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

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”:

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

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

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:

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:

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:

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

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

To this his friend replied:

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

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.