every move on the board" as he is generally admitted-Smith wants a cats-paw, and he bethinks him of his old schoolfellow Brown. Smiths calls on Brown, talks to Brown about the weather, chats to him about Mrs. Brown and the little Browns, gossips about their old schoolboy days when they were at Mr. Canes. They are as pleasant and as merry and as happy as though they were two urchins still-as good companions as they were that time when Brown robbed Farmer Jolter's orchard and shared the apples with Smith and took all the flogging to himself. They have just done laughing over that fact, and Smith rises to go. Just at the last moment says Smith, "Oh, I was near forgetting it in our merry chat, but by-the-bye there was something I wanted to ask you about; you know Robinson. Well Robinson has got a splendid lot of goods-just the thing for the American market. I would buy them, but the fact is I am short of cash just now. Robinson would take a bill at six months-plenty of time to realize, you know. What do you say, will you join me in a bill and share the profits? If Smith had asked Jones thatcautious Jones-the schoolboy who declined to rob that orchard of Farmer Jolter's which Robinson plundered, and if he had robbed it would, unlike Robinson, have refused Smith a share of the spoils-Jones, grown up into the prudent man-I say, if Smith had asked him that question, Jones could not have said no; but then he would not have said yes. Jones would have said that he would inquire about it, and go and look at the goods, and think about it, and give Smith an answer to-morrow or the day after. Smith, cunning Smith, knew that, and would not ask Jones. He preferred to ask the easy good-tempered Robinson, and Robinson says, "Yes, with pleasure, my dear fellow," and Smith puts down his hat and takes off his gloves and pulls out his pocket-book where he "thinks" he has a stamp: "Yes, luckily there is just one; how fortunate!" and one draws, the other accepts, thousand pounds, it may be a little more or less, you know," says Smith, "but either way we can make that right afterwards;" and the matter is settled there and then, and Robinson is "made a tool of." Six months afterwards, punctual as the day, the bill becomes due. The goods were bought, and they just suited the American market, and Smith just suited the American market too; for he has forgot to come back, and Robinson is called "Cats-paw Robinson" till this day.

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In politics, as well as in commerce, there are "people who are made tools of." Take an instance which possibly the reader can verify for himself out of his no doubt extensive knowledge of the political world. Mr. Downey is the representative of the constituency of Keenborough; Mr. Softlaw has the honour to represent Mudfog in the House of Commons. Downey and Softlaw are old friends, very old friends, very intimate and very confidential. Downey, we have his own assurance for it, is no orator; Softlaw, we have the same disinterested evidence of the fact, is "one of the first speakers in the House." "I can see a point quickly enough," says Downey, in his own modest way; "I can see a point quickly enough, but hang me if I can make other people see it too. Softlaw's the fellow for that; 'gad, if I had only Softlaw's tongue, I'd—" and after thinking for some time what he'd do, Downey, probably on account of his want of ability to make other people "see a point," winds up comprehensively by "I'd do something." Well, Downey and Softlaw are dining together, and the bottle has passed more than once, and they have talked over the pros and cons. of the session-how Disraeli "cut up" the government, and how Lord John gave the opposition leader that "dignified answer," and how Palmerston "hit high and hit low" and made all his blows tell, and how Graham came out in his "slashing straightforward style;" but Downey thinks, "though perhaps he oughtn't to say it before Softlaw's face, that there was nothing equal to that capital speech of Softlaw's. Capital," says Downey, smacking his lips, perhaps at the speech, perhaps at the wine, "the very finest thing in its way;" a compliment which Softlaw of course receives with all due humility. "By the way, Softlaw," continues Downey, "I've often thought, by Jove, if I could speak like you, I'd bring before the House that handorgan nuisance." Softlaw admits that it is a nuisance, he has often thought of it, but he does not exactly see what the House could do with it. "That's it," remarks Downey, "just it; of course the House has no information upon the subject; it must have information before it could act. I should suggest—that is, I would if I could do it like you-a Commission of Inquiry." "Don't you think," Softlaw suggests, "that it would not be important enough" "Not important enough, my dear fellow ?" replied Downey; "why, bless my soul, wasn't there the Earl of Whiskerville thrown from his horse at Albert Gate the other day through an organ, and Lady Dimple Ringlet, who was with him, nearly killed, too; and a hundred more such facts. Lord Imperial, the member for Hairytown, you know,

the earl's son, would be sure to support it. I'd do it, if I were you, by Jove! A man of your abilities could put the matter in its right light. If you'll do it, I'll come down and support you." And Softlaw will do it and does do it. The honourable member for Keenborough, Mr. Downey, is not in the House that night. "He is very sorry that he is prevented by indisposition," at least so his note says. But Lord Imperial is there, and gives the measure his warmest support. Lord Imperial thinks that "it's a horwid, atwocious, dângewous nuisance, which ought to be summawily put down ;" and so do half-a-dozen other young lords who belong to the Guards as well as Lord Imperial; and so do several members whose boroughs are in the Earl of Whiskerville's county; and so does Mr. M'Carthy O'Donnell, who dines at the Earl of Whiskerville's now and then; and so do several others, for various reasons of their own. There is a thin House that night, and ministers want to get it over, and don't want to offend the Earl of Whiskerville, who, notwithstanding the fiction that peers have no influence in the Lower House, has considerable influence there; and so ministers are convinced by the eloquent speech of the honourable member for Mudfog, another of "the finest things in its way for Downey to compliment him upon hereafter, and Softlaw has a triumph, and a commission on barrel-organs, their numbers, the country and the average age and emoluments and mode of life of the organ-players, is resolved upon. Of course the press denounces the commission as "a gross job," and it is alluded to by the honourable member for Saveall as a "wanton extravagance;" and generally Softlaw is partly suspected, partly execrated, partly despised, and partly laughed at. The Radical club at Mudfog sends up a deputation to know what Softlaw means by "adding six or seven thousand pounds to the taxes on a people already ground down to the earth by burdens, for a ridiculous commission about_barrel-organs;" and, generally, Softlaw finds himself in hot water. But Mr. Sly Downey, a member of the Inner Temple, a young gentleman who does not get many briefs, but does make pecuniary demands upon his father, S. Downey, Esq., M.P., is appointed one of the commissioners—and, in short, Mr. Softlaw has been "made a tool of." "People who are made tools of" are sometimes found in connection with the tender passion. There was young Sandie Simper, who was too bashful to avow to Miss Arabella Roseleaf, and employed Mr. Narcissus Dimple as a go-between. Poor Sandie was short, snub-nosed and red-haired; while Narcissus was a combination of Adonis, Apollo and Hercules. The result may easily be imagined. Narcissus took notes from Sandie and brought notes from Arabella, and lived at Sandie's expense, and rode his horses and borrowed his cash (for Narcissus was poor), and at last married Miss Roseleaf himself. And wasn't there Lady Jasmine Verbena, who pretended that she was going to marry Lord Daffodil, and actually waited till she had got the trousseau, and then run off with the groom, with whom she had an understanding all the time? And are there not thousands of other examples to show us that there are plenty of people always being "made tools of?" The fact is that in this very naughty world it will not do to carry your heart upon your sleeve. You must not be too confiding, or too trusting, or too sympathetic. You must learn to say "No" oftener, and "Yes" seldomer. You must make the monkeys get their own chesnuts out of the fire. You must be cautious and on the look-out for the folks whose description we have promised to give another time-the folks who make tools of people-or you will be pretty sure to be made a tool of. "And a burning shame, too," says my friend Mr. Simple Blunt, to whom I have just communicated these very original and sage remarks of mine. "A burning shame that the world will not let a man be as good as he might be, without imposing upon him "-an observation in which I heartily concur; but its not the only "burning shame" in the world, and the world reaps the harvest of them when policy says to me and to Mr. Simple Blunt and to others, "Don't ou be too good, old fellow, and be made a tool of."

VOL. III.

τ

THE HUSBAND OF THE STRONG-MINDED WOMAN.

(A Thumbnail Portrait.)

BY HORACE

MAY HE W.

Or all persons who are to be pitied in this pitiable world, there is not one, perhaps, who deserves so much pity as the Husband of the Strong-minded Woman!

Poor fellow! his mental weakness is generally in proportion to the strength of mind of his wife. If she is philosophically strong, then he is pitiably weak. He is a mere French poodle of a husband, that fetches and carries whatever his wife bids him to do. Put a brass collar round his neck, with her name and address, and the canine likeness would be complete.

He has no consideration, no influence, excepting through his wife. His tradesmen even ignore him. If they want his custom, they solicit his wife for it. When she is busy he is sent out, perhaps, to pay the bills; but the thanks, the bows, the smiles, the civil compliments tradesmen deal in, are all reserved for her. They take his money, and that is the utmost they condescend to do.

He can scarcely be said to have a name. It is his wife's name, not his own. If inquiries are made about him in society, he is never mentioned as Mr. So-and-So, but only as "the husband of Mrs. Soand-So," the celebrated Strong-minded Woman.

In society he occupies no position at all, excepting it is at the bottom of the table, or outside the door, where he may be seen leaning against the post all the evening, feasting on vacancy. He is asked, because his wife his asked, or perhaps because she takes him. The poor fellow is useful. He helps on her shawl, goes out in the rain to see if the carriage has arrived--carries her music-and does a thousand little things, which no one else would trouble himself to do, for, generally speaking, the Strong-minded Woman is not much of a favourite amongst men, be they strong or weak-minded.

But, if the Strong-minded Woman is not much of a favorite herself, it is dreadful to reflect what her Husband must be!

Even at home he fares very little better. The servants are scarcely aware of his existence. Very strangely, they never hear when he speaks to them, and, still more strangely, the bell never rings when his wife has left him in the house all alone! And yet, when she is at home, their hearing is perfectly good, and they answer the bell nimbly enough the very first time it is rung. When his wife is presiding at a public meeting about "Woman's Rights," or displaying her tremendous powers at some suburban Conversazione (and Strong-minded women abound in such places, where their execution upon the bread and butter is as dreadful as that upon the Queen's English), the poor Husband rarely gets any dinner. His wife dines early on such occasions-that is to say, makes "an early dinner" of her luncheon-and when he comes home, tired and famished, he finds that "Missus has given Cook a holiday, and that there's nothing in the house." He is driven to his Club, though it is extremely doubtful if he is allowed the high indulgence of a Club, or, more probably, consoles himself in the nearest tavern with that bachelor's apology for a dinner, a chop.

When his wife goes into the country to assist at some "Progress" Festival, or to hold forth at a Bloomer meeting, his case is still more pitiable. The house is deserted-every one does as he pleases (with the exception of himself), and he has rather to wait upon his servants than his servants to wait upon him. He doesn't like to complain, for it is one of his peculiar virtues never to complain of others for fear of bringing complaints down upon himself.

It is most cheering and delightful for him, in the midst of this solitude and discomfort, to take up a newspaper and find it filled with ridicule and abuse of his wife, accompanied with an expression of wonder as to "where her husband can be to allow her to make such a fool of herself?"

His children-though it is extremely rare that the Strong-minded Woman is the mother of a family-can scarcely be called his children, for he daren't interfere with their clothing, or their manners, or education. His wife dresses them as she pleases, instructs them how to behave, and particularly directs them "not to mind what their Pa says." He has no share in the selection of what school or college they are to be sent to, and is not allowed the smallest control over the choice of their future living or destiny. The mother has them home from school as often and for as long as the maternal whim seizes her, and the poor father is afraid to raise his weak voice against the practice. All he has to do is to pay the school bills, and to content himself it is no worse.

And, though he is their father, he finds it difficult to feel much love for such children! They are so wonderfully clever, they frighten away affection. Their mamma has filled them so full of learning, that he cannot take one of them on his knee without a whole stream of it pouring out of the little thing's mouth. They positively overflow with learning: if he attempts to play with one, he is flooded with a fable; if he ventures to kiss another, who perhaps is not four years old, he is drenched with a soaking shower of Watts's Hymns, or knocked completely over with a Multiplication Table!

Supposing the Strong-minded Woman is literary-and most strongminded women stain their fingers with ink of some sort the position of the poor husband becomes a thousand times more pitiable! She neglects all her household duties more than ever. He has to attend

to them in the best way he can, and as matter of course everything goes wrong.

The dinner (if there is any dinner) gets cold, whilst she is laying the plan for a new Poem.

He has to wait for breakfast whilst she is meditating in bed what shall be the subject of her next magazine paper.

Their two sexes become almost reversed. The Strong-minded Woman henceforth is the masculine-the Husband the feminine.

She is a Poet, a Dramatic Author, a Novelist, a Mozart, a Tom Moore, a Haynes Bayley, a Fitzball, a Balfe, a Bunn!--and he, to make the domestic balance still more unequal, has to turn housekeeper, cook, nurse, housemaid, washerwoman, charwoman-everything a man, who is any thing of a man, should not be.

Whilst he has gone out to the butcher's, or the greengrocer's, she is shut up in her "study," picking out of the piano (the keys of which are the only keys in the house her fingers ever meddle with)

an overture for the Grand Opera she is composing-and he may consider himself extremely lucky if, as a reward for his skill in shopping, he hasn't to take a Theatre in order to get the Grand Opera produced. She is writing a 3 Vol. novel for Mr. Oldby or Newby, at the same time that he is looking out the dirty linen to send to the wash.

He goes down to consult with the cook about dinner-anywhere to get out of the way-whilst she is closeted with some mustachioed oily Chorister from the Italian Opera, taking lessons in "musical composition."

As for a pen, the much-to-be-pitied Husband rarely takes one in hand, unless it is to write out the washing bill. His wife does all the writing, and quite enough too!

But on the other side, the Strong-minded Woman as rarely takes a needle and thread in hand, unless it is to stitch a manuscript together before sending it to the publishers.

The Husband is, of course, loaded with all the Strong-minded Woman's manuscripts. He is her literary postman, carrying her literary parcels from one publishing office to the other, and waiting in the counting-house for the answers; and worse than this, he has to run with her "proofs" to the printers, and bring back the "revises," running backwards and forwards in that agreeable fetch-and-carry style, three and four times a day. This hard work, however, occurs but seldom. It is only when the Strong-minded Woman gets something printed!

Such a piece of good fortune does not often fall to her lot, unless her poor weak husband, out of excessive admiration, pays for the printing and publishing himself. His admiration for his wife's production is not always increased, when, a twelvemonth afterwards, he reads it again in the Bench, where it has been the cause of sending him!

But that melancholy fate is infinitely better than the same publication being successful. The husband's position, then, is most miserable. The house swarms with worshippers of his wife's talent. She is not visible to a soul during the day, but she reads out to a "few friends" (the gentlemen have long hair, and the ladies spectacles) in the evening what she has been "composing" in the morning. The husband looks after the tea, and provides wine, biscuits and sandwiches for the hungry host of unwashed geniuses, who are paying homage to his wife. These are all "European celebrities," though he scarcely knows one of them, and scarcely one of them know him. The few, however, who do, reward his hospitality by continually dinning in his ears how very clever" his wife is. He feels how very unfavourable the comparison must be to himself, and he wishes in his heart he had only married a woman who wasn't so "very clever." The word haunts him, and if he had his choice over again, he is simple enough to confess that he would sooner marry a stupid woman, who would mend his stockings, and try to make his home happy and comfortable, than the cleverest bas bleu in the whole world, whose Attic genius prevents her going down in the kitchen, and who has such a soul above buttons that he seldom finds one on any of his shirts.

In addition to his other pangs, he has an acute sense of his own insignificance-but without this, enough has been said probably to