"Quid rides? mutato nomine, de te
Fabula narratur."--_Horace, Sat. 1. Lib, I. 70_.
"Nil admirari" has always been my maxim, yet there is one thing which
excites my wonder. It _is_ astonishing, that a man, who leaves his son
no other legacy, cannot at least give him a good name. What could have
been my father's motive, in inflicting upon me that curse of all
curses--my name, I cannot determine. Trifling as so small a matter may
appear, it has been my ruin. Bah! I shudder when I think of it! shade
of my honored parent! would nothing but a scripture name satisfy thee?
Why didst thou not then entitle me
Ezra?--Zedekiah?--Nimri?--anything--it must out--but Lazarus!
Yes--LAZARUS RUST--that is my name; and, if any man can now blame me
for being a misanthrope, let him come forward. As I said, my name has
been my ruin. It has made existence a curse since my childhood; even at
school, I was tormented almost to madness. I was the only boy who was
not nicknamed. The most malicious were satisfied; they could not
improve upon Lazarus.
Of all men, the most impertinent are your stage agents. They have a
trick of asking your name, with an insulting coolness, which, to a man
of delicate sensibilities, is extremely annoying. I shall never forget
my first stagecoach journey. The fellow at the desk looked me full in
the face, and calmly asked my name. I felt the blood boiling in my
face, and my first impulse was to knock him down. But I was a prudent
man, even when a boy; so I satisfied myself with turning contemptuously
on my heel. The fellow was by my side in a moment. "Sir," said he, in
the silver tones of a lackey, "will you allow me to inquire your name?"
This was too much. "Allow me to tell you, sirrah," I cried, almost
suffocated with rage, "that you are an impertinent scoundrel."
The bar room was in a roar. That laugh is sounding still in my ears,
like the roar of a mighty cataract. What diabolical music some men make
of laughing! When the agent explained to me the reason of his inquiry,
I felt so consummately silly, that I forgot my usual precaution of
giving only my initial, and, in a voice painfully distinct, I
answered--Lazarus Rust!
They did not laugh. I could have borne a deafening shout: but that
suppressed smile! let me not think of it. Of all mortal sufferings, the
keenest is the consciousness of being the object of ridicule, mingled
perhaps with pity. O! Heaven! what did I not suffer--what have I not
suffered, from this one source?
All this comes of my father's--what shall I call it?--madness, in
calling me Lazarus. By the by, they tell me that, when I was baptized,
a murmur of laughter arose from the whole congregation; and even the
minister, as he uttered the solemn form, could not entirely conceal the
smile, which, in spite of his utmost exertions played upon his lips.
A history of my ludicrous misfortunes would fill a volume. Perhaps the
most ludicrous of all was at my marriage. "A rose, by any other name,
would smell as sweet;" and a Lazarus may love as ardently as a Dives. I
confess I did love Phoebe McLarry--(how sweetly the name flows from
your lips!) she was not beautiful, but she loved me notwithstanding my
name, "and I loved her that she did pity me." So we were married. But,
when the priest repeated, "Son, Lazarus, take Phoebe," &c. I could not
refrain from laughing myself.
They say that the constitution of our habits is such, that, by degrees,
we can become reconciled to anything, but I am not yet satisfied with
my name. I still persist in writing it L. Rust. I have seen a good deal
of human nature; and, I must think, notwithstanding Shakspeare's
opinion, that there is something in a name. Indeed, a man's name tinges
his whole character. If it is a good one, he may sign even a mortgage
deed with a light heart; and, if he writes a neat hand, he will rise
from the desk a happy man. His flowing autograph, and more flowing
name, make even poverty tolerable. But your Nimris, and Obadiahs! that
which, to some men, is the pleasantest thing in existence--the seeing
their names in print, is to them, utter and hopeless agony. And then
their officious friends are eternally superscribing their letters with
the name written out in full. There is one member of Congress, who,
throughout the whole session, most perseveringly franks his dull
speeches to Lazarus Rust, esq. One would think L. Rust was sufficiently
definite, and it certainly has the advantage in point of euphony. I
wish he was in Heaven. I know of no damper to ambition like a bad name.
I would not immortalize myself if I could. Lazarus Rust, indeed,--that
would look well inscribed on a monument! I say with Emmett, "Let no man
write my epitaph." It would perhaps run thus:
"Here lies the body of Lazarus Rust
With what a horrible name the poor fellow was _cust_."
No--not for me is the laurel wreath of immortality. When I die, let me
be forgotten. If there is any truth in the doctrine of transmigration,
I may yet take my chance. "I bide my time."
After all, I sometimes endeavor to persuade myself that it is a mere
matter of taste. We have no reason to suppose that Lazarus was the
worst name in the Hebrew genealogy. It must be confessed, however, that
there are some disagreeable associations connected with it, aside from
its sound; and, to speak the plain truth, it is a most disgusting
appellation, fit only for a monkey. Yet I am compelled to bear it about
with me--a thorn in the flesh, from which I cannot escape; it adheres
to me like the poisoned tunic of Nessus. I would appeal to the
Massachusetts Legislature, but my friends have a decided partiality for
Lazarus, and would never know me by any other name. So, as Lazarus I
have lived, Lazarus will I die.
I have redeemed my father's error, in naming my own children; I cannot,
'tis true, rub off the Rust: but, for the matter of Christian names, I
defy the Directory to furnish a more princely list. When my eldest son
was born, I vowed he should never be ashamed of his name, so I called
him Henry Arthur Augustus George Bellville--so far, so good--it breaks
my heart to add--Rust. The sly rogue has since improved his cognomen,
by spelling it with a final e--thus: Henry A. A. G. B. Ruste--how it
takes off the romance to add--eldest son of Lazarus Rust, esq.!
Finally, as I have the misfortune, like my namesake of old, to be of
that class of mortals, denominated "poor devils," I can say, with the
utmost sincerity, "who steals _my_ purse, steals trash; and he who
filches from me my good name," has decidedly the worst of the bargain.