, which would just do for the brat’s livery, why I pretty soon called upon the master of the place, to look over the stock of youths he had on hand, and see if they were anything like the very attractive sample he had got stuck so conspicuously at the door. But though I had up some dozen of young urchins, I pretty soon saw that they were nothing at all equal to the pattern outside; and the beauty of it was, that the man wanted to persuade me that a nasty little crumpet-faced, moist-sugar-haired, stunted orphan, was the very one to suit me, saying, “That the lad had got more marks for morals than any other boy in the school.” But, “No, thank you,” I replied; “I think I’ll take that youth, if you please,” pointing to the best-looking of the show ones; for I was determined to do the same here as I do with those dreadful cheats of linendrapers, and be served from the superior articles ticketed up in the window.

I wasn’t long before I had my young Turk’s livery, and a beautiful one it was to be sure. Oh, when it came home, I think it looked the sweetest thing I ever set eyes upon in all my life. The jacket was a claret, with three rows of sugar-loaf buttons, as close together as a rope of onions; and there were a pair of nice quiet dark-coloured pantaloons, running rather into the port wine than partaking of the claret; and to guard against the brat’s growing out of them before they were fairly worn out, I had taken the wise precaution of having two or three tucks put in at the bottom of them—though, really and truly for the matter of that, I might just as well have let it alone—for positively the urchin shot up so fast{224} that I do think he must have grown six tucks, at least, the first year he was with me. And the worst of it was, your clarets do fade so, that by the time the tucks were let out, his trousers had got so plaguy light, and the place where the tucks had been was so plaguy dark, that upon my word the bottom of his legs had large black rings round them like the legs of an imitation bamboo bedstead. And though I tried to get them over his boots, yet, do as I would, I could not manage it; for if I made him strap them down, there were a good three inches of shirt showing all below his jacket, and if I made him brace them up, there were all the tops of his dirty socks to be seen above his bluchers.

I don’t know whether it was that the young monkey knew that I had bound myself to keep him for five years or not; but he certainly did play old gooseberry with my lovely livery in a most shameful way. Positively, he couldn’t have had it more than a week before it was not fit to be seen, all stained in front, and over yellow marks, like a baking dish. I’m sure that, before a month was over his head, the knees of his trousers, and the sleeves of his jacket, right up to the elbows, were as black and shiny with grease as if they had been blackleaded. Over and over again have I said to him, “Really, Wittals, it is enough to break the heart of a saint to see the state your clothes are in! where you can think liveries come from I can’t tell.” And though I was continually making him take the grease spots out with turpentine, still it was only taking a great deal of trouble and turpentine for nothing; for the next day he would be in the same state again, and I should have the urchin going about the house smelling for all the world as if he had been newly painted.

As for the antics of that young Wittals, too, I declare they were enough to worry any peaceably disposed woman into Bedlam. Not a thing could he do like a rational creature; but I declare the young Turk was frisking about the house like a parched pea in a pan, and running in and out like a dog at a fair. If he had to go up stairs for anything, instead of walking down again like a Christian, he must needs get astride the mahogany banisters, and slide down like a monkey. Then again, if I sent him out ever such a{225} little way, he would be sure to be gone ten times as long as he need be; for of course he would either be looking into all the picture shops, or go flattening his nose against some pastrycook’s window, eyeing the ladies and gentlemen feasting inside—or else waiting to see some cab-horse get up—or walk miles in the opposite direction to which I had sent him, following some trumpery Punch and Judy, or tumblers—or either stop for hours playing at some game with buttons, or pulling up stones and things with that nasty bit of wet leather tied to the end of a string, which he always kept in his pocket. And when I was wondering what on earth could have become of him, and jumping up and running to the window every second minute to see whether there were any signs of the young vagabond, lo and behold I should see him come galloping along; either flying over every post on his way, or else rattling the street-door key along the rails of every house he passed; or if the turncock had only pulled the flag up in the middle of the road, and turned the water on, there I should be sure to catch sight of him, with his foot right on the hole, squirting the water out on each side of the street, drenching all the little boys that were near, and destroying my bluchers, as I’m a living woman.

When he was in the house, too, he was just as trying to one’s patience—not one minute’s peace would the noisy young scamp ever let me have. If he wasn’t playing “Happy Land” on the Jew’s-harp, he would be safe to be trying that frightful “Nix my Dolly Pals,” or “Happy Land,” on his hair-comb. No matter what I gave him to do—I declare he couldn’t keep at it for more than two minutes together, but off he’d be as if he had got nothing but quicksilver in his veins. Now, of a morning, he had got a trumpery dozen of knives to clean, but, bless you! even they were too much for him to do right off; for positively, as soon as he had cleaned one of them, he’d throw himself on his hands, and cocking his legs straight up in the air, he’d sing one verse of “Such a getting up stairs” on his head, all the while beating time with the soles of his feet—and then down he’d come again, do another knife, and then either be off to the back kitchen window, where he would stand making himself as knock-knee’d as a frog, and, turning his toes in and his elbows out, make the most horrible faces to Betsy{226} through the window, shouting out to her, “Here we are,” just like the stupid clowns in the pantomime,—or else, all of a sudden, creep into the house, and, going up behind her back, give such a whistle through his fingers right into her ear, as would make the whole house ring again, and set one’s teeth on edge as bad as slate pencil slid along a slate, frightening that nervous Betsy out of her life, and making her drop whatever she might have in her hand; while if one of those bothering organs only stopped opposite the window, he’d throw down his work, however much I might want it done, and rushing into the area, pull out of his pocket the bits of broken plate he always kept there, and putting them between his fingers, keep rattling away two in each hand, accompanying the music, till he heard me coming down after him, and then, of course he’d rush back again, and pretend to be working as hard as he could,—though I knew very well that directly my back was turned, the young Jackanapes would be putting his fingers to his nose, and making grimaces at me. Indeed, I can assure the courteous reader, that his antics were such, and he paid so little respect to me, when he fancied I couldn’t see him, that upon my word I was positively afraid to go out walking with him behind me (which was one of the things in particular I had him for), for I felt convinced that I should have him either coming after me walking on his hands, or else throwing himself head over heels sideways along the pavement, or, may be, running up and squaring away close at my back. As for the little scamp’s giving one a stylish appearance, as I had been silly enough to fancy he would, in answering the door, bless you! quite the contrary,—for it was ten chances to one if the young monkey didn’t rush up either with a wooden sword thrust through his breeches pocket, and a brown paper cocked hat stuck on his head, or even, perhaps, with his face blacked all over with burnt cork, and covered with large bits of the red wafers I had for the black-beetles; while if, to give one an air above the common, I made him carry the prayer-books for me to church, I should be certain either to hear half-a-dozen of the young monkey’s marbles roll all down the aisle in the very middle of the sermon, or else, if I took the precaution of making him empty his pockets before he went{227} there, as sure as sure could be, he would go fast asleep, and snore as I well knew he alone could snore, and until I fancied every eye in the church was fixed upon me.

Positively it was as much as one person could do to keep that shocking scapegrace of a Wittals from going about in actual rags; and the whole of my mornings used to be entirely taken up in repairing his dress livery. Either I should have to try to fine-draw the knees of his trousers, for the twentieth time—till they looked like the heels of a pair of old stockings—or there’d be a piece as big as the palm of your hand torn out at the foot where the strap buttons had been—or one of the pocket-holes slit nearly down to his knees—or else the jacket would have one of the cuffs half off—or one of the sleeves almost out—while as for those beautiful three rows of sugar-loaf buttons, I declare almost every other one was missing before the week was out, and even they were sure to be with all the silver rubbed off of them, and as coppery looking as the plated ornaments on the harness of a hackney coach horse.

I never knew such a boy to wait at dinner. In the parlour, of course, he was on his best behaviour, because he knew Mr. Sk—n—st—n was there, (a deceitful young imp!); but only let him have to fetch up any dishes from the kitchen, and there I knew he’d be, as plainly as if I saw him, dipping his fingers in them, and sucking them again all the way up stairs. If by any chance I had an open-work jam tart, bless you, to table it would come with all the marks of the tips of his fingers in the jam, till it looked exactly like the japanned tin boxes in a lawyer’s office; or if it was a pie, there it would be, picked all round the edges, as if rats had been gnawing it; and no matter how much pounded lump sugar I had given out to sprinkle over the crust, when it came up there wouldn’t be so much as a grain on the top of it. Indeed, I never came near such a boy for sugar as that was; lump after lump would he steal out of my poor dear little canary’s cage as fast as I put it in; and once I recollect when my beautiful Kate had the red-gum so bad, and I packed Wittals off for our medical adviser, telling him to make all the haste he could or our doctor would have left to make his morning visits, the young monkey was gone better than an hour,{228} though the house is only a stone’s throw from ours. This made me so wild, that directly I heard his sneaking ring at the bell, I rushed to the door and seized hold of him by both arms to give him a good shaking, when, bless me, if he wasn’t as sticky all over as a lollypop, and when I examined him a little more, I declare his clothes were all over molasses and brown sugar from head to foot; and then it turned out that my young Turk had been making one of a party of urchins inside an empty sugar-cask, and that in my dress livery, too. His knees and his back were literally caked all over with the nasty brown gluey stuff, and he had got it all sticking round his mouth, and cheeks, and chin, till his face looked like so much sand-paper.

Further than this, I do think he was the cruelest boy that could be met with anywhere. Not only was he always amusing himself with poking bits of stick through the wires of my little canary’s cage, and fluttering it, until it had no more feathers on its body than a gosling, but he led our dog Carlo such a life that I really expected he’d drive him mad before he’d done with him. Either he’d be throwing the cat right on top of his back, or else he’d turn his ears inside out and tie them over his head; or else he’d harness him, out in the garden, to the beautiful little carriage I had bought for Kitty, and then clapping his hands and hooting, so as to frighten the poor thing, it would start off at such a rate that it would nearly break the chaise all to pieces against the wall. And if he could only smuggle the poor dumb creature out of the house with him when I sent him an errand, off he’d be to that muddy Regent’s Canal, and amuse himself by throwing the wretched animal right off the bridge into the water, and presently I should see it running home with all the mud that it had been rolling itself in on the way clinging to his beautiful curly coat, for all the world as if he had been covered over with fuller’s earth. Nothing would please him, too, but he must go keeping white mice in the knife-house, making the place smell as ratty as a house in chancery; and this wasn’t enough, but the hard-hearted young savage must let all the wretched animals die of starvation, and wouldn’t even take the trouble to give the poor things their food for more than a week after he had got them.{229}

What I disliked most in the chit was his wicked deceit; for before Edward he was so meek and gentle that you would not have fancied that he could have said “Boh!” to a goose, and of course his master hadn’t got wit enough to see through the young Turk, but must be telling me, whenever I ventured to let fall a hint as to any of his tricks directly Edward was out of the house, that he never saw a better behaved lad in all his life, saying that I could not expect to have the head of a grey-beard on the shoulders of a hobbledehoy. And positively Mr. Sk—n—st—n was so taken with the artful, double-faced little brat that he must be continually giving him a penny now, and twopence then, as much as to say that he didn’t believe a word of what I had told him, and was trying to see how much he could encourage the imp in his goings on. Instead of putting all these halfpence in a money-box and saving it for his old age, the disgraceful young spendthrift put it in his money-box and only saved it to buy a trumpery little wooden theatre, and got that romantic Betsy to lend him some more to buy the whole of the scenes and characters of “The Miller and his Men,” so that he might act it on the kitchen dresser, while she sat in front, wasting her valuable time, as the audience. Often and often, when Edward’s been detained at chambers and I’ve been sitting alone by myself of a night waiting for him to come home, have I been almost knocked off my seat and frightened out of my wits, by hearing a report of firearms down in the kitchen, and, wondering what on earth could have happened, have rushed down stairs and found that it was only Master Wittals firing off his trumpery penny cannon, to make Miss Betsy believe that the Mill was blown up. And there I should find her clapping her hands, as the little pocket-handkerchief of a curtain came down in front of the grand transparency in the last scene, which the young monkey had got up without any regard to expense, as they say, by greasing it all over with my butter.

When I came to turn it over in my mind, it seemed as if Fate did not think it sufficient to scourge me with that dreadful novel-reading plague of a Betsy, but must also go sending a still greater plague to me, in the shape of Wittals, to drive me fairly out of my wits. Though, now that I come to think of it, I can hardly say there was a pin to choose between{230} them; for there were six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, and both far too many for me. I’m sure of an evening, sometimes, I’ve nearly gone mad with the sound of that boy’s drawling voice, reading some highly-exciting romance, for all the world as if he were a parish clerk going over the two first lines of a psalm. There I could hear him droning away for hours, with his

“Li—ar,—return—ed—the—aughty—Hearl—of—H—e—i—Hi—d—e—l—del—b—e—r—g—berg—Heidelberg—in—a—tone—of—suppress—ed—hire—dare—you—her—p—a—r—par—her—par—a—her—par—a—m—o—u—r—mowr—her—par—a—mowr—speak—thus.”

Upon my word, too, that stupid Betsy filled the poor boy’s head, directly she heard he was a foundling, with such a lot of rubbish, about his being a “Mysterious Horphan,” and making him pull up his shirt-sleeves to see if he had any strawberry mark by which his parentage might be discovered, and be acknowledged as the rightful heir to his estates, that I could have given it her well, I could; for she had the impudence to tell the poor boy that noble blood flowed in his veins, and actually went to the length of asking me, whether I ever heerd tell of any peer of the realm whose family name might be Wittals?

But what disgusted me with the woman more than anything else, was, that she was so fond of the mischievous young imp, that in order to screen him she would stand for hours, and tell me tarrididdles as long as my arm, and which really used to make my blood all run cold to listen to. And even if I had seen the young monkey break one of my windows through his nasty cruel love of throwing stones at the poor sparrows, as he always was, she’d even then have the face to stand me out that she did it, though I always took good care to punish her well for it, by stopping it out of her wages—which, considering Wittals had none to stop it out of, I wasn’t at all sorry at being obliged by her obstinacy to do.

Owing to that monkey of a Wittals going making a pig of himself inside the sugar cask, my doctor never came round till near upon five o’clock to see my poor little patient angel of a Kitty, who was suffering so dreadfully with her nasty—nasty tiresome teeth; and the consequence was, that my little{231} cherub was so much worse, and in such a burning high fever, that I declare she lay almost powerless in my arms, not stirring a limb, with the lids half down over her eyes, as if she were stupified with pain in her head. I never was so much alarmed in all my life, and I kept bathing her temples with vinegar, and crying over her, expecting that every minute she would be going into convulsions, and that I should be having the cherub snatched from me.

When the doctor came, he lanced her gums and ordered her to be put in a warm bath directly, and to have three leeches put upon each temple. Betsy put the leeches on, for it made my flesh creep to see, let alone to handle, the nasty slimy things, like the fingers of wet black kid gloves; and, besides, I knew I should faint dead off directly I saw my poppit’s vital stream trickling down her little cheeks. When the nasty things were taken off my pet, that stupid Betsy came down to me to know if I should like them kept. “Kept!” I cried; “bless the woman, no; go and throw them over the garden, and let the fowls at the Simmondses have them, for Heaven’s sake.” Of course what must she do but take them down stairs first, just to let that young monkey of a Wittals catch sight of them, and no sooner did he set eyes upon them, than he went to work and wheedled my lady into letting him have the filthy things to keep in one of my old pickle bottles in his bedroom—though from all I had said to her about the crawling creatures, she very well knew that I wouldn’t have them in the house for all that anybody could give me; for I can’t say how it is, but I really had a presentiment at the time that if they were not destroyed, something awful would happen. Nor was I wrong, and all through that wicked, story-telling, perverse Betsy, and that good-for-nothing, careless, menagerie-keeping young imp of a Wittals—though, for the matter of that, he wasn’t half so much to blame as she was.

My beautiful poor little lamb of a Kate, though much better, was still so ill that I didn’t like to let her sleep with nurse; so I told Sarah to put her in our bed. But the little dove was so restless all night that I couldn’t get a wink of sleep, and had to be either sitting up in the bed trying to rock her off to sleep, or else taking it in turns with Edward to pace{232} the room with her in my arms, and merely a shawl over my shoulders. The consequence of this was, that the cold and cough which had been hanging about me ever since I was wet through, were not at all improved the next day. So in the morning, when Mr. Jupp, our medical adviser, called to see my little trot, I asked him if he would be good enough to send me round another box of the very nice cough lozenges which he had in his shop, and which had already done me a world of good.

“Feed a cold and starve a fever,” says the old adage, and so I will, said I; but as I didn’t see the fun of leaving it to Miss Betsy to choose the very food that I was going to put into my mouth, I thought, that since it was a nice fine warm day, if I wrapt myself up as close as I could, and put my thick boots on with my cork socks in them, it couldn’t possibly do me any harm just toddling round to our butcher’s, to see what he had in his shop to tempt me. When I got there, I found to my great delight that he had got two of as lovely-looking little lambs’ sweetbreads as it was ever my good fortune to see; and I was just going to tell him to send them home when, as luck would have it, I turned round and caught sight of a most beautiful picture of a round of beef, all streaked with red and white like a barber’s pole; and when I thought how deliciously it would eat stewed, with plenty of vegetables chopped up, and a rich thick brown gravy—into which a glass of port wine had been poured—I was torn to pieces between the two; and went and looked first at the sweetbreads and then at the beef, for I didn’t know which I should like best, and I told the butcher’s wife that I really couldn’t tell what to do. At last she persuaded me to have the sweetbreads for dinner that day, and the round on the morrow, especially, as she very truly said, the beef would be all the better for keeping. So I had them both, and ordering three quarters of a pound of beef steak for Edward—which, with a batter pudding to follow, would do very well I thought for our dinner that evening—galloped back home, as pleased as Punch that I had stepped round to the butcher’s myself, little dreaming of what was to be the fate of my beautiful round of beef after all.

The sweetbreads were delicious! though that disagreeable{233} monster of an Edward, seeing I was ill, of course tried to spoil my dinner, by declaring that his steaks were as tough and as stringy as corduroys. But I soon silenced my gentleman, by telling him that at any rate I had got a dinner for him on the morrow which was fit for the Emperor of China himself to sit down to; though I had a good bit of fun by not telling him what it was; and keeping on tantalizing him till I made him guess almost all through the cookery book, for, not being overfond of stewed beef, of course he never dreamt it was that.

Next morning, I went down into the kitchen, at my usual hour, to see about our dinner. To make sure that Miss Betsy had not been treating herself and that Wittals to a hot supper off my round of beef, as I knew, from the savoury smell there used to be down stairs very often of a night, she was in the habit of doing, though I had never been lucky enough to catch her in the fact, I just stepped into the larder to see that a slice hadn’t been taken off. At the first glance I caught of the round, I thought it had a very strange look about it, for it seemed to have lost the beautiful rich colour it had. So as our larder was rather dark, I told Betsy to carry it into the kitchen, and put it on the dresser. When I saw it fairly in the light, oh dear! oh dear! if it wasn’t as white as parchment! “What on earth have you been doing to this meat, you good-for-nothing woman, you?” I exclaimed, drawing it close to me; “and what, in the name of all that’s filthy, are these black things?” I continued, just going to take hold of one of them, when I saw it move, and then, goodness gracious, the truth burst upon me! “Oh, you shameful, disobedient minx, if these are not the very leeches that I told you to throw into Mr. Simmonds’s garden.” And when I came to look well into the bleached round of beef, positively there were as many as four of the filthy, slimy vampires, who, having sucked the thing quite white, and till they were nearly as big as small black puddings, were now hanging down the sides, for all the world like the tails on my imitation ermine tippet. “Where have you put the other two?” I exclaimed, in a most tremendous passion; “tell me this minute, or I’ll have you up before a magistrate, for wilfully destroying my property, I will.” This put my lady{234} in such a fright that she wasn’t long in pointing them out to me on the wash-hand-stand in Wittals’s room; and it was lucky I found them as soon as I did, for their noses were just over the rim of the bottle, and if I’d been a minute later, I should have had them crawling about the house, and fastening upon the legs of goodness knows who.

I caught hold of the bottle, and poking the things back into the water with the end of the young urchin’s hair brush, I rushed with the whole concern down to the end of the garden, and threw the voracious little black monsters, bottle and all, right into the Simmondses’ garden—though, as it afterwards turned out, it would have been much better if I had left them where I had found them—for no sooner did that young monkey of a Wittals miss his darling leeches, and learn from Miss Betsy what had become of them, than he must needs go clambering over the wall, and, not content with bringing them back into the house again, must go putting them into one of my empty lozenge boxes, and leaving it on the dresser with the filthy things inside of it, while he went to get another bottle to keep them in, as I afterwards found out, to my cost.

However, to come back to myself. Directly I returned to the kitchen, after having thrown the black brutes over the wall, I turned round to Miss Betsy, and said, “Throw that meat away, you nasty, perverse, self-willed minx; I wont have such meat cooked in my house, and if I don’t make you pay for another piece for me out of your next quarter, I hope I may never know the taste of a round of beef again—that’s all.”

Scarcely could I have been up stairs more than a quarter of an hour, than it struck me, that not only would it be a sad pity to waste such a beautiful piece of meat as that was when I saw it in the butcher’s shop, but I had already threatened to stop so many things out of Miss Betsy’s next quarter, that I felt convinced she could never pay for half of them. So off I trotted down stairs again, and told Betsy that, as a punishment, she and Wittals should have nothing else for their dinners but that very round of beef, until it was all gone. Just as I was going up stairs again, I happened to cast my eye on the dresser, and what should I see but a lozenge-box;{235} so, of course, fancying I must have left it there when I was down before, I took it up, and putting it in my pocket, returned to the parlour, little thinking that it was the very one into which young Wittals had, not five minutes before, put his two beastly pet leeches.

Upon my word, the chill I had taken had settled into such a dreadful cold in the head, that really when I sat down to my work again in the parlour, I couldn’t do a stitch of work for it; and though, thanks to Mr. Jupp’s lozenges, my cough was much better, still my poor head was so bad, that I couldn’t let my handkerchief remain quiet in my pocket for two moments together;—and just after Betsy had taken the milk in for tea, I was seized with a violent fit of sneezing, and I had no sooner put my pocket handkerchief to my nose than I felt a sharp twinge at the end of it, just as if some one was driving a needle right in between my nostrils. When I snatched my handkerchief away, I was as certain as possible that there was something heavy hanging at the end of it, for I could not only feel it, but when I squinted down, I could see some dark coloured thing dangling backwards and forwards; I rushed to the mirror, to learn what on earth it could be—when, augh! if there wasn’t a long black beast of a large leech sticking quite fast to my nasal organ, just like the drop to a jet ear-ring. I gave a loud scream, and put up my handkerchief to take hold of the reptile, when, oh, la! if another of the nasty filthy brutes didn’t roll right out of it on to the rug.

No sooner did my poor dear Carlo, who was lying before the fire, see something fall, than up he jumped, and began sniffing away at it, and turning it over and over with his nose, until I declare if the reptile didn’t fasten right upon it; and there he was scampering about the room, with one of the brutes dangling to his nasal organ as well, tossing his head about, and growling away all the time like a mad thing; as for pulling the one at the end of mine off, positively it was a waste of time to try; for really and truly, the creature clung as fast as a barnacle, and besides being as slippery as an eel, was as elastic as Indian rubber. Off I flew to the bell, and pulled it hard enough to have pulled it down, all the time shaking my head away, in the hopes that I should be able to jerk the creature off, before that snail of a Betsy came with{236} the salt—which, however, was the only means of getting rid of it—and which I’m sure she was ten minutes, if she was a second, in bringing to me.

As soon as the leech was off, I turned round upon Miss Betsy, and showing her the little star that the long black ogre had made at the end of my nose, (which really was as white as a parsnip too,) I told her to look there, and see how her wickedness had marked me to my dying day, (and sure enough I’ve got the scar now,) and then ask herself if she thought it was likely that I was going to keep her in my establishment another moment after such treatment as that. However, there was one thing that I could tell her, and that was, that I wasn’t—so I very civilly told her to go and pack up her trumpery things and rubbishing romances, and be out of the house before half-an-hour was over her head; and so, thank goodness gracious, the stupid, sentimental, novel-reading, leech-preserving hussy was.

As for that Master Wittals, I told Edward that either he or I must leave the house. And as I knew Mr. Sk—n—st—n wanted a sharp active lad in his office, and Wittals was sharp and active enough, Heaven knows, why, I made Edward take him down to L—nc—ln’s Inn, the very following morning, where he could try and see if he could manage the wild young colt.

Now, thank goodness, it is Miss Sarah’s turn!

Though I had her in the house while Betsy and Wittals were there, still, as I kept her closely locked up in the nursery, of course I thought there was no fear of her being spoilt by the other two. But, bless you, she didn’t want any spoiling, for I do think I never came near such an artful, deceitful, prudish, straight-laced vixen as that girl was. At first, I thought she was a pattern of virtue and affection, and that she loved children as much as she led me to believe she hated the men. My little Kate was nothing more nor less than “an angel dropped down from the skies, it was”—according to her; and it was always, “such a shame not to let it have what it wanted, a dear,”—with her nasty double-faced “bless its dear little heart!” and “love its sweet little eyes!” to my face; and then, how she would beat it, and pinch it, and shake it, behind my back—oh my! She would never marry, she wouldn’t,{237} oh no! the men were such nasty selfish things, to her thinking, that she couldn’t bear the sight of them—not she; and all the while she would be lolling, nearly the whole of the day, half way out of the window, ogling and grinning at every whipper-snapper of a fellow that came within leer of the place. But if I had thought for a moment, I might have known that it would be the case. Any one would have fancied, I dare say, that I was sick and tired of pretty maids, after the way in which Miss Susan went on. But what was I to do? Either I must have my little cherub catching the expression of some common-looking servant girl, or else, if I had a decent-looking maid, with a pleasant face of her own for the little chick to look at, then I must be plagued to death by a pack of idle vagabonds of young men, always dancing at her heels wherever she went, and the girl looking after them instead of my little lamb. Then I used to send her out, like a stupid, into the Regent’s Park, for what I fancied was an airing for the child. Pretty airing, indeed! But more of this hereafter.

Well, one day, just after the new cook came in, I had packed off Miss Innocence with my darling poppit, in her little carriage, for a nice hour’s ride in the park. And as I watched little Kate down the street, I thought she did look so nice with her beautiful white feather coming over her straw hat, and her neat little green silk pelisse, which I had made on purpose for the little darling out of my old scarf,—and when I saw Sarah making the little dear shake its little, fat, tiny hand to me across the road, I couldn’t help saying to myself, “Well, I’m glad the girl’s fond of it, as I do think I should have fretted my life out, if I fancied that a servant of mine ill-treated or neglected any of my little ones.”

Kitty’s little dinner had been ready more than half-an-hour, and yet there were no signs of Sarah’s return with the pet, so I felt sure that either she had mistaken the time, or else—as it was a very fine day—had gone for a little longer walk than usual; and then, as I thought a mouthful of fresh air wouldn’t hurt me, and it was such charming weather, I ran up stairs and slipt on my bonnet and scarf, and determined on going and meeting them as they came home. “Ah!” I said to myself, while I was putting on my things, “now if{238} that child had been out with any other person than a steady girl like Sarah, I should have been very much alarmed. And isn’t it much cheaper, now, to give a pound or two extra wages, and feel assured that wherever your child might go, and however long she might be away from you, she is, at least, out of harm’s way, and couldn’t be in better hands even if she were at home.”

So off I went, consoling myself in this way, and thinking what a dinner the little poppit would make after being out in the air so long. As I knew Sarah in general promenaded up and down the broad walk, because, in the first place, there were no horses and carriages there; and, secondly, the keepers always take care to protect a poor lone woman from insult, as she said; as I knew that I should be sure to find her there, I made the best of my way towards that quarter. Just as I had got about half way down, I thought I saw some one very like her coming up the path towards me; but when I looked again, I was satisfied it couldn’t be Sarah, for there was a young man with her, who was continually poking his head under her bonnet, and looking up in her face. And yet, when the young woman came nearer, I knew it was my maid, by the carriage and my little Kitty’s bonnet and feather. I felt convinced that the poor girl was making the best of her way towards the keeper, to avoid the young man’s persecutions, and I stood still, expecting every minute to see her give the monkey in charge. But when I beheld my lady march right past the man in the green livery, and, indeed, with her head turned the other way, I couldn’t help saying to myself—“Well, now, there’s deceit for you! Oh! you hate the men, do you?” And scarcely had I said it, when a great Newfoundland dog came tearing behind the carriage, and turned it right over on its side; and though my little pet began screaming away, still my lady was so wrapt up in the nonsense the fellow was stuffing into her head, that, bless you! she no more heard the screams of my darling than she seemed to be aware the carriage was upset; for on she went, flirting away, casting die-away looks at the fellow, and tapping his hand with her trumpery parasol, as much as to say—“Go along with you, do, you naughty, naughty man,” while she kept dragging the carriage after her, flat on its side, as it

“Out for an airing.”

{239}

was, and my little beauty, all along the gravel, as if it had been a garden-roller. Directly I saw the chaise upset, I ran towards the minx as fast as my legs would carry me; but even then I couldn’t reach her in time enough to save my pretty cherub; and when I got up to it—oh, dear me! if its sweet little face wasn’t scored all over like crackling, and the gravel sticking into her cheeks for all the world like a bit of asphalte pavement.

I could have looked over this misfortune, (although, if the courteous reader will believe me, my little Kate has got some of the grits in her cheeks to this very day, and you can feel the gravel under the skin, like the stones in currants,) but it was the woman’s nasty, wicked deceit, in making me believe that she hated the very sight of a man, that set me against her. But I put a stop to those walks in the Park pretty soon. No wonder she was so anxious to take the child out to do it good—a toad!

What made me not like to part with her, however, was, that she seemed so head over ears in love with my little beauty, that I felt quite an interest in the woman, and was stupid enough to believe, that if I could only keep her away from that bothering Regent’s Park, and the lawyers’ clerks out of place, that are always lolloping about on the seats there, she would go on very well. Still, notwithstanding all the affection she made such a show of towards my little life, Edward and I used to remark that the child was always crying when it was up in the nursery; and when we asked her what was the reason of it all, leave her alone for having some taradiddle always ready at the tip of her tongue, by way of answer. Oh! then it was either the little love was fretting after its dear mamma, or else its poor teeth were wherreting its poor soul out, and the little Goody Two Shoes was ready to tear its little mouth to pieces, it was! (Was there ever such a double-faced crocodile?) But the mystery was soon cleared up; for one fine morning, a nice old silver-haired gentleman knocked at the door a few minutes after my lady had come in with my pet from its airing, (which had done it so much good, that it had got such an appetite for its little dinner, I couldn’t tell!) and, like a good old soul, said he had called to tell me that he had seen that Miss Sarah of mine{240} (who was so fond of my Kate that she could eat her!) ill-treating the poor little dear so shamefully in the open streets, that he couldn’t help following her home, and informing me of it. Directly the dear old gentleman had gone, I had my little cherub down, and, stripping it, lo! and behold, if the little dear’s white skin wasn’t dappled all over black and blue, with the pinches that deceitful, hard-hearted nurse of mine had given it, till positively it had more the appearance of a little iron grey pony than a human being! Oh! how my fingers did itch to be about the creature!

So I got rid of that deceitful bit of goods very soon, I can assure you; and so, indeed, I did of a number of others after her; for, upon my word, they are all alike, whether they are cooks, or housemaids, or nurserymaids, or pages, or footmen, it’s the same story over and over again—worry, worry—bother, bother—from morning till night, and not a moment’s peace to be had for love or money. A maid-of-all-work was quite a match for me; but, when we got on in the world, so as to be able to afford a footman—Lord bless me! I was positively mad from the moment I got up to the moment I went to bed again. Now, there was that lazy, impudent, fat footman of a Duffy. I’m sure he was—but my courteous readers must excuse me entering into particulars at present. They will be able to judge of the character my gentleman was from Mr. Cruikshank’s admirable plate. But it wasn’t only the laziness and cool impudence of the fat pig that pleased me, but he had a nasty way of—but I’m sorry to say I must reserve it all for another chapter.{241}

## CHAPTER XV.

WHICH PRINCIPALLY CONSISTS OF A QUIET HALF HOUR’S TALK ABOUT THE VIRTUES AND AIRS OF THAT GREAT, BIG, FAT, OVERFED, STUCK-UP PIG OF A JOHN DUFFY OF MINE, WHO WAS THE FIRST FOOTMAN I HAD IN MY SERVICE, AND WHO COULDN’T HAVE BEEN IN THE HOUSE MORE THAN A WEEK, I’M SURE, BEFORE (LUD-A-MERCY ME!) IF I DIDN’T DRAT THE DAY WHEN I FIRST SET EYES ON HIM; FOR I DECLARE THE PUPPY HAD SUCH AN IMPUDENT LOOK WITH HIM, THAT I NEVER SAW HIS FACE BUT I DIDN’T LONG FOR THE TIME WHEN I SHOULD SEE HIS BACK. HE was A PRETTY FOOTMAN, TO BE SURE.

“And a very saucy one,
Heigh ho! Heigh ho!
He walk’d so stiff, and look’d so smart,
As if he own’d each maiden’s heart;
I could have bang’d him, for my part,
Heigh ho! Heigh ho!”
Popular Song—though, in justice to the writer, I ought to add, that I have taken the liberty of adapting the last line of the highly talented poem to my highly excited feelings; for as John Duffy never had any “KEEN DART” of “HIS OWN,” of course I couldn’t go “WISHING” with the poet, that the monkey “FELT” any such fiddlesticks; though I must confess, that when I’ve seen that man crawling up stairs, as lazily as if he were a black beetle, I have over and over again “WISHED” to myself I only had my great big shawl-pin handy, so that I could have made him FEEL THAT.
“Gramachree ma Crooskeen, slantha gal mavourneen,
Gramachree ma Crooskeen, Lawn, Lawn, Lawn;
Gramachree ma Crooskeen, slantha gal mavourneen,
Arrah cumaleen ma u leen bawn, bawn, bawn,
Arrah cumaleen ma u leen bawn.”
Who on earth can ever have written this gibberish I don’t know, and what the goodness gracious it can ever mean, is more than I can say. But this I do know and can say—to my humble ears it sounds as much like abuse as anything I ever heard in all my life; and that’s just what I want to apply to that good-for-nothing John Duffy. Augh, “Lawn! Lawn! Lawn!”

{242}

Of course, when I had once risen to the dignity of having a male domestic in my establishment, I wasn’t going to make such a great silly of myself, as to come down again to the wretchedness of having nothing but a pack of females about one. Accordingly, I gave “my lord and master” (as Mr. Edward flatters himself he is) to understand as much in double-quick time. A fine thing, indeed, I said, it would be, to have all one’s good-natured friends, and all one’s precious charitable neighbours, (who every one knows are always sure to love one as themselves—oh yes!) pointing at one, and sneering away behind one’s back whenever one went out, with their “Oh, dear me! only to think that the poor Sk—n—st—ns couldn’t afford to keep on that grand page they started, for more than one quarter of a year;” and with their nasty, double-faced “pity from the bottom of their hearts, because they were afraid we had been all along living beyond our means.”

But Mr. Edward was too great a philosopher by half to care a snap of the fingers for the opinion of the empty world or the feelings of his poor dear wife, of course—especially when it would cost him a trumpery five-and-twenty pounds, and a rubbishing suit or two of livery, per annum. Consequently, when I told him one evening, after I had treated him to a nice sweet little dinner of a leg of mutton, stuffed with sage and onions—pork-fashion—and a love of a bread-pudding to follow—(I always make it a rule to use up all the bits of bread in the house, at least once a week—unless indeed we have any illness in the family, and they are wanted for poultices—for, as I believe I said before somewhere, I can’t bear to see waste,)—Well, when I told Mr. Edward, I repeat, after we had both I’m sure eaten more than was good for us—(only I do think sage and onions so delicious when one is not going to see company, and one can only get one’s husband just to take a mouthful or so of it; and then, ’pon my word, I verily believe, I could devour my own dear mother, if she was only stuffed with plenty of it, and nicely browned)—Well, when I told Mr. Edward—I repeat for the second time—just after we had finished every bit of that love of a bread-pudding (though the worst of it was, I, unfortunately, would go putting too much bread in it, like a great big generous{243} stupid as I am, and, bother take it! the spongy stuff does swell so in the cooking, and then is sure to set to work and soak up all your custard in such a way, that ’pon my word and honour, when the love came to table, if it wasn’t like so much sop, and, positively, I’d have bet any one anything there wasn’t enough custard left in the whole dish to fill a sixpenny “Circassian Cream” pot—and that’s small enough, goodness knows! so that really and truly it looked so uninviting when I came to help it, that it was hardly fit to give to one’s parrot, or even to let the servants have, by way of a treat.)—But to return: well, when I told Mr. Edward—I repeat for the third time—(for plague take that dinner, I cannot get it out of my head)—that I had been considering for a long time whether it would be prudent in us to think about having another of those impudent young monkeys of pages in our house, when, for the matter of a few rubbishing pounds extra a year, we could get a nice, steady, handsome, respectable-looking man-servant, whose livery, I was sure, wouldn’t come, in the long run, to one penny more, if so much as that disgraceful young scape-grace of a Wittals’s did—for there’d be no silver sugar-loaf buttons continually to find, and they, with those bothering boys in livery, cost a small fortune alone, I knew.

Besides, I said—just to put Edward in a good temper—a man of his naturally strong judgment must be well aware that a great big strapping boy, who hadn’t done growing, and kept running up so fast that he required to have at least two tucks let out of his trowsers every quarter, must eat more than a decent, well-behaved, abstemious young man who had got to his proper size, and who consequently wouldn’t be always getting a head taller per annum out of your mutton and beef. And moreover, I added, going to the sofa and kissing him, as I saw him smile, with what at the time I foolishly supposed to be good humour,—“It will, you know, my dear, look so highly genteel, and give one such a standing in the world, to have one’s door opened by a fine good-looking fellow, with powdered hair and a pair of handsome legs, and near upon six feet in his shoes.” But, oh dear bless me, no! Mr. Edward wouldn’t listen to such stuff, as he called it; and must needs go bursting into a contemptuous laugh, telling me to go along with me, for{244} I was an old fool, and ought to have more sense in my head at my time of life, (my time of life, indeed! Well, that is good! Isn’t it, gentle reader?)

Of course it was the old story over and over again. He wasn’t going to bring himself to the workhouse, he wasn’t, for any of my fine fal-lal notions. As for his having a great, fat, lazy footman, sauntering about his house, and eating the very bed from under him, he wouldn’t think of it for a moment; for the long and short of it was, he couldn’t afford it, especially with the few suits that he had then down on his ‘Chancery Cause Book;’ and the world seemed to have come to such a pass now-a-days, that relations and partners would settle all their disputes amicably. So I merely told him, that, of course, I couldn’t say whether his trumpery Chancery Cause-Book would allow him to afford me a rubbishing footman or not; but this I could and I would say, that unless something was done, he’d have to afford, somehow or other, to pay for my funeral expenses before long—though, perhaps, I added, with my usual biting sarcasm, that would be far more agreeable to him. Then, bursting into tears, I went on saying, “If some change does not take place, I can only tell you, sir, I shall fall a martyr to your meanness and this great big house; for I feel myself sinking every day under the weight of it; and Doctor J—pp himself has, over and over again, said, when he has called and found me here nearly fainting with fatigue, ‘Why, my dear madam, will we over-exert ourselves in this way. Really, we are too attentive and good a housewife. We are not fit for it—positively, we are not. Now, we ought to be in bed in our present state—indeed, we ought—instead of being up here, ruining our naturally fine constitution in this way. Mr. Sk—n—st—n, I’m sure, cannot be aware of what we are doing, or he would never allow us, if he had one spark of feeling, to be killing ourselves by inches in this way. Really, my dear, good, lady, it comes to this—either we must get extra help, and eat little and good, and often, or depend upon it we shall be in our graves before many months are over our heads. Would you like us to speak to our good worthy husband on the subject, for I am sure he would gladly make any sacrifice, rather than let us endanger our{245} precious life thus?” And what reply did I make to my medical attendant? I asked Edward, with an indignant look—why, I merely said, “No, Dr. J—pp, my own dear Edward will tell you that he cannot afford it; and if so, perhaps my funeral expenses will fall less heavily upon him than having an extra servant in the house.”

After I had said this, I sank in a chair, and burying my face in a sweet pretty cambric handkerchief, with a very rich imitation Valenciennes border, I waited, sobbing as if my heart would break, to see whether he would let me have my footman or not; and expecting, of course, that every minute he would be coming up and kissing me, and telling me that he would gladly do anything I liked to make his own sweet angel of a Carry happy and comfortable.

But, drat the cold-hearted, ill-natured hyena, he only burst out giggling in a most insulting way, and said, in his nasty, unmeaning slang, “it wouldn’t do, and that he wasn’t quite such a fool as I seemed to take him for.” So I jumped up in a jiffey, and said with great point, and looking penknives at him, “I see what it is, sir; the sage and onions have disagreed with you, and of course you’re disgusted with the whole world, and your poor dear wife must suffer for it,”—and then, banging the door to with all my might, I walked quietly up to our bedroom, determined to read my lord duke a strong lesson, and just let him see that I wasn’t a worm.

“That footman I’ll have, if I die for it,” I exclaimed, as I jumped into bed, and turned my back round to the side Mr. Sk—n—st—n usually sleeps upon.

Next day I caught my gentleman out so nicely, the reader don’t know; and I led him such a dance the reader can’t tell. Well, the fact is, I didn’t feel quite myself, so I thought I might as well, as it was a very fine morning, pop on my beautiful white lace bonnet and my sweet imitation Shetland shawl, (they had only just come in then, though drat it! they, have got as vulgar as vulgar can be lately, and what I’m to do with mine I really don’t know, for, like a ninny, I thought it too good to wear every day, at first; however, as I wouldn’t be seen in it now for the whole world, perhaps I’d better make a great favour of it, and give it to my own dear mother).—Well, as I was saying, I strolled very comfortably down to Regent-{246}street, just to take a passing glance at some of the lovely new dresses in the shops, that I should like to buy if I could only afford the money; and as it was, I was as near as two pins going in and getting two or three of the most expensive, and sending the bill in to Mr. Edward, just as a lesson to him for the future—but the worst of it is, I’ve always been too considerate for him by half, and he is so violent at times. So I went strolling on until, I declare, if I wasn’t right at the bottom of Waterloo-place before I knew where I was, and felt myself so warm and faint for want of something, that I said to myself, I may as well, now I’m here, just step on to Farrance’s and treat myself to a lemon ice or so out of the housekeeping; for, as I very truly observed, it would be a hard matter if I couldn’t get a trifle like that out of the weekly expenses at home; and besides Mr. Edward need be none the wiser, for nothing was easier than to put it down in the book under the head of “Charities;” and really, when I came to think of it, I positively blushed to remember that for weeks and weeks past I hadn’t put down so much as a farthing for that noblest of all the nine virtues.

Well, when I got to Farrance’s, who should the first person that I clapt eyes upon be, but my Mr. Edward himself, seated like a prince at one of the little marble tables, with two large sixpenny oyster patties before him, gormandizing away like a pig, as he is. So I crept up to him, and, pretending I had seen him through the window, I said, in a low voice, “So you are going to the workhouse, are you, my fine gentleman. Pretty workhouse, indeed! I never saw such a workhouse. And you can’t afford to have a footman to eat the very bed from under you, can’t you? Of course you can’t, if you come here every day, as now I plainly see you do, stuffing yourself with oyster patties, and such like indigestible extravagances, when I’m sure a round or two of cold toast, nicely done up in an old newspaper, would do very well for your luncheon, sir, and then there would be no occasion for your poor, dear, overworked wife to go slaving her life out to save you the expense of another servant, as you know she does. Augh! I can’t bear such gluttony.—Here, waitress,” I exclaimed, “bring me a lemon ice and a Bath bun or two, with a few almond cakes, if you please.” And then I went on, scolding him for{247} his disgusting greediness, and eating by turns, until, I declare, when the time came for that selfish pig of an Edward to pay, and the young woman at the counter asked me what I had had, if I hadn’t to tell her that I had taken two lemon waters, and three of those, (pointing to the Bath buns;) and two of those, (pointing to the raspberry puffs;) and two more of those, (pointing to the gooseberry tarts;) and, let me see—yes, I think, either three or four of those, (pointing to the almond cakes,)—though, between ourselves, I was certain I had eaten at least six of the hollow delicious things, for I’m very fond of them; but, of course, all pastry cooks know very well that ladies never can, or, at least, never will tell them exactly to a paltry penny cake or two what they have had, and, the people in the shop take good care to increase the price of their articles accordingly.

When that precious beauty of a Mr. Edward came home that evening, I wasn’t going to be such a stupid as to let the capital discovery I had made drop in a minute; so all dinnertime I went on apologizing that I had got none of the oyster patties for him, which he seemed so partial to; and asking him whether they allowed such delicacies in the workhouse he was going to in such a hurry, and saying a whole troop of other nice tantalizing, knagging things, until I made him so wild, that he went on in such a way, and said such unwarrantable things to me, and kept on vowing that I should not have the footman I wanted, in such a frightful manner, that at last bang went the door to again, and up stairs I bounced to bed, saying, “I’ll soon let you see whether I’ll have the footman or not, my fine Turk; for if I’m not as ill as ill can be, until I have a man-servant safe in the house, why my name’s not Sk—n—st—n.”

All that night through I had the spasms so bad, that I took good care Mr. Edward didn’t have a wink of sleep; and next morning, just as he was shaving himself, and promising, that if I wanted an extra servant, I might have a parlour-maid (like his impudence, indeed!) I had such a violent attack of hysterics, that any one, to have heard my screams, (and I’m sure they must have been audible at least a hundred villas off,) would have thought that Mr. Sk—n—st—n was ill-treating me. Just before he went down stairs, I called him to the bedside, and told him I was convinced I had got violent Neuralgia—brought on by my over-exertions about{248} the house, and most likely I should never entirely get rid of it to my dying day. “Do you feel in pain, then, my love?” he said. “Where is it? Tell me, my duck.” “Of course I did,” I answered; and throwing up the whites of my eyes, and biting my lip, as if in great agony, I begged him, “Not to duck me, as he was the cause of it all, and that he might thank his stars that his ill-treatment hadn’t so completely shattered my nerves as to have brought on St. Vitus’s dance,”—and so it certainly would, only, to tell the reader the truth, I didn’t know the step of that most frightful of all dances; and I recollect when my aunt R—msb—tt—m had it very severely, it seemed to me much more difficult to manage than the double-shuffle in the College Hornpipe, so that as for keeping that up all about the house for a whole week, why it was more than I chose to do.

As the reader may well imagine, I had our medical adviser round pretty soon, for I knew Mr. Edward hated doctors’ bills, and Mr. J—pp would be sure to agree with me, it was Neuralgia, as your doctors always say it is that, when they can’t exactly make out what it is that ails a lady. So when he came round, he told Edward great care must be taken of me, and I was to be kept quite quiet, and free from all annoyance, as I was suffering from as severe an attack of the nerves as he ever recollected to have met with in the whole course of his extensive practice, adding, that it wasn’t to be wondered at, as it was very prevalent among the ladies of the nobility and gentry just then; and that, indeed, he was attending several persons of quality at that time for the very same thing. After this, he sent me round some very nice sweet draughts, and some of the most delicious tinctures I think I ever tasted in the whole course of my life, which used to make me feel so beautiful and “tippy” afterwards, my lady readers can’t tell.

All that week I had my breakfast in bed, and what made me enjoy it more than anything else was, I knew Mr. Edward hated to pour out his own tea, and butter his own toast of a morning, because it interfered with his filthy newspaper. Only the worst of breakfasting in bed is, that bother take it! the crumbs will get all over the sheets, and if one happens to have dry toast, they are so hard, and do scrub a poor body so, that really one{249} might just as well lie upon sand-paper for the comfort of the thing; and drat it, do what you will, you can’t get them out of the bed again, until the things are taken off and well shaken.

When I went down stairs, after the fourth day, I laid myself upon the sofa, and was too ill to eat a thing; though Mr. Edward would come to my side, and beg and pray of me just to take a mouthful for his sake. But no! I told him, with a sigh, I was too weak to take anything beyond a cup of tea and a little dry toast (for, of course, after the couple of good large mutton chops that I took good care to have in the middle of the day, I hadn’t much of an appetite left for dinner, especially as I wouldn’t let my gentleman have any thing particularly nice—saying to myself, “If we can’t afford a footman—I’m sure we can’t afford dainties!”)

And so I went on with my severe attack of Neuralgia, getting worse and worse, and making my grand Turk breakfast by himself, and dine by himself—and get out of bed at all hours of the night to give me my delicious tinctures, and never even condescending to speak to him, unless it was to tell him, with a sigh, how ill and weak I felt,—and that I knew it was all owing to my over-exertions about the great big house,—and continually reminding him too that he had only himself to blame for it, as I had given him fair warning of what would be the consequence of his unfeeling meanness,—and then asking him quietly whether it wasn’t better now to pay the money for a footman, instead of seeing his poor, dear, fond, foolish wife suffering so acutely as she was, and having to pay, at least, double or treble as much in those horrid doctor’s bills for her,—and so I went on, I say, until, upon my word, one Monday evening (for I remember Mr. Edward had the boiled knuckle of veal cold for dinner which I’d given him hot on the Sunday), I was lying on the sofa groaning away, and my gentleman was seated by me after dinner, looking quite repentant, and asking me whether I thought Mr. J—pp was doing me good, and a whole troup of other civil things, when I said—with a sigh that seemed to cut him to the quick, thank goodness!—“It’s too late now, Edward dear; I told you I was sinking fast, but you wouldn’t believe it then, and now I feel satisfied that I sha’n’t trouble you with my presence here much longer.” “For Heaven’s sake! Carry, my love, don’t go{250} on in that way!” he exclaimed, pressing my hand between his two palms. “Is there anything I can get for you, dearest?” “That footman I spoke to you about,” I replied, “perhaps might have relieved me at one time; but now”—I added, as if in pain, “there is no hope. You will be kind to my little darling toodle-loodle-lumpty, when its poor dear mother’s no more, and take care when the little trot grows up that she’s not killed in this great big house for want of a footman.” Here that Edward gave two or three pathetic snivels, and commenced feeling for his pocket-handkerchief. So as I saw he was beginning to melt, I continued, in a low, solemn voice, “When I am gone, promise me, Edward—you wont marry again—and you will put upon my tombstone that I was a ‘TENDER AND AFFECTIONATE WIFE,’ and ‘UNIVERSALLY REGRETTED’—and now I come to think of it, Edward dear, it would look charming if you were to add those beautiful lines of ‘Affliction sore long time I bore,’ and wind up with ‘she fell a martyr to the want of a footman,’ brought in nicely somehow.” This, I’m proud to say, was a severe homethrust; and on looking at my fine gentleman, if I didn’t see a beautiful little tear in the corner of each of his eyes; and thank goodness, by staring as hard as ever I could at one of the roses in the carpet, and drawing the air in up my nose, I was lucky enough to squeeze out two or three tears myself—so that at last I worked upon the hard-hearted monster’s feelings in such a way, that he turned round and told me if I thought a footman would be any relief to me, for goodness sake to get one, only I was not to give way to low spirits as I did. But I merely answered, “No, thank you, dearest, dearest Edward; you must not go to any expense to please me in my last moments—you cannot afford it.” “Do not say so, dear Carry,” he answered, “you must and shall have one!” “No, no,” I replied, groaning as if in severe agony; “you cannot afford it, and I will not listen to it.” “What!—not to please your own Edward, my lamb,” he said, in a low voice, putting his lips close to my ear. “To please her own Edward,” I returned, with affection, “his lamb will do anything;” and then throwing my arms round his neck, I put an end to that awkward business.

“Ha, ha! Mr. Edward, my fine gentleman,” I couldn’t for the life of me help exclaiming to myself, whilst I was kissing{251} him, “I said I’d have a footman, if I died for it, and a footman I’ve got, and the best of it is, too, I’ve made a favour of accepting what I wanted—and what is so delightful to a poor dear married lady as that?”

I was getting well as quick as ever I decently could, when I was nearly thrown back; and I really thought I should be obliged to have a relapse. The fact is, we had a nasty tiff about the livery; for, upon my word, if Mr. Edward was not for putting the fellow into plain clothes—a likely thing! I said, and perhaps have him mistaken for some of my relations. But I pretty soon gave my gentleman to understand that I would have nothing short of a livery in my house; when, of course, off he went, talking some more of his highflown radical slang about liveries being “low things,” and “badges of servitude.” Badges of servitude, indeed! as if I did not know they were, long ago; and, to confess the truth, that was just the very reason—as I told him—why I stood out for one. Did he for one moment fancy that I was such a great big silly as to go to the expense of a man-servant to have him going in and out of my house, looking as disreputable as a country curate. For my part, I said, nothing would please me better—if it was only the fashion—than to put a beautiful brass collar round his neck, with our name and address nicely engraved on it, so that he might go about like a Newfoundland dog, and people know whose property he was. So I begged I might hear no more of such fal-lal nonsense; and that, if he did not wish to make me ill again, he would drop the subject without saying another word about it.

Well, I suppose, if I saw one, I saw a hundred great, big, hulking fellows, who came after my situation, and who were so grand, that, bless us and save us! one would have fancied that they had been brought up as clerks in some government office, and had been in the habit of receiving large salaries for doing nothing all their lives. Out of the bunch, I picked that John Duffy—drat him!—for he was the best, to my way of thinking. When he applied for the place, he was a nice, decent, genteel-looking body, of rather a slim figure than otherwise, and he seemed so willing—assuring me that he was ready to make himself generally{252} useful, (all of which I can now very well understand—especially the thinness—for he had been six months out of a situation.)

The livery I had made for that dirty Duffy was one of the sweetest things when it was new, certainly. Every article of the entire suit was of a different colour. I ordered the tailor to make me a love of a white coat, and a pet of a canary waistcoat, and a perfect duck of a pair of bright crimson plush knee what-d’ye-call-’ems—the name of the things escapes me just at the present moment. Mr. Edward, in his nasty, perverse way, would have it that Duffy would look more like a Macaw in such fine feathers than a Christian; but I soon put a stop to his sneers, for I asked him pretty plainly, what the dickens that was to me? Of course I wanted all the world to know that I had got a footman, and as I didn’t see anything to be ashamed of in it, I took good care to publish it as conspicuously, and in as many colours, as a Vauxhall posting-bill.

But it seemed as if Fate had put me down in her black books, for really and truly that John Duffy couldn’t have been in the house above a month, before he got so gross and so fat, and did make flesh so fast, that I’m sure it would have required nothing short of a suit of vulcanized india-rubber to have kept pace with him. As for asking him to pick up anything, bless you! I no more dared to do it than—than I don’t know what; for as sure as the porpoise stooped for anything, bang! would go either the strings of his waistcoat or else crack! would fly all the beautiful silver buttons off the knees of his—a—of his thing-me-jigs, (dear me, I shall forget my own name next.) When that monkey of a Wittals was with me, he nearly drove me out of my mind by growing upwards, but that pig of a Duffy fairly sent me stark staring mad, by growing sideways—drat him! Wittals, to have looked any way decent, wanted trousers made to pull out like telescopes; but that abominable Duffy, in order to have been kept merely respectable, must have had a coat and waistcoat made to expand like an accordion. If Wittals’s mulberry pantaloons required a tuck to be let out at the bottom at least once a month, I’m sure that Duffy’s canary vest needed another gore to be let in at the back quite as often. Really, the{253} sixth week after the great whale had been in my kitchen, if he hadn’t grown nearly five waistcoat buttons stouter upon the good things out of my larder, and, before two months were over my head, if I hadn’t to put in behind a great wedge of shalloon—in the shape of a large sippet, to get it to meet anyhow. The way in which the man’s chin, too, kept on increasing was positively frightful for a thrifty housewife to behold. Chin upon chin, did I see grow under my very eyes, until at last they bulged out over his neckcloth, for all the world like half a mellon. And no wonder! for the quantity that man would eat was positively as if he was going into training for an apoplexy; and it wasn’t quantity alone he wanted, but, bless me! quality as well! As for cold meat, over and over again, have I seen him trying to turn his nose up at it; but, unfortunately for him, it was a snub, and do what he would, he couldn’t turn it up any higher. But, though Mr. Duffy objected to cold meat for dinner, yet he could manage to make away with a pound or two of it for his breakfast and supper. And, mercy-on-me! even the common household bread wasn’t good enough for his royal highness’s delicate stomach! Oh, no! he must needs go pampering himself with the digestive cottages I had expressly for myself of a morning. As for good wholesome salt butter, too, at one-and-one, I declare he wouldn’t so much as soil his mouth with it; not he! but he’d wait till our butter-dish came down, and then wouldn’t he fall to at our fresh at one-and-eight, and spread it on a large bit of my digestive cottage—yes! as thick as stucco!

The beauty of it was, too, the fatter he got upon my food, the lazier he grew over my work, for really it seemed as difficult for him to crawl along, as if he was one of those heavy inactive things your city folks will call “lively turtle;” and all the way up stairs one might hear him breathing as hard as a pavior, and puffing and blowing away like a railway engine. When he came up, too, there he’d be, with his face looking as greasy and dirty as the newspaper we have half price from the coffee-shop, and his forehead as dewy as our kitchen window on a washing day. But what annoyed me more than all was, that, do what I would, I could not for the life of me get the nasty bristly pig to shave his filthy red beard of a morning; and there I should have him bringing{254} the dinner things up with his four chins looking as rough and rusty as so many rasped French rolls.

The fellow, too, was so conceited, that really there was no bearing with him; for instance, if I left him in the parlour dusting the chairs, or rubbing the tables, directly my back was turned, off he’d be to the pier glass, and get attitudinizing before it, and arranging the nasty, greasy, figure 6 curl he had in the middle of his forehead, with his nasty oily fingers, or else—drat his impudence!—nothing would suit him, but he must go to the sideboard, and take out the clothes-brush, or, if that wasn’t handy, the semicircular one we had to sweep the crumbs off the table-cloth with, and begin scrubbing away at his hair with it. And the nuisance of it was, bother take it! I would make the fellow wear powder, so that, if ever I went to brush my beautiful black German velvet dress, there I should have it with long white streaks upon it like the inside of a backgammon board, and all smelling of hair-powder and pomatum as strong as that Duffy’s livery-hat.

Then of an evening, nothing would suit my lord duke but he must needs go lolling against the post of the street-door with his great big lumpy legs—like the ballustrades on Waterloo Bridge—crossed one over the other, picking his teeth with a bit of one of my pens, and ogling the girls, and making a noise with his lips after them as they went by—as if he was a perfect Adonis in plush—a—in plush—(tut! tut! it is very strange! I never can remember the name of those what-d’ye-call-’ems). Or if he wasn’t at the street door, wasting my time against the post, there the monkey would be perched up on the top step of the area ladder, with his cauliflower head poked over the rails, and either in full gossip with what he made me believe was his washerwoman (the wretch!) or else sneering away at the policeman, or making game of the soldiers as they passed the house,—both of whom, he told our cook, who told me, were low-class hanimals, and people that he could not condescend to sit down to table with—so there was no use hasking on ’em. The consequence of this was, that if I had to ring once of an evening for him, I had to ring at least a hundred times before I could get him to hear me. And when he did hear me, sneak-to would go the street door, and in he would come all of an imitation hurry, buttoning{255} up his waistcoat as if he had been dressing. Only let me stir out of the house, too, for a minute, and as sure as eggs are eggs, I should find him when I came back with his four chins resting comfortably on the top of our parlour blinds, and staring out of window with all his might—as if he was a lord bishop of the land, and had nothing to do, and there were no such things as teacups to wash up, or British plate to clean,—which latter article, as every married lady knows, is only a cheap substitute for silver, provided you’re rubbing it up every quarter of an hour, and if you’re not, why it looks more like a very expensive substitute for brass. Though, as for washing up the tea-things! I really don’t suppose the corpulent puppy did it above half-a-dozen times, at most, all the while he was with me. For, what do you think, gentle Reader, the nasty good-for-nothing, deceitful, carneying peacock used to do? Why if he usen’t to give that stupid, stupid cook of mine—who ought to have known better at her time of life—a filthy kiss, to get her to do it for him; and I suppose that he must have thought his slobberings particularly precious, for, positively, if the red-haired monkey didn’t go offering the same high terms to the maids, if they would only fill his coal scuttles for him, and—I blush for my sex when I say it—the minxes used to do it at the paltry price. What they can have seen, in the man, I’m sure I can’t make out; and I’m certain they didn’t know one thing—any more than I myself did at that time—or they never could have allowed him to trifle with their very best affections in the shameful way he did—a nasty, wicked, deceitful, liquorish-toothed “Married Man!”—and that’s what he was! When the wretch came to me, he told me he was a confirmed bachelor; but his livery, though shamefully spotted was not half worn out, when, to my horror, I discovered that the brute was a hopeless, inextricable Benedict, with not only a fond wife to support—out of my larder, drat her!—but no less than seven little incumbrances to bring up—on my cold meat, hang ’em! As a woman, of course, I’m for universal matrimony all over the world—though with regard to those necessary evils called servants, I must confess, I am of a totally different opinion. For my part, I would have them all bound by law to remain as single, all their days, as spiders. But from the parental{256} turn of the Footmen, Housemaids, and Cooks of the nineteenth century, I’m afraid no Act of Parliament could be made binding enough to prevent the fond stupids from plunging headlong into wedlock and a chandler’s shop; and when they find that a bountiful Providence doesn’t send customers as quick as it does children to such people, then of course the husband and the father again becomes the footman and the bachelor, drat him!—while the wife and the mother gets her daily bread for her children out of her mangle, and her daily meat for them out of your pantry! In my eyes, the only way to prevent this frightful state of things, is for us housekeepers to see whether or not, by the high wages we are now giving for men-servants, we couldn’t prevail upon some of the poor Catholic priests—who everybody knows have taken the vow of perpetual celibacy—to put on a toupée, and enter our service as footmen,—though, of course, from the proverbial warm-hearted disposition of the inhabitants of the “imirald isle,” it might be as well to give notice—even in such a case—that “no Irish need apply.”

For more than a month I thought that Duffy was as single as the very Gloucester he had for cheese, and so I should have believed him to my dying day, had I not noticed that he not only seemed too attentive by half to his washerwoman—who afterwards turned out to be his draggle-tail hussey of a wife—but also that the bundles of dirty clothes he sent to the wash, were considerably more corpulent, than, from the usual filthy state of his linen, I should have been led to expect. And it wasn’t long before I found out the cause of it all; for one fine Monday morning, I happened to go into the pantry, and there lay the usual stout bundle of dirty linen, belonging to John Duffy, Esquire. When I opened it on the sly, I thought I should have fainted. There they were—very pretty indeed!—two pair of cotton stockings—one pair of cold fried soles—one cotton night-cap—half a raspberry jam tart—one day shirt—a large piece of a beef-steak pie—two dickies—six tallow candles—four white cravats—a hunk of cold bacon—one pair of drawers—and upon my honour, near upon half a hundred weight of coals stuffed inside of them.

But the beauty of it was, that not content with robbing me of my meat and coals, and candles and things, the{257} villain must set to work pilfering our wine as well; and whenever Mr. Sk—n—st—n told him to decanter a bottle of port, or even sherry, I declare if the fellow didn’t, while he stood at the sideboard with his back turned to us, fill a good sized physic bottle out of it every time, for his own private drinking. For a long time it struck me, that less wine went to the quart bottle than is usual even with wine-merchants; but I attributed this to the improvements which are going on in glass manufactories so rapidly, that bottles, apparently the same size as they used to be, are made, by some invisible arrangement at the bottom, to hold twice as little as they used to do; while they seem to be getting less and less so fast, that soon, instead of two pints making one quart, in wine and beer measure, as our schoolmasters foolishly taught us to believe, we shall find it just the very reverse; for shortly, the “Honourable Company of Free Vintners” will teach us that two quarts make one pint.

Of course, from this I suspected something was wrong, and longed for the time when I should find my gentleman out. Accordingly, one day seeing that Mr. Duffy was out of his pantry, and the key in his cupboard door, I just took the liberty of looking into it, and there, to my great delight, I saw several rows of physic bottles packed one a-top of another—with sawdust, too, as I’m a Christian! and lying on their sides for all the world like a miniature bin of wine. I took up one of them, labelled “this draught to be taken at bed time;” and I declare if it wasn’t some of our very best port—then another, ticketed, “the mixture as before,” and hang me, if that wasn’t a phial full of our very choicest brown sherry! and on reaching down a bottle divided into quarters, with directions, ordering, “a fourth part of this gargle to be used whenever the throat is troublesome,” and if that one wasn’t filled to the cork—I never knew such impudence!—with some of our very primest Cogniac brandy! “Hoity toity!” cried I, “so Mr. Duffy must needs have a private cellar of his own. No wonder Mr. Edward is always telling me, in his nasty, mean, insinuating way, as if he thought I drank them, that the wine and spirits go very fast.”

I wasn’t long before I had the whole of Mr. Duffy’s small private cellar safe in my work basket, and, in less than two{258} minutes, fast in one of the cupboards of the sideboard. As it was lunch time I determined to try “a draught to be taken in the morning” myself; for, to tell the truth I felt rather faint, and thought a glass of port couldn’t hurt me. But didn’t it though; for no sooner did I put it in my mouth than—ah, faugh!—oh! lud a mercy me! I never tasted such filth. If the dirty, fat, lazy pig, hadn’t been pouring the wine into a black dose bottle, without ever taking the trouble to wash it out first! “Oh, I wish to goodness gracious!” I cried, putting my hand to my stomach—for I felt far from myself—“I could only afford to give that dishonest mammoth of a Duffy notice to quit; and so I would this very moment, if it wasn’t for that beautiful livery which ought to have another six months’ wear in it at least!”

About this time, too, it seemed as if Fate—bother take her!—thought that that Duffy wasn’t enough to fill my cup, so she must needs go throwing that Wittals in, to make it run over. For, as luck would have it, one evening, home comes Mr. Skn—n—st—n with the joyful news, that the young ogre—missing the larder, no doubt—had grown tired of the few pleasantries connected with the legal profession, and had had the impudence to demand that he should be taken back again into my service—telling Edward to his face, that he’d learnt law enough in his office to know I had bound myself to keep him for these two years to come. Well, thought I, my fine gentleman, I could have told you as much; but, of course, I wasn’t going to do so.

The next day, who should march into the house but the young imp himself, without so much as even a single button left on his beautiful jacket; and when I asked him what he had done with them, he told me quite coolly that he’d been gambling at dumps, and having staked his all, had lost the whole of my beautiful plated sugar-loafs at one unlucky throw! This put me in such a horrid pet, that I raised my hand to give the young monkey a box on the ears, which he should remember to his dying day, when, bless us and save us! if the whiskerless Turk didn’t throw himself into one of the boldest attitudes of “the noble art” of self-defence, and spitting in the palm of one of his hands—a dirty young imp!—began dancing about, too, and bobbing his head, and{259} sparring away at me, saying, “Come on old un! I should like to see you do it.” “Oh, you wicked young coward,” I cried; “what, would you strike a poor woman—augh!” “Wouldn’t I though,” upon my word the monkey answered, “if she goes hitting on me fust.” I told him to take himself down stairs as quick as ever he could, and when Mr. Sk—n—st—n came home, we’d see if he would strike him.

Bother take the boy, there was no keeping him quiet anyhow! Now, for instance, I was obliged to go to the expense of having his livery done up, for, of course, I couldn’t see the urchin going about the disreputable figure he was. Well, a day or two after I had got him to look something like decent, I wanted to go and see dear mother, merely to ask the good old soul, whether—as the heat was so oppressive—she had got a good receipt for making ginger beer, and any old stone bottles she could spare me. As I was only going that short distance, I thought there would be no use in taking Duffy away from his work—especially as I didn’t see the necessity of letting him know who and what my friends were, or of pointing out to the fat stuck-up pig that the merchant I had made out my respected father to be was merely a coal ditto, and the vessels which I had spoken so often of before him at meals, were merely two barges filled with the very finest knubbly “Lord Mayors.” And as for taking that young Wittals to walk behind me as a protector, bless you! it was worse than useless. Besides, the young monkey had got a tongue as long as my arm, and I should have those filthy, shameful, wicked, false reports, flying all about the neighbourhood again, with their precious “Mrs. Sk—n—st—n’s friends is only heavers.” Heavers! pretty heavers, indeed!

Well, as I was saying, off I trotted to dear mother’s, but as my luck would have it, she couldn’t lay her hands on the receipt I wanted, anywhere. However, as Mrs. Lockley had given it to her, the good old soul had no doubt she would do as much for me. So I thought to myself, the best thing I can do is to go on and see that sweet woman. Mother, with her usual kindness, wanted me to stay dinner; but I begged of her not to ask me to stop that day, as I had got a beautiful hot fillet of veal for dinner, (which I am very partial to,) but if she liked I would come on the morrow when it was{260} cold, (which I do not like at all). Whereupon mother said as it was her washing day, I must take pot luck if I came; but knowing what that stood for at home, I suddenly remembered a pressing engagement I had, which, I regretted, would deprive me of the pleasure.

I thought I should never have got to that sweet woman, Mrs. Lockley’s; for really the weather did seem to me so oppressive, that, upon my word, I felt ready to drop; and if it hadn’t been for the look of the thing, I do believe I should have sat down to rest myself on one of the door-steps. I was so hungry, too, with my long walk, that I certainly should have gone into some pastry-cook’s on my way, and destroyed my stomach with a lot of trash out of the housekeeping, if I hadn’t known that it was close upon that sweet woman Mrs. Lockley’s hour for luncheon.

When I got to Mrs. Lockley’s, of course, with my usual luck, she had only got one or two filthy baked apples and a little cold bullock’s heart (which, though I’d go miles for when smoking hot with veal stuffing, plenty of currant jelly, and a plate as warm as warm can be, yet I can’t even bear to look at it when it’s cold). So, as I didn’t relish this fare very much, I told Mrs. Lockley, when she apologised for the lunch, and asked me if I’d do as she did, that nothing on earth would give me greater pleasure, as, strange to say, they were two of my most favourite dishes; but, I added, I’m frightened to touch either, my love—for, to tell the truth, I’ve a nasty cold upon me; and, as I know I can be frank with you, my dear, if you should happen to have such a thing as an oyster or two handy, I think it would do me good. When, actually, the sweet woman, like a stupid, would send out for some expressly for me, though I begged and prayed of the kind soul not to put herself to all that trouble on my account—taking good care, however, not to overdo it this time; for I thought it was the least she could do for me after leaving me to pay the whole of that cab, in the disgraceful way she had. As Lockley was out of town, and as I remembered she hadn’t seen our footman, and, besides, as I had got a love of a fillet of veal, why, I thought I couldn’t do less after all her kindness than ask that sweet woman, Mrs. Lockley, to come and take a plain family dinner with us{261} that day; which she said she would. Presently, off we started, and walked along chatting so comfortably, no one can tell.

Just as we had got near home, and I was thinking how nice and envious that sweet woman, Mrs. Lockley, would be, when she found poor us living in such superior style to herself, and that we kept two male servants instead of her little poking twopenny-half-penny one—lo, and behold! all of a sudden, I saw a large crowd of little dirty boys collected in a ring across the road, right opposite our house. By the noise of the drums, I knew it was a sight, and I hurried along as fast as ever I could, for I do like to see them. As we approached, I heard the voice of one of those stupid street conjurors crying out as loud as he could, that as soon as there was ninepence in the ring, he would cut off some poor young gentleman’s head. So I told that sweet woman, Mrs. Lockley, to come along for heaven’s sake, or we shouldn’t be in time; and on we toddled together as fast as my legs would carry me. On looking up at our house, I declare if there wasn’t that stupid, stupid cook, and that lazy minx of a housemaid lolling out of one of the windows of my bedroom, and that John Duffy out of the other. I merely shook my parasol at them then, and went as near as I could to see the stupid nonsense. When I caught sight of the boy in the ring, who had come forward to allow himself to be beheaded, positively if it wasn’t that abominable, wicked, incorrigible young imp of a Wittals of mine, who, having seen the trick done some hundred of times before, and knowing very well that the ninepence never yet had been made up, was delighted at being a party to the stupid imposition, which, I dare say, he thought a capital joke. No sooner did I set eyes upon him, out there in the middle of the dusty road, in my beautiful claret and silver (only just newly renovated too), with his best hat down on the ground, and all the neighbours at the windows, laughing away at the gratifying idea of the Sk—n—st—n’s grand page making such a scamp of himself—no sooner, I repeat, did I set eyes upon the disreputable young rip, than at him I rushed, right through the little boys. But directly he caught sight of me, on went his hat, with all the coppers that had been collected in it, a-top of his head, and off he scampered, and I{262} after him, parasol in hand, as hard as I could go, while after me came all the little dirty boys, hurraying and hooting, and hollowing out “Go it, missus,”—“Go it, tiger,” until—finding I couldn’t catch that Wittals—I turned round, and began laying my parasol about the noisy and impudent young vagabonds at my heels. And then, oh, la! the nasty young dogs! what must they do but begin pelting me with mud and all kinds of filth, right over my beautiful lace bonnet and love of a poplin dress—salmon shot snuff,—and kept on at it, even on my own door step, whilst I was jerking away at the bell and hammering away at the knocker, trying to get that big fat elephant of a Duffy to saunter up to the door before I was one positive cake of mud from head to foot—for, drat those boys! the more I ran after them, the more they pelted me.

When I went to the parlour window, to shake my fist at the young urchins, who wouldn’t go away from the house, but kept on hooting outside as hard as they could, who should I see on the other side of the way, laughing fit to burst all her hooks and eyes, but that vulgar woman, Mrs. Lockley, drat her! whom I, like a great big silly, had brought up to see the superior style in which we lived. Well, there always was something about the creature I didn’t exactly like!

When I told dear, dear Edward of all that happened, and how that Wittals had been going on the very day after I had consented to receive him back to my service, he very justly said, that he wasn’t at all surprised at anything that young vagabond did, for he was impudent as a London sparrow, and he had been quite sickened of him by his tricks at his office; in fact, he knew there was no getting the good-for-nothing scapegrace to do a thing. For instance, if he wanted a simple letter copied, and called out to him, “Wittals, what have you got in hand just now?” the scamp would be sure to answer, “An apple, please sir,” or something just as aggravating. So Edward advised me, that the best thing I could do was to go down to the workhouse, and try and get them to take the boy back, which he was sure they would for a few pounds, if the case was properly represented to them. But I pretty soon told my gentleman that I was sure they would do no such thing (and if they would, I wouldn’t). For, to tell the truth, now that I had got two male servants in the house, I

“Oh ah! let ’em ring again!”

{263}

wasn’t going to sink down to one again in a hurry; and, bother take it! to have to go ill again, may be, or leave my stingy Mr. Edward a second time—“for ever!” perhaps, before I could get him to let me have another. Besides, that great big lazy porpoise of a Mr. Duffy, was always grumbling about having to clean a few trumpery boots and knives, and talking about the families of quality he had lived in—(I never saw such quality!) where he had been accustomed to have a lad under him—so, all things considered, I really couldn’t bring my heart to turn a poor orphan like that monkey of a Wittals into the cold streets, and, accordingly with my usual good nature, made up my mind to keep the pair of them—at least until their liveries were fairly worn out.

Upon my word, at times, I was sorry that I hadn’t taken Edward’s advice, for that Wittals made Duffy no better, and that Duffy only made Wittals much worse. Now, I dare say, the reader will imagine that, with two male servants in the house, and little or nothing for them to do, I might at least have got so much as a simple bell answered; but, oh dear, no! I might pull and pull as though I was up in a filthy belfry pulling my arms off for a leg of mutton and trimmings; and yet, there Mr. Duffy would sit, roasting his fat calves before the fire, as unconcerned as a mute at a street door—with his precious “Oh, ah! let ’em ring again!”—while that idle vagabond of a Mr. Wittals sat stock still, with both his hands stuffed into the pockets of his mulberry pantaloons, as if they were made of cast iron, and grinning away, as though he thought it a capital joke to trifle with my feelings. Then, positively, too, if that Duffy didn’t go and so inoculate that Wittals with his nasty, familiar ways, that, as for getting any respect out of the pair of them, Lord bless you! one might just as well have looked for civility from a cabman after paying him his legal fare. If I happened to meet either of them in the street, not so much as a touch of the hat could they treat me to; and do what I would, I could no more get them to put ‘Mam’ at the end of their sentences when they spoke to me, than if they had been a couple of clerks at a railway station. First, I should have that Wittals speaking of my little angel of a Catherine, as “Kitty,” to my very face,{264} though I had told him, over and over again, that the cherub’s name was Miss Sk—n—st—n, and begged of him not to let me hear him ‘Kitty’ her again, if he wanted to stop in my house; but, as the monkey knew very well that I couldn’t turn him out of it, of course he didn’t care two pins about what I said. Then I should have that great fat Duffy coming strolling into the parlour as slow as an omnibus half full, and asking, “How many we should be to dinner to-day?”—putting me in such a passion with his “We’s” (as if he was one of the family), that I used to say, “We! whom do you mean by we, I should like to know, sir? I and your master will dine at home to-day, and that’s the only we I am acquainted with in this house; though, perhaps, by your we’s, you’d like to sit down to the table with us—and, I’m sure, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you did, for you certainly seem to me always to forget who you are, and what you are, and where you came from.”

But where was the good of wasting one’s breath upon a great fat lazy pig, that was dead to every moral as well as religious tie? Now, I think I have told the reader somewhere in my interesting little work, that one of my principal inducements in getting Edward to consent to my keeping a footman, was the standing it gives one, in this, alas! empty world, to have a fine handsome man-servant in an elegant showy livery to carry your prayer books behind you to church, and to come up to your pew and fetch than again after divine service, (which, thank goodness, I can safely lay my head on my pillow at night, and say, that ever since I have kept house, and had an example to set my servants, I have always made a point of attending—unless, indeed, I have known that one of those beggarly collections was going to take place at the doors.) Well! as I was going to say, upon my word, I had much better have taken no footman to church at all, as that heathen of a Duffy; for as soon as we stood up for the first hymn, and I turned round to observe how his livery looked among the congregated footmen, and whether he was paying a proper attention to his religious duties or not, there I should be certain to see him, directly he caught my eye, take his hat, and putting his handkerchief to his nose, to make believe it was bleeding, sneak down the aisle on tiptoe; and I should never{265} clap eyes on the livery again until church was all over, when I should have him coming back smelling of beer and tobacco, enough to knock the whole congregation down—though where on earth he could have got it from, was more than I and our policeman could ever make out.

Was ever a poor dear married lady so tormented in all her life? That Duffy was bad enough, as the reader can plainly see now; but that Wittals was ten times worse, as the reader shall see presently. Now, par examp (as we say at Bologne-sur-mere,) dear—dear—dear uncle R—msb—tt—m, like a good generous old soul as he is, would go sending up to that cherub of a Kitty of mine, a beautiful little love of a pet lamb, that had the most heavenly fore and hind quarters I think I ever beheld in all my born days; and it was so nice and fat that it quite made my mouth water to look at it—even alive. Still it was so fond and tame, and that darling ducks-o’-diamonds of a Kitty of mine was so pleased with her tiddy-ickle bar-lam as she used to call it—bless her little eyes! (please excuse a fond mother’s feelings, gentle reader,)—that, though I couldn’t look at the animal without thinking of mint sauce, and the animal cost me near upon a shilling a week for bread, and milk, and turnips, yet I thought as dear good uncle R—msb—tt—m had sent it up, and as he was Kitty’s godfather, and had neither chick nor child, and was actually rolling in money (if I might be allowed so strong an expression) I thought, I say, he might be offended, if it came to his ears that we had eaten the darling little pet for dinner, immediately after its arrival in town. So we put a sweet pretty blue sarsnet ribbon round its fat neck, and kept it in the garden by day, and the knife house by night, till really the thing’s bed-chamber “foohed” so, that it was enough to knock you down. The worst of it was, too, that do what we would, we could not keep the little love’s white coat clean in this grubby “metropolis of the world,” though we scoured it well at least once a week in our own foot-bath; for directly after we had washed it, and put it out in the garden again, down would come the smuts so thick, that in less than half-an-hour one would have fancied the natural colour of the poppet’s coat was pepper and salt; and what used to put me in such a passion was, if I went out in the garden of an even{266}ing, in my sweet white muslin skirt and black velvet body to fondle the dingy little brute, it would get so affectionate, I declare, and would come rubbing up against my flounces, until they looked as black as a coal heaver’s stockings on a Saturday. But what annoyed me more than all was—bother take the thing!—it would grow so fast, that, though I must have wasted at least a gallon of gin in trying to stop its growth, still it was all of no use, and I only kept making the creature so tipsy, that it would prance about like a mad thing, and half frighten me out of my life. Pet lambs are one thing, but the idea of going and bestowing your affections on a great hulking sheep with horns long enough to poke both your eyes out, was what I had no notion of doing. Plague take that cruel Wittals too! no sooner had he set foot in the house, and seen this new member of the family, than his great delight used to be to catch hold of the poor thing by the two horns, directly they began to grow, one in each hand, and keep pushing the animal backwards and forwards until really he made the beast as savage as a tiger, and taught it to butt so, that upon my word it would run at you with its head down, for all the world like one of those stupid Cornish wrestlers. As for that fat coward of a Duffy, positively he was so afraid of what in his stupid country dialect he called the “wicked mutton,” that I couldn’t for the life of me get the fellow to go near the poor thing; and if Wittals hadn’t been there, it must have stopped out every night, and may be died of rheumatism from sleeping out on the damp grass, instead of in a comfortable warm knife-house. So matters went on, until Kitty’s little pet got to be a great waddling monster of a sheep, and only grew more and more savage from being always tied up to our apple tree, and fatter and fatter from want of exercise, while all the time mutton kept getting higher and higher, from I don’t know what, until at last it seemed to me a shameful sin to go wasting good wholesome turnips, at three bunches for fippence, on such a creature, when one of its legs would eat so beautifully, boiled, with some of those very turnips.

Well! like a thrifty housewife as I am, I had half made up my mind to have one of the great hulking pet’s haunches, with red currant jelly, for dinner the next Sunday, while it was nice and young and tender, when dear mother luckily{267} called in to see me, and I thought I would consult with her on the subject. On going to the window, to show her what prime condition the darling was in, I declare, if the brute hadn’t got away from the apple tree, and wasn’t right in my flower-bed, making a hearty meal off the few double stocks and sweet-williams I had in my garden, and which I prided myself so much upon, and the Simmonds’s were so jealous of. I gave a slight scream, and rang the bell for that dare-devil of a Wittals, knowing that it was no good looking for any assistance from that chicken-hearted stupid of a Duffy. But, of course, Wittals, as is always the case when he’s wanted, had slipped out after some more of that sticky sweet-stuff, which I’m continually obliged to be taking away from him, and eating myself, to prevent him from spoiling his livery. So, as I couldn’t stand still and see my beautiful sweet-williams eaten up before my very eyes, I ran down the garden steps, and catching hold of the end of the rope, tried to drag the woolly cannibal back to the apple tree. But no sooner did I tug the wretch away from the flowers, than off it set scampering round and round me, until, I declare, it wound the cord all about my poor legs, for all the world as if I had been a peg-top and it meant to send me spinning—which sure enough, whether he meant it or not, it did. For, directly it got my feet bound fast together with the rope, so that I couldn’t stir an inch, “the wicked mutton,” as Mr. Duffy called it, rushed full butt at me, and immediately up went my legs, and down I came bump on the grass, with a force that I felt for months afterwards. I set to screaming directly as loud as I could for Mother and Duffy, and kicking with all my might,—for, my legs being tied, I, of course, couldn’t get up, and there was the savage brute poking away with its horns, like the prongs of a pitchfork, at the cotton tops of my silk stockings. At last, just as I’d got my poor feet free from the rope by my continued kickings, thank goodness! I heard the garden door slam to, and knew, by Duffy’s puffing and blowing, and Mother’s “pshewing” away like a rocket, that assistance was at hand. But, alas! no sooner did the rampant beast catch sight of that Duffy’s red plush thingomybobs, than, attracted by the colour I suppose, off it scampered towards the porpoise;{268} and no sooner did that coward of a Duffy catch sight of the rampant beast coming full gallop towards him, than he let fall, with fright, the broom he had come armed with to my help, and taking to his fat legs, ran round the garden, blowing like an asthmatic grampus, with the wicked mutton tearing after him like a woolly maniac. Just as he had got within a yard or so of me, and I had managed to raise myself on my hands and knees, oh! lud-a-mercy me! the savage brute rushed full butt at him behind with such force, that the great fat hulking monster cried out, “O—oo!” and was pitched sprawling right on to my poor back, and down I went again, flop, with such force, that if the fellow—though no sylph—hadn’t been as plump and soft as a feather bed, I do verily believe I should have been taken up a human pancake, and had to have been buried in one of the cracks in Dover cliffs, or some such horrible out-of-the-way place.

Poor dear respected mother—who up to this moment had been very prudent, and never left the garden-steps—the very minute she saw that fat Duffy a-top of me, and that “wicked mutton” jumping with all its might a-top of Duffy, rushed down to our rescue, shaking her handkerchief, like a stupid old thing as she is—for she ought, at her time of life, to have known that it would only have made the infuriated brute wilder than ever. And so to her cost it did; for no sooner did the animal see her, than at her it ran, and, just as she got close to our beautiful large variegated holly-bush, it gave such a poke at her busk, that back the dear respected old soul went, right into the middle of the horrid prickly shrub, and there the nasty brute stood, butting away at her, and pushing her further and further into the bush, until, what with the agony of the sharp prickles at her back, and the fear of the furious animal’s horns in front, I declare the poor dear old thing screamed in such a way, that it cut me to the quick to be obliged—when I’d kicked and tumbled that mountain of a Duffy off my back—to fly for my own life, and turn a deaf ear, not only to her heart-rending cries, but also to her pathetic entreaties to bring either the kitchen poker or the spit, and drive the mad beast from her. And well can I understand her screaming now, for when that monkey of a Wittals came in again, and he’d got my dear{269} respected mother out of the holly-bush, upon my word, if the poor old soul’s back wasn’t pierced all over with the fine-pointed prickly things, and as full of little holes as a captain’s biscuit!—and no wonder; for, as luck would have it, she’d got on my thin fine Swiss cambric dress, which, having been quite spoilt, drat it! at the washing, I had kindly made her a present of on her last birth-day.

Any gentle reader, in her proper senses, may readily suppose that after this I wasn’t long in giving that over-grown coward of a Duffy notice to quit. Of course I didn’t see the fun of keeping a man to walk after me as a protection who was frightened out of his wits by a trumpery “wicked mutton,” which a mere whiskerless brat could take by the horns whenever he liked. But no sooner had I told the good-for-nothing that he would be pleased to leave my service that day month, than I declare if he didn’t turn round and tell me to my very face, “that he would do so with all the pleasure in life,” saying, “it was a place to take the very life out of a man” (I think so, indeed, with only two in family, and little or no plate to clean); and that he never knew what work was before in all his life (pretty work, indeed!—a couple of trumpery tea-cups to wash up of a morning, and a page to help him); so he actually had the impudence to think I had better pay him his month, and let him leave the wretched slavery that very minute, or else he knew he should have to take to his bed with illness, for he shouldn’t be able to put out his hand to do a thing shortly from overwork, and then I should have to nurse him. Nurse him, indeed! Should I?—when all the time I knew it was only a mere make-believe to cheat me out of a month’s wages. Augh! I do detest people that pretend they’re ill just to gain their own selfish ends!

Accordingly I gave my delicate elephant to understand that he’d get no month’s wages out of me, unless I first got a month’s work out of him, to which my gentleman merely answered, between his teeth, “He’d see about that;” and he said it in such a nasty, spiteful way, that convinced me he meant something horrible. Sure enough so he did; for when I rang the bell for him to bring up the tray, to lay the things for dinner, I all of a sudden heard the most tre{270}mendous crash, as if ten thousand chimney-pots had fallen through two thousand skylights. I rushed to the top of the kitchen stairs, and cried out, “Good heavens, Duffy! what’s that?” when I declare if he hadn’t the coolness to answer, “It’s only me, mum, a breaking the plates and dishes.” I tore down to the pantry, and told him I’d have him punished; and then, of course, it was, his “foot had slipped, and I couldn’t punish him for a mere accident.” “Accident, indeed!” I said to myself, as I marched up stairs again, “oh, yes! it’s one of those many precious accidents which, even in the best regulated families, are done on purpose.” But, what could I do? I knew the spiteful good-for-nothing lout would swear till he was black in the face that his foot did slip; and how was poor I to prove to the contrary?

I declare the man went on so, that I soon saw I should be several pounds in pocket by paying the fellow what he wanted, and getting him out of the house as soon as possible. Now, there were my beautiful cut glass decanters, (which belonged to Mr. Sk—n—st—n’s poor dear first wife,) well, nothing would suit my gentleman, but he must go washing them in scalding hot water, and then, pretending to be astonished because they went crack, flying in every direction. But, of course, that was the fault of the glass, and none of his—oh, no! Then, again, too, the revengeful monkey must go wiping all the dirty knives with my very best glass cloths, which I had bought new expressly for him, until they were as full of cuts and gashes as poor dear father’s shoes when he’s got the gout. And, positively, do what I would, I could not prevent him from cleaning his shoes in my dress livery, until, what with the blacking and his carelessness, upon my word, his red plush thingomys were all over black spots, like the back of a ladybird, and his beautiful white coat as grubby as the outside of St. Paul’s. As for making the monkey stir of a morning, too, I declare it was no use trying, for though I commenced ringing at six o’clock, to a minute, and kept on pulling away—determined that if the fat, lazy sloth wouldn’t get up to see about my breakfast, at least he shouldn’t have another wink of sleep,—yet I couldn’t for the life of me get him to come up for the keys till near upon eight o’clock at the earliest; though how on earth the pig ever managed to snore through it all was a{271} wonder to me, for it struck me it must be very like trying to take a nap in a belfry on the coronation day. But on going into my gentleman’s room, one fine morning, upon my word, if the fat, lazy, cunning fox hadn’t crammed one of his nasty, dirty stockings into the mouth of the bell, until I declare it wouldn’t speak any more than a married lady in the sulks. So, really and truly, when I came to think of it, was it worth while for a trumpery month’s wages to let the fellow remain in the house till all my glass and crockery were broken to shivers, and my beautiful queen’s-pattern plated coffee-pot, with silver edges, was all battered in, as horribly as the pewter quart measure at a fruit-stall. Accordingly, I made the best of a bad bargain, and packed the scoundrel out of the house, telling him not to expect a character from me. When he had gone, and I examined his livery to see whether by any manner of means I could have it cleaned for my next footman, I give the reader my word and honour, if the fat savage hadn’t been wiping on the skirts of my beautiful white coat the dirty pens with which he’d been answering the advertisements in the Times, and all the left sleeve was streaked over with ink, till it had as many black marks upon it as a mackerel’s back.

As for that Wittals, there was no bearing with him either; for bad as he was before, I declare if that Duffy hadn’t so inoculated him with all the airs of a grown-up footman, that, upon my word, he seemed to think it a positive disgrace to work for his living. So I told him, very quietly, I had been turning it over in my mind, and if he had any wish to better himself, I should be very happy to exert myself to find him an excellent situation, and make it a moral duty to give him a good character, which, I said, he knew as well as I did, he didn’t deserve. And nicely I caught it for my kindness, after all; for, bother take it! he went on so shamefully in his new place, that I declare if his brute of a master didn’t begin an action against us, for giving a servant a false character; and we had to compromise it by paying goodness knows how much!

However, I determined that this should be a lesson to me not to give any more good characters in a hurry, but to speak the truth in future. So, when that Duffy, who was out of place again six months, came to me, as thin as a German{272} umbrella, and as meek as a pew-opener, to hope that I would look over what had past, and say a good word for him, I told him pretty plainly, “Oh, yea! I’d speak for him, and do him perfect justice, he might rest assured.” Accordingly, I just gave a plain, unvarnished statement of all his goings on, and shameful pilferings, when, of course, the party refused to have anything at all to do with him. And then, bother take it, if he didn’t get some pettifogging lawyer to bring an action against us for libel (truth is a libel, Edward says)—so that, positively, this time we had to pay goodness knows how much more again for giving a servant a true character—drat it!

This very naturally convinced me that the only safe way of acting was to refuse to give any character at all to servants. Accordingly, when that stupid, stupid cook—whom I’d little or no fault to find with, excepting that she was so taken up with Wittals and Duffy that I thought it best to give her notice to go when they did, lest she should set the new servants against their place—accordingly, I say, when she wished to know when it would suit me to see the lady with whom she was going to live, I told her that she needn’t think of sending any of her ladies to me, for I had made up my mind not to say one word about her conduct either one way or the other. And then—drat that common law, which Mr. Edward will have is the perfection of common sense—we had another plaguy action brought against us, and had a third time to pay as much as would have bought us two beautiful opera pit tickets for the season, for taking the bread out of a person’s mouth, and refusing to give a servant any character at all.

This little insight into human nature, made me so disgusted with servants, and taught me that they were such a bad, worthless, ungrateful set, that of course I showed very little consideration for their trumpery feelings afterwards, and I kept bundling them out of the house, one after another so quickly, that I had them coming in and going out as fast as the people at the Bank of England on a dividend-day. But after a year or so of this continual changing, Mr. Edward did get so fidgety, and to tell the truth, I myself got so sick of writing answers to those stupid advertisements of “Want Places,” and spending a whole fortune in postage-stamps, for{273} a pack of letters to your “GOOD PLAIN COOKS,” and “STEADY, ACTIVE, YOUNG MEN, who have no objection to travel,” (I dare say they haven’t—and no more should I have, for the matter of that, if any one would pay my expenses for me,) that, upon my word, at last I thought it might save me a world of bother, if—as the creatures were always grumbling at being over-worked in my establishment—I paid some attention to what they said for once in a way, and allowed them to have another pair of hands to help them. And then, odds-bobs and buttercups! directly I had been great silly enough to listen to the complaints of one of them, of course all the others expected I should do as much for them!

First, the nursery-maid, owing to the increase of my family, (for I went on blessing Edward with another little tiddy-ickle-petsy-wetsy of a beautiful baby—with, thank heaven, all its dear little limbs right and straight—regularly every eighteen months)—first, the nursery-maid, I repeat, found it impossible to mind so many young children without an under one to assist her. And when I, like a ninny, had coaxed Edward to allow her to have what she wanted, then, of course, the housemaid (directly we had an extra story put on to our villa, from sheer want of bed-rooms) must find out that the house was too large for her to attend to single-handed, so she must needs want an under one as well. Well, when I had wheedled Mr. Edward into that too—for as he very beautifully and philosophically said, throwing up his hands and tearing his hair, “Oh, anything you like, for peace and quiet”—then the cook must walk into the parlour and tell me, that we were so many in family now, and there were so many dinners to cook—one for the nursery, one for the kitchen, and one for the parlour—that really the plates and dishes were more than one person’s time to wash up, and she was sure her constitution would give way under it unless she had a scullery-maid to help her. So then, I had to carney, and fondle, and flatter that Edward for days, and when that wouldn’t do, to get out of temper and sulk for weeks with him together, in order to let the poor cook have a maid under her, too, in the kitchen. But, then, the worst of it was, that what with the upper nursery maid and the under nurserymaid—the upper housemaid and the under housemaid—the cook and the{274} scullery maid—and the footman and the page into the bargain—positively, I had our poking villa so full of servants, that we were as short of beds as a country town during the assizes: and, as our lease had still fifteen years to run, and since, owing to that bothering, rattling railway at the back of us, we couldn’t get anybody to take it off our hands, and as—plague take those maids—I could not get them to sleep three in a tester anyhow, why, drat it, there we had to go putting another and another story to our residence, till I declare our villa looked like an old Jew with three hats on.

However, if I must tell the truth, I didn’t object to this so much after all; for I felt that the great, big, grand house, we had now got over our heads, and the large retinue of servants we had at our backs, did give us such a position in this empty world, and such a footing in hollow-hearted society, that—notwithstanding Mr. Edward was always telling me, I and my servants were driving him into the Queen’s Bench as fast as he could gallop, or even a National Theatre could take him—still for the sake of my four poor dear children, and those yet to come, I determined not to give way—even so much as a scullery maid—no! not if I had to be afflicted with a violent neuralgia again—or even St. Vitus’s dance in the height of summer, for it.

But I was far from being as happy in the midst of all this grandeur as I had, like a stupid girl as I am, foolishly expected; for no sooner had I got eight servants dangling at my heels, than, lud-a-mussy-me! if I could get as much attention or as much peace and quiet as when I had only one—a mere servant of all work—to wait upon me. If I wanted anything done, positively, it didn’t seem to be anybody’s place to do it. For instance, let me tell the footman to sweep up a few crumbs from under the table, of course it wasn’t his place—but he’d send the housemaid; then let me tell the housemaid to bring up some more coals, of course it wasn’t her place—but she’d send the footman. If I told the upper nurserymaid to make me a little warm water-gruel, for my little angel’s bottle (love its sweet eyes!) oh dear me, no! even this was too much, it wasn’t her place—but she’d tell the under one. If I went down stairs, too, to see about dinner, and just asked the cook to wash a trumpery basin for me—bless you! she couldn’t think of soiling her delicate hands with a{275} dish-clout; no! it wasn’t her place—but she’d tell the scullery-maid. Augh! the lazy, good-for-nothing pack of leeches! And what did they think was their place, then, I should like to know? I can tell them what I think their place was! and that’s—a very snug berth, with little or nothing to do, but to try their hardest to eat me out of house and home—and that’s what it was.

## CHAPTER XVI.
AND THE LAST, (thank goodness! say I.)

WHICH MY COURTEOUS READERS MUST READ, IF THEY WANT TO KNOW WHAT IT’S ABOUT, AS I’VE NO ROOM TO TELL THEM.

Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Why, for ever——
Popular Song, by Byron, which, for the reason above mentioned, I haven’t space to finish.

Well, I’ll give you my word, gentle reader—though I dare say you’ll hardly believe it—such was the state of things I got to at last; everything was going crooked in the house—the under nurserymaid quarrelling with the upper nurserymaid, the upper housemaid complaining of the under housemaid, and that brute of a footman ill-treating that monkey of a page—until it was nothing else but jingle-jangle, wringle-wrangle, from the moment we got up in the morning to the very instant we went to bed at night. But I do think I could have borne it all, if it hadn’t been for one dreadful “contretemps,” which fairly drove me out of my senses.

You see, our footman had, like a stupid, fallen down with the urn, and scalded himself so bad, that I packed him off as an in-door patient to the hospital—as it struck me I couldn’t do less—and the one I had after him I did fancy would have turned out such a jewel; but, alas! alas!—let me restrain my feelings.

When he came after the place, I thought I never saw such{276} a fine, honest, open countenance in all my born days; and the man did appear so clean, and was so respectful and meek, and so willing and good-tempered looking, and was so fond of children, that, I declare, if he didn’t ask me if he might shake hands with my little Kitty (who was now nearly seven, and, as he said, as fine and pretty a girl for her age as he’d ever beheld, and so like its mamma.) The sole stipulation he made, was that he might be allowed to go to church at least twice every Sunday—though this only pleased me the more with him. And when he told me he had lived for the last eighteen years with one of the bishops of the land (bless us and save us! I said to myself, there’s a character for you!) and that the only cause for his leaving was, that his poor master, who had always been a kind one to him, had got embarrassed in railway speculations, and been obliged to break up his palace in the country. His lady, however, was staying in town, and would be happy to see me any morning I pleased to name; so, as I had no idea of letting such a treasure of a servant slip through my fingers, I made the appointment for the very next day. The Bishop’s lady—who had the first floor over a very nice pastry-cook’s in May-fair, for a temporary residence in London—received me with great condescension, and told me with almost tears in her poor eyes, that Thompson’s account was very true, and that if anything in their difficulties grieved her more than another, it was parting with such an estimable treasure as that good, honest, worthy man. I don’t think I ever saw such a perfect lady in all my life. Her dress though, it struck me, was a little too showy for a person in her station; and (between ourselves) when I looked at her steadfastly in the face, I declare if the beautiful high colour she had got on her cheeks wasn’t as artificial as a Grand Banquet on the stage. Still, as I knew that the heads of our mother church had none of your tight-laced, puritanical notions about dress—and if they had, why they confined them chiefly to the lead-coloured quaker-cut liveries of their men-servants—I didn’t see why a poor wife shouldn’t wear what she liked. Her ladyship apologized for the absence of his lordship, informing me that he was down in the country attending to his flock, so that I at once saw the dreadful straits to which they were reduced, and couldn’t help feeling how hard it must be{277} for the poor man at his time of life to have to begin to work for his living. And I’m sure, from her ladyship’s charming manners, which—though, perhaps, a leetle too free for the vulgar world—still proved to me that she had been accustomed all her days to better things. She spoke of Thompson in such affectionate terms, that I couldn’t help thinking she was the best of mistresses, while he was the best of servants; and poor I, the luckiest of women, to have fallen in with such people. Just as I was about to say “good morning” and take my leave, a dashing cabriolet drove up, and her ladyship, on looking through the window, exclaimed, “De-har, de-har me! if it is’nt the archbeeshop, my de-har reverend uncle! why what evar keyan have brought ‘York’ up to town. Perhaps you will be keyind enough to exkeyuse me.” In my politest way I answered, “Certainly,” and sailing like a swan out of the room, I determined to have a good stare at the archbishop as I marched down stairs. When I peeped through the window in the passage that gave into the shop, there he was, dressed in the first style of fashion, eating brandy cherries with his white kid gloves on, and—what at the time I couldn’t for the life of me understand—a pair of the most beautiful little curly mustachios I ever recollect to have seen in all my born days.

Well, the first night after that treasure of a Thompson had entered our service, and we had been in bed from four to five hours, judging by our rushlight, I was dreaming that I was flying so nicely, just skimming along the surface of the earth, for all the world as if I was a great goose, and saying to myself, “Ah! now I see how it’s done; you have only got to hold your breath, and wag your arms—so,” when I was awoke by the sound of a pair of heavy boots tramping up stairs. First, I thought it was that plaguy kitten, playing with Edward’s Wellingtons, outside the door, and dragging them down the stairs after her; but, lud-a-mercy-me, on looking at the door, I declare if I couldn’t see, by the bright line of light shining underneath it, that somebody was in the house. So I bounced out of bed, and turning the key, (for we had only got the night bolt down,) I snatched up my beautiful amethyst brooch off the dressing-table, as well as (between ourselves) my false front tooth out of the tumbler of water there, and popping them both under the{278} pillow, I jumped into bed again, determined to sell them only with my life. I had no sooner succeeded in waking Mr. Sk—n—st—n, who sleeps as heavy as an alderman at church, than positively the handle of the door began to move. Up jumped Edward, and I clung to him like a barnacle, saying, in a low whisper, “What are you about?—would you risk your precious life when you know it’s not insured?” But out he got, and down I dived under the clothes almost to the bottom of the bed, expecting every minute that I should be dragged out by my hair, and forced by a couple of villains, holding a pistol at each of my ears, to give up not only my love of a brooch to pacify them, but even my superb ivory front tooth, which had, at least, five shillings’ worth of gold about it. The first thing I heard when I took my fingers out of my ears, was the sound of a stranger’s voice, saying, “Do you know as your street door is open?” Then, coming up from under the bed-clothes, and putting my head half out between the curtains, while I held them together as close as ever I could, there I saw a great, big, black policeman standing at our bed-room door, with his dark lantern in his hand, and Mr. Edward, in the chintz dressing-gown I made him out of the old covering to our easy chair, staring at him with all his eyes, and with his old militia sword in one hand, and the rushlight out of the shade in the other. On taking a second look at the policeman, whose face I thought I remembered somewhere, oh, heavens! if I didn’t know, by the size of his whiskers, it was the impudent puppy who had winked at me over the parlour blinds. And then, drat his impudence, if he didn’t turn his bull’s eye full upon me in my nightcap, and this made me blink so, that positively I do believe the fellow must have thought that I was winking at him. So I pulled the curtains to, as quick as I could, and giving a slight scream, I told Edward to go down stairs with the man that very moment, and make our treasure of a footman get up and see whether the spoons and forks were all right. He couldn’t have been gone five minutes, when back Mr. Sk—n—st—n came, tearing up stairs, in a towering passion, with the gratifying information that my treasure of a footman, who had stipulated to go to church, at least twice every Sunday, and lived for the last eighteen years with one of the bishops of the land, had gone off with the

“Do you know as your street-door is open?”

{279}

whole of our silver plate, and left nothing but that bilious-looking “British” behind him.

Of course, Mr. Edward made out that it was all my fault, and would have it that if I’d had a grain of sense in my head, I might have seen that the character was false, and the bishop’s lady a common impostor—as, indeed, her reverend ladyship turned out. For when I went after her the next day, to give it her well, I learnt that she, too, had decamped from her lodgings the very same night as her inestimable treasure of a Thompson, without paying the week’s rent, and leaving nothing behind her but an empty rouge pot, and a hair trunk full of brickbats.

I needn’t tell the reader, I suppose, that I never heard the last of this; and positively, I was no sooner out of one scrape than, with so many bothering servants about one, I was into another.

You see everybody worth speaking of had left town for the season, and as I wouldn’t for the world have had it thought that I hadn’t gone for a trip on the Continent, I was forced, owing to Mr. Edward’s stinginess, and continual declarations that he was being ruined, to paper up the drawing-room blinds, and shut up all the shutters in front, to make believe that I was either at Paris, or Margate; while all the while I was living at the back of the house, very nearly in the dark, and like a vegetable had grown so white from mere want of light, that, positively, my face had no more colour in it than a potatoe-shoot in a coal-cellar. So, as my fine gentleman was taking his pleasure at the Warwick Assizes, and wouldn’t give me his consent to leave London, why I started off one fine morning without it, sending a letter for Mr. Edward, telling him that I had gone down to Gravesend, and leaving word with the servants, that I had gone up the Rhine. Then, packing up my carpet-bag and bonnet-box, and luckily catching the “Father of the Thames” at Hungerford-market, I jumped on it, and was soon at the end of my voyage. But Mr. Edward—just like his mean spite—wouldn’t send me the money I had written to him for; consequently, as lodgings were so high, and those filthy, gassy shrimps so dear, and the donkey-boys so extortionate, and I’d had enough of tea-parties at that stupid Windmill Hill, and was tired of those twopenny-halfpenny fêtes at Rosherville Gardens, and the housekeeping money I had brought{280} with me was nearly all gone—why, in a fit of disgust, one evening, I packed up my carpet-bag and bonnet-box again, and putting myself on board the sixpenny opposition steamer, was soon landed at London Bridge—though I had expressly bargained with the cheats to take me on to Hungerford.

When I got home, I was astonished to see all the drawing-room shutters of the house open, and such a blaze of light in the room, that if I hadn’t known that Edward was still at the assizes, I should have declared some one had been lighting up my chandelier and candelabras in my absence. I went over to the other side of the way, and then, if I didn’t see such a number of shadows, moving to and fro, on the blinds, that I plainly perceived the room was full of company; and then I could tell by the motions of one of the black things handing some article or other to some one, who was drinking something, that a grand evening party was going on in my first floor, without my knowing a word about it. So I went to the door, and gave a gentle ring, so as not to alarm the company. Presently it was opened by that scullery-maid dressed out,—oh! you should have seen the thing—mercy! how she was dressed to be sure! Directly she saw me, she made a rush towards the stairs, but knowing by her dress and manner that something was wrong, I stopped her by catching hold of the skirt of her trumpery shilling-a-yard crimson, French poplin dress—with a broad satin stripe upon it, to make it look rich—and, pulling it all out of the gathers so nicely, dragged the tawdry, fal-lal minx into the back parlour, and turned the key upon her. Then I crept on tip-toe up stairs to the drawing-room door, where I stood listening to all that was going on within. “Will yer hallow me to hoffer yer some of this ere am, Miss,” said what I could have sworn was the young man at our grocer’s.—“You are very keyind, certingly, Mr. Roberts,” said that grand affected bit-of-goods of my upper housemaid. “Come, Miss Saunders,” said my footman, “you aint a doing nuffin; make yerself at home, I beg. Will yer allow Mrs. Fisher to send yer just a mouthful of her hexcellent kawphy.” “You’re very perlite, Mr. Heddard,” answered that under nurserymaid, drat her; “since yer so pressing, I’ll just try a wineglas of that there dog’s-nose, and then, if the kimpany his hagreeable I’ll take the libbity of propogin a toast.” And

“Oh! here’s Missus!”

{281}”]

when they had all answered, “Ho, yes, certingly,” the barefaced minx said, “Here’s hold missus! and hopen has how her trip hup the Rhind will keep her a good month longer at Gravesend.” And then, after a general titter, I could hear them all getting up from their chairs, and saying one after another, “Here’s hold missus!” and sure enough here’s hold missus it was, for in I bounced among them just at that moment, and then it was—“Oh dear, who would have thought it,”—and there was such a scene, no one can tell. Off fainted that under housemaid, right into the arms of Mr. Roberts, and down went my glasses and decanters out of Mr. “Heddard’s” hands, who endeavoured to hide himself under the table, and then over it went; for up jumped Mrs. Fisher from her chair, upsetting my best china tea set in her alarm, while some hid themselves behind the door, and others behind the satin damask ottomans. Then away they all slunk, first one and then another, whilst I was giving it to that Mrs. Fisher, who had got her front fresh baked for the grand occasion. And when I’d given her notice to quit, I went down into the kitchen, and did the same to every one of them there, telling them they need none of them expect any character from me.

On Mr. Edward’s arrival, which was just upon a fortnight afterwards, I felt it my duty, of course, to let him know all that had occurred, and what I had done; but my fine gentleman didn’t say a word, and only walked whistling up and down the room; and when I told him that I couldn’t make out what had come to servants now-a-days, for that, do what I would, I could not get a good one, he had the impudence to turn round and say, “No; and you never will, as long as you live, Madam.”

“And why shouldn’t I, Mr. Clever?” I inquired.

“Because, Mam, good mistresses make good servants.”

“Well, indeed!” I answered, “I do admire that. I should rather think it was just the very reverse, and that good servants made good mistresses. I suppose, then, you mean to say that I am not fit to have the management of my own house!”

“I do, Caroline. Ah, you may stare; but management, as you call it, or government, as I term it, is not quite so easy a science as you seem to imagine. Every family is in itself{282} a little kingdom, and it requires almost as much knowledge to rule wisely in the one as in the other.”

“Very pretty!” I said. “Pray go on; perhaps you will tell me how I am to govern, as you call it?”

“Why, madam, there are but two ways. Human nature can only be ruled through its love or through its fears. The one leads our fellow-creatures to serve us as willing friends, the other forces them to serve us as unwilling slaves. It is for you and other mistresses to choose between the two—remembering that it is the natural disposition of kindness to beget kindness, and of tyranny to beget rebellion?”

“Oh, indeed!” I replied. “Then I suppose you would like your system of kindness carried out in the kitchen? and nicely they’d treat you for it!”

“Indeed, I think not. At any rate, the stake is so little that it is worth the risk; and I, for one, have such faith in the power of kindness, combined with firmness, that though I don’t mean to say but that you might occasionally meet with ingratitude, still that would merely be the exception that proves the rule. The heart has been so wonderfully constructed that it has not been left to us to choose whether we would be thankful or not for benefits received; but gratitude has been, made an animal instinct. The very dog likes the hand that fosters it, and I do not think servants worse than dogs—though you and many other ladies I know seem to do so. Do you not expect from your domestics that they should consider your interest theirs, and yet you forget that the first step in the process is to make their happiness yours. How did they manage in the olden time? There was none of this hubbub about bad servants then, and none of this continual changing and changing; but the old servant’s son grew, like his father, to be grey in the service of the same family. And why was this? Because he was looked upon, and treated, and loved like one of the family.

“Very pretty talk,” I answered; “then, I dare say, you would like them to come and sit down at the same table with us?”

“They did so then, in many families, and certainly in all families of the same rank as our own. And what was the consequence? Why they felt, as they ate at the same board, that they participated in the comforts and property of their{283} master, and consequently had the same desire as he had to increase the one and protect the other.”

“Well, then,” I answered, “why not have yours up, and let them dine with you every day, if you prefer their company to mine, for I’m not going to sit at the same table with them, I can tell you!”

“No, Caroline, society has so altered since the time I am speaking of, that he who would endeavour to return to the old custom must be more case-hardened against the world’s ridicule than I am. To be candid, I am too much of a moral coward to be a moral Quixote. Society, as at present constituted, is so based upon pride, vanity, and show, that the principal struggle of life, in what is called the “genteel world,” is how to trick your neighbour into the belief that you are twice as rich as you really are—a species of moral swindling, or obtaining the world’s estimation under false pretences. And what comes of all this? Why, they who have but their three or four hundred a year must make it appear to the world that they have a thousand, and all this by good management, as it is termed—or in plainer words, by pinching the belly to adorn their back.”

“Well, sir,” I stammered out, for I was getting in a passion—“proceed—pray proceed—I’m quite interested with the rubbish.”

“As I was saying, then, Madam, we put ourselves to all kinds of unnecessary expense to gain the good opinion of mere acquaintances and comparative strangers, who don’t care a snap of the fingers for us; and in order to do this, and “make both ends meet,” as we call it, we stint ourselves, and those about us, of a thousand little luxuries which would make home dear and happy, wholly regardless of either the feelings or the esteem of those who live under the same roof with ourselves, and whose affection can add so much to our comfort.”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” I added; “I’m perfectly of your opinion,—let the servants do just as they please,—and a deal of comfort at home we should have then.”

“Your fault, and the fault of many other ladies I could name, is, that you have your servants—like your furniture—for show—though—unlike your furniture—you don’t think you can spoil them, however much you use them. And then you wonder that they don’t treat you with respect, but take{284} every advantage they can of you. You carry out your contract to the mere dry letter with them, and yet are continually grumbling because they don’t carry out theirs to the spirit with you. Only let mistresses be kind—yet firm with their servants, and at the same time speak the whole truth, and nothing but the truth of them, to one another, and depend upon it, the laws of mere human nature are such, that servants—with few exceptions—will be willing, obedient, and devoted to them.”

Then my fine philosopher, having concluded his moral lecture, went on telling me, first, that my love of display had ruined him; and next, that he had made up his mind to turn over a new leaf, and to cut down a few of the showy-extravagances at home, instead of beggaring himself for the sake of my mere acquaintances; and lastly, that the first step he intended to take was to reduce the eight servants he had in his house to two at the most.

“Then all I can say is, sir,” I replied, “that you must get rid of me also; for I’m not going to stop in it, sir, I can tell you, to be pointed at by the whole world as a lady who had once kept her eight servants, and now can only afford to keep her two.”

And the only reply the brute made me was, “That I might do as I pleased.”—“Indeed!” said I to myself, “I see what it is, my grand Turk; I must read you another part of my strong lessons, and if I don’t have you down on your knees for all this, why my name’s not Sk—n—st—n.” So, what did I do, but I rose from my chair in a most stately way, and looking divorces, or at least separate maintenances, at him, I marched out of the room as dignified as a drum-major. Having written a very strong letter to the monster, telling him that his ill-treatment had driven me to dear, dear respected mother’s, and that I hoped and trusted he wouldn’t come after me, as I now really, positively, and truly, had left him “FOR EVER,” I was no sooner out of the door than I began to repent of what I had done, for I remembered mother’s maxim, that husbands never came after their wives twice, and I was even doubtful how she would receive me under the circumstances. Sure enough, too, I didn’t meet with the welcome from her that she gave me on the previous occasion; and drat it! if, after a week had elapsed, and no Mr. Sk—n—st—n had come, she didn’t tell me I had better go back. But I told her, “I wouldn’t go{285} near the place—no, not for the whole world—for fear he should see me;” adding that, as all the servants were going at the end of the month, he’d be sure to come and fetch me when he was left alone in the house, and wanted me to get him some more.” Oh! they are so selfish, these men.

After three weeks had gone by, and still no Mr. Sk—n—st—n, mother told me that the thing looked very serious, and said, “she would go round to Edward with me, and either force him to take me back, or make me a handsome allowance; for, to tell the truth, she couldn’t afford to keep me any longer, unless she was paid for it.”

When we got to our villa, what should I see, the very first thing, but my beautiful stair-carpets hanging out of window, with a large auctioneer’s bill pasted on them, announcing that all our costly furniture, together with the valuable lease of our desirable premises, was to be sold “without reserve” that very day, at that very hour; and when I went into the place, I declare if all the carpets and oil-cloths hadn’t been taken up, and all the things ticketed, and huddled together in confusion, while the drawing-room was as full of Jew brokers as it could hold, “foohing” away enough to knock one down.

In my stupid way, I had been overdoing it again; for, on making inquiries, I found that Mr. Edward, disgusted at being left alone in that great big house, without even a wife or a servant to wait upon him, and, moreover, having received a letter from Mrs. Y—pp, his mother-in-law No. 2, saying that she purposed, at Christmas, coming to spend another month with her “dear boy, at his beautiful villa,” had rushed off and taken up his residence in a common boarding house in G—ldf—rd St—t, R—ss—ll Sq—re, n—r the F—ndl—ng H—sp—t—l, where I am at present staying, and where I intend to stay so long as Mr. Edward does, for if I leave him again, “FOR EVER,” my name’s not

C—r—l—ne Sk—n—st—n,
Late of Duvernay Villa,
P—rk V—ll—ge, R—g—nt’s P—rk.

P.S. I stop the press to announce that Mr. Sk—n—st—n has just got hold of an early copy of this book, and oh! Lord-a-mercy me! I’m a ruined woman!{286}

## LIST OF PLATES.

The Greatest Plague of One’s Life | Frontispiece.
“Are you not Irish?” | page 47
“The Cat did it!” | 60
Followers | 91
“It’s my Cousin, Ma’am!” | 95
Going out for a Holiday | 125
The Morning Gossip | 182
The Sentimental Novel Reader | 214
Out for an Airing | 238
“Oh, ah! let ’em ring again!” | 263
“Do you know as your Street Door is open?” | 278
“Oh! here’s Missus!” | 281

T. C. Savill, Printer, 4, Chandos-street, Covent-garden.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] I give the name of this deceitful creature in full, as it cannot possibly hurt the feelings of any of my friends.

[B] See “The Castle Fiend,” nearly at the bottom of page 3.

[C] See the same powerfully-written penny romance, same page.

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