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 backward, in the Hebrew manner—"
"Yes, my love," interrupted my mother. "But baby's Christian name?"
"Omeros—Soreino—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 Wolfe and Heyne and that pragmatical fellow Vico? Do you mean to say that the Rhapsodists—"