storian. They were strolling together one day in a
beautiful English churchyard.

'What name do you mean to give him?' asked Hallam.

'Well, we thought of calling him Hallam,' replied the poet.

'Oh! had you not better call him Alfred, after yourself?' suggested the
historian.

'Aye!' replied the naive bard, '_but what if he should turn out to be a
fool?_'

Ah, there's the rub. It turned out all right, as it happened. The boy
was no fool, as the world very well knows; but if you examine the story
under a microscope you will discover that it is encrusted with a golden
wealth of philosophy. For the point is that the baby's name sets
before the baby a certain standard of achievement. The baby's name
commits the baby to something. Names, even in the ordinary life of the
home and the street, are infinitely more than mere tags attached to us
for purposes of convenience and identification.

In describing the striking experiences through which he passed on being
made a freeman, Booker T. Washington, the slave who carved his way to
statesmanship, tells us that his greatest difficulty lay in regard to a
name. Slaves have no names; no authentic genealogy; no family history;
no ancestral traditions. They have, therefore, nothing to live up to.
Mr. Booker Washington himself invented his own name. 'More than once,'
he says 'I tried to picture myself in the position of a boy or man with
an honoured and distinguished ancestry. As it is, I have no idea who
my grandmother was. The very fact that the white boy is conscious
that, if he fails, he will disgrace the whole family record is of
tremendous value in helping him to resist temptations. And the fact
that the individual has behind him a proud family history serves as a
stimulus to help him to overcome obstacles when striving for success.'
Every student of biography knows how frequently men have been
restrained from doing evil, or inspired to lofty achievement, by the
honour in which a cherished memory has compelled them to hold the names
they are allowed to bear. Every schoolboy knows the story of the
Grecian coward whose name was Alexander. His cowardice seemed the more
contemptible because of his distinguished name; and his commander,
Alexander the Great, ordered him either to change his name or to prove
himself brave.

I notice that the American people have lately been rudely awakened to a
recognition of the fact that a nation that can boast of a splendid
gal