sign that shall go with him to his grave, and that shall fit that mystery
of the cradle which time and temptation and trial shall alone reveal--_hoc
opus, hic labor est_. Many fail by starting from false grounds--fashion,
ambition, or momentary interest. Perhaps the little stranger arrives with
the news of a battle, or when a popular novel appears, or at a moment when
you are under the influence of some austere or heroic name. And forgetful
that it is the child that has to bear the burden of your momentary impulse,
you call him Inkerman Jones, or Kitchener Smith, or Milton Spinks.

And so he is started on his journey, like a little historical memory, or
challenging comparison with some hero of fact or fable. Perhaps Milton
Spinks grows up bow-legged and commonplace--all Spinks and no Milton. As
plain John he would pass through life happy and unnoticed, but the great
name of Milton hangs about him like a jest from which he can never
escape--no, not even in the grave, for it will be continued there until the
lichen has covered the name on the headstone with stealthy and kindly
oblivion.

It is a good rule, I think, to avoid the fanciful in names. So few of our
children are going to be heroes or sages that we should be careful not to
stamp them with the mark of greatness at the outset of the journey. Horatio
was a happy stroke for Nelson, but how few Horatios win immortality, or
deserve it! And how disastrous if Horatio turns out a knave and a coward!
If young Spinks has any Miltonic fire within him, it will shine through
plain John more naturally and lustrously than through any borrowed
patronymic. You may be as humble as you like, and John will fit you: as
illustrious as you like, and John will blaze as splendid as your deeds,
linking you with that great order of nobility of which John Milton, John
Hampden, and John Bright are types.