The Baby enters in the nurse’s arms. All
rise and gather round the Baby with one exception,—Mr.
Gordon, who has ceased to be heir-at-law.
The Baby returned the gaze of its relations with the
most contemptuous indifference. Miss Sibyl was
the first to pronounce an opinion on the Baby’s
attributes. Said she, in a solemn whisper, “What
a heavenly mournful expression! it seems so grieved
to have left the angels!”
The Rev. John.—“That
is prettily said, Cousin Sibyl; but the infant must
pluck up its courage and fight its way among mortals
with a good heart, if it wants to get back to the
angels again. And I think it will; a fine child.”
He took it from the nurse, and moving it deliberately
up and down, as if to weigh it, said cheerfully, “Monstrous
heavy! by the time it is twenty it will be a match
for a prize-fighter of fifteen stone!”
Therewith he strode to Gordon, who as if to show that
he now considered himself wholly apart from all interest
in the affairs of a family who had so ill-treated
him in the birth of that Baby, had taken up the “Times”
newspaper and concealed his countenance beneath the
ample sheet. The Parson abruptly snatched away
the “Times” with one hand, and, with the
other substituting to the indignant eyes of the ci-devant
heir-at-law the spectacle of the Baby, said, “Kiss
it.”
“Kiss it!” echoed Chillingly Gordon, pushing
back his chair—“kiss it! pooh, sir,
stand off! I never kissed my own baby: I
shall not kiss another man’s. Take the
thing away, sir: it is ugly; it has black eyes.”
Sir Peter, who was near-sighted, put on his spectacles
and examined the face of the new-born. “True,”
said he, “it has black eyes,—very
extraordinary: portentous: the first Chillingly
that ever had black eyes.”
“Its mamma has black eyes,” said Miss
Margaret: “it takes after its mamma; it
has not the fair beauty of the Chillinglys, but it
is not ugly.”
“Sweet infant!” sighed Sibyl; “and
so good; does not cry.”
“It has neither cried nor crowed since it was
born,” said the nurse; “bless its little
heart.”
She took the Baby from the Parson’s arms, and
smoothed back the frill of its cap, which had got
ruffled.
“You may go now, Nurse,” said Sir Peter.
“I agree with Mr. Shandy,” said Sir
Peter, resuming his stand on the hearthstone, “that
among the responsibilities of a parent the choice
of the name which his child is to bear for life is
one of the gravest. And this is especially so
with those who belong to the order of baronets.
In the case of a peer his Christian name, fused into
his titular designation, disappears. In the case
of a Mister, if his baptismal be cacophonous or provocative
of ridicule, he need not ostentatiously parade it:
he may drop it altogether on his visiting cards, and
may be imprinted as Mr. Jones instead of Mr. Ebenezer
