when I hear tell of a little old man who, blessed be God! first thought of Infant Schools—Oh! it’s them are the blessings. The things I love best, are the things that teach people how to keep from sin—of the two I like them better than what takes them out of it. And when I remember WHO sent Temperance abroad to the four quarters of the globe—so that even gentlemen are ashamed of being tipsy—and how as a regenerator that Temperance is only next to Godliness—there’s a glory for Ireland! And I think of a fine ancient white-headed saint in Manchester, Wright by name and nature, who remembers, as my dear mistress says, to tread in his Master’s footsteps, who was sent, ‘not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’ And I think of the charities, grander than the Pyramids of Egypt my cousin writes home about; charities purifying the great sins of great London; charities, Aunt darling, increasing every year, and as each new one starts up, from the brain maybe of some poor working man, the people cry out, as with one voice, ‘This can’t be done without.’ I am glad of such thoughts, and such knowledge, for I’ll tell you the truth, I mortally abominate them great bloated gold-finders. When I think of the gold-loving English, I could send all the Fathers of the Church against them, with bell, book, and candle. When I think of the other things, Aunt dear, why I can only pray that they may be remembered to them as a people, at the last day;—and I’m willing to do penance for the prayer, if so be it’s a sin!
“But it’s high up above Bloomerism, and all other follies I’ve got, sure enough; only as the lark said, I must come down some time. At last the house became a fair Babel, worse than what I’ve heard of Donnybroke itself, when the boys used to cry out, ‘Oh! the glory’s left ould Ireland—twelve o’clock, and no fight;’ and when the poor fellows would be going about the Fair green, shouting, ‘Who’ll fight me for the sake of St. Patrick.’ The man of the house was sorely to be pitied, he was a mighty quiet man; and impossible as it may seem, very fond of his vixen of a wife (talk as you will, there’s mighty little reason in love,) and his baby; and moreover, he was very little at home at all, which ought to have made her all the pleasanter when he was in it, for it’s very easy to find words going sharp, when a man’s ever and always molly coddling about a house, and bothering about every in and out, no ways becoming to him. Of late, she was always grumbling when he went out, though it was about his business—and yet never peaceable when he came in; I wondered how he took it so easy, but there is no use ever interfering betwixt married people; no matter how bitter they are to-night, they may be all like sugar and honey to-morrow morning, and whatever you say to one, is sure to go to the other—they’re not safe to make or meddle with; if you want to make peace, you must never let one know what the other says when they’re in their ‘tiffs;’ and to keep quit of that you must tell more woppers than is at all pleasant to carry, particularly when the priest is cross, and puts heavy weights on the penances.
“I kept as clear of both husband and wife as I could, though they would come now and again, and tell me their troubles; the landlady blaming the tyranny of mankind, and the badness of the laws—and the husband bewailing that she had got among the bloomers; I hinted that may be if the dress which she only wore at their meetings was burned, it might put her off her fancy; but he said, ‘he couldn’t do that—she looked so pretty in it;’ was not that foolish? but Aunt, dear, men is that—and think more of a pretty face with a sharp tongue—than of a plain one, that has nothing to say but goodness. Well, he gave in to her—it seemed so in every thing for ever so long, but I sometimes thought that smooth water runs deep. One evening he told her he was going to have a few of his friends come there, and he hoped she would do her best to make them comfortable; she rose at this, and said she wasn’t going to be no man’s slave, and that if he had company, he must attend to them himself; and that she would dress as she pleased, and have one of her own friends with her, and sit at the head of her tea-table—like the queen; well, he said he hoped she would wear the dress, and have her friend by all means, and he would give her as little trouble as possible; instead of this putting her into good humor, it made her quite fractious, for she liked to be contradicted, that she might have something to complain of: they went on jangling all day—I heard her say:—
“‘The world never will be right until we change places.’
“‘My love,’ he answered, ‘I thought you wanted us all to be in the same place.’
“‘Not I indeed,’ she said, ‘you are much more suited to be a slave than I am; content that every thing should be as it is, so that you may not have the trouble of moving it—augh!’
“‘Very true, my dear.’
“‘I only wish they would make ME an Inspector of Police—I would soon get things in order—I only wish I was a man!’
“‘I wish you were, my dear!’
“‘You know you don’t wish any such thing—Oh yes! you would like finely to be trampled upon, as all poor women are—but I don’t wait on your friends, you may depend on that: you may snub me as you always do, and set the baby crying, that my maternal feelings may be worked on to attend to it; you may spill the tea-kittle into the fire, that I may be forced—yes, Mr. Peter Creed—forced to light it again, you having first sent the other white slave out for cigars and muffins—but from this hour I’ll pluck up a spirit!’