I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.”
His droll emphasis on the word “Doctor,” and the repetition of it in the course of the speech, drew forth peals of laughter; and henceforth the butt of his ridicule was generally known as “The Doctor.” The Opposition newspapers caught up the title, and rang innumerable changes upon it, till finally the Prime Minister was fairly overwhelmed by the laughter of his enemies, and forced to resign his office.
Everybody has heard of “Ditto to Mr. Burke”; the victim of this title was a Mr. Conger, who was elected with Burke to represent the city of Bristol. Utterly bewildered as to how to thank the electors after his associate’s splendid speech, he condensed his own address into these significant words: “Gentlemen, I say ditto to Mr. Burke, ditto to Mr. Burke!” “Chicken Taylor” was the name which, in the early part of the century, long stuck to Mr. M. A. Taylor; he contended against a great lawyer in the House, and then apologized that he, “a chicken in the law, should venture on a fight with the cock of Westminster.” “Adullamites,” or “Dwellers in the Cave,” the name given by Mr. Bright to Mr. Lowe and some of his Liberal friends,—a name derived from the Scripture story of David and his followers retiring to a cave,—will probably long continue to be applied to the members of a discontented faction.
Who does not remember the nickname, “The Spasmodic School of Poetry,” which was given to three or four young poets some thirty years ago? It was in the brain of Professor Aytoun that this title originated, and immediately these writers, whose salient faults were thus felicitously hit off, were everywhere recognized as “spasmodists.” For years after, no one of these minstrels could strike his lyre in public, even in the most humdrum, old-fashioned way, but the cry of “spasmodist” was raised so loudly that he was glad to retreat into his wonted obscurity. Even Ben Jonson, the sturdy old dramatist, did not escape a nickname. His envious rivals dubbed him “The Limestone and Mortar Poet,” in allusion to his lack of spontaneity as a poet, and his having begun life as a bricklayer.
Among the other memorable English nicknames, that of “Jemmy Twitcher,” taken from the chief of Macheath’s gang in “The Beggar’s Opera,” and applied to Lord Sandwich,—that of “Orange Peel,” given to Sir Robert Peel by the Irish, the inveterate foes of the House of Orange,—“the stormy Petrel of debate,” given to Mr. Bernal Osborne,—“Finality Russell,” fastened upon Lord John Russell because he wished a certain Reform measure to be final,—“The Dandy Demagogue,” given to Mr. T. S. Duncombe, the able parliamentary advocate of the people, who was distinguished by the remarkable elegance and finish of his attire,—the unique “Dizzy,” into which his enemies condensed the name of the celebrated Jewish premier,—and the “Who? Who? Ministry,” applied to Lord Derby’s Cabinet in 1852,—are preëminently significant and telling. Among the hundreds of American political nicknames, there are many which are not remarkably expressive; others, like “Old Bullion” and “Old Hickory,” are steeped in “the very brine of conceit,” and sum up a character as if by inspiration.
It is a curious fact that some of the most damaging nicknames have been terms or epithets which were originally complimentary, but which, used sarcastically, have been associated with more ridicule or odium than the most opprobrious epithets. Men hate to be continually reminded of any one virtue of a fellow-man,—to hear the changes rung continually upon some one great action or daring feat he has performed. It seems, indeed, as if a man whose name is continually dinned in our ears, coupled with some complimentary epithet, some allusion to a praiseworthy deed which he once did, or some excellent trait of character, must be distinguished for nothing else. Unless this is his only virtue, why all this fuss and pother about it? The Athenians banished Aristides, because they were tired of hearing him called “the Just.”
Some parents have so great a dread of nicknames that they tax their ingenuity to invent for their children a Christian name that may defy nicking or abbreviation. With Southey’s Doctor Dove, they think “it is not a good thing to be Tom’d or Bob’d, Jack’d or Jim’d, Sam’d or Ben’d, Natty’d or Batty’d, Neddy’d or Teddy’d, Will’d or Bill’d, Dick’d or Nick’d, Joe’d or Jerry’d, as you go through the world.” The good doctor, however, had no such antipathy to the shortening of female names. “He never called any woman Mary, though Mare, he said, being the sea, was in many respects too emblematic of the sex. It was better to use a synonym of better omen, and Molly was therefore preferred, as being soft. If he accosted a vixen of that name in her worst temper, he Mollyfied her! On the contrary, he never could be induced to substitute Sally for Sarah. Sally, he said, had a salacious sound, and, moreover, it reminded him of rovers, which women ought not to be. Martha he called Patty, because it came pat to the tongue. Dorothy remained Dorothy, because it was neither fitting that women should be made Dolls, nor I-dols! Susan with him was always Sue, because women were to be sued, and Winnifred, Winny, because they were to be won.”[42]
The annoyance which may be given to a man, even by an apparently meaningless nickname, which sticks to him wherever he goes, is well illustrated by a story told by Hazlitt in his “Conversations with Northcote,” the painter. A village baker got, he knew not how, the name of “Tiddy-doll.” He was teased and worried by it till it almost drove him crazy. The boys hallooed it after him in the streets, and poked their faces into his shop-windows; the parrots echoed the name as he passed their cages; and even the soldiers took it up (for the place was a military station), and marched to parade, beating time with their feet, and singing “Tiddy-doll, Tiddy-doll,” as they passed by his door. He flew out upon them at the sound with inextinguishable fury, was knocked down and rolled into the kennel, and got up in an agony of rage, his white clothes drabbled and bespattered with mud. A respectable and friendly gentleman in the neighborhood, who pitied his weakness, called him into his house one day, and remonstrated with him on the subject. He advised him to take no notice of his persecutors. “What,” said he, “does it signify? Suppose they do call you ‘Tiddy-doll?’ What harm?” “There,—there it is again!” burst forth the infuriated baker; “you’ve called me so yourself. You called me in on purpose to insult me!” And, saying this, he vented his rage in a torrent of abusive epithets, and darted out of the house in a tempest of passion.
The readers of Boswell will remember, in connection with this subject, an amusing anecdote told of Dr. Johnson. Being rudely jostled and profanely addressed by a stout fish-woman, as he was passing through Billingsgate, he looked straight at her, and said deliberately, “You are a triangle!” which made her swear louder than before. He then called her “a rectangle! a parallelogram!” but she was more voluble still. At last he screamed out, “You are a miserable, wicked hypothenuse!” and she was struck dumb. Curran had a similar ludicrous encounter with a fish-woman at Cork. Taking up the gauntlet, when assailed by her on the quay, he speedily found that he was overmatched, and that he had nothing to do but to beat a retreat. “This, however, was to be done with dignity; so, drawing myself up disdainfully, I said, ‘Madam, I scorn all further discourse with such an individual!’ She did not understand the word, and thought it, no doubt, the very hyperbole of opprobrium. ‘Individual, you wagabond!’ she screamed, ‘what do you mean by that? I’m no more an individual than your mother was!’ Never was victory more complete. The whole sisterhood did homage to me, and I left the quay of Cork covered with glory.”