But, as people have observed before, there is a mutability in human affairs. It was at the finale of the eleventh year of their marriage that Mrs Easy at first complained that she could not enjoy her breakfast. Mrs Easy had her own suspicions, everybody else considered it past doubt, all except Mr Easy; he little “thought, good easy man, that his greatness was ripening;” he had decided that to have an heir was no Easy task, and it never came into his calculations, that there could be a change in his wife’s figure. You might have added to it, subtracted from it, divided it, or multiplied it, but as it was a zero, the result would be always the same. Mrs Easy also was not quite sure—she believed it might be the case, there was no saying; it might be a mistake, like that of Mrs Trunnion’s in the novel, and, therefore, she said nothing to her husband about the matter. At last Mr Easy opened his eyes, and when, upon interrogating his wife, he found out the astounding truth, he opened his eyes still wider, and then he snapped his fingers and danced, like a bear upon hot plates, with delight, thereby proving that different causes may produce similar effects in two instances at one and the same time. The bear dances from pain, Mr Easy from pleasure; and again, when we are indifferent, or do not care for anything, we snap our fingers at it, and when we are overjoyed, and obtain what we most care for, we also snap our fingers. Two months after Mr Easy snapped his fingers, Mrs Easy felt no inclination to snap hers, either from indifference or pleasure. The fact was, that Mrs Easy’s time was come, to undergo what Shakespeare pronounces “the pleasing punishment that women bear;” but Mrs Easy, like the rest of her sex, declared “that all men were liars,” and most particularly poets.
But while Mrs Easy was suffering, Mr Easy was in ecstasies. He laughed at pain, as all philosophers do when it is suffered by other people, and not by themselves.
In due course of time, Mrs Easy presented her husband with a fine boy, whom we present to the public as our hero.
In which Mrs Easy, as usual, has her own way.
IT WAS the fourth day after Mrs Easy’s confinement that Mr Easy, who was sitting by her bedside in an easy chair, commenced as follows: “I have been thinking, my dear Mrs Easy, about the name I shall give this child.”
“Name, Mr Easy! why, what name should you give it but your own?”
“Not so, my dear,” replied Mr Easy; “they call all names proper names, but I think that mine is not. It is the very worst name in the calendar.”
“Why, what’s the matter with it, Mr Easy?”
“The matter affects me as well as the boy. Nicodemus is a long name to write at full length, and Nick is vulgar. Besides, as there will be two Nicks, they will naturally call my boy young Nick, and of course I shall be styled old Nick, which will be diabolical.”
“Well, Mr Easy, at all events then let me choose the name.”
“That you shall, my dear, and it was with this view that I have mentioned the subject so early.”
“I think, Mr Easy, I will call the boy after my poor father—his name shall be Robert.”
“Very well, my dear, if you wish it, it shall be Robert. You shall have your own way. But I think, my dear, upon a little consideration, you will acknowledge that there is a decided objection.”
“An objection, Mr Easy?”
“Yes, my dear; Robert may be very well, but you must reflect upon the consequences; he is certain to be called Bob.”
“Well, my dear, and suppose they do call him Bob?”
“I cannot bear even the supposition, my dear. You forget the county in which we are residing, the downs covered with sheep.”
“Why, Mr Easy, what can sheep have to do with a Christian name?”
“There it is; women never look to consequences. My dear, they have a great deal to do with the name of Bob. I will appeal to any farmer in the county, if ninety-nine shepherds’ dogs out of one hundred are not called Bob. Now observe, your child is out of doors somewhere in the fields or plantations; you want and you call him. Instead of your child, what do you find? Why, a dozen curs at least, who come running up to you, all answering to the name of Bob, and wagging their stumps of tails. You see Mrs Easy, it is a dilemma not to be got over. You level your only son to the brute creation by giving him a Christian name which, from its peculiar brevity, has been monopolised by all the dogs in the county. Any other name you please, my dear, but in this one instance you must allow me to lay my positive veto.”
“Well, then, let me see—but I’ll think of it, Mr Easy; my head aches very much just now.”
“I will think for you, my dear. What do you say to John?”
“O no, Mr Easy, such a common name.”
“A proof of its popularity, my dear. It is scriptural—we have the Apostle and the Baptist—we have a dozen Popes who were all Johns. It is royal— we have plenty of kings who were Johns—and moreover, it is short, and sounds honest and manly.”
“Yes, very true, my dear; but they will call him Jack.”
“Well, we have had several celebrated characters who were Jacks. There was—let me see—Jack the Giant Killer, and Jack of the Bean Stalk—and Jack—Jack—”
“Jack Spratt,” replied Mrs Easy.
“And Jack Cade, Mrs Easy, the great rebel—and Three-fingered Jack, Mrs Easy, the celebrated negro—and, above all, Jack Falstaff, ma’am, Jack Falstaff—honest Jack Falstaff—witty Jack Falstaff—”
“I thought, Mr Easy, that I was to be permitted to choose the name.”
“Well, so you shall, my dear; I give it up to you. Do just as you please; but depend upon it that John is the right name. Is it not now, my dear?”
“It’s the way you always treat me, Mr Easy; you say that you give it up, and that I shall have my own way but I never do have it. I am sure that the child will be christened John.”
“Nay, my dear, it shall be just what you please.
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