—THEN reach me my breeches off the chair, said my father to
_Susannah._—There is not a moment’s time to dress you, Sir, cried
_Susannah_—the child is as black in the face as my——As your what? said
my father, for like all orators, he was a dear searcher into
comparisons.—Bless, me, Sir, said _Susannah_, the child’s in a fit.—And
where’s Mr. _Yorick?_—Never where he should be, said _Susannah_, but
his curate’s in the dressing-room, with the child upon his arm, waiting
for the name—and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as
captain _Shandy_ is the godfather, whether it should not be called
after him.
Were one sure, said my father to himself, scratching his eye-brow, that
the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother _Toby_
as not—and it would be a pity, in such a case, to throw away so great a
name as _Trismegistus_ upon him——but he may recover.
No, no,——said my father to _Susannah_, I’ll get up——There is no time,
cried _Susannah_, the child’s as black as my shoe. _Trismegistus_, said
my father——But stay—thou art a leaky vessel, _Susannah_, added my
father; canst thou carry _Trismegistus_ in thy head, the length of the
gallery without scattering?——Can I? cried _Susannah_, shutting the door
in a huff.——If she can, I’ll be shot, said my father, bouncing out of
bed in the dark, and groping for his breeches.
_Susannah_ ran with all speed along the gallery.
My father made all possible speed to find his breeches.
_Susannah_ got the start, and kept it—’Tis _Tris_—something, cried
_Susannah_—There is no christian-name in the world, said the curate,
beginning with _Tris_—but _Tristram._ Then ’tis _Tristram-gistus_,
quoth _Susannah._
——There is no _gistus_ to it, noodle!—’tis my own name, replied the
curate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the bason—_Tristram!_ said
he, &c. &c. &c. &c.—so _Tristram_ was I called, and _Tristram_ shall I
be to the day of my death.
My father followed _Susannah_, with his night-gown across his arm, with
nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a
single button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the
button-hole.
——She has not forgot the name, cried my father, half opening the
door?——No, no, said the curate, with a tone of intelligence.——And the
child is better, cried _Susannah._——And how does your mistress? As
well, said _Susannah_, as can be expected.—Pish! said my father, the
button of his breeches slipping out of the button-hole—So that whether
the interjection was levelled at _Susannah_, or the button-hole—whether
Pish was an interjection of contempt or an interjection of modesty, is
a doubt, and must be a doubt till I shall have time to write the three
following favourite chapters, that is, my chapter of _chamber-maids_,
my chapter of _pishes_, and my chapter of _button-holes._
All the light I am able to give the reader at present is this, that the
moment my father cried Pish! he whisk’d himself about—and with his
breeches held up by one hand, and his night-gown thrown across the arm
of the other, he turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than
he came.