Efter att ha avslutat förra veckan med två dagar i Uppsala för att opponera på avhandlingen ”Ekberg, Ljung och Rattfält. Soldatnamn i Värmland 1684–1900” är jag åter på hemmaplan. Det var ett roligt uppdrag, men samtidigt var jag ganska nervös, och resan var lång.
Avhandlingen baseras på ett stort material som har hämtats från en lång tidsperiod. Det är en av de styrkor som avhandlingen har. Andra styrkor som finns är att materialet har hämtats från ett förhållandevis stort geografiskt område, att det baseras på två olika typer av soldater – indelta soldater och fältjägare – samt att materialet nu är tillgängliggjort digitalt.
Fanns det inga svagheter, då? Jodå, det finns alltid saker som är värda att diskutera i avhandlingar. Intressanta frågor som hade förtjänat att utvecklas ännu mer, eftersom de är så intressanta, är soldatnamnens identitetsskapande funktion, på vilket sätt soldatnamnen är besläktade med binamn och om de skulle kunna betraktas som varumärkesnamn.
Många frågor som väcker mersmak presenteras också i slutet av avhandlingen, t.ex. att göra jämförelser mellan soldatnamnsskicket i Värmland och andra regioner i Sverige, eller att jämföra soldaternas namnskick med namnskicket i andra samtida yrkesgrupper.
Mitt slutord om avhandlingen är att det är ett gediget hantverk som respondenten arbetat med under 30 år(!). Jag misstänker att det är skönt att vara i mål nu. Grattis!
In the Norwegian language one can, for the most part, recognise a place name on how it is formed as a «word». They may be words that describe topography, such as Vik (‘bay’) or Haugen (‘the mound’), or words that describe human activity on the place, such as Åker (‘field’) and Smia (‘the smithy’).
Place names are often compounds consisting of several words, such as Straumvika, Haugstad, Brunåker, Smiehagene. Some words that were used as terms for different kinds of settlements have even developed into a sort of suffix that we mostly see in place names, such as –tveit, –stad, –rød and –heim.
Imperative names
Our brains have a whole lexicon designated for names in our landscape. But in some cases names look different from the pattern we are used to. One example of this are imperative names such as Kikut and Bilitt. These names are compounded with a verb in the imperative form followed by an adverb. Hence Kikut means ‘take a look outside’ and Bilitt means ‘wait/rest a while’. This seems odd to Norwegians because place names are grammatically and syntactically close to nouns in our speech, whereas these names seem more like a verbal phrase.
As a type of placenames, however, the imperative names are not so uncommon, and exist in both Danish and Swedish as well. These names are for the most part a south-eastern Scandinavian phenomenon, and in Norwegian terms almost all these names can be found within the eastern Norwegian dialectal area.
On each blue marker there is a place called Kikut. Map from www.norgeskart.no
More than one word
It is not uncommon to find Norwegian place names consisting of more than one word. Some of these feel perfectly normal, such as Austre Haugland (‘eastern mound-land’), Ytste Vika (‘the outermost bay’) and Gamle Grindebue (‘the old gate cottage’). The first word is always an adjective describing position, size or age. However, names like De ukvilte åsene (‘the unrested hills’), Den lange renna (‘the long run’) and Det lisle veirehovudet (the little ram’s head’) are not typical. In fact, most of these names are restricted to Telemark and Agder.
Bildetekst: An untypical name for a stream, Grovi som kjem ut or fjellet. Map from www.norgeskart.no
As soon as names consist of more than three words, Norwegians will generally feel it as an odd name. But such names can still be found in Norway. In Fjærland there is a stream named Grovisom kjem ut or fjellet (‘the stream that comes out from the mountain’). If we were to follow common naming patterns in Norwegian, a more suitable name could be *Fjellgrovi (‘mountain stream), but for some reason people in Fjærland have felt it important to point out that the stream comes out from the mountain.
Similarly, we find the name Den lange Haugen austmed vatnet (‘the long mound on the east side of the lake’) in Vinje. These names seem more like descriptions than actual place names, but if there are no other names for these places, such descriptions can become fixed and start functioning like other place names in daily speech.
A place name is in some ways a linguistic agreement between locals on how a place is to be denoted, and names therefore follow patterns of naming that a linguistic community (subconsciously) agree upon. But in the larger Scandinavian language continuum, we can see differences in what these agreements are. As we have seen examples of in this blogpost, some can be very locally restricted, and others form larger distribution patterns.
Further reading:
Wohlert, Inge, 1960. Imperativiske Stednavne. I: Ti Afhandlinger: Udgivet i anledning af Stednavneudvalgets 50 års jubilæum, s. 63-95. (Navnestudier nr. 2.)
Names carry profound meaning, serving as personal identifiers while also reflecting broader cultural, familial, and societal influences. Data from the Danish Link-Lives project, offers a unique opportunity to explore how personal names reveal patterns of migration, identity, and cultural adaptation. The census includes families that migrated to Argentina, had children born there, and later returned to Denmark, reflecting a rich story of transatlantic movement. The analysis of these names offers insights into how families navigated between Danish and Argentine cultures, particularly through the naming of their children.
Personal Names and Migration: What’s in a Name?
Migration is not just about moving from one country to another – It involves the transfer and negotiation of identities, traditions, and cultural norms. Personal names are a powerful reflection of this process, capable of signaling an individual’s cultural roots, religious beliefs, or even social aspirations. In the case of Danish families who moved to Argentina and then re-immigrated to Denmark, the naming of children born in Argentina can tell us a great deal about how these families balanced their Danish heritage with the new cultural environment they encountered in Argentina.
The Link-Lives Project, is part of a broader effort to link historical records of individuals across generations, including censuses, church records, and civil registries. The project’s aim is to create a connected and accessible database for researching personal histories. The 1901 census in the Link-Lives project includes 17 households, each containing a mix of children born in Denmark and Argentina. Among these families, there are 41 children, 29 of whom were born in Argentina and 12 in Denmark. By analyzing the first names of these children, we gain insight into how these families navigated their cultural identities, particularly in relation to their stay in a part of the Spanish-speaking world, Argentina. Although the material is small, there are clear tendencies.
A Closer Look at Family Composition
A breakdown of the families included in the dataset, showing how many children were born in Denmark versus Argentina:
Table 1: A snapshot of family structure and migration patterns. Many families had at least one child born in Argentina before re-immigrating to Denmark.
Cultural Identity Through Personal Names
The study of names in this dataset reveals three distinct categories based on how well a child’s name would fit into a Spanish-speaking country like Argentina. These categories – formally usable, possibly usable, and not usable – help us understand how families integrated (or resisted integration) into Argentine society through the naming of their children.
Formally Usable in a Spanish-speaking Context: Names that would easily be recognized in Argentina, either because they are common in both cultures, or have Spanish equivalents. – For instance, among the children born in Argentina, names like Elena, Eleonora, Oskar (Oscar), Pedro, and Enrique would have been very familiar in both Argentina and Denmark. Of the 29 children born in Argentina, 9 had names that fall into this category. These names reflect a potential desire for integration into the local culture, possibly making it easier for children to fit into Argentine society.
Possibly Usable in a Spanish-speaking Context: These names are less common but still recognizable in Argentina. – Names such as Christian, Ingrid and Peter are familiar but less frequent in a Spanish-speaking context. Nine of the Argentine-born children had names in this category. These names suggest that the family retained a connection to Danish traditions while also choosing names that would not be entirely out of place in their new environment.
Not Usable in a Spanish-speaking Context: Names that are Danish and would likely have stood out in Argentina. – Examples include Arne, Inger and Valdemar, which are typically Danish and would be unusual in a Spanish-speaking country. Eleven Argentine-born children had names in this category. These names likely reflect a stronger attachment to Danish identity, suggesting that the family wanted to maintain their cultural roots despite living abroad.
Dataset Breakdown: Children’s Names by Birth Country
Let us look at children’s first forenames, birth countries, and whether their first forename would work in either a Spanish-speaking or Danish-speaking context:
Table 2: A detailed look at how children’s names correspond to their cultural environment in an Argentinian, illustrating the variety of naming strategies employed by Danish families in Argentina.Table 3: A detailed look at how children’s names correspond to their cultural environment in a Danish context, illustrating naming strategies employed by Danish families having returned from Argentina.
Conclusion: The Significance of Name Research in Migration Studies
The study of personal names within the context of migration provides a unique lens through which to explore cultural identity. For families that migrated to Argentina, naming their children involved a balance between maintaining their Danish heritage and integrating into Argentine society. Children with names like Elena or Pedro may have been better able to navigate both cultural worlds, while those with distinctly Danish names may have faced greater challenges in fitting in.
For the children born in Denmark after their families’ return, the predominance of traditional Danish names suggests a desire to reclaim or reinforce their Danish identity. These children would grow up in Denmark, and their names reflect a re-rooting in their home country’s cultural norms. The choice of names illustrates how these families viewed their identity – both abroad and at home.
Literature
Hornby, Rikard, 1978. Danske personnavne. København.
In 19–23 August 2024 I had a privilege to participate the 28th International Congress of Onomastic Sciences in Helsinki. It was inspiring to hear and see so many great presentations of colleagues. They introduced plenty of new perspectives to onomastic research.
Theme of the multidisciplinary conference was Sustainability in names, naming and onomastics. I have studied the history of inherited first names in the Finnish rural families. Recently, I have started to conceptualize these findings and results of my earlier research. Using the concept of onomastic literacy has proved to be fruitful in reaching the mentalities of the people and local communities studied.
Onomastic literacy means the knowledge and skills the parents of a child need to interpret the local naming culture and communal norms of naming. Parents had to be familiar with the traditions of the family and the locality to be able to choose a ‘suitable’ name. In this respect, names functioned as cultural symbols connected with identities and kin networks.
Honouring the ancestors
Universally, the most common social norm governing the choice of names has consisted in giving a baby a name handed down within the family, mainly the name of a grandparent. Giving the name of a living relative would have detracted from this person’s good fortune as it correspondingly added to that of the younger namesake. And especially in the case of grandparents, it may have been thought that the blessing and luck received by the oldest members of the family would in this way be transferred to the newborn baby. For example, in Finland in the olden days, it was said that a child would turn out like his or her namesake.
There would seem to have been many kinds of religious and social functions attached to the choice of names of ancestors besides honouring them. For example, namesakes might have been thought to hold certain responsibilities towards each other when both, for example a grandparent and a grandchild, lived in a certain community at the same time. It was perhaps possible to perceive in the child family traits or a resemblance to a forebear, after whom the parents then might wish to name him or her. Behind this way of thinking can be perceived an ancient Finno-Ugric belief about the soul, according to which a child who receives an ancestor’s name also inherits his or her persona or soul.
This then was the case when a child was named after a dead relative. The child was in this way symbolically connected to the earlier bearer of the name. It was believed that when for example the first-born boy in the family was given his grandfather’s name, the latter would in some way continue his life in the new member of the family. Even though the belief had spread into Scandinavia in the pre-Christian era, it continued to exert an influence later. It has been assumed in earlier research that in Finland, too, the relics of such naming traditions can be perceived right up to the twentieth century.
Inherited first names in the Finnish rural families
The above-mentioned conceptions of the early modern beliefs and mentalities that regulated naming, were based on oral memory accounts that were mainly used as a source in ethnological research rather than on the systematic empirical use of written documents as sources of historical research. However, with the help of extensive collective biographical databases, for example, and by utilizing the genealogical method, it is possible to examine to what extent traditional beliefs any longer influenced naming practices from the seventeenth to the twentieth centuries and were realized in it in practice.
In all ages an inherited family name has played an important part in the shaping of a person’s identity. Particularly in the pre-modern age, a personal name also made rural people a part of a family community and defined their place in it. In the agrarian society of former times, the traditions of the family were respected. The networks between relatives also formed an economic and social safety net on which a person could rely. Inherited names were also associated with a feeling of the continuity of the family and traditions. That is why it was important to name a child after his or her grandparents or parents because in the name-givers’ world view it bound a child and his or her future into the enduring immaterial heritage of the family.
The practices of naming did not change sharply in the shift from the early modern to the modern period, and many interacting cultural layers from different periods continued to influence naming practices in an essential way. The relics of ancient practices and beliefs were preserved to some extent right up to the twentieth century. A more exact analysis of local naming practices using a variety of document sources and collective biographical databases shows that, regarding inherited names at least, the modernization of naming practices took place slowly. They were affected not only by the local living conditions of the community but also by the complex and asynchronous effects of the modernization of society.
Recycling the names
Family traditions, being grandmother’s or grandfather’s namesake, or having name of a valued member of the family community, were signs that name-givers, i.e. usually parents of the children being culturally ‘literate’ and honouring the elder generations in Finnish rural local communities. This created sustainability and good reputation of the first names of the forefathers and -mothers, as they were inherited from generation to generation.
Onomastic sustainability has been important for the development of social traditions, values, identities and intergenerational relations. Local naming traditions change slowly and may influence naming practices of several generations. Active reusing the names keeps the cultural heritage alive.
Iceland is famous for its abundance of water resources which have in many cases been harnessed to generate electricity. Although often claimed to be sustainable this has not come without sacrifice. The first hydropower station in Iceland was built in Fljót, N-Iceland in the 1940s to generate electricity for the rapidly growing herring industry in the neighbouring town of Siglufjörður.
Overlooking the reservoir to the south. Photo: Birna Lárusdóttir 2023.
The location was favorable for such a project: a deep valley nearly closed off at its furthest end by an old landslide, making it relatively easy to build a dam. The level of the reservoir rose quickly and the bottom of the valley, described as beautiful hay meadows with clear ponds and creeks, disappeared. Before all this, the so-called Stífla area (Stífla ironically translates as dam or blockage) was rich farming land, the home of many people most of whom lived on relatively small farms located uphill from the level bottom of valley. Many of the farms were abandoned in the years following the building of the dam and today none remain around the reservoir, only a few summerhouses and an old church (Knappsstaðakirkja) that had belonged to one of the earlier farms.
Although the ethics of the project were not discussed much at the time (at least not officially) this landscape intervention seems to have left deep scars on the community.
Conserving place names
In 1983 an interesting paper about the vanished place names of the area was published in Grímnir, the journal of the Icelandic Place Name Institute. It was based on a map drafted by Páll Sigurðsson, who had lived in Stífla for decades. In the mind of the author, Þórhallur Vilmundarson, who was Head of the Place Name Institute at the time, the damage done to the landscape in Stífla was immense. He suggests in the paper that places which carry curious names should generally not be damaged. If there is no other alternative, place names ought to be registered and located on a map before the destruction of an area.
Place names at the bottom of the reservoir. Map from Grímnir 2, pp. 42-43 (click on the image for a larger version).
The vanished place names of Stífla show how it was the heart of a thriving farming community – mostly fertile wetlands, pastures and meadows on which the farms built their existence. Many of the areas carried names according to their nature (as wetlands), f.ex. Útmýrar and Hringsflói. Some of the names indicate the size of meadows and how long it would take to cut the grass on them (Hamarsdagslátta, Þriggjadagasláttur – in this case one and three days).
Many parts of the banks of rivers and ponds also had names (Ytribakkar, Skriðubakki, Bakki) and yet others paint a landscape formed by creeks and ponds (Austuráll, Laufskálanes, Lambatangi) – and humans/animals. There are also names of structures related to farming activities which vanished into the deep: Völugarður – an ancient turf wall, Melbreiðarstekkur – a sheep fold, Draugatóft – literally “Ghost ruin”. And at the bottom of the center of the reservoir lies Einbúi, the alleged grave mound of the slave of Nafar-Helgi, the main settler of the area according to the twelfth-century historical work Landnámabók, ‘The Book of Settlements’.
The value of names
The names represent different values and draw up a different picture of the landscape than that which one builds up through objective description of natural elements or vegetation. Vilmundarson’s position on how place names should be valued and protected or mapped in the context of construction or other landscape change caused by humans contributed to discussion in Iceland on nature conservation and raised questions that seem to be still critical today – perhaps even more so than when the paper was published forty years ago. What happens to place names when great landscape-change takes place and what are they really worth? What is the difference between experiencing place names “in situ” – in their own settings, or reading them from a map or some other textual record?
Many hydropower plants have been built in Iceland since the one in Fljót although none of them has destroyed inhabited farmland. In some cases, place names have been mapped specifically before disappearing, f.ex. in the area which vanished under the Hálslón reservoir near Kárahnjúkar north of Vatnajökull glacier. In many other cases landscape change induced by humans takes place without any regard to place names – f.ex. through forestry, the building of large scale factories and the expansion of urban areas.
I min tjänst vid Institutet för språk och folkminnen, inom det förutvarande Namnarkivet i Uppsala (som i sin tur gick tillbaka till Ortnamnsarkivet i Uppsala och Sveriges medeltida personnamn) ingår att årligen skriva en bloggtext, som ska vända sig till den intresserade allmänheten.
Syftet med listan är att försöka standardisera stavningen av historiska personnamn, vilket jag fann rätt intressant. Men av någon anledning fastnade jag för ett kvinnonamn Ingemo, som uppgavs vara fornsvenskt (utvecklat från Ingemodh, se Otterbjörk, Svenska förnamn) och efterreformatoriskt och förekommande i Småland. Det blev nu ämnet för min text: ”Kvinnonamnet Ingemo – eller vad hände under det förra 00-talet?”.
Ämnet var alltså mer eller mindre valt på måfå, men förvånande nog rönte den ett för våra förhållanden livligt intresse när den delades på vår facebooksida. Resultatet var väl delvis slumpartat men kom sig väl också av att den kunde appellera både till släktforskare och till sådana som råkade känna en Ingemo. (En intressant upplysning som kom fram i kommentarerna var att en persons föräldrar valt Ingemo efter att ha läst Erik Dahlbergs Svecia, där Ingemo källa förekommer.) Förmodligen var det också positivt att jag nästan helt lyckades undgå att skriva om medeltiden som är min vanliga tidsperiod.
Från onomastisk synvinkel är namnet principiellt intressant, vill jag hävda, framför allt i hur det kom att återupplivas vid början av 1900-talet i Finland och Sverige, sannolikt (gissar jag) genom att det aktualiserades i strödda tidningsartiklar om ”offerkällan” Ingemo källa i Västergötland under en lång följd av år, men även i hur det kom att dö ut, i alla fall i ett fall.
Den hittills sist kända namnbäraren av det historiska namnet uppträder 1812 i en bouppteckning: Ingemo Månsdotter i Järstorps socken, Småland. Hon skrivs dock märkligt nog Ingrid i kyrkliga källor, skriver jag i bloggtexten. Min kollega Leila Mattfolk lyckades dock hitta skrivningar av henne som Ingemo och även som (troligen) Ingemor, en namnform som är känd från 1900-talet och som rimligen beror på association till namn som Lillemor. Denna association förekom alltså redan i ett kyrkligt dokument från 1780-talet. Någon kontinuitet till 1900-talets Ingemor kan knappast finnas.
Förutom urspårningar kunde man möjligen skylla Ingemo Månsdotters varierande namnformer på beröringsskräck från prästerskapets sida till den katolska (eller som hedniskt betraktade) Ingemo källa. Det vore intressant om det ginge att få tag på större material om de sista namnbärarna och komma på fastare mark.
Det juridiske grundlag for navneforandringen var loven af 1. april 1905 – en lov jeg også tidligere har omtalt i denne blog. Her skriver jeg blandt andet om hvordan loven egentlig var en tillægslov til navneforandringsloven af 22. april 1904, og fortsætter: “I sin relative enkelthed gav [tillægs]loven mulighed for at man inden nytåret 1905-06 gratis kunne ansøge den lokale politimester om at tage et tilnavn som slægtsnavn hvis man i de sidste 20 år havde været alment kendt under tilnavnet og i øvrigt selv anerkendte sig det.”
1800-tallets navnelovgivning havde utilsigtet medført at den støt stigende befolkning bar de samme efternavne; især patronymer såsom Jensen, Nielsen, Hansen med videre toppede listerne.
Mens ånden i navnelovgivningen i 1904-05 egentlig var at skabe en større variation i slægtsnavnene i Danmark, medførte lovens bogstav at Clemen i 1905 kunne få lov til officielt at erstatte det mere ualmindelige slægtsnavn Havkrog med noget så almindeligt som Jensen. Navnet Jensen var op gennem det 19. og 20. århundrede det mest almindelige efternavn i Danmark. Først i 2016 overhaledes det af patronymet Nielsen.
Hvad hed Clemen sådan rigtigt?
Man skal ikke beskæftige sig længe med slægtsforskning og anden personalhistorisk forskning før man opdager at en persons navn ikke gengives på samme måde på tværs af de historiske kilder. Eksemplet med Clemen viser til fulde hvad jeg mener.
Ved fødsels- og dåbsoptegnelsen fra 1836-37 i kontraministerialbogen (kirkebogen) fra Nordby Sogn, skrives hans navn Clemmen Jørgen Haukrog. Samme staveform går igen ved hans konfirmation i 1851. I 1865, hvor han blev gift i Besser Kirke, staves hans navn Clemmen Jørgen Havkrog, altså med -v- i stedet for -u- i slægtsnavnet Havkrog. Så langt vidner kirkebøgerne kun om en lille stavevariation i slægtsnavnet. Folketællingerne (FT) derimod vidner om en større variation, her opsat i kronologisk rækkefølge:
Allerede i 1840 hvor Clemen er fire år gammel, optegnes han altså med efternavnet Jensen og ikke Havkrog; faktisk optegnes han i eksemplerne ovenfor kun med navnet Haukrog i 1845 og 1850. Bemærk her at Clemen altså først i 1905 officielt tog navneforandring fra Havkrog til Jensen som ellers står anført som hans efternavn gennem hele anden halvdel af 1800-tallet og i 1901.
Det er værd at fremhæve at Clemen på et tidspunkt inden for årene 1850-1855 flyttede hjemmefra, og derfor har han i folketællingerne fra og med 1855 sandsynligvis selv meddelt sit navn da folketællingen fandt sted. Ved folketællingerne 1840, 1845 og 1850 var Clemen hjemmeboende, og det har i praksis nok været forældrene, sikkert Clemens far og husstandens overhoved, der meddelte hvad familiens medlemmer hed.
Uanset hvordan navnene helt lavpraktisk blev optegnet i folketællingerne, blev Clemen i de fleste tilfælde opført med det Jensen han, jævnfør navneforandringen i 1905, selv opfattede som sit efternavn.
Clemen var jo ‘søn af Jens’
Efternavnet Havkrog var for Clemen sandsynligvis bare et navn han var blevet tillagt ved dåben. Clemens storebror fik allerede det særlige slægtsnavn da han i Nordby Sogn døbtes Morten Jørgen Haukrog i 1829, så da Clemen døbtes i 1837, fik han samme slægtsnavn. Således er brødrenes slægtsnavn Havkrog måske snarere et produkt af præstens forsøg på at leve op til ånden i dåbsforordningen i 1828 om at tillægge nyfødte børn faste slægtsnavne, noget som netop præsten i Nordby Sogn på Samsø fremhæves for at gøre, jævnfør side 65 og 118 i værket Dansk Navneskik fra 1899.
Men Havkrog har som slægtsnavn sikkert været fremmed for Clemen. Hans far hed Jens Clemmensen, stedvis benævnt Jens Rysser, og Clemens mor hed Ane Jørgensdatter. Når Clemen kaldte sig Jensen, er det altså et primærpatronym, det vil sige fars fornavn Jens efterfulgt at -(s)en ‘søn’. Clemen konstaterede altså at han var ‘søn af Jens’. Man kan altså formode at navnet Jensen har været en langt mere personlig og identitetsbærende konstatering for Clemen end det for ham upersonlige Havkrog.
I en 1700-talsdopbok från staden Gamlakarleby i svenska Österbotten påträffas två belägg på kvinnonamnet Perpetua (1712, 1714) (HisKi). I båda fallen rör det sig om ett utomäktenskapligt barn. Namnvalet är iögonfallande, eftersom namnfattigdomen var påtaglig under förra hälften av 1700-talet, och de flesta flickor fick då frekventa namn som Anna, Brita, Karin eller Maria. Vilken funktion hade namnet Perpetua vid den dåvarande dopnamnsgivnigen? Förekom namnet också på annat håll i Finland, och om så, vem döpte sin dotter till Perpetua?
Helgonnamn
Perpetua är ett helgonnamn från den katolska tiden och enligt Hanks m.fl. (2019) var Perpetua en ung, gift adelsdam som tillsammans med sin tjänarinna Felicitas antog den kristna tron och därför fick gå en martyrdöd till mötes år 203. Senare blev de helgonförklarade av den katolska kyrkan.
Helgonnamnet Perpetua ingick länge också i de finländska almanackorna. Enligt Nivanka (1957) var namnet med redan i den första finländska almanackan år 1705 och det ingick i namnlängden ända till slutet av 1930-talet, visserligen med ett antal kortare avbrott i kontinuiteten. Detta namn, som enligt Brylla (2004) betyder ’evig’, fanns alltså till buds för finländska namngivare genom den lilla skrift som kom ut årligen. Perpetuas namnsdag inföll den 7 mars. Numera ingår endast kortformen Tua i dagens finlandssvenska almanacka (den 7 maj) (Universitetets almanacksbyrå).
Sällsynt namn med bred geografisk spridning
Enligt Myndigheten för digitalisering och befolkningsdata är namnet fortfarande i bruk, men mellan åren 2020–2023 uppgick antalet namnbärare inte ens till tio. Intressant är att namnet förekommer både som mans- och kvinnonamn. Perpetua är också historiskt sett ett sällsynt namn. En sökning på namnet Perpetua som dopnamn i databasen HisKi ger en lista på 26 barn som fått namnet under tiden från 1600-talets slut fram till senare hälften av 1800-talet i Finland. Delar man upp den studerade perioden i femtioårsperioder får man en överblick över namnets kronologiska spridning: 1700–1749 2 belägg, 1750–1799 2 belägg, 1800–1849 11 belägg och 1850–1899 11 belägg.
Namnet har alltså genom tiderna varit sällsynt som dopnamn, men aldrig fallit helt ur bruk. Det har använts både på svenskt och finskt håll i landet och det har haft spridning över stora delar av landet. Perpetua är belagt i dopböcker åtminstone i Österbotten, Birkaland, Egentliga Finland, Nyland, Kymmenedalen och i det gamla Viborgs län.
Social markör – på både gott och ont
De två första beläggen på Perpetua var alltså dopnamn på utomäktenskapliga flickor på 1710-talet. Frågan är vem som valde namnet och vilken funktion det hade vid namngivning. Att Perpetua var en markering för barnets låga sociala status är väl uppenbart, men det är svårt att med säkerhet säga om det var fråga om ett kompenserande eller ett stigmatisande namn. Detta finns det inget säkert svar på, men med tanke på att de utomäktenskapliga barnen onekligen hörde till de utstötta i samhället är den senare tolkningen mer sannolik. Prästens roll vid namngivning under denna tidiga period går inte att underskatta. Det var kanske han som bestämde barnets placering i det sociala nätverket.
Av de sammanlagt 26 flickorna med namnet Perpetua är faktiskt fyra utomäktenskapliga (1712, 1714, 1839, 1894), något som torde tala för att namnet mycket väl har kunnat användas till att peka ut flickor födda utanför äktenskapet. Intressant är emellertid att de övriga flickorna med detta namn inte tillhörde de lägre samhällsskikten utan snarare tvärtom. Nio av de 26 flickorna var döttrar till högre eller lägre tjänstemän, två till militärer och tre till präster och/eller lärare. Åtta av flickorna var döttrar till besuttna bönder eller motsvarande. Två av flickorna i den sistnämnda gruppen hade visserligen blivit nöddöpta – en omständighet som också kan ha avgjort det speciella namnvalet. Anmärkningsvärt är att namnet inte tycks ha använts av allmogen, t.ex. de obesuttna, arbetarna och tjänstefolket.
Det går alltså inte att säga att Perpetua uteslutande är ett lågstatusnamn, även om de utomäktenskapliga barnen kan anses vara välrepresenterade bland namnbärarna. Däremot kan det konstateras att det är ett polariserande förnamn som får sin funktion bestämd i den aktuella socioonomastiska kontexten. Det pekar ut sin bärare antingen i negativ eller positiv belysning.
Källor
Brylla, E. (2004), Förnamn i Sverige: kortfattat namnlexikon. Liber.
Nivanka, E. (1957), Suomalaisen almanakan nimipäivät ja kiinteät juhlapäivät vuosina 1705–1955. I: Vilkuna, K. et al. (utg.). Suomen almanakan juhlakirja. Weiling & Göös.
By Krister SK Vasshus, PhD-student at the University of Bergen
Many modern Scandinavian names have a deep linguistic history, and they come in many shapes and forms. Helge, Torkil, Arnhild and Inger are just a few examples. Names of this type all have in common that they are based on words that carried a semantic meaning at the time when they were formed. They could be formed based on verbs (such as Wīgaz from a verb meaning ‘to fight’), nouns (such as Aud, meaning ‘wealth’), or adjectives (such as Braidō, based on the adjective meaning ‘broad’). Most of the names used during the Scandinavian Iron Age and Viking Age are no longer in use today, but many are still fairly popular. Some of these names have even gotten more popular over the last two centuries due to the popular interest in the Old Norse literature and culture.
Graphs showing the popularity of the names Ingeborg and Ingrid in Norway the last 130 years. Source: ssb.no.
Names of Scandinavian origin can be formed based on one single word, often with the addition of a suffix. Examples hereof are Arne (meaning ‘eagle’), Karl (meaning ‘man’), and the above mentioned Wīgaz. But they can also be compounded from two words, such as Sigrun, Ingeborg and Wōdurīdaz. Names based on two words are often called dithematic personal names. The oldest written evidence we have of Germanic languages is written on a bronze helmet with Etruscan letters, dated to about 200 BCE, and this inscription contains the dithematic name Harigasti (‘warrior-guest’).
Even though names are formed on the basis of words from the source language, it may some times be impossible to determine what the original meaning may have been. A view commonly held by researchers of onomastics, is that the semantic content of a personal name deteriorates quickly after being used as a name. According to this view, Wōdurīdaz was not a wild and angry (which is the semantic meaning of wōdu-) horsebackrider (the semantic meaning of -rīdaz), and that his parents did not give such a name with the intention of giving these qualities to the child. Not all scholars agree with this, though, and some think that names may be seen as a linguistic expression that conveys the same ideas as we see in other artistic expressions of the time, such as metaphors used in skaldic poetry or ornaments on archaeological artifacts. As an example, the warrior-ideal was quite strong in the Viking Age, which is reflected in many names containing words connected to war and battle. Many of the animals we see in the arts, are also used in personal names of this period.
The clasp from Åker in Hamar contains the motif of a man mixed with other animals, which is common for animal art in the Scandinavian Iron Age. The man’s feet are wild boar heads. By the sides of his head there are two eagle heads where the beaks meet the snout of the boar. There are also eagles on the top of the clasp. Both the word for wild boar and eagle were used in personal names during this period. Photo: Eirik Irgens Johnsen / Kulturhistorisk museum, UiO, available under CC BY-SA 4.0.
Judging from runic inscriptions, sagas and traditions up until now, we can see that Scandinavians have three ways one could name someone after another person. Today most people will probably think of naming someone after someone else as the two bearing the same name. Stereotypically this means that a child is named after a grandparent. This type of naming tradition first shows itself in Scandinavia during the Viking Age, and was probably adopted from elsewhere in Europe. The system usually is that the oldest child is named after their paternal grandparent, the second oldest child is named after their maternal grandparents, the third child after their paternal great-grandparents or uncles and aunts. It can, however, be difficult to determine whether a child is named after an aunt/uncle or a great grandparent, as these would share names according to the system.
Another way of naming was by alliteration, where the name starts with the same (or a similar) sound. This is a type of naming we see in the royal Yngling house, where Domalde, Domar, Dyggvi and Dag follow each other in succession. The same dynasty later uses vowels: Aunn, Egill, Óttarr, Aðils, Eysteinn and Yngvarr. This tradition is still in use today, although people are probably a bit more strict on using an identical vowel.
The third way of naming is the principle of variation, which can be used in the dithematic personal names. When a child was named, one could use naming elements that were otherwise used in the same family. This means that a person could be named after more than one family member at once. On the Upplandic runestone U1034 we can read:
þorbiarn·auk·þorstain·uk·styrbiarn·litu raisa stain·eftir·þorfast·faþur sin ybir reisti (Thorbjørn and Thorsteinn and Styrbjørn raised the stone after Thorfast, their father. Øpir carved [the runes]”).
Here we see that Thorbjørn and Thorsteinn are named after their father, as all their names starts with Thor-. Furthermore we see that the brothers Thorbjørn and Styrbjørn share the naming element Bjørn, but we cannot determine whether they are named after someone else in their family, or if it was made to show brotherhood.
Bildetekst: The runestone U1034 show the use of naming based on variation in dithematic names between the brothers Thorbjørn, Thorsteinn, Styrbjørn and their father Thorfast. Photo: Bengt A Lundberg / Riksantikvarieämbetet, available under CC BY 2.5.
This way of naming is still in use in Scandinavia today, and many new names has been made on the basis of this principle (some examples are Kjærlaug, Norunn, Vilfrid, Tryggvald, Norulv and Bjørgny). This principle lead to a substantial amount of dithematic personal names. Gjrotbjørn, Ljotunn, Igulfast, Ulvhild, Geriheid and Wōdurīdaz are examples of names that has gone completely out of use, in contrast to Ingeborg, Bodvar, Gunnhild, Sjurd (from older Sigurd), which has survived to this day.
Exactly why some names survive and some fall out of use, is sometimes difficult to determine. In some cases it may come down to chance, and in some cases we see that a name may live for a long time but only in a very constricted region. And although kinship plays a much less important role in the modern Scandinavian society compared to in earlier times, the naming traditions still show that to some people, it still plays a role.
One of the core questions in place-name research is: What is the motivation for a name? On the surface, this looks pretty straightforward. All place-names are formed from the existing, spoken language at the time of formation. So, if we know what words existed at any given time, their declension and meaning, then it is a matter of correctly interpreting the individual components of a place-name, and then we have the meaning of the name, right?
Unfortunately, things are not as simple as that. In an ideal world, an interpretation gives a formal origin: name X consists of element 1 in the genitive singular + element 2 in the plural. This allows us to show what the constituents of a place-name is and what the meaning is. However, the factual assessment is often based on parallel examples, even in cases where we are temporally almost in touch with the actual naming moment. And although we can probably guess what must have been the naming motive, we cannot be sure.
For instance, take a place-name like Gåserød (1575 Gaaßerudt) in Andebu, Vestfold, Norway. Formally, the first element is either Old Norwegian gási, m. ‘gander, male goose’ or the derived male byname Gási, m. The last element is more straight forward, Old Norwegian ruð, n. ‘a clearing’. But what is the naming motive behind Gåserød? Was the settlement cleared by a man named Gási, had geese been spotted at the locality, or were geese being reared at the settlement? This we can never know, as we do not have a record of why people started calling this place for Gåserød.
An illusive Find or a name transfer?
In a few cases, however, we can prove a naming motive through historical records. Near the famed Ulefos Ironworks in Holla in Telemark, there used to be a smallholding or homestead, in the sources variously spelled “Findsruud” or “Finsrud” or “Finsrød”. The smallholding is not of great age, being recorded no earlier than the beginning of the 18th century. It was originally set up on cleared land outside of the cadastral system, as was the norm earlier. Finsrud holds some fame locally, as it used to be the permanent residence of the hammer masters at the ironworks, which were central persons in the community.
Throughout the next two centuries we find the name with theses spellings. However, in local historical literature from the 20th century we find “Finsrod” or “Finnsrote” as variant spellings of the place name. In 1732 Findsruud became the permanent residence for a hammer master Niels Olsen Finsrod at Holden’s Ironworks (later Ulefos). He was a member of the Finsrod family who immigrated from Sweden in the 17th century, possibly via Finnskogen. For this reason, local historical literature has assumed that “Findsrud” or “Finsrod” is the same name, but with alternative spellings. If this is the case, then Finsrud would be an adapted name transfer either from an original settlement of Finsrod, or more probably from the family name Finsrod.
It is not unknown that a family name can be transferred to a settlement, and “Finsrod” may also lie behind the name form “Finsrud” or “Finsrød”, if the surname origin has been either misunderstood or rather a reinterpreted analogous to the very frequently occurring place-names –rud/-rød in Eastern Norway. However, since the family name would have been alive or remembered when the name became established locally, such a change should not have been a likely occurrence. Is there another explanation?
The smallholding was one of the pieces of property in the parish from which the local priest had income (prestebord) for his sustenance. Therefore, we have good early record of the Finsrud settlement. When the priest leased the smallholding to Niels Olsen Finsrod in 1732 (the rectory owned the land), the lease document tells that the name of the previous lease holder was a Find Findsen. We know from church records that Find Findsen lived from ca. 1654 to August 4th, 1720, but more importantly, the document also states that Find Findsen owned the right to clear the site, but that the clearing right had been sold back to the rectory by the widow. This clearing right was incidentally purchased by Niels Olsen Finsrod in 1738.
Figure 1. Photograph from c. 1910 in the direction of where Finsrud was situated. Finsrud is the settlement with the white gable to the right of the church. The area is now part of central Ulefoss.
The naming motive established
The lease agreement determines that Find Findsen had leased the smallholding Findsruud and had had the clearing right there. This means that the place-name must have been named after him, or possibly rather his father, who the patronym shows was also called Find. Since the ironworks was founded in the 1650s, it is quite possible that the settlement had been in the possession of the same family since establishment.
Local historical research has not been able to establish any indication that neither Find Findsen nor his father belonged to the Finsrod family. The first Finsrod that can be definitely linked to Finsrud is aforementioned Niels Olsen Finsrod in 1732. Finsrud was named after the original clearer of the smallholding.
This case study shows that the naming motive is often quite illusive, but it may be found in certain instances – especially if attention is paid to historical research, either locally or in central archives.
Note: This article has been conceived with inspiration from an e-mail correspondence with archivist Nils Stoa in relation to an article he publishes later this year on the same subject.
Literature
Stoa, Nils. 2023 (forthcoming). ‘Plassen Finsrud på Ulefoss’. In Gunnar Sanden (ed.), Holla Minner. Holla.
