THESE CHRISTENINGS

Evening Star, Issue 22460, 3 October 1936, Page 2

THESE CHRISTENINGS

‘Written by Mary Scott,, for the ‘ Evening Star.’] “ Name this child ” is a command apt to strike a chill into the heart of parent or guardian, but at least it is an easier matter to-day than it was 50 years ago. Then imagination was liable to become exhausted before the younger members of the family had their turn, so that often they fared badly, were put off with anything that turned up, or treated in a niggardly fashion in the matter of syllables, so that Elizabeth was woefully economised into Eliza. Sometimes inspiration failed so utterly that the children were called Tertia or Septimus; I once knew a Deci myself, who. despite its abbreviation, disliked her name no less on account of its eccentricity than for its boastful frankness in a day when large families had become rather the brand of shame than of complacency. In any case, bestowing a name upon a child is a ticklish affair, for experience shows that Hercules often grows up a weedy book-worm and Fay turns the scales at 14 stone. “ I meant him to be strong,” wails the one mother, and, “ You were such, a dainty baby.” laments the other—but both are too late. It is not their fault, yet their children are often very unpleasant about it', and who can blame them when they must go through life thus conspicuously labelled? Perhaps the safest plan is to choose names on account of their beauty and simplicity, but even here one may err. I speak as one who knows, for the day may come when my own family will arise and call me unblessed.

And this, when I had been so careful ! I had avoided obvious pitfalls—fancy names, which I detest; fashionable names, which I dislike; family names, which I deplore—but with all my caution I made a ludicrous mistake, naming one child by a Celtic name that 1 love and another by an English one which Shakespeare approved. Beautiful names, both of them, ideal in their old-fashioned simplicity, but alas! I reckoned without the “contrariness” that so regrettably distinguishes my children, and which caused the Celtic lass to develop into a typically English girl, with a blondeness that might have walked out of a Tennyson poem, and the child ■with the English name to be as Irish as any colleen in Cork. So there you are. Do some people grow into their names, or have their parents been miraculously clear-sighted at the font? it is everyone’s experience to number amongst their friends people named with so peculiar an appropriateness that it is impossible to picture them; called anything else. Think for a moment of our public characters;' what name at once so debonair, so suave, yet so steel-strong as Antony Eden? Stanley Baldwin might have been specially coined to suit that bluff, honest, shrewd, characteristically English Prime Minister. It goes perfectly with a pipe, a quiet dignity, and a fondness for pigs. Austen Chamberlain’s christening was as fortunate as Ilamsay MacDonald’s; either the members of the British Cabinet have had parents of exceeding foresight or they themselves have proved; malleable. Perhaps this is Jess conspicuous in the nomenclature, of local statesmen; only a perverted imagination could picture any Savagery, for example, in one so conspicuously bland and cherubic. I have been glancing through Eric Partridge’s book. * lvalue This Child,’ and have learned tnereih some surprising things about English names. I little realised that Heplrizaban meant “ My delight in her,” or Dorcas, a gazelle, though even these pleasant meanings would scarcely reconcile one to their ugly sounds. The fashion for Biblical names is going out. although I know an Ebenezer and an Enoch, arid my mother used to tell of an unfortunate named “ Ananias ” by a parent with so cynical a sense of humour that lie was wont to declare that in any caso all men are liars, so why worry ? Most unpleasant is the habit of commemorating a victory by naming some defenceless child after it. There were a number of Mafekings and Kimberleys alter the Boer War, and 1 have heard of a Gallipoli and a Somme. The only pretty name thus coined that L have come across is that of Alma, in this case borne by a woman whose parents wished to commemorate the battle of that name. Probably at this moment there are numerous wide-eyed bambinos weighed down by hideous Abyssinian names. Mr Partridge’s list of obsolete English names was interesting. I found little to regret amongst them, for who would wish to be named “ Vercingetorix ” or “ Williebald ”? Who would burden a child with the Christian names of “ Banquo ” or “ Izod ”? There are many cul-ious and fantastic names amongst them, but so suggestive are they of freakish characteristics that only a parent striving desperately after originality would turn to this list for the naming of his unlucky child. At the moment I am looking for a name mvself, nor for a living person, but for a character in a story; that is whv I took down 1 Name This Child ’ from the library shelves. There are times when literary christenings are as awkward as those of creatures of flesh and blood, for, whereas your relations and friends are usually flattered when vou call your baby after them, they arc apt to resent the use of their names in a story. Moreover, even when you believe the naming of a character to be pure coincidence, when they appear labelled from their very creation, you may find later that your sub-conscious mind has christened them because of resemblances—occasionally of a discreditable kind—to an actual person. This is the moment at which it is advisable to stop writing if you would avoid coolnesses or even libel action’s. I can recall several awkward happenings of this nature in my younger and less cautious days. There was the wholly imaginary turkey which I called Albert—for no better reason than .that, as I pictured him, ho looked like an Albert —which caused almost a rupture between me and a neighbour who answered to the name; there was the unhappy business of the pig which, in a story, I named Algy and which cost me my Christmas cheque from Uncle Algernon. Such woeful experiences have taught me extreme caution and the use of the telephone directory tor my literary christenings. Yet even here one may err, for people three hundred miles off suddenly accuse you of taking liberties with their names to distinguish your less pleasant characters. Groat would be the advantage of Mr Partridge’s list of obsolete names. I could surely venture to call my unpleasant spinster Mehitabel without estranging anybody, far or near, and surely Peredur would be safe lor my hero." Jt may not prove a popular name for a film star, but at least I should not have somebody preening himself that I had remembered him in his salad days, 20 odd years ago, and had been languishing with untold love for him over since. Neot, too, is strangely suitable for an amiable idiot, and Vulfgar lias all the .suggested attributes of a genuine ho-mau of the virile type.

Palafox, too, calls up a -whole host of gay pictures, a little roue, perhaps, but quite safe reading for any young lady, while my wise professor would read much more convincingly if I named him Teleraachus. Yes, if I write another book, I shall certainly go to Mr Partridge for inspiration; then my nomenclature will at least strike a new and daring note. Only—will anyone really thrill to the adventures of a Jehoiachim or take little Winbald to a romantio heart?