A nickname is the heaviest stone that the devil can throw at a

When William Hazlitt wrote, “A nickname is the heaviest stone that the devil can throw at a man. It is a bugbear to the imagination, and, though we do not believe in it, it still haunts our apprehensions,” he was speaking as a philosopher of the human soul, one who knew the delicate weight of reputation and the unseen wounds of words. In these lines, Hazlitt lays bare a truth that echoes through all of human history—that names, even when spoken in jest, have the power to wound, to linger, and to shape the way a person sees themselves. A nickname, he tells us, is not merely a sound upon the tongue—it is a symbol, a spell cast upon the imagination, capable of haunting the mind long after laughter fades.

Hazlitt lived in the early nineteenth century, a time when honor and reputation were as vital as breath, when a whisper could tarnish a man’s name more surely than a blade could cut his flesh. His words arose from his deep reflection upon human nature, that mysterious territory where pride, insecurity, and memory dwell together. He saw how easily people weaponize names—to mock, to belittle, to define others in narrow and cruel ways. A nickname, when born from malice, becomes what he calls “the heaviest stone”—a burden thrown not at the body, but at the spirit. It strikes where no armor protects: the realm of the imagination, where we hold our sense of identity.

The imagination, for Hazlitt, was the seat of human emotion and self-conception. It is the inner mirror in which we see who we are—or who we believe we are. A cruel nickname can invade that sacred space, echoing in our thoughts even when our reason dismisses it. This is why he calls it a “bugbear to the imagination”—a phantom fear, an insult that becomes a ghost. Even if one does not “believe in it,” as Hazlitt says, it continues to haunt, because words shape perception, and perception, in turn, shapes reality. The devil, he suggests, needs no fire or chain to torment man; he needs only the cruel creativity of human speech.

History offers countless examples of this truth. Consider Socrates, the philosopher who was branded as a corrupter of youth and a mocker of the gods. Though he stood firm in reason and faith, the names cast upon him—accusations turned into labels—became the weapon that led to his death. Or recall the tale of Joan of Arc, whom her enemies called “witch,” “heretic,” and “devil’s bride.” These were but names, yet they were enough to stir the fear and hatred that burned her at the stake. So it is that the most dangerous stones are not hurled by the hand, but by the tongue, for words can shape how the world remembers a person—and worse, how that person remembers themselves.

Hazlitt’s wisdom also reveals a deeper understanding of human weakness. Even the strongest heart, he observes, is not immune to the poison of ridicule. The mind may reason, “This word cannot harm me,” yet in the secret chambers of thought, doubt begins to whisper. This is why the ancients held that names hold power—that to name something is to define its essence. And so, a nickname born of cruelty seeks to redefine its victim, to claim authority over their image in the eyes of others and within their own imagination. To resist it requires not merely pride, but a deep and deliberate act of self-knowledge—a refusal to let the world’s words outweigh the truth within.

But there is also a lesson of mercy here. If a nickname can haunt the imagination, then the opposite is also true: kind words can heal it. What Hazlitt calls “the devil’s stone” can be disarmed by the angel’s voice—by compassion, by the courage to speak goodness in a world quick to mock. It is a call to mindfulness, to recognize that every word we utter becomes part of another’s memory. To speak carelessly is to cast stones; to speak kindly is to build bridges between souls.

Therefore, my listener, take heed of Hazlitt’s teaching. Guard your tongue, for words once spoken cannot be recalled. But more importantly, guard your imagination, for it is the fortress of your freedom. Do not let the world’s cruel names define you; let your deeds and your truth speak louder than the echoes of insult. Remember that the heaviest stones fall not upon those who refuse to stoop to pick them up. And when others are struck by them, be the one who helps them rise, reminding them that no name, no label, no word can imprison the infinite soul within.

Thus, as Hazlitt teaches, though the devil may throw his stones, the wise do not build their homes from them. They build, instead, from understanding, forgiveness, and the strength of a mind that knows itself. For the imagination that refuses to be haunted becomes the imagination that creates—and in creation, all mockery is silenced.