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ILLUSTRATIONS
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| Psaltery and Dulcimer (By kind permission of Messrs Cornish) | 72 |
| Mandore, Pandurina, Lute, Theorboe, Archlute, and Guitar | 76 |
| The Crwth | 79 |
| The Tromba Marina | 81 |
| Viola d’Amore, Cither Viol, and Hurdy-gurdy or Organistrum | 82 |
| Recorders | 84 |
| Pibcorn or Horn-pipe | 89 |
| Cornetts, Serpent, Bass Horn, Ophicleide, and Keyed Bugle | 91 |
The above illustrations are all taken from “Old English Instruments of Music,” by the kind permission of Canon Galpin.
TO
F. C. C.
SPRINGTIME [1]
“Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year.”
—Autolycus’ Song.
Governesses used to tell us that the seasons of the year each consist of three months, and of these March, April, and May make the springtime. I should like to break the symmetry, and give February to spring, which would then include February, March, April, and May. It has been said that winter is but autumn “shyly shaking hands with spring.” We will, accordingly, make winter a short link of two months—an autumnal and a vernal hand—December and January. It is a little sad for autumn to have to make room for chill November alongside of the happier months of September and October. But autumn is a season of decadence and cannot justly complain.
The autumnal flowers, which may be allowed to figure as a prelude to spring, are few in number. My favourite is lady’s tresses (Spiranthes), so called from the spiral twist in its inflorescence, which suggests braided hair. Gentiana amarella I should like to include, but its flowering-time is from 12th August to 8th September, and summer has the stronger claim on it. Other autumnal flowers are laurustinus and ivy. If we go by the mean date nothing flowers in October or November, and in December only the Christmas rose (Helleborus niger) is recorded by Blomefield.
But the autumn months have a glory of their own which may vie with the brightest hues of flowers. This great and beautiful panorama begins with the yellowing of the lime-leaves, which may occur as early as 17th August, but on the average is seen on 14th September. It is followed towards the end of September by a brown tint, showing itself in the leaves of the horse-chestnut. It is appropriate that these two species, which are not indigenous, [2] should be the first to fade into glory. But I must not insist on the point, for we see wych-elm leaves fall 24th September, while the date for the common elm is 28th October; and the elm is a foreigner compared to the wych-elm, and retains a mark of its alien origin in not setting seeds.
The syringa (Philadelphus) is another foreigner, which early shows autumnal tints—yellowing on 27th September. Then follow some native trees: the beech and birch both turning yellow on 1st October, and being followed by the maple on 7th October. I like the motherliness of the half-grown beech, who refuses to drop her dead leaves in autumn, hoping (as I imagine) that they will shelter her tender leaves in the chilly springtime. The older beeches give up this anxious care, and doubtless laugh among themselves over the fussiness of young mothers. They forget, no doubt, that in the scrub at the feet of their own boles the habit persists.
With regard to the fall of leaves, the sycamore begins to lose them 2nd October; birch and cherry, 8th October; maple and walnut, 12th October; aspen, 13th October; beech and elder, 13th October; ash, 14th October; Lombardy poplar and Virginian creeper, 18th October; honeysuckle, 22nd October; hazel, 26th October; elm, 28th October; whitethorn, 30th October; plane, 3rd November. Judging by a single observation of Blomefield, the larch is the last performer in the drama of autumn. It turns yellow on 8th November, and its leaves fall 15th November.
Blomefield [3] records that on 29th November the trees are “everywhere stript of leaves,” so that some sort of colour-drama has been in progress from the middle of September to the end of November. It may be objected that what has been said of autumn is but a catalogue of names and dates. And this is true enough; but when we realise the glory of autumnal decadence, it seems (however baldly recounted) to be a fitting prelude to the great outbreak of new life—green leaves and bright flowers that spring gives us.
In Blomefield’s “Calendar” the difference between December and January is exaggerated. For, as it stands, it suggests that plants know that a new year has begun, and all burst into flower on 1st January. But that careful naturalist points out [4a] “all those phenomena which are referred to 1st January, as the earliest date, may be considered as occasionally showing themselves in December of the previous year.”
The plants that bloom in winter, i.e. December and January, are few enough. The Christmas rose gives us its white or pink flowers in December, and the primrose may flower in the first days of January—indeed, I seem to remember it in Kent before Christmas, but I will not answer for it. According to Blomefield, the honour of being the first plant to awake must be given to the honeysuckle (Lonicera caprifolium), which unfolds its leaves between 1st January and 22nd February, i.e. on 21st January on the average. This bold behaviour is all the more to its credit since it is said by Hooker [4b] to be a naturalised plant.
Then follow in order the flowers of furze, hazel, winter aconite (Eranthis), hellebore (H. fœtidus), daisy, and snowdrop; so that the winter flowers make a most pleasant show, and tempt us to raise January to the rank of the first month of springtime—but we must allow the credit to be justly due to winter. In winter, too, we must be grateful to the ivy of the bare hedgerows shining in the sun, its leaves glistening like the simple jewels of a savage.
With February, we are agreed that spring comes in, but it is a springtime that keeps something of the graveness of winter: though, when the silver sunshine begins to be decorated with the singing of birds, we must call it spring.
In February, too, the roads are no longer edged with dead white grass, but show the fresh green of wayside plants—cow-weed, nettle, dock, and cleavers.
The trees still stand naked, their leaf-buds waiting for a better season. I like to think of wintering plants not as being asleep, but rather as silent. They sing with all their green tongues when spring releases them from the cupboards (which we call buds) where she has kept them safe.
The service-tree is a hardy creature, for its buds are naked and unprotected, like Pampas Indians who are proud of sleeping uncovered, and of seeing, as they rise, their forms outlined in the hoar-frost. I have only recently noticed the purple tint of alder-buds; [5] and I am reminded of the character in Cranford, who needs Tennyson’s words “Black as ash-buds in March” to teach him the fact. Some trees show their flowers early. For instance, the hanging tassels of the hazel, from which the dusty pollen can be shaken out, and the tiny red tufts which are all the female flower has to show. The alder, too, has a brave crowd of lambs’ tails. The elm should flower about the middle of March, and its pink stamens make a pleasant sight. These plants are called anemophilous—that is, wind-loving, as though grateful to the wind for carrying their pollen without payment. I can imagine that the plants employing insects to carry pollen from one to another feel superior to the wind-fertilised clan. We may fancy the duckweed (speaking of the pine) to say: “Of course, he is very big and of an ancient family, but for that very reason he is primitive in his habits. I know he boasts that he employs the winds of heaven as marriage priests, but we are served by the animal kingdom in our unions—and that, you must allow, is something to be proud of.” [6] But duckweeds grow so crowded together that they are probably fertilised, to a great extent, by contact with their neighbours, without aid from the animal kingdom. We may also imagine the duckweed reproving the pine for his extravagance in the matter of pollen production. This, however, is necessary, because the pollen being sown broadcast by the wind, it is a matter of chance whether or not a grain reaches the stigma of its own species, and the chance of its doing so is clearly increased by multiplying the number of pollen-grains produced. Enormous quantities of the precious dust are wasted by this prodigality. We read of pollen swept from the decks of ships, or coating with a yellow scum lakes hidden among Tyrolean pinewoods. Pollen is so largely dispersed in the air that it has been supposed to be a cause of hay-fever.
Blackley found, by means of a sticky plate, which could be exposed and covered again, when raised high in the air on a kite, that pollen is dispersed to considerable altitudes. Wherever vegetable débris collects, pollen-grains may be found. Kerner found them, together with wind-borne seeds and scales of butterflies’ wings, sticking to the ice in remote Alpine glaciers.
Another characteristic of wind-borne pollen is dryness or dustiness; the grains are smooth, not sculptured like the pollen meant to be carried by insects; nor are they sticky or oily, as is often the case with entomophilous pollen. The advantage to the plan is obvious; the grains, from the absence of the burr-like quality, or of any other kind of adhesiveness, do not tend to hold together in clumps, but separate easily from one another, and float all the more easily. [7]
Several adaptations are found to favour the dispersal of the pollen. Wind-fertilised plants are generally tall; thus in Europe, at least, the commonest representatives of the class are shrubs or trees—witness the fir-trees, yew, juniper, oak, hazel, birch. And where the plants are lowly—e.g., grasses and sedges, and the plantains—the flowers are more or less raised up on the haulm. An exception must be made of some water-plants—e.g., the Potamogetons, where the flower-stalk is but slightly raised above the surface.
Wind-fertilised plants have many characteristics which favour the dispersal of the pollen. The grasses have long pendent stamens, and versatile anthers, from which the pollen is easily shaken out by the wind. There are, of course, exceptions to these generalisations. Such plants as Hippuris and Salicornia have no particular adaptations: the filaments are short, and the plants themselves are not of sufficient height to be able to scatter forth their pollen efficiently by the mere bending of their stems. The need for exposure to the wind is shown in another way—namely, by the habit of the Cupuliferæ (oak, hazel, etc.), of flowering before the leaves appear; this not only favours the start of the pollen on its flight, but is probably still more useful in increasing its chance of reaching the stigma.
If the pollen is exposed to the wind it will be liable to be wetted and injured. Catkins—such as those of the walnut or hazel—give some protection to the pollen, since the stamens are covered in by tile-like scales; but where—as in the grasses and plantains—the anthers hang far out of the flowers, the pollen is easily injured. Some of the cereals protect themselves against injury by means of a remarkably rapid growth of the filaments; thus the anthers remain hidden within the flowers until the last moment, and, under the influence of a warm sunny morning, rapidly protrude themselves. If the scales of the flower are artificially separated, the growth can be produced by warmth and moisture; Askenasy describes a trick of country children, who put ears of rye in their mouths and thus produce a miraculous growth of stamens. The growth or rapid turgescence takes place, according to the same writer, at the pace of one millimetre in three minutes.
The explosive male flowers of the nettle have a somewhat similar meaning. The young stamen is bent so that the upper end of the anther touches the base of the filament. On the inner concave side of the stamen are large cells, whose turgescence tends to unfold the filament: I do not know by what means the unfolding is prevented, but whatever the cause may be, it is at last overcome and the stamen uncurls with a jerk, and scatters forth the pollen. Here, as in the rye, the pollen is protected until the actual moment when it starts on its voyage through the air.
Another of the Nettle tribe, Pilea serpyllifolia—a plant often cultivated in our greenhouses—is also explosive, and its little puffs of smoke-like pollen have gained for it the popular name of the artillery plant. Its power of explosion must be of value to it as counterbalancing the disadvantage, to a wind-fertilised plant, of such a lowly habit.
The adaptations found in the female organs are chiefly such as increase the surface capable of receiving the pollen, and therefore increase the chance of fertilisation. A big stigmatic surface is common: not only is the receptive part of the style large, but it usually bears very large stigmatic papillæ, which gives a velvety hoary look to this type of stigma. In the grasses the three divisions of the stigma are always more or less conspicuous; and reach a climax, in this respect, in the huge beard-like tangle of the maize.
Some of the most interesting cases of wind fertilisation are those in which an isolated instance occurs in a Natural Order otherwise served by insects. Thus in the Rosaceæ, Poterium sanguisorba is wind fertilised, and has long pendent stamens, and a tufted stigma; while the closely allied Sanguisorba officinalis, although it secretes nectar (and this can only mean that it hopes to attract insects), retains the tufted stigma of its anemophilous relatives.
In the case of the Kerguelen cabbage (Pringlea antiscorbutica), the cause of its degeneration seems to be the want of winged insects on the wind-blown shores on which it grows. It has acquired some anemophilous characters—e.g., increased stigmatic surface and exserted anthers. Its flowers are inconspicuous like those of wind-fertilised plants in general, and it seems in fair way to lose its petals altogether—many flowers only retaining a single one. The entomophilous ancestry of Pringlea is clearly shown by the occasional remnants of coloured markings in the petals, like those which in other flowers serve as finger-posts to visiting-insects, and are called nectar-guides.
But these are digressions—sidepaths of tempting detail which have lured me from the straight highway. However, they have brought me back to the main road.
In Blomefield’s Observations in Natural History (p. 332), he points out that “however much the seasons may differ in different years, the phenomena generally follow one another in the same order. And it follows that those which occur together any one year, will occur at or nearly [at] the same time every other.” This indeed is what we might expect, from the circumstances of any interruption in the time of their occurrence, due to seasonal influence, necessarily affecting them all equally. One of the examples by which he supports his view is the parallel behaviour of the ground-ivy (Nepeta Glechoma) and the box-tree, whose flowers appear simultaneously on 3rd April, as an average date; while in a certain backward year they flowered later, but still close together—namely, 20th April and 19th April. There is to me an especial charm in these duets. Thus I like to imagine that the larch is waiting to put on its new green clothes till it hears the black-cap. Or is it that the larch rules the orchestra, and with his green baton signals to the songster to strike into the symphony? [11]
Shakespeare is right to make the daffodil come before the swallow dares, since according to Blomefield the average of seventeen annual observations gives 12th March for the daffodil’s flowering-day, and the swallow does not appear till 9th April at the earliest. Browning, too, is scientifically safe in letting his chaffinch sing now “that the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf.” Indeed, the most dilatory chaffinch must have been singing since 19th February, and in fortunate seasons might have been heard on 7th January. A floral calendar may be useful as an interpreter in antiquarian problems. Thus Blomefield [12a] says that “the flos-cuculi, or cuckoo-flower of the older botanists, was so called from its opening its flowers about the time of the cuckoo’s commencing his call.” The botanist referred to may have been Gerarde, and the flower seems to be Cardamine pratensis, known as lady’s smock, also as the cuckoo-flower. Now the cuckoo begins his song (as the average of Blomefield’s seventeen years’ observation near Cambridge) on 29th April, [12b] and lady’s smock blossoms 19th April. [12c] The coincidence is but moderate, but it is cheering to find in Gilbert White’s Calendar, with its earlier South Country dates, that the events occur together: lady’s smock, 6th to 20th April; cuckoo, 7th to 26th April.
Wood-sorrel (Oxalis acetosella) was known as cuckoo-sorrel by the Saxons. In Stillingfleet’s Calendar of Flora (1755), it is said to flower on 16th April, and the cuckoo to begin his song on 17th April. It is pleasant to find, in a Swedish calendar of flora, that the cuckoo sings on 12th May, and the wood-sorrel flowers on 13th May. Lychnis flos-cuculi, the ragged robin, flowers on 19th May, and seems to have no kind of right to the name of a cuckoo-flower, though Gerarde remarks that it “flowers in April and May, when the cuckoo doth begin to sing her pleasant notes without stammering.” [12d]
I remember being told by a physician that a celebrated Polish violinist in his old age could not bear the sound of concerted music, but he would weep over a musical score of which he said, “These beggars don’t play out of tune.” This is also true of the great symphony of colour which the springtime unfolds. The trees are double-basses, and doubtless some are contra-fagotti, though I confess that I cannot speak positively on this point. Then come a mass of beautiful shrub-like plants which make up the rest of the string-band. As one who loves wind-instruments, I like to think that the flutes, oboes, and clarinets are the flowers of my vernal orchestra, decorating the great mass of stringed instruments with streaks and flames of colour.
In real music, we cannot say why certain sounds make an appropriate opening for a symphony; nor can we understand why the chorus of flowers should (as above pointed out) be led by mezereon (Daphne mezereum), followed by furze, hazel, the daisy, and the snowdrop.
Of course, their dates are not rigorously fixed: the plants just referred to vary in their dates of flowering in the following way:
Mezereon, 11th January to 2nd February;
Furze, 1st January to 4th April;
Hazel, 1st January to 20th February;
Snowdrop, 18th January to 16th February;
the mean dates being: mezereon, 22nd January; furze, 24th January; hazel, 26th January; snowdrop, 30th January. One cause of variation in the date of flowering is temperature, and in the early months of the year this is probably the principal cause. Temperature must in the same way affect the flowering of summer plants, though the result is not so striking as in the springtime. In my article “A Procession of Flowers” (in this volume) I have given the range of the dates of flowering for different months.
The spring is the happiest season for those who love plants, who delight to watch and record the advent of old friends as the great procession of green leaves and beautiful flowers unwinds itself with a glory which no familiarity can tarnish.
I cannot resist giving the names of some of the flowers that make this familiar show that February and March give us. Field-speedwell (Veronica agrestis), butcher’s broom, Pyrus japonica, primrose, red dead-nettle, crocus, dandelion, periwinkle, celandine, marsh-marigold, sweet violet, ivy-leaved veronica, daffodil, white dead-nettle, colt’s-foot (Tussilago farfara), dog’s mercury, buttercup (Ranunculus repens), hyacinth, almond-tree, gooseberry, wood-sorrel, ground-ivy, wall-flower. The order in which they occur is taken from the mean dates of flowering given by Blomefield. To a lover of plants, this commonplace list will, I hope, be what a score is to a musician, and will recall to him some of the charm of the orchestra of living beauty that springtime awakens.
SOME NAMES OF CHARACTERS IN FICTION [15]
To some readers the personality of the characters in fiction is everything, and the names under which they appear of no importance. This is doubtless a rational position, but to me, and I think to many other novel-readers, the names which our imaginary friends and enemies bear is a matter of the greatest interest. To us it seems unbearable to have a Mr. B. as a principal character, and the same objection applies to the names of places—“the little town of C. near the cathedral town of D.” is too depressing. Trollope, who does not rank high as a name-artist, entirely satisfies us with his Barchester and its Bishop Proudie and Archdeacon Grantley. George Eliot, too, has been able in the case of Stonyshire and Loamshire to give convincing names to counties, and never offends in the names of her characters, though they have no especial attractiveness.
In some cases it is hard to say whether or no a given name is appropriate. In Jane Austen’s books, for instance, we have grown up in familiarity with the characters and we cannot associate them with others. It would be unbearable to have Emma’s lover called Mr. William Larkins and his servant George Knightley. And this is not merely the result of old acquaintance; there is, I cannot doubt, a real dignity in one name and a touch of comedy in the other. For this statement one can but rely on instinct, but a real William Larkins (and I must apologise to him if he exists) will doubtless take a different view of the matter.
But Jane Austen, like George Eliot, makes no pretence to be an artist in nomenclature. She merely aims, I imagine, at names which, without being colourless, are free from meaning and in every way possible.
Thackeray is the outstanding instance of a novelist who makes a fine-art of nomenclature. With him there is an obvious delight in coining names. Thus there would be no harm in Clive Newcome going to Windsor and Newton’s shop to buy paint brushes, but Thackeray sends him to Messrs Soap and Isaac—a parody of that highly respectable firm which always pleases me.
I have with some little labour made a rough index of Vanity Fair, and I find in the second volume (which is probably a fair sample of the names in the whole book) that there are 247 names. The author evidently takes a delight in their invention. For instance, at one of Becky’s great dinner parties (vol. ii., p. 172), the eminent guests who come in after dinner are principally cheeses [16]—Duchess (Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyère, Marchioness of Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de la Brie, Baron Schapzuger. The list also contains the name of Chevalier Tosti, who, I take it, is toasted cheese.
The titles he gives to business firms are not always complimentary. For instance, we have (vol. ii., p. 283) the case of poor Mr. Scape, who was ruined by entering the great Calcutta house of Fogle, [17a] Fake and Cracksman. Both Fogle and Fake had left the firm with large fortunes, “and Sir Horace Fogle is about to be raised to the peerage as Baron Bandanna.”
A similar type of name is the title of Becky’s solicitors, Messrs Burke, Thurtell and Hayes, [17b] who forced the Insurance Company to pay the amount for which poor Jos Sedley’s life had been insured (vol. ii., p. 391). It is interesting to find (vol. ii., p. 341) that the author introduces himself in the person of Mr. Frederick Pigeon, who “lost eight hundred pounds to Major Loder and the Honourable Mr. Deuceace.” This may remind us of Thackeray’s own loss of £1500 in a similar way (Dict. of Nat. Biog.). In some instances the author evidently could not take the trouble to coin effective names, as for instance in his reference to the firm of Jones, Brown and Robinson [18] (vol. ii., p. 130). A member of this firm became 1st Baron Helverlyn, when he altered his name to Johnes. His unfortunate daughter became the wife of Lord Gaunt. The subsidiary titles of this nobleman are pleasant—Viscount Hellborough, Baron Pitchley and Grillsby.
Other firms are represented as purely Jewish, e.g., Mr. Lewis representing Mr. Davids, and Mr. Moss acting for Mr. Manasseh, who complimented Becky “upon the brilliant way in which she did business” when she was making arrangements for Rawdon’s debts (vol. ii., p. 10).
There are many good names of shady people, e.g., Lady Crackenbury (vol. ii., p. 140), whom Becky cut, and Mrs. Washington White, to whom she “gave the go-by in the Ring”; Mrs. Chippenham (p. 160) and Mme. de la Cruchecassée are of the same type. There is also Lady Slingstone, who said that Lord Steyne was “really too bad,” but she went to his party.
Among the virtuous folks, I am particularly fond of Sir Lapin Warren (vol. i., p. 207), whose lady was about to present him with a thirteenth child. A variant occurs in vol. ii., p. 286, where we read of “thirteen sisters, daughters of a country curate, the Rev. Felix Rabbits.”
One might quote names for ever, but I must be satisfied with but a few more.
Among the professionally religious folks we have Rev. Lawrence Grills. Among the fashionables Lady FitzWillis of the Kingstreet family; Major-General and Lady Grizzel Macbeth (she had been Lady G. Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry [19]); and Mrs. Hook Eagles, who patronised Becky.
Names that seem to me bad are Fitzoof, Lord Heehaw’s son, Mrs. Mantrap, and Lord Claude Lollypop. But there are innumerable other good ones: Macmurdo, who was to have been Rawdon’s second in a duel with Lord Steyne; Captain Papillon of the Guards, attending the young wife of old Methuselah (a bad name); young May and his bride, “Mrs. Winter that was, and who had been at school with May’s grandmother.”
Viscount Paddington was a guest at Becky’s “select party” in May Fair. Finally, the Earl of Portansherry and the Prince of the house of Potztausand-Donnerwetter are good although obvious.
In Pendennis are many good names. Major Pendennis was proud of having made up the quarrel between Lady Clapperton and her daughter Lady Claudia. Lady John Turnbull, who spoke such bad French. Mr. Kewsy, the barrister. Mr. Sibwright, the luxurious young man in whose vacant chamber Laura Bell slept during Pendennis’ illness. The best of all names must be given in Morgan’s own words, “Lord de la Pole, sir, gave him [a valet] to his nephew young Lord Cubley, and he have been with him on his foring tour, and not wishing to go to Fitzurse Castle, etc., etc.”
I must reluctantly leave Thackeray and consider a very different maker of names, namely Dickens. It is sometimes said that his names are not invented but discovered by research. In my son Bernard’s A Dickens Pilgrimage (Times Series, 1914), he writes, p. 22: “Other people have been before us in seeing that Mr. Jasper keeps a shop in the High Street of Rochester,” and that “Dorretts and Pordages are buried under the shadow of the cathedral.” He claims as his own the discovery that in the churchyard of Chalk (near Rochester) there are “three tombstones standing almost next door to one another and bearing a trinity of immortal names, Twist, Flight, and Guppy.” He adds that “the lady in Bleak House spelt her name Flite.” I fail to believe that anybody was ever called Pumblechook, and there are others equally impossible. But the great name of Pickwick is not an invention. Mr. Percy Fitzgerald [20] gives plenty of evidence on this point, in a discussion suggested by the sacred name being inscribed on the Bath coach, to Sam Weller’s indignation. There was, for instance, a Mr. William Pickwick of Bath, who died in 1795. Again, in 1807, the driver of “Mr. Pickwick’s coach … was taken suddenly and very alarmingly ill on Slanderwick Common.” One member of the family “entered the army, and for some reason changed his name to Sainsbury.” The object, as Mr. Fitzgerald points out, is obvious enough. Mr. Fitzgerald mentions (p. 16) the curious fact that Mr. Dickens (the son of the author) once had to announce that he meant to call Mr. Pickwick as a witness in a case he was conducting. The Judge made the characteristic remark, “Pickwick is a very appropriate character to be called by Dickens.”
With regard to the name Winkle, I cannot agree with Mr. Fitzgerald [21] that Dickens took it from Washington Irving’s Rip Van Winkle.
Among the few names taken from real people is that of Mr. Justice Stareleigh, who is generally believed to be Mr. Justice Gaselee.
Sergeant Buzfuz in the same trial is believed on the authority of Mr. Bompas to be Serjeant Bompas, the father of that eminent Q.C., but there seems to be no evidence that it is a portrait. In Pickwick some of the best names are those of various business firms, e.g., Bilson and Slum, who were Tom Smart’s employers. In the Judge’s chambers (which “are said to be of specially dirty appearance”) was a crowd of unfortunate clerks “waiting to attend summonses their employers had taken out, which it was optional to the attorney on the opposite side to attend or not, and whose business it was from time to time to cry out the opposite attorney’s name. For example, leaning against the wall … was an office lad of fourteen with a tenor voice; near him a common law clerk with a bass one. A clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers and stared about him.
“ ‘Sniggle and Blink,’ cried the tenor.
“ ‘Porkin and Snob,’ growled the bass.
“ ‘Stumpy and Deacon,’ said the newcomer.”
These are fairly good names, though they have not the touch of Thackeray. I like the names of the chief heroes in the cricket match at Dingley Dell. Dumpkins and Podder went in first for All-Muggleton, the bowlers on the other side being Struggles and Luffey. These names are so familiar that it is hard to judge them, but on the whole they seem to me fairly good, as being slightly comic and not impossible. But when we come to Horatio Fizkin, Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, and Hon. Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, we are indeed depressed. But there are worse names in Pickwick. When Mrs. Nupkins and her daughter have discovered Captain Fitz-Marshall to be a scamp: “How can we ever show ourselves in society?” said Miss Nupkins.
“ ‘How can we face the Porkenhams?’ cried Mrs. Nupkins.
“ ‘Or the Griggs?’ cried Miss Nupkins.
“ ‘Or the Slummintowkens?’ cried Mrs. Nupkins.”
This last seems to me about as bad a name as any writer ever invented. But Nockemorf, the name of Bob Sawyer’s predecessor in the apothecary business, is almost equally tiresome in a different style.
Why he chose such names it is hard to say, since he certainly could invent improbable names which are nevertheless appropriate. For instance, Smangle and Mivins are quite good names for the offensive scamps on whom Mr. Pickwick is “chummed” in the Fleet Prison.
Daniel Grummer, the name of Mr. Nupkins’ tipstaff, is roughly of the same type, and Wilkins Flasher, as an objectionable stockbroker is called, is quite a passable name. The only name in Pickwick which is comparable to those of Thackeray is Mrs. Leo Hunter, while Count Smorltork, who occurs in the same scene, is unbearable. On the other hand, Captain Boldwig is quite a good name.
I now pass to Sir Walter Scott. It must be confessed that in the two books chosen for analysis—Guy Mannering and The Antiquary—he is disappointing as an artist in nomenclature. To begin with Guy Mannering, it is impossible to imagine why he gave such a name as Meg Merrilies to his magnificent heroine. It suggests “merry lies,” and makes us suspect that she was originally intended for a comic character. [23] And why, as she grew into a tragedy queen, he did not rename her I cannot understand. Fortunately he gave the colourless name Abel Sampson to another great character—the immortal Dominie. Again Dirk Hatteraick is a passable name. I cannot pretend to say whether it is a Dutch name, but as Dirk uses German (of a sort) when not speaking English, we may leave the question open. Among the names which are clearly bad are: Sir Thomas Kittlecourt, John Featherhead, Sloethorn (a wine merchant), Mortcloke the undertaker, Quid the tobacconist, Protocol the lawyer, and lastly the MacDingawaies, a Highland sept or clan.
The following seem to be bearable or fairly good, but I must confess to a want of instinct as to Scotch names: MacGuffog, a constable, Macbriar, Dandy Dinmont (although a dinmont is the Scottish for “a wedder in the second year”), MacCandlish. On the whole, as far as Guy Mannering is concerned, the author gets but few good marks and many bad ones.
The same is, I fear, true of The Antiquary. We find such bad names as Rev. Mr. Blattergowl of Trotcosey (vol. i., p. 208); Baron von Blunderhaus; Dibble the gardener; Dousterswivel, the German or Dutch swindler; the Earl of Glengibber; Goldiword, a moneylender; Dr. Heavysterne, from the Low Countries; Mr. Mailsetter of the Post Office; Sandie Netherstanes the miller; Jonathan Oldbuck, the hero of the book; Sir Peter Pepperbrand of Glenstirym. Of the name Strathtudlem I cannot judge; it does not strike me as good, though possibly better than the immortal Tillietudlem of Old Mortality.
There are, of course, a number of names which do not offend, but there are few which are actually attractive. Among the last-named class are Edie Ochiltree, Francis of Fowlsheugh, Elspeth of Craigburnfoot, Lady Glenallan, Francie Macraw, Ailison Breck, but among these Edie Ochiltree is the only name which is undoubtedly in Class I.
It is disappointing to a lover of Sir Walter Scott to be obliged to show that as an artist in names he ranks low. But his sense of humour occasionally fails in other matters. I remember being reproved (when a young man at Cambridge) for saying that Scott showed a want of humour in Jeanie Deans’ letter to her father, in which she tells him that Effie has been pardoned. The author introduces in brackets: “Here follow some observations respecting the breed of cattle, and the produce of the dairy which it is our intention to forward to the Board of Agriculture.” I still think I was right, and that the eminent person who snubbed me was wrong.
Among the works of more modern writers I have analysed one of Trollope’s—the Small House at Allington. The names on the whole are harmless and normal, such as Christopher Dale of Allington; Adolphus Crosbie, the bad hero; Montgomerie Dobbs, his friend; Fothergill, factotum to the Duke of Omnium, and many others. Some names are only saved by our familiarity with them, e.g., Lady Dumbello or the above-mentioned Duke of Omnium. [25] Among the fanciful names Mr. Fanfaron and Major Fiasco are in the bad rather than in the good class, though if they had more appropriateness they might be passed.
The positively bad names are numerous enough—the Marquis of Auldreekie; Basil and Pigskin, who keep a leather warehouse; Sir Raffle Buffle; Chumpend, a butcher; Lady Clandidlem; the Rev. John Joseph Jones is damned because he, an obvious Welshman, is described as of Jesus College at Cambridge instead of Oxford. Kissing and Love, two clerks in Johnny Eames’ office, might have been passed had not the author gone out of his way to refer to the lamentable jokes made in the office about them. Mr. Optimist is an incredibly bad name, and the same may be said of Sir Constant Outonites. The physician, Sir Omicron Pi, [26] may have a meaning of which I am ignorant. I think Thackeray would have spelled it Sir O’Micron Pye, which would have given a touch of reality.
There is one class of books which I have not noticed, namely, those in which all or nearly all the characters have names with an obvious meaning. The great instance of this type is Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, in which occur well-known names such as Mr. Worldly Wiseman, Faithful, Mr. Facing-both-Ways, Lord Desire-of-Vain-Glory, etc. There are two exceptions in The Pilgrim’s Progress, namely Demas, which is taken from 2 Timothy iv. 10, and Mnason (Acts xxi. 16).
An author of this type, with whom Bunyan would have objected to be classed, is Sheridan. In The Rivals we have the immortal names of Sir Anthony Absolute, Sir Lucius O’Trigger, Mrs. Malaprop, and Lydia Languish. Bob Acres has not so obvious a meaning, but is clearly meant to imply rusticity. The chief exception is Faulkland, and there are also David, Julia, and Lucy.
In St. Patrick’s Day we have Dr. Rosy, Justice Credulous, Sergeant Trounce, Corporal Flint. The hero, Lieutenant O’Connor, is the principal exception.
Finally, in The School for Scandal, we have Sir Peter Teazle (which suggests a prickly irritable nature), as well as names with a more obvious meaning, e.g., Joseph Surface, Sir Benjamin Backbite, Snake, Careless, Sir Harry Bumper, Lady Sneerwell, and Mrs. Candour.
The other characters have names without meanings, e.g., Rowley, Moses, Trip, and Maria. The fact that the very different characters, Charles and Joseph Surface, necessarily bear the same surname shows how difficult it is to carry out a system such as that on which Sheridan’s nomenclature is based.
