When one speaks the name of my mother, and says to me, “Roxana,” it is no Greek that I think of; it is she that was a Connecticut woman, bred in an obscure neighborhood, quiet and retiring, but full of deep pondering of things beyond her age, and of a heart rich and rare.
And is there a person who has not a name—somebody’s name— which, when he hears it, distils a sweet influence upon his imagination, or rains down joyful emotive feelings on his heart? Names? They are wonder-workers. A single name will send fire through twenty thousand men.
A name? When the united armies of the North returned from the sad but necessary war with the South, and marched through Washington, and Sherman’s name was sounded in their ear, what a heaven-rending shout went up I Just one word was uttered, but what an effect it produced!—IBID.