_Who on earth can ever have written this gibberish I don’t know, and what the goodness gracious it can ever mean, is more than I can say. But this I do know and can say--to my humble ears it sounds as much like abuse as anything I ever heard in all my life; and that’s just what I want to apply to that good-for-nothing John Duffy. Augh, “Lawn! Lawn! Lawn!”_ Of course, when I had once risen to the dignity of having a male domestic in my establishment, I wasn’t going to make such a great silly of myself, as to come down again to the wretchedness of having nothing but a pack of females about one. Accordingly, I gave “my lord and master” (as Mr. Edward flatters himself he is) to understand as much in double-quick time. A fine thing, indeed, I said, it would be, to have all one’s good-natured friends, and all one’s precious charitable neighbours, (who every one knows are always sure to love one as themselves--oh yes!) pointing at one, and sneering away behind one’s back whenever one went out, with their “Oh, dear me! only to think that the _poor_ Sk--n--st--ns couldn’t afford to keep on that grand page they started, for more than _one_ quarter of a year;” and with their nasty, double-faced “pity from the bottom of their hearts, because they were _afraid_ we had been all along living beyond our means.” But Mr. Edward was too great a philosopher by half to care a snap of the fingers for the opinion of the empty world or the feelings of his poor dear wife, of course--especially when it would cost him a trumpery five-and-twenty pounds, and a rubbishing suit or two of livery, per annum. Consequently, when I told him one evening, after I had treated him to a nice sweet little dinner of a leg of mutton, stuffed with sage and onions--pork-fashion--and a love of a bread-pudding to follow--(I always make it a rule to use up all the bits of bread in the house, at least once a week--unless indeed we have any illness in the family, and they are wanted for poultices--for, as I believe I said before somewhere, I can’t bear to see waste,)--Well, when I told Mr. Edward, I repeat, after we had both I’m sure eaten more than was good for us--(only I do think sage and onions _so_ delicious when one is not going to see company, and one can only get one’s husband just to take a mouthful or so of it; and then, ’pon my word, I verily believe, I could devour my own dear mother, if she was only stuffed with plenty of it, and nicely browned)--Well, when I told Mr. Edward--I repeat for the second time--just after we had finished every bit of that love of a bread-pudding (though the worst of it was, I, unfortunately, would go putting too much bread in it, like a great big generous stupid as I am, and, bother take it! the spongy stuff does swell so in the cooking, and then is sure to set to work and soak up all your custard in such a way, that ’pon my word and honour, when the love came to table, if it wasn’t