I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus George, was expected in
our circle, a provision of pins was made, as if the little stranger
were a criminal who was to be put to the torture immediately, on
his arrival, instead of a holy babe? I wish to know why haste was
made to stick those pins all over his innocent form, in every
direction? I wish to be informed why light and air are excluded
from Augustus George, like poisons? Why, I ask, is my unoffending
infant so hedged into a basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico,
with miniature sheets and blankets, that I can only hear him
snuffle (and no wonder!) deep down under the pink hood of a little
bathing-machine, and can never peruse even so much of his
lineaments as his nose?

Was I expected to be the father of a French Roll, that the brushes
of All Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus George? Am I to be
told that his sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to have
rashes brought out upon it, by the premature and incessant use of
those formidable little instruments?

Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges of
sharp frills? Am I the parent of a Muslin boy, that his yielding
surface is to be crimped and small plaited? Or is my child
composed of Paper or of Linen, that impressions of the finer
getting-up art, practised by the laundress, are to be printed off,
all over his soft arms and legs, as I constantly observe them? The
starch enters his soul; who can wonder that he cries?

Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, or to be born a Torso?
I presume that limbs were the intention, as they are the usual
practice. Then, why are my poor child's limbs fettered and tied