In a recent novel one of the characters—a woman, of course—is made to
speak the following interesting sentiments about husbands: “The very
best of them don’t properly know the difference between their souls and
their stomachs, and they fancy they are wrestling with their doubts,
when really it is their dinners that are wrestling with them. Now, take
Mr. Bateson hisself; a kinder husband or better Methodist never drew
breath, yet so sure as he touches a bit of pork he begins to worry
hisself about the doctrine of election till there’s no living with him.
And then he’ll sit in the front parlor and engage in prayer for hours at
a time till I say to him, ‘Bateson,’ says I, ‘I’d be ashamed to go
troubling the Lord with such a prayer when a pinch of carbonate o’ soda
would set things straight again.’”