Well, there are two sides to every question, and one reason for there being such wretched places is this:--Young folks get wed after the good old fashion invented some six thousand years ago, when Eve must have blushed and turned away her head and let her hand stay in Adam's; and while the days are young all goes well, but sometimes Betsy--that's the wife, you know--thinks there's no call to be so particular about her hair now as she used to be before Tom married her, and so puts in the thin end of a wedge that blasts the happiness of her future life. What strong language, isn't it? Betsy does not make her hair so smooth as she used to, and so puts in the thin end of a wedge that blasts the happiness of her future life. Strong words, sweeping words, but true as any that were ever written, for that simple act of neglect, that wanting of pride in her appearance and innocent coquetry to please her husband, is deadly, ruinous, to love and esteem, and altogether a something that should be shuddered at by every woman in England. The unbrushed hair leads to other little acts of neglect which creep in slowly, but so surely; shoes get down at heel, dresses torn and unhooked, and then the disorder slowly spreads to the children, then to the furniture, and so on, step by step, till Tom stands leaning against the wall looking upon the wreck before him, and wondering how it is possible that the slovenly, half-dirty woman before him can have grown out of that smart, bright-eyed servant lass he once wed. But there it is--there's the fact before him; that's Betsy sure enough-- at least that's the present Betsy, not the Betsy of old--and, somehow or another, Tom puts his hands in his pockets, sighs very deeply, and then goes out and loiters about the streets. "Just arf a pint, Tom," says a mate he meets, whose wife is suffering from the same disease; and Tom says he will, and they go in where there's a clean sanded floor, no noisy children, a bright fire, and some dressed up and doctored decoction sold to the poor fellows as beer. Next time it's Tom says to the other--"Just arf a pint, Sam;" and Sam says he will. But the mischief is they don't have "arf a pint," but a good many half-pints; and at last every Saturday night there's an ugly score up that gets paid out of the wages before any money goes home; while Betsy says Tom has got to be so fond of the public-house that he never sits at home now, while the money he spends is shameful. "Bet, Bet, Bet--and whose fault is it?" "Not mine, I'm sure," says Betsy in a very shrill voice, as she bridles up. "Wrong, Betsy; for it is your fault, and yours alone."