Now, as to the application hereof, every man must judge for himself; but of a verity it doth to me appear, that too many cooks will spoil any broth. And, while I speak of cookery, let me advise thee as to thy treatment of that which a departed wiseacre denominated the "worse than useless root." If, rejecting his advice, none but this fruit will content thee, let me counsel thee to follow my example—having well roasted my Murphy, I take him "_cum grano salis_." Now, touching other mundane matters, thou wilt herein find copious instructions, sage predictions, and wholesome advice, on which thou mayest surely rely, though I am no M.N.S., which can but mean Member of No Society.
CHRISTMAS PIECES. A SOLILOQUIAL CARE-ALL.
Here come December and the brats again! what pain! rushing like untamed kittens o'er a cataract. Tables turn'd, bottles broke, cups crack'd—All conspire to add to my distractions, to shew their skill in Christmas pieces, and in fractions.
How little dream'd I of the toil and trouble Which wait on those who dare to carry double! Why did I leave my life of singularity, In my excess of Christian love and charity? Too surely did I feel my courage falter At that sad step which led up to the altar. Since first I tied the matrimonial knot Each year has added to my luckless lot; I should not mind _one_ little babe, no more. But, _poínt du_ TWO, I don't want half a score; Yet still, in quick succession, lo! they rise, A pretty string of pains and penal-ties.
From schoolmasters abroad the yearly bills Run high among life's unsurmounted _hills_, And pretty hillocks are those things call'd extras, At doubling which they're all so ambidextrous; Forgetting still, which greatly grieves my bowels, To send back silver forks, or spoons, or towels. Last, but not least, are those uncivil wars, Poetic license calls domestic jars, And which I find, though far from nice or fickle, Without exception, yield the worst of pickle.
DECEMBER.—"THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT."
Mamma had kept the house in Duke Street for more than two years. I recollected some of the chairs and tables, from dear old Squiggle, and the bowl in which I had made that famous rum-punch, the evening she went away, which she and my sisters left untouched, and I was obliged to drink after they were gone; but that's not to the purpose.