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chimed in Tom, "fwhat a convanient thing it is to have an experience o' this kind, so when ye goes back to Ameriky, if ye can't raise a stake ony other way, ye can publicate a book." Tom's brilliant literary and financial project of "raising a stake" by "publicating" a book founded on his experience, brought out a general laugh; and I was glad to see that the storm, instead of dampening the ardor of our men, only furnished them with a new subject for lively conversation.

As the night was by this time far advanced, we smoked a supplementary pipe, and prepared to go to our snowy beds. I do not mean to convey the idea that the preparation was at all claborate. Each individual put on a heavier fur "kuchlanka," or sleeping shirt, crawled, feet first, into a capacious reindeer-skin bag, pulled it up together with his fur hood over his head, and— slept.

I lay for a long time awake, listening to the deep hoarse bass of the wind through the tree-tops, and thinking of what the far-away ones at home would say could they look in upon our lonely camp through the drifting snow, which went hissing into the embers, and be told that the little motionless heap in one corner, already half buried in a white shroud, was their son and brother.

I awoke some time in the night half suffocated, and in a profuse perspiration; but in attempting to rise up on one elbow, brought such an avalanche of snow down into my neck and face, that I was compelled to lie still and perspire, as the lesser of the two evils. I supposed, of course, that I was covered with snow, which would account for the unusual heat; but I did not think that I was buried so deeply as I found myself to be in the morning, when, after several unsuccessful attempts, I succeeded in digging out. Not a man, nor a dog, and hardly a sledge was to be seen, and only two or three little mounds indicated the positions of my buried comrades. The snow, during the night, had drifted into our cellar, until it was filled

up nearly to the surrounding level. The warmth of the breath, however, from the sleepers had kept open a small breathing-hole at their heads, and I presume none of them experienced any discomfort beyond a rather unpleasant sensation of heat. I gave what might be considered a close imitation of the scalp-halloo, and after three or four earthquake-like heaves of the snow, Lewis' head emerged through the top of a drift, his face assuming a curious expression of astonishment as he glanced around and saw neither men, dogs, nor sledges. A general upheaval of the snow, however, soon followed, and one by one the buried individuals emerged. Day dawned slowly and gloomily, with but little prospect of an abatement of the storm. Believing the river on which we were camped to be the Paren, we decided to ascend it in search of an old abandoned Korak yourt of which we had heard, and which would probably be the rallying-point of our lost comrades. Packing the sledges, therefore, and digging out our buried dogs, we moved slowly up the river among the trees, sending forward two men on snowshoes to break a road for our heavy sleds. The depth and softness of the snow soon exhausted both dogs and men, and about noon we were compelled again to camp without discovering any traces either of the yourt or of the missing party. We began to feel no little anxiety concerning them, as we knew that they had no provisions at all except some rancid seal's blubber, which they carried for dog-food, and in such a storm the prospect for their finding us or reaching a settlement was at best very problematical.

Scal's blubber, I knew from experience, would sustain life; but I think even that determined optimist, Ford, would call it a decidedly unpleasant

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foot of ground unexplored, from our camp to the mountains north of us, in which the river had its source. The almost innumerable "protoks," or channels, however, into which it was divided, and the softness of the snow, in which even with snow-shoes we sank to the knee, made it an extremely fatiguing labor; and I returned at night, tired and discouraged, to camp. As I came in sight, however, of the smoke from the camp-fire, a joyful shout announced a discovery. Fresh traces of sledges had been found only about three hundred yards from the island on which we were, but on another protok. Rousing up our tired dogs, we resumed the search with renewed energy, and just at

dark were rewarded by the sight of a low earth-covered yourt, with smoke issuing from the hole in the top, and two sledges standing before the door. Our newly-found comrades knew nothing concerning the four sledges which were still missing. They had seen nothing of them since the storm of the previous night, when the whole party had been broken up. Early on the next morning I sent two sledges down the river, with instructions to look for traces along the edge of the steppe; but they returned unsuccessful, and it was not until late the following evening that the missing men made their appearance, in an exhausted, half-starving condition, having been lost in the storm three days without food.


ALL day the Wind was busy building towers,
Wherein he counted with his love to dwell
When eve should come; all through the long, gold hours,
He builded, working by a secret spell.

And by his magic art rose palaces,

Towers of cloud, and many a minaret,

Fretted and carved most curiously, and these

In the blue calmness of the West he set.

All day he piled the pleasure-house o'erhead,

That should delight his love, but when eve came,
And it stood ready for her dainty tread,

His palace burst into a sudden flame.

No gay illumination this, alas,

In honor of the coming of the guest,—

A sudden treachery of fire it was,

And wrapped in fatal splendor all the West.

All day I looked into my heart and dreamed,
And built a palace wherein Hope should dwell;
Fair as herself and strong enough, it seemed,
Yet held strange echoes of a past farewell..

I built a shrine of gold and amethyst,

Wherein I thought an idol might be set;
Only the music that I sought, I missed;

A strain crept in of some far-off regret.

And just at sunset, when Hope, eager-eyed,
Leaned from her turret, beckoning me nigher
To those fair places where I should abide-
My palace shrivelled in a passionate fire.

And yet I know, in spite of the day's ruth,
We cannot be disheartened, Wind nor I.
Truly is Hope of an immortal youth;

Happier for mortals were it, could she die!


Οὔνομα σὸν λέγε τῆνο· καὶ οὔνομα πολλάκι τέρπει.
"Tell me now that name of thine; for a name often pleases."
(THEOCRIT. Idyll. xxvii. 40.)

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet."

THESE words have been so often quoted, that it would be quite natural if people, out of respect for the poet, should be indifferent-which they really are not-in reference to names. The more so, as the same idea occurs in Julius Cæsar, where Cassius says: "Brutus and Cæsar . . . write them together, yours is as fair a name," etc.

Is there really nothing in a name? It is in one place the passion of love, in the other the passion of hatred, which says that there is no difference between one name or another. There is something in a name; and it seems quite natural if, in the above-quoted passage of Theocritus, the shepherdess asks the shepherd, who offers to marry her, to tell her his name. Have not the names of Romeo and Juliet something charming? Does it not seem as if all the sweetness of the piece, as if all the softness of the Italian sky, were reflected and reechoed in those names? Suppose, for an instant, the two names to be John and Bridget-it is a prejudice, certainly; but would those names have the same charm? It is a prejudice: Gretchen, in the original "Faust," awakens all our interest, although it is the same in German as Madge or Maggie in English. But no! Even that name seems to be chosen with design. It is exactly that diminutive form (the diminutives are at the same time what they call caritatives, expressions of fondness) of an unadorned name, which, like a miniature photograph-or rather phonograph-gives a true picture of touching simplicity and innocent purity, and is in so far more adapted to the character it represents than the proud "Margareth" or Marguerite " " in the

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translation. We venture even to say, that poets do not take at random their names of fiction; although few may be as deliberate as Petrarch, who in his sonnets plays so much upon the name of Laura, that it makes the impression that he loved Laura's name more than herself; or that he loved her only on account of her harmonious name. Few, too, may be as fantastical as Bojardo, who, hunting once for deer and at the same time for a name for one of his heroes, suddenly turned back from the hunting-ground, and ordered all the bells to be rung out of joy. He had not shot any thing, but he had found out the long-searched name- - Rodomonte.

What is in a name? But is not the catastrophe of the whole piece dependent upon two names, Montague and Capulet? Without those two names, there would be no drama with the names of Romeo and Juliet. A name is a remembrance. While the mere name of Romeo would, in the mind of Juliet, awaken a thousand sweet reminiscences in the same way as one tune recalls a whole song-in her father's heart the mere sound of Montague would call forth all the feeling of hatred associated with that family-name.

"That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet"—— we cannot help it, we must mar even that poetical flower with a grammatical remark. In like manner as we contest the identity of different names, we are bound to say that there is a difference between the name of the rose and that of Romeo. Romeo is a proper name, while rose is an appellative. Two persons, John and Freddy, for instance,

could easily change names with cach other, their names being proper names, without any relation to their quality; but we could not make a rhinoceros and a butterfly change their names. The name of the rhinoceros could not be given to the butterfly, as it has no horn on its nose; nor could any of the names of the butterfly be applied to the rhinoceros, as every one of them expresses some quality belonging to the butterfly and not to the rhinoceros. The Greek Psyche (on account of its symbolic relation to the soul), the Latin Papilio (from the folding, like a tent), the Spanish Mariposa (never resting), the Italian Farfalla, the Swedish farfall (a reduplication, to imitate its always being on the wing), the Anglo-Saxon fiffalde (the same as the German Falter, the Dutch Vyfevouter, from the folding of the wings), the Dutch Witje (the little white, from the color of a very common species), the German Schmetterling (from the vibrating motion) and the provincial names of Fluchter (flyer), Fledermaus (Flitter-mouse, in high German, the same as in English, the name of the bat), those and other names could not be given to the rhinoceros, nor the name of butterfly, as the rhinoceros does not fly and has nothing to do with butter; nor could we bestow on the rhinoceros the family-name (if we may say so) of the butterfly, viz., Lepidopteron (scale-winged), as it has no wings at all.

An appellative noun is a proper noun in so far as it expresses some peculiarity. To confer an appellative upon some object, we must know something about its quality. When it is said, in the 147th Psalm, that the Lord calls all the stars by names, the meaning seems to be, that He knows the quality of every star, how and what it is. We, of course, give names to the stars; but as we are not much informed about them, we give them proper names, borrowed from individuals. It is only in a few exceptional cases that we call a star by an appellative, from some unessential attribute. So the Chaldeans, the Hindus, and the Greeks called Mars

the red one, or the fiery star, Venus the bright one, Saturn the Tardy. When, again, Aldebaran has its Arabian name on account of its following the Pleiads, it could just as well be called their Leader, and may-be they-Aldebaran and the Pleiads - don't know any thing about each other, and each one goes its own way. It is out of the same idea that we are told, in the Koran, that Adam knew the names of the animals, but the angels did not. As man has at least some affinity with the animals, and could therefore form an idea about their quiddities and qualities, he could give them the right names; but how should an angel know any thing about an ox or an elephant?

A proper name is a proper noun in so far as it belongs only to one individual and not to a whole species; it is not common, but is owned by one only. They are proper names in more senses than one. They express propriety. A man could not call a table otherwise than do other people, but he could give to his own son whatever name he pleased. And so the propensities, peculiarities, and oddities of persons are to be seen in the names they give their children. Some one would heap on the head of his son the names of all the republican heroes; another would consider all proper names as too common for his offspring, and would look out for some name which somebody had some thousand years ago, and nobody since. A passionate phrenologist in England called his son by the name of a renowned German phrenologist, Spurzheim, a name which certainly had great influence upon the boy's bump of veneration, but which the bearer himself could hardly pronounce.

The proper name takes out one person from the species. The degree of relationship between persons is marked by the manner in which they call each other. There is our friend John Smith. First we called him Sir; getting more acquainted, we called him Mr. Smith, a name belonging to the whole family. And now, as he is our intimate friend, and as we know the precious qualities

of his individuality, we call him John. We have therefore three degrees of proximity: positive, Sir; comparative, Mr. Smith; superlative, John. It is for the same reason that a child is often called by his parents with another name than that which he has in society, and that a member of a society is called by a nickname. Assuming the privilege of giving a private name to a person is an act of appropriation: a driver or a conductor is no individuality for us; he is a species; we therefore call him Driver. In one of the novels of Alphonse Karr, we find a young man who is compelled by circumstances to give lessons in music. In a letter to his sisters he says that nothing is to him more humiliating than to hear people say, at his entrance, Here comes the musicteacher, instead of saying, Here comes Mr. Such-a-one. He was no individuality, he was a species.

A proper name is, as we said before, a remembrance. In the Bible the words "name" and "memorial" occur as parallels and synonyms to each other. A name is a memorial. We are told that Alexander the Great, going to war, sent word to the Jews to erect him a monument, which he hoped to find on his return from the expedition. He came back (we suppose from India) some years afterwards, but there was no monument. Angry and astonished, he summoned the High-priest to come before him. The High-priest came, having children in his suite. The king asked him ironically if he had forgotten his order. "Sire," the High-priest said, "it is contrary to our religion to make any image or statue. But, look here!" And he turned round to the children, and asked one boy, and then another, and then another: "What is your name?" "Alexander," answered each boy, one more, one less distinctly, according to his age. "Sire," said the High-priest, "you see we have fulfilled your command, by calling every boy who was born during your absence, with your name; and as those names will go down from generation to generation, those living monuments will

be much better than a monument of stone."


The High-priest was right. great Alexander could not wish a better memorial than those little Alexanders, who were to immortalize him. Alexander wept on the grave of Achilles, for not having a Homer to transmit his name to posterity. But, while the name of Achilles has only a faint existence in the name of the hero of finance, Achilles Fould of Paris, in the names of some renowned horses, of some obscure men, and of a humble plant, Achillea— the name of Alexander resounds in thousands of names. Persons crowned

and not crowned, renowned and not renowned, are his namesakes all over the world, as well as cities of that name. Mutilated as the name appears in the Hungarian Sándor, in the Persian Iskander, in the Scottish Saunders-the same as even a broken mirror reflects the sun, they all reecho the name of the great conqueror, who really filled the world with his name.

As we are going to say something about the original meaning of proper names, we must of course, first of all, mention the first man, Adam. But Adam, in the original text, is not a proper noun, but an appellative, sometimes even with the article. The first man is called man and the man. Only in the old translation, and in the book of Tobias, Adam is treated as a proper noun. Among the later namesakes of Adam we should hardly find a renowned name except the secretary of Voltaire, who is celebrated in consequence of the pun of his master: "Gentlemen, I introduce to you Mr. Adam; but, mind, he is not the first of all men." Macadam are surnames. of Mac-Adam we all could lay a claim, as it means nothing else but Son of Man.

Adams and To the name

One would think that at least every one of Adam's descendants had a proper name of his own, but it seems not. Herodotus and Pliny tell us about a people in Africa who had the collective name of Astantes, but no single proper names. On the other hand, it is an

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