The Caxtons | Page 6

"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
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--"
"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. "But it is
infamous!" he exclaimed. "Pisistratus christened! Pisistratus, who lived
six hundred years before Christ was born! Good heavens, madam! you

have made me the father of an Anachronism."
My mother burst into tears. But the evil was irremediable. An
anachronism I was, and an anachronism I must continue to the end of
the chapter.

CHAPTER IV.
"Of course, sir, you will begin soon to educate your son yourself?" said
Mr. Squills.
"Of course, sir," said my father, "you have read Martinus Scriblerus?"
"I don't understand you, Mr. Caxton."
"Then you have not read Aiartinus Scriblerus, Mr. Squills!"
"Consider that I have read it; and what then?"
"Why, then, Squills," said my father, familiarly, "you son would know
that though a scholar is often a fool, he is never a fool so supreme, so
superlative, as when he is defacing the first unsullied page of the
human history by entering into it the commonplaces of his own
pedantry. A scholar, sir,--at least one like me,--is of all persons the
most unfit to teach young children. A mother, sir,--a simple, natural,
loving mother,--is the infant's true guide to knowledge."
"Egad! Mr. Caxton,--in spite of Helvetius, whom you quoted the night
the boy was born,--egad! I believe you are right."
"I am sure of it," said my father,--"at least as sure as a poor mortal can
be of anything. I agree with Helvetius, the child should be educated
from its birth; but how? There is the rub: send him to school forthwith!
Certainly, he is at school already with the two great teachers,--Nature
and Love. Observe, that childhood and genius have the same
master-organ in common,--inquisitiveness. Let childhood have its way,

and as it began where genius begins, it may find what genius finds. A
certain Greek writer tells us of some man who, in order to save his bees
a troublesome flight to Hymettus, cut their wings, and placed before
them the finest flowers he could select. The poor bees made no honey.
Now, sir, if I were to teach my boy, I should be cutting his wings and
giving him the flowers he should find himself. Let us leave Nature
alone for the present, and Nature's loving proxy, the watchful mother."
Therewith my father pointed to