We are introduced to Prudence Feral, Wet-Nurse extraordinaire, and your humble Author summarizes the current Controversy concerning Wet-Nursing versus maternal Breast Feeding, to which she appends some Views of her own, drawn from Experience (that greatest of all Teachers).
IN THE DAYS THAT follow’d, I liv’d betwixt Sleep and Wakefulness, trying to nurse my Babe whene’er her Infant Cries pierced the Darkness of my Dreams and she would feed. I’ll ne’er forget, if I live to be a Hundred, how your little Mouth latch’d on to my Nipple as if there were nothing upon this whole Earth but Mouth and Breast, and all the Dance of Life were simply the Motion of an Infant’s Lips, sucking, sucking, sucking!
O how strangely the Goddess hath arranged our Fates! Waken’d in the Night by the shrill Cry of an Infant, what Wrath and Resentment we feel to have our Rest thus interrupted. But then when we take the rosy Babe into our Arms—a sweet warm Weight, smelling faintly of Sweat and Urine—and we look down upon that pink drowsy Face, with Eyelids clos’d upon Rose-Petal Cheaks, the Wrath quite melts away. At length, when the little Creature attaches its tiny determin’d Mouth to our waiting Breast, we are wholly won o’er; and Mother and Babe become once more one Being, breathing in Tune with the Great Breath of the Universe, sucking the Sweetness at the Core of Life, with a Mouth whose Motions are not learnt but quite inborn, and strong as the Pulse of Nature itself.
I remember the first drowsy Days when my Breasts gave only the clearest Tear Drops of Fluid, and the Babe slept more than it wak’d, and wak’d only to uncurl itself like a little Bud and squall in Hunger, knotting up its whole Form in Pain. ’Twould latch on to my Breast like a Barnacle and suck for dear Life, until its whole Body eas’d and its Legs and Arms relaxt, and at length it fell asleep with the Nipple in its Mouth. Immediately its Head fell heavily to one side, the little Mouth lost hold of the Nipple, and you were lost in Sleep, my own Belinda, quite lost in Sleep. After three Days, white Streams of Milk began to flow from my Nipples, so that I might squeeze them and see the slender Threads of Milk squirt from them like tiny Moonbeams, or Spiders’ silken Threads, spun out of my Body to feed the Child so recently pluckt from within. I remember how my Nipples began to ache as Feeding Time drew near, and how your slightest Cry, or e’en the tender Thought of you, made my Breasts burst with Milk and three pearly white Droplets gather in a Stream at their Tips.
Quite suddenly, upon the tenth Day after the Birth, my Milk grew bitter and you would not take it. You would turn your little Head from the Nipple, crying, deforming your Face with Pain and Anger, so that the same Breast that had so recently comforted you, now made you weep quite inconsolably. How I, too, wept at this unhappy Occurrence and how my Breasts fill’d until they pain’d me and Milk leakt all o’er the Bed-Linen!
O what an unhappy Turn of Fate for one who had been so oft’ bereav’d—for a Newborn Babe speaks only to its Mother in Suckling, not in Words, and if this simple Speech be taken away, what Discourse is left betwixt ’em? ’Twas not the Fashion of that Day for High-born Women to nurse their own Babes; Suckling was thought to be quite low and bestial. Ne’ertheless, I went against the Fashion and attempted it—tho’ when my Milk turn’d bitter, Susannah herself confess’d to me that Isobel had warn’d her this might come to pass.
“The Bitter Herbs have sour’d yer Milk, I fear,” Susannah said. “’Tis not yer fault. Isobel warn’d o’ this an’ bid me fetch a Wet-Nurse fer the Babe, but ’twas yer Wish to suckle her yerself. Ah, Mistress Fanny, do not weep so….”
I wept and wept. The Babe’s turning from my Breast seem’d as bitter to me as all the Losses I had suffer’d in my Life. You were my only Kin upon this Earth and I wisht for nothing more than to suckle you for all Eternity.
What Solace ’tis to suckle one’s own Babe! Men of Fashion may argue against it; Ladies in Waiting may call it base and fit only for the Animals, but ’tis a Comfort for the Mother as much as the Child. For as the Child is eas’d of Pain and Hunger, so is the Mother fed as well. One takes by Giving, the other by Taking, gives; and by this Intercourse the two are blest. Feeding is a Comfort for the Feeder as much as for the Fed.
Ne’ertheless, the very Herbs that spar’d my Life embitter’d my Life-giving Milk; thus ’twas essential that a Wet-Nurse should be found and found upon the Instant. It took a Day and a Night to find the Nurse, and during all that Time I fear’d you’d starve to Death. Twenty-four Hours is an Eternity to a new-made Mother, when her Infant screams in Pain.
What a Profusion of Fluids is the Female Form! Milk, Tears, Blood—these are our Elements. We seem to be fore’er awash in Humours of divers Sorts. O we are made of Waters; we are like the Seas, teeming with Life of ev’ry Shape and Colour!
The Wet-Nurse came at last, both to my Relief and my Regret. Better a Wet-Nurse than a starving Babe. And the Nurse prov’d to be a stout Creature, with enormous hanging Breasts, a porcine Face with slitty Eyes behind iron Spectacles, the Hint of a Moustache ’neath her stubby Nose, and Lips as wet and red as Calves’ Liver. Her Hair was Mouse-brown, her Moustache the same Colour, and a large brown Wen adorn’d her right Cheak. Despite her unpleasing Appearance, Susannah and I were both so grateful for her Arrival (for the hungry Babe was fed and ceas’d at once to squall) that we should have thrown ourselves upon our Knees with Gratitude had she lookt like Medusa herself and threaten’d to turn us all to Stone.
Prudence Feral—for that was the Wet-Nurse’s Name—was the sort of Person who regarded Kindness and Friendship as but Excuses to dominate those who proffer’d ’em. Thus, seeing how reliev’d we were at her Arrival, she set out at once to put both me and Susannah in our Places.
The Daughter of a Curate, who claim’d herself the recent Widow of a Seaman lost at Sea, she said she’d buried her Infant Son not three Days past, and for that Cause and that Cause alone, was willing to take up Wet-nursing for a Time. Doubtless she hop’d to convince us that she was comfortably fixt and scarce needed the Money, but took this Place for Love of Babes alone—unlike the mercenary Wet-Nurses of Song and Story.
The Moment she establish’d herself in our House, she was full of Rules for the Babe, and e’en for me and Susannah. She’d eat nought but Mutton Chops, fresh Oysters, and fresh Goat’s Milk, she said, and she demanded that a Cook be hir’d to please her Palate. All these Conditions I acceded to—so anxious was I for my Belinda to survive and so well did I understand that the Nurse’s Nourishment augur’d the future Nourishment of the Child. (Isobel had said ’twas unlikely after my Ordeal that I’d bear another Babe, thus I was more than e’er determin’d to keep you alive—despite the thousands of Infants born only, it seem’d, to dye in that Dark Time.)
Prue took compleat Command of you, taking you into her own Chamber, locking the Door, and ne’er permitting us to see you except by special Dispensation. ’Twas like an Audience with the Pope of Rome! Had not Prue been quite in Love with Food, and, i’faith, rather a Glutton, we should ne’er have seen your Infant Face at all, so proprietary was she of your tiny Being. But all Day and all Night she crept with sneaky Feet into the Kitchen to fetch Cakes and Cups of Milk for herself; thus when her Stomach bade her go, I might creep into her Chamber and view your lovely Face.
Prue’s Nights and Days seem’d to fall into the same Pattern as those of a Newborn Child. She slept and ate, drank warm Milk and slept again—and all the while grew stouter. ’Twas a Form of Magick, perhaps, that as she grew, the Babe would grow as well; but, i’faith, she was more careful to feed herself than to feed the Child! She liv’d in that darken’d Chamber, with the Curtains drawn and the fusty Bed-Linens toss’d upon the Bed and the Fire burning always in the Grate, but no Candles at all in the Sconces. The Room began to smell of Urine and curdl’d Milk, whilst Prue went about her somnolent Life, to the Pantry and back again, to nurse, then back to Bed again.
Susannah and I would stare at the lockt Door of her Chamber, daring not to knock, lest Prue grow cross with us. The smallest Trifle seem’d to vex her; and vexatious Persons oft’ can be Household Tyrants.
“What? Yer Milk wasn’t rich enough?” she’d say when she talkt to me at all. Like all Wet-Nurses, ’twas not enough for her to suckle the Infant, she had to castigate the Mother as well! Likewise, would she criticize my Dress, make dire Predictions concerning my future Health, and mock my Views upon the Government of Children. For at the Time of your Birth, Belinda, some Nurses still swore by Swaddling (indeed ’tis still the Custom in much of Europe), whilst Parents of the more enlighten’d sort were beginning to speak out against that ancient Practice. Had not I interven’d, Prue would have had you swaddl’d up exactly like a Dutch Nine-Pin, with your Head (which should have been secure—owing to the Natural Weakness of an Infant’s Neck) loose and unprotected at the Top and bobbing about with ev’ry Shake, like one of those Niddle-Noddle Figures from Canton.
Swaddling I would not permit, since I believ’d e’en then, before the Learned Physicians began to argue against it, that a Babe must be free to move about. How I concluded this, I cannot say; ’twas my Natural Inclination, as was my strong Desire to feed you from my own Breasts. Nowadays the Pamphleteers prate of all these Things, but the Reign of George I was still a Dark Age, of sorts, and there were many Rakes and Men of Fashion who’d scarce permit their Wives the Pleasure of Nursing their own Progeny (for then the Father had no access to ’em, lest they become Enceinte and their Milk dry up).
Tender Parents oft’ seem’d a Rarity in those Times and many Nurslings were sent away to Regions far more dangerous and diseas’d than where the Parents dwelt. The Father said ’twas for the Country Air, but in Fact, ’twas for his own ease, both in having Access to his Wife, and in ne’er being awaken’d in the Night by a squalling Babe (or “Brat,” he would have said).
What occasion’d this Coldness towards Infants I cannot say, for e’en Mothers, having borne in Pain, oft’ assented gladly to the Custom, sending their Offspring to well-known “Killing Nurses,” who had the Reputation of overlaying Babes or starving ’em at Nurse. Perhaps ’twas because so many Infants dy’d before the Age of Five, and Parents were loath to grow too fond of ’em lest they be too oft’ bereav’d. ’Twas possible these Mothers reason’d that ’tis better to send the Child away if ’tis to dye anyway.
My own bitter Relations with my Step-Sister, Mary, were, in fact, owing to this regrettable Practice of Wet-nursing. She was sent out to nurse at Birth and kept away near three Years. When she return’d to find myself and Daniel there, usurping her Proper Place, she both wept for her Nurse (whom she now regarded as the Mother of her Heart) and was enraged to find herself replaced at Home. I’faith, as Lady Bellars told me later, ’twas Lord Bellars’ own Fault. For finding himself bitterly disappointed to be presented with a Daughter as his First-born, he banish’d her to a Wet-Nurse in the Country and would ne’er set Eyes upon her until, as he said, she’d reach’d “the Age of Reason.” That Age, alas, did she ne’er achieve. On the Contrary, this early Banishment so fill’d her Infant Heart with Spleen that, when she was restor’d amongst her Kin, she spent all her Days in thinking up Trials for her Mother and her Brother—but most especially for me.
Mary had been swaddl’d; I had not. Therefore, I would not permit you to be, but ’twas only thro’ the most repeated Arguments that I managed to keep Prue Feral from binding you up like a truss’d Capon. In the first Days of her Employment, she wrapp’d the Swaddling Bands around your tiny Body as tightly as she could—doubtless so that you might not move to trouble her. Nor did she oft’ inspect your Wrappings, lest she soil her delicate Fingers with Infant’s Ordure or Urine. This made me so enraged that I could scarce tolerate Prue’s Presence in our House one Moment longer, but Susannah stopp’d me from reprimanding her, reminding me of the Difficulty we’d had in finding a Wet-Nurse upon such short Notice. (For mark you, Belinda, the Accoucheurs were also the Purveyors of Wet-Nurses in London then, and no Accoucheur in Town would have Dealings with us after Dr. Smellie’s Reports concerning my Lying-in.)
“I will not permit my Child to be swaddled,” I said to Prue at last, unable to contain my Fury longer.
“Unwrap her yourself if you want her dead,” says she.
I lookt at her in amazement. “What is your Meaning?”
“I’ll not be to blame if the Child freezes to Death,” says Prue. “’Tis not my Fault.”
“And why should she freeze?” said I.
“Hmmmph,” says Prue, pursing her great Liver Lips and shaking her fat Jowls with stern Disapproval. “You know little enough of Babes, I’ll warrant.”
I doubted myself then, for ’twas true I knew almost nothing concerning Babes. I had only my own Natural Inclinations but no Proof. Alas, Nurses may tyrannize o’er new-made Mothers readily enough, for new-made Mothers doubt ev’rything and Babes cannot speak to tell their own Opinions.
Would the Babe freeze to Death unswaddl’d? Would she starve to Death from the Bitterness of her own Mother’s Milk? Would she imbibe the Nurse’s sour Disposition with the Nurse’s Milk? Would she think Prue Feral her Natural Mother instead of me? All these were Things I fretted o’er during those first Weeks after your Birth. O Astrologers and Men of Magick claim that a Woman upon the Verge of her Monthly Flow’rs hath Magical Pow’rs and can raise Spirits to do her Bidding—why then how much more puissant Magick must a new-made Mother possess! For truly the Process of Birth is a Crack betwixt the Earth and Sky, the Abyss betwixt the Sublunary and the Divine, the Shimm’ring Boundary betwixt Man and God, betwixt Woman and Goddess.
“Unswaddle her,” says I, raising myself straight and tall as I was able. “I take full Responsibility for the Consequences.”
Prue Feral made a sour Face (as she was wont to do) but ne’ertheless unwrapp’d your Swaddling Bands. I wept then to see your little Legs so redden’d by the constraining Linen, and your little Arms almost deform’d by their unwarranted Confinement. I sent the sour Mistress Prue to boil Water so that I might mix it with cold to prepare a Tub for you, and with my own Hands I bath’d your tiny Form.
As Prue purs’d her great Liver Lips, frown’d, and cluckt her Displeasure, I marvell’d at the Perfection of your own small Self: the ten pink Toes with their Nails the Colour of the Interior of a blushing Tropick Sea-Shell; the diminutive Pudendum so smooth and pink that ’twas impossible to believe ’twould e’er sprout Hairs. The mere Suggestion of Nipples turn’d inward upon themselves (as if in refusal to believe they’d e’er give Milk), the round Barrel Chest of the Infant, and the delectable diminutive Arse that invited its Mother’s Kiss.
How Prue frown’d when I kiss’d you there!
“You’ll send the Child straight to Hell,” says she, “with Pettin’ and Kissin’ like that.”
But I had won the Argument concerning Swaddling—at least for the nonce. I dress’d your tiny Form in a loose Shift of white Linen and gave you to your Nurse to feed once more upon her great hanging Breasts. And so she took you off to her Chamber and lockt the Door, appropriating you to herself again.
For my own part, I sat down at my Writing Bureau determin’d to compleat that Romance in the Manner of Mrs. Haywood which I’d begun at the Start of my Travail. Such a Romance might keep us all in Oysters, Goat’s Milk, and Mutton Chops when Lord Bellars’ Money and Jewels ran out and Creditors began to knock upon our Door. O there was Money in Novels if not lofty Reputation (since all the Criticks of the Age agreed that the Noble Epick was superior to the crass Novel and was, besides the Tragedy, the only Form to which Genius ought aspire).
But would Genius feed Prue Feral’s Appetites? Hardly! Therefore, I took my Quill in Hand and scribbl’d away. I had nam’d my imaginary Lovers Clotilda and Philidore, as I have said before, and penn’d an Epistle Dedicatory full of the most flatt’ring Panegyricks—yet vague enough, as such Panegyricks always are—to suit any Noble Lord, or e’en Lady, I might later choose to serve as Patron for my Work.
My first Romance! What might I write about? O I’d have Sailing Ships and Seraglios, Pyrates and Nabobs, Shipwrecks, Storms, Maroonings, Fortunes lost and found again, Fortunes gain’d and lost again—all told in highly overwrought “Secret” Letters, burning with sweetest Love, hottest Jealousy, and darkest Despair! ’Twould pay the Bills and keep Belinda and her Nurse and e’en Sweet Susannah; for I was the Head of a Family now and could scarce write Epicks upon Woman’s Lot to please myself, but must instead bow to the Fashion of the Day and write Romances in Mrs. Haywood’s high-flown Manner.
Thus I began to spin out an amusing Tale of Star-cross’d Lovers, compleat with swooning Virgins, rough-hewn Rakes, lustful Sea Captains, and ruin’d Courtiers. The Work went smoothly enough for a Time, since I was as able with my Pen as any Grub Street Scribbler, purveying their Romances, like so many Cups of rich, sweet Chocolate, to their greedy Readers. Sure, I was aware that the Novel itself was lookt upon as nought but an Inflamer of Dubious Passions in bor’d Ladies who should have tended instead to their Needles and Pray’r Books, but I reason’d to myself that the first Fruit of my Scribble (not counting all those Lit’ry Works I had committed to the Flames whilst still in Lord Bellars’ Keeping) should at least have a worthy End. Low as Novels were, compar’d to Lofty Epicks and Noble Tragedies, they were still, perhaps, better for the Soul than Whoring.
I wrote and wrote whilst Prudence rais’d my Babe. ’Twas hard enough to enter your Chamber, much less care for you myself—tho’ indeed I kept a watchful Eye upon Prue’s Comings and Goings. But as I wrote I was seiz’d with Sadness that I could not attend to you myself and I felt myself to be a cruel Mother for leaving my Babe to another’s Care. Alas! ’Twas the inevitable Consequence of my new-found Independence. I could not nurse you myself, nor could I depend upon any Person but myself to earn our Bread and keep us from the Workhouse. Where Lord Bellars had fled I did not know, nor indeed why, and Lancelot, for certain, was Worlds away by now. I had no Choyce but learn to play the Man—better indeed than any Man—since whom could I rely upon except myself?
Tired as I was after my Ordeal (and my Belly was still not properly heal’d) I applied myself to Work ne’ertheless. I forced myself to cover no less than ten Sheets of Foolscap per Day and upon each Saturday I play’d my own Amanuensis and transcrib’d the Week’s Writings into Fair Copy. ’Twas upon those dreaded Saturdays that my Doubts crept in, since the Mind and the Quill may Race along happily enough during Composition of the Work, but when one stops to copy out one’s Words, the very Slowness and Dullness of the Task makes one doubt all. Why was I writing of Philidore and Clotilda, thought I, instead of Lancelot and Fanny? Sure we were as Star-cross’d as any Lovers the World had e’er known! And yet ’twas not the Fashion of that Day to write one’s own Am’rous History. ’Twould be consider’d arrogant, e’en a bit mad, to presume that the Events transpiring in one’s own Heart were fit Matter for a Book.
Mrs. Haywood wrote Romances in the French Manner; Mr. Defoe wrote True Histories of Famous Criminals and Notorious Shipwrecks; whilst the French Romancers sent us Year after Year the passionate Productions of their Pens (which were as oft’ denounced by our noble English Criticks as they were gobbl’d up by our hungry English Readers). But no one made bold to write of her own Love Adventures unless ’twas for the Privacy of her Secret Diaries (to be read by her blushing Heirs).
Yet what a History ’twould make, thought I, if I should write of Lancelot and Fanny! Lancelot and Fanny were worth one hundred Philidores and Clotildas! Lancelot and Fanny were as delicate and fine in their tormented Love as Piramus and Thisbe or e’en Eloise and Abelard!
Oft’, whilst sitting at my Writing Bureau, I’d hear the muffl’d Cries of a Babe. Then, o’erflowing with Maternal Passions, I would run to the Door of Prue’s Chamber and timidly knock.
“’Tis nothing, Mistress Fanny,” came the reply. “Pray, do not discommode yourself.” Reluctantly, I’d return to my Scribblings, yet all the while, my Ears prickl’d with a Mother’s fierce Attentiveness. Clotilda and Philidore had only half my Heart; the other half and both my Ears belong’d to you.
Those Ears heard ev’ry Whimper of your Infant Voice and with each Whimper came horrifick Visions. Was Prudence swaddling you again, or was she starving you? No Matter how many Times I betook myself to her Chamber to enquire and was told “’Tis nothing,” I came back again. I imagin’d you torn to Pieces by Wild Beasts, or still’d in your Cries by mysterious Fevers. I imagin’d your Eyes pok’d out by Sticks or your tender little Feet us’d to stir up the Fire in the Grate. I had only to hear you Whimper once to rise and run to your Chamber; but always Prudence kept me out with her “’Tis nothing, nothing, nothing.”
The Weeks pass’d; I scribbl’d. As Philidore and Clotilda were captur’d by Pyrates, lost each other and found each other again, lost Riches and found ’em again, lost Children and found ’em again, lost Parents and found ’em again, you grew from a squalling red-faced Newborn Babe into a smooth, pink-featur’d Child of three Months old. When I could break into your forbidden Chamber to view you—usually when Prue was bathing you—I perceiv’d that your Face had taken on new Contours and you had begun to smile and coo and mimick Speech. O when you laugh’d, you threw your Arms and Legs into the Air with pure Delight and your entire Infant Form appear’d to laugh. Yet still, intermittently, I was bedevill’d by the Whimpers that came from your Chamber; and one Day, unable longer to contain myself, I knelt at Prue’s Keyhole and lookt in.
E’en now my Heart pounds and my Eyes fill with briny Tears to remember what I saw. Prue had you truss’d up again in the Swaddling Bands I had forbidden and she had hung you on a Peg upon the Wall whilst she greedily devour’d her Mutton Chops washt down with pure Goat’s Milk. As she slobber’d and wip’d her greasy Hands upon her greasy Smock, you let out a grievous Cry. Whereupon I saw (O with what disbelieving yet believing Eyes!) Prue take a linen Napkin from her Lap and clout your Infant Face! You squeal’d again, she clouted you again. I rose up from my Knees and beat my Fists upon the Door.
“’Tis nothing,” Prue said sweetly.
“Open at once!” I cried.
“’Tis nothing,” Prue said again.
“Open up or I’ll break down the Door,” I cried.
I heard slow, dragging Footsteps approach the Door, and finally ’twas open’d.
“How dare you strike my Child!” I shouted in a Rage.
“I ne’er did such a Thing,” said Prue.
“You lye! And you have swaddl’d her again against my Will.”
Prue lookt at me defiantly and said: “I merely try to save your Babe from Hell and this is all the Gratitude you show.”
I ran to you and took you in my Arms, unwrapp’d the Swaddling Bands, and kiss’d the Welts that Prue had made upon your Face. I rockt you in my Arms protectively. “Out! Out of my House this Instant!” I commanded Prue.
“Then let Belinda starve?” askt she. “For where will you find a Wet-Nurse upon the Instant?”
“Out of my House!” I cried.
“Very well, then,” said Prue with all Dignity. “I go and let the Infant starve.” She made a busy Pretence of gath’ring up her Clothes and Linens and pulling her Sea-Chest out from under the Bed.
Then I grew truly frighten’d, for ’twas true that I had no other Nurse for you, nor had I any Way to feed you myself.
“Pray stay,” I stammer’d, “for one Week longer whilst I find another Nurse. But this Door shall remain ajar and the Babe shall not be swaddl’d or I’ll box your Ears!”
“O thankee kindly, Mistress Fanny,” said Prue, wiping the Mutton Grease from her Moustache and falling to her Knees in Gratitude. Now that I had given her Notice, she immediately became obsequious and slavish. O I should have known such Conduct augur’d ill!