Punch (9.1845)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

23

IV!RS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.

MR. AND MRS. CAUDLE AT THE SEA-SIDE.

LECTURE XXIII.

MRS. CAUDLE "WISHES TO KNOW IF THEY'RE GOING TO THE SEA-
SIDE, OR NOT, THIS SUMMER—THAT'S ALL."

" Hot ? Yes it is hot. I 'in sure one might as well he in an oven
as in town this weather. You seem to forget it's July, Mr.
Caudle. I've been waiting quietly—have never spoken ; yet not a
■word have you said of the sea-side yet. Not that I care for it
myself—oh, no ; my health isn't of the slightest consequence. And,
indeed, I was going to say—but I won't—that the sooner, perhaps,
I'm out of this world, the better. Oh, yes : I dare say you think so

i —of course you do, else you wouldn't lie there saying nothing.

I You 're enough to aggravate a saint, Caudle ; but you shan't vex
me. No ; I've made up my mind, and never intend to let you vex
me again. Why should I worry myself ?

" But all I want to ask you is this : do you intend to go to the sea-
side this summer ? Yes ? you 'U go to Gravesend ? Then you '11 go
alone, that's all I know. Gravesend! You might as well empty a
ealt-cellar in the New River, and call that the sea-side. What ? It '$
handy for business ? There you are again! I can never speak of
taking a little enjoyment, but you fling business in my teeth. I'm:
fiure you never let business stand in the way of your own pleasure,
Mr. Caudle—not you. It would be all the better for your family
if you did.

"You know that Matilda wants sea-bathing; you know it, or
1 ought to know it, by the looks of the child ; and yet—I know you,
Caudle—you'd have let the summer pass over, and never said a
word about the matter. What do you say ? Margate's so expensive?
Not at all. I'm sure it will be cheaper for us in the end ; for if we
don't go, we shall all be ill—every one of us—in the winter. Not;
that my health is of any consequence : I know that well enough. It
never was yet. You know Margate's the only place I can eat a j
breakfast at, and yet you talk of Gravesend ! But what's my eating
to you ? You wouldn't care if I never eat at all. You never watch I
my appetite like any other husband, otherwise you'd have seen what
it's come to.

" What do you say ? How much will it cost? There you are, Mr.
Caudle, with your meanness again. When you want to go yourself
to Blackwall or to Greenwich, you never ask, how much will it cost ?
What? You nexer go to Blackwall ? Ha! I don't know that ; and if
you don't, that's nothing at all to do with it. Yes, you can give a
guinea a plate for whitebait for yourself. No, sir ; I'm not a foolish
woman ; and I know very well what I'm talking about—nobody
better. A guinea for whitebait for yourself, when you grudge a pint
; of shrimps for your poor family. Eh ? You don't grudge 'em anything ?
Yes, it's very well for you to lie there and say so. What will it cost ? i
It's no matter what it will cost, for we won't go at all now. No ; j
we'll stay at home. We shall all be ill in the winter—every one of i
j us, all but you ; and nothing ever makes you ill, I've no doubt we

shall all be laid up, and there '11 be a doctor's bill as long as a rail-
road ; but never mind that. It's better—much better—to pay for
nasty physic than for fresh air and wholesome salt water. Don't call
me ' woman,' and ask { what it will cost.' I tell you, if you were to
lay the money down before me on that quilt, I wouldn't go now—
certainly not. It's better we should all be sick ; yes, then you '11 be
pleased.

"That's right, Mr. Caudle ; go to sleep. It's like your unfeel-
; ing self! I'm talking of our all being laid up ; and you, like any
j stone, turn round and begin to go to sleep. Well, I think that's a
! pretty insult ! IIoxc can you sleep with such a splinter in your flesh ? I
suppose you mean to call me the splinter ?—and after the wife I've
been to you ! But no, Mr. Caudle, you may call me what you
please ; you'll not make me cry now. No, no ; I don't throw away
i my tears upon any such person now. What ? Don't? Ha! that's >
your ingratitude ! But none of you men deserve that any woman 1
should love you. My poor heart !

"Everybody else can go out of town except us. Ha ! if I'd only
married Simmons—What ? Why didn't I? Yes, that's all the
thanks I get. Who's Simmons? Oh, you know very well who
Simmons is. He'd have treated me a little better, I think. He was
a gentleman. You can't tell ? May be not : but I can. With such
weather as this, to stay melting in London ! and when the painters
are coming in ! You won't hate the painters in? But you must; and if
they one e come in, I'm determined that none of us shall stir then.
Painting in July, with a family in the house I We shall all be
poisoned of course ; but what do you care for that ?
i " Why can't I tell you what it will cost ? How can I or any woman
tell exactly what it will cost ? Of course lodgings—and at Margate,
too—are a little dearer than living in your own house. Pooh ! You
know that ? Well, if you did, Mr. Caudle, I suppose there's no
treason in naming it. Still, if you take 'em for two months, they're
cheaper than for one. No, Mr. Caudle, I shall not be quite tired of
it in one month. No : and it isn't true that I no sooner get out than
I want to get home again. To be sure, I was tired of Margate three
years ago, when you used to leave me to walk about the beach by
myself, to be stared at through all sorts of telescopes. But you don't
do that again, Mr. Caudle, I can tell you.

" What will I do at Margate ? Why isn't there bathing, and picking
up shells ; and arn't there the packets, with the donkeys; and the
last new novel—whatever it is, to read—for the only place where I
really relish a book is at the sea-side. No, it isn't that I like salt
with my reading, Mr. Caudle ! I suppose you call that a joke ?
You might keep your jokes for the day-time, I think. But as I was
saying—only you always will interrupt me—the ocean always seems
to me to open the mind. I see nothing to laugh at; but you always
laugh when I say anything. Sometimes at the sea-side—specially
when the tide's down—I feel so happy ; quite as if I could cry.

" When shall I get the things ready ? For next Sunday ? JYhat
will it cost 9 Oh, there—don't talk of it. No : we won't go. I shall
send for the painters, to-morrow. What ? / can go and take the
children, and you HI stay ? No, sir : you go with me, or I don't stir.
I'm not going to be turned loose like a hen with her chickens, and
nobody to protect me. So we '11 go on Monday ? Eh?

" What will it cost? What a man you are! Why, Caudle, I've
been reckoning that, with buff slippers and all, we can't well do it
under seventy pounds. No ; I won't take away the slippers, and say
fifty : it's seventy pounds, and no less. Of course, what's over will
be so much saved. Caudle, what a man you are ! Well, shall we
go on Monday? What do you say—You'll see? There's a dear.
Then, Monday."

" Anything for a chance of peace," writes Caudle. " I consented
to the trip, for I thought I might sleep better in a change of bed."

LAW AND THEATRICALS.

A few days ago a case was brought before the Court of Exchequer, the
merits of which turned on the question whether the part of Ferdinand in
the Tempest is or is not light comedy. Ariel's description of Ferdi-
nand was placed on the record to prove that he is light comedy, and the
other side had been served with notice to produce Frospero's hist speech,
which was admitted under a judge's order. There was also in Court an
office-copy of Miranda's reply to Ferdinand's declaration, with a counter-
part of the assignment executed by The Duke, and an affidavit of service
on the part of Ariel. Unfortunately the Chief Baron put an end to the
case by suggesting that it should be referred, and the fun of the thing will
consequently be confined to the chambers of the learned gentleman who
is appointed arbitrator.