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 the 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, 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