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
“Sweet Helen,
Hell in her name, but Heaven in her looks.”
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.
FOOTNOTE:
[38] “An Essay on English Surnames,” by Mark Antony Lower, M.A., F.S.A., a work full of interesting information on the subject of which it treats, and to which I am much indebted.