Reprinted Pieces

by Dickens, Charles

  Calais - and sat upon a door-step until I recovered. The

  procession had then disappeared. I have since looked anxiously for

  the King in several other cars, but I have not yet had the

  happiness of seeing His Majesty.

  'BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON

  MY name is Meek. I am, in fact, Mr. Meek. That son is mine and

  Mrs. Meek's. When I saw the announcement in the Times, I dropped

  the paper. I had put it in, myself, and paid for it, but it looked

  Page 36

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  so noble that it overpowered me.

  As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took the paper up to Mrs.

  Meek's bedside. 'Maria Jane,' said I (I allude to Mrs. Meek), 'you

  are now a public character.' We read the review of our child,

  several times, with feelings of the strongest emotion; and I sent

  the boy who cleans the boots and shoes, to the office for fifteen

  copies. No reduction was made on taking that quantity.

  It is scarcely necessary for me to say, that our child had been

  expected. In fact, it had been expected, with comparative

  confidence, for some months. Mrs. Meek's mother, who resides with

  us - of the name of Bigby - had made every preparation for its

  admission to our circle.

  I hope and believe I am a quiet man. I will go farther. I KNOW I

  am a quiet man. My constitution is tremulous, my voice was never

  loud, and, in point of stature, I have been from infancy, small. I

  have the greatest respect for Maria Jane's Mama. She is a most

  remarkable woman. I honour Maria Jane's Mama. In my opinion she

  would storm a town, single-handed, with a hearth-broom, and carry

  it. I have never known her to yield any point whatever, to mortal

  man. She is calculated to terrify the stoutest heart.

  Still - but I will not anticipate.

  The first intimation I had, of any preparations being in progress,

  on the part of Maria Jane's Mama, was one afternoon, several months

  ago. I came home earlier than usual from the office, and,

  proceeding into the dining-room, found an obstruction behind the

  door, which prevented it from opening freely. It was an

  obstruction of a soft nature. On looking in, I found it to be a

  female.

  The female in question stood in the corner behind the door,

  consuming Sherry Wine. From the nutty smell of that beverage

  pervading the apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a second

  glassful. She wore a black bonnet of large dimensions, and was

  copious in figure. The expression of her countenance was severe

  and discontented. The words to which she gave utterance on seeing

  me, were these, 'Oh, git along with you, Sir, if YOU please; me and

  Mrs. Bigby don't want no male parties here!'

  That female was Mrs. Prodgit.

  I immediately withdrew, of course. I was rather hurt, but I made

  no remark. Whether it was that I showed a lowness of spirits after

  dinner, in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, I

  cannot say. But, Maria Jane's Mama said to me on her retiring for

  the night: in a low distinct voice, and with a look of reproach

  that completely subdued me: 'George Meek, Mrs. Prodgit is your

  wife's nurse!'

  I bear no ill-will towards Mrs. Prodgit. Is it likely that I,

  writing this with tears in my eyes, should be capable of deliberate

  animosity towards a female, so essential to the welfare of Maria

  Jane? I am willing to admit that Fate may have been to blame, and

  not Mrs. Prodgit; but, it is undeniably true, that the latter

  female brought desolation and devastation into my lowly dwelling.

  We were happy after her first appearance; we were sometimes

  exceedingly so. But, whenever the parlour door was opened, and

  'Mrs. Prodgit!' announced (and she was very often announced),

  misery ensued. I could not bear Mrs. Prodgit's look. I felt that

  Page 37

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  I was far from wanted, and had no business to exist in Mrs.

  Prodgit's presence. Between Maria Jane's Mama, and Mrs. Prodgit,

  there was a dreadful, secret, understanding - a dark mystery and

  conspiracy, pointing me out as a being to be shunned. I appeared

  to have done something that was evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit

  called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing-room - where the

  temperature is very low indeed, in the wintry time of the year -

  and sat looking at my frosty breath as it rose before me, and at my

  rack of boots; a serviceable article of furniture, but never, in my

  opinion, an exhilarating object. The length of the councils that

  were held with Mrs. Prodgit, under these circumstances, I will not

  attempt to describe. I will merely remark, that Mrs. Prodgit

  always consumed Sherry Wine while the deliberations were in

  progress; that they always ended in Maria Jane's being in wretched

  spirits on the sofa; and that Maria Jane's Mama always received me,

  when I was recalled, with a look of desolate triumph that too

  plainly said, 'NOW, George Meek! You see my child, Maria Jane, a

  ruin, and I hope you are satisfied!'

  I pass, generally, over the period that intervened between the day

  when Mrs. Prodgit entered her protest against male parties, and the

  ever-memorable midnight when I brought her to my unobtrusive home

  in a cab, with an extremely large box on the roof, and a bundle, a

  bandbox, and a basket, between the driver's legs. I have no

  objection to Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby, who I

  never can forget is the parent of Maria Jane) taking entire

  possession of my unassuming establishment. In the recesses of my

  own breast, the thought may linger that a man in possession cannot

  be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman Mrs. Prodgit; but, I

  ought to bear a good deal, and I hope I can, and do. Huffing and

  snubbing, prey upon my feelings; but, I can bear them without

  complaint. They may tell in the long run; I may be hustled about,

  from post to pillar, beyond my strength; nevertheless, I wish to

  avoid giving rise to words in the family.

  The voice of Nature, however, cries aloud in behalf of Augustus

  George, my infant son. It is for him that I wish to utter a few

  plaintive household words. I am not at all angry; I am mild - but

  miserable.

  I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus George, was expected in

  our circle, a provision of pins was made, as if the little stranger

  were a criminal who was to be put to the torture immediately, on

  his arrival, instead of a holy babe? I wish to know why haste was

  made to stick those pins all over his innocent form, in every

  direction? I wish to be informed why light and air are excluded

  from Augustus George, like poisons? Why, I ask, is my unoffending

  infant so hedged into a basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico,

  with miniature sheets and blankets, that I can only hear him

  snuffle (and no wonder!) deep down under the pink hood of a little

  bathing-machine, and can never peruse even so much of his

  lineaments as his nose?

  Was I expected to be the father of a French Roll, that th
e brushes

  of All Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus George? Am I to be

  told that his sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to have

  rashes brought out upon it, by the premature and incessant use of

  those formidable little instruments?

  Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges of

  sharp frills? Am I the parent of a Muslin boy, that his yielding

  surface is to be crimped and small plaited? Or is my child

  composed of Paper or of Linen, that impressions of the finer

  getting-up art, practised by the laundress, are to be printed off,

  Page 38

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  all over his soft arms and legs, as I constantly observe them? The

  starch enters his soul; who can wonder that he cries?

  Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, or to be born a Torso?

  I presume that limbs were the intention, as they are the usual

  practice. Then, why are my poor child's limbs fettered and tied

  up? Am I to be told that there is any analogy between Augustus

  George Meek and Jack Sheppard?

  Analyse Castor Oil at any Institution of Chemistry that may be

  agreed upon, and inform me what resemblance, in taste, it bears to

  that natural provision which it is at once the pride and duty of

  Maria Jane to administer to Augustus George! Yet, I charge Mrs.

  Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with systematically

  forcing Castor Oil on my innocent son, from the first hour of his

  birth. When that medicine, in its efficient action, causes

  internal disturbance to Augustus George, I charge Mrs. Prodgit

  (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with insanely and inconsistently

  administering opium to allay the storm she has raised! What is the

  meaning of this?

  If the days of Egyptian Mummies are past, how dare Mrs. Prodgit

  require, for the use of my son, an amount of flannel and linen that

  would carpet my humble roof? Do I wonder that she requires it?

  No! This morning, within an hour, I beheld this agonising sight.

  I beheld my son - Augustus George - in Mrs. Prodgit's hands, and on

  Mrs. Prodgit's knee, being dressed. He was at the moment,

  comparatively speaking, in a state of nature; having nothing on,

  but an extremely short shirt, remarkably disproportionate to the

  length of his usual outer garments. Trailing from Mrs. Prodgit's

  lap, on the floor, was a long narrow roller or bandage - I should

  say of several yards in extent. In this, I SAW Mrs. Prodgit

  tightly roll the body of my unoffending infant, turning him over

  and over, now presenting his unconscious face upwards, now the back

  of his bald head, until the unnatural feat was accomplished, and

  the bandage secured by a pin, which I have every reason to believe

  entered the body of my only child. In this tourniquet, he passes

  the present phase of his existence. Can I know it, and smile!

  I fear I have been betrayed into expressing myself warmly, but I

  feel deeply. Not for myself; for Augustus George. I dare not

  interfere. Will any one? Will any publication? Any doctor? Any

  parent? Any body? I do not complain that Mrs. Prodgit (aided and

  abetted by Mrs. Bigby) entirely alienates Maria Jane's affections

  from me, and interposes an impassable barrier between us. I do not

  complain of being made of no account. I do not want to be of any

  account. But, Augustus George is a production of Nature (I cannot

  think otherwise), and I claim that he should be treated with some

  remote reference to Nature. In my opinion, Mrs. Prodgit is, from

  first to last, a convention and a superstition. Are all the

  faculty afraid of Mrs. Prodgit? If not, why don't they take her in

  hand and improve her?

  P.S. Maria Jane's Mama boasts of her own knowledge of the subject,

  and says she brought up seven children besides Maria Jane. But how

  do I know that she might not have brought them up much better?

  Maria Jane herself is far from strong, and is subject to headaches,

  and nervous indigestion. Besides which, I learn from the

  statistical tables that one child in five dies within the first

  year of its life; and one child in three, within the fifth. That

  don't look as if we could never improve in these particulars, I

  think!

  P.P.S. Augustus George is in convulsions.

  Page 39

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  LYING AWAKE

  'MY uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn

  almost down to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and

  began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius,

  the French Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's Chop-house in

  London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the brain of

  a traveller is crammed; in a word, he was just falling asleep.'

  Thus, that delightful writer, WASHINGTON IRVING, in his Tales of a

  Traveller. But, it happened to me the other night to be lying: not

  with my eyes half closed, but with my eyes wide open; not with my

  nightcap drawn almost down to my nose, for on sanitary principles I

  never wear a nightcap: but with my hair pitchforked and touzled all

  over the pillow; not just falling asleep by any means, but

  glaringly, persistently, and obstinately, broad awake. Perhaps,

  with no scientific intention or invention, I was illustrating the

  theory of the Duality of the Brain; perhaps one part of my brain,

  being wakeful, sat up to watch the other part which was sleepy. Be

  that as it may, something in me was as desirous to go to sleep as

  it possibly could be, but something else in me WOULD NOT go to

  sleep, and was as obstinate as George the Third.

  Thinking of George the Third - for I devote this paper to my train

  of thoughts as I lay awake: most people lying awake sometimes, and

  having some interest in the subject - put me in mind of BENJAMIN

  FRANKLIN, and so Benjamin Franklin's paper on the art of procuring

  pleasant dreams, which would seem necessarily to include the art of

  going to sleep, came into my head. Now, as I often used to read

  that paper when I was a very small boy, and as I recollect

  everything I read then as perfectly as I forget everything I read

  now, I quoted 'Get out of bed, beat up and turn your pillow, shake

  the bed-clothes well with at least twenty shakes, then throw the

  bed open and leave it to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing

  undrest, walk about your chamber. When you begin to feel the cold

  air unpleasant, then return to your bed, and you will soon fall

  asleep, and your sleep will be sweet and pleasant.' Not a bit of

  it! I performed the whole ceremony, and if it were possible for me

  to be more saucer-eyed than I was before, that was the only result

  that came of it.

  Except Niagara. The two quotations from Washington Irving and

  Benjamin Franklin may have put it in my head by an American

  association of ideas; but there I was, and the Horse-shoe Fall was

  thundering and tumbling in my eyes and ears, and the very rainbows

  that I left upon the spray when I really did last look upon it,

  were beautiful to see. The night-light b
eing quite as plain,

  however, and sleep seeming to be many thousand miles further off

  than Niagara, I made up my mind to think a little about Sleep;

  which I no sooner did than I whirled off in spite of myself to

  Drury Lane Theatre, and there saw a great actor and dear friend of

  mine (whom I had been thinking of in the day) playing Macbeth, and

  heard him apostrophising 'the death of each day's life,' as I have

  heard him many a time, in the days that are gone.

  But, Sleep. I WILL think about Sleep. I am determined to think

  (this is the way I went on) about Sleep. I must hold the word

  Sleep, tight and fast, or I shall be off at a tangent in half a

  second. I feel myself unaccountably straying, already, into Clare

  Page 40

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  Market. Sleep. It would be curious, as illustrating the equality

  of sleep, to inquire how many of its phenomena are common to all

  classes, to all degrees of wealth and poverty, to every grade of

  education and ignorance. Here, for example, is her Majesty Queen

  Victoria in her palace, this present blessed night, and here is

  Winking Charley, a sturdy vagrant, in one of her Majesty's jails.

  Her Majesty has fallen, many thousands of times, from that same

  Tower, which I claim a right to tumble off now and then. So has

  Winking Charley. Her Majesty in her sleep has opened or prorogued

  Parliament, or has held a Drawing Room, attired in some very scanty

  dress, the deficiencies and improprieties of which have caused her

  great uneasiness. I, in my degree, have suffered unspeakable

  agitation of mind from taking the chair at a public dinner at the

  London Tavern in my night-clothes, which not all the courtesy of my

  kind friend and host MR. BATHE could persuade me were quite adapted

  to the occasion. Winking Charley has been repeatedly tried in a

  worse condition. Her Majesty is no stranger to a vault or

  firmament, of a sort of floorcloth, with an indistinct pattern

  distantly resembling eyes, which occasionally obtrudes itself on

  her repose. Neither am I. Neither is Winking Charley. It is

  quite common to all three of us to skim along with airy strides a

  little above the ground; also to hold, with the deepest interest,

  dialogues with various people, all represented by ourselves; and to

  be at our wit's end to know what they are going to tell us; and to