[Illustration: K]Kindness was a characteristic of Agamemnon's disposition,
and it is not therefore a matter of surprise that "the month"--_the_
month, _par excellence_, of "all the months i'the kalendar"--produced a
succession of those annoyances which, in the best regulated families, are
certain to be partially experienced by the masculine progenitor. O,
bachelors! be warned in time; let not love link you to his flowery traces
and draw you into the temple of Hymen! Be not deluded by the glowing
fallacies of Anacreon and Boccaccio, but remember that they were
bachelors. There is nothing exhilarating in caudle, nor enchanting in
Kensington-gardens, when you are converted into a light porter of
children. We have been married, and are now seventy-one, and wear a "brown
George;" consequently, we have experience and cool blood in our veins--two
excellent auxiliaries in the formation of a correct judgment in all
matters connected with the heart.
Our pen must have been the pinion of a wild goose, or why these continued
digressions?
Agamemnon's troubles commenced with the first cough of Mrs. Pilcher on the
door-mat. Mrs. P. was the monthly nurse, and monthly nurses always have a
short cough. Whether this phenomenon arises from the obesity consequent
upon arm-chairs and good living, or from an habitual intimation that they
are present, and have not received half-a-crown, or a systematic
declaration that the throat is dry, and would not object to a gargle of
gin, and perhaps a little water, or--but there is no use hunting
conjecture, when you are all but certain of not catching it.
Mrs. Pilcher was "the moral of a nurse;" she was about forty-eight and
had, according to her own account, "been the mother of eighteen lovely
babes, born in wedlock," though her most intimate friends had never been
introduced to more than one young gentleman, with a nose like a wart, and
hair like a scrubbing-brush. When he made his _debut_, he was attired in a
suit of blue drugget, with the pewter order of the parish of St. Clement
on his bosom; and rumour declared that he owed his origin to half-a-crown
a week, paid every Saturday. Mrs. Pilcher weighed about thirteen stone,
including her bundle, and a pint medicine-bottle, which latter article she
invariably carried in her dexter pocket, filled with a strong tincture of
juniper berries, and extract of cloves. This mixture had been prescribed
to her for what she called a "sinkingness," which afflicted her about 10
A.M., 11 A.M. (dinner), 2 P.M., 3 P.M. 4 P.M. 5 P.M. (tea), 7 P.M., 8 P.M.
(supper), 10 P.M., and at uncertain intervals during the night.
Mrs. Pilcher was a martyr to a delicate appetite, for she could never
"make nothing of a breakfast if she warn't coaxed with a Yarmouth bloater,
a rasher of ham, or a little bit of steak done with the gravy in."
Her luncheon was obliged to be a mutton-chop, or a grilled bone, and a
pint of porter, bread and cheese having the effect of rendering her "as
cross as two sticks, and as sour as werjuice." Her dinner, and its
satellites, tea and supper, were all required to be hot, strong, and
comfortable. A peculiar hallucination under which she laboured is worthy
of remark. When eating, it was always her declared conviction that she
_never drank anything_, and when detected coquetting with a pint pot or a
tumbler, she was equally assured that she never _did eat anything after
her breakfast_.
Mrs. Pilcher's duties never permitted her to take anything resembling
continuous rest; she had therefore another prescription for an hour's doze
after dinner. Mrs. Pilcher was also troubled with a stiffness of the
knee-joints, which never allowed her to wait upon herself.
When this amiable creature had deposited herself in Collumpsion's old
easy-chair, and, with her bundle on her knees, gasped out her first
inquiry--
"I hopes all's as well as can be expected?"
The heart of _Pater_ Collumpsion trembled in his bosom, for he felt that
to this incongruous mass was to be confided the first blossom of his
wedded love; and that for one month the dynasty of 24, Pleasant-terrace
was transferred from his hands to that of Mrs. Waddledot, his wife's
mother, and Mrs. Pilcher, the monthly nurse. There was a short struggle
for supremacy between the two latter personages; but an angry appeal
having been made to Mrs. Applebite, by the lady, "who had _nussed_ the
first families in this land, and, in course, know'd her business," Mrs.
Waddledot was forced to yield to Mrs. Pilcher's bundle in _transitu_, and
Mrs. Applebite's hysterics in perspective.
Mrs. Pilcher was a nursery Macauley, and had the faculty of discovering
latent beauties in very small infants, that none but doting parents ever
believed. Agamemnon was an early convert to her avowed opinions of the
heir of Applebite, who, like all other heirs of the same age, resembled a
black boy boiled--that is, if there is any affinity between lobsters and
niggers. This peculiar style of eloquence rendered her other
eccentricities less objectionable; and when, upon one occasion, the
mixture of juniper and cloves had disordered her head, instead of
comforting her stomachic regions, she excused herself by solemnly
declaring, that "the brilliancy of the little darling's eyes, and his
intoxicating manners, had made her feel as giddy as a goose." Collumpsion
and Theresa both declared her discernment was equal to her caudle, of
which, by-the-bye, she was an excellent concocter and consumer.
Old John and the rest of the servants, however, had no parental string at
which Mrs. Pilcher could tug, and the consequence was, that they decided
that she was an insufferable bore. Old John, in particular, felt the ill
effects of the heir of Applebite's appearance in the family, and to such a
degree did they interfere with his old comforts, without increasing his
pecuniary resources, that he determined one morning, when taking up his
master's shaving water, absolutely to give warning; for what with the
morning calls, and continual ringing for glasses--the perpetual
communication kept up between the laundry-maid and the mangle, and of
which he was the circulating medium--the insolence of the nurse, who had
ordered him to carry five soiled--never mind--down stairs: all these
annoyances combined, the old servant declared were too much for him.
Collumpsion laid his hand on John's shoulder, and pointing to some of the
little evidences of paternity which had found their way even into his
dormitory, said, "John, think what I suffer; do not leave me; I'll raise
your wages, and engage a boy to help you; but you are the only thing that
reminds me of my happy bachelorhood--you are the only one that can feel
a--feel a--"
"_Caudle_ regard," interrupted John.
"Caudle be ----." The "rest is silence," for at that moment Mrs.
Waddledot entered the room, gave a short scream, and went out again.
The month passed, and a hackney-coach, containing a bundle and the
respectable Mrs. Pilcher, &c., rumbled from the door of No. 24, to the
infinite delight of old John the footman, Betty the housemaid, Esther the
nurserymaid, Susan the cook, and Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite the
proprietor.
How transitory is earthly happiness! How certain its uncertainty! A little
week had passed, and the "Heir of Applebite" gave notice of his intention
to come into his property during an early minority, for his once happy
progenitor began to entertain serious intentions of employing a coroner's
jury to sit upon himself, owing to the incessant and "ear-piercing pipe"
of his little cherub. Vainly did he bury his head beneath the pillow,
until he was suffused with perspiration--the cry reached him there and
then. Cold air was pumped into the bed by Mrs. Applebite, as she rocked to
and fro, in the hope of quieting the "son of the sleepless." Collumpsion
was in constant communication with the dressing-table--now for moist-sugar
to stay the hiccough--then for dill-water to allay the stomach-ache. To
save his little cherub from convulsions, twice was he converted into a
night-patrole, with the thermometer below zero--a bad fire, with a large
slate in it, and an empty coal-scuttle.
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