What's in a Name?

— A good name, even in the limited sense of being euphonious, is so desirable that it is difficult to discover why it should be lightly cast aside for an uncouth and vulgar one. It is still more incomprehensible when the name is valuable for its significance and association. Yet one need not go far to find many ancient and modern instances of such unprofitable change. I have but to look to the east and to the west to be confronted and affronted by two notable examples.

A bold peak, among the loftiest of the Green Mountains, lies against the eastern sky in striking likeness of a crouching lion, — a resemblance at once recognized by the French explorers, who gave it the befitting title of Lion Couchant. The Waubanakees called it Tah-wah-bede e Wadso, the Saddle Mountain ; but for us it bears the absurdly inappropriate name of Camel’s Hump, or Camel’s Rump, as some will have it, for whom the vulgarity of the first is not quite sufficient. Even such a name gives a mountain more individuality than the cognomen of a successful politician, and we take kindlier to it than to the unmeaning and wholly inappropriate name of Mansfield, given to its loftiest brother of the Green Mountain range, which might better bear its early Waubanakee title, Moze-o-de-be Wadso, the Moosehead Mountain. Of all these grand landmarks, only one retains its aboriginal name, Ascutney, probably a corruption of Mahps-ead-na, Rocky Height.

Piercing the clouds of the western horizon is lifted the highest peak of the Adirondacks. Eye and ear acknowledge the fitness of the sonorous name bestowed upon it by the Iroquois, Tahawus, the Sky-Splitter ; but if by this name you inquire of the maps or of the people who dwell in its mighty shadow, you shall not find it. The old appellation is almost as much forgotten as those of its brothers, Oukarlah and Nodoneyo. But ask for Mt. Marcy and the pathway opens to you. All these noble peaks have suffered a like misfortune except Whiteface, whose name fits well, and by which you may recognize it when you behold the slide-swept front. The mountains shrink under the weight of their ignoble nomenclature, a curse which fell upon them earlier than the blight of destruction that threatens the primeval wilderness wherein they stand. Their ancient names should endure like them, forever, when their forests are forgotten.

When I visit my favorite stream, I can never help thinking that its clear waters would be brighter and their song more joyous if it still bore its old name, Sun-gahne-tuk, the River of Fish Weirs, rather than Lewis Creek ; and would not the name of Onion River have a sweeter fragrance untranslated from Winooski, the Land of Leeks ?

We are only amused when, from some freak or fancy, men change their own names, and Bull becomes Buel, Cox Cook, and Hogg, naturally enough, is made Bacon ; but we revolt against the change of commonplace but accustomed and perhaps historical names of towns to the no less commonplace patronymic of some successful pill-vender or politician.

It is rare to find transplanted descendants of the old Canadians who fought under the fleur da lis still bearing the names their ancestors proudly bore. For the most part, they renounce their euphonious historic names for English translations and fancied semblances in mere sound. Jean Baptiste Sans Souci Le Veque may be forgiven for abbreviating his name to John Lavake ; but it is distressing to eye and ear when Deignault is spelled and pronounced Danyaw, Ainse becomes Hanks, L’Auvergne Lovern, St. Cyr Sears, Monat Miner, Colombe, by some unaccountable transformation, Daniels ; and it is confusing when both Dudelant and Gaudesse become Douglas. All the Ruisseaus are dry Brooks, the La Frênes and La Prunelles withered Ashes and Plumtrees, and Henri Livernois d’Oligney Henry Alden. So the fine old names sink into a dreary level of commonplace.