Twickenham eyots—shadow dances contemplated from easy stalls with abundant leg-room—snug little suppers in perspective—jaunts in Helvetia, where I propose to myself to show you (I mean thee) snowy mountains for the first time—I mark two little clouds rising in the far west, each no bigger than a man’s hand, but, gracious powers! they assume the form of two capital letters—
CC
Oh! Flora, Flora! will you ever tell Sir Cresswell about my unguarded observations when that last pair of boots “wouldn’t go” into the carpet-bag, despite of my best and continuous exertions? And that other time at Crewe, when the railway porter put our “things”—be just, it was not I who gave the order!—into the train for Liverpool, and when we arrived at Windermere, I admit, I said something beginning with a big D? Surely you would never have the heart, Flo, under any circumstances, to mention that to Sir Cresswell? Besides, you little witch! (the term “witch” is not abusive: “witch” means “fairy,” and “fairy” means—can’t you guess?) you know you condoned—yes; condoned—the offence, if offence there were, the same evening under the mountain ash in front of the Lowood Hotel, when the sun was going down over Coniston Old Man, and the bright golden lake lay at thy tiny feet like Beauty’s mirror—and all that sort of thing. If ever you tell about the big D, Flo, it will become my friend Dr. Pink’s painful duty to cross-examine you upon the results which grew out of the incident, and we’ll see with whom Sir Cresswell will side when he knows the truth—and he always knows the truth about young ladies—that’s the awful part of the business. Did you ever hear what happened the other day when he caught Mrs. Mulock—you know Henrietta Prim that was—out in a fib about the crochet? She has not been heard of since: but there was a painful rumour about the clubs, last week, that the body of a young female had been washed ashore at Erith, in a sack, with the device upon it—
C⩚C
There may be nothing in the report, but it is as well to be careful.
Well, then, as I said above, the magnates of this world and their huge proceedings, with one terrible exception, are nothing to me. I can’t even say that I seriously care about the eloquent Chancellor of the Exchequer and his last addition to the Income Tax. As far as I am concerned personally, one afternoon’s work will set that to rights; and I can take the value out in after-dinner prose at any time, Louis Napoleon is not likely to get to Brompton in my day; and if the British Parliament will only take a little more care about the purity of the Serpentine, as a citizen I am satisfied. The exception is Sir Cresswell Cresswell. I confess I stand in awe of that man—if, indeed, he is a man—upon which point I entertain some doubts. Is it not written, “Those who have been joined in a very solemn way, let no man put asunder!” But Sir Cresswell Cresswell does put them asunder, as easily as he would two pats of butter. Therefore the inference is clear.
Talk of the House of Commons as a powerful body, what do they represent but a parcel of miserable county voters and 10l. freeholders? but Sir Cresswell Cresswell represents 5,000,000 of English wives. Five millions of Mrs. Caudles, all in one, are sitting there in that dreadful Divorce Court. Lieutenant-General Sir Cresswell Cresswell commands an army, I say, of five millions of able-bodied matrons. He is in military possession of the country: he has billeted his followers in two out of every three houses in the land. He knows—or can know any time he chooses—what we say, what we do, nay, what we think about. No human being, that is if he be indeed a man, has ever wielded such authority since the First Valentine first changed hands. Nay, by Cupid’s shafts, a mature bachelor, with a taste for Gothic architecture, is not safe in his very seclusion in the Albany, although St. Senanus might be a man about town in comparison with him. The bachelors can’t laugh at us married men. There are such beings as Co-Respondents. Shade of O. Smith! indulge us with one genial Ha! ha!
The Co-Respondents, however, must take care of themselves. An English husband has enough to do in these hard times so to order his own ways that he may avoid an official interview with awful Sir Cresswell.
I am an English husband. I write for husbands—and in the husband interest. Brother husbands! we are betrayed!
As far as I can yet see my way, our only chance of safety lies in combination, but we must combine secretly indeed; for the avengers are ever beside us, and the Fouquier-Tinville of matrimony is ready there at Westminster to slice off our heads for an unguarded word. Perhaps something may be done through the Masonic Lodges, if we can trust each other; but we must be speedy, for it will soon be held that to be a Mason is to be a brute, and to be a brute is cruelty, and cruelty entitles a wife to summary remedies indeed.
This awful truth has been recently forced upon my apprehension. In an idle moment, but a few weeks back, I resolved to make my way into the Divorce Court, to see how that dreadful class of business in which the Court deals is conducted. I had expected little more than a certain amount of amusement at the exhibition, with perhaps a little melodramatic thrill of horror if “The Dead Heart” in real life might happen to be on for trial. Little did I anticipate the result.
It is not so easy to get into these connubial shambles as you might suppose. Enter Westminster Hall by the great door, and the first indication that you are near the Grand Stand will be the presence of a group of firm-featured women at the right and upper hand of the hall by the steps leading into the old Chancellor’s Court. There they are—they know their power—they look at you just as a group of tall brawny Horse Guards might look at a feeble civilian. Yes! there they stand, upon their own ground, and any one of them could give you a back-fall at a moment’s notice; and, what is more—I repeat it—they all know it. They are not showily dressed, but like the Ironsides of the old Puritan days—fit for