1826. ] Familiarities— Anonymous. 253 
ment, or sparkle among the tresses of song.—Honeysuckle—streaming 
away in its sweetness; lily—a clear and delicate sound; there is a 
milkiness in it that is not unallied to the meaning. The words, both 
to eye and ear, resemble the objects they designate; and if frequently 
and fervently pronounced, will call down on the temples of life a 
garland of their blossoms and beauties. Thus we may walk through 
the whole vocabulary and cull a nosegay of names—glide in imagi- 
nation from garden to meadow, from meadow to heath, from heath to 
hill—abandon ourselves to the delusive realities of a philosopher and 
poet before quoted, until the heart, glad of its wings (for wings it hath), 
—_————“‘ with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils.” 
But poets are persons that would keep us dancing till domesday, and 
there are myriads of smiling names crowding the anti-rooms of imagi- 
nation, and glistening like spangles in its train. We dismiss them with 
a princely movement of our pen. We pass with a gracious glance of 
recognition through long lists of living creatures—of herbs, trees and 
valleys—meadows and mountains—rivers, lakes, “and all that in them 
is”—of shells, gems, marbles; and the no less dazzling varieties of 
artificial creation, which, though numbered in the “catalogue of com- 
mon things” come forth from the womb of beauty, and people the 
deserts of the mind with endearing impressions,—books, pictures, and 
all that world of things which one’s life-time is spent (in spite of Horace) 
in admiring. We come to human names, and the magic that belongs 
to them. We come to the names of lovers, to the Leanders and Heros of 
the heart’s Hellespont—names that are never pronounced but with a fine 
and tremulous delight (the reader must know of one such name)—that 
sink upon the silent spirit laden with the whispers of affection, and have 
indeed a charm—for it can only be told in verse— 
“ To make the mountains listen, and the streams 
Run into milk, and the hard trees give honey.” 
We come to the names of the great and mighty of the earth—appella- 
tions that, however mean and unmusical they appear, belong to nature’s 
prosody and the poetry of the heart. They speak to us in dreams with 
eagle voices. They call to us from the ruins of long and clouded years, 
and revive our school-day hopes. They sound in our ears like the 
* noise of waterfalls in a thirsty land. We delight to hear our children 
lisp them to us. Like the Lydian monarch, when worldly promises are 
led forth to die, we call upon the name of a Solon, and are saved from 
the fires of despair. The term may be one of no mark or likelihood in 
itself, yet its echo would waken a world. The names of Shakspeare, 
Bacon, Dryden, &c. are by no means remarkable for their moral fitness 
or euphony ; nor does there appear any very cabalistic virtue in the 
words: “« Westminster Bridge ;” yet I never cross that structure without 
expending a pleasant five minutes in imagining the particular stone on 
which Mr. Wordsworth stood, when he composed his sonnet there 
twenty years‘ago. It must be admitted, however, that many names, 
from, their-frequent recurrence, and application to common objects, have 
Jost. ‘their freshness and singleness of power. Let the reader ask 
- one» of the; Mr-Smiths——perhaps his own name is Smith—but if not, 
Jetshim ask one of the Mr. Smiths with whom he must necessari 
be acquainted, whether such be not the case. The name of Thomson 
