“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.”