University of Virginia Library

LETTER I.

Wherein are set forth divers weighty reasons why John Smith
should not change his name.

Dear Gineral Morris—I never was more struck
up in my life than I was night afore last, about
eight o'clock in the evening, when Cousin Debby
come running into our house all of a giggle and
most out of breath; and says she, “Cousin John,
here's news for you; they've got you into the New-York
Mirror, as true as my name is Debby Smith.”
Says I, what nonsense are you arter now, Debby?
for she's always poking fun at somebody or other,
although she don't mean nothin' by it, for she's as

clever as the day is long. Says she, “I mean jest
what I say, John; they've got you in the New-York
Mirror, as large as life.” And she held up
the paper—Debby takes your paper, and has took
it, I believe, going on a dozen years, for she's very
fond of larning and has kept school in our village,
off and on, about fifteen years—and she held up the
paper, and, says she, “John, here's most a column
and a half, all about you, every word of it. And
they are making something of a fuss about you in
New-York too, and say you must change your
name.” At that my dander begun to start a little,
and, says I, Debby, are you in arnest, or what do
you mean? For I knew I hadn't killed nobody,
nor robb'd, nor stole a sheep; and, says I, I should
like to see the feller that would dare to tell me, to
my face, that I ought to change my name. My
name is what I've valley'd myself on more than
anything else in the world, and there never was a
name yet that I'd change it for, unless it was
George Washington. But come, says I, Debby,
set down and read us your long yarn—Debby is a
first rate reader, and she loves to read afore folks
as well as she loves to eat. So we made room for
her in the ring. We had a rousin' fire, bein' it was
a pretty cold night, so we could set back and make
room for all; for there was something of a ring of
us; our own family isn't small—there's myself and
wife, and eleven children, and my mother, and
aunt Jane, and my nephew William Smith that
works for me; and besides that, there was a number
of the neighbours in, setting round to drink a mug
of cider with us and eat a few of my fine winter
apples. Debby hauled a chair up to the table, and
snuffed the candle, and drawed it close to her, so
as to hold it between her and the paper; and then
the reading seemed to bother her a little, for your
paper, Gineral, is rather fine print, and she had to
hold it off nearly at arms length and hold the candle
close to it, because she said her eyes were weak.

Aunt Ruth—she's my uncle John Smith's wife,
a very sensible woman, and one of the kindest
neighbours there is in our village—she sot on
'tother side of the table with her knittin' work in
her hands, and looking over the top of her specs
across the table at cousin Debby. She see what
was the matter, and pulled off her glasses, and reached
them across the table and told Debby she better
try her specs, and she thought she would read easier.
Debby coloured as red as fire, and said she never

used spectacles; and besides, “if I did,” says she, “it
isn't likely I could use yourn; they must be a great
deal too old for me.” At that my uncle John Smith
—he's a blacksmith by trade, and lives close by
on 'tother side of the road—he was setting in one
corner, digging his teeth into the mellow side of a
great sweet apple—he rolled up his eyes at Debby,
and haw haw'd right out. Says he, “well done
Debby, you've hit it now exactly; my wife is jest
five years older than you, and them specs suited
her ten years ago.”

Debby kind of choked a little, and her face
turned redder than ever: I don't know but she
would have bit a board nail off, if she'd only
had one in her mouth. Uncle John has a teazing
kind of a way with him, and when he sees any
body nettled, he loves to help 'em along a little.
“So,” says he, “Debby, I want a new vice
in my shop; what will you take for your teeth? I
think they'd hold a pretty good grip.” Debby
couldn't stand it no longer—she threw down the
paper, and drawed her head back as if she'd had a
curb bit in her mouth. Says she, “Uncle John,
you are the biggest plague that ever I see, and if
you was worth a minding, I would be mad with

[ILLUSTRATION]

you.” I see the only way was for us to try to
make a kind of a joke of the matter all round, till
Debby got cooled down a little; for she was in too
much of a flusteration to read now; “So,” says I,
“come John, fill up the mug with cider agin and
hand it round—this was to my son John; he is my
oldest son, and will be seventeen years old if he
lives to see the fifth day of next May; a smart boy
as you will see one in a thousand, and folks say he
takes after me very much”—says I, “Come, John,
hand round the cider, beginning with the oldest,
clear down to the youngest, and give it to cousin
Debby last.” At that Debby begun to laugh, and
says she, “Cousin John, you are almost as big a
pester as uncle John himself, and one isn't worth
a minding any more than 'tother is.”

After we took a drink of cider round, and each
one took another apple, Debby got so calmed down
that we got her hold of the paper again. She
wouldn't touch the specs though, but after she got
the candle fixed right, she made out to read it very
well. And sure enough there was a whole column
all about my changing my name. I never felt so
queer before in my life. But when she read the
line at the top, “Reasons for John Smith to change

his name”—says I, “Debby, now before you begin,
how do you know that means me? There's
more John Smiths in the world besides me.”
“Why, because,” says she, “every body knows it
means you. Here you've been selectman, of
Smithville, this seven years; have been surveyor
of the roads, and on the school committee, and
town agent, and been twice representative to the
Legislater, and had a squire's commission five
years; and it's pretty likely the piece could mean
any body else but you. Suppose Gineral Washington
was alive to this day, and such a piece should
be published, saying George Washington ought to
change his name? Wouldn't every body know it
meant Gineral Washington?”

“Well,” says I, “Debby, to be honest about
it, I think it pretty likely it does mean me. But
let us hear what they have to say in New-York
about my changing my name. So, as I said
afore, she read it through. Sometimes, when
she was reading it, I couldn't hardly keep my
dander down, and sometimes I couldn't hardly
help laughing to see how ignorant the man that
writ it must be of the world. When she got
along down to the place that says the five letters

that spell Smith, stand for a Small—Mean—
Insignificant—Trashy—Humbug, my son John
started up as if he'd been shot—he looked as red
as a rooster, and says he, “Father, I wouldn't
stand that no how; I'd go right to New-York and
put it into that chap what writ that are piece.”
Says I, “John, you haven't seen enough of the
world yet to know which is the best road to mill.
You are young and inexperienced, and you must
try to keep your temper down and take things
more moderate. I shall write to Gineral Morris
and get him to see to it, and then, if the feller
that's dared to call me a humbug, don't take it back,
he must look out—that's all.” “Read on, Debby,”
says I.

By and by she come to where it said, “no
honest man would change his name for that of
Smith.” “Stop,” says I, “let us reason about
that a little. Honest men don't have occasion
to change their names. 'Tis rogues and
knaves that change their names; and when they
do, they try to pick for the likeliest and most respectable
name they can find, and therefore they
take the name of Smith. And this is one reason
that Smiths are so plenty. There isn't so many

real Smiths in the world as folks think for. There
are a great many counterfeits about. But that
don't hurt the real Smiths, nor make 'em any less
respectable. If you had a true silver dollar in your
pocket, would you valley it any the less because
your neighbour had a pewter one? If you ever
come acrost a person by the name of Smith that
don't bear a good character, you may depend upon
it, Smith isn't his real name—he has changed some
other for it. And I've been told, on the very best
authority, that all the Smiths that have been hung
for any crime, have always confessed privately under
the gallows, just before they were swung off,
that their true name wasn't Smith, but Johnson,
or Davis, or some such name.

And now, my dear Gineral Morris, this makes
me think of another thing. There was my
cousin Major Jack Downing—he's a cousin to
me on the mother's side, and as good a feller as
ever lived—upright and honest, and no slouch
at writing. Well, he went down to Portland,
in the State of Maine, seven or eight years
ago, and went to writin' letters in the Portland
Courier, and then he went off to Washington,
and staid along with Gineral Jackson some time,

and writ letters to the Portland Courier; and when
he got his name up pretty well, folks begun to
counterfeit his letters and his name too, like smoke,
all over the country. Most all the counterfeits
were so badly done, that any body could tell 'em
the moment they put 'em along side the true ones.
There was one chap in your city that carried on a
great stroke of counterfeitin' these letters, and
signing Major Jack Downing's name to 'em for a
year or two, and I don't know but more—let's see,
what was his name? Seems to me it begun with
a D—. Well, he used to put in some kind of
mettle into 'em that made 'em ring, and had a nack
of glossing of 'em over, so that he made 'em go
quite current in your city and round there. But
you put 'em along side of cousin Jack's, and you'd
see in a minute they warn't the true silver. But
he didn't care for that, as long as he could make
'em go, and make the folks round New-York think
he was the real Major Jack Downing. And that's
the way of the world, Gineral; every body wants
to go by a good and respectable name, and you
may depend upon it that is the true secret why
there are so many Smiths.”

After Debby had got through reading the piece,

we all sot as much as ten minutes, and didn't
say nothin'. At last, says I, uncle John, what
do you think of it? “Think of it?” Says he
—“why, I think it's the foolishest mess of flummery
that ever I seed put into a newspaper. In
my opinion, it doesn't contain one single good
reason why you should change your name. And
there is no reason in the world why you should,
but a thousand why you should not.” “And
what are they, uncle John?” says I. “Why,”
says he, “it is a very old and respectable name;
it has been in our family a great while; it is therefore
an honour to be called by the name of John
Smith. And in the next place, it is the most
popular name in the country; so that if popularity
is worth any thing, that proves John Smith to be
the best name in the country. And in the next
place, it is a very short name; you don't waste
but little time in speaking it, nor but little paper in
writing it. And in the next place, there's no sich
thing as clipping it off or nicknaming of it; if any
body speaks your name at all, they can't make
nothin' short of John Smith of it.”

Well, aunt Ruth, and cousin Debby, and
mother, and aunt Jane, and my wife, and my

son John, all expressed the same opinion as
uncle John, only some of 'em a great deal more
arnest. Mother, she sighed, and said she thought
the man must be an a'ful wretch to want to
make her son change his name, when it was
the best name there was in the whole Bible, especially
the John, and she had picked it out when
she give it to me, out of that chapter where the
angel give it to the child of Zachariah and Elizabeth.
My wife, she almost cried, and said she
should go crazy, if she thought I should ever change
my name, and leave all her children poor orphans.
So among all the other reasons, Gineral, aginst
my changing my name, you see what a disturbance
it would make in my family. And, on the whole,
I've made up my mind decidedly; I shan't do it.
I don't know how it is in New-York, but down
east, and in Smithville, and all round here, not
only Smith, but John Smith, is considered the
best and most honourable name there is going.
It has come down to me in a straight line, clear
from Capt. John Smith that first settled in old Virginny.
And a braver man than he was never lived.
I've got his coat of arms now, that's come down
long with his name, three Turks' heads made up
in a picter, hanging up in our fore room.

I said his name come down to me in a straight
line; but it wasn't exactly a straight line, for it
crooked out of the line a little in one place, and
that was in the case of my father, whose name was
James. I'll tell you how it happened. When my
grandfather, whose name was John, carried my
father to meetin' to be christened, it happened that
the same day his cousin John Smith carried two of
his children to be christened. And when the minister
was ready, my grandfather, bein' a very perlite
man, beckoned to his cousin John to carry his children
up first. So he carried 'em up, and good old
parson John Smith, who preached in grandfather's
parish then, whispered to him as he handed up the
first child, and asked him its name. His name is
John, said my grandfather's cousin. So the parson
christened him John. The second child was
then handed up, and the parson whispered again and
asked its name. His name is John, said my grandfather's
cousin. The good old parson shook his
head, and whispered again, and told him he had
christened the other one John. My grandfather's
cousin shook his head too, and told the parson to

never mind, but christen him John; “for,” says
he “if I had a hundred children, I would call them
all John.” So finding there was no turning him,
the parson christened the second child John. Then
my grandfather went up with his child; and I've
heard my grandmother say that his face was red
as a blaze all the way goin' up to the pulpit. Well,
the minister whispered to him and asked him what
the child's name was. Grandfather choked a little,
and, says he, “I was a going to call him John, but
I think we have had Johns enough for one day;
you may christen him James.” Now, Gineral, I
don't know but I've tired you with my long yarn.
I didn't think of writin' sich a long letter when I
begun. But when I get a goin' I'm a little like
the steam car on the rail-road; I'm apt to run till
I get to the end of the track, or till the fire is out.
I've only one thing more to say, and that is, bein'
you've had my name figurin' in your paper, I believe
I shall subscribe for it. And I guess I ain't
the only Smith that will. As I am always called
'Squire Smith round in these parts, I want you to
direct it to John Smith, Esquire, Smithville, Down
East, and it will come to me straight as a hair.
And if you want to hear any thing more about our
folks, jest say so in your paper, and I'll scratch
down a line or two, once in a while, and send it to
you. So I remain your friend and constant reader,