Before I begin, let me say a few words about personality and locality. We should always begin at the beginning. The preacher never starts at fourthly; soup by some mysterious law ever precedes fish. Remember, the necessity for individuality has given us our Names. The need of an address has originated our Directories.
(1) Individualization. The word surname means an added name —i. e., a sobriquet added to the personal or baptismal name. Why? Because one was not sufficient to give individuality to the bearer. Adam and Eve, and Seth, and Abel, and Joseph, and Moses, all were enough while population was small; but manifestly such simplicity could not last. In the wilderness there were, say, 2,500,000 Israelites. How could one suffice there, especially if “Caleb” or “Joshua” had become so popular that there were, say, 50 or 100 of each in the closely-packed community? It was not enough: therefore we find a surname adopted, that is, an added name. “Joshua, the son of Nun” – “Caleb, the son of Jephunneh” – are amongst the world’s first surnames. In Directory language this is simply “Joshua Nunson,” or “Caleb Jephunneh.” Simon Barjonas is nothing more than Simon Johnson. Remember, however, these were not hereditary. They died with their owner, and the child, if there was one, got a surname of his own. Surnames did not become hereditary in Europe even till the beginning of the twelfth century, and among the lower classes not till the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
Imagine London with, say, 3,000,000 souls, each possessing but one name. Picture to yourself to-morrow’s post bringing 1000 letters to “Mr. John,” or “John, Esquire.” We can’t conceive it. No, a surname became an imperative necessity when population increased, when men herded together, and communities began to be formed. It is curious to note that some of these surnames have become so common that they have failed of their object, and ceased to give individuality. There are 270,000 “Smiths” in England and Wales, and as many “Joneses.” They would together form a town as large as Manchester, or separately as big as Leeds. William Smith scarcely individualizes the bearer now; so he either gets three names or four names at the font, or his identity is eked out by a remarkable single name, perchance “Plantagenet,” or “Kerenhappuck,” or “Napoleon,” or “Sidney.” The worst of it is that “Sidney” was so greedily fixed upon after it became famous that there are now hundreds of “Sidney Smiths,” and thus it has ceased to give proper individuality. It is the same with “John Jones.” The Registrar-General says that if “John Jones” were called out at a market in Wales, either everybody would come, or nobody: either everybody, thinking that you meant each, or nobody, because you had not added some description which should distinguish the particular John Jones you wanted. I remember at college two John Joneses went in for examination for the “little go.” Both belonged to the same college; one passed, the other did not. The one who got first to the schools bore away his certificate in triumph. The one who came last always declared that his confrère had robbed him of his “testamur,” and I have no doubt will die assured of the same! I believe a day will come when, either by compulsory enactment or by voluntary arrangement, there will be a redistribution of surnames in Wales; the sooner the better.
(2) Localization. So much for the personality; now for locality. It is one thing to know the name of the man you want; it is another thing to know where you can find him. In a word, where does he live? “Go into the street which is called Straight, and enquire in the house of Judas for one called Saul, of Tarsus,” says the Divine Book. This would not be enough in the nineteenth century. There are streets a mile long now. There are restaurants above the shops, and offices above the restaurants, and the old woman who cleans the building above them all. How is Mrs. Betsy Pipps to be found of her friends? Yet a letter from her daughter in the country about the cows and the turnips has as much right to find its way to that top room in the murky city as a posted document about Turkey and Russia to Lord Derby in that big place a little further on.
One of the greatest transformations the streets of London ever saw was when the signboards were taken down. These were at first adopted purely to localize the inhabitant of the house pendent from whose wall the signboard swung. Until the reign of Queen Anne, the streets could scarcely be seen further than a few yards because of these innumerable obstructions. They darkened the streets, obscured the view, and threatened the very lives of the horsemen who rode along. The personal discomfort to wayfarers was great, for not only did the rain drip unpleasantly from them, but the wooden spouts, which frequently shot forward from the roof in order that the signboard might swing from them, poured their little cataracts upon the devoted heads of the passers-by. This infliction was patiently endured for several centuries; but the British ratepayer at last made his voice heard, as in the end he always does. This time, too, he had right on his side, as he invariably thinks he has, and an alteration took place. The ruling powers ordered the obnoxious signs to be placed flat against the walls. The idea of removing them entirely was reserved for a more brilliant intellect a few years later on. I have not yet seen the printed regulation for the metropolis, but no doubt the Manchester document was but a copy of it. The declaration issued for that town runs as follows: “With the approbation and concurrence of the magistrates, we, the borough reeve and constables, request the shopkeepers and innholders of this town, who have not already taken down their signs, to do the same as soon as possible, and place them against the walls of their houses, as they have been long and justly complained of as nuisances. They obstruct the free passage of the air, annoy the passengers in wet weather, darken the streets, etc., – all which inconvenience will be prevented by a compliance with our request, and be manifestly productive both of elegance and utility.”
Of the utility there could be no doubt. In wet weather, as already hinted, everybody who had a coat collar had to turn it up to prevent each swinging sign from dripping the rain-water down the back of the neck. Umbrellas were still rare, costly, and curious luxuries. In a word, the swinging sign was voted an intolerable nuisance, was found guilty, and condemned – not to the gallows, of course, for the charge against it was that it had been hanging there to the public detriment all its days – but to oblivion. I daresay London had made away with many of its cumbersome signboards many years before the provincial towns. It is curious to note that in a hundred different nooks and corners of old London there still linger some of the tradesmen’s signs, either flattened against the wall, or carved upon the now crumbling stonework.
There are endless allusions to the signs of old London in the comic or semi-comic rhymes of the period. Thomas Heywood, early in the seventeenth century, says: —
“The gintry to the King’s Head,
The nobles to the Crown,
The knights unto the Golden Fleece,
And to the Plough the clowne.
The Churchman to the Mitre,
The shepherd to the Star,
The gardener hies him to the Rose,
To the Drum the man of war.”
There is a capital collection of these names in a ballad of the Restoration, which is far too long to quote in full, but of which the following is a specimen: —
“Through the Royal Exchange as I walked,
Where gallants in sattin doe shine,
At midst of the day they parted away,
To seaverall places to dine.
The ladyes will dine at the Feathers,
The Globe no captaine will scorne,
The huntsman will goe to the Greyhound below,
And some will hie to the Horne.
The farriers will to the Horse,
The