The Finnish language is as unlike the Scandinavian languages, fundamentally, as English is unlike Arabic, but it has borrowed a large number of terms from them, and its way of representing vowel and consonant sounds in writing closely resembles that of Swedish. What happens to certain of those sounds in America, when they are imported in Swedish surnames, is discussed at some length in AL4,2 mainly on the authority of Roy W. Swanson.3 Some observations in a subsequent study by E. Gustav Johnson may be added here, though it deals mainly with Swedish place-names.4 Johnson says that the custom of using surnames, in our sense of the word, did not become general among the Swedish peasantry until “the early part of the Nineteenth Century.” Before that patronymics were used, as among the medieval Jews, so that the son of Johann Gustafsson, on being baptized with his grandfather’s given-name, became Gustaf Johansson, and his son in turn, named Johann after his grandfather, became Johann Gustafsson. “Thus some Christian names would be continued in a family from generation to generation, but no definite family name would be associated with them.” When these patronymics began to be made permanent a difficulty arose, for a daughter who, in the past, would have been Anna Gustafsdotter,1 became Anna Gustafsson, which set the yokels to tittering. In time they got used to it, and many an Anna Gustafsson is to be found in both Sweden and America today, but the incongruity set them to hunting for other surnames, and they soon had a stock comprising all the familiar categories. The Swedish government helped the process along by circulating the suggestion that various common nouns be combined in euphonious forms, and the result was a great proliferation of names in alm (elm), kvist (twig), lund (grove), strand (shore), sten (stone), dal (valley), berg (mountain), ek (oak) and gren (branch). Says Johnson:
The alteration of [Swedish] surnames [in America] takes place in two distinct ways.… A man named Kilgren, for instance, may … change the spelling to Chilgren, since the k is soft in Swedish before front vowels and that sound is best represented in English by the consonant digraph ch, or he may choose to adopt the English hard sound of k and keep the Swedish spelling. The name Örnberg may be altered either into Earnberg, in which case the English pronunciation would approximate the Swedish, or into Ornberg, since diacritical marks are too troublesome to retain, in which case the English pronunciation of o would be adopted. An additional difficulty results here from the fact that in Swedish the g in berg is pronounced like the English consonant y: the Swede with a name ending in -berg therefore usually accepts the normal English pronunciation of the word, that is, with the g pronounced as a voiced guttural stop.
Johnson says that very few Swedish-Americans have the courage and patience to insist upon the retention of Swedish diacritical marks in their names. The umlaut vowels are å, pronounced like the English o in more; ä, which has the sound of a in sad, and ä, which is identical to the German ö in böse. Transliteration produces Monson from Månson,1 Backman from Båckman and Turnwall from Törnwall – all of them approximations. Says Johnson:
The bj in such names as Björk and Bjurman is a combination difficult for Americans; therefore Swedish immigrants with these names usually change them to Burk and Burman. In names like Hjelm and Hjort the h is silent and the j is pronounced like the continental y, but ordinarily immigrants retain the h and eliminate the j; thus Hjelm becomes Helm and Hjort, Hort. In a name like Ljungkvist the initial l is also silent; the Swedish-American, however, nearly always transmutes this name into Youngquist. In Swedish sj represents a sound somewhat similar to sh in England. Sjöholm will therefore either write his name Shoholm or translate the first part and make it Seaholm.2 … One of the s’s in names like Gustafsson and Pettersson, the first of which is really the possessive s, is usually dropped. The i in Nilson is changed to e, and Karlson is spelled with c instead of k. Silent letters are sometimes inserted merely for ornamental purposes: Dalgren becomes Dahlgren;3 Olson, Ohlson; and Berg, Bergh, but in Dahlgren the h serves also to lengthen the vowel. The v and w are used interchangeably, since in Swedish there is no distinction in sound between them. In fact, the w is not called double u; it is called double v, and is used only in names.
The Norwegian immigrants who began to swarm into the Middle West toward the middle of the Nineteenth Century brought with them a system of nomenclature that was even more vague and unstable than that of the Swedes. They came chiefly from the remoter farming areas of their country, and most of them had no surnames at all, but only patronymics. Ole the son of Lars was Ole Larssen, but Johannes the son of Ole was not Ole Larssen; he was Johannes Olessen or Olesen. If any further identification was needed it was supplied by appending the name of the family farm, for all farms in Norway had names. But this farm-name was hardly a surname in our sense, for if a given Lars or Ole moved from the paternal farm to another, whether as its new owner or tenant, or as the husband of its heiress, or simply as a hired hand, he sometimes took the name of the latter. Usually, however, he did not use this farm-name save for official purposes; in everyday life he was simply Ole Olesen. This simple system sufficed in the isolated communities of rural Norway, but when immigrants from all parts of the country were thrown together in America it caused hopeless confusion.
Many of these immigrants then recalled the names of their home-farms and began to use them as surnames, but others simply froze their patronymics as surnames for their children, so that the son of Lars Olesen was not Nils Larsen, as at home, but Nils Olesen. But this did not disperse the confusion, for the number of Norwegian given-names was limited, and it was not uncommon for Olesens or Larsens of a dozen different parts of Norway to be gathered in one American village. To this day the Norwegian-Americans have a great many more names in -sen and -son than any other group, but the number is much less than it used to be. The census of 1850 showed that it then ran to 93% of all the Norwegian names in Wisconsin, but by 1860 the percentage had dropped to 89 and by 1870 to 77. What it is today, I don’t know, but it is probably less than 33. Gradually the suffix -sen was changed to -son to bring it into accord with American speechways, and for the same reason the redundant s was deleted. Thus Johannessen became Johnson, Anderssen became Anderson, Peterssen became Peterson, and so on. Not infrequently yet other changes were made, e.g., from Karlssen to Carlson, from Swenssen to Swanson, and from Knutsen to Newton.1
The Norwegian-Americans, when they began to adopt settled surnames, did not confine themselves to those suggested by logical associations. If their traditional farm-names were those of remote and meagre farms, connoting poverty to their fellow Norsemen, they collared better ones, connoting opulence. Certain names became fashionable, and others went below the salt. A name in -hof stood at the head of the list, and was followed, in the order of prestige, by names in -boer, -vin, -heimr, -saetr, -land, -stadir and -rud. Of names other than those of farms, -skiold (shield) and -hjelm (helmet) hinted at nobility, and a Latin suffix at learning. “Very few trade names were used,” says Dr. Kimmerle,1 “because every Norwegian looked upon himself as being principally a farmer.”2 Often two or more sons of the same father chose different names, and the result was a disorder that still afflicts Norwegian-American genealogists. Some of the American immigrants who chose farm names used those brought from Norway; others used those of their American farms, or of farms owned by their wives, or their mothers, or their wives’ first husbands, or of some rich kulak whom they worked for and admired. Others elevated nicknames to the estate of surnames, e.g., Aslak, little, or Vesle, the younger. Yet others shortened their patronymics, so that Clemetsen became Clemet. A few even took trade names.
Unhappily, many of these names were written in official Norwegian, which was basically Danish, but pronounced in the fashion of one or another of the Norwegian dialects, so that a given man had a name in two forms, and not infrequently Americans could not master either. In consequence there was the usual wholesale change to American equivalents, real or fancied, so that Praestegaard became Prescott; Asbjørnsen, Aspenwall; Laurentsen, Lawrence; Eigildsen, Eggleson; Kjaerret, C
herrie or Cherry, and Fjeld, Field. Long names were ruthlessly shortened, e.g., Halsteinsgaard-bakken to Bakken and Magnusholmen to Magnus. Some of the Norwegian vowel-sounds were changed considerably.3 The a in Hagen, Hanson, Fladen and the like, corresponding to the English a in art, was commonly shortened to the a in band or cat, but remained unchanged where it was supported by h, as in Dahl. The u in Gunderson and Munson became the short American u of grunt. The ø suffered various mutations, mainly into the u of curt or the o of cod. The d, often silent in Norwegian names (though not in the elegant form of the language), was usually sounded, as in Gunderson and the names in -stad and -rud. The Norwegian th, pronounced t, became the American th, as in Thorstad – a change hitherto noted in such German Jewish names as Morgenthau. Very often the pronunciation of a name was changed without any change in its spelling, e.g., Brager (Brahkah in Norwegian), which became Bragger. But more often the spelling was changed also, so that Bjørnson became Benson, Gaarden became Gordon, Terjesen became Toycen and then Tyson,1 and Viig became Week. This process began at home in Norway, especially in the towns. There such British names as Scott, Hall and Frost became established long ago,2 along with a number of German spellings, e.g., Baer, Schroeder and Wahl. In Bergen Scotch names are common, e.g., Campbell, Christie and Ross. The composer Edvard Hagerup Grieg (1843–1907) was the grandson of a Scotsman named Alexander Greig, born in Aberdeen in 1739.3
Of the names of Latin immigrants, those of the Spanish have fared the best in this country. Most Americans are familiar with such Spanish surnames as Gomez, Sanchez, Gonzalez, Alvarez, Lopez, Rodriguez and Garcia and pronounce them at least as accurately as the plain people of Latin-America, who commonly follow Andalusian speechways and so neglect the th-sound of the Castilian terminal z. Very few of the Cubans and Mexicans who have come to the United States have changed their names – probably because they usually settle in regions where Spanish is the second language.
The slaughter of French surnames that went on in colonial days is described briefly in AL4.6 It continues among the descendants of the early settlers along the Mississippi, and the later French-Canadian immigrants to New England and the Lakes region. J.-M. Carrière The Portuguese are less fortunate, perhaps because they are always surrounded by a population which can’t fathom their language, which is considerably more difficult to Americans than Spanish. In Southeastern Massachusetts and also in Hawaii many common Portuguese surnames undergo radical changes in spelling and pronunciation, e.g., Roach for Rocha, Marks for Marques, Perry for Perreira or Pereida, Tachera for Teixeira, Martin for Martines, Morey or Morris for Moreira, Cole for Coelho, Sylvia for Silva, Jordan for Jordaõ and Rogers for Rodrigues.1 Sometimes a name is translated, as when Silva becomes Wood or Forest, and Reis, King.2 Many Spanish names in -ez have corresponding Portuguese forms in -es: the bearer of one of the latter tells me that most Americans insist on regarding it as Spanish, and pronouncing it as they think Spanish should be pronounced.3 Neither the Spaniards nor the Portuguese in the United States maintain the system of surnames prevailing in their homelands, especially among the upper classes. In Spain a son’s full name consists of his given-name, the surname of his father and the surname of his mother, the last two connected by y (and), thus: Juan Espinosa y Pelayo, which may be abbreviated on occasion to Juan Espinosa y P., or Juan Espinosa P., or even plain Juan Espinosa. A daughter’s name follows the same plan, but when she marries she drops her mother’s surname and substitutes that of her husband, preceded by de.4 The Portuguese combine the paternal and maternal surnames in the same way, but with de in place of y, e.g., Manuel Silva de Dias. But in America they commonly use their mothers’ surnames as middle names, as many Americans do, e.g., Manuel Dias Silva.5 reported in 19391 that the following spellings had come in during the “last generation or two” in a settlement of French origin in the foothills of the Missouri Ozarks: Rulo for Rouleau, Courteway for Courtois, Pashia for Pagé, Partney for Parthenais, Degonia for Degagné, and Osia and O’Shea for Augier. The early French system of surnames was strange enough to make for confusion,2 and that confusion was increased as the years passed, both along the Mississippi and along the northern border, by the frequent modification of spellings and pronunciations. McDermott, just cited, gives nineteen forms, for example, of the name Kiercereau, including Kiergerau, Kergzo, Quiercero and Tiercero, some suggesting German or Spanish influences. These changes in spelling, in the course of time, as Carrière says, tended “to conform to primitive phonetic patterns based upon English orthography,” so that Archambault eventually became Shambo3 or Shampoo;4 La Riviere, Larraby; L’Archeveque, Larch; Tetreault, Tatro; Guertau, Tetaw;5 Bon Coeur, Bunker;6 Chequelin, Jucklin; Thiebaud, Kabo;7 Gauthier, Goochey; Gagne, Gonyer; Lavoie, Lovewear; Choquette, Shackway; Le Houx, Lou;8 Renaud, Reno;9 Guizot, Gossett or Cossett or Cozart or Cozatt;1 Beaumont, Bement or Bament;2 Aubert, Obear; Bourgeois, Bushway; Blancpied, Blumpy; La Joie, Lashaway; Benoit, Benway;3 Lareau, Laro; Poitevin, Potwin; Rossignol, Russel; Gervaise, Jarvis.4
The statement of Schele de Vere5 quoted in AL4,6 that Peabody is an Americanized form of Pibaudière appears to have been no more than a rash surmise picked up from Captain Frederick Marryat.7 I am informed by various members of the Peabody family of New England that their Stammvater was actually an English immigrant named Pay body, who landed about 1636. The name later changed to Pabody, Pabodie and Peabody.8 Many Americans who have retained the French spelling of their names have been forced to suffer changes in the pronunciation. Among those of the Charleston, S. C., region Huger is pronounced Hewgée; Legare, Legrée; Gaillard, Guilyard, with a hard g and the accent on the first syllable; Gourdin, Guddine, rhyming with divine; de Saussure, Déssosore; Girardeau, Jírrardo;9 and Des Portes, Déssports.10 The tendency of the accent to go forward will be noted. Many familiar British names, of course, are of French origin, though their present forms often conceal the fact. According to Bardsley, Sidney was originally St. Denis, Sinclair was St. Clair, Seymour was St. Maur, and Garnett was Guarinot. Black lists many Irish names as of Norman-French origin, and Woulfe adds some Irish names.
The changes in Italian surnames in the United States have been studied by Joseph G. Fucilla.1 He finds all the familiar processes at work. Those Italian names that present no difficulties to the native American are commonly retained intact, though usually with some change in pronunciation, e.g., La Guardia, Di Georgio, Marcantonio, D’Alesandro, Martini, Russo, Pizzi, Papini, Moneta, Valentino, Moretti, Zucca and Serra, but those that baffle him have to yield. Sometimes the change effected amounts to no more than the dropping of vowels, so that Olivieri becomes Oliver, and Bonifazio becomes Boniface; sometimes the final vowel is changed to an American equivalent, as when Spellaci becomes Spellacy and Conte becomes Contey; sometimes Italian consonant-sounds are saved by changes in spelling, as when Amici becomes Ameche, Cecco becomes Checko, Paglia becomes Palia, Mazzola becomes Matzola, and Sciortino becomes Shortino. Translations are by no means infrequent, e.g., Bianco to White, Vinciguerra to Winwar,2 Barbieri to Barber, Molinari to Miller, Chiesa to Church, and Casalegni to Woodhouse. And it is not uncommon for Italian names to acquire the favorite American s as a suffix, as when Alberti becomes Alberts; Giacobbe, Jacobs; De Clemente, Clements; Riccardi, Richards; De Pietro, Peters and Landi, Landis.3 Finally, there are the bold changes to purely British forms, as when Cestaro becomes Chester; Canadeo, Kennedy; Melone, Malone; Zicaro, Seegar; Marino, Manning; Baratta, Barry; Rosellini or Rubba, Russell;4 Scaccia, Scott; Marsala, Marshall, and Francescone, Frank.5 Sometimes, says Fucilla, the effort to Americanize Italian names leads to grotesque results, as when Arteri is turned into Artery and Speziale or Speciale into Special. Some Italians discard the frequent prefixes to their names, e.g., di, de, della, la, li or lo, when they kiss the flag, but not many, though it is not uncommon for the particle to be incorporated, as when La Rocca becomes Larocca and Di Matteo, Dimatteo.1
Now and then an Italian-American, having worn an American-sounding name for years, reverts to
his original Italian name – usually as a matter of reviving national pride but sometimes only because Americans seem to be gradually getting used to Italian surnames and finding many of them less difficult than aforetime. The same phenomenon has begun to show itself among Greek-Americans, though the latter reason is seldom operative in their case. In 1941 a Chicago Greek who had been known as Harris petitioned one of the local courts to let him go back to Haralampo-poulas. He kept a store, he explained, in a Greek neighborhood, and Haralampopoulas was easier to most of his customers than Harris.2 But it is far more common for a Greek to try to get rid of his long name and substitute something shorter and easier, e.g., Kar for Karamouzis,3 Caloyer for Calogeropoulus,4 Pappas for Pappadimitracoupoulos, Poulos for Gerasimopoulos and Chronos for Pappapolychronopoulos.5 The same route is followed by other immigrants from Eastern Europe. When a Hungarian’s name is Feleky, Bertok, Bartus, Simko, Balassa, Kormos or Yartin his new neighbors are able to pronounce it more or less correctly, but if it is Mészöly, Hrivnyák, Skalička, Csokonai, Szécskay, Eötvös, Karácsonyi, Erdijhelyi, Gyongyosy, Csongradi, Csüry, Ujváry, Nyitray, Szigligeti, Czatkai or Görg he has to change either the pronunciation or the spelling, and sometimes he changes both.6 At home the surname goes first, e.g., Hunyadi Janos (John), but in this country he adopts the usual order. So with the Armenians, Syrians, Bulgarians and Rumanians.7
American Language Supplement 2 Page 61
