And so he is started on his journey, like a little historical memory, or challenging comparison with some hero of fact or fable.  Perhaps Milton Spinks grows up bow-legged and commonplace—­all Spinks and no Milton.  As plain John he would pass through life happy and unnoticed, but the great name of Milton hangs about him like a jest from which he can never escape—­no, not even in the grave, for it will be continued there until the lichen has covered the name on the headstone with stealthy and kindly oblivion.

It is a good rule, I think, to avoid the fanciful in names.  So few of our children are going to be heroes or sages that we should be careful not to stamp them with the mark of greatness at the outset of the journey.  Horatio was a happy stroke for Nelson, but how few Horatios win immortality, or deserve it!  And how disastrous if Horatio turns out a knave and a coward!  If young Spinks has any Miltonic fire within him, it will shine through plain John more naturally and lustrously than through any borrowed patronymic.  You may be as humble as you like, and John will fit you:  as illustrious as you like, and John will blaze as splendid as your deeds, linking you with that great order of nobility of which John Milton, John Hampden, and John Bright are types.

I had written thus far when it occurred to me that I had still my own name to choose and that soon the whistle of the postman would be heard in the street.  I went out into the orchard to take counsel with the stars.  The far horizon was still stained wine-red with the last embers of the day; northward over the shoulder of the hill the yellow moon was rising full-orbed into the night sky and the firmament glittered with a thousand lamps.

How near and familiar they seem to one in the solitude of the country!  In the town our vision is limited to the street.  We see only the lights of the pavement and hear only the rattle of the unceasing traffic.  The stars seem infinitely removed from our life.

But here they are like old neighbours for whom we never look in vain, intimate though eternal, friendly and companionable though far off.  There is Orion coming over the hill, and there the many-jewelled Pleiades, and across the great central dome of the sky the vast triangle formed by the Pole Star, golden Arcturus (not now visible), and ice-blue Vega.  But these are not names for me.  Better are those homely sounds that link the pageant of night with the immemorial life of the fields.  Arcturus is Alpha of the Herdsman.  Shall it be that?

And then my eye roves westward to where the Great Bear hangs head downwards as if to devour the earth.  Great Bear, Charles’s Wain, the Plough, the Dipper, the Chariot of David—­with what fancies the human mind through all the ages has played with that glorious constellation!  Let my fancy play with it too.  There at the head of the Plough flames the great star that points to the pole.  I will hitch my little waggon to that sublime image.  I will be Alpha of the Plough.