Grandaddy was born in 1880. He was a fraternal twin, and apparently it was something of an event in his neighborhood. A few days later, one of his aunts went to a church bazaar, and they had a booth with a sign, 2cents to see the McCallister twins. Inside were two dolls labeled Edgar and Edna. The aunt went home and told the rest of the family, who agreed that Edgar was the perfect name for their son. Up until then he'd been called Edbert.

Now, Grandma's family didn't want her to be called Lizzie. Which is why instead of naming her Elizabeth they named her Bessie Irene. She will probably haunt me tonight for making that name public knowledge.
I was named for our father's mother. When my sister came along, mother actually did ask grandma if she'd like the baby to be named for her. Grandma said "No, it's a cow's name."
Victorians seem to have had a great fondness for godawful names. So my grandparents didn't suffer alone, and they didn't suffer much. They did very well in fact. Grandaddy was a very successful patent attorney. Of course I don't know what he'd have done if he'd been named Edbert.