NAMES OF MEN.
“Imago animi, vultus, vitae, nomen est.”
L’étude des noms propres n’est point sans intérêt pour la morale,
l’organization politique, la legislation, et l’histoire même de
la civilization.--SALVERTE.
Among the crotchets of Sterne’s dialectician, Walter Shandy, was a
theory regarding the importance of Christian names in determining
the future behavior and destiny of the children to whom they are
given. He solemnly maintained the opinion that there is a strange
kind of magic bias which good or bad names, as he called them,
irresistibly impress upon men’s character or conduct. “How many
Cæsars and Pompeys,” he would say, “by mere inspiration of their
names, have been rendered worthy of them? And how many there are,”
he would add, “who might have done exceedingly well in the world,
had not their characters and spirits been utterly depressed and
Nicodemused into nothing!” Of all the names in the universe the
one to which the philosopher had the most unconquerable aversion
was “Tristram.” He would break off in the midst of one of his
disputes on the subject of names, and demand of his antagonist
whether he would say he had ever remembered, or whether he had ever
heard tell of a man called “Tristram” performing anything great
or worth recording. “No,” he would say; “_Tristram!_ the thing is
impossible.”
In these observations of Mr. Shandy there may be some
exaggeration, but they contain substantial truth. The power of
names in elevating or degrading both the things and persons to
whom they are applied, is known to all thoughtful observers. Give
to a conscious being a significant and graphic appellation, and
it tends to make the character gravitate in the direction of the
name. There are names that seem to act like promissory notes, which
the bearer does all in his power to redeem at maturity; names that
tend to verify themselves by swaying men _toward_ the qualities
they denote, while they too often lead to the exclusion of others
no less important. It is difficult to say which is the greater
misfortune, for a man to have a positively mean name, or one that
is grandiose. Lord Lytton, in “Kenelm Chillingly,” speaking of
the moral responsibilities of parents for the names they give
their children, regards as equally to be deprecated the names
which stamp a child with mediocrity, and those which stamp him
with an impress of absurd and overweening ambition. Inflict upon
a man, he says, the burden of a great name which he must utterly
despair of equalling, and you crush him beneath the weight. If a
poet were called John Milton, or William Shakespeare, he would
not dare publish even a sonnet. On the other hand, call a child
Peter Snooks or Lazarus Rust, and though he have the face and form
of the god of the silver bow, and the eloquence of a Chatham, he
will find it hard, if not impossible, to achieve distinction,--the
name will be such a dead weight on his intellectual energies. Can
Tabitha be a name to conjure with; can Jerusha be musical on the
lips of love, or Higginbotham fill the trump of fame? Think of
Washington having the name of Jenkins, and toasts being drunk to
the immortal Jenkins, “first in war, first in peace, and first in
the hearts of his countrymen!” The true choice of a name lies
between extremes,--the two extremes of ludicrous insignificance
and oppressive renown. It is questionable whether a good deal of
the mediocrity of the reigning families in Europe is not due to
the labyrinth of names in which the heir to a throne is hidden
at birth, like a moth in a silk cocoon. Some years ago an infant
prince of Saxony was enveloped in sixteen names. About forty years
ago the Queen of Naples gave birth to a princess whose names
numbered thirty-two, or a dozen more than the names of Susan Brown,
of whom we are told that
“The patronymical name of the maid
Was so completely overlaid
With a long prenomical cover,
That if each additional proper noun
Was laid by the priest intensively down,
Miss Susan was done uncommonly Brown,
The moment the christening was over!”
Think of an infant’s being smothered for years in such a
superfetation of names as that of the Neapolitan princess. It must
require more mental energy than many babies can command, to break
one’s way out of such a verbal palace prison as that.
“_Notre nom propre_,” says a French writer, “_c’est nous mêmes_.”
The name of a man instantly recalls him to recollection, with his
physical and moral qualities, and the remarkable events, if any,
in his career. The few syllables forming it “suffice to reopen the
fountain of a bereaved mother’s tears; to cover with blushes the
face of the maiden who believes her secret about to be revealed; to
agitate the heart of the lover; to light up in the eyes of an enemy
the fire of rage, and to awaken in the breast of one separated by
distance from his friend the liveliest emotions of hope or regret.”
What would history or biography be without proper names; or what
stimulus would men have, inciting them to the performance of great
and noble deeds, if they could not live a second life in their
names? Among most nations the imposition of names has been esteemed
of such moment, that it has been attended with religious rites.
The Jews accompanied it with circumcision; the Greeks and Romans
with religious ceremonies and sacrifices; the Persians, after a
religious service, chose at a venture from names written on slips
of paper, and laid upon the Koran; while many Christians sanctify
the rite by baptism.
It is a well established fact that all proper names were originally
significant, though in the lapse of years the meaning of many of
them has been obscured or obliterated. Thus, the oldest known name,
Adam, meant “red,” indicating that his body was fashioned from
the red earth; while Moses signified “drawn from the water.” So
the fore-names of the Saxons were significant,--as Alfred, “all
peace”; Biddulph, “the slayer of wolves”; Edmund, “truth-mouth,” or
“the speaker of truth”; Edward, “truth-keeper”; Goddard, “honored
of God.” It is said that Mr. Freeman, the English historian,
has grown, in the course of his studies, so in love with the
Old-English period, that he has named three of his children Ælfred,
Eadward, and Æthelburgh. According to Verstegan, William was a
name not given to children, but a title of honor given for noble
or worthy deeds. When a German had killed a Roman, the golden
helmet of the vanquished soldier was placed upon his head, and the
victor was honored with the title Gildhelm, or “golden helmet,”--in
French, _Guillaume_.
In the early ages of the world a single name sufficed for each
person. It was generally descriptive of some quality he had, or
which his parents hoped he might in future have. In the course
of time, to distinguish a man from others bearing the same
appellative, a second name became necessary. The earliest approach
to the modern system of nomenclature, was the addition of the name
of a man’s son to his own name; as Caleb, the son of Jephunneh, or
Joshua, the son of Nun,--a practice which survives in our own day
in such names as Adamson and Fitzherbert. The Romans, to mark the
different _gentes_ and _familiæ_, and to distinguish individuals
of the same race, had three names,--the _Prænomen_, the _Nomen_,
and the _Cognomen_. The first denoted the individual; the second
was the generic name, or term of clanship; and the third indicated
the family. Military commanders, and other persons of the highest
eminence, sometimes were honored with a fourth name, or _Agnomen_;
as Coriolanus, Africanus, Germanicus, borrowed from the name of
a hostile country, which had been the scene of their exploits. A
person was usually addressed only by his prænomen, which, Horace
tells us, “delicate ears loved”:
“Gaudent prænomine molles
Auriculæ.”
Archdeacon Hare has well observed that by means of their names
political principles, political duties, political affections were
impressed on the minds of the Romans from their birth. Every member
of a great house had a determinate course marked out for him, the
path in which his forefathers had trod; his name admonished him
of what he owed to his country. “_Rien_,” says Desbrosses, “_n’a
contribué davantage à la grandeur de la république que cette
methode de succession nominale, qui, incorporant, pour ainsi dire,
à la gloire de l’état, la gloire des noms héréditaires, joignit le
patriotisme de race au patriotisme national_.”
After the conversion of Europe to Christianity, the old Pagan names
were commonly discarded, and Scriptural names, or names derived
from church history, took their place. About the close of the tenth
century, distinctive appellations, describing physical and moral
qualities, habits, professions, etc., were added for the purpose
of identification; but as these sobriquets were imposed upon many
who bore the same baptismal names, an entire change in the system
of names became necessary, and hereditary surnames were adopted.
These, it is said, were at first written, “not in a direct line
after the Christian name, but above it, between the lines,” and
thus were literally _supra nomina_, or “surnames.”
Our English names, most of which have originated since the Norman
Conquest, are borrowed, to some extent, from nearly all the races
and languages of the earth. The Hebrew is represented in Ben, which
means “son,” and the Syriac in Bar, as in Barron and Bartholomew.
The desire to disguise Old Testament names has shortened Abraham
into “Braham,” and Moses into “Mosely” or “Moss.” In like manner
Solomon becomes “Sloman”; Levi, “Lewis”; and Elias, “Ellis.”
The three most common patronymics of Celtic origin, now used by
the English, are _O_, _Mac_, and _Ap_. The Highlanders of Scotland
employed the _sire_-name with Mac, and hence the Macdonalds and
Mac Gregors, meaning “the son of Donald” and “the son of Gregor.”
The Irish used the prefix of _Oy_ or _O_, signifying grandson; as,
O’Hara, O’Neale. They use the word Mac also; and the two names
together are so essential notes of the Irish, that
“Per Mac atque O, tu veros cognoscis Hibernos,
His duobus ademptis, nullus Hibernus adest.”
Mr. Lower, in his interesting work on personal names,[38] states
that among the archives of the corporation of Galway, there is an
order dated 1518, declaring that “neither O ne Mac shoulde strutte
ne swagger through the streetes of Galway.”
The old Normans prefixed to their names the word _Fitz_ a
corruption of _fils_, derived from the Latin _filius_; as
Fitz-William, “the son of William.” Camden states that there is not
a village in Normandy that has not surnamed some family in England.
The French names thus introduced from Normandy may generally be
known by the prefixes _De_, _Du_, _De la_, _St._, and by the
suffixes _Font_, _Beau_, _Age_, _Mont_, _Bois_, _Champ_, _Ville_,
etc., most of which are parts of the proper names of places; as De
Mortimer, St. Maure (Seymour), Montfort, etc. The Russian peasantry
employ the termination _witz_, and the Poles _sky_ in the same
sense; as Peter Paulowitz, “Peter, the son of Paul,” and James
Petrowsky, “James, the son of Peter.”
In Wales, till a late period, no surnames were used, except _Ap_,
or _Son_; as Ap Richard, now corrupted into Prichard; Ap Owen,
now Bowen; Ap Roderick, now Broderick and Brodie. Not over a
century has passed since one might have heard in Wales of such
“yard-long-tailed” combinations as Evan-ap-Griffith-ap-David-ap
Jenken, and so on to the seventh or eighth generation, the
individual carrying his pedigree in his name.[38] To ridicule this
absurd species of nomenclature, a wag of the seventeenth century
described cheese as being
“Adam’s own cousin-german by its birth,
Ap-Curds-ap-Milk-ap-Cow-ap-Grass-ap-Earth!”
Mr. Lower says that the following anecdote was related to him by
a native of Wales: An Englishman riding one dark night among the
mountains, heard a cry of distress, uttered apparently by a man
who had fallen into a ravine near the highway, and, on listening
more attentively, heard the words: “Help, master, help!” in a voice
truly Cambrian. “Help! what, who are you?” inquired the traveller.
“Jenkin-ap-Griffith-ap-Robin-ap-William-ap-Rees-ap-Evan,” was the
reply. “Lazy fellows that ye be,” rejoined the Englishman, putting
spurs to his horse, “to lie rolling in that hole, _half a dozen of
ye_; why, in the name of common sense, don’t ye _help one another
out_?”
In the twelfth century it was considered a mark of disgrace to have
no surname. A wealthy heiress is represented as saying in respect
to her suitor, Robert, natural son of King Henry I, who had but one
name:
“It were to me a great shame,
To have a lord withouten his twa name;”
whereupon the King, to remedy the fatal defect, gave him the
surname of Fitz-Roy.
The early Saxons had as a rule but one name, which was always
significant of some outward or other peculiarity, and was doubtless
often given to children with the belief or hope that the meaning
of the word might exert some mysterious influence on the bearer’s
future destiny. Ere long, however, surnames came into fashion with
them, too, and were derived from the endless variety of personal
qualities, natural objects, occupations and pursuits, social
relations, localities, offices, and even from different parts of
the body (as Cheek, Beard, Shanks), from sports (as Ball, Bowles,
Whist, Fairplay), from measures (as Gill, Peck), and from diseases
(as Cramp, Toothacher, Akenside), from a conjunction (as And),
and from coins (as Penny, Twopenny, Moneypenny, Grote, Pound). On
a person with the first of these pecuniary names, the following
epitaph was written:
“Reader, if cash thou art in want of any,
Dig four feet deep, and thou shalt find a Penny.”
The prefix _atte_ or _at_ softened to _a_ or _an_ has helped to
form many names. A man living on a moor would call himself Attemoor
or Atmoor; if near a gate, Attegate or Agate. John Atten Oak was
oftentimes condensed into John-a-Noke, and then into John Noaks.
Nye is thus a corruption of Atten-Eye, “at the island.” From
Applegarth, “an orchard,” are derived Applegate and Appleton.
Beckett means literally “a little brook”; Chase, “a forest”; Cobb,
“a harbor”; Craig, “a rock” or “precipice”; Holme and Holmes, “a
meadow surrounded with water”; Holt, “a grove”; Holloway, “a deep
road between high banks”; Lee and Leigh, “a pasture”; Peel, “a
pool”; Slack, “low ground,” or “a pass between mountains.” The root
of the ubiquitous Smith is _smitan_, “to smite,” and like the Latin
_faber_, the name was originally given to all “smiters,” whether
workers in wood or workers in metal. Soldiers were sometimes called
War-Smiths. Among all the forty thousand English surnames, no one
has been more prolific of jests and witticisms, especially John
Smith, which, from its commonness, is practically no name, though
the rural Englishman seems to have thought otherwise, who directed
a letter, “For Mr. John Smith, London,--with spead.” As there are
hundreds of John Smiths in the London Directory, the letter might
as well have been addressed to the Man in the Moon. There is a well
known story of a wag at a crowded theatre, who secured a seat by
shouting “Mr. Smith’s house is on fire!”
Many words obsolete in English are preserved in surnames; as
Sutor, which is the Latin and Saxon for “shoemaker;” Latimer,
from Latiner, “a writer of Latin;” Chaucer, from _chausier_, “a
hose-maker”; Lorimer, “a maker of spurs, and bits for bridles.” An
Arkwright was “a maker of meal-chests”; Lander is from _lavandier_,
“a washerwoman”; Banister, is “a keeper of the Bath”; Crocker, “a
potter”; Shearman, “one who shears worsteds, etc.”; Sanger, “a
singer”; Notman, “a cowherd.” Generally all names ending in _er_
indicate some employment or profession. Such names as Baxter and
Brewster are the feminine of Baker and Brewer, as is Webster of
Webber, or “weaver,” which shows that these trades were anciently
carried on by women, and that when men began to follow them, they
retained for some time the feminine names, as do men-milliners now.
The name of the poet Whittier, however, is a corruption of “White
church.” The termination _ward_ indicates “a keeper”; as Hayward,
“keeper of the town cattle”; Woodward, “forest-keeper.” Rush is
“subtle”; Bonner, “kind”; Eldridge, “wild,” “ghastly.” Numerous
surnames are derived from the chase, showing the passion of the
early English for field-sports; as Bowyer, Fowler, Fletcher (from
the French _flèche_, an arrow), Hartman. Tod is the Scotch word
for fox; hence Todhunter (the name of a celebrated mathematician
who died recently at Cambridge, Eng.) is “a fox-hunter.” Among the
names derived from offices are Chalmers, “a chamberlain;” Foster,
“a nourisher,” one who had care of the children of great men; and
Franklin, a person next in dignity to an esquire. Palmer comes from
the professional wanderer of the ancient time, who always carried
a _palm_-branch as a pledge of his having visited the Holy Land.
Landseer was a “land-steward,” or bailiff.
Some names, denoting mean occupations which only bondmen would
follow, have been disguised by a new orthography, “mollified
ridiculously,” as Camden says, “lest their bearers should
seem vilified by them.” Carter, Tailor, and Smith have been
metamorphosed into Carteer, Tayleure, Smyth, Smeeth, or Smythe. Mr.
Hayward, ashamed of being called “cattle-keeper,” has transformed
himself into Howard, as if he hoped to smuggle himself among the
connections of the greatest of ducal houses. Dean Swift, speaking
of these devices to change the vulgar into the genteel by the
change of a letter, says: “I know a citizen who adds or alters a
letter in his name with every plum he acquires; he now wants only
the change of a vowel to be allied to a sovereign prince, Farnese,
in Italy, and that perhaps he may contrive to be done by a mistake
of the graver upon his tombstone.” Mr. Lower tells a good story of
a Tailor who had been thus dignified, and who haughtily demanded of
a farmer the name of his dog. The answer was: “Why, sir, his proper
name is Jowler, but since he’s a consequential kind of puppy, we
calls him Jowleure!”
Of the Saxon patronymics the most fruitful is _son_, with which
is mingled inseparably the genitive letter _s_. Thus from the
Christian name _Adam_ are derived Adams, Adamson, Addison; from
_Andrew_, Andrews, Anderson; from _Dennis_, Dennison, Jennison;
from _Henry_, Henrison, Harris, Harrison, Hawes, Hawkins; from
_John_, Johns, Jones, Jonson, Johnson, Jennings, Jenks, Jenkinson,
Jackson, Jockins; from _William_, Williamson, Williams, Wilson,
Wills, Wilkins, Wilkinson, Wells; from _Walter_, Watson, Watts,
Watkins. From the Old Saxon derivation _ing_, signifying offspring,
it is said that we get over two thousand proper names. Browning
and Whiting are dark and white offspring. The termination _kin_,
derived from the ancient _cyn_, meaning “race,” is found in a yet
greater number of names; while from the termination _ock_ (as
in Pollock, from Paul, and contracted into Polk) are obtained
comparatively few names. Scandinavian mythology has contributed
a few names to our English list. From _Thor_ we have Thoresby,
Thursby, and Thurlow.
Among the surnames derived from personal qualities, we have
Russell, “red”; Gough, also “red”; Snell, “agile” or “hardy”;
Read, Reid, or Reed, an old spelling of “red”; Duff, “black”;
Vaughan, “little”; Longfellow, Moody, Goodenough, Toogood, and
hundreds of others. Farebrother is a Scottish name for “uncle”;
Waller means a “pilgrim,” or “stranger.” Of Puritan surnames
derived from the virtues, Be-courteous Cole, Search-the-Scriptures
Moreton, Fly-fornication Richardson, Kill-sin Pemble,
Fight-the-good-fight-of-faith White, are examples. Surnames
have even been derived from oaths, and other such exclamations.
Profane swearing was a common vice in the early times, and when
men habitually interlarded their conversations with oaths, they
became sobriquets by which they were known. Just as Say-Say became
the title of an old gentleman who always began a remark with “I
say-say, old boy,” so a profane exclamation, repeatedly uttered,
became a proper name. Godkin, Blood, and _Sacré_ are said to be
clipped oaths. Parsall is corrupted from _Par Ciel_, “By Heaven,”
Pardoe from _Par Dieu_, and Godsall and Godbody from “By the soul
and body of God!” the shocking but favorite oath of Edward III.
There are names which in the social circle will provoke a smile,
in spite of every attempt to preserve one’s gravity; others that
excite horror, hate, or contempt; and others which, inviting cheap
puns and gibes, irritate the minds of the calmest men. Shenstone
thanked God that his name was not liable to a pun. There is a
large class of names indicative of personal blemishes or moral
obliquities, such as Asse, Goose, Lazy, Leatherhead, Addlehead,
Milksop, Mudd, Pighead, Trollope, Hussey, Silliman, Cruickshank,
Blackmonster, etc. In many countries Devil is a surname. Kennard,
once Kaynard, means “you dog,” also a “rascal.” The Romans had
their Plauti, Pandi, Vari, and Scauri, that is, the Splay-foots,
the Bandy-legs, the In-knees, and the Club-foots. Cocles means
“one-eyed”; Flaccus, one of the names of Horace, “flap-eared”;
and Naso points to a long “nose.” Cæsar, from whose name come
the German _Kaiser_ and the Russian _Czar_, was so called (or,
at least, the first Roman with the name was so called) from his
coming into the world with long hair (_cæsaries_), or from his
unnatural mode of birth (_a_ CÆSO _matris utero_). Who would
introduce Mr. Shakelady into the circle of his friends, and what
worthy deeds could be expected from a Doolittle? Who can blame Dr.
Jacob Quackenboss for dropping a couple of syllables and the quack
at the same time from his name, and becoming Jacob Bush, M.D.? Who
can help sympathizing with Mr. Death, who asked the Legislature
of Massachusetts to change his name to one less sepulchral; or
with Mr. Wormwood, who petitioned for liberty to assume the name
of Washington, declaring that the intense sufferings of so many
years of wormwood existence deserved the compensation of a great
and glorious name? Louis XI was less justified in changing the
name of his barber, Olivier le Diable, into Olivier le Mauvais,
then to Olivier le Malin, and then into Olivier le Daim, at the
same time forbidding his former names ever to be mentioned. On
the other hand, the ill-omened name of Maria Theresa’s noble
minister, Thunichtgut, “Do-no-good,” was rightfully changed by the
Empress into Thugut, “Do-good.” The original name of the great
French writer, Balzac, was Guez, “a beggar.” Men who inherit names
originally given in contempt and scorn have this compensation,
that, as many a hump-backed and ugly-looking man has found in his
deformity “a perpetual spur to rescue and deliver him from scorn,”
so the inheritors of mean or degrading names are provoked and
stimulated, as we see in the case of Brutus, “stupid,” to redeem
them from their degradation by noble deeds, and make them for
centuries the watchwords of humanity.
The dislike to vulgar and cacophonous names led some scholars and
others, at an early period, to adopt Greek or Latin forms. The
native name of Erasmus was Gherærd Gherærds. The root of Gherærd
is a verb meaning “to desire,” and so the great scholar Latinized
his Christian name into Desiderius, and Græcized his surname into
Erasmus, both signifying the same thing. The name of Luther’s
friend, the celebrated theologian and reformer, Melanchthon, is a
translation of the German Schwarzerde, or “Black Earth.”
Considering the great variety of English proper
names,--representing, as they do, nearly all the nationalities
of Europe,--it is not strange that they have suffered much from
corruption. The causes of this corruption have been the wear and
tear of time and usage; the repetition of foreign sounds by alien
lips; the falling of those sounds upon a dull or deafened ear;
their disguisement by too thick or too thin an utterance; incorrect
spelling; the practice of pronouncing the words as they were
written; and the fluctuations of orthography. Many Norman names
have been so mutilated, that their owners, if they could see them,
would find them unintelligible. Thus we have Darcy from Adrecy,
Boswell from Bosseville, Loring from Lorraine, and Taille-bois has
been changed into Tallboys! Paganus became first Painim, and then
Payne. But the most unhappy victims of this corrupting tendency
were four Normans, whose names were anglicized from honorable
into the most ill-omened and repulsive appellations. One, called
De Ath, became Death; another, De-Ville, was transformed into a
Devil; and the third, Scardeville, is now Skarfield, and--_horresco
referens_--Scaredevil!
It is natural to suppose that all families bearing English names
are of English extraction; but there are examples of the contrary.
The descendant of a German family, whose name in the Old World was
Brückenbauer, calls himself in this country Bridgebuilder. A German
called Feuerstein (“firestone,” or “flint”), having settled among a
French population in the West, changed his name to Pierre à Fusil;
but, the Anglo-American population becoming after a while the
leading one, Pierre à Fusil was transformed into the pithy Peter
Gun!
Mr. Lower gives an interesting account of the origin of certain
famous historical names. The name of Fortescue was bestowed on
Sir Richard le Forte, a leader in the Conqueror’s army, because
he protected his chief at the battle of Hastings by bearing
before him a massive _escu_, or shield. The name of Lockhart was
originally given to a follower of Lord Douglas, who accompanied
him to the Holy Land with the heart of King Robert Bruce. Hence
some of the family bear a padlock enclosing a heart in their arms.
The illustrious surname of Plantagenet, borne by eight kings
of England, originally belonged to Fulke, the Count of Anjou,
in the twelfth century. To expiate certain flagrant crimes of
which he had been guilty, he went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem,
and wore in his cap, as a mark of humility, a _planta genista_,
or “broom-plant,” and hence was surnamed Plantagenet. Another
version of the story is that he suffered himself to be beaten with
“broom-twigs,” _plantagananstæ_. The Scottish name, Turnbull, is
said to have been given to a strong man, one Ruel, who “turned” by
the head, a wild “bull” which ran violently against King Robert
Bruce in Stirling Park. The celebrated and numerous Scottish
family of Armstrong derive their surname from an ancestor who
was an armor-bearer, and by whom an ancient King of Scotland was
remounted, after his horse had been killed under him in battle.
The Halidays were named from their war cry, “A holy day”; every
day being holy, in their estimation, that was spent in ravaging
the enemy’s country. A poor child, picked up at Newark-upon-Trent,
was called by the inhabitants Tom Among Us. Becoming eminent, he
was employed in several embassies, and changed his name to the
dignified one of Dr. Thomas Magnus. Though the earliest names were
short and simple, yet there appears to have prevailed, even in
the olden times, a taste for long and sounding names. In a note
to Coleridge’s “Literary Biography,” mention is made of an author
whose name is of fearful length,--Abul Waled Mohammed Ebn Ashmed
Ebn Mohammed Ebn Raschid. Think of the time wasted in speaking and
writing such an appellation, which, unless he was blessed with a
very tenacious memory, its owner himself must have been sometimes
puzzled to recollect! The polytitled Arab, whose name thus “drags,
like a wounded snake, its slow length along,” was born at Corinth
about 1150, and died in Morocco in 1206. The Spaniards have been
noted, beyond all other peoples, for a passion for voluminous and
dignified names; and to enlarge them, they often add their places
of residence. This is amusingly illustrated by a story told by
Fuller in his “Worthies.” A rich citizen, of the name of John
Cuts, was ordered by Queen Elizabeth to receive and entertain the
Spanish ambassador; but the don was greatly displeased, feeling
that he was disparaged by being placed with a man whose name was
so ridiculously short, and who, consequently, could never have
achieved anything great or honorable; but when he found that the
hospitality of his host had nothing monosyllabic about it, but
more than made up for the brevity of his name, he was reconciled.
Lucian tells of one Simon, who, coming to a considerable fortune,
aggrandized his name to Simonides. Diocles, becoming emperor,
lengthened his name to Dioclesian; and Bruna, Queen of France,
tried to give regal pomp to her name by transforming it to
Brunehault.
Oddities, eccentricities, and happy accidents of names are common
to all languages, and open a wide field of playful speculation and
research. What queer yet felicitous conjunctions are Preserved
Fish, Virginia Weed, Dunn Browne, Mahogany Coffin, and Return
Swift? Especially remarkable is the extent to which the occupations
of men harmonize with their surnames. In London, Gin & Ginman,
and Alehouse are publicans. Portwine and Negus are licensed
victuallers, one in Westminster, the other in Bishopsgate street.
Seaman is the host of the Ship Hotel, and A. King keeps the Crown
and Sceptre. Pye is a pastry cook, and Fitall and Treadaway are
shoemakers. Mr. Weinmann sells sherries, madeiras, etc., in
Chicago, and Mr. Silverman is a noted banker. It is a striking
fact that Mr. Loud and Mr. Thunder were, some years ago, both
organists in the same American town; and we must acknowledge that
few names could harmonize better, or accord more happily with the
double diapason and the swell to which their professional duties
accustomed them. What name could be more picturesque for a pot-boy
than Corker, for a dentist than Tugwell, or for an editor of
“Punch” than Mark Lemon? What happier appellation for the owner of
a line of stage-coaches than Jehu Golightly, the name of a southern
proprietor, which the incredulous passenger refused to believe
accidental?
Sometimes the name harmonizes ill with, or is positively
antagonistic to, the occupation or character. The amiable and witty
banker-poet, Horace Smith, even declares that “surnames ever go by
contraries,” and, as proof, says:
“Mr. Barker’s as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,
Mr. Go-to-bed sits up till half-past three,
Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney.
Mr. Gardener can’t tell a flower from a root,
Mr. Wild with timidity draws back;
Mr. Rider performs all his travels on foot,
Mr. Foote all his journeys on horseback.”
Ward and Lock, who should sell bank safes, are book publishers.
Neal and Pray was the title of a house in New England, that
was by no means given to devotion. Butcher, Death, Slaughter,
Churchyard, and Coffin were the names of so many London surgeons
and apothecaries. Partnerships often show a curious conjunction of
names; as Lamb & Hare, Holland & Sherry, Carpenter & Wood, Spinage
& Lamb, Flint & Steel, Foot & Stocking, hosiers, Rumfit & Cutwell,
tailors, Robb & Steel, and, above all, I. Ketchum & U. Cheatham,
the immortal names of two New York brokers. Not only business but
hymeneal partnerships reveal some singular combinations; as when
Mr. Good marries Miss Evil, when George Virtue is united to Susan
Vice, and when Benjamin Bird, aged sixty, is wedded to Julia Chaff,
aged twenty, showing that, in spite of the old saw, “an old bird”
may be “caught by chaff.”
Punning upon names has always been a favorite amusement with those
“Who think it legitimate fun
To be blazing away at every one
With a regular double-loaded gun.”
When the defender of a certain extortioner, whom Lutatius Catulus
accused, attempted by a sarcasm to disconcert his vehement
adversary, saying, “Why do you bark, little dog?” (“_Quid latras,
Catule?_”) “Because I saw a thief,” retorted Catulus. Shakespeare
makes Falstaff play upon his swaggering ancient’s name, telling
Pistol he will double charge him with sack, or dismissing him
with--“No more, Pistol; I would not have you go off here; discharge
yourself of our company, Pistol.” When a man named Silver was
arraigned before Sir Thomas More, he said: “_Silver_, you must be
_tried by fire_.” “Yes,” replied the prisoner, “but you know, my
lord, that Quick _Silver_ cannot abide the fire.” The man’s wit
procured his discharge. An old gentleman by the name of Gould,
having married a very young wife, wrote to a friend informing him
of his good fortune, concluding with
“So you see, my dear sir, though I’m eighty years old,
A girl of eighteen is in love with old Gould.”
To this his friend replied:
“A girl of eighteen may love, it is true,
But believe me, dear sir, it is Gold without U.”
When a Bishop Goodenough was appointed to his office, a certain
dignitary who had hoped, but failed, to get the appointment, was
asked the secret of his disappointment, and replied: “Because I was
not Goodenough.”
Fuller, in his “Grave Thoughts,” tells an anecdote which shows
that where the punning propensity exists, no occasion or subject,
however solemn, will prevent it from finding expression: “When
worthy Master Hern, famous for his living, preaching, and writing,
lay on his deathbed (rich only in goodness and children), his wife
made such womanish lamentations, what should become of her little
ones? ‘Peace! sweet-heart,’ said he; ‘that God who feedeth the
ravens will not starve the herns;’ a speech censured as light by
some, observed by others as prophetical; as indeed it came to pass
that they were all well disposed of.” It is said that John Huss,
when burning at the stake, fixed his eyes steadfastly upon the
spectators, and said with much solemnity: “They burn a _goose_, but
in a hundred years a _swan_ will arise out of the ashes;” words
which many years afterward were regarded as predicting the great
Protestant reformer,--Huss signifying “a goose,” and Luther, “a
swan.”
There are occasions, however, when, as Sir William F. Napier once
wrote to a friend, in excusing himself for making some bad puns, “a
bitter feeling turns to humor to avoid cursing;” and it is certain
that it was from no desire to display his wit, that Æschylus
devoted twelve lines of “a splendid and passionate chorus” to a
denunciation of
“Sweet Helen,
_Hell in_ her name, but Heaven in her looks.”
Even Dr. Johnson, a professed hater of puns, could not resist
the temptation, when introduced to Mrs. Barbauld, of growling,
“_Bare-bald!_ why, that’s the very _pleonasm of baldness_!”
At the beginning of this chapter some remarks were made on the
names of children, and with a few words further on the same
theme I will end. Too often the boy or girl is named after the
father or mother, taking the names, however ugly, ill-sounding,
or uneuphonious, that have been handed down in the family from
generation to generation, without a thought of the cruelty
inflicted on the unconscious babe by fastening Ebenezer or Tabitha
on it for life. Where this folly is avoided by parents, they
often outrage their sons by baptizing them George Washington,
Thomas Jefferson, John Quincy Adams, or Andrew Jackson, or worse
still, loading them with classical names, like those of which
Ex-President Grant is a conspicuous victim. The whims, freaks,
and eccentricities which dictate the names of children are as
inexplicable as they are multifarious. At a United States census
some years ago, record was obtained of a man who had named his five
children Imprimis, Finis, Appendix, Addendum, and Erratum. It has
been suggested that had there been a sixth, he would probably have
been Supplement. Everybody is familiar with the story of a worthy
lady, who, having named four sons successively Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John, insisted on calling the fifth Acts,--a perversity
equalled by that of the father of ten children, who, having been
blessed with three more, named them Moreover, Nevertheless, and
Notwithstanding. No doubt these last appellatives are mythical; but
it is positively certain that names are often given to children,
which, being utterly incongruous with their looks, descent, or
character, rendering them targets for coarse jests, or raising
expectations that are sure to be falsified, are productive to their
bearers, if they are at all sensitive, of an incalculable amount
of suffering. In naming a child his individuality should, first of
all, be recognized. Instead of being invested with the cast-off
appellation of some dead ancestor, as musty as the clothes he
wore,--a ghostly index-finger forever pointing to the past,--he
should have a fresh name, free from all ridiculous or unpleasant
associations, congruous with his probable destiny, and suggestive
of a history to be filled, a life of usefulness to be lived. If
such a name cannot be invented, let him bear the plain, honest
one of John, Edward, or Robert, which affords no opportunity for
gibes, and consequent heart-burnings, promises nothing, disappoints
nobody, and yet may be transfigured and glorified by the noblest
and most illustrious deeds.
FOOTNOTE:
[38] “An Essay on English Surnames,” by Mark Antony Lower, M.A.,
F.S.A., a work full of interesting information on the subject of
which it treats, and to which I am much indebted.