“My love,” said my mother, the night before this Hegira, looking up from her work—“my love, there is one thing you have quite forgot to settle—I beg pardon for disturbing you, but it is important!—baby’s name; shan’t we call him Augustine?” “Augustine,” said my father, dreamily; “why, that name’s mine.” “And you would like your boy’s to be the same?” “No,” said my father, rousing himself. “Nobody would know which was which. I should catch myself learning the Latin accidence or playing at marbles. I should never know my own identity, and Mrs Primmins would be giving me pap.” My mother smiled; and, putting her hand, which was a very pretty one, on my father’s shoulder, and looking at him tenderly, she said, “There’s no fear of mistaking you for any other, even your son, dearest. Still, if you prefer another name, what shall it be?” “Samuel,” said my father. “Dr Parr’s name is Samuel.” “La, my love! Samuel is the ugliest name—” My father did not hear the exclamation, he was again deep in his books; presently he started up:—“Barnes says Homer is Solomon. Read Omeros backwards, in the Hebrew manner—” “Yes, my love,” interrupted my mother. “But baby’s christian name?” “Omeros—Soremo—Solemo—Solomo!” “Solomo! shocking,” said my mother. “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 Wolf 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.” Four days afterwards, on his return from the book sale, to my father’s inexpressible bewilderment, he was informed that “Pisistratus was growing quite the image of him.”