There are eleven Wrens hopping about our London streets, and I daresay they often stand—not on one leg, of course—to stare at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and to think with pride on Christopher Wren, and his epitaph, “Si monumentum quæris, circumspice.” There are fifteen Nightingales, too, but whether or no they can all sing sweetly I cannot say. One of the happiest anagrams ever written was that upon “Florence Nightingale,” which by a transposition of letters makes, “Flit on, cheering angel.” It is as good as “Horatio Nelson,” which can be turned into “Honor est a Nilo.”
Many of these nicknames we see for ourselves could not have been intended to be very complimentary. A single quotation will prove this. We know that every great personage up to the middle of the sixteenth century had his or her professional fool, or joker. The “privy expenses” of Elizabeth of Yorke for March, 1502, have this entry:—“Item: delivered to John Goose, my Lord of Yorke’s fole (fool), in rewarde for bringing a carppe (carp) to the Quene, 12d.” Here is a palpable nickname for the office, the term itself being taken from that bird which was popularly supposed to reign supreme over simpletondom. “You goose” is still commonly applied to a child that has done something silly. That our “Gosses” should retain a forgotten and obsolete spelling is very natural. There are three Patches in the Directory. I crave their pardon for reminding them that their progenitor held the honourable office of “fool” to some English king or baron. We are all familiar with
“The king of shreds and patches.”
It was through this peculiarity in his dress the official fool got the sobriquet of “Patch.” Henry the Eighth’s fool bore this name: “Item: paied to the same Pyne for 2 payr of hosen for Patche—xs.,” says an old book of “Privy Purse Expenses” belonging to that king.
Speaking of birds, we may mention the name of Spark, or Sparke. Few of my readers probably are aware that this is but a corruption of Sparrowhawk. Sparhawk was the intermediate form, and was once very common. It was a Mr. Sparrowhawk to whom the great Thomas Fuller jocularly put the question, “What is the difference between an owl and a sparrowhawk?” His companion at once retorted with the reply, “An owl is fuller in the head, fuller in the face, and Fuller all over!” This was but repaying the historian in his own coin, for no one has made so many puns and plays on names and words as Fuller. He carried it to an extent which in our day would be considered profane. Many will recall his prayer in rhyme—
“My soul is stainèd with a dusty colour,—
Let Thy Son be the sope, I’ll be the Fuller.”
Again, in a spirit of devout meekness, he writes, “As for other stains and spots upon my soul, I hope that He (be it spoken without the least verbal reflection) who is the Fuller’s sope, will scour them forth with His merit, that I may appear clean by God’s mercy.” It was but natural, that when this great religious punster died, a suggestion should have been made that his epitaph should run thus: “Here lies Fuller’s earth.” [138] This was not done, and just as well it was not; for if puns are ever objectionable, it is when they appear in epitaphs. Nevertheless, one of the finest instances of paranomasia on record is to be found on the tablet to Foote’s memory in Westminster Abbey:—
“Here lies one Foote, whose death may thousands save;
For now Death hath one Foote within the grave.”
A similar interchange of nominal courtesies is observable in the names of cattle and wild beasts. Pigg, Hogg, Stott, Colt, Bullock, Duncalf, Wolf, Lamb, Kidd, Bacon, Grice, and Wildbore all speak for themselves; while in our North English Oliphants and Olivants we recognize the old spelling of “elephant.” No doubt the original bearer of the nickname was of unusually large proportions even for the border country of England and Scotland. Speaking of Lamb, we are reminded that a brother-in-law of John Wesley bore the name of Whitelamb, and therefore could scarcely be called, under any circumstances, a black sheep! There are six Bears and eighty Bulls in the Directory. The Gentleman’s Magazine for 1807 records the death of “Savage Bear, Esquire,” who was a resident in Kent. In the same article mention is made of a Mr. Mould, cheesemonger, in Newgate Street. But we have Bearmans, Bullards (that is, Bullwards), Bulmans, and Bullpitts in our Directory, too. It was not till 1835 bear-baiting and bull-baiting were forbidden by Act of Parliament. It had reigned at the head of English pastimes for six centuries. Hence it was a common inn-sign. The oldest hostel in London was supposed to be the “Bear,” on the Southwark side of old London Bridge. Hence an old poem says,—
“We came to the Bear, which we soon understood
Was the first house in Southwark built after the flood.”