‘Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son Page #2

"Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son" is a short story by Charles Dickens that humorously explores the themes of family, societal expectations, and the quirks of human nature. The narrative follows the character of Mrs. Meek, who encounters a comical array of events surrounding the birth of her son. Dickens employs his signature wit and keen observational skills to depict the eccentricities of the domestic life in Victorian England, revealing the interplay of joy, anxiety, and tradition that accompanies the arrival of a new child. Through engaging characters and vivid storytelling, the piece highlights the human experience in the face of change and the often absurd realities of parenthood.

• Short story

								

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 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.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes