University of Virginia Library

1. PRELIMINARY ARTICLE.

[Being a communication which appeared in the New-York Mirror,
January 12, 1839.]

“REASONS FOR JOHN SMITH TO CHANGE HIS NAME.

Dear sir—There is a subject on which any
one might be eloquent, emphatick, energetick, but
I fear there is no pen adequate to convey to you
the importance of it. It is a curious subject; no
less a one than to ask a man to change his name!

“Smith, you will certainly have to change your
name.”

We thought at first of approaching you with a
round robin, as the conspirators did in the olden
time. We intended to set forth the many and the
cogent reasons why such a change should be made,

and as our signatures would follow one another in
a circle, the ringleader of so daring a proposition
would never be known. On the whole, however,
it was thought most advisable to write a letter, and
I volunteered to incur the risk of your taking
offence—as if any one of the name of Smith could
take offence at a proposal of this kind.

To say your name is Smith is enough—it speaks
volumes in itself. To be sure, it is a word of only
one syllable, but look at the letters which compose
it! They are, individually, the most contemptible
in the alphabet, and always serve to usher in whatever
is pitiful or worthless, and there is no other
method of conveying an impression of a Small—
Mean—Insignificant—Trashy—Humbug, but by
appropriating the five initials—and these five initials
what are they when combined—why SMITH!

No honest man would change his name for that
of Smith, even were it Sheepshanks, Pot, Kettle,
Vinegar or Bellows, of which names there are
many on record. He would not change any of
these, objectionable as he thinks them, for one that
would place him behind a screen all his life. No,
he would not take the shadowy name of Smith,
even under the expectation of inheriting an estate.

Not for the reason that no one of that name could,
by any possibility, have an estate to bequeath, but
that he would lose his personal identity.

I doubt whether there are at this day more than
two men who could find any reasons strong enough
to be induced to take the name of Smith. These
two men— par nobile fratrum —our two recent, glorious
defaulters—they might find it convenient to
preserve their incognito; and in what way could
they effect it so completely as to veil themselves in
this misty, gauzy apology of a man?

Do you think the police-officers would ever run
after a man by the name of Smith? They never
pursue the crime, but the criminal, and this criminal
must have a name—is Smith a name? ergo,
our two noble defaulters would remain unwhipped
of justice even on the idle supposition that the government
issued warrants against them. “Why
don't they prove an alibi?” said Weller, senior.
Smith is an alibi in itself. Let rogues, therefore,
hide behind this magnetick board, for they will be
invisible to us; but, like Dr. Elliotson's two hospital
girls in London, this board will be no obstruction
to them.

Smith, therefore, is a nonentity, a dead letter—

a dead letter, did I say! Why, he that owns it is
dead and buried. The very playwrights make fun
of it. In a recent farce one of the characters is
made to say, “Smith, Smith, I am sure I have
heard that name before.” Did you ever see a man
that did not blush deep crimson when you asked
his name, if it be that of Smith? Talk of the man
who lost his shadow, Schleimel, I think he was
called; what was that compared to the loss of the
substance, for he that loses his personal identity is
lost indeed.

It has often been said that if you are in Broadway
and call out Mr. Smith, every tenth man will
turn; but if you call out John Smith, every other
man will look round.

No Smith ever gets rich or gets fame; if by
chance one of the name does a clever thing, or
writes a clever book, who can identify it? what
Smith reaps the benefit of it? The honour is diluted
to a homœpathick dose, and the Smith who
ought to swallow the whole allopathick credit, gets
only the millionth part of a drop of his share.

Do you think that the Messrs. Carvill or Harper
would be so indiscreet, or so insane, as to buy the

copyright of a work from any man by the ubiquious
name of Smith?

Men never think of calling their dogs Smith.
Cæsar, Pompey, Carlo, Napoleon, Victoria, these
are the names, but not Smith; a sensible dog
would not answer to it. Young puppies might;
those that are in their blind state must put up with
it till their eyes were open, but no longer. If John
Smith were to engrave his name on a dog's collar,
tens of thousands would whistle for him, for the
name is Legion; nay, if “Legion” were engraved
on the collar of a stray dog, the most natural thing
in the world would be to carry him to a Mr. John
Smith.

Every man that wants to travel incog., either to
escape civilities or the penitentiary, calls himself
Smith; not Smith by itself, but Captain Smith.
No woman faints on board a steamboat, or at the
theatre, or in Niblo's Garden, but there is a Dr.
Smith, nay, several Drs. Smith, ready to officiate.

Good, honest, ingenious old Tom Smith, the
famous blacksmith that once flourished in Courtlandt-street,
told me that he often wondered and
wondered, his name being Smith, that he should
have been so foolish as to double his cognomen—

that he should tack it to head and tail—Smith, the
blacksmith! However, said the poor, vexed man,
I thank heaven that I am not rich, for I might then
have sent my son to college, and as sure as fate he
would come out a doctor, which would be worse
than all.

A Dominie Smith might, perchance, die a bishop,
but no thanks to his name; he climbs up the
ladder by holding fast to the skirts of some patron
saint. He is not Bishop Smith, but the bishop of
St. Matthew, St. Mark, St. Luke, or St. John, or
the bishop of Georgia or Maine.

No one likes to relate an adventure of which a man
by the name of Smith has been the hero, (can such
a name belong to a hero?) he dreads the thousand
and one questions that will pour out upon him—
“Which Smith? Where does he live? Has he
a middle name? What is his first name?” Many
a good joke, many an excellent anecdote has been
smothered, because the name of Smith was in it.

Paradise could not hold all that have come and
gone by the title of Smith. St. Peter would be
afraid of a disturbance; he would not open the gates
to let any more in, I am convinced.

The proverb says, that if all lost things went to

the moon, how full of good advice it would be.
And I say that if all doctors went to Old Nick,
how full of Smiths his furnace would be.

It is said that the legislature will not grant permission
to a man to change his name unless it be
one that has an improper meaning, such a one that
he could not offer to a lady without a blush; or in
case of the expectation of an inheritance. Read
this letter to them, and they will see at once that
Smith is no name at all when inheritance is in
question, and that a man does not only blush when
offering it to a lady, but even to that august body
the legislature themselves. Depend upon it, there
will be no debate: you will receive your new name
by return of mail.

I remain yours, in the hope of this change; but
alas! I shall know you no longer if you are still to
be John Smith, for crowds upon crowds are flitting
before me, and all unreal. You will merge in the
misty mass, and become a hallucination. Adieu.