Mr. Caudle Lends Five Pounds.
BY DOUGLAS JERROLD.
A Glimpse of English Domestic Life in Which the American Reader May
Find Here and There Something That Sounds Quite Familiar.
Editor, humorist, playwright, humanitarian, Douglas William Jerrold—to give him his seldom heard full name—was a winning figure in his period. He was born in London in 1803, the son of an actor and theater lessee. He had little schooling, but he was fond of books, and educated himself precociously by reading a wide range of literature in English, French, Italian, and Latin. Occasionally his father cast him for children's parts on the stage. For a time he served as a midshipman in the British navy, and later became a printer's apprentice. He was only fifteen when he wrote a comedy, "More Frightened Than Hurt," which was well received. His best-remembered play, "Black-Eyed Susan," was produced in 1829. All in all, he wrote more than forty plays, many of which enjoyed an ephemeral success.
Meantime he was constantly engaging in literary ventures. When Punch was founded, in 1841, he at once became a contributor, and he continued the connection until his death. "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures," "Punch's Letters to His Son," and "Cakes and Ale" are well-known compilations of his papers in Punch.
Jerrold was a lovable man, of an easy-going, generous nature. Sociable, impulsive, simple, fiery—his faults were those of carelessness or haste.
When Mrs. Caudle was brought into public notice in the forties, the type was quickly recognized, and England and America chuckled aloud. Mrs. Caudle still lives—and will live as long as her sex; therefore, England and America still chuckle.
You ought to be very rich, Mr. Caudle. I wonder who'd lend you five pounds! But so it is: a wife may work and slave. Oh, dear! the many things that might have been done with five pounds! As if people picked up money in the streets! But you always were a fool, Mr. Caudle! I've wanted a black satin gown these three years, and that five pounds would have pretty well bought it. But it's no matter how I go—not at all. Everybody says I don't dress as becomes your wife—and I don't; but what's that to you, Mr. Caudle? Nothing. Oh, no! You can have fine feelings for everybody but those that belong to you. I wish people knew you as I do—that's all. You like to be called liberal and your poor family pays for it.
And the girls want bonnets, and when they're to get 'em I can't tell. Half five pounds would have bought 'em, but now they must go without. Of course they belong to you; and anybody but your own flesh and blood, Mr. Caudle.