Punch (9.1845)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

43

MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES.

LECTURE XXV.

MRS. CAUDLE, WEARIED OP MARGATE, HAS "A GREAT DESIRE TO

SEE FRANCE."

less me, arn't you tired,
Caudle? No? Well,was
there ever such a man !
But nothing ever tires
you. Of course, it's all
very well for you : yes,
you can read your news-
papers and—"What ? So
can II And I wonder
what would become of the
children if I did ! No ;
it's enough for their father
to lose his precious time,
talking about politics, and
bishops, and lords, and
a pack of people who
wouldn't care a pin if we
hadn't a roof to cover us
—it's well enough for—
no, Caudle, no : I'm not
going to worry you ; I
never worried you yet,
and it isn't likely I should
begin now. But that's
always the way with you
—always. I'm sure we
should be the happiest
couple alive, only you do
so like to have all the talk
to yourself. "We're out
upon pleasure, and there-
fore let's be comfortable.

catch a cold, but it must be my own fault—it must be my thin shoes.
I dare say you'd like to see me in ploughman's boots ; 't would be no
matter to you how I disfigured myself. Miss Prettyman's foot,
now, would be another thing—no doubt.

"I thought when you would make me leave home—I thought we
were coming here on pleasure ; but it's always the way you embitter
my life. The sooner that I'm out of the world, the better. "What
do you say? Nothing ? But I know what you mean, better than if
you talked an hour. I only hope you '11 get a better wife, that's all,
Mr. Caudle. "What ? You'd not try ? "Wouldn't you ? I know you.
In six months you'd fill up my place ; yes, and dreadfully my dear
children would suffer for it.

" Caudle, if you roar in that way, the people will give us warning
to-morrow. Can't I be quiet then ? Yes—that's like your artfulness :
anything to make me hold my tongue. But we won't quarrel. I'm
sure if it depended upon me, we might be as happy as doves. I
mean it—and you needn't groan when I say it. Good night, Caudle.
"What do you say ? Bless me! "Well, you are a dear soul, Caudle ;
and if it wasn't for that Miss Prettyman—no, I'm not torturing
you. I know very well what I'm doing, and I wouldn't torture you
for the world; but you don't know what the feelings of a wife are,
Caudle ; you don't.

" Caudle—I say, Caudle. Just a word, dear. Well 1 Now, why
should you snap me up in that way. You want to go to sleep? So do
I ; but that's no reason you should speak to me in that manner.
You know, dear, you once promised to take me to France. You
don't recollect it 9 Yes—that's like you : you don't recollect many
things you've promised me; but I do. There's a boat goes on
Wednesday for Boulogne, and comes back the day afterwards.
What of it 9 Why, for that time we could leave the children with
the girls, and go nicely. Nonsense 9 Of course : if I want anything
it's always nonsense. Other men can take their wives half
over the world ; but you think it quite enough to bring me down
here to this hole of a place, where I know every pebble on the
beach like an old acquaintance—where there's nothing to be seen
but the same machines—the tame jetty—the same donkeys—the
same everything. But then, I'd forgot; Margate has an attraction
for you—Miss Prettyman's here. No; I'm not censorious, and
I wouldn't backbite an angel ; but the way in which that young

you like, you're an aggravating man, Caudle, and you know it.

" WJiat have you done now ? There, now ; we won't talk of it. No ;
let's go to sleep : otherwise, we shall quarrel—I know we shall.
What have you done, indeed ? That I can't leave my home for a
few days, but I must be insulted ! Everybody upon the pier saw it.
Saw what 9 How can you lie there in the bed and ask me ? Saw

Still, I must say it; when 1 WOman walks the sands at all hours—there ! there !—I 've done : I

can't open my lips about that creature, but you always storm.

"You know that I always wanted to go to France ; and you bring
me down here only on purpose that I should see the French cliffs—
just to tantalise me, and for nothing else. If I'd remained at home
—and it was against my will I ever came here—I should never have
thought of France ; but,—to have it staring in one's face all day,

what, indeed ! Of course, it was a planned thing—regularly settled and not to be allowed to go ; it's worse than cruel, Ms. Caudle—
before you left London. Oh yes! I like your innocence, Mr. jit's brutal. Other people can take their wives to Paris; but you
Caudle; not knowing what I'm talking about. It's a heart- j always keep me moped up at home. And what for ? Why, that I
breaking thing for a woman to say of her own husband ; but you've . may know nothings—yes ; just on purpose to make me look little, and
been a wicked man to me. Yes ; and all your tossing and tumbling ' f0r nothing else.

about in the bed won't make it any better. " Heaten bless the woman ? Ha! you've good reason to say that,

" Oh, it's easy enough to call a woman 1 a dear soul.' I must be
rery dear, indeed, to you, when you bring down Miss Pbettyman
to—there now ; you needn't shout like a wild savage ! Do you
know that you 're not in your own house—do you know that we 're
in lodgings ? What do you suppose the people will think of us ?
You needn't call out in that manner, for they can hear every word
that's said. What do you say ? Why don't I hold my tongue then ?
To be sure; anything for an excuse with you. Anything to stop
my mouth. Miss Prettyman's to follow you here, and I'm to
say nothing. I know she has followed you ; and if you were to go
before a magistrate, and take a shilling oath to the contrary, I
wouldn't believe you. No, Caudle ; I wouldn't.

" Very well, then 9 Ha ! what a heart you must have, to say ' very
well;' and after the wife I've been to you. I'm to be brought from
my own home—dragged down here to the sea-side—to be laughed at
before the world—don't tell me! Do you think I didn't see how she
looked at you—how she puckered up her farthing mouth—and—
what? Why did I kiss her, then? What's that to do with it?
Appearances are one thing, Mr. Caudle ; and feelings are another.
As if women can't kiss one another without meaning anything by it!
And yovi—I could see you—looked as cold and as formal at her as—
well, Caudle ! I wouldn't be the hypocrite you are for the world !

" There, now ; I've heard all that story. I dare say she did come
down to join her brother. How very lucky, though, that you should
be here ! Ha ! ha ! how very lucky that—ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! and
with the cough I've got upon me—oh, you've a heart like a sea-side
flint! Yes, that's right. That's just like your humanity. I can't

Mb. Caudle ; for I'm sure she's little blessed by you. She's been
kept a prisoner all her life—has never gone anywhere—oh yes !
that's your old excuse,—talking of the children. I want to go to
France, and I should like to know what the children have to do with
it ? They 're not babies now—are they ? But you've always thrown
the children in my face. If Miss Prettyman—there now ; do you
hear what you've done—shouting in that manner ? The other lodgers
are knocking overhead : who do you think will have the face to look
at 'em to-morrow morning ? / shan't—breaking people's rest in that
way !

" Well, Caudle—I declare it's getting daylight, and what an
obstinate man you are !—tell me, shall I go to France ?"

" I forget," says Caudle, "my precise answer ; but I think I gave
her a very wide permission to go somewhere—whereupon, though
not without remonstrance as to the place—she went to sleep."

A. Frenchman's Pate.

During this month there have been more prosecutions against the
press in France, more convictions, and, of course, more imprisonments
and fines. The invention of this new way of celebrating the " F6tea ot
July " belongs exclusively to Louis-Philippe, and as the merit ot the
thing is decidedly his, we hope no other country will show a mean
jealousy by imitating it. Let us leave the French to their own way of
enjoying themselves !