But though we were unanimous on this occasion, I soon found that the utmost difference of opinion prevailed on other points, as to real comfort. One of the gentlemen, who sat at my right hand, whispered to me in confidence that there was no comfort in a single life, that his house was cheerless, his servants great plagues from want of a mistress to keep them in order, and his furniture going to destruction. My companion on the other side, whose wife I understood to be a virago, gave a groan, shook his head two or three times, and whispered to me, “If the gentleman wishes to enjoy comfort, he will leave matrimony alone.” Having occasion to hire a good brickmaker to bring over with me to teach my workmen how bricks ought to be made, I went into several cottages inhabited by labourers in Shropshire. In the first into which I went, and this was very well furnished, were a man and his wife at breakfast. They had tea and sugar, a large white quartern loaf, and some crock butter. Very good, said I to myself; these people are exceedingly comfortable. The man was a common field labourer, and earned twelve shillings a-week the year round. They had a piece of meat every day at dinner with their greens or potatoes, and bread into the bargain, and bread and butter in the evening. There stood a little boiler in a back kitchen, which I understood was for brewing small beer occasionally; and nothing seemed wanting in the way of comforts to this couple. I was not offered a chair, nor did either of them ask me to sit down, but they answered such questions as I put to them. “I’m glad to see you so comfortable,” said I. “May I ask if you have any others in family?” “No, we’re only ourselves. We ha’n’t no children, boys nor girls,” said the woman in rather a dissatisfied tone. “Well, then,” I rejoined, “you have the less cause for anxiety. Children are uncertain blessings, though certain cares: and depend upon it, you are much better off than many parents who have them.” “That is very true,” replied the woman; “but still a child or two would be a great comfort to us in our old age.” Their next-door neighbours had four noisy children and the same weekly wages. Here I was told by the parents, who were also at a tea breakfast, that their childless neighbours were far better off than they, as they had comforts beyond their own reach. “We can’t drink no beer,” said the man--(this was a lie, by the way, for he spent a shilling every week in the jerry-shop, to the real discomfort of his family), “nor eat no good wittals, nor have nothing comfortable.” In short, in every house into which I went there was something wanting to constitute comfort.