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." Four days afterwards, on his return from the book-sale, to my father's inexpressible bewilderment, he was informed that Pisistratus was "growing the very image of him." When at length the good man was made thoroughly aware of the fact that his son and heir boasted a name so memorable in history as that borne by the enslaver of Athens and the disputed arranger of Homer,--and it was asserted to be a name that he himself had suggested,--he was as angry as so mild a man could be.