THE couple who dote upon their children have usually a great many of
them: six or eight at least. The children are either the healthiest in
all the world, or the most unfortunate in existence. In either case,
they are equally the theme of their doting parents, and equally a source
of mental anguish and irritation to their doting parents’ friends.
The couple who dote upon their children recognise no dates but those
connected with their births, accidents, illnesses, or remarkable deeds.
They keep a mental almanack with a vast number of Innocents’-days, all in
red letters. They recollect the last coronation, because on that day
little Tom fell down the kitchen stairs; the anniversary of the Gunpowder
Plot, because it was on the fifth of November that Ned asked whether
wooden legs were made in heaven and cocked hats grew in gardens. Mrs.
Whiffler will never cease to recollect the last day of the old year as
long as she lives, for it was on that day that the baby had the four red
spots on its nose which they took for measles: nor Christmas-day, for
twenty-one days after Christmas-day the twins were born; nor Good Friday,
for it was on a Good Friday that she was frightened by the donkey-cart
when she was in the family way with Georgiana. The movable feasts have
no motion for Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler, but remain pinned down tight and
fast to the shoulders of some small child, from whom they can never be
separated any more. Time was made, according to their creed, not for
slaves but for girls and boys; the restless sands in his glass are but
little children at play.
[Picture: The Couple who Dote upon their Children]
As we have already intimated, the children of this couple can know no
medium. They are either prodigies of good health or prodigies of bad
health; whatever they are, they must be prodigies. Mr. Whiffler must
have to describe at his office such excruciating agonies constantly
undergone by his eldest boy, as nobody else’s eldest boy ever underwent;
or he must be able to declare that there never was a child endowed with
such amazing health, such an indomitable constitution, and such a
cast-iron frame, as his child. His children must be, in some respect or
other, above and beyond the children of all other people. To such an
extent is this feeling pushed, that we were once slightly acquainted with
a lady and gentleman who carried their heads so high and became so proud
after their youngest child fell out of a two-pair-of-stairs window
without hurting himself much, that the greater part of their friends were
obliged to forego their acquaintance. But perhaps this may be an extreme
case, and one not justly entitled to be considered as a precedent of
general application.
If a friend happen to dine in a friendly way with one of these couples
who dote upon their children, it is nearly impossible for him to divert
the conversation from their favourite topic. Everything reminds Mr.
Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary Anne, or of the time before Ned
was born, or the time before Mary Anne was thought of. The slightest
remark, however harmless in itself, will awaken slumbering recollections
of the twins. It is impossible to steer clear of them. They will come
uppermost, let the poor man do what he may. Ned has been known to be
lost sight of for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten, the name of Mary
Anne has not been mentioned, but the twins will out. Nothing can keep
down the twins.
‘It’s a very extraordinary thing, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler to the
visitor, ‘but—you have seen our little babies, the—the—twins?’ The
friend’s heart sinks within him as he answers, ‘Oh, yes—often.’ ‘Your
talking of the Pyramids,’ says Mr. Whiffler, quite as a matter of course,
‘reminds me of the twins. It’s a very extraordinary thing about those
babies—what colour should you say their eyes were?’ ‘Upon my word,’ the
friend stammers, ‘I hardly know how to answer’—the fact being, that
except as the friend does not remember to have heard of any departure
from the ordinary course of nature in the instance of these twins, they
might have no eyes at all for aught he has observed to the contrary.
‘You wouldn’t say they were red, I suppose?’ says Mr. Whiffler. The
friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but inferring from the
expression of Mr. Whiffler’s face that red is not the colour, smiles with
some confidence, and says, ‘No, no! very different from that.’ ‘What
should you say to blue?’ says Mr. Whiffler. The friend glances at him,
and observing a different expression in his face, ventures to say, ‘I
should say they _were_ blue—a decided blue.’ ‘To be sure!’ cries Mr.
Whiffler, triumphantly, ‘I knew you would! But what should you say if I
was to tell you that the boy’s eyes are blue and the girl’s hazel, eh?’
‘Impossible!’ exclaims the friend, not at all knowing why it should be
impossible. ‘A fact, notwithstanding,’ cries Mr. Whiffler; ‘and let me
tell you, Saunders, _that’s_ not a common thing in twins, or a
circumstance that’ll happen every day.’
In this dialogue Mrs. Whiffler, as being deeply responsible for the
twins, their charms and singularities, has taken no share; but she now
relates, in broken English, a witticism of little Dick’s bearing upon the
subject just discussed, which delights Mr. Whiffler beyond measure, and
causes him to declare that he would have sworn that was Dick’s if he had
heard it anywhere. Then he requests that Mrs. Whiffler will tell
Saunders what Tom said about mad bulls; and Mrs. Whiffler relating the
anecdote, a discussion ensues upon the different character of Tom’s wit
and Dick’s wit, from which it appears that Dick’s humour is of a lively
turn, while Tom’s style is the dry and caustic. This discussion being
enlivened by various illustrations, lasts a long time, and is only
stopped by Mrs. Whiffler instructing the footman to ring the nursery
bell, as the children were promised that they should come down and taste
the pudding.
The friend turns pale when this order is given, and paler still when it
is followed up by a great pattering on the staircase, (not unlike the
sound of rain upon a skylight,) a violent bursting open of the
dining-room door, and the tumultuous appearance of six small children,
closely succeeded by a strong nursery-maid with a twin in each arm. As
the whole eight are screaming, shouting, or kicking—some influenced by a
ravenous appetite, some by a horror of the stranger, and some by a
conflict of the two feelings—a pretty long space elapses before all their
heads can be ranged round the table and anything like order restored; in
bringing about which happy state of things both the nurse and footman are
severely scratched. At length Mrs. Whiffler is heard to say, ‘Mr.
Saunders, shall I give you some pudding?’ A breathless silence ensues,
and sixteen small eyes are fixed upon the guest in expectation of his
reply. A wild shout of joy proclaims that he has said ‘No, thank you.’
Spoons are waved in the air, legs appear above the table-cloth in
uncontrollable ecstasy, and eighty short fingers dabble in damson syrup.
While the pudding is being disposed of, Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler look on
with beaming countenances, and Mr. Whiffler nudging his friend Saunders,
begs him to take notice of Tom’s eyes, or Dick’s chin, or Ned’s nose, or
Mary Anne’s hair, or Emily’s figure, or little Bob’s calves, or Fanny’s
mouth, or Carry’s head, as the case may be. Whatever the attention of
Mr. Saunders is called to, Mr. Saunders admires of course; though he is
rather confused about the sex of the youngest branches and looks at the
wrong children, turning to a girl when Mr. Whiffler directs his attention
to a boy, and falling into raptures with a boy when he ought to be
enchanted with a girl. Then the dessert comes, and there is a vast deal
of scrambling after fruit, and sudden spirting forth of juice out of
tight oranges into infant eyes, and much screeching and wailing in
consequence. At length it becomes time for Mrs. Whiffler to retire, and
all the children are by force of arms compelled to kiss and love Mr.
Saunders before going up-stairs, except Tom, who, lying on his back in
the hall, proclaims that Mr. Saunders ‘is a naughty beast;’ and Dick, who
having drunk his father’s wine when he was looking another way, is found
to be intoxicated and is carried out, very limp and helpless.
Mr. Whiffler and his friend are left alone together, but Mr. Whiffler’s
thoughts are still with his family, if his family are not with him.
‘Saunders,’ says he, after a short silence, ‘if you please, we’ll drink
Mrs. Whiffler and the children.’ Mr. Saunders feels this to be a
reproach against himself for not proposing the same sentiment, and drinks
it in some confusion. ‘Ah!’ Mr. Whiffler sighs, ‘these children,
Saunders, make one quite an old man.’ Mr. Saunders thinks that if they
were his, they would make him a very old man; but he says nothing. ‘And
yet,’ pursues Mr. Whiffler, ‘what can equal domestic happiness? what can
equal the engaging ways of children! Saunders, why don’t you get
married?’ Now, this is an embarrassing question, because Mr. Saunders
has been thinking that if he had at any time entertained matrimonial
designs, the revelation of that day would surely have routed them for
ever. ‘I am glad, however,’ says Mr. Whiffler, ‘that you _are_ a
bachelor,—glad on one account, Saunders; a selfish one, I admit. Will
you do Mrs. Whiffler and myself a favour?’ Mr. Saunders is
surprised—evidently surprised; but he replies, ‘with the greatest
pleasure.’ ‘Then, will you, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler, in an
impressive manner, ‘will you cement and consolidate our friendship by
coming into the family (so to speak) as a godfather?’ ‘I shall be proud
and delighted,’ replies Mr. Saunders: ‘which of the children is it?
really, I thought they were all christened; or—’ ‘Saunders,’ Mr.
Whiffler interposes, ‘they _are_ all christened; you are right. The fact
is, that Mrs. Whiffler is—in short, we expect another.’ ‘Not a ninth!’
cries the friend, all aghast at the idea. ‘Yes, Saunders,’ rejoins Mr.
Whiffler, solemnly, ‘a ninth. Did we drink Mrs. Whiffler’s health? Let
us drink it again, Saunders, and wish her well over it!’
Doctor Johnson used to tell a story of a man who had but one idea, which
was a wrong one. The couple who dote upon their children are in the same
predicament: at home or abroad, at all times, and in all places, their
thoughts are bound up in this one subject, and have no sphere beyond.
They relate the clever things their offspring say or do, and weary every
company with their prolixity and absurdity. Mr. Whiffler takes a friend
by the button at a street corner on a windy day to tell him a _bon mot_
of his youngest boy’s; and Mrs. Whiffler, calling to see a sick
acquaintance, entertains her with a cheerful account of all her own past
sufferings and present expectations. In such cases the sins of the
fathers indeed descend upon the children; for people soon come to regard
them as predestined little bores. The couple who dote upon their
children cannot be said to be actuated by a general love for these
engaging little people (which would be a great excuse); for they are apt
to underrate and entertain a jealousy of any children but their own. If
they examined their own hearts, they would, perhaps, find at the bottom
of all this, more self-love and egotism than they think of. Self-love
and egotism are bad qualities, of which the unrestrained exhibition,
though it may be sometimes amusing, never fails to be wearisome and
unpleasant. Couples who dote upon their children, therefore, are best
avoided.