"As for your name, I offer you the whole firmament to choose from." In that
prodigal spirit the editor of the _Star_ invites me to join the
constellation that he has summoned from the vasty deeps of Fleet Street. I
am, he says, to shine punctually every Wednesday evening, wet or fine, on
winter nights and summer eves, at home or abroad, until such time as he
cries: "Hold, enough!" and applies the extinguisher that comes to all.
The invitation reaches me in a tiny village on a spur of a range of beech
clad hills, whither I have fled for a breathing space from the nightmare of
the war and the menacing gloom of the London streets at night. Here the
darkness has no terrors. In the wide arch of the sky our lamps are lit
nightly as the sun sinks down far over the great plain that stretches at
our feet. None of the palpitations of Fleet Street disturb us, and the
rumours of the war come to us like far-off echoes from another world. The
only sensation of our day is when, just after darkness has fallen, the
sound of a whistle in the tiny street of thatched cottages announces that
the postman has called to collect letters.
In this solitude, where one is thrown entirely upon one's own resources,
one discovers how dependent one is upon men and books for inspiration. It
is hard even to find a name. Not that finding a name is easy in any
circumstances. Every one who lives by his pen knows the difficulty of the
task. I would rather write an article than find a title for it. The
thousand words come easily (sometimes); but the five-words summary of the
thousand, that is to flame at the top like a beacon light, is a gem that
has to be sought in travail, almost in tears. I have written books, but I
have never found a title for one that I have written. That has always come
to me from a friend.
Even the men of genius suffer from this impoverishment. When Goldsmith had
written the finest English comedy since Shakespeare he did not know what to
call it, and had to leave Johnson to write the label. I like to think that
Shakespeare himself suffered from this sterility--that he, too, sat biting
the feather of his quill in that condition of despair that is so familiar
to smaller men. Indeed, we have proof that it was so in the titles
themselves. Is not the title, _As You Like It_, a confession that he had
bitten his quill until he was tired of the vain search for a name? And what
is _Twelfth Night: or What You Will_ but an evidence that he could not hit
upon any name that would fit the most joyous offspring of his genius?
What parent does not know the same agony? To name a child, to give him a
sign that shall go with him to his grave, and that shall fit that mystery
of the cradle which time and temptation and trial shall alone reveal--_hoc
opus, hic labor est_. Many fail by starting from false grounds--fashion,
ambition, or momentary interest. Perhaps the little stranger arrives with
the news of a battle, or when a popular novel appears, or at a moment when
you are under the influence of some austere or heroic name. And forgetful
that it is the child that has to bear the burden of your momentary impulse,
you call him Inkerman Jones, or Kitchener Smith, or Milton Spinks.
And so he is started on his journey, like a little historical memory, or
challenging comparison with some hero of fact or fable. Perhaps Milton
Spinks grows up bow-legged and commonplace--all Spinks and no Milton. As
plain John he would pass through life happy and unnoticed, but the great
name of Milton hangs about him like a jest from which he can never
escape--no, not even in the grave, for it will be continued there until the
lichen has covered the name on the headstone with stealthy and kindly
oblivion.
It is a good rule, I think, to avoid the fanciful in names. So few of our
children are going to be heroes or sages that we should be careful not to
stamp them with the mark of greatness at the outset of the journey. Horatio
was a happy stroke for Nelson, but how few Horatios win immortality, or
deserve it! And how disastrous if Horatio turns out a knave and a coward!
If young Spinks has any Miltonic fire within him, it will shine through
plain John more naturally and lustrously than through any borrowed
patronymic. You may be as humble as you like, and John will fit you: as
illustrious as you like, and John will blaze as splendid as your deeds,
linking you with that great order of nobility of which John Milton, John
Hampden, and John Bright are types.
I had written thus far when it occurred to me that I had still my own name
to choose and that soon the whistle of the postman would be heard in the
street. I went out into the orchard to take counsel with the stars. The far
horizon was still stained wine-red with the last embers of the day;
northward over the shoulder of the hill the yellow moon was rising
full-orbed into the night sky and the firmament glittered with a thousand
lamps.
How near and familiar they seem to one in the solitude of the country! In
the town our vision is limited to the street. We see only the lights of the
pavement and hear only the rattle of the unceasing traffic. The stars seem
infinitely removed from our life.
But here they are like old neighbours for whom we never look in vain,
intimate though eternal, friendly and companionable though far off. There
is Orion coming over the hill, and there the many-jewelled Pleiades, and
across the great central dome of the sky the vast triangle formed by the
Pole Star, golden Arcturus (not now visible), and ice-blue Vega. But these
are not names for me. Better are those homely sounds that link the pageant
of night with the immemorial life of the fields. Arcturus is Alpha of the
Herdsman. Shall it be that?
And then my eye roves westward to where the Great Bear hangs head downwards
as if to devour the earth. Great Bear, Charles's Wain, the Plough, the
Dipper, the Chariot of David--with what fancies the human mind through all
the ages has played with that glorious constellation! Let my fancy play
with it too. There at the head of the Plough flames the great star that
points to the pole. I will hitch my little waggon to that sublime image. I
will be Alpha of the Plough.