CHAPTER XIII.

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.

MONG the crotchets of Sterne's dialectician, Walter

AMONG

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 country

men!" 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 biog

raphy 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