Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II

We are invited to dine, and seek to ascertain the profit and loss of the invitation by inquiries of a fellow convive as to the guests who will be there: he is l'ami de la maison, and, to give due emphasis to the description, and honour to the Amphitryon, he thus enumerates them. "Oh, you'll have the Mortimer Bullwinkles, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Cutbush, the Stafford Priddys, Sir Montague Stumps, Mr. Temple Sniggers, the Beauchamp Horrockses, and Mrs. Courtenay Cocking; nobody else, that I remember." "Won't the Wartons be there?" "I don't know, – who are they? – I never heard of them: – what's their other name?"

And so it is: this "other name," – this alter ego– becomes the grand desideratum in description, – the passport to fashion and celebrity.

The anonymous in authorship is no longer regarded, save in the instance of those veterans in literature whose silence is more significant than the loud-tongued voices of a million aspirants. We need no sign-post to show us the way to London, neither do we seek a name to anticipate their page. But the new candidates for fame are of a different order. The title-page of a work is in their estimation a maiden shield whereon it is their privilege to quarter the names of all their lineage, concentrated in themselves, or pompously appealed to in the names of others. Hence we have, "Rambles in Russia, by Charles Valentine Mowbray Muggins;" "Thoughts on the Poor-Laws, by Pygmalion Gammage;" "The Exile; a poem, by Brownlow Busfield, of the Middle Temple, Barrister-at-Law;" "Desperation; a novel, by Grenville Grindle, Esq.;" "The Veil Withdrawn, or, A Peep behind the Curtain, by the Nieces of the Hon. and Rev. Fitzherbert Fineclark;" and "Domestic Tyranny, or, The Stony-hearted Step-father, by Lavinia Cecilia Bottomley, only child of the late Captain Roderick Bottomley, of the Bombay Cavalry."

It is no longer our cue to be rendered "illustrious by courtesy;" we compel the admiration which the niggard world so carefully withholds, and extort the approbation it would smother. It matters little how raw, how shapeless, how crude, how undigested be the mass when drawn from the quarry of its creation; its uncouth aspect and angular deformity offer no impediment to the lapidary's skill, but rather enhance its value; and the more barbarous the name which ignorant parents have transmitted, the wider is the scope afforded to their descendants for rendering the adjunct more brilliant by the contrast.

He who is born Buggins, and changeth not, perisheth unregarded; his name appears in the Newgate Calendar, and whatever his fate, it is deemed a just one. But he who (though equally degraded in the annals of nomenclature by the repulsive or sneaking appellations of Jaggers, Blatcher, Gullock, or Lumkin,) adds to his patronymic the soft seduction or romantic interest of Albert, Eustace, Stanley, or Fitzmaurice, may appeal to the lord in waiting, or a patroness at Almack's, and kiss the hand of royalty, or bow at the shrine of beauty.

The motto is old and true, which many "gentlemen of coat-armour" do bear, that "Fortune favours the bold;" the daring speculators in the names of others are eminently successful in their adventure after greatness. To this category belong the sheriffs and aldermen, the bearers of addresses, and the deputed of corporations; these are they who may literally be said to have greatness "thrust upon them."

The Mayor of Norwich, hight Timothy Gamblebuck, urged by the ambitious spiritings of Mrs. G., kneels at his sovereign's feet, and, rewarded by an accolade, returns, in the triumph of knighthood and plenitude of loyalty, "Sir Timotheus Guelph Gamblebuck" by more than royal permission.

Mr. Sheriff Hole, presented by a peer, and similarly honoured by the king, marks his sense of his patron's kindness by the insertion of his title before the cavernous epithet, and figures at urban festivals as Sir John Cornwallis Hole, the most aristocratic on the shrieval archives.

Sir Marmaduke Fuggles, Sir Cholmondeley Bilke, Sir Constantine Peregrine Rumball, Sir Temple Gostick, and Sir Peter Sackville Biles, are amongst the many whom female instigation or personal desire have led to illustrate the glory of ancient houses. It is somewhere said in "Pelham" that one's unknown neighbour, or opposite at dinner, must necessarily be a baronet and Sir John; it is no less true that at the corner of every street, in the avenues of every ballroom, a newly created knight lies in waiting to devour one. A man with a bright blue coat, and, if possible, brighter buttons, with black satin waistcoat and very gold chain, with large hands and a face of red portent, cuts in with us at whist; his antagonists are perpetually appealing to him by his brilliant title. "It is your deal, Sir Vavasour," – "My ace, Sir Vavasour," – "Sir Vavasour, two doubles and the rub;" – till, bewildered by the glories of our feudal partner, we lose the game, and stealthily inquire of some one near, "Who is the gentleman opposite?" "Sir Vavasour Clapshaw" is the whispered reply, recalling the name of one much respected in our youthful days, – a celebrated artist in the cricket-bat line, who has now pitched his wicket within the precincts of aristocracy, and bowls down society with the grandeur of his préfixe.

A lady in crimson velvet, with a bird of paradise in her blue and silver "turband," and a marabout boa wreathed round her neck, with long white gloves tightened unto bursting, and serpentine chains clinging unto suffocation, is seated in lofty pride at the upper end of the principal saloon, and overwhelms by the dignity of her demeanour all who come within the vortex of her "full-blown suffisance."

"Lady – what did you say? Harcourt, or Harewood, – which? – I didn't distinctly hear." "Yes, Lady Harcourt." "Why, I thought she was dead." "Oh, yes, the Countess is dead; but this is Lady Harcourt Bumsted: that's her husband, Sir Julius, – he was knighted last Wednesday."

"There's honour for you! – grinning honour," as Falstaff has it.

Notabilities like these are nearly as illustrious as the surreptitious knights and dames who, by dint of surpassing impudence, pass current for as good as they. Both classes remind us of the gypsy-herald "Rouge-Sanglier," whose colours were as bright, and trappings as gay, as those of the legitimate "Toison d'Or:" they have but one fault; like him, their blazon is false, their arms are wrongly "tricked," metal overlays metal, gold covers brass, and native gules gives way to intrusive purple. The glory of our chivalry is often awkwardly eclipsed when it happens that a Frenchman is called upon to designate the new-made knight; he treats his Christian name with as much indifference as he manifests in the spelling of his surname, – a rule he always applies to those of British growth. We know a clever, shrewd, little, antiquarian Frenchman, whom no persuasion can induce to abbreviate a single letter of reference to page, folio, edition, or date; but who, whenever he has occasion to mention a knight or baronet of his acquaintance, invariably omits his nom de baptême?. How pleasantly it would sound to hear the announcement of "Sir Biddles," "Sir Doody," or "Sir Farwig!" and yet this would be the predicament of these worthies were they ungraced by noble prænomina.

The second class whose merits we propose to discuss are the illustrators of the "Binomial Theorem," – the double-named families, – who, too hideous to walk alone, conjoin ugliness of equal intensity to scare and appal wherever they make their way. It is not sufficient for such as they that their name be Groutage or Gramshaw; they incontinently connect it – if they can – with "a worser," (to use the showman's phrase,) and "double-up" with Rapkin or Titterton. Thus we hear, at our morning concert, Mrs. Rapkin Gramshaw's carriage stopping the way; and a vain and desolate outcry in the Opera colonnade for the chariot of Mrs. Titterton Groutage. It would matter little if we were only doomed to hear these names thus generally repeated; but there is a mode of administering them which makes us feel them, scorching and searing our inmost heart of hearts! A double name – no matter how base or dissonant – is held to be the most grateful to ears polite, as if the natural consequence of the intermarriage of two great discords must of necessity give birth to harmony.

How often have we writhed under the cruel infliction, when, betrayed by bad weather during a morning call, we have sat through the tedious hour of detaining rain, and listened to the forgotten glories of the races of Slark and Cutbush! It is a rule with all people, – no matter how they may be designated now, or how utterly their names defy the ingenuity of antiquaries to render their etymology, – to derive their ancestral honours from the time of William the Conqueror! It is true that the bastard Duke had a general letter of licence for the enlistment of all the vagabonds that swarmed in Europe at the period of his expedition; and we know how many ruffians of all classes, from the predatory baron to the pillaging freebooter, thronged to his standard, – and so far there may often be some show of reason in the pretension.

But our claimants for origin among the Conqueror's noblesse are not to be expected to dwell on this point with historical minuteness; what they wish to imply when they tell us that "the Smookers and Tites came over with the Conqueror," is, that they were equal in station to the De Albinis and De Warennes, who led their forces to the battle of Hastings, and gave the Conqueror his crown.

"Ours is a very old family indeed," says a thick-headed Devonshire squire, with scarcely wit enough to spell the name he bears, – "we came over with William the Conqueror: the Chubbs are a very old family; the first of the name was William the Conqueror's standard-bearer, Reginald de Chubb. Here's our coat of arms, we've got it on all our carriages, – three Chubs proper, in a field vert; the crest a hand and dagger, —because he saved the king's life!"

We knew this man's grandfather well, "excellent well, – he was a fishmonger," and sold the chubs he boasts of!

Miss Eleanor Pogson Lillicrap is a very fine young lady indeed; she discourses much on the gentility of Pa's and Ma's family, but chiefly of Ma's.

"The Lillicraps are very ancient, – a very old family in Sussex, – settled there long before Magna Charta; indeed, I believe they came over with the Conqueror. But the Pogsons – Ma's family – are much older, – in fact, descended directly from Alfred."

And this is perfectly true; – Alfred Pogson kept a butcher's shop at Brighton, and was Miss Eleanor's grandfather!

Some persons are not content with one bad name, but write and engrave it in duplicate. There are the Brown Browns, and the Jackson Jacksons, the Cooper Coopers, and the Grimes Grimeses. These families consist of many members, every one of whom is enumerated at the greatest possible length. We once saw the programme of some private theatricals to be enacted one Christmas at the Gamsons', – we beg pardon, the Gamson Gamsons'. It ran as follows, – the play being Romeo and Juliet:

And, had there been more characters to fill up, there would still have been Gamson Gamsons to supply the vacuum.

Double-named people abound in watering-places, and shine in subscription-lists. The Master of the Ceremonies' book faithfully announces the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Bennett Hoskins Abrahall, and Sir Joseph and Lady Moggridge Shankey. We are told in the provincial records of "fashionable movements" that Mr. Raggs Thimbleby has taken a house for the season on the New Steine at Brighton; and that Mrs. Pilcher Frisby intends to pass the winter at Cheltenham. The Poles are in distress, and require a subscription; who heads the list? – Mr. Munt Spriggins! There is to be a meeting in favour of the Spitalfields weavers; who takes the chair? – Sir Runnacles Faddy! But there would be no end to the list were we to enumerate even a tithe of those who "rush into our head." The proverb which dooms the dog to destruction that bears "an ill name" is reversed in the case of man; affix whatever inharmonious compound you please to the patronymic of a Briton, and you only add to his celebrity: and we are firmly of opinion that the time is not far distant, when, the powers of permutation being exhausted, opprobrious epithets will assume their place in the rank of names, and figure in the annals of fashion; Sir Ruffian Rascal will then walk arm-in-arm with Lord Percy Plantagenet, and the "lovely and accomplished" Miss Mortimer be led to the altar by the wealthy and fashionable Sir Swindle Bully!

ANOTHER ORIGINAL OF "NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD."

Our readers will recollect that in our first number the facetious priest of Water-grass-hill made a notable discovery that the Rev. Mr. Wolfe's celebrated lyric on the burial of Sir John Moore was not original, but a translation from a French poem written to commemorate the loss of a certain Colonel de Beaumanoir, who fell in India while defending Pondicherry against the forces of Coote. Father Prout, it is well known, loves a joke, and we must be cautious how we receive his evidence, more especially as another claim to the original of Mr. Wolfe's lines has been set up on behalf of a German poet. The following verses were found, it is said, in the monastery of Oliva, near Danzig, where it is well known that, during the Swedish war in Germany under Gustavus Adolph, a Swedish general of the name of Thorstenson fell on the ramparts of Danzig, and was buried during the night on the spot. Our readers must determine the question for themselves. Our own mind is thoroughly made up as to this controversy.

Kein Grabgesang, keine Trommel erscholl
Als zum Wall' seine Leiche wir huben;
Kein Krieger schoss ihm sein Lebewohl
Wo wir still unsern Helden begruben.

Wir gruben in stummer Nacht ihn ein
Mit Bayonetten in Erd' und in Trümmer,
Bey des trüben Mondlichts schwankendem Schein
Und der matten Lanterne Geflimmer.

Kein unnützer Sarg seine Brust einhegt',
Nicht mit Linnen und Tüchern bedecket;
Er lag, wie ein Krieger sich schlafen legt,
Im Soldatenmantel gestrecket.

Gar lange Gebete hielten wir nicht,
Wir sprachen kein Wort von Sorgen;
Wir schauten nur fest auf das todte Gesicht
Und dachten mit Schmerz an den Morgen.

Wir dachten, als wir gewühlet sein Bett'
Und sein einsames Kissen gezogen,
Wie Fremdling und Feind über's Haupt ihm geht,
Wenn fern wir über den Wogen.

Wenn sie über der kalten Asche sodann
Den entflohenen Geist mögen kränken:
Er achtet es nicht, wenn er ruhen nur kann
In der Gruft wo ihn Schweden versenken.

Unser schweres Geschäft war nur halb gethan,
Als die Glocke zum Rückzug ertönte;
Wir hörten der Feinde Geschosse nahn,
Da die ferne Kanone erdröhnte.

Wir legten ihn langsam und traurig hinein,
Frisch blutend vom Felde der Ehren;
Wir liessen, ohn' Grabmal und Leichenstein,
Ihn nur mit dem Ruhme gewähren.

notes

1

Matthew Paris describes him as "Vir equestris ordinis, et in rebus bellicis eruditus."

2