of plain narrative now spreads engagingly before
me.

My complaint against Major Namby is, in
plain terms, that he transacts the whole of his
domestic business in his front garden. Whether
it arises from natural weakness of memory, from
total want of a sense of propriety, or from a
condition of mind which is closely allied to
madness of the eccentric sort, I cannot say, but
the major certainly does sometimes partially, and
sometimes entirely, forget his private family
matters, and the necessary directions connected
with them, while he is inside the house, and
does habitually remember them, and repair all
omissions, by bawling through his windows, at
the top of his voice, as soon as he gets outside
the house. It never seems to occur to him that
he might advantageously return in-doors, and
there mention what he has forgotten in a private
and proper way. The instant the lost idea
strikes him—which it invariably does, either in
his front garden, or in the roadway outside his
house—he roars for his wife, either from the
gravel walk, or over the low wall—and (if I
may use so strong an expression) empties his
mind to her in public, without appearing to care
whose ears he wearies, whose delicacy he shocks,
or whose ridicule he invites. If the man is not
mad, his own small family fusses have taken
such complete possession of all his senses, that
he is quite incapable of noticing anything else,
and perfectly impenetrable to the opinions of his
neighbours. Let me show that the grievance of
which I complain is no slight one, by giving a
few examples of the general persecution that I
suffer, and the occasional shocks that are
administered to my delicacy, at the coarse hands
of Major Namby.

We will say it is a fine warm morning. I am
sitting in my front room, with the window open,
absorbed over a deeply interesting book. I hear
the door of the next house bang; I look up, and
see the major descending the steps into his
front garden.

He walks—no, he marches—half way down
the front garden path, with his head high in the
air, and his chest stuck out, and his military
cane fiercely flourished in his right hand.
Suddenly, he stops, stamps with one foot, knocks
up the hinder part of the brim of his extremely
curly hat with his left hand, and begins to scratch
at that singularly disagreeable-looking roll of
fat red flesh in the back of his neck (which
scratching, I may observe, in parenthesis, is
always a sure sign, in the case of this horrid
man, that a lost domestic idea has suddenly come
back to him) . He waits a moment in the
ridiculous position just described, then wheels round
on his heel, looks up at the first-floor window,
and, instead of going back into the house to
mention what he has forgotten, bawls out
fiercely from the middle of the walk:

"Matilda!"

I hear his wife's voice—a shockingly shrill
one; but what can you expect of a woman who
has been seen, over and over again, in a
slatternly striped wrapper, as late as two o'clock in
afternoon—I hear his wife's voice answer
from inside the house:

"Yes, dear."

"I said it was a south wind."

"Yes, dear."

"It isn't a south wind."

"Lor', dear!"

"It's sou'-east. I won't have Georgina taken
out to-day." (Georgina is one of the first Mrs.
Namby's family, and they are all weak in the
chest.) "Where's nurse?"

"Here, sir!"

"Nurse, I won't have Jack allowed to run.
Whenever that boy perspires, he catches cold.
Hang up his hoop. If he cries, take him into
my dressing-room, and show him the birch rod.
Matilda!"

"Yes, dear."

"What the devil do they mean by daubing
all that grease over Mary's hair? It's
beastly to see it—do you hear?—beastly!
Where's Pamby?" (Pamby is the unfortunate
work-woman who makes and mends the family
linen.)

"Here, sir."

"Pamby, what are you about now?"

No answer. Pamby, or somebody else, giggles
faintly. The major flourishes his cane in a
fury.

"Why the devil don't you answer me? I
give you three seconds to answer me, or leave
the house. One—two—three. Pamby! what
are you about now?"

"If you please, sir, I'm doing something——"

"What?"

"Something particular for baby, sir?"

"Drop it directly, whatever it is. Matilda!
how many pair of trousers has Katie got?"

"Only three, dear."

"Pamby!"

"Yes, sir."

"Shorten all Miss Katie's trousers directly,
including the pair she's got on. I've said, over
and over again, that I won't have those frills of
hers any lower down than her knees. Don't let
me see them at the middle of her shins again.
Nurse!"

"Yes, sir."

"Mind the crossings. Don't let the children
sit down if they're hot. Don't let them speak
to other children. Don't let them get playing
with strange dogs. Don't let them mess their
things. And, above all, don't bring Master
Jack back in a perspiration. Is there anything
more, before I go out?"

"No, sir."

"Matilda! Is there anything more?"

"No, dear."

"Pamby! Is there anything more?"

"No, sir."

Here the domestic colloquy ends, for the time
being. Will any sensitive person—especially a
person of my own sex—please to imagine what
I must suffer, as a delicate single lady, at having
all these family details obtruded on my attention,
whether I like it or not, in the major's
rasping, martial voice, and in the shrill answering