There are eleven Wrens hopping about our London streets, and I daresay they often stand—not on one leg, of course—to stare at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and to think with pride on Christopher Wren, and his epitaph, “Si monumentum quæris, circumspice.” There are fifteen Nightingales, too, but whether or no they can all sing sweetly I cannot say. One of the happiest anagrams ever written was that upon “Florence Nightingale,” which by a transposition of letters makes, “Flit on, cheering angel.” It is as good as “Horatio Nelson,” which can be turned into “Honor est a Nilo.” Many of these nicknames we see for ourselves could not have been intended to be very complimentary. A single quotation will prove this. We know that every great personage up to the middle of the sixteenth century had his or her professional fool, or joker. The “privy expenses” of Elizabeth of Yorke for March, 1502, have this entry:—“Item: delivered to John Goose, my Lord of Yorke’s fole (fool), in rewarde for bringing a carppe (carp) to the Quene, 12_d._” Here is a palpable nickname for the office, the term itself being taken from that bird which was popularly supposed to reign supreme over simpletondom. “You goose” is still commonly applied to a child that has done something silly. That our “Gosses” should retain a forgotten and obsolete spelling is very natural. There are three Patches in the Directory. I crave their pardon for reminding them that their progenitor held the honourable office of “fool” to some English king or baron. We are all familiar with “The king of shreds and patches.” It was through this peculiarity in his dress the official fool got the sobriquet of “Patch.” Henry the Eighth’s fool bore this name: “Item: paied to the same Pyne for 2 payr of hosen for Patche—x_s._,” says an old book of “Privy Purse Expenses” belonging to that king. Speaking of birds, we may mention the name of Spark, or Sparke. Few of my readers probably are aware that this is but a corruption of Sparrowhawk. Sparhawk was the intermediate form, and was once very common. It was a Mr. Sparrowhawk to whom the great Thomas Fuller jocularly put the question, “What is the difference between an owl and a _sparrowhawk_?” His companion at once retorted with the reply, “An owl is _fuller_ in the head, _fuller_ in the face, and _Fuller_ all over!” This was but repaying the historian in his own coin, for no one has made so many puns and plays on names and words as Fuller. He carried it to an extent which in our day would be considered profane. Many will recall his prayer in rhyme— “My soul is stainèd with a dusty colour,— Let Thy Son be the sope, I’ll be the Fuller.”