Names and Narratives

Author(s): W. F. H. Nicolaisen
Source: The Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 97, No. 385 (Jul. - Sep., 1984), pp. 259-272
Published by: American Folklore Society
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/540609 .
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W.

F.

H.

NICOLAISEN

Names and Narratives*

IN HIS PRESIDENTIAL
ADDRESSto the Modern Humanities Research Association,

read at University College, London, on January6, 1978, the eminent Cambridge literary scholar Leonard Forster, in contemplating the notion of
"LiteraryStudies as Flight from Literature," comments on the ebb and flow
of scholarlyfashionsand approachesby suggesting that "each generationseeks
to correct the onesidednessof its predecessors,but succumbsto its own onesidedness. This in its turn becomes a gospel" (Forster 1978:xxii). In a later
passage,he elaborateson this theme by observing that, "What seems at first
to be a turn towards human concretenessis in fact seen to be a flight into the
abstract-a flight from the text, for attention to actual texts might endanger
the doctrine" (Forster 1978:xxvii). While it is not my intention to probe the
distinct possibility that much folklore study today may be a flight from folklore, although that possibility should not be rejectedout of hand, the underlying assumptionof what I wish to say is that texts matter more than doctrines, that as folklorists we must remain committed to folklore or, if
necessary,regain that commitment, and that the creation, recovery, and confrontation of texts is by no means a horse flogged to death by generationsof
our scholarly ancestors. It is only when we turn our backs on ideological
squabbles,genre-mongeringand the bewildering assaultof "barely mutually
intelligible" (Forster 1978:xxvii) metalanguages that we can develop the
graciousintellectualtolerancethat allows genuine methodologicalpluralismin
the explorationof texts, to the enrichmentof our disciplineand a fullerrealization of its potential. We must build bridges, not burn them; we must mediate,
not divide; we must delight in the creativityof positive tensions, not panderto
their destructivepowers. We must be agents of healing in an ailing world of
minds.
The title of my own small contribution to this process is thereforemore
than an alliterativewhim. It epitomizes, in a way, a personalattemptat reconciling those two areasof personalscholarshipthat have held my attention and
*

PresidentialAddress, Annual Meeting of the American Folklore Society, Nashville, Tennessee, October 29, 1983.
Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 97, No. 385, 1984
Copyright 1984 by the American Folklore Society 0021-8715/84/3850259-14$1.90/1

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260

W. F. H. NICOLAISEN

shaped my thinking during the last 30 years or so, and that, at times, have
seemedto be without connection or even antipatheticand incongruentin their
principlesand demands. "Names and Narratives" are productsof two of the
most essentialspeechacts in the human repertoire,those of naming and narration. One, through the device of identifying reference, gives structure to a
chaotic world; the other, through story, createspasts which inform the present and take the sting out of the future. Homonominansand homonarransseem
to be at odds with each other and yet strive toward the same goal, respondto
the same need: the humanism of satisfying, strategic survival. The isolating
function of names, their exclusivityin contrastto the inclusivityof words, and
the storying1 revelation of not just believablebut indubitablytrue pasts are
perhaps, after all, not as incompatibleas might seem at first glance. And the
personal,almost anecdotalalliterationof the title convenientlyforegroundsan
existentialchaining that might prove examinablein less personal,more general
fashion. To exploit the examinabilityof that linked relationshipis the purpose
of this presentation;it is not intended, and thereforeshould not be expected,
to startle through its innovative fervor but ratherto invite quiet reflectionin
reaction to the synthesizeddistillation of scatteredthoughts that I have, over
the years, expressedin this place and that, but never, I fear, with persuasive
cohesion. It may not be the "Gospel according to St. William," but it is a
kind of personalcredo nevertheless.
"Names and Narratives" may, in the first place, be safely and most simply
construedas "names in narratives,"that is, onomastic texts as integral, structuring, illuminating webs withinstory texts, and, as our concern, these names
are the narrativeresponsesof the folk-culturalregister; this means names in
folktales, legends, ballads, anecdotes,jokes, personal experience stories, and
the like. Paradoxically,names, wherever they occur in such narrativeenvironments, may eitherbe employedbecausetheir lexical meaningis transparentand
thereforeaccessibleto both storytellerand listeneror becauseof their ability to
function perfectlywell as names while being meaninglesson the lexical level.
When the latter is the case, their availablecontent varies from virtual emptiness to generous characterization,and the degree of knowability and delineation of identity of place or persondependto a large extent on the provisionof
such content.
At one extreme of this onomasticspectrumstandsthe creaturecalledby such
names as "Rumpelstilzchen," "Tom Tit Tot," "Whuppity Stoorie,"
"Skaane," "Tvester," "Purzinigele," "Mimi Pinson," "Tambutoe,"
"Knirrficker," or "Ekke Nekkepenn" in AT 500 "The Name of the
Helper" (Marshall1973; Christiansen1964:6-7; Hubrich-Messow 1981:20).
His variousbizarrenamesnot only bearwitness to his other-worldliness,with
occasionalhints of his small size, but also apparentlyguaranteelack of detectable identity and thereforepromiseinvulnerability:"Little kens our guid dame
at hame/That Whuppity Stoorie is my name" (Petrie:1950).Since namelessness is, under the circumstances,not permissibleor even possible, the creature
thus singled out through its unusual and seemingly unknowable name has to

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NAMESAND NARRATIVES

261

keepthe namealivethroughrhymingrepetitionin its own quiteseparateand

that
quite secludedhabitat.It is not foolishnessor exultantself-assurance
makeshim pronouncehis name,thereforerenderinghim vulnerable,but the
necessityof keepingone'snamealivethroughcontinuedusage.Givinga name
or havinga nameis not enough;it mustalsobe used.Usage,in turn,invariablyleadsto recognition,thatinevitableconcomitantof identity,evenwhen a
nameis intendedto concealratherthanrevealsuchidentity.Gainingaccessto
anotherpersonthroughknowing his unknowablename produceslimitless
power and, in termsof folktaleretribution,can meancompletedestruction:
"in his angerhe stampedwith his right foot so hardthat it went into the
groundabovehis knee, thenhe seizedhis left foot with both handsin sucha
furythathe splitin two, andthatwas the end of him" (Grimm1963:62).It
canalsomeandisappearance:
"Well, when thatheardher, thatgavean awful
shriekand away that flew in the dark, and she never saw it any more"
(Thompson1968:162).We exorcizeas well as attractthe forcesof the other
worldby knowingandpronouncingtheirnames,alwaysrisky,but whenconductedproperly,a liberatingundertakingin dealingswith the numinous.
Therearefew otherstories,if any, thatfocuson a namewith suchintensity
andweavesucha densenarrative
aroundit. Knowingor not knowingnamesis
not alwayssuch a matterof life and death. Indeed,if a recentanalysisof
folktalesis anythingto go by, half the folktalesand a
Schleswig-Holstein
of
all
folktale
quarter
typesdo not containanypersonalnamesat all (HubrichMessow 1981). If they do occurand are not in the "Will," "Tom," and
"Jack"category,thatis, if theyarenot namingtypeswithoutindividualizing
them, theirlexicalmeaningfrequentlyrefersto outwardcharacteristics,
like
"Snow White," "Katie Woodencloak," "Cinderella," "One-Eye,"
"Two-Eyes," and "Three-Eyes," "Tom Thumb," "Goldmarie"and
"Pechmarie,""Hold-up-Mountain,""Oak-twister," "Boots," "Green
Feather,""Yellow Feather"and "Black Feather," "Little Red RidingHood," "Esben-Ash-Rake,"
"Dornrdschen,"andso on. In severalof these
the
name
serves
as
a
instances,
linguisticcloakthatprovidestemporary
disguise
but hides the realidentity.This is particularly
noticeablein versionsof AT
510Bin which the femaleprotagonist,while namelessas a princess,bearsthe
nameof the rough andunbecomingcoat she has to wear as a fugitivefrom
persecution;she consequentlyhas to live out her new coat-givenidentityby
being relegatedto do the most menialtasks. One cannotbe a princessor
beautifulor both when one bearshumbleor evenugly namessuchas "Katie
Woodencloak,""Donkey Skin," "All-kinds-of-fur,""Cap o' Rushes,"
"Ruuchklaas,"or "Catskin." Such folktalecharacters,especiallyprotagonists,weartheirnamesaswell as theirclothes,whetherpermanently
or teminflicted
with
them.
Their
names
taunt
and
tease
at
in
porarily
times, contradictionto theirnormalprojectingfunction.What is particularly
noteworthy
hereis that, like the revealingset of namesmentionedearlierandotherslike
them, theseconcealingnamesmore often than not serveas the titles of the
storiesin whichtheyoccur.In thiseponymousrole, theyareonlymatchedby

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262

W. F. H. NICOLAISEN

the ubiquitous "Jack" and his counterpartsin other languages and cultures,
with the differencethat "Jack" does not individualizebut rather"is the folktale hero par excellence of our western folk-narrativetradition" (Nicolaisen
1978:32). He is infinitelyadaptableand fulfillswhateverrole the story or storyteller has in mind for him, since he survivesin the selectiverealizationof his
multiple traits. His versatilityand almost slipperymany-sidednessdo not permit
"Jack" to appearunaccompaniedas a titular hero; in each instancehis name is
amplifiedby a charactertrait, a task to be done, a referenceto antagonists,the
summary of an action, the indication of a location, and so on. "Jack" as a
name here no longer denotes but shareswith words their connotative potential. Nevertheless, it also gives us, like real names, the kind of onomasticfocus
which, through the severe condensation of its associations, integrates,
delimits, and releasestextual patterns in narrativegestures helpful to storytellersand their audiences.Despite these more sophisticatedbyplays,however,
lexically transparentnames such as the ones discussedexhaust themselves in
comparatively simple narrativefunctions, mainly through their capacity to
orient, to texture, and to contrast.
It may, at first glance, seem inconsistent, surprising,or even perversethat
names play a much more important role in narrativeswhen they are semantically opaqueand when their lexical meaning is not at stake. It is in their very
interchangeabilitythat they serve narrativesbest and demonstratetheir true
role. Let me cite some examplesfrom the storiesin song. The balladthat Francis James Child included in his canon of Englishand ScottishPopularBalladsas
No. 81 has been given the title "Little Musgraveand Lady Barnard"(Child
1965:242-260). In its many variants, the name of the illicit lover is comparatively stable in its phonological core, with variations ranging from
"Musgrave," "Mousgrove,' "Musgray," "Massgrove," "Mossgrey,"
via
"Mushiegrove,"
"Musgove,"
"Munsgrove,"
"Mousgray,"
"MacGroves," "McGrover," "Grover," "McGrew," "Magrue,"
"Lagrue," "Magrove" and "LaGrove," to the reinterpretedbinary "Matha
Grove," "Mathe rove," "Massy Groves," "Matthy Groves," "Matty
Groves," "Mathew Grove," "Mat Groves," "Moth Grone," "Ned
Grove," "Mose Groves," "Mattha Grow," "Marshal Grones," "Maddy
Gross" and their ilk (Child 1965:242-260; Bronson 1959-72:267-315;
Nicolaisen 1981:30). It appearsto be quite legitimate, therefore, to select a
name form such as "Musgrave" for the first half of the title since all other
names are clearly etymological cognates or derivatives, despite their strange
reshapings, in attempts to conform with other well-known names or name
structures,or to inject some sort of meaninginto the lexicallymeaningless,the
semanticallyopaque. The choice of "Lord Barnard"as the name of the cuckolded and bloodily revengeful husband is, apart from its antiquity, less
straightforward,when one goes beyond such obvious variationsas "Barnett,"
"Barnet," "Burnett," "Barnaby," "Barnabas," "Barlibas," "Barney,"
"Barnswell" or even "Bengwill," "Banner," "Benner" and "Vanner," to
unrelated versions such as "Daniel," "Dannel," "Donald," "Darnel,"

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NAMESAND NARRATIVES

263

"Darnell," "Diner," "Arnold," "Orland," "Arnol," "Allen,"

"Vanover," "Valley" and even "Thomas."
The point that I am trying to make (and my excuse for these long lists of
names) is that it is almost irrelevantwhat the chosen name is as long as it fits
rhythmically,has, in the perspectivesof singers and listeners, the appropriate
aristocraticassociations,and can be filled with the right kind of content. That
it might be possiblefor the balladscholarto constructout of these variationsa
genealogicalchart useful in the reconstructionof the family tree of Child 81 is
not important in this context, since our current concern is with the ways in
which these names function in the ballad story, that is, with their narrative
role. This role, I would claim, is fulfilledwhether Little Musgravesleepswith
Lady Barnard, Little Mossgrey goes to bed with Lady Barnabas,Matthy
Groves crawls into the sheets with Lady Arnold, little Ned Grove deceives
Lord Valley, or young McGrew enjoys the nightly company of Lady Banner
during her husband's absence. The onomastic device works successfully
becauseit producesthe intendeddegree of pseudo-historicityby proclaiminga
past as true, at least while the performanceof the ballad lasts, through the
plausibilityof narration.
Naturally, this principledoes not just apply to the names of charactersin
ballads but also to the names of ballad locations. Thus, in the same Child
ballad,it is of no consequencewhether the placesto which the absentlord has
gone can be identified(Dundee, England, St. James'sCastle, Newcastle, Kentucky) or not (HampshireCourt, Convention, Redemption, indemption, condemsion).2What is of essentialsignificanceis that the absentlord-whether at
King Henry's court in London, in the very north of Scotland, in Dundee, in
some foreign land, at sea, at convention or redemption, or elsewhere-should
be far enough away to give the secretlovers at least a night's respite, and yet
close enough to be warned and fetched by a determined, fast-runningpage
before dawn breaks. These namesand even their unnamedequivalentsserveas
persuasivestructuringdevices that do not remove the troublesomehusbandto
a particularplacein order to convince audiencesthrough historicitybut rather
to a conveniently distant location that invites duplicity while threatening
discoveryand revenge. "Lord Arnold has gone to the HampshireCourt, King
Henry for to see" sings one narrator, "Lord Dannel's gone to Kentucky,
King Georgie for to view" sings another (Nicolaisen 1982:209-210). Despite
their differences,both singers provide their ballad versions with the kind of
geographythat is neededto put their narrativesin their places, so to speak,and
to give them the sort of onomasticunderpinningthat silencesthe doubtersand
reassuresthe believers.
Whereas Child 81 ostensively, almost ostentatiously, proclaimsin its title a
story of human conflict molded in the age-old triangularfashion (and is therefore less concernedwith a sense of place than with a sense of social constellations and their infraction), there are severalother balladsthat either link their
protagonists with particularplaces or have nothing but place-namesin their
titles. These include such ballads as "The Braes o' Yarrow" (Child 214),

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W. F. H. NICOLAISEN

264

"Rare Willie Drowned in Yarrow" (Child 215), "John of Hazelgreen"

(Child 293), "The Lads of Wamphray" (Child 184), "The Wife of Ushers
Well" (Child 79), or the martially oriented "Battle of Otterburn" (Child
161), "Battle of Harlaw" (Child 163), or "Flodden Field" (Child 168).3 In
these instances, and others like them, the ballad story is strongly linked with
the places referredto both in the title and often over and over again in the
ballad text. In some of them that connection is so strong that the names in
question are repeatedin stanzaafter stanzaand thus, aftermelody, refrain,and
rhyme, become the most repetitiveelement in the unfolding of the narrative,
reinforcinga definite sense of location through that very repetition, whether
simply or incrementally.That the intention here is not, as has sometimesbeen
suggested (Richmond 1946), to "lend credibility" to the singers' tales, except
for the most local or regionalof audienceswho have a close acquaintancewith
the topographyof their ballads,becomes obvious when one considersthat the
majority of ballad singers and listeners does not know exactly where these
places are and what they look like.
When this happens,two majorchangescan occur with completelydifferent
results. The first possibilityis that place-names,bereft of their denotativefunction and without real geographicalsignificance, can, as structuralelements,
enter the most formulaicof all formulaicballadlanguage, the refrain. In this
process, virtually meaninglessnames-meaningless, that is, both lexically and
onomastically-unselfconsciously take their place beside, or take the place of,
nonsense syllables. Their presence becomes especially notable, perhapseven
perplexing, since the refrainhas such an importantrole in the singer-audience
relationshipin an actualperformance,in addition to its formal, morphological
function:
There were two sisters in ae bow'r,
Edinbrough,Edinbrough;
There were two sisters in ae bow'r
Stirlingfor ay;
There were two sisters in ae bow'r,
There came a knight to be their woor,
BonnySaintJohnstonstandsupon Tay. [Bronson 1959]

No one would claim that this tripartiterefrain,which is of course repeated

within every stanza, somehow mimics a journey from the Scottish capitalvia
Stirling to Perth. The three place-nameshere serve without any semantic
burden and provide the audience with familiarbut near-nonsensesound sequences in their nonnarrativeparticipationin the ballad performance.
The other, diametricallyopposite consequenceof the semanticemptying of
place-namesthat outside the balladworld have very full onomasticmeaning is
the creation of a new toponymic iconography (Nicolaisen 1974), a filling of
new wine into old bottles, a kind of linguistic transfusion.As a result, it does
indeed no longer matter where exactly these places are and what they look

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NAMES AND NARRATIVES

265

like; we can smoothour furrowedbrowsbecausewe do not needpicturesof

the realYarrow,the realWamphray,the realHarlaw,whereverandwhatever
theballad-Wamphray,
andthe
theymaybe. Theyarenow theballad-Yarrow,
andwe do not carewhetherUshersWell andBinnoriereally
ballad-Harlaw;
exist or not, for fictionandrealityareno contrastsin the topographyof the
ballad.ScarletTown has morerealityin its fictionthanmost placesof comparablesizecanmusterin the actualworld. The RiverYarrowhadlittle fame
on its braes
bereavement
untiltheballadsangof manlycombatandsubsequent
or of a drowningtragedyin its waters.In "BonnyBabyLivingstone"(Child
"Auchingour"and"Glenlion"havebecomesym222) the (real)place-names
bols for the kidnapper's
territorywhichthe girl, for good reason,is not eager
to enter. "AnnanWater," in the moving balladof that title, ceasesto be
simply,or altogether,the Scottishriverthat risesnearHartfellMountainon
the Peeblesshire
border,andafterflowing southfor 49 milesthroughDumfriesshireand havingreceivedthe tributarywatersof Evan,Moffat,Kinnel,
milesbelow
Dryfe, andMilk, entersthe SolwayFirth,one andthree-quarter
the town of Annanwhichitselfwas namedafterthe watercourse.Although
its quicktidesmakeit a dangerousriver,oftenresultingin the kindof tragedy
is no longer apthat the balladstory narrates,this initial appropriateness
it
for
of
this
have
to be undernever
ballad
was, performances
plicable.Perhaps
of
not
as
the
balladistic
a
stood
recounting
particulardrowning,but as the
in narrativesong of the deathof the lovertryingto reachhis bepresentation
loved fromwhom he is separated.
Just as the fast-flowingriverbecomesthe
for
the
symbol
separatingobstacle,so "AnnanWater," as the nameof that
river,takeson theroleof metaphorin thiscontext,heightenedin the worldof
balladfolk beliefby the roaringof the waterkelpy-not only a metaphorfor
the painfulphysicalseparationof two lovers,but also of the humantragedy
thatbefallswhen one of the two attemptsto reducethatseparation
in the face
of adversity.AnnanWateris the unbridgedriverthatkeepstwo loversapart,
when togethernessis what they needmost of all for theirphysicalsalvation.
No wonderthat the refrainsingsin powerful,challengingrepetition:
And wae betide ye, Annan Water,
This night that ye are a drumlie river!
For over thee I'll build a bridge,
That ye never more true love may sever.

andperhapsfortunately,the name"AnIronically,or evensymptomatically

nan Water" has a major variantin "Allan Water" in other versions of the
sameballad, a name attachedto severalriverson the actualScottish map, each
with its own characteristics,very different from the Annan and from each
other. On the map of balladcountry, however, both "Allan" and "Annan"
serve the same iconographicfunction and play the same semantic role of the
river as dividing boundaryand fateful separationinviting partedlovers to fatal
attemptsat reunion. Beyond all this, it is a symbol for everythingthat divides,

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266

W. F. H. NICOLAISEN

separatesanddisrupts,a poignantreminderthat all is not well in this world

and that so much that is brokenand fracturedstill has to be healed.Either
namehelpsto narratethat conditionand to rehearseits tragicconsequences.
Leavingtheballadmapbehind,I wish to takeus to legendcountrysinceit is
best suitedto show that thereis an even moreessentialconnectionbetween
namesandnarrativesthanthe focusingpresenceof the formerin the latteror
the structuring,iconographicforceof onomasticitems in narrativeenvironments.The text within the text hasother,evenmoreimportantdimensions.
What I havein mindis theby no meansrevolutionary
observation
thatstories
createnamesandnamescreatestories.Ourcompendiaof legendsarefullof instancesof both kinds,especiallyof the story-creating
powerof names.That
our actualmaps also containmany namesthat are the resultsof storiesis
Hereis a Scottishexperhapslesswell knownbutjust as easilydemonstrated.
that
me
of
the
of
first
made
aware
compatibility my own dualinterests
ample
in folkloreand names:
A lowland sentry, who had been stationed at the head of the Pass of Killiecrankie,first knew
the result of the battle [of Killiecrankieon July 27th, 1689] by seeing a party of Highlanders
rushing down upon him. He ranbefore them and when they were overtakinghim, and had actually wounded him in the shoulder, he leapt across the River Garrywhere the gorge is narrowest and so escaped, for they dared not leap after him. The place is called the "Soldier's
Leap," and every visitor to the pass has a look at it. The soldier lived many years afterwards
and was employed by General Wade who began to make roads in the Highlands thirty-five
years later. The soldier often told his story and showed the wound he receivedin the moment
of the leap. [Nicolaisen 1968]

As one who has stood exactlywhere the commentatorimagines"every

visitorto the pass"to stand,I canverifyboth the locationandthe name.I also
know thatinsteadof only lookingat the chasm,most visitors,myselfincluded, tend to contemplate,or even discusswith others,whetherthe wounded
soldier-whose nameis givenas DonaldMacBeanin certaintraditions-could
havejumpedit in his weakenedcondition,and,if he did, whetherwe would
be ableto imitatehis feat. I alsoknow that manysimilarstorieshavecreated
and
manysimilarplacenameselsewhere,fromMcGregor'sLeapin Perthshire
to Brady'sLeapin Ohio, andthat
the Tinker'sLoupin Kirkcudbrightshire
and
narratives
legendaryaccountsare,as happensso often,
personalexperience
hardto separatein the analysisof thesestories.Not that this in anyway invalidatesthe evidence.Farfromit. Whethermemorateor fabulate,the stories
in questionarebehindthe namesin question,andthereis little doubtthat a
motif such as F1071, "ProdigiousJump," is in a largenumberof theseinfor the nameof the locationat whichthe eventis supposed
stancesresponsible
to havetakenplace.What is significantis thatin all theseexamplesnarrative
precededname,the speechact of narrationcamebeforethe speechactof namof the narrative,
hasbecomea crystallization
ing. As a result,the place-name
almosta shorthandfor story, andby situatingthis storyon the mapamong
other namesit has given it a topographicidentitythat amountsto veracity.

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NAMES AND NARRATIVES

267

Since the name is attachedto such and such a place, the past must have been
the way the story tells it. The name, in additionto other narrativefunctionsin
this context, takes on the role of verification, of preciselylocating the truth.
The exact opposite happenswhen namesare not the resultsbut the cause of
stories, when narrativesarecreatedto interpretor reinterpretotherwise meaningless onomastic items, a process which used to be called somewhat condescendingly"folk-etymology," but which is really a linguistic aspectof that
urge so prominentlydisplayedin the folk-culturalregisterof coming to terms
with the meaninglessor accountingfor something particularlyodd and out of
the ordinary. In doing so, secondarytoponymic reinterpretationfrequently
employs a device not found in primarynaming processes:the intentional or
chance utterance of a person, often of different ethnic or cultural origin
(Nicolaisen 1977b). Two examples of this very extensive genre must suffice.
The first concerns the name "Menan" in Idaho:
In the earlydays of SnakeRiver Valley settlement the mosquitos were as big as eagles and were
often reported to have carriedpeople away from their farms. One day near dusk a farmerwas
working in a field near the present site of Menan, Idaho, and was picked up by a passing mosquito. The farmercalled for help to his wife and she quickly ran and got his rifle. As she was
aiming the rifle to shoot the large insect out of the air she heard her husband call, "Don't
shoot, it's me, Nan." So the place has always been known as Menan.s

The second story narratesan incident that is supposedto have been responsible for the coining of the name "Perth Amboy" in New Jersey,which is said
to have got its name when the Earlof Perth first came to Amboy. Residents,
Indians,and officialswent down to the shore to greet him. Being a Scot, Perth
wore the kilt. When he came ashore,the Indianchief took one long, hardlook
at the kilt and those knobby knees and exclaimed, "Perth am girl!" "No,"
the Earl replied, "Perth am boy" (Quimby 1969:257).
Tall tale and cultural put-down here serve not only to provide semantic
transparencywhere only opacity exists, but also to cope with a puzzlesome,
sometimes threatening, past; despite their brevity, their local narrativeentertainment value (and their humorous appealis decidedlylocal) lies preciselyin
these characteristics.Occurring singly, they may not be great stories to excite
the student of folk narrative,they may not lead to the kind of etymology that
satisfiesthe historicallinguist, but they arevaluablepointersto an age-old narrative tradition, the full force and societal role of which undoubtedlydeserve
much greater scholarlyattention than they have received so far. As a body,
they help us to understandwhat makesthe folk laugh, especiallyat the expense
of the stranger. Also, together with their much more serious counterparts,
they revealnames to be strong originatingforces in the creationof stories (see
Nicolaisen 1976, 1977a). In folktale, ballad and legend, dictasuch as narrare
necesseest and nominare
necesseest become virtually synonymous, while life's
and
are
entrusted to both.
meaning
purpose
If one were to be solely interestedin the embeddingof names in narratives

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W. F. H. NICOLAISEN

andits manyandmanifoldimplications,this might not havebeena badconcludingsentence,but thereis to be one furtherareaof concernthat I would
like to explorebriefly,evenif it takesus beyondthe narrowconfinesof our
alliterativetopic. The reasonis that I cannotthink of names,cannotcomprehendtheirmeaningandfunction,without thinkingof individuality,andI
cannotfully substantiateandlegitimizemy very genuinepleafor a renewed
commitmentto folkloretexts without at the sametime advocatinga new
awarenessof the inviolabilityof all individualtexts and, aboveall, of all individualnarrators,artisans,traditionbearers,activeandcreativeagentsin the
realmof folk culture.What this alsomeansis that, when thusperceived,the
deliberatelinking of namesand narratives,of individualstorytellerand individualperformance
creatinganindividualtext, raisesa questionthathasbeen
on my mindfor a long time andto which I want to drawattention.If I frequentlyuse the term"artisan,"it is becauseI amlookingfor a termto depict
the creativeartist,in both verbalandnonverbalcontexts,andbecauseI agree
with WalterBenjamin(1968)that storytellingbelongsto the age of the artisan.

The intellectualdilemmathatwe haveinheritedhasits rootsin two fundamentallyverydifferentviewsof craftandfolk culture,forwhile the ideaof arhasalwaysimpliedindividualskillsandoneperson's
tisanshipor craftsmanship
animage
of
"folk" hasconjuredup almostinvariably
notion
the
of
pair hands,
introfirst
it
was
ever
since
of community,of group,of lackof individuality,
ducedinto the Englishlanguagealmosta centuryanda half ago. Tradition,
that key ingredientin so muchfolk culturalactivity,hasbeenequatedwith
communalcreationand re-creationin an atmosphereof anonymity,and the
emphasishas been on the transmissionof knowledge,customs,and beliefs
throughsuchanonymouschannelsin analmostmysticalfashion.Forsomeunfathomablereason,this perceptionhascontinuedto dominatethe thinkingof
manyfolkloristsevenwhen theythemselveshavebeenengagedin the studyof
the tale repertoiresof individualstorytellersor of the corpusof songs performedby individualsingers.For example,out of the 318 separatelyannouncedpapersat the 1983AmericanFolkloreSocietyannualmeeting,only
15, accordingto title andsummary,appearto dealwith individualfolkartisans
of all kinds.Thatis fewerthanfivepercentof the total!In addition,therehas
perceptionof "folkness"as a levelof
developed,over the years,a hierarchical
folk
cultureandof whole homogeneous societiesexistingon that level.
It is inevitablethat sucha stratifiedview of cultureleadsnot only to an arof the layersenvisagedbut alsoto an unwarranted
tificialseparation
perpetuation of theirsupposedexistenceunderall conditions.But it is difficultto see
for thatmator anykindof stratification
how sucha hierarchical
stratification,
human
is
on
individual
focus
the
when
beingsandtheir
ter, canbe maintained
demonstrable
responses.Indiversityinsteadof on theunityof theirbehavioral
deed,with this kindof emphasis,the modelof rigidculturallayeringnot only
observable
but rathercontradicts
facts,fornobodybehaves
becomesinadequate
on the so-called"folk level" (or any other level) all the time, nor is there

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NAMESAND NARRATIVES

269

anybodywhose behavioris never of the folk-culturalkind. This is not because

we flit from one culturallevel to another almost arbitrarilyand unpredictably
but ratherbecause,in the absenceof levels, we respondto particularsituations,
under particularcircumstances,in the presence of particularpersons, in different manners, in the kind of appropriateresponses that sociologists and
sociolinguistshave termed "registers"-and the folk-culturalregisteris one of
them (Nicolaisen 1980a). The degree of frequencyand intensity to which people respondin particularregistersvariesfrom person to person, from locale to
locale, from historical circumstance to historical circumstance. Some individualsmay behave like "folk" on most occasions, others may hardly ever
respond in the folk-culturalregister. Most of us probablyfall somewhere between these two extremes.
Assuming, then, that it is possible to discernpeculiarfolk-culturalqualities
and to differentiatethem from other modes of behavior-the primitive, the
normative, the sophisticated,let us say-what is it that folk-culturalresponses
have in common and what makes them attractiveand appropriateunder certain circumstances?Speculatively,I would suggest the following criteria. In
the broadestsense, they allow for individualexpressionwithin the framework
of tradition, thus injecting an element of variety into a process of repetition.
Put somewhat differently, the folk-culturalresponseprovides a challenge for
individuationwhile at the same time supplying the shelter of social bonding.
Naturally, such opportunity would not be offered through definitive texts,
mass-produceddrugs, prefabricatedhouses, syndicatedcolumns, and the like.
The folk-culturalresponseis also almost invariablya direct one, making use of
whatever is readily availableand at hand, not searchingfor its ingredientsin
farawayplaces.
The folk-culturalresponseoffers the expected but-and this is importantwhile shunning startling and disconcerting innovation, leaves room for
judicious improvementand personalcreativity. It favorsthe statusquo, prefers
circumscribedindividualityto total conformity or anarchicchaos, shuns eccentricity but has room for foolishnessand wisdom; it lays great store by the accumulatedcommon sense of generationsthough refractedthrough individual
prisms and takes a few measuredrisks within an overall atmosphereof security. In folk culture audacitynever outstripssagacity. Traditionprevailsbut not
without change, continuity createsbalanceand yet there is disruption, sometimes disconcerting, sometimes refreshing, sometimes both; repetition never
becomes boring, community and individualare at ease with each other.
Perhapsthe question why folk-culturalresponsesare consideredattractive
and appropriateunder certaincircumstancesfinds at least one answer in these
definitions of what folk culture ideally-and, I believe, also practically-is.
The reasons for the continued choice of such responses are at least partially
embeddedin what that choice speaksto: the need for self-expressionwithin a
predictable and comfortable context; the desire for acceptability without
slavish, imitative conformity; the creativeurge that is satisfiedto be fulfilled
within the patternsand demandsof tradition;the provision of identity in the

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270

W. F. H. NICOLAISEN

present through conscious links with the past; the orientation through folkcultural symbols below and beyond the level of daily experience. I therefore
take the phenomena of folk culture to be expressionsof the tension and interplaybetween individualand society, between variationand repetition, between isolated self and communal other.
Tradition, in this process, guides and safeguardscontinuity in a world of
change without restrainingor jeopardizing individual ingenuity. There is a
toughness and a persistence about folk culture from which even the most
independently-mindedescape only with difficulty. Yet-and this is the
fascinatingmiracle of all folk cultures-the filter of individuality, of creative
identity, of recognizablepersonality,prevents the products of traditionfrom
becoming faceless and interchangeable.Naturally, the extent to which artisans, both the highly competent ones and those whose competence is less
developed, explore their individual freedom or cling to traditionalbondage
varies from person to person.
In May, 1978, I had the good fortune to collect, from severaldescendantsof
old Council Harmon (1803-1896), versions of AT 1535 "The Rich and the
Poor Peasant," which in the narrativetradition of Beech Mountain, North
Carolina, usually goes under the title of "The Heifer Hide" (Nicolaisen
1980b). In the courseof my recordings,I also noted with great interestthe different attitudes that the various storytellers,all of them relatedto each other,
had toward their stories and their sources, and I found it instructivethat, for
of old
example, Ray Hicks and Hattie Hicks, both great-great-grandchildren
"Counce," expressedthat attitudein diametricallyopposite ways. Ray, when
he had finished his story, askedme if I had noted certaindetails. When I told
him that I had, he informedme with great pleasurethat these were smalladditions that he himself had addedto the story as he had heardit from his grandfather, in orderto make it his own. Hattie, on the other hand, insistedon telling me severaltimes that her version was exactly as she had heardit from her
father-it was her father's story, not her own. The contrasts, therefore,could
not have been greater, but the important thing is that there is room for both
attitudes, and many in between, in the folk-culturalregister. No other cultural
register offers that kind of symbiosis, that kind of opportunity to be personal
and yet to have the exposure that such individualitybrings mediatedby the
shelter of the group.
We have, in this briefsurvey,traveledquite a distancefrom Rumpelstiltskin,
Tom Thumb, and Donkey Skin, via "Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard,"
Redemption, Usher's Well, Annan Water, The Soldier'sLeapand PerthAmboy, to Ray and Hattie Hicks and "The Heifer Hide." We have encountered,
on the way, namesas the point of a story, namesas narrativecondensationand
focus, names as cloaks and disguises, names as structuringdevices, names as
verbalicons, namesas metaphors,namesas truthfullocation of the past, names
as the result of a story, namesas narrativecauses, namesas individualizingand
integrating forces (see Ruberg 1982), namesas texts and as texts within texts,
and names of individual storytellers.

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NAMESAND NARRATIVES

271

Whatever their role and function, whatever their semantic status and
onomastic intent, these names have given us accessto narrativemorphology,
structure, and constraints in a very special, perhaps even unexpected way.
Above all, they have helpedus to reestablishthe narrativetext as a window on
the past and its narrationas the true creation of that past. There are as many
true chunks of past as there are storiestold as true. The alliterativespeechacts
of naming and narratinghave, I hope, revealedthemselvesas reconcilabletwin
approachesto human individualityin its enmeshings with that past. Perhaps
they even encourage a vision of the study of folklore as a flight toward
folklore, for despite some recent rumors to the contrary, the last I heardof it,
there are still cascadesof texts out there and klondikes of folklore. I wish us
luck with them.
Snip, snip, snover,
My story is over.

Notes
I amindebtedforthistermto JohnA. Robinson(1981).I alsofindmuchrefreshing
new thinkingon
severalimportantaspectsof folk narrative,andespeciallyon what she terms"groupsagas,"in Gillian
Bennett(1983).
2 For a full rangeof such namessee W. F. H. Nicolaisen(1982). Someof the pointsmadein the
in that article.
followingareanticipated
3I havediscussed
in Traditional
thesein moredetailin "Place-Names
Ballads"(Nicolaisen1973).This
sectionof my essayis built on that article.
4 Fromthe
singingof Mrs. MargaretMacArthur,Marlboro,Vermont.
5 Fromthe FolkloreArchivein BrighamYoung University.

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