rate play. Children
seem so easy in comparison--John or Gretchen, or Gwendolyn for parents
of romantic taste. Gwendolyn I myself dislike, and I have thought I
would give it to a cow if ever I owned a farm. But this is prejudice.
To name a child, I repeat, one needs only to run his finger down the
column of his acquaintance, or think which aunt will have the looser
purse-strings in her will.

An unhappy choice, after all, is rare. Here and there a chocolate
Pearl or a dusky crinkle-headed Blanche escapes our logic; but who can
think of a sullen Nancy? Its very sound, tossed about the nursery,
would brighten a maiden even if she were peevish at the start. I once
knew an excellent couple of the name of Bottom, who chose Ruby for
their offspring; but I have no doubt that the infelicity was altered
at the font. The fact is that most of our names grow in time to fit
our figure and our character. Margaret and Helen sound thin or fat,
agreeable or dull, as our friends and neighbors rise before us; and
any newcomer to our affection quickly erases the aspect of its former
ugly tenant. I confess that till lately a certain name brought to my
fancy a bouncing, red-armed creature; but that by a change of lease
upon our street it has acquired an alien grace and beauty. Perhaps a
scrawny neighbor by the name of Falstaff might remain inconsequent,
but I am sure that if a lady called Messilina moved in next door and
were of charming manner, a month would blur the bad suggestion of her
name; which presently--if our gardens ran together--would come to
sound sweetly in my ears.

But a play (more than a child or neighbor) is offered for a sudden
judgment--to sink or swim upon a first impression--and its christening
is an especial peril. I have fretted for a month to find a title for
my comedy.

My first choice was _A Frightful Play of Pirates_. In the word
_frightful_ lay the double meaning that I wanted. It held up my hands,
as it were, for mercy. It is an old device. Did not Keats, when a
novice in his art, attempt by a modest preface to disarm the critics
of his Endymion? "It is just," he wrote, "that this youngster should
die away." Yet my title was too long. I could not hope, if my comedy
reached the boards, that a manager could afford such a long display of
electric lights above the door. It would require more than a barrel of
lamps.

_The Pirates of Clovelly_ was not bad, except for length, but it was
too obviously stolen from G