“I wish my dear Hassy,” said Mrs. Webb to her husband, “I do really wish
that we had a house of our own; I dislike to live at lodgings, it leaves
me so little to do. When my baby is dressed and your bureau is put in
order, I have nothing to do but to sew, no exercise at all; and as to
you, you read, read until you lose your colour and health. Now, if we
had a house to ourselves, you would have exercise enough in going to
market—(Heavens, Mr. Webb go to market!!)—and in one little odd notion
or other; and as to me, I should be as busy as a bee, and would scarcely
have time to sit down from morning till night.”
“My dear Winny,” said her husband, “I detest this mode of life as much
as you can do, I am even more anxious to leave these lodgings than you
are—and—I have several times lately been going to mention the subject to
you. I have weighed it over and over in my own mind for a long time, and
if you have no _material_ objection—(Here Mr. Webb refrained from
looking at his wife)—I should prefer, when we do move, to live in the
country.”
Now, this was precisely what Mrs. Webb disliked; she had for some time
been dreading that her husband would make a proposal of this kind, and
she had fortified herself well to meet it. She, too, as she thought, had
weighed the affair well, and all things being considered, her decision
was, that there was more real comfort for man, woman and child, in the
city than in the country. “When one comes to speak of horses, cows and
dogs,” said she one day to a friend, “why then the case is altered.
Keeping a horse at livery is an expensive thing, as Mr. Webb finds to
his cost, and milk from cows which are fed about a stable yard, is unfit
to drink. Dogs to be sure, nine cases in ten, are useless and worthless
animals, in any place; but they lead a life of misery in the city,
kicked and cuffed and half starved as they always are. If dogs must be
kept, the country is the best place for them too.”
Mr. Ahasuerus Webb was a gentleman born and bred; the peculiar cast of
his mind led him to study theology, and but for his timidity, for he
distrusted his own powers, he would have destined himself to the church.
His friends, however, thought there was a much stronger objection to his
taking orders than what arose from timidity or the absence of powerful
talent. Mr. Webb was one of the most diminutive of men—almost a
dwarf.—But was there ever a small man who felt conscious that he was
unable to achieve actions which belonged exclusively to those possessing
superior stature and strength?
Year after year, however, passed away in irresolution on his part in
choosing an occupation which might increase his income. He had no
employments but such as were the result of reading; and his friends at
length ceased to urge him to exertion, as there seemed every probability
that he would always remain single, having then attained his
twenty-eighth year.
But Mr. Webb at last fell in love and married; and the lady that he
selected, independently of the obligation which his marriage vows laid
him under, of loving her with the greatest tenderness, was entitled to
his utmost sympathy from another cause—she was even of smaller stature
than himself. She suited him therefore, in every particular but two,
which at the time of courtship seemed no difference at all; but which,
now that they had been man and wife for two years, seemed likely to
result in a very uncomfortable state of things. Mrs. Webb hated books,
and she detested the thoughts of living in the country; on the contrary,
Mr. Webb was a great reader, and was passionately fond of the country,
and of rural occupations.
“You are not very partial to the country, my dear Winny,” said he,
venturing to cast a look at his wife, whose tiny fingers were plying
like lightning over her work, while her cheeks were flushed with
agitation, “but if you will give up this small point.”
“Small point, Mr. Webb, do you call _that_ a small point which is so
very disagreeable to me? Nay,” said she, laughing, “if it be such a
_small_ point, why contend about it; do _you_ concede this small point
to me, and when it comes to one that you consider of greater magnitude,
why—exert your prerogative my dear.”
Mr. Webb looked grave and sighed; the little lady, although very fond of
her husband, was not disposed to yield, much as her husband’s sighs and
grave looks affected her. She continued to sew very fast, without
looking up for some time. At length, finding that his eyes were again
dropped on his book, and that he had resumed his tranquil manner, she
called his attention to the offer of a compromise. “Suppose my dear
Hassy, that we both give up a little? Do _you_ give up this small point
of living in the country, and I will live as frugally as I can in ever
so small a house in the city, that you may purchase books and keep the
horse—and—and—now my dear Hassy,” said she, drawing her chair nearer to
her husband and looking up to his face—“think of the very great point
lam going to give up for your small one—you shall have the naming of our
little girl!”
This was indeed a temptation, for Mr. Webb was of a romantic turn of
mind, and considered a good name as a thing of vital importance. His own
name, Ahasuerus, had been a source of much mortification to him; and
that of his wife, Winifred, was equally inharmonious and distasteful.
But Mrs. Webb had no romance about her; she called her husband’s horse
_Mush_, because the animal happened one day to run his nose into a
dishful of that article; and a fine handsome little terrier she called
Scratch, although her husband had named the one Orelio and the other
Bevis.
As to her own name, or that of her husband, she saw nothing disagreeable
in either of them; and could she have followed her own inclinations she
would have called her little girl Rachel. But, although thus indifferent
about names, which in general were thought old fashioned—such as
Margaret, Magdalen, Sarah and the like, yet she had an active dislike to
fanciful ones; Emily, Caroline and Matilda, had nothing notable or
thrifty in their character; they were novel names, and she hated novels.
Still less did she like those of Myrtilla, Flora, Narcissa; they
savoured too much of the country; she dreaded her husband’s tastes
either way.
If romances were uppermost at the time, then the first mentioned names
would be present to his imagination; and if her child were so
unfortunate as to get one of them, it might be the means of fastening a
lackadaisical character on her for life; she would never be fit for any
rational employment.
If, on the contrary, her husband had the country mania on him, then what
could she hope for but a Pastorella or a Daphne? What a milk and water
creature would this make of her child! For Mrs. Webb, too, in her way,
was of opinion that peculiar names gave a peculiar turn to character. In
either case, therefore, she was in a dilemma, and the baby, now three
months old, had no name.
Mr. Webb laid down his book at this unlooked-for offer of a compromise,
and was about to enter into a discussion concerning it, when a servant
announced a visiter. An elderly gentleman entered, at whose appearance
Mrs. Webb started up in great dismay and confusion. She hastily, and in
much trepidation, introduced the stranger as her uncle, Mr. Banks, her
mother’s only brother.
Mr. Banks, a rich planter, had just arrived from Jamaica, where his
principal estates lay. He had never seen Mr. Webb; and had now come to
pay his first visit. As Mrs. Webb was the only child of his only sister,
the old gentleman, in his way, had been very fond of her; yet, in spite
of this, and of his real goodness of heart, he could never see his niece
without laughing at her tiny little figure; and she was always called by
him, “the Little Fairy.” His only hope was, that she would either not
marry at all, or else choose a husband of ordinary size, that their
offspring might have a chance of looking as if they had not come from
fairy land. He had hardly got over the mirth of his niece’s marriage,
when he learned that her husband was as diminutive as herself; and his
impatience to see them together overcame his discretion. After making a
few purchases, as presents to the little couple, he posted immediately
to their lodgings.
“And so Winny,” said the old gentleman, after he had kissed his niece,
and had shaken hands with her husband, (without looking at him though)
“so, this is your—husband, and you have a baby too, they say; where is
it? cannot I see it? what is its name? tell the servant to bring it in.”
He could hardly restrain his impatience, so much did he want to see the
child of this diminutive couple; and when the maid brought it in,
dressed in its very best; its little cap, with pink bows; its little
sleeves, looped up with pink ribands; and its pretty little frock, all
stiff with delicate needlework, he was in an ecstasy of delight. He
snatched the child from the maid, and holding it from him, at arm’s
length, he laughed so loud and long that the poor child screamed with
fright.
He then drew the innocent, terrified little creature close to him to
take a nearer look; but no sooner had he examined its little features,
and had poised it in his arms, to ascertain its weight, than his
laughter was renewed with redoubled energy; and so little command had he
over himself, that if Mr. Webb, angrily enough, had not taken the child
from him, it must have fallen to the ground.
There seemed no end to the old gentleman’s mirth, when Mrs. Webb, unable
to contain herself any longer, indignantly exclaimed—“Uncle Banks, I
wonder at your coming here to insult us in this manner! What can make
you act in this strange unnatural way? You have hurt my husband’s
feelings; which, I can tell you, is more painful to me than if you had
insulted me alone.”
When the old gentleman could stop himself, he held out his arms as if he
still held the child—“Here, Winny,” said he, the tears of laughter
running down his cheeks—“here, take the baby; why don’t you take the
child, I say? I shall certainly let it fall.”
“Uncle Banks, if you would only come to your senses, you would know
that”—
“Hold your peace, Winny, and take the doll—the baby I mean.”
“You know well enough, uncle, that Mr. Webb took the child from you and
left the room. I could see that he was exceedingly hurt at”—
“What?” said the obdurate man—“what, did he actually take away the baby,
and I not miss it nor him either? Winny, I thought it was light, but I
did not dream it was so feathery that I could not tell whether I held it
or not—why I should have missed a down pincushion.”
Mrs. Webb burst into tears. This sobered the old man at once. “My dear
Winny,” said he, going suddenly to her, and kissing her cheek, “how
foolish it is in you to mind what your old uncle says or does in his
fun. Come, deary, do not cry any more, but save your eyes to look at the
pretty things I have brought you. Here, girl,” calling to a servant,
“tell those men to bring in that trunk.”
A large trunk was brought in, which he hastened to open; and it was not
in the nature of one so constituted as Mrs. Webb, to remain insensible
to the pleasure of examining such presents as her uncle had placed
before her. She forgot her vexation, and her eyes sparkled with delight
as the old gentleman, with much ostentatious parade, drew out each
valuable article. When he had, in this way, emptied the trunk, he asked
her if she had forgiven him for his laughter.
“Indeed, uncle Banks,” said she, “I am so used to your humour, that if I
alone were concerned, I should not mind it; but Mr. Webb feels such
things keenly, for he has a great deal of sensibility. I am sure,
however, that he will be delighted with the books—how elegantly they are
bound—and he will be more than pleased with this beautiful tea set of
silver. What a great help this is to our housekeeping; and all these
spoons too, and silver forks—Mr. Webb has a great fondness for silver
plate. I must call him in to thank you.”
“No don’t, Winny, don’t,” said her uncle, “I shall relapse, for I can
hardly help going at it fresh again when I think of his tiny, slender
little figure. Why don’t you send him in the country, to get a little
flesh on his little bones?”
Mrs. Webb reddened, but a look at the presents, as they lay on the
floor, kept her from replying; and finding him tolerably grave, she
thought it better for her husband to get accustomed to the coarse ways
of her uncle at once. She, therefore, went to him to prepare the way for
a better understanding. Mr. Webb, however, felt no willingness to be
under obligations to so vulgar a mind; but seeing his wife’s distress,
in consequence of his refusal to go into the room, and having, likewise,
a point to gain with her, he at length resolved to bear with the folly
of the old man, without showing his sense of the indignity.
It was some time before he made his appearance. Meantime Mrs. Webb had
been coaxing her uncle to behave with decency before her husband. “You
can but turn your back,” said she, “if you think you cannot refrain from
laughing; but if you knew how kind he is to me, and how much every body
respects him, you would not mind his size. You have no idea what an
excellent scholar he is. It is really cruel, my dear uncle, to make game
of what, by your mirth, you consider as a ludicrous affliction—a thing
which we neither of us have been instrumental in doing; and which we
would alter if we could. Do, dear sir, let him see what you really are—a
kind and affectionate man. I will give my husband a chair the moment he
comes in; he does not look so small when he sits.”
This last unlucky observation undid all that her previous conversation
had effected; and when Mr. Webb entered, the old man was in a roar of
laughter; and only one glance at the unfortunate man, as he came into
the room, increased it to such a degree, that he fairly rolled over the
floor.
In fact, a person of even more refinement, would have had his risible
faculties excited at the appearance which Mr. Webb made. Conscious of
his inferior size, and being now, for the first time, coarsely treated
in consequence of it, he had taken some pains to improve his figure. He
had on a long skirted coat and high heeled boots, with a hat of an
uncommonly high crown. His walk, as he entered, was constrained, and his
manner was formal. He was exceedingly provoked at the old gentleman’s
mirth; and nothing less than his wife’s distress could have induced him
to remain one moment in the room. But he _did_ stay, and he even helped
the silly old man to rise, who, through sheer weakness, was unable to
move from the floor.
When he had, in some measure, composed his features, he beckoned to his
niece, who stood looking very angrily at him; and, as she came near, he
mustered up resolution enough to restrain himself so that he could
articulate. He whispered in her ear, in a sort of hoarse giggle—“My dear
Winny—take off his hat, and get between us, while you coax him to look
at the things on the floor—the boots I do not mind—make him sit, Winny,
will you?—and then I shall not see his coat.”
Mrs. Webb could not, at length, help laughing herself; so she twitched
off the unfortunate hat, got a chair for her husband, and, after putting
a pile of books in his lap, she endeavoured to screen him from her
uncle’s view. In this way they all sat for a few minutes; the old
gentleman in a sort of convulsive titter, which he tried to disguise by
keeping a handkerchief close to his mouth. Mrs. Webb was then compelled
to leave the room on account of the poor little child, who could not
recover from its fright; but, as she was going out, she whispered to her
husband not to mind her uncle. “Laugh with him, my dear,” said she, “it
is the only way to stop him; but, above all, look at the beautiful
silver, and do not let his folly vex you. I will be back in a few
minutes.”
Mr. Banks behaved much better after his niece left the room; and he even
trusted his voice in making an apology. By degrees, poor Mr. Webb was
appeased; and, in looking at his dress, he could not but acknowledge
that he cut an exceedingly grotesque figure. He was, therefore, soon
disposed to bear with the oddity of his relation; and, in fact, to join
in his mirth, when the old gentleman put on his high crowned hat, by
mistake, for his own.
“Well, sir,” said he, “that hat, I must confess, is rather of the
tallest, and I can join you in your laugh. You may laugh at my slight,
small figure, and I will laugh at your robust one, and your red face,
for one is as fit a subject for mirth as the other.”
“You are very much mistaken,” said the old gentleman, rousing himself
suddenly. “You can see nothing at all to laugh at in me; for I am made
like most people—and—besides—I allow no man to laugh at me. This reminds
me, Mr. Webb, of the golden rule—I beg your pardon for my mirth; but,
really, the hat and coat, to say nothing of the boots, were too much for
me. But, my little man—hem—Mr. Webb, I mean, why do you not go into the
country and gather a little colour and flesh? You would look more like
a—hem—you would look as well again. Little Winny and the
little—doll—baby—would be the better for country air too.”
Mr. Webb, thoroughly good tempered, had long since smiled off his
chagrin, for he had a splendid edition of Shakspeare on his lap; and he
could not but think that the hint of the country might be of use to him.
He thought there was a possibility of drawing Mr. Banks over to his
scheme of living there; he, therefore, hastily explained his reasons for
being in town; and spoke of his regrets at not being able to live in the
country, both on his child’s account and his own. He finished by stating
his wife’s strong aversion to the plan, and of the impossibility of her
ever consenting to it.
“What income have you, my little—hem—Mr. Webb, I mean.”
“Why, sir, we have about six hundred dollars a year. Now I think that
sum, with my wife’s economy—and I have no expensive habits”—
“No, I’ll be sworn that your clothes won’t cost you much—nay,” said he,
on seeing the colour fly into Mr. Webb’s face, “let me have my joke, and
I’ll make you amends. In the first place, I will manage your wife, so
that she shall come into your plans. Winny always liked to have her own
way; and, as I helped to spoil her, when young, it is but fair that I
should endeavour to set things a little square now. And, to repay you
for bearing so well with an old man’s humour—which, considering how
little there is of you—nay, my boy—Mr. Webb, I mean, don’t look so
angry; I was only going to observe, that I might as well give you, in my
lifetime, what I should certainly leave you at my death. I mean a little
estate I have, called Oak Valley. It is just the very thing for two such
little—I mean two such agreeable young people.”
“I am much obliged to you for your kindness, sir, but it will be a
useless present; you forget your niece has a strong aversion to the
country.”
“What, Winny? Have I not told you to let me manage her; hush, there she
comes. I hope she has left the little doll—baby I mean—behind; two I can
stand, now that I am used to it, but a third would set me going again.
Well, Winny, your husband is not so much vexed at my laughter as you
are. I think him a good, pleasant tempered little—fellow. In short,
Winny, I begin to like him, he bears a joke so well. Now, a joke to me
is a great thing; and I shall be tempted, now that I find you in the
city, to remain here a year or two, and pitch my tent near you. If you
lived in the country I should not be able to enjoy your society, as I
never go there. But here, in the city, I could see you very often; and I
know two or three old fellows like myself, who would often come with me
to pay you an evening visit. You will soon get used to my jokes, eh, Mr.
Webb. You will not mind my laughing, Winny, when it comes to be a daily
thing?”
Mrs. Webb was struck dumb. What! to undergo the same torture daily? To
see her sensitive husband daily, hourly, exposed to such coarse insults
as he had been obliged to submit to during this day?—and before
strangers too, to be the butt of vulgar and unfeeling people?—It was too
much—nothing on earth could compensate for such an evil. She cast her
eye towards her husband, not doubting but that he was feeling precisely
as she did; but his back was towards her, and she could not learn how
this communication affected him. It would not do—that she knew at once;
she saw nothing but misery in having her uncle near them, and she
therefore determined to make an effort to prevent the threatened evil.
“My dear uncle,” said she, with much embarrassment, for she knew that
her husband was likewise interested in what she was saying,—“you would
no doubt be very kind to us, if we lived together in the city, which, on
many accounts, I should prefer to the country; but just before you came
in Mr. Webb had been expressing a strong desire to go in the
country—and—and—you know you, yourself, recommended our going—you
advised me to it, you know.”
“Yes, Winny, I told you that you had better send the little man—I mean
your little husband—in short, Winny, where is the use of your reddening
up to your temples every time I make a mistake? You must get used to it
if I live near you. I _must_ call your husband little, while I am near
him, and see that he is small. At my time of life people want indoor
amusement, and you three here, would be a great—no, a little help, to
wile away an hour or two in a rainy evening.”
This settled the matter with poor Mrs. Webb; not for worlds would she
put herself in the way of such an evil; she therefore, with much
pretended humility, disclaimed all right to decide on the question of
living in the town or country; she said that, like a prudent wife, she
meant to give up her own wishes to please her husband—that she was
certain of its being better for him and the child to be in pure air, and
now all that she should ask for this full compliance with his wishes
was, that she should have the privilege of naming their little girl.
“That is but fair, Winny,” said her uncle, “you have certainly the right
of naming little tiny as you choose. But stop—let me see—let _me_ give
the child a name; I will stand godfather to it, and, what is better, I
will act as a godfather should. I will settle a thousand dollars a year
on her, and will give _you_ a very pretty little farm—my Oak Valley
farm. Winny, you remember that farm.”
“You _shall_ have the naming of our little girl—remember Oak Valley!
yes, indeed I do; I can safely trust her name to you—my dear husband,
you can have no objection; you will give your consent, I hope.”
“Certainly,” said poor Mr. Webb, his mind misgiving him about the name,
as on looking at Mr. Banks, he saw his features announcing a new burst
of merriment—“I have no objection to a scripture name, and I would even
prefer Winnifred,”—casting a timid glance at the old humourist,—“to many
that I know.”
“Well, you both consent then, and will not retract—give me your word of
honour to let me name the child as I like, in case I settle a thousand
dollars a year upon her.” Mrs. Webb eagerly gave her word, and her
husband, after again expressing his entire willingness, once more hinted
that a plain scripture name was quite as agreeable to him now, as any
other.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Banks, “the thing is settled. I will now take my
leave and go to my lodgings. The deed for Oak Valley shall be made out
immediately, as shall the settlement on our little dolly—but, Winny,”
said he, casting a sly look at Mr. Webb—“you had better change your mind
and live in the city; your going so far off from me will drive me back
to Jamaica—what, you are determined? well, I must submit; but remember,
I must name dolly.” Saying this, he walked nimbly out of the house,
apparently unwilling to trust himself a minute longer in their sight.
In the course of the next day the deeds were sent to them by which the
estate of Oak Valley was secured to them, as was likewise a settlement
of one thousand dollars a year, which sum was for the use of the parents
until the child came of age. There was a letter accompanying the papers,
saying that he would tell them his mind concerning the name of the
child, meantime he had sent them each a present, which he hoped would do
away all past offences.
“Generous man,” said the enraptured Mrs. Webb, “I have no doubt but that
these two parcels, so carefully sealed, contain bank notes; here, my
dear, this one is directed to you—let him laugh, I only wish I may be
able to sleep this night under such a load of kindness. That farm of Oak
Valley, my dear, is a very excellent one—such pasturage, such fine
springs on it”—and while she was regaling herself with a recollection of
its many beauties and comforts, she was at the same time opening her
little packet, which was enveloped in fold after fold of paper, each one
carefully sealed. Mr. Webb was, however, in such a pleasing reverie,
that her words fell on his ear without his having any very distinct
notion of what she was saying, further than that they were harmonizing
with his feelings. As to his own packet, it remained untouched in his
hand.
“And then there is such a pretty river, navigable too for small craft,
running at the very foot of the farm; you can take——what a curious
conceit this is of Uncle Banks, what trouble he has given himself and me
to, in enclosing this money, for such I have no doubt it is, in so many
covers; I am afraid to tear them loose at once, lest I may tear the
notes—my dear, why do you not begin to open yours? I am sorry my poor
uncle does not like the country, for all things considered we might bear
with his fooleries—there, thank goodness, I have opened the last pa”——.
But what was her chagrin on finding that it contained the old story
book, “There was a little woman, as I’ve heard tell.”
Casting her quick eye towards her husband, she saw that his “eye was in
fine frenzy rolling,” and that he had been long past attending either to
her packet or his own; so, wishing to spare him the mortification which
she had just encountered, she gently took the unopened parcel from his
unresisting hand, and went quietly out of the room. She opened this
second parcel with much less ceremony than she did her own, cutting and
tearing through the numerous folds, and just as she expected, she saw a
book of the same size as the other, called, “There was a little man, and
he wooed a little maid.”
Indignation was the first effect, as she threw the books across the
room, but surprise and pleasure soon succeeded, for as the books dashed
against the wall, sundry bank notes fell out and were scattered on the
floor. On examination she found that the eccentric humourist had placed
a one hundred dollar bank note between every two leaves of each book.
“I know exactly, my dear Hassy,” said the now delighted wife, as she
rushed into the room, “I know what uncle Banks means by these handsome
presents—here is a thousand dollars for you and the same sum for me.
Your money is to purchase stock for the farm, and mine is to buy
furniture; was there ever any one so generous!—laugh? who cares for his
laughter and his odd ways, when he atones for them in such a handsome
manner as this? Here, my dear, put the money carefully away, while I
pick up these foolish bits of paper.”
She raised herself from her stooping posture on hearing her husband
sigh. “What, upon earth, my dear Hassy, is the matter with you?” said
she, in great alarm, for she feared that this sudden accession of wealth
had disturbed his brain, particularly as her own was in a whirl. She
recollected, too, at the moment, that Mr. Webb had read some
observations of Dr. Burroughs on the subject of insanity, which went to
prove that there were more frequently cases of aberration of mind from a
rise to sudden prosperity, than from adversity. “What can ail you?
surely you are not one of those weak minded persons who cannot bear a
sudden turn of good fortune?”
“My dear Winny,” said her husband, in the most rueful tone imaginable,
“I am not thinking in the least of the money, nor of the farm, but of
the probability of our child’s having a preposterous name.”
Mrs. Webb fairly laughed aloud. “Is that all?” said she. “Why, my dear
Hassy, I would not care if she were called Nebuchadnezzar—provided she
were a boy—fret about a name! Why, cannot we make a pleasant
abbreviation of it in case it be an ugly one? But my uncle is an old
fashioned man, and I apprehend nothing worse than Jerusha, or Kezia, or
Margaret.”
“I hope it may be so, Winny, but I fear that you are too sanguine; I
dread to hear the name—nothing can compensate me if the name be a
ridiculous one.”
After breakfast the next morning a note was brought from Mr. Banks,
bidding them farewell, saying that urgent business called him
immediately to Jamaica. He said that he had dwelt with much anxiety on
the subject of selecting a suitable name for their baby, and after
discarding a number of them he had at length pitched on one that he
thought would suit all parties; that it was a little of the longest, to
be sure, but then this fault was made up in its dignity. The child, he
said, should be called Glumdalclitch.
Any one would have pitied the poor little couple if they could have seen
the consternation which this billet produced.
“I never will consent to this,” said Mr. Webb, as soon as his anger and
shame would allow him to speak—“never shall my child reproach me with
fastening such a ridiculous name upon her. I will write this instant to
your uncle and refuse to accept any of his gifts on such disgraceful
conditions. No, no, my dear Winny, we are—_I_, at least, am mark enough
for ridicule, but this is a thing which I have learned to bear, as it
has been our Creator’s will to make me as I am; but to name our child in
such fantastic fashion, would be indeed to invite both scorn and
laughter.”
But prudent Mrs. Webb had cooled in proportion as her husband was
excited. She had felt a good deal mortified at first at the outlandish
name; but during the indignant burst of feeling of her husband, she
began to think that Glumdalclitch, although harsh and difficult to
pronounce, might have a short and pleasant abridgment, at any rate there
was no prohibition to a double name.
Clearing up as this passed through her mind, she then turned to give her
husband what comfort she could; for little refinement as she had in
general, she still could comprehend the morbid sensibilities of those
she loved. How few men there are who know how to appreciate the sympathy
of a prudent, tender wife! Mr. Webb understood the excellence of the
woman who now stood with affectionate earnestness before him, and before
she had talked the matter over the _third_ time—in her vague yet
decisive way—he had recovered his equanimity. Happy to perceive that he
had resumed his quiet manner again, Mrs. Webb continued,
“One thousand dollars a year may easily compensate for an ugly name; and
even if we do not choose to give the child a middle name, which is
optional with us, she will not have to be called by her Christian name
long; for after a girl is in her teens, she gets the title of her
surname. She will be called Miss Webb, you know. Perhaps, after all, my
dear, this name which is so disagreeable to us, may not be thought ugly
by some people.”
“Ugly,” said her husband, “do you know what this name means?—but no—I
heard you say the other day that you had never read Gulliver’s Travels,
my dear Winny,” blushing deeply as he said it—“Glumdalclitch is the name
of a giantess!”
“Well, this comes of so much reading; I bless my want of taste that way;
it is enough to make one forswear books; never reproach me again for my
indifference towards them. I am sure I wish Mr. Gulliver had staid at
home, if he could have communicated nothing better than such a hideous
name. But where is the use of fretting? since it is so, we must make the
best of it, and then you know we need not call the name out in full; you
never call me Winnifred, nor do I call you Ahasuerus. Let us shorten the
name to Glummy—no? Well, how would Clitchy sound—you don’t like that.
Let us shorten it to Dally, that I know will please you, for it is the
name of a flower.”
“How often Winny,” said her fretted husband, “have I told you that the
flower is called Dahlia;” suspending for a moment his right to feel
indignant and irritable, to do justice to the pronunciation of the name
of a flower.
“Dahlia is it? well, that is the way an Irishman would call Delia. Let
us call her Delia then, it is a pretty pastoral name;” and as she said
this, she cast a side glance at her husband.
After this, and other conversations of the kind, they agreed to give the
child this uncouth name, for the charm of living in the country was
hourly growing more captivating to Mr. Webb, and Mrs. Webb had a great
reverence for a thousand dollars a year. Besides, the misery of living
where they would daily be subject to the coarse mirth of her uncle, when
he made his regular visits to the city, which he had until of late
years, been always in the habit of doing, was becoming more and more
apparent. She even with more alacrity than one could expect, set about
making preparations for her departure to Oak Valley.
“This is all very hard upon you, my dear wife,” said Mr. Webb to her one
day when he saw how cheerfully she was preparing for their removal;
“this is worse for you than for me. With the _one_ part, at least, I am
more than gratified, whereas your feelings and taste have not been
consulted at all. You have neither the satisfaction of living where you
like best, nor the pleasure of having a decent name for your child.”
“But I have the pleasure of knowing that my little girl will have a
handsome independence—and do you think, my dear Hassy, that it is no
gratification to me to see that our going to the country is an event of
great importance to your health and happiness?”
“My dearest Winny,” said her tender-hearted, conscience-stricken
husband, “I do not deserve this goodness. I cannot enjoy the thought of
going into the country, unless I tell you how it has been brought about.
You were manœuvred into this scheme, my dear wife; and I here declare,
that much as I wish to leave the city, you shall yet remain if you wish
it. Your uncle had no intention of living near us, if we remained here;
he was eager to get us all into the country, on the score of our health,
and he made use of this stratagem to induce you to consent to it. Now
that I have told you the truth, pray do as you like best; but with
respect to the settlement on our child, much as I dislike the name, I
fear she would not thank us if we gave that up for a thing of such
little consequence. Giving up the farm,” continued he, sighing deeply,
“is another affair.”
“Yes,” said his wife laughing, “I see it is, and it would be a worse
affair if you knew what a sweet spot Oak Valley is; but here is this
money, this two thousand dollars—would you think it right to return this
too,—my part of it I need not return, for I am persuaded it was to
purchase furniture, which will suit me either for a town or a country
house. Your’s was no doubt, for purchasing stock for the farm; if we
live in the city we can have no pretence for keeping that part of it.”
But Mr. Webb did not like this view of the business at all, and he was
besides getting quite uneasy, notwithstanding his late compunctious
feelings, lest his wife should take him at his word, and remain where
she was.
Strange perplexities for these little people, but money always brings as
much pain as pleasure. Mrs. Webb had, however, accommodated herself
wonderfully to circumstances; she generally looked on the sunny side of
a question, and she had, by working it over in her mind early and late,
viewing it in every possible shape, fairly brought herself to think,
that all things considered (this was a favourite expression of hers)
farm, income, money and health, and, though last not least, the pleasure
of obliging her husband; and if it must be told, the _hold_ she would
have on him for this double disappointment of hers—the plan of living in
the country would be the very best thing for them all.
The spring opened delightfully, and the farm was to be ready for them in
a few days; but Mr. Webb, wishing to make the removal as pleasant as
possible, could not bear to let his wife go until every thing was
tolerably well arranged in their new house. He proposed, therefore, that
she and the child should go to see a relation of his who had never yet
seen her, and who had several times given her pressing invitations to
pay her a visit. The rooms they occupied at present had been let, and
new boarders were to take possession of them immediately.
But Mrs. Webb strongly objected to this plan—“My dear Hassy,” said she,
“no fear of my fatiguing myself or of taking cold. I shall remain
quietly in my room until the carpets are down and the furniture
unpacked. You will never catch me paying a visit to a near relation in
the spring of the year, unless there be other guests there at the same
time; I have seen too much of that.”
“But why,” said Mr. Webb, “why in the spring of the year more than in
any other season?”
“Because, then you are treated most scandalously. In the first place,
they begin with—a constrained smile on their face all the while—I am
very sorry that you have come just at this time, not sorry on our
account, but on your own; we are pulling every thing to pieces to
commence house cleaning. Our best bed-room, which you ought to have, is
all upside down; you will have to take the third story—and such a room,
my dear Hassy—you can have no idea of it; I shudder when I think of
exposing my baby to it. Perhaps it has been a nursery or neglected
school room; spots of ink and grease cover the floor, great black knots
show themselves, and the unseasoned boards gape wide. Three odd chairs,
a half circular wooden toilet table without a cover, and a slim-posted,
ricketty bedstead, with a feather bed scantily filled, and which still
more scantily covers the bedstead—happy if it have a sacking instead of
a rope bottom—coarse patched sheets, darned pillow cases, an old
heirloom blue chequered counterpane, a broken wash basin on a little
foot-square tottering table, and a blurred looking glass, complete the
furniture of this cold north room. I shall say nothing of ‘the hearth
unconscious of a fire,’ nor of the long deep cracks in the coarse
whitewashed walls, nor of the rattling of the window sashes.”
“What a picture you have drawn, Winny! you speak very feelingly; have
you ever been compelled to sleep in such a room? But what sort of fare
do you receive under such circumstances?”
“Oh, the worst in the world; when it is meal time, then you hear this,
or something like it: ‘How unfortunate to come at this unpropitious
season? it is so uncomfortable for you; no vegetables, but old potatoes;
no salad yet; all our hams gone; nothing but shoulders; and the hens are
so backward this spring.’—No, no, my dear Hassy, unless there be
visiters of some consequence in the house, never go near a relation in
the spring of the year; I mean, if they live in the country. There is no
exertion made to gratify your taste or your palate; a more forlorn state
of things cannot be imagined. Now in June, or July, you may, on the
score of your being a near relation, which is always a justifiable
excuse, be ushered up in that comfortless north room; but then coolness
and shade is not unpleasant—there are strawberries and blackberries, in
their season, along the hedges and meadows, if none are to be had in the
garden—then there are fresh milch cows, and the hens cannot help laying
if they would—new potatoes come in plenty, and dock and pigweed grow
without culture. I would rather have them than spinach at any time;
buttermilk too can be had for asking; and you can rove about uncared for
and unheeded, which I can tell you is as great a luxury when you are in
the country, as to eat fresh eggs and breathe fresh air.”
Mr. Webb was exceedingly amused with this description, and as his wife
did not seem to consider it an evil to go to an unaired house, he did
not think it prudent to make her think it one. Her pliant,
well-regulated mind soon enabled her to overcome her dislike to country
occupations; and even to exult in her achievement in the way of making
butter and cheese, and she soon excelled in raising poultry—three things
which formerly belonged to female management alone. Now, however, in
these wonder-working days, so ravenous are men for monopolies and for
experimentalizing, that they have encroached on privileges, which even
the old taskmasters of the female sex unreluctantly yielded to them.
Mrs. Webb, although of slender figure, and small in size, had a mind as
active and as comprehensive, a temper as irritable, and was as bold an
asserter of her own rights, as the stoutest of her sex. She soon
regulated her household in a quiet, economical way, and had none but
female servants within doors; detesting, as well she might, the
appearance of a stale, heavy-looking, half-dirty man about the room,
doing woman’s work, when he should be out of doors with a spade or a
hoe.
What a bower did the happy Mr. Webb make of Oak Valley! Such a profusion
of sweet-scented shrubs and flowers had never before been seen in the
neighbourhood. Fruit trees soon made their appearance; and their crops
of grain and grass were abundant and good. But what his wife most
admired was, the regular supply of wood which he provided for the
house—nicely cut and piled; a thing generally less attended to, and the
cause of more vexatious disputes between the farmer and his wife than
any other part of their arrangements. All things, therefore, considered,
which Mrs. Webb was still in the habit of saying, “it really was
preferable to live on such a pleasant, well regulated farm than in a
narrow street or at lodgings.”
Then there was so much speculation about the right breed of cows and
poultry. Mr. Webb first inclined to long-horns, then to short-horns; but
Mrs. Webb cut the matter short by declaring for no horns; and to this
day they have from ten to fifteen of these meek, subdued animals, so fat
that they could not do much in the way of running from a cross cur if
any such should attack them.
She had her own way, too, with the poultry. She soon banished the
coarse, long-legged Buck’s county fowls, with their uncouth looking
bodies. She said their tread was almost as heavy as a young colt’s; and,
really, when she pointed to a dozen of them which were _picking_ their
way over a strawberry bed, her husband submitted in silence to the order
given to the farmer, to prepare them for market. “And, David,” said Mrs.
Webb, after the man had chased the fowls from the garden, “see what
prospect there is of selling off our stock of Bantoms. It takes twenty
of their eggs to make a pudding, and they lay no more eggs a day than
other hens—and, David, when you return from Wicklowe, cross over to
neighbour Haywood’s, and see what he will take for two or three pair of
those old fashioned kind of hens—those full, broad breasted, pale
speckled ones; sometimes a dingy yellow and sometimes brown and gray,
with large spreading tails. Those are the only kind. But above all,
David, see that they have _flesh coloured_ legs; they fatten well; those
with yellow or black legs are not worth raising—strange that people are
so inattentive to such important matters.”
Sixteen years passed away, and time, as the little lady said, seemed to
fly with them; every thing prospered. Mr. Banks, to their great
surprise, never came near them. He contented himself with sending them a
yearly present; and heard of the birth of each succeeding child with a
fresh burst of merriment. Their children, all girls, were six in number;
and their income was now about three thousand dollars a year.
Mr. Webb, in the most peaceable, unaccountable manner, had been allowed
the pleasure of naming four of his children. Perhaps—for woman’s
tenderness _will_ sometimes increase—perhaps she felt for his first
disappointment; and, as it rose out of the caprice of a relative of her
own, she determined on remaining quiet, only resolving to interfere if
an outrageously romantic name presented itself to his imagination.
The first child literally had no name until the birth of the second;
then, as the “child,” or the “baby” could no longer distinguish it, they
took it to the font and had it christened. The clergyman, old Mr.
Saxeweld, was then a stranger to them, for through very shame they would
not apply to their own pastor. He did not rightly understand what Mr.
Webb said, when he demanded the name of the child, for he never, for a
moment, dreamed of Gulliver. He asked over and over again, and still the
sound of Glumdalclitch came to his ear. “Is it a French name?” said he,
looking angrily at Mrs. Webb, who, nothing disconcerted by all this
hubbub about the name, was enjoying the triumph which she should have
over her husband when she got home, in telling him that there was one
other person in the world beside herself who had not read Gulliver’s
Travels.
Mr. Webb was ready to sink in the earth; he felt that he could at that
moment renounce the world and all its vanities, as well as the child’s
income, which had caused all this disgrace.
“I presume,” said Mr. Saxeweld, willing to put an end to the scene, “I
presume it is a French name. Colombe—what?” But Mr. Webb was past
appeal; he felt a hollow ringing in his ears; and, in time to save him
from fainting, the child was christened Colombe.
The clergyman, a testy old man, was so provoked at what he thought
stupidity in the father of the child, that he felt disposed to rebuke
him; and when poor Mr. Webb turned to him, as he was leaving the church,
to offer him the accustomed fee, he not only refused it, but broke out
in this way—“Never come to _me_ again; you, with a name bigger than your
whole body; and which is too long for your mouth to utter. If it had not
been for my knowledge of French, I should have christened your child
Glumdalclitch, and it would have been serving you right if I had.”
After Colombe came Flora, then Rosa, then Imogen, then Christabelle;
and, when the sixth was old enough for baptism, while Mr. Webb was
deciding between Diana and Lilius, Mrs. Webb went to church during a
week-day service, with a friend, and came home in triumph, with the only
Christian name, as she said, in the family—it was Rebecca. Mr. Webb
thanked his stars that it was no worse.
Old Mr. Banks made no other remarks, when he heard of the mistake in the
child’s name, than that the income should now be divided between the
children, as at the time he did not imagine that the little girl would
ever have any rivals. When the little Rebecca was about two years old,
the old gentleman took it into his head to pay the tiny family a visit,
to see how they all looked together.
Early, one fine spring morning, he made his appearance at Oak Valley,
accompanied by Stephen Haywood, with whose father he had long been
acquainted. While on the way to the farm, he entertained our young
friend Stephen with an account of his first interview with the little
couple and their tiny little child. “How I shall stand it now,” said he,
“I cannot tell; but I am sixteen years older, and a man of eighty has
nearly expended all his laughter. It is high time, I think.”
Young Haywood, who, although not introduced to the family at that time,
yet knew them well, from report, could not help smiling; but the old
gentleman’s attention was soon directed to the neatness and order of the
farm; and, when Stephen asked him if he had an idea that the children
were all as small as their parents, he could scarcely answer.
“Assuredly they are; why, if any one of the six had been but an inch
taller than themselves, they would have sent an express to me at
Jamaica.”
A servant came to the door, and Mr. Banks asked eagerly, if Mr. and Mrs.
Webb and the six little children were at home. The girl stared, but
replied that Mr. and Mrs. Webb, and some of the children, were in the
garden, and some of the younger ones were in the nursery; but that Miss
Webb, the eldest daughter, was in the parlour. “Show me in, show me in,”
said he; and into the room he nimbly stepped, winking aside to young
Haywood, to express his glee. He seemed quite disappointed at seeing
only a middle sized young lady sitting there. She arose on the old
gentleman’s precipitate entrance, while he exclaimed, “I thought to find
one of Mr. Webb’s tiny little children here.”
“I am Mr. Webb’s eldest daughter,” said the young lady, blushing, “my
parents will be in presently—will you sit down?” and she presented each
gentleman with a chair.
Never was man more amazed—this young lady his little niece’s
daughter?—he certainly saw a likeness; but it was altogether a puzzle.
At length he roused himself to say, “Why did not your mother write me
word that they had a child as tall as you are? What is your name? Oh,—I
remember—Colombe. It is a foolish name enough; but it might have been
worse. Never mind, my dear, I will make you amends for your French name;
better though than—but no matter; let me introduce you to Mr. Stephen
Haywood.”
Just then the door opened, and his niece, with her husband, and the five
children, made their appearance. But if Mr. Banks was amazed at seeing
the respectable height of the eldest daughter, how much more so was he
when he saw that there was not one of the diminutive stature of the
parents. Even the youngest, a rosy little girl, just beginning to walk,
bade fair to be as tall as her sisters.
Mrs. Webb enjoyed her uncle’s amazement; not without suspicion, however,
that he was disappointed at bottom, because there were no dwarfs among
them. But in a short time, the old gentleman’s good-natured eye
glistened at the pictures of health, order and obedience of the
children, and at the improved looks of the parents. He did not laugh
once during his visit, which was of a week’s duration; and when he left
them, he had the satisfaction of seeing that Stephen Haywood was
following his advice; which was, to fall in love with his pretty pigeon
as fast as possible.