One of the characteristics by which we can be divided into ‘two kinds of people’ is the way we react to having our name(s) mis-spelled, or to being asked “How do you spell that?”
It need not be because of exotic unfamiliarity; like French irregular verbs, or most English spelling, you just have to learn them, there is no other way of classifying & remembering: Ann or Anne?
The person I knew who was most likely to make a federal case out of someone getting it wrong was called Davis WITHOUT AN E.
It must be especially frustrating if you are blessed with a name which is so unusual that the standard response is Er – how do you spell that please? Your reaction is, however, a very good indication of character – petulant or easy going.
It is a nightmare for designers of database query languages, search engines, spell checkers – though not as bad as in the early days. And not nearly as bad as it was for the compilers of old-fashioned card indexes or telephone directories, librarians or booksellers, Anglo Saxon chroniclers or prime ministers writing letters of condolence.
A nightmare for students & researchers too – especially those of family history.
Even for periods as recent as the 19th century there seems to be remarkably little standardisation. Particularly when, starting as they meant to go on, the newspapers which so multiplied in number after the removal of taxes in the 1850s, could be relied upon to provide as many variants as possible. Not helped by the predilection for changing ones name, sometimes in order to inherit under the terms of a will, sometimes it seems on just a whim.
Irish names prove a particularly fruitful source of confusion.
Take O’Connor. The o could be capital or lower case or just omitted altogether; separated by ‘, space, or just right up against the c, which in its turn could also be capital or lower case. With 2 n’s or a single 1 – a total of 24 possible variants (though not all of them were likely to be used in practice).
It therefore took a deal of devotion to track down details of the life of one particular 19th century Manchester clergyman, of whom I actually became rather fond, which helped keep the determination going. Even in today’s computerised world he appears in the Dictionary of National Biography as O'Conor [O'Connor], William Anderson.
I was reminded of his story by reading the Boy with the Topknot, & all this is just by way of excuse for putting the outline biography here in my next blog post.
