Edward, on his return home, I regret to say, forgot himself as a gentleman and my husband. At one time I thought he had gone clean out of his wits, for he had the impudence to say, that I seemed to take a delight in throwing twenty pounds in the dirt, and that it was all my fault, and none of it Dick Farden’s, and that he would take good care that if ever I wanted any more music, I might whistle for it; and that as for any more pianos, that the next one I had, should come out of my own pocket. As I saw that he wouldn’t be happy until we had had a good quarrel, I thought it best to go off into hysterics, and laughed and sobbed in such a dreadful way that I soon brought him to his senses, and made him begin kissing me, and calling me his dear, foolish, thoughtless Caroline, and telling me to calm myself for heaven’s sake, or I should be laying myself up. But then it came to my turn, for I wasn’t going to let him abuse me like a pickpocket one minute, and make friends with him the next, and I do think that I never should have opened my lips civilly to him again, if he hadn’t brought me home a beautiful Gros de Naples dress, and so showed that he felt he was in the wrong, and was sorry for what he had done. It was a hard struggle for a person like me, to bring myself ever to look upon that Dick Farden with any pleasure again; for I declare the next morning when he came into the house, I thought I never saw such a nasty, low, vulgar, mean, sly, disreputable looking face in all my life, with his ringlets dangling at his temples, and which he seemed to be as proud of as a life-guardsman is of his moustachios; positively the man was always twiddling either them or his whiskers, and what on earth a fellow like him could ever have wanted with a couple of corkscrews at the side of his forehead is more than I can say; and, la! if they were not as greasy as though they had been twisted round tallow candles! It wasn’t only the fellow’s looks, too, that I had to complain of; but, drat the man! do what I would, I could never prevent him from going about the kitchen, or standing in the knife-house, whistling his “Jim Crows” and “Such a getting up stairs,” and a pack of other low, unmeaning “nigger” songs, that I’m sure I never could see either the fun or the beauty of. Again, if ever I gave him any of Edward’s clothes to brush, there he would be, hissing and fizzing away over them like a bottle of ginger beer in warm weather; and indeed it always was and ever will be a riddle to me what those boots and ostlers can want making all that fuss and noise over their work, as if they were slaving as hard as steam-engines, and obliged to let the steam off, for fear of bursting. I declare whenever I hear them doing it, I feel as if I could go up behind them and give them a good shaking, that I do. It’s nothing more than “great cry and little wool,” and that’s the plain truth of it.