"Shocking indeed," echoed my father; "an outrage to common-sense."
Then, after glancing again over his books, he broke out musingly: "But,
after all, it is nonsense to suppose that Homer was not settled till his
time."

"Whose?" asked my mother, mechanically. My father lifted up his finger.

My mother continued, after a short pause., "Arthur is a pretty name.
Then there 's William--Henry--Charles Robert. What shall it be, love?"

"Pisistratus!" said my father (who had hung fire till then), in a tone
of contempt,--"Pisistratus, indeed!"

"Pisistratus! a very fine name," said my mother, joyfully,--"Pisistratus
Caxton. Thank you, my love: Pisistratus it shall be."

"Do you contradict me? Do you side with Wolfe and Heyne and that
pragmatical fellow Vico? Do you mean to say that the Rhapsodists--"

"No, indeed," interrupted my mother. "My dear, you frighten me."

My father sighed, and threw himself back in his chair. My mother took
courage and resumed.

"Pisistratus is a long name too! Still, one could call him Sisty."

"Siste, Viator," muttered my father; "that's trite!"

"No, Sisty by itself--short. Thank you, my dear."