A Deprecation of the Name of John

Were I some fifteen years younger or twenty, Master Gandolfo, I 'd unbaptise myself, On purpose not to be called John. I never Can do a single thing in the way of business, Nor set out fast enough from my own door, But half-a-dozen people are calling after me; Though, when I turn, it isn't me; such crowds Are issuing forth, nam'd John, at the same moment.

'Tis downright insult; a mere public scandal. Clergymen, lawyers, pedants,—not a soul, But his name 's John. You shall not see a face, Looking like what it is, a simpleton's— Barber's, porkman's, or tooth-drawer's,—but the fellow Seems by his look to be a John,—and is one! I verily think, that the first man who cried Boil'd apples or maccaroni, was a John; And so was he who found out roasted chesnuts, And how to eat cucumbers, and new cheese. By heavens! I 'd rather be a German; nay, I'd almost said a Frenchman; nay, a Jew, And be called Matthew, or Bartholomew, Or some such beast,—or Simon. Really people Who christen people, ought to pause a little, And think what they're about.—O you who love me, Don't call me John, for God's sake; or at least, If you must call me so, call it me softly; For as to mentioning the name out loud, You might as well call after one like a dog,— Whistle, and snap your fingers, and cry, "Here, boy."

Think of the name of John upon a title-page! It damns the book at once; and reasonably: People no sooner see it, than they conclude They 've read the work before.—Oh I must say My father made a pretty business of it, Calling me John! me, 'faith—his eldest son! Heir to his—poverty! Why there's not a writ, But nine times out of ten, is serv'd on John, And what still more annoys me, not a bill: Your promiser to pay is always John.

Some people fondly make the word a compound, And get some other name to stand its friend, Christening the hapless devil John-Antony, John-Peter, or John-Baptist, or John-Charles; There's even John-Barnard, and John-Martin!—Oh, See if the other name likes his society!

It never does, humour it as you will. Change it, diminish it, call it Johnny, or Jacky, Or Jack, 'tis always a sore point,—a wound;— Shocking, if left alone,—and worse, if touch'd.