Christian Names

THE delightful paper on the ‘Utterance of Names,’ in the Contributors’ Club for January, embarked our circle at once upon a discussion: does a name impress in itself, — take Edward, for instance, or Francis, — or does the suggestion of personality that it gives come only from association? Has it, or has it not, its own character?

‘Association only! ’ says the leader of our Opposition. ‘You read Geoffrey Hamlyn at thirteen, and Sam Buckley made all other Sams heroic and gallant for all time. Association only, a composite photograph of early impressions.’

Sam Buckley is a very dear fellow; but I do not agree in the least with Opposition’s conclusion.

Take Richard, for instance: Richard is dignified, a little stately; a grave character; no hammocks or moonlight for Richard. No, from the moment he comes on the scene we are in for serious business.

‘That is easy,’ puts in Opposition,

' Cœur de Lion, Sir Richard Grenville, and Warwick the King-maker, of glorious memory. There you are in a nutshell!’

But Richard III is quite as familiar an association as Richard I, to say nothing of Richard II; and there is poor Richard Carstone, in Bleak House, and I do not know how many unworthy Dicks scattered through all fiction. No; Richard, the name in itself, is sonorous and stately in utterance; the mere sound of the vowels has its part in the suggestion and impression of character, as the key of C major has its own quality. What other name could Richard Feverel possibly have borne?

Thus name after name has its character. It is true that the differences of opinion as to the characters suggested by some names on the evening in question were quite violent, and that our discussion grew fiery; and it is perhaps needless to state that I am giving my own views, not those of a united company.

Lawrence is an interesting and even a romantic person, inclined to be thoughtful and somewhat dreamily speculative; slender rather than stalwart or robust in figure. (Yet I know a fat Lawrence.) Robert is, or should be, the best of good fellows, and as Bob he is even more, he is a darling; and James — but I never like James, though I have liked many Jameses!

George is stodgy. No heroine of mine shall ever whisper low, ‘Support me, George!’ And stodgy also is William; and this when the names of Washington and of William the Silent shine to me brighter than any others in history. A diminutive or nickname will sometimes lighten a character up wonderfully. Billy and Bill (never Will) are great improvements on the too staid William; indeed, they are two delightful fellows. (But do not let your hero think that Georgie wall ever help him out at all!)

Charles is rather a light-weight, in spite of Charles Ravenshoe, and a later hero, Charles Danvers. Charles may be handsome, gay, charming, but you would never trust him with the graver matters of fiction. Harry (Henry has a little of George’s over-solidness) is light-hearted and winning, gay, handsome and lovable. When he has his own way he is apt to go for a sailor.

John is, however, the name of names, and has been for all time. John is strength, goodness, sureness. The situation, however desperate, is saved when John appears. Wife, sweetheart, sister, or mother may calm her fears when the strong shoulder of John is there to lean on. The ship is safe when John has his hand on the tiller; and the villain may well look to the priming of his pistol, or, better still, make what terms he can, when he has John to deal with.

The character of a heroine’s name is as a rule less distinctive, and girls’ names change more with the fashion; but Mary is Mary, most beautiful, queen among women; or she may masquerade in lighter guise as Molly or Polly, the darlings!

Nearly all the girls’ nicknames are pretty: Jessie, Kittie, and Annie, what gayness they have, and what sweetness.

But alas! and alas! that all names must change so with the fashions. ‘The utterance of the mere name,’ says the Contributor in the January Atlantic, ‘ is one of the most powerful auxiliaries which the lover of emphasis or emotion can summon to his aid’; and further on, ‘There is hardly a passion which does not sometimes avail itself of this simple but potent instrument. “Philip!” the wife exclaims in a burst of love and pity, when the husband returns home at night to falter out the tale of his ruined fortunes.’

True; but suppose that the wife had cried, ‘Marmaduke!'

Lord Orville’s ‘My beloved Miss Anville!' can no longer thrill us; we are grown less punctilious; and it is hard in these days to think of young lips quivering, of young voices growing soft over our own Puritan names.

‘ Keziah! ’

‘Yes, Increase!’

We were all busy last evening looking up old fashions for a fancy dressparty in the back numbers of Punch.

‘No, no, these aren’t old enough,’ objected one of our number, ‘Punch hardly goes farther back than the Lauras and Claras, and we want at least Arabellas.'

Arabella and Araminta; Evelina; Angelica; we must look for the dear creatures in the old Book of Beauty, and here they all are, in frocks quite as preposterous — and pretty — as their Christian names are. Spencers have passed from us, pelisses, short-gowns, farthingales, crinoline, no more completely than have the lovely names of their wearers; and surely the year and century of a heroine are stamped quite as well by her name as by her costume.

In Herrick’s time, of course, all the ladies were nymphs and flowery graces: Althea, Chloris, Lucasta; and then in the early part of the nineteenth century came what a reaction! Harriet, Lydia, Jane, Emma; just hark back to Miss Austen’s young women! And a little before these was, I fancy, the height of the reign of Maria.

‘Ay, ay, Louisa Musgrove, that is the name,’ says Admiral Croft, in Persuasion; ‘I wish young ladies had not such a number of fine Christian names. I should never be out if they were all Sophys, or something of that sort.’

Now I should never have thought of Louisa as being any newer, or finer, than Sophy.

Scott’s immortal quality shows nowhere more than in his choice of his heroines’ names; he never was bound by a fashion. Diana, Flora, Lucy, Alice, and Edith, their beautiful names are of all time; and Bulwer threw off completely the yoke of Eliza (imagine Eliza!) and Harriet, of William and Edmund, and with what magnificence, with what splendor! made no bones about it, but came out full with Violante and Leonora, ‘Dear, dear Guy Darrell,’ Harley L’Estrange, and Audley Egerton!

Thackeray certainly gave in to the fashion of his day with Amelia, and Dickens with Dora and Agnes; but Meredith’s names are all lovely. Indeed, the great names do not change with the fashion: Mary, Elizabeth, Helen, Margaret, Rose, — these never lose their bright beauty.

Elizabeth has, in fact, more prominence than even her loveliness deserves, just at this present moment; scarcely a novel of to-day can be happy without her; and to place a heroine in the very fore-front of fashion, to mark her the actual ‘latest,’ she need only be named Betty.

What next, dear sisters in fiction? To-day we have many fancies. Gladys and Marion may be passing into temporary eclipse, but Natalie and Veronica, Anita and Muriel, these abound.

Are we to be classic again: Cornelia, Helena, Chloe? Or flowery: Lily and Violet? Or Scriptural: Martha and Persis? Or almost the sweetest of all: Faith, Hope, Love, Peace, Charity? Whichever it is, as your turn comes, you all will be lovely.