As for the party, it was next to madness to think another moment about that, for when you hadn’t a piano, or a window on the staircase left, I should like to know how it would ever be possible to have a nice comfortable dance; so after I had given it to Mr. Dick Farden well, and told him that I should certainly make a point of stopping the piano out of his wages, and after I had packed Mr. Jim off home to his family with a flea in his ear, there was I obliged in my state of mind to sit down, and scribble off a lot of story-telling letters to all the friends I had invited, saying, that owing to my sweet Kitty’s having been taken suddenly and dangerously ill, I regretted to say that I was compelled to postpone the pleasure of seeing them until some future period, and bundling Mr. Dick Farden into a cab, told him to make as much haste as ever he could and deliver them, though I do verily believe, that from the number of knocks and cabs and hackney coaches that came to the door that dreadful evening, that he put the better part of the fare in his pocket, and never delivered many of them at all; and there was I, obliged to come down every five minutes, from ten till twelve in the evening, and put on a very long face, and tell a pack of taradiddles about the sufferings of my sweet little angel of a Kitty, and how we didn’t expect her to live the whole night through, when actually the little pet was fast asleep in my bed and as well as she had been ever since she was born; and upon my word, it really made my heart bleed to have to send the dear creatures home again, when I saw how nicely their hairs were done, and the expense they had gone to about their dresses, for they had evidently come out determined upon spending a very pleasant evening.
Edward, on his return home, I regret to say, forgot himself as a gentleman and my husband. At one time I thought he had gone clean out of his wits, for he had the impudence to say, that I seemed to take a delight in throwing twenty pounds in the dirt, and that it was all my fault, and none of it Dick Farden’s, and that he would take good care that if ever I wanted any more music, I might whistle for it; and that as for any more pianos, that the next one I had, should come out of my own pocket. As I saw that he wouldn’t be happy until we had had a good quarrel, I thought it best to go off into hysterics, and laughed and sobbed in such a dreadful way that I soon brought him to his senses, and made him begin kissing me, and calling me his dear, foolish, thoughtless Caroline, and telling me to calm myself for heaven’s sake, or I should be laying myself up. But then it came to my turn, for I wasn’t going to let him abuse me like a pickpocket one minute, and make friends with him the next, and I do think that I never should have opened my lips civilly to him again, if he hadn’t brought me home a beautiful Gros de Naples dress, and so showed that he felt he was in the wrong, and was sorry for what he had done.
It was a hard struggle for a person like me, to bring myself ever to look upon that Dick Farden with any pleasure again; for I declare the next morning when he came into the house, I thought I never saw such a nasty, low, vulgar, mean, sly, disreputable looking face in all my life, with his ringlets dangling at his temples, and which he seemed to be as proud of as a life-guardsman is of his moustachios; positively the man was always twiddling either them or his whiskers, and what on earth a fellow like him could ever have wanted with a couple of corkscrews at the side of his forehead is more than I can say; and, la! if they were not as greasy as though they had been twisted round tallow candles! It wasn’t only the fellow’s looks, too, that I had to complain of; but, drat the man! do what I would, I could never prevent him from going about the kitchen, or standing in the knife-house, whistling his “Jim Crows” and “Such a getting up stairs,” and a pack of other low, unmeaning “nigger” songs, that I’m sure I never could see either the fun or the beauty of. Again, if ever I gave him any of Edward’s clothes to brush, there he would be, hissing and fizzing away over them like a bottle of ginger beer in warm weather; and indeed it always was and ever will be a riddle to me what those boots and ostlers can want making all that fuss and noise over their work, as if they were slaving as hard as steam-engines, and obliged to let the steam off, for fear of bursting. I declare whenever I hear them doing it, I feel as if I could go up behind them and give them a good shaking, that I do. It’s nothing more than “great cry and little wool,” and that’s the plain truth of it.
I can assure the reader it would have been much better for me in the long-run, if I had packed the fellow out of the house immediately after the accident, (as indeed I was as near doing as two pins.) Only, of course, in my stupid, kind way, I must go letting my good-nature get the upper hand of my judgment, and endeavouring to read the gentleman a strong lesson, just to teach him how to lift a simple piano for the future, by making him pay a good part of his wages towards buying me a new one in the place of that which he had so wickedly broken. For I’ve always made it a rule to make my servants pay for breakages, as it’s all very fine for a parcel of wiseacres to tell you that we are every one of us liable to accidents, but my answer to such stuff as that, has always been, “Don’t tell me, I know a great deal better—and that servants, one and all, are never happy unless they can be knocking your things about like ninepins, and the only way to let them understand that they cost money, is to make them pay for what they ‘couldn’t help’ breaking.” (Couldn’t help it, couldn’t they—I never knew such couldn’t helps!) Besides, who ever heard of ladies banging the teacups and wineglasses about, as if they were made of cast iron, or pouring boiling water into your very best decanters as though they were foot-baths. Now look at me! why I’m sure that without exaggeration, the things I’ve broken in my time might be put in a nut-shell—but then I knew that they all cost money, and consequently, never was a “butter-fingers.”
However, to talk of another object; I’d been having a whole string of nasty little draggle-tail girls in to nurse my little Kitty for me of a day, but I declare they were all the very counterpart of that “La petite Saqui,” and as dirty and slovenly as dirty and slovenly could be—with their nasty, rusty little old shawl just thrown over their necks, and their cotton gowns with all the colour washed out, excepting where the tuck had been let down, and there it was bright enough, heaven knows! Upon my word, too, they were as careless of my poor little dear, as though it had been a doll made out of wood; and the worst of it was, they were all of them so sly and deceitful, and always kissing and fondling the little pet to my face, though directly my back was turned, they would go knocking it about, and eating up, like a set of greedy pigs, all the sugar I had given out for the angel’s pap. I declare to goodness gracious, whenever they took the child out for an airing, it was a perfect agony to me, for I used to sit upon pins and needles, expecting every knock that came to the door, would be my little cherub brought home on a shutter, and I should find out that it had either been run over, or dropped into the canal, or tossed by a mad bull, or something equally pleasant to a fond mother’s feelings. So I told Edward very quietly, that for the sake of a trumpery five-pound note a year, I wasn’t going to be torn to pieces in the manner I was every hour of my life; and that I had made up my mind to have a regular nurse, who, at least, would be some credit to the family, and on whom I could place some little dependence. Besides, I said with great truth, I was certain we should find a decent, clean woman would be a positive saving in the long run, if it was only in the matter of the baby’s washing—which really seemed to be an expense that there was no end to—for even if I were to put ten frocks on the little angel every day, I assured him it would be as grubby as a chimney-sweeper’s child, all the same; and as for the matter of eating, I would back a good strong growing girl, that’s out in the open air half her time, to get through twice as much, if not more, than a full-grown respectable woman, any day.
Accordingly, I set about looking out for a nurse, and as I had several times, when I had gone out to take a walk and look at the shops in Regent-street, noticed what seemed to me a very nice servants’ institution in Oxford-street, and although I had never tried anything of the kind before, still as I knew they professed a great deal, and made out that they were a great protection to housekeepers against fraud, and said a whole host of other grand things into the bargain—why, I thought I might as well just try that means of getting a servant for once—though I couldn’t help saying to myself at the time, “Fine words butter no parsnips,” but, for the matter of that, how any other kind of words could, was always a mystery to me. Besides, it is such an expense putting advertisement after advertisement in the Times, and certainly the “Institution” would save me a deal of trouble, as well as four or five rows of postage stamps, in writing, prepaid, to a whole regiment of A. B.’s, who, after all, might never suit you.
However, before I set about taking any steps towards suiting myself with a nurse, I made up my mind, that I would have a grass plot laid down in our garden at the back of our house, where the nurse could let the child roll about, and no harm could possibly come to it, as I should always have the little pet under my own eye, instead of being obliged to send it a quarter of a mile off at least, to that bothering Regent’s Park, where the soldiers and a parcel of other idle good-looking vagabonds made it quite as dangerous for the nurse as it was for the child. Besides, it wasn’t as if that garden of ours at the back of the house was of any use to us, and goodness knows if it wasn’t useful it wasn’t ornamental, to say the least of it! I declare it was almost a match for the plantation in Leicester-square, and mercy me! I never saw such a place as that is—with its grubby shrubbery, and its trees dingy—for all the world like so many worn-out birch brooms with an old tea-leaf or two sticking to the end of them—and that sooty statue on horseback perched up in the centre, and looking just like a coalheaver of the Dark Ages astride one of his master’s wagon-horses—for who else it can possibly be, no one can tell, and the only way to solve the mystery would be to have a chimney-sweeper in to sweep the gentleman, and then perhaps somebody might find out.
Upon my word, I do really believe that if there was a pin to choose between Leicester-square and our back garden, certainly the Square had the best of it. For the fact of it was, that stupid, though respected, mother of mine would go making me believe when first we came to our house, that the air up in our neighbourhood was pure enough to grow anything, and that with the ground we had at the back of us, we might very easily get enough vegetables to keep the family all the year round, adding, then we should be sure to have them so sweet, and fresh, and good. Sweet, and fresh, and good, indeed!—upon my word! the whole of our first year’s crop consisted of only about four nasty, smutty, two-penny-halfpenny cabbages, that must have cost us a matter of ten shillings a piece if they did a farthing—and they were all eaten away, and their leaves were as yellow and full of holes as the seat of a cane-bottomed chair; so that I began to find out, after we had been gardening away fit to kill ourselves, for I can’t say how long, that really and truly we were doing nothing more than keeping a small preserve of slugs, snails, and caterpillars. Do what I would, and slave as I might, I could not keep the filthy things away. Cupful after cupful have I taken off the plants of a morning, and yet the next day there they were again as thick as ever. I declare the better part of my day used to be occupied all through the summer, with looking after those plaguy greens, (which, water them as I would, I could not get to be anything equal in colour to the caterpillars that were always in them,) till, ’pon my word, my poor neck was as sunburnt as ginger.
As I couldn’t manage any cabbages I thought I’d try and raise a small crop of peas; but, bless you! then I was nearly driven out of my mind by those impudent vagabonds of birds, the London sparrows—and catch them letting any peas come up (even if they would) within five miles of the General Post-office. As for frightening them away, I declare they were as bold as brass, for if they don’t care for those mischievous monkeys of boys in the street, was it likely that they were to be intimidated by a respectable married woman like myself? Positively, I put up an old bonnet of mine on the end of a stick, which I should have thought would have scared even a philosopher off the premises—but, bless your heart! they only came and perched right on the crown of it, and chirped away as if they were comfortably at home in their nests in Red Lion-square. And just when my lovely peas were beginning to break ground and poke their nice little green heads up out of the earth, I have often gone out into the garden and found a hundred of the young feathered ogres hard at my beautiful Prussian blues, picking away, and making noise enough for an infant school; and though I’d go down to them, sh—sh—sh—, sh—ing away, and shaking my apron as hard as I could, I declare, it wasn’t until I got within arm’s-length of them, that the brazen-faced little chits would condescend to take the least notice of me, and then they’d only just hop up on the top of the wall, where they would stand, with their heads cocked on one side, and looking out at the corners of their eyes at me, and chirping away just as if they were saying, “Peas, peas, peas”—drat ’em!
Though, to be sure, I had this consolation—I wasn’t the only sufferer, for not one of the neighbours could do a bit better than I did—no, not even poor Mr. S—mm—ns, and he tried hard enough, goodness gracious knows! I declare he used to be out in the broiling hot sun all day, digging away in his shirt sleeves, until his poor bald-head used to look like the top of a beef-steak pudding—and, what for, I should like to know? just to raise, in the course of the year, as many radishes, and cauliflowers, and greens, and rhubard, as he might buy any fine morning in Covent Garden market for a mere sixpence, or a shilling at most. Though he tried his hardest to force a cucumber or two, under a broken ground-glass lamp shade, and spent a little fortune in manure, still the only one that came, of course, was nipped in the gherkin; and, notwithstanding some of his beds were covered with old tumblers, just for all the world like a sideboard, yet I’m sure I never could see the good of them, for his crop of lettuces wouldn’t have made more than one good-sized salad after all; while the gooseberry and currant bushes, that he went to the expense of having put all round his garden, never bore more than a pie and a small pudding in the best of seasons—and that not till the middle of November. In fact, I’ve made up my opinion long ago, that gardening in the suburbs of London is a wicked and wilful waste of time and money. Really and truly the whole atmosphere of the place is so dreadfully smokey, that, without joking, one might just as well try to rear cauliflowers all round the top of a steam-boat funnel, as to think of getting one’s vegetables out of a metropolitan hop-skip-and-a-jump kitchen garden. Vegetables for the family, indeed! “chickweed and groundsel for fine singing birds,” more likely.