Edmund Ironside, Edward Longshanks, John
Lackland—nay, not one of the long series of
nicknamed monarchs: Balds, Bolds, Cruels,
Milds, Fairs, Magnificents, Desireds,
Debonnaires; the Great, the Fat, the White, the
Red, the Brown, the Torpid, the Hunter, the
Valiant, the Carpenter, the Mason, the Clock-
maker, the Master, the Stutterer; down to the
Georges, Farmer and Gentleman, and the Sailor-
King—but acquiesced in the legitimate purpose
of his sponsors, and transmitted his popular
title to posterity, as the surest safeguard
against being mixed up and forgotten in the
ruck of sceptred gentlemen of similar name.
Do you suppose that King Trustyman does not
feel that his name, for example, shall go glittering
down the ages with a splendour and
distinctness of outline plain Victor-Emannuel
never could have retained?

True, there are names such as no gentleman,
with any pretensions to self-respect, can be
reasonably expected to approve. Robert the
Devil, it may be, felt a morbid satisfaction in
falling in with the popular estimate of his own
character, and forgave the rudeness in the
aptitude of the term. On the other hand,
another hero, of considerable influence in his
time, took the very same epithet (so much do
great minds differ) so greatly to heart, that he
got himself fairly exorcised by a no less powerful
magician than King Louis the Eleventh.
That respected sovereign, by letters patent,
decreed that the surname of his barber, Oliver
le Diable, should be thenceforth changed to
that of "Malin," and, subsequently, of " Dain."

His majesty, with excellent taste, and much
good feeling for his faithful chinscraper, affected
ignorance of the diabolical title, making believe
that "le Mauvais" was the worst extreme to
which popular prejudice had reached. " Our
will and pleasure being that he and all his
posterity shall henceforward take and bear the
surname of ' le Dain.' . . . Nor shall it be any
longer permissible to describe the said Oliver as
' the Wicked,' which name we do by these
presents cancel and abolish, &c. Given at
Chartres, October, one thousand four hundred
and seventy-four, in the fourteenth year of our
reign."

It is not many years since there existed in
France many families of respectable social status,
possessing no surnames at all. And I believe I
am not wrong in affirming that, two hundred
years ago, the majority of families of middle
rank, in Sweden, were in a similar predicament.
Surely a little personality were preferable to the
perpetual confusion that must have prevailed
when "Jean, son of Pierre," "Thomas, son of
Guillaume," &c., were the only distinctive
appellations. In the instances of Wamba, the son of
Witless, and Seigg, the immediate descendant of
Snell, the rarity of these venerable Saxon names
doubtless forbade mistake, but the range of
modern christian names is restricted, and
something more became absolutely necessary.

It was a pretty thought of Eusebius of
Cesarea, adopting the name of a beloved friend,
to call himself Eusebius Pamphili (Pamphilus's
Eusebius). Contrast it with the pretentious
conduct of one "John," who, having entered
into possession of a few acres at Holywood,
Yorkshire, assumed the euphonious mouth-
extending title of (see register) Johannes de
Lacrobosco!

This habit of assuming Latin surnames—or
Latinising one's own name—was the parent of
many a distinguished patronymic of our day, and
must have added greatly to the personal dignity
of the first wearers. Even now we encounter
them in old records with a sensation of pleasure,
and salute Rogerus Caudidus (whoever he might
have been) with a degree of respect we should
hardly mete out to Hodge White. Similarly,
Jacobus Faber is better pronouncing than Jem
the Bean. In like manner, Petras Camerarius,
Godofredus de Froutibus, Henricus Bonocolli,
Raymundus de Pennaforti (no doubt the Broadwood
of his day), and Hubertus de Bonocurso,
are more acceptable to the tongue than Peter
Chamberlain, Godfrey Brows, Harry Goodneck,
Raymond Strong-wi'-the-Pen, and Hubert,
whose name I will not injure by translation.

It is possible that the actual resources of our
language, in the way of calling names, have
hitherto remained a secret to many whose
opportunities of mental improvement might have
promised better results. Faint and indistinct ideas
may indeed have been gathered from an
accidental stoppage (say) within earshot of an Irish
row, conducted in street-English, and (police
expected) against time; or it may be that an
argument in full fish-market, wherein sides
were chosen by the entire community, has
furnished glimmering indications of what an English
matron, free of speech, can—as she would
herself express it—lay her tongue to, upon necessity.
It is a matter of regret to the student of
language, if to nobody else, that the volubility
which usually accompanies these oratorical
displays, should occasion the loss of many a valuable
term of reprobation, expressive, trenchant,
irritating to perfection, and dating, it may be,
from the days of that undoubted scold, Boadicea
herself. That such searching arrows do lurk in
the scold's quiver, has been over and over again
demonstrated to the dispassionate observer, by
a certain peculiar spasm of fury which is seen
to possess the assailed party, at the receipt of
some especial phrase which, though unintelligible
to the common ear, manifestly sends home
a sting of no ordinary depth and venom.

In acknowledging these losses, it is some
consolation to remember what still remains at
our command. I hasten to show, from a wordy
quarrel between two eminent persons, pleading
before a learned dignitary, what abundant
facilities lie within the reach of every decently-
educated individual, for being in the highest
degree abusive.

Our scene is " in front of the judgment-seat
of Minos." The disputants are " Evil Spirit"
and " Devil's Advocate," and the reporter, on
this occasion, an eccentric genius who, for
reasons better known to himself than guessed