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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, September 18, 1841
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, September 18, 1841
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, September 18, 1841
    Ebook119 pages1 hour

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

    By Various Various

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, September 18, 1841

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      Book preview

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

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1,

      September 18, 1841, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1, September 18, 1841

      Author: Various

      Release Date: February 7, 2005 [EBook #14928]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***

      Produced by Syamanta Saikia, Jon Ingram, Barbara Tozier and the PG

      Online Distributed Proofreading Team

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      VOL. 1.

      SEPTEMBER 18, 1841.

      THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.

      CHAPTER IV.

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

      indness 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

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