The Christening.

IN one of the first chapters of Charles Dickens’ “Nicholas Nickleby” he gives a very amusing description of the family conclave held to decide upon the name of the newborn infant.

I am now in the same dilemma.

It is very well to say that “A rose will smell quite as sweet,” &c., &c., and that there is nothing in a name. On this point I must agree to differ.

When I wrote this book I had fixed upon “Ups and Downs”—my publisher tells me that there is already in existence a book under that name. “A Random Shot” met with a similar objection. A score more attempts proved equally fruitless—“Too long,” “Too short,” “Won’t do”—until I made up my mind to translate it into French and call it “Sans nom,” which after all would be most appropriate.

Owing no doubt to perplexity, a homicidal fit came upon me. My fire was being lit: my M.S. laid before me. It struck me that after all it would serve admirably to kindle a flame.

My servant entered with the coal scuttle and some shavings. This saved my paper. “SAVED”!! I cried. I had a name at last: “Shavings and Scrapes”—original, though slightly Barberous. “Shavings” it is, and “Shavings” it shall be.

As you see, the christening was a private affair, settled au coin du feu.

But for this timely assistance the book would have made a blaze, it is true, and my literary effort would have ended in SMOKE.

J. J.