Camperdown; or, News from our neighbourhood

by Mary Griffith

“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.