The principal girl

by J. C. Snaith

The member for Blackhampton had to yield; and Mary was left in undisputed possession of her perambulator and its lusty occupants. And certainly, as she trundled the vehicle along the railings of the Row, she looked just about the nicest and proudest and happiest young mother in the metropolis. It is true that on one occasion when the proud father was accompanying the procession à cheval, one of England’s future duchesses gave the young mother and her perambulator a decidedly disdainful look as she passed them; and also that one of England’s future dukes looked very hard at them, and, moreover, turned round to stare after them, which was hardly what you would expect, and we hope you will pardon his grossly unducal behavior. Still, the provocation was great. Here was one of the mothers of the nation to which we are all proud to belong, whether we are Rags or whether we are Waggers, a simple, sensible, square-browed young matron, a picture of well-being, who, having given two noble kids to the world, was determined to look after ’em.

The young woman with the perambulator made a fascinating picture on these fine June mornings, along by the railings of the Row; and had it been painted by Rembrandt or Velasquez or some other old and respectable painter, a good deal of money might have been offered for it by cosmopolitan millionaires.

Indeed, the Young Woman with the Perambulator became rather a source of remark for some of the habitués of the thoroughfare. Elderly gentlemen with well-brushed side-whiskers, grandfathers all, remarked upon her to other elderly gentlemen. Sensible girl, they said, doing good to herself and to the nation at large, and setting an example to others. It was far better than leaving ’em to nursemaids and suchlike careless hussies. You know that they are all right when you have charge of them yourself.

It chanced one morning as the procession followed its accustomed course, with Philip near at hand, mounted on a quadruped that had turned out better as a hack than as a ’chaser, a distinguished personage came upon the scene in faultless morning attire. He was none other than Arminius Wingrove.

A man of such wisdom could not do less than stay to admire the Twins. For the life of him, though, he couldn’t say which side of the family they favored most. Walter Augustus, named after the misguided Grandpapa who had declined to attend the christening, had certainly the eyes of his mother; Philip Archibald had certainly the eyes of his mother also. The nose of Philip Archibald was, undoubtedly, that of his father; the nose of Walter Augustus was undoubtedly that of his father also; while as for the mouth, the mouth of both Walter Augustus and Philip Archibald was undoubtedly that of both parents. Still, it must not be thought that Walter Augustus and Philip Archibald had always to endure those imposing names. One was called Bow and the other was called Wow in domestic circles.

So unfeigned was the admiration of Arminius Wingrove that nothing would content him but that he should turn and accompany the procession as far as the Achilles statue. But before they were able to gain that desirable bourn, which itself commemorates a great moment in the life of the nation, yet one more historic incident was destined to occur. Alas, that its only commemoration is like to be these unworthy pages!

However, if the Board of Supererogation, evidences of whose romantic disposition are to be found all over our fair metropolis, really feels disposed to mark the precise spot where this historic episode came to pass, it may be said that it was exactly opposite the little kiosk for the sale of newspapers and other undesirable forms of literature which has been permitted to invade the chaste precincts of what was once considered the most exclusive spot in all London.

An elderly gentleman in a glossy silk hat, with well-brushed eyebrows and of a mien of generally composed importance, was debouching slowly yet all unknown into this historic episode. He was not looking very happy for all that he wore his habitual air of distinction. He was a Proconsul, and full many of the passers-by saluted him respectfully. But he did not seem in anywise the better for these manifestations of public regard.

If the truth must be told of this elderly gentleman, sorrow and envy were the occupants of his heart this lovely June morning, when even the metropolitan prospect was all that was fair and gracious. He was the most miserable grandfather in London, instead of being the proudest and happiest, as he certainly ought to have been.

In his stately progress he passed other grandfathers. They were walking with their sons and daughters, and with the sons and daughters of their sons and daughters, and looking immeasurably the better for the privilege. Surely, it was good to be a grandfather on this fine June morning. It seemed a perfectly honorable and rational and proper state of being.