respectable reader, and among your honourable acquaintances, and say
if this sort of faith in women is not very frequent? They WILL
believe in their husbands, whatever the latter do. Let John be
dull, ugly, vulgar, and a humbug, his Mary Ann never finds it out;
let him tell his stories ever so many times, there is she always
ready with her kind smile; let him be stingy, she says he is
prudent; let him quarrel with his best friend, she says he is always
in the right; let him be prodigal, she says he is generous, and that
his health requires enjoyment; let him be idle, he must have
relaxation; and she will pinch herself and her household that he may
have a guinea for his club. Yes; and every morning, as she wakes
and looks at the face, snoring on the pillow by her side--every
morning, I say, she blesses that dull ugly countenance, and the dull
ugly soul reposing there, and thinks both are something divine. I
want to know how it is that women do not find out their husbands to
be humbugs? Nature has so provided it, and thanks to her. When
last year they were acting the "Midsummer Night's Dream," and all
the boxes began to roar with great coarse heehaws at Titania hugging
Bottom's long long ears--to me, considering these things, it seemed
that there were a hundred other male brutes squatted round about,
and treated just as reasonably as Bottom was. Their Titanias lulled
them to sleep in their laps, summoned a hundred smiling delicate
household fairies to tickle their gross intellects and minister to
their vulgar pleasures; and (as the above remarks are only supposed
to apply to honest women loving their own lawful spouses) a mercy it
is that no wicked Puck is in the way to open their eyes, and point
out their folly. Cui bono? let them live on in their deceit: I
know two lovely ladies who will read this, and will say it is just
very likely, and not see in the least, that it has been written
regarding THEM.