Mr. Caudle. It's ve-ve-ve—ry bru—tal."

And, says a note in the MS. by Mr. Caudle—"Here, thank heaven! yawning, she fell asleep."

LECTURE IV. MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN CALLED FROM HIS BED TO BAIL MR. PRETTYMAN FROM THE WATCH-HOUSE.

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IE, Mr. Caudle, I knew it would come to this. I said it would, when you joined those precious Skylarks. People being called out of their beds at all hours of the night to bail a set of fellows who are never so happy as when they 're leading sober men to destruction. I should like to know what the neighbours will think of you, with people from the police knocking at the door at two in the morning. Don't tell me that the man has been ill-used: he's not the man to be ill-used. And you must go and bail him. I know the end of that: he 'll run away, and you 'll have to pay the money. I should like to know what's the use of my working and slaving to save a farthing, when you throw away pounds upon your precious Skylarks. A pretty cold you 'll have to-morrow morning, being called out of your warm bed this weather; but don't you think I'll nurse you—not I; not a drop of gruel do you get from me.

"I'm sure you've plenty of ways of spending your money—not throwing it away upon a set of dissolute peace-breakers. It's all very well for you to say you haven't thrown away your money, but you will. He 'll be certain to run off; it isn't likely he 'll go upon his trial, and you 'll be fixed with the bail. Don't tell me there's no trial in the matter, because I know there is; it's for something more than quarrelling with the policeman that he was locked up. People ain't locked up for that. No, it's for robbery, or something worse, perhaps.

"And as you've bailed him, people will think you are as bad as he is. Don't tell me you couldn't help bailing him; you should have shown yourself a respectable man, and have let him been sent to prison.

"Now people know you 're the friend of drunken and other disorderly persons, you 'll never have a night's sleep in your bed. Not that it would matter what fell upon you, if it wasn't your poor wife who suffered. Of course all the business will be in the newspapers, and your name with it. I shouldn't wonder, too, if they give your picture as they do the other folks of the Old Bailey. A pretty thing that, to go down to your children. I'm sure it will be enough to make them change their name. No, I shall not go to sleep; it's all very well for you to say, go to sleep, after such a disturbance. I shall not go———"

But here, says Mr. Caudle's manuscript, happily she slumbered; for Mr. Caudle had, considering the theme she had to talk upon, a remarkably short lecture.

LECTURE V. MR. CAUDLE HAS REMAINED DOWN STAIRS TILL PAST ONE, WITH A FRIEND.

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pretty time of night to come to bed, Mr. Caudle. Ugh! As cold, too, as any ice. Enough to give any woman her death, I'm sure. What! I shouldn't have locked up the coals, indeed? If I hadn't, I've no doubt the fellow would have staid all night. It's all very well for you, Mr. Caudle, to bring people home,—but I wish you'd think first what's for supper. That beautiful leg of pork would have served for our dinner to-morrow,—and now it's gone. I can't keep the house upon the money, and I won't pretend to do it, if you bring a mob of people every night to clear the cupboard.

"I wonder who'll be so ready to give you a supper when you want one; for want one you will, unless you change your plans. Don't tell me! I know I'm right. You'll first be eaten up, and then you 'll be laughed at. I know the world. No, indeed, Mr. Caudle, I don't think ill of everybody; don't say that. But I can't see a leg of pork eaten up in that way, without asking myself what it's all to end in if such things go on? And then he must have pickles, too! Couldn't be content with my cabbage—no, Mr. Caudle, I won't let you go to sleep. It's very well for you to say let you go to sleep, after you've kept me awake till this time. Why did I keep awake? How do you suppose I could go to sleep, when I knew that man was below drinking up your substance in brandy-and-water? for he couldn't be content upon decent, wholesome gin. Upon my word, you ought to be a rich man, Mr. Caudle. You have such very fine friends. I wonder who gives you brandy when you go out!

"No, indeed, he couldn't be content with my pickled cabbage—and I should like to know who makes better—but he must have walnuts. And you, too, like a fool—now, don't you think to stop me, Mr. Caudle; a poor woman may be trampled to death, and never say a word—you, too, like a fool—I wonder who'd do it for you—to insist upon the girl going out for pickled walnuts. And in such a night too! With snow upon the ground. Yes; you're a man of fine feelings, you are, Mr. Caudle! but the world doesn't know you as I know you—fine feelings, indeed! to send the poor girl out, when I told you and told your friend too—a pretty brute he is, I'm sure—that the poor girl had got a cold and chilblains on her toes But I know what will be the end of that; she 'll be laid up, and we shall have a nice doctor's bill And you 'll pay it, I can tell you—for I wont.

"Wish you were out of the world? Oh! yes, that's all very easy, I'm sure I might wish it.

"Don't swear in that dreadful way! Ain't you afraid that the bed will open and swallow you? And don't swing about in that way. That will do no good. That won't bring back the leg of pork,—and the brandy you've poured down both of your throats. Oh, I know it! I'm sure of it. I only recollected it when I'd got into bed,—and if it hadn't been so cold, you'd have seen me down stairs again, I can tell you—I recollected it, and a pretty two hours I've passed, that I left the key in the cupboard,—and I knew it—I could see by the manner of you, when you came into the room—I know you've got the other bottle. However, there's one comfort: you told me to send for the best brandy—the very best—for your other friend, who called last Wednesday. Ha! ha! It was British—the cheapest British—and nice and ill I hope the pair of you will be tomorrow.

"There's only the bare bone of the leg of pork: but you'll get nothing else for dinner, I can tell you. It's a dreadful thing that the poor children should go without,—but, if they have such a father, they, poor things, must suffer for it.

"Nearly a whole leg of pork and a pint of brandy! A pint of brandy and a leg of pork. A leg of—leg—leg-pint—"

And mumbling the syllables, says Mr. Caudle's MS., she went to sleep

LECTURE VI. MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY UMBRELLA. MRS. CAUDLE LECTURES THEREON.

BAH! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do! Why let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides he'd have better taken cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I