But before we quit for ever (scriptorially) the subject of bitter beer—of Bass, Ind, and Allsopp; of immortal Burton, that squeezes quart bottles into pints, pints into thimblefuls, of which three-fourths are froth; and of tap-tub measurement that, by a talisman, converts an imperial pint of the amber fluid into four half-pint _glasses_, let us ask permission to philosophise for a moment—for a moment only. Woman! You are never more charming, more feminine, more enchanting than when you are domestic. A magic circle of fascination then surrounds you. You are in your real mission, and being real, you are angelic. But, woman, be true to yourself; be domestic to the fullest extent that brightest imagination can picture or truth realise. But, sex most dear, most loveable of all things human that can be loved, hear the advice of one who believes you were sent on earth for the holy purpose of refining man, and of purifying him—never, oh, never be seen using a cork-screw! Sir Francis Head, in a passage which we purposely omit because we want to have our own say, in our own way, on the subject, informs us that by 1849 four of the young ladies had managed to make excellent marriages. Sir Francis has greatly understated the number. It is quite true that the daily occupations of the young ladies, even without drawing the corks of beer bottles, were arduous and unceasing. Nevertheless, as with all busily occupied people, a time can be found for everything. Not four, but four times four of them found sixteen eligible husbands, and at the present time we know two of them, one not fat, but “fair and forty,” the other with slight disadvantage in point of age—forty-four (she confesses to forty[80])—but in every other respect at least as eligible, who have had each to exhibit the sable signs of sorrow, void, and bereavement, within the last eighteen months. Let us just pause for a moment, to shed a “pensive tear” to the memory of the two dear departed, just as in the days of our boyhood our sympathies were requested in memory of the celebrated bonnie lassie of “Kelvin Grove,” by the father of a lady of present times, who is worshipped by millions, and has been possessed of only by four. (May he of the strong shield endure for ever!) Our tear is shed; and now, like the military bands that accompany the remains of a departed comrade to the grave with the _Dead March in Saul_, and return to barracks with joyous and festive music, do we proclaim, by sound of wedding trumpet and cornet-à-piston, the probability that, ere long, each of the charming widows will make a second matrimonial venture. We can, in fact, go one step farther. One of the ladies has already purchased the grey silk dress, absolutely necessary on such occasion; the second has not gone so far as actual purchase, but she knows where to put her hand upon one at a moment’s notice. The dress-maker has already been consulted about the trimmings.[81]