Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, September 18, 1841

HAS A GREAT DEAL TO SAY ABOUT SOME ONE ELSE BESIDES OUR HERO.

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.