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.

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? 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 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 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 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. 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 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, “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 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.”

“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 civilization 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, 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.

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 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 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.

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 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. 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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;” 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.

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, 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 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. 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 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-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 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 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 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 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 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!

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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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!”

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 afterwards, 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.

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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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 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, determined 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, 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.

“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 unawares, 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 desarting 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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.

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.

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 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!—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 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 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 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

“Followers!!!”