English Surnames_ Their Sources and Significations Charles Wareing Endell Bardsley 3440 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of English Surnames: Their
Sources and Significations
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: English Surnames: Their Sources and Significations

Author: Charles Wareing Endell Bardsley

Release date: July 21, 2019 [eBook #59959]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/59959

Credits: Produced by MWS, Barry Abrahamsen, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH
SURNAMES: THEIR SOURCES AND SIGNIFICATIONS ***

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

ENGLISH SURNAMES.

LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET

ENGLISH SURNAMES:
THEIR

SOURCES AND SIGNIFICATIONS.
BY

CHARLES WAREING BARDSLEY, M.A.

SECOND EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED

London:
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY.
1875.

TO

MY FATHER.

PREFACE

TO

THE SECOND EDITION.

I accept the early demand for a new edition of my book, not so much as
proof of the value of my individual work, as of the increased interest which
is being taken in this too much neglected subject. In deference to the
wholesome advice of many reviewers, both in the London and Provincial
press, especially that of the ‘Times’ and the ‘Athenæum,’ I have re-arranged
the whole of the chapters on ‘Patronymics’ and ‘Nicknames,’ subdividing
the same under convenient heads. By so doing the names which bear any
particular relationship to one another will be found more closely allied than
they were under their former more general treatment.
My book has met with much criticism, partly favourable, partly adverse,
from different quarters. To my reviewers in general I offer my best thanks
for their comments. The ‘Saturday Review’—and I say it the more readily
as they will see that I have not been insensible to the value of their criticism
—has not, I think, sufficiently understood the nature of my work. I am well
aware that praise is due to them for having for some length of time
strenuously advocated the claim of our language to be English through all
its varying stages. I do not see that in the general character of my book I
have lost sight of this fact. An ‘English Directory’ is not an ‘English
Dictionary.’ The influences that have been at work on our language are not
the same as those upon our nomenclature. Every social casualty had an
effect upon our names which it could not have upon our words. The names

found in Domesday Book, casting aside the new importation, were, in the
great majority of cases, obsolete by the end of the twelfth century, and of
those which have survived and descended to us as surnames, well-nigh all
are devoid of diminutive or patronymic desinences—a clear proof that they
were utterly out of fashion as personal names during the era of surname
formation. The Norman invasion was not a conquest of our language, but it
was of our nomenclature. The ‘Saturday Review’ may still demand that we
shall view all as English, and obliterate the distinctive terms of Saxon and
Norman, but in doing so let us not forget facts. The language which
preceded the Norman Conquest is still the vehicle of ordinary converse. The
nomenclature of that period went down like Pharaoh’s chariot, and like
Pharaoh’s chariot, which for all I know lies where it did, was never
recovered.
A review in the ‘Guardian’ demands a brief notice on account of the
mischief it may do. The end kept in view by the reviewer is as transparent
as his inability to reach it. Surely the day is past for any further attempt to
make out that we have no metronymic surnames. The writer is evidently
unaware of the fact that the use of ‘ie’ and ‘y,’ as in ‘Teddy’ or ‘Johnnie,’ in
the nineteenth century, does not prevail to as great an extent as that of ‘ot’
and ‘et’ from the twelfth to the fifteenth. As ‘Philip’ became ‘Philipot,’ now
‘Philpott’; as ‘William,’ ‘Williamot,’ now ‘Wilmott’; as ‘Hew’ (or Hugh),
‘Hewet’ and ‘Hewetson’; as ‘Ellis’ (or Elias), ‘Elliot’ and ‘Elliotson’; so
‘Till’ (Matilda) became ‘Tillot’ and ‘Tillotson’; ‘Emme’ (Emma), ‘Emmott,’
‘Emmett,’ and ‘Emmotson’; ‘Ibbe’ (Isabella), ‘Ibbott,’ ‘Ibbett,’ and
‘Ibbotson’; ‘Mary,’ ‘Mariot’ and ‘Marriott’; and ‘Siss’ (Cecilia), ‘Sissot’ and
‘Sissotson.’ ‘Emmot,’ the writer says, is a form of ‘Amyas,’ I suppose
because he saw ‘Amyot’ in Miss Yonge’s glossary. According to him,
therefore, Emmot is a masculine name. How comes it to pass, then, that
Emmot is always Latinised as Emmota, or that in our old marriage licences
‘Richard de Akerode’ gets a dispensation to marry ‘Emmotte de
Greenwood’ (Test. Ebor. iii. 317), or ‘Roger Prestwick’ to marry ‘Emmote
Crossley’ (ditto, 338)? How is it we meet with such entries as ‘Cissota
West,’ (Index) or ‘Syssot that was wife of Patrick’ (69)? How is it again that
Mariot is registered as ‘Mariota in le Lane,’ or ‘John fil. Mariotæ,’ and
Ibbot or Ibbet as ‘Ibbota fil. Adæ,’ or ‘Robert fil. Ibotæ,’ (Index)? The fact
is, we have a large class of metronymics many of which doubtless arose
from posthumous birth, or from adoption, or the more important character

of the mother in the eyes of the neighbours than the father, others too from
illegitimacy.
Amongst other errors for which I have been called to account, the oddest
is that of attributing to Miss Muloch the authorship of Miss Yonge’s most
useful and laborious work on Christian names. I do not know to which lady
I owe the deepest apology—whether to Miss Yonge for robbing her literary
crown of one of its brightest jewels, or to Miss Muloch for appearing to
insinuate that hers was incomplete. This and several other mistakes of less
moment I have rectified in the present edition.
I have to thank the authoress of ‘Mistress Margery,’ etc., for the names in
the index marked QQ., RR. 1, RR. 2, and RR. 3. Such entries from the
registry of St. James’s, Piccadilly (QQ.), as ‘Repentance Tompson’ (1688),
‘Loving Bell’ (1693), ‘Nazareth Rudde’ (1695), ‘Obedience Clerk’ (1697),
or ‘Unity Thornton’ (1703), may be set beside the instances recorded on pp.
102–104. To these I would take this opportunity of adding ‘Comfort Starre,’
‘Hopestill Foster,’ ‘Love Brewster,’ ‘Fear Brewster,’ ‘Patience Brewster,’
‘Remembrance Tibbott,’ ‘Remember Allerton,’ ‘Desire Minter,’ ‘Original
Lewis,’ and ‘Thankes Sheppard,’ all being names of emigrants from
England in the 17th century. (Vide Hotten’s ‘Original Lists of Persons of
Quality.’)

February 1875.

PREFACE

TO

THE FIRST EDITION.

As prefaces are very little read, I will make this as brief as possible. It is
strange how little has been written upon the sources and significations of
our English surnames. Of books of Peerage, of Baronetage, and of Landed
Gentry, thanks to Sir Bernard Burke, Mr. Walford, and others, we are not
without a sufficiency; but of books purporting to treat of the ordinary
surnames that greet our eye as we scan our shop-fronts, or look down a list
of contributions, or glance over the ‘hatches, matches, and despatches’ of
our newspapers—of these there are but few. Indeed, putting aside Mr.
Lower’s able and laborious researches, we may say none. Tracts, pamphlets,
short treatises, articles in magazines, have at various times appeared, but
they have been necessarily confined and limited in their treatment of the
subject.[1] And yet what can be more natural than that we should desire to
know something relating to the origin of our surname, when it arose, who
first got it, and how? Of the feebleness of my own attempt to solve all this I
am conscious that I need not to be reminded. Still, I think the ordinary
reader will find in a perusal of this book some slight increase of
information, and if not this, that he has whiled away, not unpleasantly, some
of his less busy hours.
During the last seven years I have devoted the whole of my spare time to
the preparation of a ‘Dictionary of English Surnames.’ But about two years
ago it struck me that perhaps a smaller work dealing with the subject in a

less formal and more familiar style might not be unacceptable to many, as a
kind of rudimentary treatise. In the course of my labours I have come under
obligations to several writers and several Societies. To long-departed men,
whose works do follow after them, I must give a passing allusion. Camden
was the first to draw attention to this subject, and though he wrote little, and
that little not of the most correct kind, still he has afforded the groundwork
for all future students. Verstegan, who came next with his ‘Restitution of
Decayed Intelligence,’ wrote quaintly, amusingly and incorrectly; and, with
respect to surnames, his definitions rather teach what they do not than what
they do mean. Passing over several archæological papers, and with a wide
gap in regard to time, we come to Mr. Lower’s studies. He was the first to
give a real compendium of English nomenclature. Of his earlier efforts I
will say nothing, for the ‘Patronymica Britannica’ is that upon which his
fame must rest. The fault of that work is that the author has confined his
researches all but entirely to the Hundred Rolls. These Rolls are
undoubtedly the best for such reference; but there are many others, as my
index will show, which not merely contain a large mass of examples not to
be met with there, but which, by varieties of spelling in the case of such
names as they share in common with the other, afford comparisons the use
of which would have made him certain where he has only guessed, and
would have enabled him also to avoid many false conclusions. This I would
say with all respect, as one who has benefited very considerably by Mr.
Lower’s labours. Others I must thank more briefly, though none the less
heartily. To Mr. Halliwell I am under deep obligation, for to his ‘Dictionary
of Archaisms’ I have gone freely by way of quotation. To Mr. Way’s notes
to his valuable edition of the ‘Promptorium Parvulorum’ I am also indebted
for much interesting information regarding mediæval life and its
surroundings. Miss Yonge’s ‘History of Christian Names’ contains a large
store of help to students of this kind of lore, and of this I have availed
myself in several instances. In conclusion, I have to acknowledge much
valuable aid received from the publications of the Surtees Society, the Early
English Text Society, the Camden Society, and the Chetham Society. It is in
the rooms belonging to the latter that I have had the opportunity of
consulting most of the records and archives, a list of which prefaces my
index, as well as other books of a more incidentally helpful character, and I
cannot allow this opportunity to pass without tendering my hearty thanks to
Thomas Jones, Esq., B.A., F.S.A., for his courtesy in permitting me access

to all parts of the library, and to Mr. Richard Hanby, the under-librarian, for
his constant attention and readiness to supply me with whatever books I
required.

Manchester:
December 1873.

PREFACE

TO THE

INDEX OF INSTANCES.

There are several matters which I deem it advisable to mention to the reader
before he turns his attention to the Index of Instances (pp. 514–612).
I. I have not, in the various chapters that form the body of this book, in
all cases drawn particular attention when any name happens to belong to
several distinct classes. In the Index, however, I have tried to remedy this
by furnishing instances under the several heads to which they have been
assigned in the text.
II. While ordinarily adhering to my plan of giving but two examples, I
have set down three in some instances that seemed more interesting, and in
exceptional cases even four. To the majority of the appended surnames
more illustrations of course could have been added had it been expedient or
necessary. There are several names, however, which, though evidently of
familiar occurrence in early days, as they are now, are yet, so far as my own
researches go, without any record. For instance, I cannot find any
Arkwright or Runchiman previous to the sixteenth century. The origin is
perfectly clear, but the registry is wanting. Of several others, again, I can
light upon but one entry. Still, in a matter like this one must be thankful for
small mercies, and it was with no small amount of rejoicing that in such a
simple record as that of ‘John Sykelsmith’ I found the progenitor, or one of
the progenitors, of our many ‘Sucksmiths,’ ‘Sixsmiths,’ ‘Shuxsmiths,’ etc.

III. There has been a difficulty with regard to Christian names also,
which I have not attempted to overcome because it was impossible to do so.
With the Normans every baptismal name, masculine or feminine as it might
originally be, was the common property of the sexes. Thus by simply
appending the feminine desinence, ‘Druett’ became ‘Druetta’ (v. Drewett),
‘Williamet’ became ‘Williametta’ (v. Williamot), ‘Aylbred’ became
‘Aylbreda’ (v. Allbright), ‘Raulin’ became ‘Raulina’ (v. Rawlings), and
‘Goscelin’ became ‘Goscelina’ (v. Gosling). Any of these surnames,
Drewett, Willmott, Allbright, Rawlings, or Gosling, therefore, may be of
feminine origin—nay, if the reader has studied my chapter on ‘Patronymic
Surnames’ with any care, he will see that this is fully as probable as the
opposite view. Leaving thus undecided what cannot be solved, I have
placed both masculine and feminine forms under the one surname to which
one or other has given rise.
IV. There has been another difficulty also in respect of Christian names.
These, as has been shown in the chapter thereupon, were turned into pet
forms, and these shortened forms commonly came to be the foundation of
the surname. In all the more formal registers, however, these surnames were
never so set down. ‘Hugh Thomasson,’ ‘William Thompson,’ and ‘Henry
Tomson’ might come to have their names enrolled, and up to the beginning
of the sixteenth century at least they would be set down alike as ‘Hugh fil.
Thomas,’ ‘William fil. Thomas,’ and ‘Henry fil. Thomas.’ Thus, again,
‘Ralph Higginson’ or ‘John Higgins’ would be ‘Radulphus’ or ‘Johannes fil.
Isaac.’ This has prevented me from giving so many instances of these curter
forms of the patronymic class as I should have liked. When they are given,
the reader will observe that they come from less punctilious and more
irregular sources, such as for instance the Surtees’ Society’s collection of
Mediæval Yorkshire Wills and Inventories. Where I have given such an
instance as ‘Elekyn’ (v. Elkins) by itself, it must be understood that this is
the Christian name, and that the owner when his or her name was registered
did not boast a surname at all.
V. By way of interesting the reader I have occasionally given the Latin
form of entry. Thus ‘Adam the Goldsmith’ is set down as ‘Adam Aurifaber’
(v. Aurifaber), ‘Henry the Butcher’ as ‘Henry Carnifex’ (v. Carnifex), and
‘Hugh the Tailor’ as ‘Hugh Cissor’ (v. Cissor). Latin, indeed, seems to have
been the vehicle of ordinary indenture. Thus under ‘Littlejohn’ the reader

will find extracted from the Hundred Rolls ‘Ricardus fil. Parvi-Johannis,’
and under ‘Linota,’ ‘Linota Vidua,’ i.e. ‘Linota the Widow.’ In the recording
of local names, Norman-French and Saxon seem to have fought for the first
place, and even in our most formal registers they had the precedence over
Latin. Thus if the latter can boast the entry of ‘Isolda Beauchamp’ as ‘Isolda
de Bello Campo’ (v. Beauchamp), still, if we come to such generic names as
Briggs or Brook, we find the entry is all but invariably either ‘Henry Atte-
brigg’ or ‘Roger del Brigge’ (v. Briggs), or ‘Alice de la Broke or ‘Ada ate
Brok’ (v. Brook). As respects nicknames or names of occupation, the
Norman-French tongue had them to itself. ‘Roger le Buck,’ ‘Philip le
Criour,’ ‘Thomas le Cuchold,’ ‘Osbert le Curteys,’ or ‘Thomas le Cupper’—
such is their continuous form of entry. Such a Saxon enrolment as ‘Robert
the Brochere’ (v. Broker) is of the rarest occurrence—so rare, indeed, as to
make one feel it was an undoubted freak on the part of the registrar,
whoever he might be.
VI. In some few cases I have set down surnames which are not treated of
in the text. I have done this either because the name seemed worthy of this
casual notice, or because, though not itself mentioned, it happened to
corroborate some statement I have made regarding a particular name
belonging to the same class.
In conclusion, I will not say there is no mistake in the Index—that would
be a bold thing to state; I will not say that I may not have given an instance
that does not rightly belong to the surname under which it is set; but I can
asseverate that I have honestly attempted to be correct, and I believe a
careful examination will find but the most occasional error, if any at all, of
this class.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Preface to the Second Edition vii
Preface to the First Edition xiii
Preface to the Index of Instances xvii
Introductory Chapter 1

CHAPTER I.
Patronymic Surnames 9

CHAPTER II.
Local Surnames 107

CHAPTER III.
Surnames of Office 172

CHAPTER IV.
Surnames of Occupation (Country) 243

CHAPTER V.

Surnames of Occupation (Town) 317
Appendix to Chapters IV. and V. 415

CHAPTER VI.
Nicknames 423

Index of Instances 515

Footnotes 711

ENGLISH SURNAMES.

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.

To review the sources of a people’s nomenclature is to review that people’s
history. When we remember that there is nothing without a name, and that
every name that is named, whether it be of a man, or man’s work, or man’s
heritage of earth, came not by chance, or accident so called, but was given
out of some nation’s spoken language to denote some characteristic that
language expressed, we can readily imagine how important is the drift of
each—what a record must each contain. We cannot but see that could we
only grasp their true meaning, could we but take away the doubtful crust in
which they are oftentimes imbedded, then should we be speaking out of the
very mouth of history itself. For names are enduring—generations come
and go; and passing on with each, they become all but everlasting.
Nomenclature, in fact, is a well in which, as the fresh water is flowing
perennially through, there is left a sediment that clings to the bottom. This
silty deposit may accumulate—nay, it may threaten to choke it up, still the
well is there. It but requires to be exhumed, and we shall behold it in all its
simple proportions once more. And thus it is with names. They betoken life
and matter that is ever coming and going, ever undergoing change and
decay. But through it all they abide. The accretions of passing years may
fasten upon them—the varied accidents of lapsing time may attach to them
—they may become all but undistinguishable, but only let us get rid of that
which cleaves to them, and we lay bare in all its naked simplicity the
character and the lineaments of a long gone era. Look for instance at our
place-names. Apart from their various corruptions they are as they were
first entitled. So far as the nomenclature of our country itself is concerned,
England is at this present day as rude, as untutored, and as heathen as at the
moment those Norwegian and Germanic hordes grounded their keels upon
our shores, for all our place-names, saving where the Celt still lingers, are
their bequest, and bear upon them the impress of their life and its

surroundings. These are they which tell us such strange truths—how far
they had made progress as yet in the arts of life, what were the habits they
practised, what was the religion they believed in. And as with place-names,
so with our own. As records of past history they are equally truthful, equally
suggestive. One important difference, however, there is—Place-names, as I
have just hinted, once given are all but imperishable. Mountains, valleys,
and streams still, as a rule, retain the names first given them. Personal
names, those simple individual names which we find in use throughout all
pre-Norman history, were but for the life of him to whom they were
attached. They died with him, nor passed on saving accidentally. Nor were
those second designations, those which we call surnames as being
‘superadded to Christian names,’ at first of any lasting character. It was not
till the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, or even fourteenth centuries that they
became hereditary—that is, in any true sense stationary.
Before, however, we enter into the history of these, and with regard to
England that is the purpose of this book, it will be well to take a brief
survey of the actual state of human nomenclature in preceding times.
Surnames, we must remember, were the simple result of necessity when
population, hitherto isolated and small, became so increased as to
necessitate further particularity than the merely personal one could supply.
One name, therefore, was all that was needed in early times, and one name,
as a general rule, is all that we find. The Bible is, of course, our first record
of these—‘Adam,’ ‘Eve,’ ‘Joseph,’ ‘Barak,’ ‘David,’ ‘Isaiah,’ all were
simple, single, and expressive titles, given in most cases from some
circumstances attending their creation or birth. When the Israelites were
crowded together in the wilderness they were at once involved in
difficulties of identification. We cannot imagine to ourselves how such a
population as that of Manchester or Birmingham could possibly get on with
but single appellations. Of course I do not put this by way of real
comparison, for with the Jewish clan or family system this difficulty must
have been materially overcome. Still it is no wonder that in the later books
of Moses we should find them falling back upon this patronymic as a means
of identifying the individual. Thus such expressions as ‘Joshua the son of
Nun,’ or ‘Caleb the son of Jephunah,’ or ‘Jair the son of Manasseh,’ are not
unfrequently to be met with. Later on, this necessity was caused by a further
circumstance. Certain of these single names became popular over others.
‘John,’ ‘Simon,’ and ‘Judas’ were such. A further distinction, therefore, was

necessary. This gave rise to sobriquets of a more diverse character. We find
the patronymic still in use, as in ‘Simon Barjonas,’ that is, ‘Simon the son of
Jonas;’ but in addition to this, we have also the local element introduced, as
in ‘Simon of Cyrene,’ and the descriptive in ‘Simon the Zealot.’ Thus,
again, we have ‘Judas Iscariot,’ whatever that may mean, for commentators
are divided upon the subject; ‘Judas Barsabas,’ and ‘Judas of Galilee.’ In the
meantime the heathen but polished nations of Greece and Rome had been
adopting similar means, though the latter was decidedly the first in method.
Among the former, such double names as ‘Dionysius the Tyrant,’ ‘Diogenes
the Cynic,’ ‘Socrates the son of Sophronicus,’ or ‘Hecatæus of Miletus,’
show the same custom, and the same need. To the Roman, however,
belongs, as I have said, the earliest system of nomenclature, a system,
perhaps, more careful and precise than any which has followed after. The
purely Roman citizen had a threefold name. The first denoted the
‘prænomen,’ and answered to our personal, or baptismal, name. The second
was what we may term the clan-name; and the third, the cognomen,
corresponded with our present surname. Thus we have such treble
appellations as ‘Marcus Tullius Cicero,’ or ‘Aulus Licinius Archeas.’ If a
manumitted slave had the citizenship conferred upon him, his single name
became his cognomen, and the others preceded it, one generally being the
name of him who was the emancipator. Thus was it of ‘Licinius’ in the last-
mentioned instance. With the overthrow of the Western Empire, however,
this system was lost, and the barbarians who settled upon its ruins brought
back the simple appellative once more. Arminius, their chief hero, was
content with that simple title. Alaric, the brave King of the Goths, is only so
known. Caractacus and Vortigern, to come nearer home, represented but the
same custom.
But we are not without traces of those descriptive epithets which had
obtained among the earlier communities of the East. The Venerable Bede,
speaking of two missionaries, both of whom bore the name of ‘Hewald,’
says, ‘pro diversâ capellorum specie unus Niger Hewald, alter Albus
diceretur;’ that is, in modern parlance, the colour of their hair being
different, they came to be called ‘Hewald Black,’ and ‘Hewald White.’
Another Saxon, distinguished for his somewhat huge proportions, and
bearing the name of ‘Ethelred,’ was known as ‘Mucel,’ or ‘Great,’ a word
still lingering in the Scottish mickle. We may class him, therefore, with our
‘le Grands,’ as we find them inscribed in the Norman rolls, the progenitors

of our ‘Grants,’ and ‘Grands,’ or our ‘Biggs,’ as Saxon as himself. Thus
again, our later ‘Fairfaxes,’ ‘Lightfoots,’ ‘Heavisides,’ and ‘Slows,’ are but
hereditary nicknames like to the earlier ‘Harfagres,’ ‘Harefoots,’
‘Ironsides,’ and ‘Unreadys,’ which died out, so far as their immediate
possessors went, with the ‘Harolds,’ and ‘Edmunds,’ and ‘Ethelreds,’ upon
whom they were severally foisted. They were but expressions of popular
feeling to individual persons by means of which that individuality was
increased, and, as with every other instance I have mentioned hitherto,
passed away with the lives of their owners. No descendant succeeded to the
title. The son, in due course of time, got a sobriquet of his own, by which he
was familiarly known, but that, too, was but personal and temporary. It was
no more hereditary than had been his father’s before him, and even so far as
himself was concerned might be again changed according to the humour or
caprice of his neighbours and acquaintances. And this went on for several
more centuries, only as population increased these sobriquets became but
more and more common.
In the eleventh and twelfth centuries, however, a change took place. By a
silent and unpremeditated movement over the whole of the more populated
and civilized European societies, nomenclature began to assume a solid
lasting basis. It was the result, in fact, of an insensibly growing necessity.
Population was on the increase, commerce was spreading, and society was
fast becoming corporate. With all this arose difficulties of individualization.
It was impossible, without some further distinction, to maintain a current
identity. Hence what had been but an occasional and irregular custom
became a fixed and general practice—the distinguishing sobriquet, not, as I
say, of premeditation, but by a silent compact, became part and parcel of a
man’s property, and passed on with his other possessions to his direct
descendants. This sobriquet had come to be of various kinds. It might be the
designation of the property owned, as in the case of the Norman barons and
their feudatory settlements, or it might be some local peculiarity that
marked the abode. It might be the designation of the craft the owner
followed. It might be the title of the rank or office he held. It might be a
patronymic—a name acquired from the personal or Christian name of his
father or mother. It might be some characteristic, mental or physical,
complimentary or the reverse. Any of these it might be, it mattered not
which; but when once it became attached to the possessor and gave him a
fixed identity, it clung to him for his life, and eventually passed on to his

offspring. Then it was that at length local and personal names came
somewhat upon the same level; and as the former, some centuries before,
had stereotyped the life of our various Celtic and Slavonic and Teutonic
settlements, so now these latter fossilized the character of the era in which
they arose; and here we have them, with all the antiquity of their birth upon
them, breathing of times and customs and fashions and things that are now
wholly passed from our eyes, or are so completely changed as to bear but
the faintest resemblance to that which they have been. To analyse some of
these names, for all were impossible, is the purpose of the following
chapters. I trust that ere I have finished my task, I shall have been able to
throw some little light, at least, on the life and habits of our early English
forefathers.
The reader will have observed that I have just incidentally alluded to five
different classes of names. For the sake of further distinction I will place
them formally and under more concise headings:—
1. Baptismal or personal names.
2. Local surnames.
3. Official surnames.
4. Occupative surnames.
5. Sobriquet surnames, or Nicknames.

I need scarcely add that under one of these five divisions will every
surname in all the countries of Europe be found.

CHAPTER I.

PATRONYMIC SURNAMES.

It is impossible to say how important an influence have merely personal
names exercised upon our nomenclature. The most familiar surnames we
can meet with, saving that of ‘Smith,’ are to be found in this list. For
frequency we have no names to be compared with ‘Jones,’ or ‘Williamson,’
or ‘Thompson,’ or ‘Richardson.’ How they came into being is easily
manifest. Nothing could be more natural than that children should often
pass current in the community in which they lived as the sons of ‘Thomas,’
or ‘William,’ or ‘Richard,’ or ‘John;’ and that these several relationships
should be found in our directories as distinct sobriquets only shows that
there was a particular generation in these families in which this title became
permanent, and passed on to future descendants as an hereditary surname.[2]
The interest that attaches to these patronymics is great—for it is by them we
can best discover what names were in vogue at this period, and what not,
and of those which were, by their relative frequency, in a measure, what
were the most popular. Certainly the change is most extraordinary when we
compare the past with the present. Some, once so popular that they scarce
gave identity to the bearer, are now all but obsolete, while numerous
appellations at present generally current were then utterly unknown. There
are surnames familiar to our ears whose root as a Christian name is now
passed out of knowledge; while, on the other hand, many a Christian name
now daily upon our lips has no surname formed from it to tell of any
lengthened existence. The fact is, that while our surnames, putting
immigration aside, have been long at a standstill, we have ever been and are
still adding to our stock of baptismal names.[3] Each new national crisis,
each fresh achievement of our arms, each new princely bride imported from

abroad—these events are being commemorated daily at the font. This is but
the continuance of a custom, and one very natural, which has ever existed.
Turn where we will in English history during the last eight hundred years,
and we shall find the popular sympathies seeking an outlet in baptism. Did
a prince of the blood royal meet with a hapless and cruel fate? His memory
was at once embalmed in the names of the children born immediately
afterwards, saving when a mother’s superstitious fears came in to prevent it.
Did some national hero arise who upheld and asserted the people’s rights
against a grinding and hateful tyranny? His name is speedily to be found
inscribed on every hearth. The reverse is of equal significance. It is by the
fact of a name, which must have been of familiar import, finding few to
represent it, we can trace a people’s dislikes and a nation’s prejudices. A
name once in favour, as a rule, however, kept its place. The cause to which
it owed its rise had long passed into the shade of forgotten things, but the
name, if it had but attained a certain hold, seems easily to have kept it, till
indeed such a convulsion occurred as revolutionised men and things and
their names together.
There have been two such revolutionary crises in English nomenclature,
the Conquest and the Reformation, the second culminating in the Puritan
Commonwealth. Other crises have stamped themselves in indelible lines
upon our registers, but the indenture, if as strongly impressed, was far less
general, and in the main merely enlarged rather than changed our stock of
national names. Thus was it with the Crusades. A few of the names it
introduced have been popular ever since. Many, at first received favourably,
died out, if not with, at least soon after, the subsidence of the spirit to which
they owed their rise. Some of these came from the Eastern Church, of
whose existence at all the Crusader seems to have suddenly reminded us.
Some were Biblical, associated in Bible narrative with the very soil the
Templars trod. Some, again, were borrowed from Continental comrades in
arms, names which had caught the fancy of those who introduced them, or
were connected with friendly rivalries and pledged friendships. This era,
being concurrent with the establishment of surnames, has left its mark upon
our nomenclature; but it was no revolution.
The period in which these names began to assume an hereditary character
varies so greatly that it is impossible to make any definite statement. As a
familiar custom I should say it arose in the twelfth century. But there are

places, both in Lancashire and Yorkshire, where, as in Wales, men are wont
to be styled to this very day by a complete string of patronymics. To hear a
man called ‘Bill’s o’Jack’s,’ ‘o’Dick’s,’ ‘o’Harry’s,’ ‘o’Tom’s,’ is by no
means a rare incident. A hit at this formerly common Welsh practice is
given in ‘Sir John Oldcastle,’ a play printed in 1600, in which ran the
following conversation:—
‘Judge: What bail? What sureties?
‘Davy: Her cozen ap Rice, ap Evan, ap Morice, ap Morgan, ap
Llewellyn, ap Madoc, ap Meredith, ap Griffin, ap Davis, ap Owen, ap
Shinkin Jones.
‘Judge: Two of the most efficient are enow.
‘Sheriff: And ’t please your lordship, these are all but one.’
This ‘ap,’ the Welsh equivalent of our English ‘son,’ when it has come
before a name beginning with a vowel, has in many instances become
incorporated with it. Thus ‘Ap-Hugh’ has given us ‘Pugh,’ ‘Ap-Rice,’ just
mentioned, ‘Price,’ or as ‘Reece,’ ‘Preece;’ ‘Ap-Owen,’ ‘Bowen;’ ‘Ap-
Evan,’ ‘Bevan;’ ‘Ap-Robert,’ ‘Probert;’ ‘Ap-Roger,’ ‘Prodger;’ ‘Ap-
Richard,’ ‘Pritchard;’ ‘Ap-Humphrey,’ ‘Pumphrey;’ ‘Ap-Ithell,’ ‘Bethell;’[4]
or ‘Ap-Howell,’ ‘Powell.’[5] ‘Prosser’ has generally been thought a
corruption of ‘proser,’ one who was garrulously inclined; but this is a
mistake, it is simply ‘Ap-Rosser.’ The Norman patronymic was formed
similarly as the Welsh, by a prefix, that of ‘fitz,’ the modern French ‘fils.’
Surnames of this class were at first common. Thus we find such names as
‘Fitz-Gibbon,’ ‘Fitz-Gerald,’ ‘Fitz-Patrick,’ ‘Fitz-Waryn,’ ‘Fitz-Rauf,’ ‘Fitz-
Payn,’ ‘Fitz-Richard,’ or ‘Fitz-Neele.’ But though this obtained for awhile
among some of the nobler families of our country, it has made in general no
sensible impression upon our surnames. The Saxon added ‘son,’ as a
desinence, as ‘Williamson,’ that is, ‘William’s son,’ or ‘Bolderson,’ that is,
‘Baldwin’s son,’ or merely the genitive suffix, as ‘Williams,’ or ‘Richards.’
This class has been wonderfully enlarged by the custom then in vogue, as
now, of reducing every baptismal name to some curt and familiar
monosyllable. It agreed with the rough-and-ready humour of the Anglo-
Norman character so to do. How common this was we may see from
Gower’s description of the insurrection of Wat Tyler:

‘Watte’ vocat, cui ‘Thoma’ venit, neque ‘Symme’ retardat,
‘Bat’-que ‘Gibbe’ simul, ‘Hykke’ venire jubent:
‘Colle’ furit, quem ‘Bobbe’ juvat nocumenta parantes,
Cum quibus, ad damnum ‘Wille’ coire volat—
‘Grigge’ rapit, dum ‘Davie’ strepit, comes est quibus ‘Hobbe,’
‘Larkin’ et in medio non minor esse putat:
‘Hudde’ ferit, quem ‘Judde’ terit, dum ‘Tibbe’ juvatur
‘Jacke’ domosque viros vellit, en ense necat—

Or let the author of ‘Piers Plowman’ speak. ‘Glutton’ having been seduced
to the alehouse door, we are told—
Then goeth ‘Glutton’ in and grete other after,
‘Cesse’ the souteresse sat on the bench:
‘Watte’ the warner and his wife bothe:
‘Tymme’ the tynkere and twayne of his ’prentices.
‘Hikke’ the hackney man and ‘Hugh’ the nedlere,
‘Clarice’ of Cokkeslane, and the clerke of the churche;
‘Dawe’ the dykere, and a dozen othere.

In these two quotations we see at once the clue to the extraordinary
number of patronymics our directories contain of these short and curtailed
forms. Thus ‘Dawe,’ from ‘David,’ gives us ‘Dawson,’ or ‘Dawes;’ ‘Hikke’
from ‘Isaac,’ ‘Hickson,’ or ‘Hicks;’ ‘Watte,’ from ‘Walter,’ ‘Watson,’ or
‘Watts.’ Nor was this all. A large addition was made to this category by the
introduction of a further element. This arose from the nursery practice of
giving pet names. Much as this is done now, it would seem to have been
still more common then. In either period the method has been the same—
that of turning the name into a diminutive. Our very word ‘pet’ itself is but
the diminutive ‘petite,’ or ‘little one.’ The fashion adopted, however, was
different. We are fond of using ‘ie,’ or ‘ley.’ Thus with us ‘John’ becomes
‘Johnnie,’ ‘Edward,’ ‘Teddie,’ ‘Charles,’ ‘Charley.’ In early days the four
diminutives in use were those of ‘kin,’ ‘cock,’ and the terminations ‘ot’ or
‘et,’ and ‘on’ or ‘en,’ the two latter being of Norman-French origin.
1. Kin.—This Saxon term, corresponding with the German ‘chen,’ and
the French ‘on’ or ‘en,’ referred to above, and introduced, most probably, so
far as the immediate practice was concerned, by the Flemings, we still
preserve in such words as ‘manikin,’ ‘pipkin,’ ‘lambkin,’ or ‘doitkin.’ This
is very familiar as a nominal adjunct. Thus, in an old poem, entitled ‘A Litul
soth Sermun,’ we find the following:—

Nor those prude yongemen
That loveth ‘Malekyn,’
And those prude maydenes
That loveth ‘Janekyn;’
At chirche and at chepynge
When they togadere come
They runneth togaderes
And speaketh of derne love.
————
Masses and matins
Ne kepeth they nouht,
For ‘Wilekyn’ and ‘Watekyn’
Be in their thouht—

Hence we have derived such surnames as ‘Simpkins’ and ‘Simpkinson,’
‘Thompkins’ and ‘Tomkinson.’
2. Cock.—Our nursery literature still secures in its ‘cock-robins,’ ‘cock-
boats,’ and ‘cock-horses,’ the immortality of this second termination. It
forms an important element in such names as ‘Simcox,’ ‘Jeffcock,’
‘Wilcock,’ or ‘Wilcox,’ and ‘Laycock’ (Lawrence).
3. Ot or et.—These terminations were introduced by the Normans, and
certainly have made an impregnable position for themselves in our English
nomenclature. In our dictionaries they are found in such diminutives as
‘pocket’ (little poke), ‘ballot,’ ‘chariot,’ ‘target,’ ‘latchet,’ ‘lancet;’ in our
directories in such names as ‘Emmett,’ or ‘Emmot’ (Emma), ‘Tillotson’
(Matilda), ‘Elliot’ (Elias), ‘Marriot’ (Mary), ‘Willmot’ (Willamot), and
‘Hewet,’ or ‘Hewetson’ (Hugh).[6]
4. On or en.—These terminations became very popular with the French,
and their directories teem with the evidences they display of former favour.
They are all but unknown to our English dictionary, but many traces of their
presence may be found in our nomenclature. Thus ‘Robert’ became ‘Robin,’
‘Nicol’ ‘Colin,’ ‘Pierre’ ‘Perrin,’ ‘Richard’ ‘Diccon,’ ‘Mary’ ‘Marion,’
‘Alice’ ‘Alison,’ ‘Beatrice’ ‘Beton,’ ‘Hugh’ ‘Huon,’ or ‘Huguon’; and hence
such surnames as ‘Colinson,’ ‘Perrin,’ ‘Dicconson,’ ‘Allison’ (in some
cases), ‘Betonson,’ ‘Huggins,’ and ‘Hugginson.’[7]
I have already said that the Norman invasion revolutionised our system
of personal names. Certainly it is in this the antagonism between Norman
and Saxon is especially manifest. Occasionally, in looking over the records

of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, we may light upon a ‘Godwin,’ or
‘Guthlac,’ or ‘Goddard,’ but they are of the most exceptional occurrence.
Were the local part of these entries foreign, explanation would be unneeded.
But while the personal element is foreign, the local denotes settlement from
the up-country. Look at the London population of this period from such
records as we possess. There is scarcely a hamlet, however small, that does
not contribute to swell the sum of the metropolitan mass, and while
‘London’ itself is of comparatively great rarity in our nomenclature, an
insignificant village like, say Debenham, in Suffolk, will have its score of
representatives—so great was the flow, so small the ebb. It is this large
accession from the interior which is the stronghold of Saxon nomenclature.
It is this removal from one village to another, and from one town to another,
which has originated that distich quoted by old Vestigan—
In ‘ford,’ in ‘ham,’ in ‘ley,’ in ‘ton,’
The most of English surnames run.

And yet, strange as it may seem, it is very doubtful whether for a
lengthened period, at least, the owners of these names were of Saxon origin.
The position of the Saxon peasantry forbade that they should be in any but a
small degree accessory to this increase. The very villenage they lived under,
the very manner in which they were attached to the glebe, rendered any
such roving tendencies as these impossible. These country adventurers,
then, whose names I have instanced, were of no Saxon stock, but the sons
of the humbler dependants of those Normans who had obtained landed
settlements, or of Norman traders who had travelled up the country, fixing
their habitation wheresoever the wants of an increasing people seemed to
give them an opportunity of gaining a livelihood. The children of such,
driven out of these smaller communities by the fact that there was no
further opening for them, poor as the villeins amongst whom they dwelt,
but different in that they were free, would naturally resort to the metropolis
and other large centres of industry. Not a few, however, would belong to the
free Saxons, who, much against their will, no doubt, but for the sake of
gain, would pass in the community to which they had joined themselves by
the name belonging to the more powerful and mercantile party. In the same
way, too, some not small proportion of these names would belong to those
Saxon serfs who, having escaped their bondage, would, on reaching the

towns, change their names to elude detection. These, of course, would be
got from the Norman category. But be all this as it may, the fact remains
that throughout all the records and rolls of the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries, we find, with but the rarest exceptions, all our personal names to
be Norman. The Saxon seems to have become well-nigh extinct. There
might have been a war of extermination against them. In an unbroken
succession we meet with such names as ‘John’ and ‘Richard,’ ‘Robert’ and
‘Henry,’ ‘Thomas’ and ‘Ralph,’ ‘Geoffrey’ and ‘Jordan,’ ‘Stephen’ and
‘Martin,’ ‘Joscelyn’ and ‘Almaric,’ ‘Benedict’ and ‘Laurence,’ ‘Reginald’
and ‘Gilbert,’ ‘Roger’ and ‘Walter,’ ‘Eustace’ and ‘Baldwin,’ ‘Francis’ and
‘Maurice,’ ‘Theobald’ and ‘Cecil,’—no ‘Edward,’ no ‘Edmund,’ no
‘Harold’ even, saving in very isolated cases. It is the same with female
names. While ‘Isabel’ and ‘Matilda,’ ‘Mirabilla’ and ‘Avelina,’ ‘Amabilla’
and ‘Idonia,’ ‘Sibilla’ and ‘Ida,’ ‘Letitia’ and ‘Agnes,’ ‘Petronilla’ or
‘Parnel’ and ‘Lucy,’ ‘Alicia’ and ‘Avice,’ ‘Alianora,’ or ‘Anora’ and
‘Dowsabell,’ ‘Clarice’ and ‘Muriel,’ ‘Agatha’ and ‘Rosamund,’ ‘Felicia’ and
‘Adelina,’ ‘Julia’ and ‘Blanche,’ ‘Isolda’ and ‘Amelia’ or ‘Emilia,’ ‘Beatrix’
and ‘Euphemia,’ ‘Annabel’ and ‘Theophania,’ ‘Constance’ and ‘Joanna’
abound; ‘Etheldreda,’ or ‘Edith,’ or ‘Ermentrude,’ all of the rarest
occurrence, are the only names which may breathe to us of purely Saxon
times. In the case of several, however, a special effort was made later on,
when the policy of allaying the jealous feelings of the popular class was
resorted to. For a considerable time the royal and chief baronial families
had in their pride sought names for their children from the Norman category
merely. After the lapse of a century, however, finding the Saxon spirit still
chafed and uneasy under a foreign thrall, several names of a popular
character were introduced into the royal nursery. Thus was it with ‘Edward’
and ‘Edmund.’ The former of these appellations was represented by Edward
I., the latter by his brother Edmund, Earl of Lancaster. Previously to this,
too, an attempt had been made to restore the British ‘Arthur’ in that nephew
of Cœur de Lion who so miserably perished by his uncle’s means, and
thereby gave Lackland a securer hold upon the English throne, if not upon
the affections of the country. The sad and gloomy mystery which
surrounded the disappearance of this boy-prince seems to have inspired
mothers with a superstitious awe of the name, for we do not find, as in the
case of ‘Edward’ or ‘Edmund,’ its royal restoration having the effect of
making it general.[8] On the contrary, as an effort in its favour, it seems to

have signally failed. Of all our early historic names I find fewest relics of
this.
The difficulty of subdividing our first chapter is great, but for the sake of
convenience we have decided to preserve the following order:—
1. Names that preceded and survived the Conquest.
2. Names introduced or confirmed by the Normans.
3. Names from the Calendar of the Saints.
4. Names from Festivals and Holy-days.
5. Patronymics formed from occupations and officerships.
6. Metronymics.
7. Names from Holy Scripture.

I.—Names that preceded and survived the Conquest.

The peculiar feature of the great majority of such names as were in vogue
previous to the Norman Conquest, and which to a certain extent maintained
a hold, is that (saving in two or three instances) they did not attach to
themselves either filial or pet desinences. If they have come down to us as
surnames, they are found in their simple unaltered dress. Thus, taking Afred
as an example, we see in our directories ‘Alfred’ or ‘Alured’ or ‘Allured’ to
be the only patronymics that have been handed down to us. Latinized as
Aluredus it figures in Domesday. The Hundred Rolls, later on, register an
Alured Ape, and the surname appears in the Parliamentary Writs in the case
of William Alured. It is hard to separate our ‘Aldreds’ from our ‘Allureds.’
The usually entered forms are ‘Richard Alred,’ ‘Hugh Aldred,’ or ‘Aldred
fil. Roger.’ Besides ‘Aldred’ there is ‘Alderson,’ which may be but
‘Aldredson.’ Aylwin is met by such entries as Richard Alwine, or Thomas
Ailwyne: ‘Adelard,’ as ‘Adlard’ or ‘Alard,’ and ‘Agilward’ as ‘Aylward,’
are of more frequent occurrence; while Aldrech, once merely a personal
name, is now, like many of the above, found only surnominally.
The Teutonic mythology is closely interwoven in several of these names.
The primary root ‘god’ or ‘good,’ which stood in all Teuton languages as the
title of divinity, was familiarised as the chief component in not a few of our
still existing surnames. ‘Godwin,’ the name which the stout old earl of
Danish blood has given to our Goodwin Sands, seems to have been well
established when the great Survey was made. The French ‘Godin’ seems
scarcely to have crossed the Channel, but ‘Godwin’ and ‘Goodwin’ have
well filled up the gap. ‘Hugh fil. Godewin,’ or ‘Godwin de Dovre,’
represent our registers. Our ‘Godbolds’ are found in the dress of
‘Godbolde,’ our ‘Goodiers’ and ‘Goodyears’ as ‘Goder’ or ‘Godyer,’ and
our ‘Goddards’ as ‘Godard.’ The Hundred Rolls give us a ‘John fil.
Godard.’ The Alpine mountain reminds us of its connection with ‘Gotthard,’
and Miss Yonge states that it is still in use as a Christian name in Germany.
‘Gottschalk,’ a common surname in the same country, was well known as a
personal name in England in the forms of ‘Godescalde,’[9] ‘Godescall,’ or
‘Godeschalke,’ such entries as ‘Godefry fil. Godescallus,’ or ‘Godeskalcus
Armorer,’ or ‘John Godescalde,’ being not unfrequent. The latter name

suggests to us our ‘Godsalls’ and ‘Godshalls’ as the present English
surnominal forms. ‘Gottschalk’ in our directories may always be looked
upon as a more recent importation from Germany. Goderic was perhaps the
commonest of this class—its usual dress in our registers being ‘Gooderick,’
‘Goderiche,’ ‘Godrick,’ and ‘Godric.’ An early Saxon abbot was exalted
into the ranks of the saints as ‘St. Goderic,’ and this would have its
influence in the selection of baptismal names at that period. ‘Guthlac,’ not
without descendants, too, though less easily recognisable in our
‘Goodlakes’ and ‘Goodlucks,’ and ‘Geoffrey,’ or ‘Godfrey,’ whom I shall
have occasion to mention again, belong to the same category.[10] The last of
this class I may mention is the old ‘Godeberd,’ or ‘Godbert.’ As simple
‘Godeberd’ it is found in such a name as ‘Roger Godeberd,’ met with in the
London Tower records. Somewhat more corrupted we come across a ‘John
Gotebedde’ in the Hundred Rolls of the thirteenth century; and much about
the same time a ‘Robert Gotobedd’ lived in Winchelsea. In this latter form, I
need scarcely say, it has now a somewhat flourishing existence in our midst.
Some will be reminded of the lines:—
Mr. Barker’s as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,
Mr. Gotobed sits up till half-after three,
Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney.

Still, despite its long antiquity, when I recall the pretty Godbert from which
it arose, I would, were I one of them, go to bed as such some night for the
last time, nor get up again till I could dress, if not my person, at least my
personality in its real and more antique habiliment.
‘Os,’ as a root-word implicative of deity, has made for itself a firm place
in our ‘Osbalds,’ ‘Osberts,’ ‘Oswins,’ ‘Oswalds,’ ‘Osbornes,’ and
‘Osmunds’ or ‘Osmonds.’ Instances of all these may be seen in our older
registries. We quickly light upon entries such as ‘Osbert le Ferrur,’ ‘Osborne
le Hawkere,’ ‘Oswin Ogle,’ ‘Nicholas Osemund,’ or ‘John Oswald.’ Nor
must ‘Thor,’ the ‘Jupiter tonans’ of the Norsemen, be left out, for putting
aside local names, and the day of the week that still memorialises him, we
have yet several surnames that speak of his influence. ‘Thurstan’ and
‘Thurlow’ seem both of kin. ‘Thorald,’ however, has made the greatest
mark, and next ‘Thurkell.’ Thorald may be seen in ‘Torald Chamberlain’
(A), Ralph fil. Thorald (A), or Torald Benig (A); while Thurkell or Thurkill

is found first in the fuller form in such entries as ‘Richard Thyrketyll,’ or
‘Robert Thirkettle,’ and then in the contracted in ‘Thurkeld le Seneschal,’ or
‘Robert Thurkel.’
We have just referred to Thurkettle. ‘Kettle’ was very closely connected
with the mythology of Northern Europe, and is still a great name in Norway
and in Iceland. The sacrificial cauldron of the gods must certainly have
been vividly present to the imagination of our forefathers. The list of names
compounded with ‘Kettle’ is large even in England. The simple ‘Kettle’ was
very common. In Domesday it is ‘Chetill,’ in the Hundred Rolls ‘Ketel’ or
‘Cetyl’ or ‘Cattle.’ Such entries as ‘Ketel le Mercer,’ or ‘Chetel Frieday,’ or
‘Cattle Bagge,’ are met with up to the fifteenth century, and as surnames
‘Kettle,’ ‘Chettle’ and ‘Cattle’ or ‘Cattell’ have a well-established place in
the nineteenth. Of the compound forms we have already noticed
‘Thurkettle’ or ‘Thurkell.’ ‘Anketil le Mercir’ (A), ‘Roger Arketel’ (A),
‘William Asketill’ (Q), and ‘Robert fil. Anskitiel’ (W. 12) are all but
changes rung on Oskettle. The abbots of England, in 941, 992, and 1052,
were ‘Turketyl,’ ‘Osketyl,’ and ‘Wulfketyl’ respectively. The last seems to
be the same as ‘Ulchetel’ found in Domesday.[11] In the same Survey we
light upon a ‘Steinchetel,’ and ‘Grinketel’ is also found in a Yorkshire
record of the same period.[12] Orm, the representative of pagan worship in
respect of the serpent, has left its memorial in such entries as ‘Alice fil.
Orme,’ or ‘Ormus Archbragge.’ The descendants of these are our ‘Ormes’
and ‘Ormesons.’ More local names abide in ‘Ormsby,’ ‘Ormskirk,’
‘Ormerod,’ and ‘Ormes Head.’
A series of names, some of them connected with the heroic and legendary
lore of Northern Europe, were formed from the root ‘sig’—conquest. Many
of these maintained a position as personal names long after the Norman
invasion, and now exist in our directories as surnames. Nevertheless, as
with the others hitherto mentioned, they are all but invariably found in their
simple and uncompounded form. Our ‘Sewards,’ ‘Seawards,’ and ‘Sawards’
represent the chief of these. It is found in England in the seventh century,
and was a great Danish name. Entries like ‘Syward Godwin’ or ‘Siward
Oldcorn’ are found as late as the beginning of the fourteenth century. Next
we may mention our ‘Segars,’ ‘Sagars,’ ‘Sahers,’ ‘Sayers,’ and ‘Saers,’
undoubted descendants of such men as ‘Saher de Quincy,’ the famous old
Earl of Winchester. The registrations of this as a personal name are very

frequent. Such entries as ‘John fil. Saer,’ ‘Saher Clerk,’ ‘Saher le King,’ or
‘Eudo fil. Sygar,’ are common. Nor has ‘Sigbiorn’ been allowed to become
obsolete, as our ‘Sibornes’ and ‘Seabornes’ can testify. I cannot discover
any instance of ‘Sibbald’ as a personal name after the Domesday Survey,
but as a relic of ‘Sigbald’ it is still living in a surnominal form. Though
apparently occupative, our registers clearly proclaim that ‘Seman’ or
‘Seaman’ must be set here. As a personal name it is found in such
designations as ‘Seman de Champagne,’ or ‘Seaman de Baylif,’ or ‘Seaman
Carpenter.’ With the mention of ‘Sebright’ as a corruption of ‘Sigbert’ or
‘Sebert,’ I pass on; but this is sufficient to show that a name whose root-
meaning implied heroism was popular with our forefathers.
The popular notion that ‘Howard’ is nothing but ‘Hogward’ is not borne
out by facts. We find no trace whatever of its gradual reduction into such a
corrupt form. As we shall have occasion to show hereafter, it is our
‘Hoggarts’ who thus maintain the honours of our swine-tending ancestors.
There can be little doubt, indeed, that ‘Howard’ is but another form of
‘Harvard’ or ‘Hereward.’ That it had early become so pronounced and spelt
we can prove by an entry occurring in the Test. Ebor. (Surt. Soc.) where one
‘John Fitz-howard’ is registered. Our ‘Hermans’ and ‘Harmans’ represent
‘Herman,’ a name which, though in early use in England, we owe chiefly to
immigration in later days. Such entries as ‘Herman de Francia’ or ‘Herman
de Alemannia’ are occasionally met with. The fuller patronymic attached
itself to this name; hence such entries as ‘Walter Hermanson,’ and ‘John
Urmynson,’ ‘Harmer,’ and ‘Hermer,’ seem to be somewhat of kin to the last.
The personal form is found in ‘Robert fil. Hermer,’ and the surname in
‘Hopkins Harmar.’ Besides ‘Hardwin,’ ‘Hadwin’ is also met with as a relic
of the same, while ‘Harding’ has remained unaltered from the day when
registrars entered such names as ‘Robert fil. Harding’ and ‘Maurice fil.
Harding;’ but this, as ‘Fitz-harding’ reminds us, must be looked upon as of
Norman introduction. Nor must ‘Swain’ be forgotten. We find in the Survey
the wife of ‘Edward filius Suani,’ figuring among the tenants-in-chief of
Essex. This is of course but our present ‘Swainson’ or ‘Swanson;’ and when
we add all the ‘Swains,’ ‘Swayns,’ and ‘Swaynes’ of our directories we
shall find that this name has a tolerably assured position in the nineteenth
century. ‘Swain’ implied strength, specially the strength of youth; and as
Samson’s strength became utter weakness through his affection, so I
suppose it has fared with ‘Swain.’ The country shepherd piping to his

mistress, the lovesick bachelor, has monopolised the title. As a personal
name it occurs in such registrations as ‘Sweyn Colle,’ ‘Swanus le Riche,’ or
‘Adam fil. Swain.’

II.—Names introduced or confirmed by the Normans.

Of names specially introduced at the Conquest, or that received an
impulse by that event, we may mention ‘Serl’ and ‘Harvey.’ ‘Serl,’ found in
such names as ‘Serle Morice’ or ‘Serle Gotokirke,’ or ‘John fil. Serlo,’ still
abides in our ‘Searles’ and ‘Serles,’ ‘Serrells’ and ‘Serlsons.’ ‘William
Serleson’ occurs in an old Yorkshire register, and ‘Richard Serelson’ in the
Parliamentary Writs. The Norman diminutive also appears in Matilda Sirlot
(A) and Mabel Sirlot (A).[13] ‘Harvey,’ or ‘Herve,’ was more common than
many may imagine, and a fair number of entries such as ‘Herveus le Gos’ or
‘William fil. Hervei,’ may be seen in all our large rolls. The Malvern poet in
his ‘Piers Plowman’ employs the name:—
And thanne cam Coveitise,
Can I hym naght descryve,
So hungrily and holwe
Sire Hervy hym loked.

‘Arnold,’ now almost unknown in England as a baptismal name, made a
deep impression on our nomenclature, as it did on that of Central Europe.
‘Earn’ for the eagle is a word not yet obsolete in the North of England, and
this reminds us of the origin of the name. This kinship is more easily
traceable in our registries where the usual forms are ‘Ernaldus Carnifix,’ or
‘Peter Ernald.’ Besides ‘Arnold,’ ‘Arnison,’ and the diminutive ‘Arnott’ or
‘Arnet’[14] still live among us. ‘Alberic,’ or ‘Albrec,’ as we find it
occasionally written, soon found its way into our rolls as ‘Aubrey,’
although, as Ælfric, Miss Yonge shows it to have existed in our country
centuries earlier.[15] ‘Albred,’ probably but another form of the lately revived
‘Albert,’ is now found as ‘Allbright’ and the German ‘Albrecht.’
‘Emery,’ though now utterly forgotten as a personal name, may be said to
live on only in our surnames. It was once no unimportant sobriquet.
‘Americ,’ ‘Almeric,’ ‘Almaric,’ ‘Emeric,’ and ‘Eimeric,’ seem to have been
its original spellings in England, and thus, at least, it is more likely to
remind us that it is the same name to which, in the Italian form of Amerigo,
we now owe the title of that vast expanse of western territory which is so

indissolubly connected with English industry and English interests. Curter
forms than these were found in ‘Aylmar,’ ‘Ailmar,’ ‘Almar,’ and ‘Aymer,’
and ‘Amar.’ The surnames it has bequeathed to us are not few. It has had the
free run of the vowels in our ‘Amorys,’ ‘Emerys,’ and ‘Imarys,’ and in a
more patronymic form we may still oftentimes meet with it in our
‘Emersons,’ ‘Embersons,’[16] and ‘Imesons.’ ‘Ingram’ represents the old
‘Ingelram,’ ‘Engleram,’ ‘Iggelram,’ or ‘Ingeram,’ for all these forms may be
met with; and ‘Ebrardus,’ later on registered as ‘Eborard,’ still abides hale
and hearty in our ‘Everards’ and ‘Everys.’ The latter, however, can scarcely
be said to be quite extinct as a baptismal name. ‘Waleran,’ an English form
of the foreign ‘Valerian,’ is found in such an entry as ‘Walerand
Berchamstead,’ or ‘Waldrand Clark,’ or ‘Walran Oldman.’ We see at once
the origin of our ‘Walronds’ and ‘Walrands.’ The name of ‘Brice’ begins to
find itself located in England at this time. Hailing from Denmark, it may
have come in with the earlier raids from that shore, or later on in the more
peaceful channels of trade. The Hundred Rolls furnish us with ‘Brice fil.
William’ and ‘Brice le Parsun,’ while the Placita de Quo Warranto gives us
a ‘Brice le Daneys,’ who himself proclaims the nationality of the name. The
Norman diminutive is met with in ‘Briccot de Brainton’ (M M). ‘Brice’ and
‘Bryson’ (when not a corruption of ‘Bride-son’) are the present
representatives of this now forgotten name.[17] All the above names I have
placed together, because, while introduced or receiving an impetus by the
incoming of the Normans and their followers, they have, nevertheless, made
little impression on our general nomenclature. The fact that, with but one or
two exceptions, the usual pet addenda, ‘kin,’ ‘cock,’ and ‘ot,’ or ‘et,’ are
absolutely wanting, or even the patronymic ‘son,’ shows decisively that
they cannot be numbered among what we must call the popular names of
the period. Introduced here and there in the community at large, they
struggled on for bare existence, and have descended to us as surnames in
their simple and unaltered form.
We now turn to a batch of personal names of a different character, names
which, with a few exceptions, are still familiar to us at baptismal
celebrations, and which have changed themselves into so many varying
forms, that the surnames issuing from them are well-nigh legion. Most of
these are the direct result of the Conquest. They are either the sobriquets
borne by William, his family, and his leading followers, or by those whom
connections of blood, alliance, and interest afterwards brought into the

country. Many others received their solid settlement in England through the
large immigration of foreign artisans from Normandy, from Picardy, Anjou,
Flanders, and other provinces. The Flemish influence has been very strong.
I will first mention Drew, Warin, Paine, Ivo, and Hamon, because,
although they must be included among the most familiar names of their
time, they are now practically disused at the font. ‘Drew,’ or ‘Drogo,’
occurs several times in Domesday. An illegitimate son of Charlemagne was
so styled, and, doubtless, it owed its familiarity to the adherents of the
Conqueror. Later on, at any rate, it was firmly established, as such names as
Drew Drewery, Druco Bretun, or William fil. Drogo testify. That ‘Drewett’
is derived from the Norman diminutive can be proved from the Hundred
Rolls, wherein the same man is described in the twofold form of ‘Drogo
Malerbe’ and ‘Druett Malerbe.’ The feminine ‘Druetta de Pratello’ is also
found in the same records. ‘Drew’ and ‘Drewett’ are both in our directories.
[18]
Few names were more common from the eleventh to the fourteenth
century than ‘Warin,’ or ‘Guarin,’ or ‘Guerin’—the latter the form at present
generally found in France. It is the sobriquet that is incorporated in our
ancient ‘Mannerings,’ or ‘Mainwarings,’ a family that came from the
‘mesnil,’ or ‘manor,’ of ‘Warin,’ in a day when that was a familiar Christian
name in Norman households. A few generations later on we find securely
settled among ourselves such names as ‘Warin Chapman,’ or ‘Warinus
Gerold,’ or ‘Guarinus Banastre,’ in the baptismal, and ‘Warinus Fitz-Warin,’
or ‘John Warison,’ in the patronymic form, holding a steady place in our
mediæval rolls. Two of the characters in ‘Piers Plowman,’ as those who
have read it will remember, bear this as their personal sobriquet:—
One Waryn Wisdom
And Witty his fere
Followed him faste.

And again—
Then wente Wisdom
And Sire Waryn the Witty
And warnede wrong.

‘Robert Warinot,’ in the Hundred Rolls, and ‘William Warinot’ in the Placita
de Quo Warranto, reveal the origin of our ‘Warnetts;’ while our ‘Wareings,’

‘Warings,’ ‘Warisons,’ ‘Wasons,’ and ‘Fitz-Warins’—often written ‘Fitz-
Warren’—not to mention the majority of our ‘Warrens,’[19] are other of the
descendants of this famous old name that still survive. A favourite name in
these days was ‘Payn,’ or ‘Pagan.’ The softer form is given us in the ‘Man
of Lawes Tale’—
The Constable, and Dame Hermegild his wife,
Were payenes, and that country everywhere.

We all know the history of the word; how that, while the Gospel had made
advance in the cities, but not yet penetrated into the country, the dwellers in
the latter became looked upon with a something of contempt as idolaters, so
that, so far as this word was concerned, ‘countryman’ and ‘false-
worshipper’ became synonymous terms. In fact, ‘pagan’ embraced the two
meanings that ‘peasant’ and ‘pagan’ now convey, though the root of both is
the same. The Normans, it would appear, must have so styled some of
themselves who had refused baptism after that their chieftain, Rollo, had
become a convert; and hence, when William came over, the name was
introduced into England by several of his followers. In Domesday Book we
find among his tenants-in-chief the names of ‘Ralph Paganel’ and ‘Edmund
fil. Pagani.’ The name became more popular as time went on, and it is no
exaggeration to say that at one period—viz., the close of the Norman
dynasty—it had threatened to become one of the most familiar appellatives
in England. This will account for the frequency with which we meet such
entries in the past as ‘Robert fil. Pain,’ ‘Pain del Ash,’ ‘Pagan de la Hale,’
‘Roger fil. Pagan,’ ‘Payen le Dubbour,’ or ‘Elis le Fitz-Payn,’ and such
surnames in the present as ‘Pagan,’ ‘Payne,’ ‘Payn,’ ‘Paine,’ ‘Pain,’ and
‘Pynson.’ The diminutive also was not wanting, as ‘John Paynett’ (Z) or
‘Emma Paynot’ (W 2) could have testified. Thus, while in our dictionaries
‘pagan’ still represents a state of heathenism, in our directories it has long
ago been converted to the uses of Christianity, and become at the baptismal
font a Christian name. ‘Ivar,’ or ‘Iver,’ still familiarised to Scotchmen in
‘Mac-Iver,’ came to the Normans from the northern lands whence they were
sprung, and with them into England. It was not its first appearance here, as
St. Ives of Huntingdonshire could have testified in the seventh century. Still
its popular character was due to the Norman. Such names as ‘Yvo de
Taillbois’ (1211), mentioned in Bishop Pudsey’s ‘Survey of the Durham

See,’ ‘Ivo le Mercer,’ ‘Walter fil. Ive,’ ‘William Iveson,’ ‘Iveta Millisent,’ or
‘John fil. Ivette,’ serve to show us how familiar was this appellation with
both sexes.[20] Nor are its descendants inclined to let its memory die. We
have the simple ‘Ive’ and ‘Ives;’ we have the more patronymic ‘Iverson,’
‘Ivison,’ ‘Iveson,’ and ‘Ison,’ and the pet ‘Ivetts’ and ‘Ivatts,’ the latter
possibly feminine in origin.
‘Hamo,’ or ‘Hamon,’ requires a paragraph for itself. It is firmly imbedded
in our existing nomenclature, and has played an important part in its time.
Its forms were many, and though obsolete as baptismal names, all have
survived as surnames. Of these may be mentioned our ‘Hamons,’
‘Haymons,’ ‘Aymons,’ and ‘Fitz-Aymons.’ Formed like ‘Rawlyn,’
‘Thomlin,’ and ‘Cattlin,’ it bequeathed us ‘Hamlyn,’ a relic of such folk as
‘Hamelyn de Trap’ or ‘Osbert Hamelyn.’ Another change rung on the name
is traceable in such entries as ‘Hamund le Mestre,’ ‘Hamond Cobeler,’ or
‘John Fitz-Hamond,’ the source of our ‘Hammonds’ and ‘Hamonds;’ while
in ‘Alice Hamundson’ or ‘William Hamneson’ we see the lineage of our
many ‘Hampsons.’ But these are the least important. The Norman-French
diminutive, ‘Hamonet,’ speedily corrupted into ‘Hamnet’ and ‘Hammet,’
became one of our favourite baptismal names, and towards the reign of
Elizabeth one of the commonest. A ‘Hamnet de Dokinfield’ is found so
early as 1270 at Manchester (Didsbury Ch. Cheth. Soc.). Shakespeare’s son
was baptized ‘Hamnet,’ and was so called after ‘Hamnet Sadler,’ a friend of
the poet’s—a baker at Stratford. This man is styled ‘Hamlet’ also,
reminding us of another pet form of the name. We have already mentioned
‘Richard,’ ‘Christian,’ ‘Hugh,’ and ‘Hobbe,’ as severally giving birth to the
diminutives, ‘Rickelot,’ ‘Crestelot,’ ‘Huelot,’ and ‘Hobelot.’ In the same
way, ‘Hamon’ became ‘Hamelot,’ or ‘Hamelet,’ hence such entries as
‘Richard, son of Hamelot’ (AA 2), and ‘Hamelot de la Burste’ (Cal. and Inv.
of Treasury). Out of fifteen ‘Hamnets’ set down in ‘Wills and Inventories’
(Cheth. Soc.), six are recorded as ‘Hamlet,’ one being set down in both
forms as ‘Hamnet Massey’ and ‘Hamlet Massey’ (cf. i. 148, ii. 201). If the
reader will look through the index of Blomefield’s ‘Norfolk,’ he will find
that ‘Hamlet’ in that county had taken the entire place of ‘Hamnet.’ Amid a
large number of the former I cannot find one of the latter. It would be a
curious question how far Shakespeare was biassed by the fact of having a
‘Hamlet’ in his nursery into changing ‘Hambleth’ (the original title of the
story) to the form he has now immortalized. An open Bible, and, further on,

a Puritan spirit have left their influence on no name more markedly than
‘Hamon.’ As one after another new Bible character was commemorated at
the font, ‘Hamon’ got crushed out. Its last refuge has been found in our
directories, for so long as our ‘Hamlets,’ ‘Hamnets,’ ‘Hammets,’
‘Hammonds,’ and ‘Hampsons’ exist, it cannot be utterly forgotten.
‘Guy,’ or ‘Guyon,’ dates from the ‘Round Table,’ but it was reserved for
the Norman to make his name so familiar to English lips. The best proof of
this is that the surnames which it has left to us are all but entirely formed
from the Norman-French diminutive ‘Guyot,’ which in England became, of
course, ‘Wyot.’ Hence such entries as ‘Wyot fil. Helias,’ or ‘Wyott
Carpenter,’ or ‘Wyot Balistarius.’ The descendants of these, I need scarcely
say, are our ‘Wyatts.’ But the Norman initial was not entirely lost. ‘Aleyn
Gyot’ is found in the ‘Rolls of Parliament;’ and ‘Guyot’ and ‘Guyatt’ testify
to its existence in the nineteenth century.[21] ‘Ralph,’ or ‘Radulf,’ of whom
there were thirty-eight in Domesday, has survived in a number of forms.
Our ‘Raffs’ and ‘Raffsons’ can carry back their descent to days when ‘Raffe
Barton’ or ‘Peter Raffson’ thus signed themselves. The favourite pet forms
were ‘Rawlin’ and ‘Randle;’ hence such entries as ‘Raulyn de la Fermerie,’
‘Raulina de Briston,’ or ‘Randle de la Mill.’ To these it is we owe our
‘Rawlins,’ ‘Rawlings,’ ‘Rawlinsons,’ ‘Rollins,’ ‘Rollinsons,’ ‘Randles’ and
‘Randalls.’ Other and more ordinary corruptions are found in ‘Rawes,’
‘Rawson,’ ‘Rawkins,’ ‘Rapkins,’ and ‘Rapson.’ The reader may easily see
from this that ‘Ralph,’ from occupying a place in the foremost rank of early
favourites, is content now to stand in the very rear.
There are a number of names still in use, although not so popular as they
once were, which were brought in directly by the Normans, and which were
closely connected with the real or imaginary stories of which Charlemagne
was the central figure. Italy, France, and Spain possess a larger stock than
we do of this class, but those which did reach our shores made for
themselves a secure position. ‘Charles,’ by some strange accident, did not
obtain a place in England, nor is it to be found in our registers, saving in the
most isolated instances, till Charles the First, by his misfortunes, made it
one of the commonest in the land. In France, as Sir Walter Scott, in
‘Quentin Durward,’ reminds us, the pet form was ‘Charlot’ and ‘Charlat.’
This, as a surname, soon found its way to England, where it has existed for
many centuries. The feminine ‘Charlotte,’ since the death of the beloved

Princess of that name, has become almost a household word. Putting aside
‘Charles,’ then, the Paladins have bequeathed us ‘Roland,’ ‘Oliver,’
‘Robert,’ ‘Richard,’ ‘Roger,’ ‘Reginald,’ ‘Reynard,’ and ‘Miles.’ We see at
once in these names the parentage of some of our most familiar surnames.
‘Oliver’ was, perhaps, the least popular so far as numbers were concerned,
and might have died out entirely had not the Protector Cromwell brought it
again into notoriety. ‘Oliver,’ ‘Olver,’ ‘Ollier,’ and ‘Oliverson’ are the
present forms, and these are met by such entries as ‘Jordan Olyver,’ or
‘Philip fil. Oliver.’ ‘Roland,’ or ‘Orlando,’ was the nephew of the great
Charles, who fell in his peerless might at Roncesvalles. Of him and Oliver,
Walter Scott, translating the Norman chronicle, says—
Taillefer, who sang both well and loud,
Came mounted on a courser proud,
Before the Duke the minstrel sprung,
And loud of Charles and Roland sung,
Of Oliver and champions mo,
Who died at fatal Roncevaux.

‘Roland’ was a favourite name among the higher nobility for centuries, and
with our ‘Rolands,’ ‘Rowlands,’ ‘Rowlsons,’ and ‘Rowlandsons,’ bids fair
to maintain its hold upon our surnames, if not the baptismal list. Old forms
are found in such entries as ‘Roland le Lene,’ ‘Rouland Bloet,’ ‘William
Rollandson,’ or ‘Robert Rowelyngsonne’! We must not forget, too, that our
‘Rowletts’ and ‘Rowlets’ represent the French diminutive.[22] ‘Robert’ is an
instance of a name which has held its place against all counter influences
from the moment which first brought it into public favour. It is early made
conspicuous in the eldest son of the Bastard King who, through his
miserable fate, became such an object of common pity that, though of the
hated stock, his sobriquet became acceptable among the Saxons themselves.
From that time its fortunes were made, even had not the bold archer of
Sherwood Forest risen to the fore, and caused ‘Hob’ to be the title of every
other young peasant you might meet ’twixt London and York. A curious
instance of the popularity of the latter is found in the fact that a tradesman
living in 1388 in Winchelsea is recorded under the name of ‘Thomas
Robynhod.’ The diminutives ‘Robynet’[23] and ‘Robertot’ are obsolete, but
of other forms that still thrive among us are ‘Roberts,’ ‘Robarts,’
‘Robertson,’ ‘Robins,’ ‘Robinson,’ ‘Robison,’ and ‘Robson.’ From its

shortened ‘Dob’ are ‘Dobbs,’ ‘Dobson,’ ‘Dobbins,’ ‘Dobinson,’ and
‘Dobison.’[24] From its equally familiar ‘Hob’ are ‘Hobbs,’ ‘Hobson,’
‘Hobbins,’ ‘Hopkins,’ and ‘Hopkinson.’ From the Welsh, too, we get, as
contractions of ‘Ap-robert’ and ‘Ap-robin,’ ‘Probert’ and ‘Probyn.’ Thus
‘Robert’ is not left without remembrance. Richard was scarcely less popular
than Robert. Though already firmly established, for Richard was in the
Norman ducal genealogy before William came over the water, still it was
reserved for the Angevine monarch, as he had made it the terror of the
Paynim, so to make it the pride of the English heart. Richard I. is an
instance of a man’s many despicable qualities being forgotten in the
dazzling brilliance of daring deeds. He was an ungrateful son, an unkind
brother, a faithless husband; but he was the idol of his time, and to him a
large mass of English people of to-day owe their nominal existence. From
the name proper we get ‘Richards’ and ‘Richardson,’ ‘Ricks’ and ‘Rix,’
‘Rickson’ and ‘Rixon,’ or ‘Ritson,’ ‘Rickards,’ and ‘Ricketts.’[25] From the
curter ‘Dick’ or ‘Diccon,’[26] we derive ‘Dicks’ or ‘Dix,’ ‘Dickson’ or
‘Dixon,’ ‘Dickens’ or ‘Diccons,’ and ‘Dickenson’ or ‘Dicconson.’ From
‘Hitchin,’ once nearly as familiar as ‘Dick,’ we get ‘Hitchins,’ ‘Hitchinson,’
‘Hitchcock,’ and ‘Hitchcox.’ Like many another name, the number of
‘Richards’ now is out of all proportion less than these surnames would
ascribe to it some centuries ago. The reason of this we shall speak more
particularly about by-and-by. Roger, well known in France and Italy, found
much favour in England. From it we derive our ‘Rogers,’ ‘Rodgers,’ and
‘Rogersons.’ From Hodge, its nickname, we acquired ‘Hodge,’ ‘Hodges,’
‘Hodgkins,’ ‘Hotchkins,’ ‘Hoskins,’ ‘Hodgkinson,’ ‘Hodgson,’ and
‘Hodson,’ and through the Welsh ‘Prodger.’ The diminutive ‘Rogercock’ is
found once, but it was ungainly, and I doubt not met with little favour.
Reginald, as Rinaldo, immortalized by the Italian poet, appeared in
Domesday as ‘Ragenald’ and ‘Rainald.’ Our ‘Reynolds,’ represent the
surname. ‘Renaud’ or ‘Renard,’ can never be forgotten while there is a
single fox left to display its cunning. The story seems to have been founded
on the character of some real personage, but his iniquities did not frighten
parents from the use of the name. ‘Renaud Balistarius’ or ‘Adam fil.
Reinaud’ are common entries, and ‘Reynardsons’ and ‘Rennisons’ still exist.
Our ‘Rankins,’ too, would seem to have originated from this sobriquet since
‘Gilbert Reynkin’ and ‘Richard Reynkyn’ are found in two separate rolls.
Miles came into England as ‘Milo,’ that being the form found in Domesday.

It was already popular with the Normans, and, like all other personal names
from the same source, we find it speedily recorded in a diminutive shape, as
‘Millot’ and ‘Millet.’ ‘Roger Millot’ occurs in the Hundred Rolls, and
‘Thomas Mylett’ in a Yorkshire register of an early date. The patronymics
were ‘Mills,’ ‘Miles,’ ‘Millson,’ and ‘Mileson,’[27] all of which still exist.
The great race for popularity since Domesday record has ever been that
between ‘William’ and ‘John.’ In the age immediately following the
Conquest ‘William’ decidedly held the supremacy. This is naturally
accounted for by its royal associations. There was, indeed, a ‘John’ in the
same line of descent as the Bastard from Richard I. of Normandy, but the
name seems to have been forgotten, or passed by unheeded, till it was
revived again five generations later in ‘John Lackland.’ ‘William’ enjoyed
better auspices. It was the name of the founder of the new monarchy. It was
the name of his immediate successor. Whatever the character of these two
kings, such a conjunction could not but have its weight upon the especially
Norman element in the kingdom. We find in Domesday that while there are
68 ‘Williams,’ 48 ‘Roberts,’ and 28 ‘Walters,’ there are only 10 ‘Johns.’ A
century later than this, ‘William’ must still have claimed precedence among
the nobility at least, as is proved by a statement of Robert Montensis. He
says, that at a festival held in the court of Henry II., in 1173, Sir William St.
John and Sir William Fitz-Hamon, especial officers, had commanded that
none but those of the name of ‘William’ should dine in the Great Chamber
with them, and were, therefore, accompanied by one hundred and twenty
‘Williams,’ all knights. By the time of Edward I. this disproportion had
become less marked. In a list of names connected with the county of
Wiltshire in that reign, we find, out of a total of 588 decipherable names
(for the record is somewhat damaged), 92 ‘Williams’ to 88 ‘Johns,’ while
‘Richard’ is credited with 55; ‘Robert,’ 48; ‘Roger,’ 23; and ‘Geoffrey,’
‘Ralph,’ and ‘Peter,’ each 16 names. This denotes clearly that a considerable
change had taken place in the popular estimation of these two appellations.
Within a century after this, however, ‘John’ had evidently gained the
supremacy. In 1347, we find that out of 133 Common Councilmen for
London town first convened, 35 were ‘Johns,’ the next highest being 17
under the head of ‘William,’ 15 under ‘Thomas,’ which now, for obvious
reasons we will mention hereafter, had suddenly sprung into notoriety; 10
under ‘Richard,’ 9 under ‘Henry,’ 8 under ‘Robert,’ and so on; ending with
one each for ‘Laurence,’ ‘Reynald,’ ‘Andrew,’ ‘Alan,’ ‘Giles,’ ‘Gilbert,’ and

‘Peter.’ A still greater disproportion is found forty years later; for in 1385,
the Guild of St. George, at Norwich, out of a total of 376 names, possessed
128 ‘Johns’ to 47 ‘Williams’ and 41 ‘Thomases.’[28] From this period,
despite the hatred that was felt for Lackland, ‘John’ kept the precedence it
had won, and to this circumstance the nation owes the sobriquet it now
generally receives, that of ‘John Bull.’ Long ago, however, under the
offensive title of ‘Jean Gotdam,’ we had become known as a people given
to strange and unpleasant oaths. It is interesting to trace the way in which
‘William’ has again recovered itself in later days. Throughout the Middle
Ages it occupied a sturdy second place, fearless of any rival beyond the one
that had supplanted it. Its dark hour was the Puritan Commonwealth. As a
Pagan name it was rejected with horror and disdain. From the day of the
Protestant settlement and William’s accession, however, it again looked up
from the cold shade into which it had fallen, and now once more stands
easily, as eight centuries ago, at the head of our baptismal registers. ‘John,’
on the other hand, though it had the advantage of being in no way hateful to
the Puritan conscience, has, from one reason or another, gone down in the
world, and now has again resumed its early place as second.
The surnames that have descended to us from ‘William’ and ‘John’ are
well-nigh numberless—far too many for enumeration here. To begin with
the former, however, we find that the simple ‘Williams’ and ‘Williamson’
occupy whole pages of our directories. Besides these, we have from the
curter ‘Will,’ ‘Wills,’ ‘Willis,’ and ‘Wilson;’ from the diminutive
‘Guillemot’ or ‘Gwillot,’ as it is often spelt in olden records. ‘Gillot,’
‘Gillott,’ and ‘Gillett;’ or from ‘Williamot,’[29] the more English form of the
same, ‘Willmot,’ ‘Wilmot,’ ‘Willot,’ ‘Willet,’ and ‘Willert.’ In conjunction
with the pet addenda, we get ‘Wilks,’ ‘Wilkins,’ and ‘Wilkinson,’ and
‘Wilcox,’ ‘Wilcocson,’ and ‘Wilcockson.’ Lastly, we have representatives of
the more corrupt forms in such names as ‘Weeks,’ ‘Wickens,’ ‘Wickenson,’
and ‘Bill’ and ‘Bilson.’ Mr. Lower, who does not quote any authority for the
statement, alleges that there was an old provincial nickname for
‘William’—viz., ‘Till;’ whence ‘Tilson,’ ‘Tillot,’ ‘Tillotson,’ and ‘Tilly.’
That these are sprung from ‘Till’ is evident, but there can be no reasonable
doubt that this is but the still existing curtailment of ‘Matilda,’ which, as the
most familiar female name of that day, would originate many a family so
entitled. ‘Tyllott Thompson’ is a name occurring in York in 1414. Thus it is
to the Conqueror’s wife, and not himself, these latter owe their rise. It is not

the first time a wife’s property has thus been rudely wrenched from her for
her husband’s benefit. The surnames from ‘John’ are as multifarious as is
possible in the case of a monosyllable, ingenuity in the contraction thereof
being thus manifestly limited. As ‘John’ simple it is very rare; but this has
been well atoned for by ‘Jones,’ which, adding ‘John’ again as a prænomen,
would be (as has been well said by the Registrar-General) in Wales a
perpetual incognito, and being proclaimed at the cross of a market town
would indicate no one in particular. Certainly ‘John Jones,’ in the
Principality, is but a living contradiction to the purposes for which names
and surnames came into existence. Besides this, however, we have
‘Johnson’ and ‘Jonson,’ ‘Johncock’ and ‘Jenkins,’ ‘Jennings’ and
‘Jenkinson,’ ‘Jackson’ and ‘Jacox,’ and ‘Jenks;’ which latter, however, now
bids fair, under the patronage of ‘Ginx’s Baby,’ to be found for the future in
a new and more quaint dress than it has hitherto worn. Besides several of
the above, it is to the Welsh, also, we owe our ‘Ivens,’ ‘Evans,’ and
‘Bevans’ (i.e. Ap-Evan), which are but sprung from the same name. The
Flemings, too, have not suffered their form of it to die out for lack of
support; for it is with the settlement of ‘Hans,’[30] a mere abbreviation of
‘Johannes,’ we are to date the rise of our familiar ‘Hansons,’ ‘Hankins,’
‘Hankinsons,’ and ‘Hancocks,’ or ‘Handcocks.’ Nor is this all. ‘John’
enjoyed the peculiar prerogative of being able to attach to itself adjectives
of a flattering, or at least harmless nature, and issuing forth and becoming
accepted by the world therewith. Thus—though we shall have to notice it
again—from the praiseworthy effort to distinguish the many ‘Johns’ each
community possessed, we have still in our midst such names as ‘Prujean’
and ‘Grosjean,’ ‘Micklejohn’ and ‘Littlejohn,’ ‘Properjohn’ and
‘Brownjohn,’ and last, but not least, the estimable ‘Bonjohn.’ Do we need to
go on to prove ‘Jack’s’ popularity, or rather universality?[31] Every stranger
was ‘Jack’ till he was found to be somebody else; so that ‘every man Jack
of them’ has been a kind of general lay-baptism for ages. Every young
supernumerary, whose position and age gave the licence, was in the eye of
his superiors simply ‘Jack.’ As one instrument after another, however, was
brought into use, by which manual service was rendered unnecessary and
‘Jack’ unneeded, instead of superannuating him he was quietly thrust into
the new and inanimate office, and what with ‘boot-jacks’ and ‘black-jacks,’
‘jack-towels’ and ‘smoke-jacks,’ ‘jacks’ for this and ‘jacks’ for that, no
wonder people have begun to speak unkindly of him as ‘Jack-of-all-trades

and master of none.’ Still, with this uncomplimentary tone, there was a
smack of praise. A notion, at any rate, got abroad that ‘Jack’ must be a
knowing, clever, sharp-witted sort of fellow, one who has his eyes open. So
we got into the way of associating him with the more lively of the birds,
beasts, and fishes; such, for instance, as the ‘jack-daw,’ the ‘jack-an-apes,’
and the ‘jack-pike.’ But ‘familiarity,’ as our copybooks long ago informed
us, ‘breeds contempt;’ and so was it with ‘Jack’—he became a mark for
ridicule. Even in Chaucer’s day ‘jack-fool’ or ‘jack-pudding’ was the
synonym for a buffoon, and ‘jackass’ for a dolt; and here it but nationalises
the ‘zany,’ a corruption of the Italian ‘Giovanni,’ or ‘merry-John,’
corresponding to our ‘merry-Andrew.’ ‘Jack of Dover’ also existed at the
same period as a cant term for a clever knave, and that it still lived in the
seventeenth century is clear from Taylor’s rhyme, where he says:—
Nor Jacke of Dover, that grand jury Jacke,
Nor Jack-sauce, the worst knave amongst the pack,
But of the Jacke of Jackes, great Jack-a-Lent,
To write his worthy acts is my intent.[32]

Altogether, we may claim for ‘John’ a prominent, if not distinguished,
position in the annals of English nomenclature. Nor must we forget ‘Joan,’
until Tudor days the general form of the present ‘Jane.’ Then ‘some of the
better and nicer sort,’ as Camden saith, ‘misliking the former, turned it into
“Jane”;’ and in testimony of this he adds that ‘Jane’ is never found in older
records. This is strictly true. There can be little doubt that when the fair
queen of Henry VIII. gave distinction to the name it became a courtly
fashion to give it a different form from that borne by the multitude, and thus
‘Jane’ arose. Thus ‘Joan’ was left, as Miss Yonge says, ‘to the cottage and
the kitchen;’ and there, indeed, it lingered on for a long period.[33] Of many
another could Shakespeare have sung:—
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-who.
To-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Previously to this, anyway, both queens and princesses had been content
with ‘Joan.’ I doubt not, with regard to several of the surnames above-
mentioned, ‘John’ must, if the truth be told, share the honours of origination

with ‘Joan;’ nor do I think ‘Jennison’ peculiar to the latter. What with ‘John’
and ‘Jean’ for the masculine, and ‘Joan’ and ‘Jenny’ for the feminine, I do
not see how the two could possibly escape confusion. ‘Jones’ and ‘Joanes,’
and ‘Jane’ and ‘Jayne,’ to say nothing of ‘Jennings,’ seem as like hereditary
from the one as the other.[34] Two feminines from ‘Jack,’ viz. ‘Jacquetta’ and
‘Jacqueline,’ were not unknown in England; ‘Jacquetta Knokyn’ (AA 3),
‘Jackett Toser’ (Z). The latter was the more common, and bequeathed us a
surname ‘Jacklin,’ which still exists. It is found on an old bell:—
This bell was broke and cast againe, as plainly doth appeare,
John Draper made me in 1618, wich tyme churchwardens were,
Edward Dixson for the one, who stood close to his tacklin,
And he that was his partner there was Alexander Jacklin.
(Book of Days, i. 303.)

The peasant’s leather jerkin, corresponding to the more lordly coat of mail,
was a jack whence the diminutive jacket. The more warlike dress gave rise
to the name of ‘Jackman,’ of which more anon.
The Angevine dynasty gave a new impulse to some already popular
names, and may be said in reality to have introduced, although not
altogether unknown, several new ones. The two which owe the security of
their establishment to it are ‘Geoffrey’ and ‘Fulke.’ The grandfather, the
father, a brother, and a son of Henry II. were ‘Geoffrey;’ and still earlier
than this, ‘Geoffrey Grisegonelle,’ ‘Geoffrey Martel,’ and ‘Geoffrey Barbu’
had each in turn set their mark upon the same. Apart from these influences,
too, the stories brought home by the Crusaders of the prowess of Godfrey,
the conqueror of Jerusalem, must have had their wonted effect in a day of
such martial renown. Such surnames as ‘Jeffs,’ ‘Jeffries,’ ‘Jefferson,’
‘Jeffcock,’ ‘Jeffkins,’ ‘Jephson,’ and ‘Jepson’ still record the share it had
obtained in English esteem. ‘Fulke,’ or ‘Fulque,’ though there had been six
so early as Domesday Book, when it came backed as it was by the fact of
having given title to five Angevine rulers, got an inevitable place. Few
Christian names were so common as this in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries. But it was an ungainly one, difficult to pronounce, and difficult to
form into a patronymic. Thus, ‘Faxson’ and ‘Fawson’ are the only longer
forms I can find as at present existing, while the variously spelt ‘Fulkes,’
‘Foulkes,’ ‘Fakes,’ ‘Faux,’ ‘Fawkes,’ ‘Faulks,’ ‘Fowkes,’ ‘Folkes,’ ‘Foakes,’
and doubtless sometimes ‘Fox,’ serve to show how hard it was to hand it

down in its original integrity. The entries in our mediæval registers are
equally varied. We light upon such people as ‘Fowlke Grevill,’ ‘Fowke
Crompton,’ ‘Fulk Paifrer,’ ‘Fulke le Taverner,’ ‘Foke Odell,’ ‘Faukes le
Buteller,’ ‘Nel Faukes,’ and ‘John Faux.’ As an English historic name it has
given us two miscreants; the hateful favourite of John, outlawed by Henry
III., and the still more sanguinary villain of James I.’s day, in whose
dishonour we still pile up the blazing logs in the gloomy nights of
November. Henry, again, or more properly speaking Harry, owes much to
the Plantagenets, for but three are to be found in Domesday. With its long
line of monarchs, albeit it represented a curious mixture of good, bad, and
indifferent qualities, that dynasty could not but stamp itself decisively on
our registers. Thus, we have still plenty of ‘Henrys,’ ‘Harrises,’ ‘Harrisons,’
‘Hallets,’ ‘Halkets,’ ‘Hawkinses,’ and ‘Hawkinsons;’ to say nothing of the
Welsh ‘Parrys’ and ‘Penrys.’[35] (‘Thomas Ap-Harry,’ D. ‘Hugh Ap-harrye,’
Z.) The Norman diminutive was early used, as such folk as ‘Alicia Henriot,’
‘Robert Henriot,’ ‘Heriot Heringflet,’ ‘Thomas Haryette,’ or ‘William
Haryott’ could have borne witness. ‘Harriot,’ or ‘Harriet,’ has been revived
in recent days as a feminine baptismal name. ‘Hawkin,’ or ‘Halkin,’[36]
however, was perhaps the most popular form. Langland represents
Conscience as saying:—
Thi beste cote, Haukyn,
Hath manye moles and spottes,
It moste ben y-wasshe.

Baldwin had already appeared at the Conquest, for an aunt of William’s had
married Baldwin, Earl of Flanders, and he himself was espoused to Matilda,
daughter of the fifth ‘Baldwin’ of that earldom. No doubt the Flemings
brought in fresh accessions, and when we add to this the fact of its being by
no means an unpopular Angevine name, we can readily see why
‘Balderson,’ ‘Bolderson,’ ‘Balcock,’ ‘Bodkin,’ and the simple ‘Baldwin,’
have maintained a quiet but steady position in the English lists ever since.
Thus, the Plantagenets are not without memorials, even in the nineteenth
century.

III.—Names from the Calendar of the Saints.

It is to Norman influence we owe the firm establishment of several
names, which had already got securely settled on the Continent on account
of the odour of sanctity that had gathered about them. The Reformation
threw into the shade of oblivion the memories of many holy men and
women who in their day and generation exercised a powerful influence on
our general nomenclature. Many of my readers will be unaware that there
were three St. Geralds and three St. Gerards held in high repute previous to
the eleventh century. The higher Norman families seem to have been
attached to both, though ‘Gerard’ has made the deepest impression. ‘Gerald’
and ‘Fitz-Gerald’ are the commonest descendants of the first. As respects
‘Gerard,’ such names as ‘Garret Widdrington,’ or ‘Jarrarde Hall,’ or ‘Jarat
Nycholson,’ found among our Yorkshire entries, serve to show how far the
spirit of verbal corruption can advance; and our many ‘Garrets,’ ‘Jarrets,’
‘Jarratts,’ and ‘Jerards,’ as surnames, will probably testify the same to all
ages.[37] As there were twenty-eight ‘Walters’ in Domesday Survey, we
cannot attribute the popularity of that name to St. Walter, abbot of
Fontenelle in the middle of the twelfth century. But, as Miss Yonge shows,
it had been spread over Aquitaine in the earlier part of the tenth century,
through the celebrity of a saintly Walter who resided in that dukedom about
the year 990. Few sobriquets enjoyed such a share of attention as this. In
one of its nicknames, that of ‘Water,’[38] we are reminded of Suffolk’s death
in Shakespeare’s Henry VI., where the murderer says—
My name is Walter Whitmore.
How now! why start’st thou? What, doth death affright!
Suffolk. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.
A cunning man did calculate my birth,
And told me that by water I should die.

University men will remember a play of another kind upon its other form of
‘Wat,’ in the poems of C. S. C., whose power of rhyming, at least, I have
never seen surpassed, even by Ingoldsby himself. He thus begins one of his
happiest efforts—

Ere the morn the east has crimsoned,
When the stars are twinkling there,
(As they did in Watts’s Hymns, and
Made him wonder what they were.)

This, too, it will be seen, as well as ‘Water,’ still abides with us in its own or
an extended guise, for our ‘Watts’ and ‘Waters,’ ‘Watsons’ and ‘Watersons,’
‘Watkins’ and ‘Watkinsons,’ would muster strongly if in conclave
assembled. Our ‘Waltrots,’ though not so numerous, are but the ancient
‘Walterot.’ As a Christian name Walter stands low now-a-days. ‘Tonkin,’
‘Tonson,’ and ‘Townson’ (found in such an entry as ‘Jane Tounson’) remind
us of ‘Anthony,’[39] a name previous to the Reformation popular as that
possessed by the great ascetic of the fourth century. A curious phrase got
connected with St. Anthony, that of ‘tantony-pig.’ It is said that monks
attached to monasteries dedicated to this saint had the privilege of allowing
their swine to feed in the streets. These habitually following those who were
wont to offer greens to them, gave rise to the expression, ‘To follow like a
Tantony-pig.’ Thus, in ‘The good wyfe wold a pylgremage,’ it is said—
When I am out of the towne,
Look that thou be wyse,
And run thou not from hous to hous,
Like a nantyny grice.

The connection between St. Anthony and swine, which gave the good
monks this benefit, seems, in spite of many wild guesses, to have arisen
from the mere fact of his dwelling so long in the woodlands. As Barnabe
Googe has it—
The bristled hogges doth Antonie
Preserve and cherish well,
Who in his lifetime always did
In woodes and forestes dwell.[40]

It must have been this connexion which made ‘Tony’ the common sobriquet
for a simpleton or a country clown. It lived in this sense till Dryden’s day,
and certainly had become such so early as the thirteenth century, if we may
judge by the occurrence of such names as ‘Ida le Tony,’ or ‘Roger le Tony,’

found in the Rolls of that period.[41] If, however, St. Anthony was thus
doomed to be an example, how great may be the drawbacks to saintly
distinction: ‘St. Cuthbert,’ who, in the odour of sanctity, dwelt at
Lindisfarne, may even be more pitied, for, owing to the familiarity of his
name in every rustic household of Northumbria and Durham, he became as
‘Cuddie,’ a sobriquet for the donkey, and is thus known and associated to
the present moment. Our ‘Cuthberts,’ ‘Cuthbertsons,’ and ‘Cutbeards,’
however, need trouble themselves little, I imagine, on the question of their
connection with the animal to whom we usually ascribe the honours in
regard to obstinacy and stubbornness. Our ‘Cuddies,’ perhaps, are not quite
so free from suspicion. Our ‘Cobbets’ undoubtedly spring from ‘Cuthbert.’
A ‘Nicholas Cowbeytson’ occurs in a Yorkshire register of the fourteenth
century (Fabric Rolls of York Minster: Sur. Soc.). From ‘Cowbeyt’ to
‘Cobbet’ is a natural—I might say an inevitable—change. This name,
however, owes nothing to the Normans. Not so ‘Giles.’ Everyone knows the
story of St. Giles, how he dwelt as an anchorite in the forest near Nismes,
and was discovered by the King because the hind, which daily gave him
milk, pushed in the chase, fled to his feet. The name is entered in our rolls
alike as ‘Giles,’ ‘Gile,’ and ‘Egedius’ (Gile Deacon. A. Jordan fil. Egidius,
A). St. Lawrence, put on a gridiron over a slow fire in the third century,
made his name popular in Spain. An archbishop of Canterbury, raised to a
saintship in the seventh century, made the same familiar in England.
Besides ‘Lawson,’ we have ‘Larkins’ and ‘Larson.’ In the lines already
quoted relative to Wat Tyler’s insurrection, it is said—
Larkin et in medio, non minor esse putat.

The French diminutive occurs also. An ‘Andrew Larrett’ is mentioned by
Nicholls in his history of Leicestershire, and the surname may still be seen
in our directories. ‘Lambert’ received a large accession in England through
the Flemings, who thus preserved a memorial of the patron of Liege, St.
Lambert, who was martyred early in the eighth century. Succumbing to the
fashion so prevalent among the Flemings, it is generally found as
‘Lambkin,’ such entries as ‘Lambekyn fil. Eli’ or ‘Lambekin Taborer’ being
common. The present surnominal forms are ‘Lambert,’ ‘Lampson,’[42]
‘Lambkin,’ and ‘Lampkin.’ Thus our ‘Lambkins’ cannot boast of the Moses-
like disposition of their ancestor on philological grounds. With the mention

of three other saints we conclude this list. The legend of St. Christopher had
its due effect on the popular taste, and it is early found in the various guises
of ‘Cristophre,’ ‘Cristofer,’ and ‘Christofer.’ ‘Christophers’ and
‘Christopherson’ represent the surnames of the fuller form. To the pet form
we owe our ‘Kitts’ and ‘Kitsons.’ St. Christopher’s Isle in the West Indies is
now familiarly St. Kitts. It was of the indignity offered to Christopher
Marlowe’s genius in calling him so generally by this brief sobriquet that
Heywood spoke when he said—
Marlowe, renowned for his rare art and wit,
Could ne’er attain beyond the name of Kit.[43]

The same writer has it also in one of his epigrams—
Nothing is lighter than a feather, Kytte,
Yes, Climme: what light thing is that? thy light wytte.

We have already mentioned one abbot of Fontenelle who influenced our
nomenclature. Another who exerted a similar power was ‘St. Gilbert,’ a
contemporary and friend of the Conqueror. A few generations afterwards
brought the English St. Gilbert to the fore, and then the name began to grow
common, so common that as ‘Gib’ it became the favourite sobriquet of the
feline species.[44] In several of our earliest writers it is found in familiar use,
and in the Bard of Avon’s day it was not forgotten. Falstaff complains of
being as melancholy as a ‘gib-cat’—that is, an old worn-out cat. Hamlet
also says—
For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise,
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,
Such dear concernings hide? (iii. 4.)

‘To play the gib’ was a proverbial phrase for light and wanton behaviour.[45]
Thus ‘Gilbert’ has been forced into a somewhat unpleasant notoriety in
feline nomenclature. But he was popular enough, too, among the human
kind. In that part of the ‘Townley Mysteries’ which represents the Nativity,
one of the shepherds is supposed to hail one of his friends, who is passing
by. He addresses him thus:—

How, Gyb, good morne, wheder goys thou?

The surnames formed from Gilbert, too, prove his popularity. Beside
‘Gilbert’ himself, we have ‘Gibbs,’ ‘Gibbins,’ ‘Gibbons,’ ‘Gibson,’[46]
‘Gibbonson,’ and ‘Gipps,’ to say nothing of that famous citizen of credit
and renown, ‘John Gilpin,’ who has immortalized at least his setting of this
good old-fashioned name.
Having referred to Gilbert and Gib the cat, we must needs notice
‘Theobald’ and ‘Tib.’ ‘St. Theobald,’ if he has not himself given much
prominence to the title, nevertheless represents a name whose susceptibility
to change was something amazing. The common form with the French was
‘Thibault’ or ‘Thibaud,’ and this is represented in England in such entries as
‘Tebald de Engleschevile,’ ‘Richard Tebaud,’ or ‘Roger Tebbott.’ A still
curter form was ‘Tibbe’ or ‘Tebbe;’ hence such registrations as ‘Tebbe
Molendinarius’ or ‘Tebb fil. William.’ In this dress it is found in the Latin
lines commemorative of Tyler’s insurrection:—
Hudde ferit, quem Judde terit, dum Tibbe juvatur,
Jacke domosque viros vellit, en ense necat.

Among other surnames that speak for its faded popularity are ‘Tibbes,’
‘Tebbes,’ and ‘Tubbs,’ ‘Theobald’ and ‘Tibbald,’ ‘Tibble’ and ‘Tipple,’
‘Tipkins’ and ‘Tippins,’ and ‘Tipson,’ and our endlessly varied ‘Tibbats,’
‘Tibbets,’ ‘Tibbits,’ ‘Tebbatts,’ ‘Tebbotts,’ and ‘Tebbutts.’ Indeed, the name
has simply run riot among the vowels. ‘Hugh’ I have kept till the last,
because of its important position as an early name. It was crowded with
holy associations. There was a ‘St. Hugh,’ Abbot of Cluny, in 1109. There
was a ‘St. Hugh,’ Bishop of Grenoble, in 1132. There was ‘St. Hugh,’
Bishop of Lincoln, in 1200, and above all there was the celebrated infant
martyr, ‘St. Hugh,’ of Lincoln, said to have been crucified by the Jews of
that city in 1250. This event happened just at the best time for affecting our
surnames. Their hereditary tendency was becoming marked. Thus it is that
‘Hugh,’ or ‘Hew,’[47] as it was generally spelt, has made such an indenture
upon our nomenclature. The pet forms are all Norman-French, the most
popular being ‘Huet,’ ‘Hugon,’ and ‘Huelot,’ the last formed like ‘Hamelot,’
and ‘Hobelot.’ The second of these was further corrupted by the English
into ‘Hutchin’ and ‘Huggin.’[48] Hence our rolls teem with such registrations

as ‘Hewe Hare,’ ‘Huet de Badone,’ ‘William fil. Hugonis,’ ‘Houlot de
Manchester,’ ‘Walter Hughelot,’ ‘John Hewisson,’ ‘Simon Howissone,’
‘Roger fil. Hulot,’ or ‘Alan Huchyns.’ Among the surnames still common in
our directories may be numbered ‘Huggins,’ ‘Hutchins,’ ‘Hutchinson,’
‘Hugginson,’ ‘Howlett,’ ‘Hullett,’ ‘Hewlett,’ ‘Huet,’ ‘Hewet,’ ‘Hewetson,’
‘Howett,’ ‘Howson,’ ‘Hughes,’ and ‘Hewson.’ All these various forms
bespeak a familiarity which is now of course utterly wanting, so far as our
Christian nomenclature is concerned. Indeed, after all I have said, I still feel
that it is impossible to give the reader an adequate conception of the
popularity of this name four hundred years ago. It is one more conspicuous
instance marking the change which the Reformation and an English Bible
effected upon our nomenclature.

IV.—Names chosen from Festivals and Holydays.

We may here refer to a group of appellatives which are derived from the
names of certain days and seasons. I dare not say that all I shall mention are
absolutely sprung from one and the same custom. Some, I doubt not, were
bestowed upon their owners from various accidental circumstances of
homely and individual interest. Neighbours would readily affix a nickname
of this class upon one who had by some creditable or mean action made a
particular season remarkable in his personal history. But these, I presume,
will be exceptional, for there is no manner of doubt that it was a practice,
and by no means a rare one, to baptize a child by the name of the day on
which it was born, especially if it were a holiday. We know now how often
it happens that the Church Calendar furnishes names for those born upon
the Saints’ days—how many ‘Johns’ and ‘Jameses’ and ‘Matthews’ owe
their appellations to the fact that they came into the world upon the day
marked, ecclesiastically, for the commemoration of those particular
Apostles. This is still a custom among more rigid Churchmen. In early days,
however, it was carried to an extreme extent. Days of a simply local interest
—days for fairs and wakes—days that were celebrated in the civil calendar
—days that were the boundaries of the different seasons—all were
familiarly pressed into the service of name-giving. These, springing up in a
day when they were no sooner made part of the personal than they became
candidates for our hereditary nomenclature, have in many cases come down
to us. Thus, the time when the yule log blazed and crackled on the hearth
has given us ‘Christmas,’ or ‘Noel,’ or ‘Yule,’ or ‘Midwinter.’ This last
seems to have been an ordinary term for the day, for we find it in colloquial
use at this time. In Robert of Gloucester’s ‘Life of William the Conqueror,’
he speaks of it’s being his intention
to Midwinter at Gloucester,
To Witesontid at Westminster, to Ester at Wincester.

‘Pentecost’ was as familiar a term in the common mouth as ‘Whitsuntide,’
and thus we find both occurring in the manner mentioned. ‘Wytesunday’ is,
however, now obsolete; ‘Pentecost’ still lives.[49] ‘Paske,’ for ‘Easter,’ was

among the priesthood the word in general use; old writers always speak of
‘Paske’ for that solemn season. Thus, ‘Pask,’ ‘Pash,’ ‘Paschal,’ and
‘Pascal’[50] are firmly set in our directories; as, indeed, they are on the
Continent also. It is the same with ‘Lammas,’ ‘Sumption,’ and
‘Middlemas;’ that is, ‘Assumption’ and ‘Michaelmas.’ Each as it came
round imprinted its name at the baptismal font upon the ancestors of all
those who still bear these several titles in our midst. It would be an
anachronism, therefore, to suppose Mr. Robinson Crusoe to have been the
first who introduced this system, as even ‘Friday’ itself, to say nothing of
‘Munday,’ or ‘Monday,’ and ‘Saturday,’ and ‘Tuesday,’ were all surnames
long anterior to that notable personage’s existence. Nor, as I have said, are
the less solemn feast days disregarded. ‘Loveday’ is one such proof. In
olden times there was often a day fixed for the arrangement of differences,
in which, if possible, old sores were to be healed up and old-standing
accounts settled. This day, called a ‘Loveday,’ is frequently alluded to. That
very inconsistent friar in Piers Plowman’s Vision could, it is said—
hold lovedays,
And hear a reves rekenyng.

The latter part of the quotation suggests to us the origin of ‘Termday,’ which
I find as existing in the twelfth century, and probably given in the humorous
spirit of that day.[51] Nor are these all. ‘Plouday’ was the first Monday after
Twelfth Night, and the day on which the farmer began his ploughing. It was
a great rural holiday at one time, and the ploughmen as a rule got gloriously
drunk. Similarly, we have ‘Hockerday,’ ‘Hockday,’ and perhaps the still
more corrupted ‘Hobday,’ the old English expression for a ‘high-day.’ The
second Tuesday after Easter was especially so termed, and kept in early
times as such, as commemorative of the driving out of the Danes in the days
of Ethelred. This was a likely name to be given on such a high day in the
domestic annals as that on which the first-born came into the world. Happy
parents would readily seize upon this at a time when the word and its
meaning were alike familiar. Our ‘Hallidays’ or ‘Hollidays’ throw us back
to the Church festivals, those times of merriment and jollity which have
helped to such a degree to dissociate from our minds the real meaning of
the word (that is, a day set apart for holy service in commemoration of
some religious event), that we have now been compelled by a varied

spelling to make the distinction between a ‘holyday’ and a ‘holiday.’ Thus
strongly marked upon our nomenclature is this once favourite but now well-
nigh obsolete custom.

V.—Patronymics formed from Occupations.

We may here briefly refer to a class of patronymics which, although
small from the first, took its place, as if insensibly, among our hereditary
surnames. It is a class of occupative or professional names, with the filial
desinence attached. There is nothing wonderful in the fact of the existence
of such. The wonder is that there are not more of them. It must have been
all but as natural to style a man as the son of ‘the Clerk’ as the son of
‘Harry’ in a small community, where the father had, in his professional
capacity, established himself as of some local importance. Hence we cannot
be surprised to find ‘Clerkson’ in our registers. It is thus the ‘sergeant’ has
bequeathed us our ‘Sergeantsons;’ the ‘kemp,’ or soldier, our ‘Kempsons;’
the ‘cook,’ our ‘Cooksons,’ or ‘Filius Coci,’ as the Hundred Rolls have it;
the ‘smith,’ our ‘Smithsons;’ the ‘steward,’ our ‘Stewardsons;’ the ‘grieve,’
i.e. ‘reeve,’ our ‘Grievesons;’ the ‘miller,’ our ‘Millersons;’ and the
‘shepherd,’ our ‘Shepherdsons.’ Of other instances, now obsolete, we had
‘Masterson,’ ‘Hyneson,’[52] ‘Hopperson,’ ‘Scolardson,’ and ‘Priestson.’ Nor
were the Normans without traces of this practice, although in their case all
the examples I have met with have ceased to exist amongst us. ‘Fitz-Clerk’
but corresponds with one of the above; while the warden of the woods gave
us ‘Fitz-Parker,’ and that of the college, ‘Fitz-Provost.’ Thus, those who yet
possess names of this class may congratulate themselves upon belonging to
a small but compact body which has ever existed amid our more general
nomenclature.

VI.—Metronymics.

We have already mentioned Joan as having bequeathed several surnames.
We did not then allude to the somewhat difficult subject of metronymics;
we shall first prove by examples that there are a large number of such. We
shall then briefly unfold their origin from our point of view. The feminine
of Peter, ‘Petronilla,’ was a name in familiar use at this time. St. Petronilla,
once much besought as a help against fevers, would no doubt add to its
popularity. Barnyby Googe says:—
The quartane ague and the rest
Doth Pernel take away,
And John preserves his worshippers
From prison every day.

In the above stanza we are supplied with the common sobriquet taken from
his name. As ‘Pernel’ or ‘Parnel’ it held a high place among the poorer
classes. From an ill-repute, however, that attached to it in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, it is now all but extinct as a Christian name, and it is
only among our surnames that it is to be met with. It is curious how
associations of this kind destroy the chances of popularity among names.
‘Peter’ was forced into familiarity. ‘Pernel’ lost caste through its becoming
a cant term for women of a certain character. ‘Magdalen’ is another case in
point. The Bible narrative describes her briefly as a penitent sinner. Legend,
adding to this, portrayed her beauty, her golden tresses, her rich drapery. Art
added touches of its own in the shape of dishevelled hair and swelled eyes,
but all to make this centre scene of penitence the more marked. This, and
the early asylums for penitents, of which she became the forced patroness,
prevented her name being used as a Christian name at this time—I have
never, at least, found an instance. But as a proof how early it had become a
term for what I may call mental inebriety, a connection which of course it
owes to the portrayals alluded to above, I may instance the name of Thomas
le Maddelyn, found in the twelfth century (H.R.), and an evident nickname
given to one of a sickly sentimental character. Our present ‘Maudlins’ and
‘Maudlings’ may be descended from one so entitled, or locally from some
place dedicated to the saint.

Among other female names, ‘Constance’ bid fair to become very popular.
A daughter of William the Conqueror, a daughter of Stephen, and a
daughter-in-law of Henry II. were all so called. Chaucer in his ‘Man of
Lawes Tale’ calls his heroine by this title—
But Hermegild loved Custance as her life,
And Custance hath so long sojourned there
In orisons, with many a bitter tear,
Til Jesu hath converted, through his grace,
Dame Hermegild.

This must have been its favourite form in the common mouth, for we find it
recorded in such names as ‘Custance Muscel,’ ‘Custance Clerk,’ ‘Robert fil.
Custe,’ or ‘Cus nepta Johannis,’ with tolerable frequency. The diminutive
‘Cussot’ is also to be met with. I need hardly say that in our ‘Custances,’
‘Custersons,’ ‘Cuss’s,’ and ‘Custs,’ not to say some of our ‘Cousens,’ as
corruptions of ‘Custson,’ the remembrance of this once familiar name still
survives. Of late years the name proper has again become popular.
‘Beatrice’ is another instance of a name once common sunk into
comparative desuetude. The Norman ‘Beton’ was the most favoured pet
form. Piers Plowman says (Passus V.):—
Beton the Brewestere bade him good-morrow,

and a little further on,
And bade Bette cut a bough, and beat Betoun therewith.

Thus it is we frequently light upon such entries as ‘John Betyn,’ ‘Betin de
Friscobald,’ ‘Robert Betonson,’ ‘John Bettenson,’ or ‘Thomas Betanson.’
These latter of course soon dropped into ‘Beatson’ and ‘Betson,’ which,
with ‘Beton’ and ‘Beaton,’ are still common to our directories. ‘Emma,’ too,
as a Norman name has left its mark. By a pure accident, however, as Miss
Yonge points out, it had got a place previous to the Conquest among the
Saxons, through the fact of the daughter of Richard I. of Normandy
marrying first Ethelred, surnamed the Unready, and then Canute the Great.
Thus, though it has not unfrequently been claimed as of Saxon origin, it is
not so in reality. The general spelling is ‘Emme,’ and the pet ‘Emmot’ or

‘Emmet’ is found in such names as ‘Emmota Plummer’ or ‘Emmetta
Catton.’ This at once guides us into the source of our ‘Emmots,’
‘Emmetts,’[53] ‘Emmes,’ ‘Emsons,’ ‘Empsons,’ and ‘Emmotsons.’[54]
Almost as equal a favourite as ‘Emma’ was ‘Cecilia.’ This was a name
introduced at the Conquest in the person of Cecile, a daughter of William I.,
and it soon found itself a favourite among high and low as ‘Cicely,’ or still
shorter as ‘Cis’ or ‘Sis,’ although the latter seems to have been the more
general form. In Piers Plowman, however, is preserved the more correct
initial. I have already quoted him when he speaks so familiarly of
Cesse the souteresse.

In all the ballads of the seventeenth century, on the other hand, it is always
‘Sis,’ ‘Siss’ or ‘Sys.’
Long have I lived a bachelor’s life,
And had no mind to marry;
But now I would fain have a wife,
Either Doll, Kate, Sis, or Mary.

Our ‘Sissons,’ ‘Sysons,’ and ‘Sisselsons’[55] are of course but the offspring
of this pretty appellative, while one more instance of the popular diminutive
may be met with in such a name as ‘John Sissotson’ or ‘Cissota West’ found
in the ‘Testamenta Eboracensia,’ or ‘Bella Cesselot’ in the Hundred Rolls.[56]
Our ‘Dowses,’ ‘Dossons,’ and ‘Dowsons’ represent the once popular
‘Douce,’ ‘Duce,’ or ‘Dulce,’ more correctly ‘Dulcia.’ Hence we find such
entries as ‘John filius Dousæ,’ ‘Douce de Moster,’ and ‘John Dowsson.’
Diminutives are found in ‘Richard Dowkin’ (F), and in ‘Dowsett,’
‘Doucett,’ and ‘Duckett.’ The Norman was the more familiar form, all the
more so perhaps because in the baronial kitchen a course of sweets was
called dowcetts. An instance will be found in the Rutland papers, p. 97
(Cam. Soc.). This is but another form of our ‘dulcet.’ That the more literal
form was not lost, such names as ‘Dulcia le Draper’ or ‘Dulcia fil. William’
will show, not to mention our still existing patronymic ‘Dulson.’ The later
‘Dulcibella’ underwent the same change and became ‘Dowsabell.’ This also
attained the rank of a surname, for beside such entries as ‘Dowzable Mill’
(Z) and ‘Dussabel Caplyn’ (Z) we light upon a ‘Thomas Duszabell’ (M).
Thus familiar was ‘Dulcia’ in former days. ‘Dionisia del Lee’ or ‘Dionisius

Garston’ are common entries, both masculine and feminine forms being
popular. ‘Dennis,’ ‘Denot,’ and ‘Dyot’ were the pet forms. Piers Plowman
styles one of his characters ‘Denot.’ Hereditary forms are found in ‘Dennis,’
‘Dennison,’ ‘Dyott,’ ‘Diotson,’[57] and ‘Dyson.’ I cannot but think that
‘Tenison’ or ‘Tennyson’ is but a corruption of ‘Dennison,’ as also ‘Tyson’ of
‘Dyson.’ That they are patronymics of Antony (Tony) is the only alternative,
and this I fear is unsatisfactory. Mabel, although now somewhat out of
fashion, was very popular four hundred years ago as ‘Amabilla,’ hence such
entries as ‘Amabella la Blund,’ or ‘Amabil fil. Emme.’ The surnames
descended from it are sufficiently numerous to testify to this. Besides
‘Mabell’ simple, we have ‘Mabson,’ ‘Mabbs,’ ‘Mabbes,’ ‘Mabbott,’ and
perhaps ‘Mapleson.’[58] Catharine, always called ‘Catlin’ in the North,
reminding us of the Irish ‘Kathleen,’ is the source of several surnames.
Entries like ‘Eleonore Catlynson’ (W. 12) or ‘Thomas Katlynson’ (W. 11)
are common, and the shorter ‘Cattlin’ is found in every Yorkshire roll.
There is a certain quaint prettiness about ‘Hilary,’ ‘Lettice,’ and ‘Joyce,’
three acceptable cognomens in mediæval times. The Normans liked their
women to be, however modest, none the less lighthearted, gay, and spirited,
and in the synonyms of ‘mirth,’ ‘gladness,’ and ‘sportiveness,’ they would
delight in affixing on their newly-born children that which they hoped
would be in the future but the index of the real character. ‘Hillary’ when not
local is therefore but the fuller ‘Hilaria.’ ‘Joyce,’ sometimes the result of the
mere nickname, is nothing more than ‘Jocosa,’ and ‘Lettice,’ ‘Letts,’ and
‘Letson’ are sufficiently numerous to preserve the memory of ‘Lætitia.’
Thus, in one of the Coventry Mysteries already alluded to, mention is made
of
Col Crane and Davy Dry-dust,
Lucy Lyer and Letyce Lytyl-trust,
Miles the Miller and Colle Crake-crust.

‘Letson’ is met in the fourteenth century as ‘Fitz-Lettice.’ ‘Theophania’ was
anything but unpopular, but its length made it unavoidable but that it should
be mutilated, or at least put in an abbreviated or nickname form, and thus it
is has arisen our ‘Tiffany,’ whence of course the surname of to-day. Thus, in
the Coventry Mysteries, it is demanded that

Both Bonting the Brewster and Sybyl Slynge,
Megge Mery-wedyr, and Sabyn[59] Sprynge,
Tiffany Twynkeler fayle for no thynge.

Thierry in his history of the ‘Conquest of England’ quotes an old writer,
who has preserved the following lines of a decidedly doggrel character:—
William de Cognisby
Came out of Brittany
With his wife Tiffany,
And his maid Manfras,
And his dogge Hardigras.

We must not forget to mention ‘Eleanor,’ or ‘Alianora,’ as it is more
frequently registered, a name of suffering royalty, and therefore to a portion
of the English people, at least, a popular name. Its forms are too many for
enumeration, but ‘Alianor,’ ‘Annora,’ ‘Annot,’ ‘Alinot,’ ‘Leonora,’
‘Eleanor,’ ‘Elinor,’ ‘Ellen,’ ‘Lina,’ ‘Linot,’ and ‘Nel’ were the most
common. All of these were either surnames themselves, or became the roots
of surnames. Thus we find among other entries such registrations as ‘Alicia
Alianor,’ ‘Alianor Busche,’ ‘Annora Widow,’ ‘Annora de Aencurt,’ ‘Anota
Canun,’ ‘John Annotson,’ ‘William Annotyson,’ ‘Hugh fil. Elyenore,’
‘William Alinot,’ ‘Alnot Red,’ ‘Lyna le Archer,’ ‘Linota ate Field,’ or
‘Linota Vidua.’ This list will suffice to prove the place occupied by
‘Eleanor.’ I have not mentioned such entries as ‘John fil. Nel’ or ‘Elisha
Annyson,’ or ‘Richard Anyson,’ for though in these particular instances we
see the origin of some of our ‘Ansons’ and ‘Nelsons,’ both are more
generally referable to a different source. ‘Neal’ or ‘Neile’ was very common
in this day, and ‘Neilson’ would easily be corrupted into ‘Nelson.’
‘Julian,’ the abbreviated form of ‘Juliana,’ as a Norman-introduced name
became very popular, and its after history was a very curious one. Such
appellations as ‘Gillian Cook,’ or ‘Gilian of the Mill,’ found in the Hundred
Rolls, or that of the well-known ‘Dame Julyan Berners,’ whose work on
household management I shall have occasion to quote by-and-by, only
represent in fuller forms the ‘Gill’ or ‘Jill’ who is so renowned in our
nursery literature as having met with such a dire disaster in the dutiful
endeavour ‘to fetch a pail of water’ from the hill-side. I have already
mentioned ‘Cocke Lorell’s Bote,’ where allusion is made to

Jelyan Joly at signe of the Bokeler.

The shorter and curter form is given us in Heywood’s Epigrams, where the
following marital dialogue occurs:—
I am care-full to see thee carelesse, Jylle:
I am wofull to see thee wytlesse, Wyll:
I am anguisht to see thee an ape, Jyll:
I am angry to see thee an asse, Wyll:
I am dumpyshe to see thee play the drabbe, Jyll:
I am knappyshe to see thee plaie the knave, Wyll.

But ‘Gill’ at some time or other got into evil odour, and this brought the
name into all but absolute disuse. As a term for a wanton flirt or inconstant
girl, it was familiarly used till the eighteenth century. It would seem as if
the poet I have just quoted were referring to this characteristic when he
writes:—
All shall be well, Jacke shall have Gill;
Nay, nay, Gill is wedded to Wyll;[60]

or where in another place he says:—
How may I have thee, Gill, when I wish for thee?
Wish not for me Jack, but when thou mayest have me.[61]

The diminutive ‘Gilot’ or ‘Juliet’ is used in the same way. In an old metrical
sermon it is said—
Robin will Gilot
Leden to the nale,
And sitten there togedres,
And tellen their tale.

This at once reminds us of the origin of our ‘jilt,’ which is nothing more
than a relic of the name for inconstancy the sobriquet had obtained. In our
‘Gills,’ ‘Gilsons,’ and many of our ‘Gillots,’ a further remembrance is likely
to remain for all time.[62] Such names as these, however, offer no kind of
comparison with that of ‘Margaret.’ This is the only rival that ‘Gillian’ had
to fear, and had the misfortunes of Margaret of Anjou occurred two, or even

one century earlier, it would easily have taken precedence, so far as our
surnames are concerned. Apart from its being found in several royal lines, it
had the advantage of undoubted prettiness both in sound and sense. Every
one, too, knew its meaning, for ‘margarite’ and ‘pearl’ then, and until the
seventeenth century even, were interchangeable terms. Every early writer so
uses it. ‘Casting pearls before swine’ is with Wickliffe ‘margaritis.’[63] The
pet names too were pretty, important in a day when the full name was rarely
if ever used.[64] The Norman-French ‘Margot’ seems to have been quite as
familiar as ‘Marjorie.’ Thus the homely ‘magpie’ was at first styled the
‘maggoty’ or ‘magot-pie.’ Many will remember that Macbeth so uses it—
Blood will have blood:
Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak,
Augurs and understood relations have
By magot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth
The secretest man of blood.—ii. 7.

‘Madge-owlet,’ too, from its occasional use by writers of this later period,
seems to prove that the still more homely owl of the barn owed an
appellation to Dame Marjorie. Her issue, as we should expect, is large. We
have ‘Maggs,’ ‘Maggots,’ and ‘Magotson;’ ‘Margots,’ ‘Margetts,’ and
‘Margetson;’ ‘Margison,’ ‘Margerison,’ ‘Meggs,’ and ‘Megson.’[65] It will be
surprising to many that we cannot place ‘Mary’ in the first place among
female names, as it is now among those of either sex, but such was far from
the case. Edward I.’s daughter ‘Marie’ seems to have been the first instance
we possess of its use among the higher families of the realm; and doubtless
its presence at this time must be referred, as in so many other cases we have
mentioned, to the Crusades. Mariolatry, we must remember, was not yet an
article of Romish belief. Indeed, the name is still of the rarest for
generations after this. Maid Marion, the mistress of Robin Hood, seems to
have made that diminutive popular, and either from the acted plays in which
she frequently afterwards figured, or the little ornamental image of the
Virgin worn by women, is come our marionette. The one only form in
which it can be said to occur in our English records is that of ‘Mariot,’ such
names as ‘Mariot Goscelyn,’ or ‘Mariota Giffard,’ or ‘Mariota Gosebeck,’
being found as a very occasional registry. Thus our ‘Mariotts’ and
‘Maryatts’ are explained. With regard to another batch of names said to
have sprung from this, I find a difficulty sets in. We have the clear

statement of the author of the ‘Promptorium Parvulorum’ that ‘Malkyne’ in
his day was the sobriquet of Matilda, that is, ‘Mawdkin.’ On the other hand,
I find Halliwell has a single quotation from a manuscript in which Maid
Marion is styled Malkyn also.[66] All modern writers, saving Mr. Lower,
who has come to no decision at all, have comfortably put it down to this
latter. I have no hesitation whatever myself in deciding differently, or at
least in qualifying their conclusion. There can be scarcely any doubt, I
think, that Malkin was originally the pet name of Matilda; then, as that
favourite name gradually sunk in estimation, and Mary proportionately
advanced, but this much later on, it was transferred. Thus, if I am correct,
our ‘Makinsons’ and ‘Makins,’[67] our ‘Meakins’ and ‘Meekins,’ and our
‘Mawsons’[68] will be sprung from Maud, rather than Mary. In confirmation
of this, I may quote ‘Malkin,’ the early cant term for a ‘slut,’ a word as old
as Chaucer himself, and one that Mary could not have possibly acquired in
his day, as barely familiar. ‘Mawdkin’ or ‘Malkin,’ on the other hand, would
be the ordinary term for every household drudge. It is only those who have
carefully studied early registers who can realize the difference of position
‘Matilda’ and ‘Mary’ relatively occupy at such a period as this. There were
six ‘Matildas’ of royal lineage between William I. and Henry II. alone. It
greets one at every turn; the present popularity of the latter is entirely the
growth of a later and more superstitious age.[69]
Speaking of Mary, we must not forget Elizabeth, known, generations ere
Queen Bess made it so popular, as Isabella. It was in this form it came into
England with that princess of Angoulême who married John Lackland. But
it was not a favourite; pretty as it was, its connexion with our most
despicable monarch spoiled all chance of popularity, and while on the
Continent it gained friends on every hand, it was only with the higher
nobility of our own land it got any place worth speaking of. Still it has left
its mark. As Elizabeth[70] at a later stage became ‘Lib’ and ‘Libby,’ so Isabel
was fondled into ‘Ib’ and ‘Ibby.’ Thus we come across such entries as
‘Henry Ebison,’ ‘Thomas Ibson,’ or ‘John Ibson.’ But a foreign name
without the foreign desinence would be impossible. With the introduction of
Isabel came in the diminutive ‘Ibbot’ or ‘Ibbet.’ Registrations like ‘Ibbota
fil. Adam,’ ‘Ibote Babyngton,’ or ‘Ebote Gylle,’ and as surnames ‘Walter
Ibbot,’ ‘Robert fil. Ibote,’ ‘Francis Ibbitson,’ or ‘Alice Ebotson’ are of
common occurrence.[71] Another form of the same diminutive was ‘Isot,’
hence ‘Isotte Symes,’ ‘Izott Barn,’ or ‘Ezota Hall.’[72] But even with this we

have not completed our list. One more pet form, and one still common
amongst us, that of ‘Bell,’ left its mark in ‘Bellot,’ ‘Bellet,’ and ‘Bellson,’
all of which are still to be found in our directories.
The preceding pages will be sufficient proof that our metronymics are a
considerable class. Many have not hesitated to affirm them to be wholly of
illegitimate descent. We cannot doubt that in some instances this is the case.
Nevertheless, we must not be led astray. ‘Polson’ is Paul’s son, ‘Nelson’ is
Neil’s son, Neil or Nigel being at one time a familiar name with us. And
even when the name is unquestionably feminine, as in Mollison,
Margerison, Marriot, Emmett, or Annotson, illegitimacy is anything but
established as a matter of fact. Adoption of children by women, posthumous
birth, and other peculiar circumstances would often cause a boy or girl to be
known in the community by a metronymic. Especially, too, would a child
be thus styled in a family where the mother was notoriously, and in an
emphatic sense, the better half, in a family where the husband was content
to sit in the chimney nook, and let the bustling Margery, or Siss, or Emmot
take, whether in or out of doors, the lead in all that concerned the domestic
relationship. Thus, I doubt not, a large mass of them have arisen.

VII.—Names Derived from Holy Scripture.

We have incidentally referred to several Bible names, such as John,
Mary, or Elizabeth. We shall find a certain characteristic appertaining to
these. It is only those personages who prominently figured in the Scripture
narrative who made any mark upon our nomenclature. The others, I doubt
not, were unknown. It is even uncertain whether the clergy themselves had
any but the faintest knowledge of the Bible. Indeed, such names even as
were in use bear no testimony to the fact that they were given as the direct
result of familiarity with the sacred pages. If from the New Testament, they
were names that figured in the calendar as saints and martyrs, names to
whom shrines and chapels had been dedicated. If from the Old, they were
just those like ‘Adam,’ or ‘Isaac,’ or ‘Joseph,’ or ‘Samson,’ or ‘Daniel,’ or
‘Absolom,’ whose stories, told in the monkish performances or miracle-
plays, were thus forced into the acquaintance of the popular mind. In a
word, there is not a trace of anything beyond a mere superficial knowledge
of the very outlines of the sacred narrative. Thus was it with ‘Adam,’
already mentioned. That he and Eve should be remembered at the font was
inevitable. The Hundred Rolls give us an ‘Adam fil. Eve.’ Mr. Lower has
been tempted to refer our ‘Atkins’ and ‘Atkinsons’ to Arthur, but there can
be little doubt, I imagine, that these are but sharper forms of ‘Adkins’ and
‘Adkinson.’ The record alluded to above registers the same person twice as
‘Adam le Fullere’ and ‘Adekin le Fuller.’ With them therefore we must ally
our ‘Addisons,’ ‘Adcocks,’[73] and ‘Adamsons.’ Eve left us ‘Eveson’ as a
metronymic, and ‘Evetts’ and ‘Evitts,’ as the diminutives, are firmly set
amongst us.[74] ‘Abel’ was equally popular. The Norman desinence is found
in such entries as ‘Abalotta de la Forde,’ or Richard Abelot, whose
descendants now figure as ‘Ablett’ and ‘Ablott.’ As will be seen, these may
be feminine in origin. The reverence of the despised Jew for Abraham
prevented this from becoming acceptable to Christians, but Isaac’s sacrifice
was too popular a story not to leave an impression. It would be frequently
represented by the monks. I have already quoted Langland where he speaks
of

Hikke the hackney-man
And Hugh the nedlere—

an abbreviation now more generally known and spelt as ‘Ike.’ Gower also
has it—
Watte vocat, cui Thoma venit, neque Symme retardat,
Bat-que Gibbe simul, Hykke venire jubent.

From him then have arisen our ‘Isaacs’ and ‘Isaacsons,’ our ‘Hicks’ and
‘Hicksons,’ our ‘Higgs’ and ‘Higsons,’ and with the Norman-French
diminutives appended, our ‘Higgins,’ ‘Higginsons,’ ‘Higgotts,’[75] and
‘Higgetts.’ ‘Sarah,’ in the dress of ‘Sarra,’ had a fair number of admirers.
‘Sarra le Commongere,’ ‘William fil. Sarra,’ ‘Nicholas fil. Sarre,’ is the
usual entry. The origin of our ‘Sarsons’ would thus be certain, were it not
that this name, as will be shown elsewhere, has got confused with
‘Saracen.’ Moses also failed to be accepted among Christians, nor was
Aaron much more fortunate, such registration as ‘Aaron le Blund’ or ‘Aron
Judde’ being rare. ‘Samson’ or ‘Sampson,’ as it is more generally recorded,
was of course popular enough, and many of our ‘Sampsons’ are rather the
simple ‘Samson’ than the patronymic of ‘Samuel.’ ‘Samms,’ ‘Samuels’ and
‘Samuelson’ are generally of Jewish descent. ‘David,’ with its ‘Davies,’ its
‘Davidsons,’ its ‘Dawes’ and ‘Dawsons,’ its ‘Dawkes’ and ‘Dawkins,’ or
‘Dawkinsons,’ its ‘Dayes,’ ‘Daysons,’ and ‘Dakins’ (when not ‘Deakin’),
would be equally sure of remembrance; though doubtless, as the patron
saint of the Principality, and as a favourite among Scottish kings, it owes
much to these outer chances. Here, too, we are reminded of Piers Plowman,
with his—
Dawe the dykere
And a dozen othere.

This nickname seems to have had a long reign in the popular mouth, for we
find, towards the close of the sixteenth century, Haywood writing the
following epigram:—

To a justice a juggler did complaine,
Of one that dispraised his legerdemain.
What’s thy name? sayd the Justice: Dawson, sayd hee:
Is thy father alive? Nay, dead, sir, pardee:
Then thou shalt no more be Dau’s son, a clere case,
Thou art Daw thyself now in thy father’s place.[76]

Passing by ‘Absolom,’ ‘Solomon,’ or ‘Salamon,’ ‘Job’ and ‘Jobson,’ the
story of Daniel would of course be common. This has bequeathed us itself
in propria persona, and ‘Dancock,’ ‘Dankin,’ ‘Danett,’ and ‘Dannett.’ With
regard to ‘Dans,’ ‘Dance,’ ‘Danse,’ and ‘Danson,’ there is a little difficulty.
We have to remember that ‘Dan,’ like ‘Dame,’[77] figured prominently in
early days as a simple title of respect. They were but the ‘Don’ and ‘Donna’
which, in one form or another, still exist in Italy, France, and Spain.
‘Dame,’ from domina, meant ‘mistress.’ ‘Don,’ from dominus, meant
‘master.’ To rank and age the two terms were equally applied. A ‘dame’s
school’ still preserves this connexion of ideas. ‘As with the mistress so with
the maid,’ is in early Bibles ‘As with the dame so with the maid.’ Thus there
seems to be little doubt that our ‘Dames’ and ‘Damsons’ are so sprung. Why
then should not ‘Dans’ and ‘Danse’ and ‘Danson’ be the masculine form?
Chaucer, in his Canterbury Tales, represents the host as asking the Monk—
But, by my trothe, I cannot tell your name:
Whether shall I call you my lord Dan John,
Or Dan Thomas, or elles Dan Albon?

Thus he speaks also of ‘Dan Constantine,’ and jestingly of the ass as ‘Dan
Burnell.’ Thus, Lord Surrey in one of his poems speaks of ‘Dan Homer;’
Spenser of ‘Dan Geoffrey;’ Thomson of ‘Dan Abraham.’ The best way will
be, as in many another case, to divide the honours between the two; and
leaving it thus undecided, I pass on.
Nor is the New Testament without its instances. Let us look at the
Apostles first. We have already spoken at some length about ‘John,’ but we
purposely kept for the present opportunity the explanation of its popularity
in England. There can be little doubt that it owes much to its religious
aspect. It was the name not merely of the beloved disciple, but of the
Baptist. New and close associations with the latter were just coming into
being. We must remember this was the time of the Crusades. It was the

custom of all pilgrims who visited the Holy Land to bring back a bottle of
water from the Jordan for baptismal purposes. A leathern bottle was an
inseparable adjunct to the palmer’s dress. We all remember Walter Scott’s
description—
His sandals were with travel tore,
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip he wore:
The faded palm-branch in his hand
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.

Early scenes with regard to the river in which the Baptist specially figured
would thus be vividly brought to their notice, and in the ceremony of
baptism at home nothing could be more natural than to give to the infant the
name of the baptizer of the Holy Child Jesus. This is strongly confirmed by
the fact of the name taking precedence at this very period. It was thus
‘Jordan’ itself as a surname has arisen. I need not remind students of early
records how common is ‘Jordan’ as a Christian name, such cognomens as
‘Jordan de Abingdon’ or ‘Jordan le Clerc’ being of the most familiar
occurrence. The baptismal soon became surnominal, and now ‘Jordan,’[78]
‘Jordanson,’ ‘Jordson,’ ‘Jurdan,’ ‘Judd,’ and ‘Judson’[79] are with us to
remind us of this peculiar and interesting epoch.[80] We have a remarkable
confirmation of what I am asserting in the fact of the Baptist’s other name
of ‘Elias’ springing into a sudden notoriety at this time. If ‘John’ became
thus so popular, it was inevitable ‘Elias’ should be the same; and so it was.
Indeed, there was a time when it bid fair to be one of the most familiar
sobriquets in England. For it was not merely the second Elias and the
Jordan that had this effect. As the armies lay before Acre, remembrance of
Elijah and the prophet of Carmel must have oft recurred to their minds. Out
of many forms to be found in every early roll, those of ‘Ellis,’ ‘Elys,’
‘Elice,’ ‘Ellice,’ ‘Elyas,’ ‘Helyas,’ and the diminutive ‘Eliot’ or ‘Elliot,’
seem to have been the most familiar. Numberless are the surnames sprung
from it. It is thus we get our ‘Ellises’ and ‘Ellices,’ our ‘Ellsons’ and
‘Ellisons,’ our ‘Elkins’ and ‘Elkinsons,’ our ‘Elcocks’ and ‘Ellcocks,’ and
our ‘Ellicots,’[81] ‘Elliots,’ and ‘Elliotsons.’ In the north ‘Alis’ seems to have
gained the supremacy. Thus it is we have our many ‘Allisons’ or
‘Alisons,’[82] ‘Allkins’ or ‘Alkins,’ ‘Allcocks’ or ‘Alcocks,’ and ‘Allots.’
‘Alecot,’ as a synonym with ‘Elicot,’ I do not find to be at present existing,
but as a Christian name it occurs at the same period with the above.[83]

‘Fitzellis,’ as the more aristocratic Norman form, is not yet, I believe,
extinct. Thus the prophet at Carmel and the forerunner at the Jordan have
made their mark upon our English nomenclature.
Peter claims our attention next. When we consider how important has
been the position claimed for him it is remarkable that in an age when, so
far as England was concerned, this respect was more fully exacted than any
other, his name should be so rarely found, rarely when we reflect what an
influence the ecclesiastics of the day themselves must have had in the
choice of the baptismal name, and what an interest they had in making it
popular. It is to them, doubtless, we must refer the fact of its having made
any mark at all, for ‘Peter’ was odious to English ears. It reminded them of
a tax which was the one of all least liked, as they saw none of its fruits. It is
to country records we must look for the ‘Peters’ of the time. The freer towns
would none of it. Among the rude peasantry ecclesiastic control was well-
nigh absolute; in the boroughs it was proportionately less. I have already
quoted an instance of 133 London names where Peter is discovered but
once to 35 Johns. In the Norwich Guild already mentioned, the proportion,
or rather disproportion, is the same. To 128 Johns, 47 Williams, 41
Thomases, 33 Roberts, and 21 Richards, there are but 4 Peters. On the other
hand, in Wiltshire, out of 588 names, we find 16 Peters to 92 Johns. This
wide difference of ratio I find to be fully borne out in all other groups of
early names. Thanks then to the ecclesiastics it did exist, and its relics at
any rate are numerous enough. It is hence we get the shorter ‘Parr,’ ‘Piers,’
‘Pierce,’ ‘Pears,’ ‘Pearse,’ and ‘Peers.’ It is hence with the patronymic
added we get our ‘Parsons,’ ‘Pearsons,’ ‘Piersons,’ and the fuller ‘Peterson.’
It is hence once more with the pet desinences attached we get our ‘Perrins’
and ‘Perrens,’ our ‘Perrets,’ ‘Perretts,’ ‘Parrots,’ and ‘Parrets,’[84] our
‘Peterkins,’ ‘Perkins,’ ‘Parkins,’ and ‘Parkinsons,’ besides our ‘Perks’ and
‘Perkes’ innumerable.
‘Simon,’ or ‘Simeon,’ is represented by at least sixteen different
personages in the Scriptures, so we may well expect to find that it has also
impressed itself upon our own registers. The usual forms of the name in
mediæval rolls is ‘Sim,’ ‘Simkin,’ and ‘Simonet.’ Thus we find such entries
as ‘Simon fil. Sim,’ ‘Simkin Cock,’ ‘Symkyn Edward,’ ‘Simonettus
Mercator,’ or ‘Symonet Vaillain.’ The French diminutive does not seem to
have been so popular as that which the Flemings made so common, for I

find no ‘Simnets’ in our directories, while a whole column has to be set
aside for our ‘Simpkins’ and ‘Simpkinsons.’ ‘Simcock’ must have existed
also, as our ‘Simcocks’ and ‘Simcoxes’ can testify. Other forms are found in
‘Sims,’ ‘Simms,’ ‘Simpson,’ ‘Simmons,’ ‘Simonds,’ ‘Symonds,’
‘Simmonds,’ and ‘Symondsons.’ This latter is met with in the Rolls of
Parliament in the guise of ‘Symondesson.’ ‘Philip,’ as another of the
Apostles of Jesus, was also popular. As with ‘Simon,’ most of the nursery
forms are still found as the chief components of its surnames. Skelton, the
poet-laureate—in lieu of a better—of Henry VIII., reminds us of its chief
contraction, ‘Philp,’ or ‘Phip,’ in his lines on a dead sparrow, named Philip:
—
Many times and oft,
Upon my finger aloft,
I played with him, tittle-tattle,
And fed him with my spattle,
With his bill between my lips.
It was my pretty Phips.

Thus we derive our ‘Phelps,’ ‘Philps,’ ‘Phipps,’ and ‘Phipson.’ Adding to
these our ‘Philips,’ ‘Philipsons,’ ‘Philcoxes,’ ‘Philpotts,’ and ‘Phillots,’ we
see that we are not likely soon to be quit of Philip. He is now, however, out
of fashion as a Christian name. ‘Philpot,’[85] I need scarcely say, was very
popular as the representative of the Norman-French ‘Philipot,’ found in
such entries as ‘Thomas Phylypotte,’ or ‘John Philipot;’ but endeavours to
deduce his origin as well in spelling as in sound from the characteristics
displayed by the renowned Toby Phillpot are not wanting, for I see him
figuring in the ‘London Directory’ as ‘Fillpot.’ Archbishop Trench quotes
from one of Careless’s letters to Philpot the following passage, which
serves to show that three hundred years ago at least the name had been
played upon in similar fashion: ‘Oh, good Master Philpot (he says), which
art a principal pot indeed, filled with much precious liquor—oh, pot most
happy! of the High Potter ordained to honour.’ Some years ago, when a
Philpott was appointed to the episcopal chair of Worcester, Dr. Philpotts
being yet at Exeter, the following lines got abroad:—

‘A good appointment?’ ‘No, it’s not,’
Said old beer-drinking Peter Watts;
‘At Worcester one but hears “Phil-pott;”
At generous Exeter, “Phil-potts.”’

‘Fillpot’ as well as ‘Fillip’ are both found in mediæval registers in the cases
of ‘Roger Fylpot’ and ‘Walter Felip.’ An old song, quoted in ‘Political
Poems’ (i. 60), says of the defeated soldiers at Halidon Hill:—

On Filip Valas fast cri they,
There for to dwell, and him avaunce.

The ‘Fillpots’ of our present directories may therefore have thus spelt their
names for four or five hundred years. Anyhow they have precedent for the
form.
‘Matthew the Publican’ seems to have been a favourite alike in England
and France. ‘Matt’ was the homely appellative, and thus besides ‘Mathews’
and ‘Mathewson,’ we meet with ‘Matts,’ ‘Matson,’ ‘Mattison,’ and
‘Mattinson.’ Our ‘Mayhews’ represent the foreign dress, and can refer their
origin to such personages as ‘Adam fil. Maheu,’ or ‘Mayeu de
Basingbourne.’ ‘Bartholomew,’ for what reason I can scarcely say, was a
prime favourite with our forefathers, and has left innumerable proofs of the
same. ‘Batt’ or ‘Bett’ seems to have been the favourite curtailment. The
author of ‘Piers Plowman’ speaks of ‘Bette the Bocher’ (Butcher), ‘Bette
the Bedel,’ and makes Reason bid
Bette kutte
A bough outher tweye,
And bete Beton therewith.

‘Batty,’ ‘Bates,’ ‘Batson,’ ‘Batcock,’ ‘Badcock,’ ‘Batkins,’ ‘Badkins,’
‘Betson,’ ‘Bedson,’ and ‘Betty’ are relics of this. ‘Bartle,’ and the Norman-
French ‘Bartelot,’ found in such entries as ‘Bartel Frobisher,’ ‘John fil.
Bertol,’ ‘Bartelot Govi,’ or ‘Edward Barttlette,’ at once bespeak the origin
of our ‘Bartles’ and ‘Bartletts.’[86] Nor was this all. Another favourite
sobriquet for this same name was ‘Toly’ or ‘Tholy,’ hence such registrations
as ‘Tholy Oldcorn,’ or ‘Robert Toly,’ or ‘William fil. Tholy.’ Our ‘Tolleys,’
‘Tollys’ and ‘Tolsons’[87] are thus explained. None of these could have been
the offspring of any old ‘Ladye Betty,’ as Mr. Lower seems to imagine,
since that name, as I have shown, did not exist in England at this time, nor
in fact can it be said to have been known till rendered fashionable by
Elizabeth Woodville, the bride of Edward IV. What an influence a single
individual may wield over our personal nomenclature may be thus seen,
when we remember the enormous preponderance of this latter name during
the two centuries that followed the reign of the imperious but ‘good Queen
Bess,’ and the glorious scattering of the Spanish Armada. This, too,

escaping the withering influences of the Puritan era, continued through all,
and now holds the fourth place in English esteem.
In the poem I have just quoted, Reason
Called Caton his knave
Curteis of speche,
And also Tomme Trewe-tonge.

Thus we see that ‘Tom,’ as the popular form of ‘Thomas,’ has been in vogue
for many centuries. ‘Thomas,’ like some of the above names, received an
increased impulse from the Crusades. But another circumstance also
befriended it. In its numerous progeny may be read again the story of the
feud that arose between the haughty Archbishop and Henry II., a feud that
terminated so fatally for the former, and made the spot where he fell
hallowed for centuries by the pilgrimages of shrine-worshippers. Piers, in
Langland’s poem, says,
I nolde fange a ferthyng
For seint Thomas shryne.

The surnames whose origin we must undoubtedly attribute, in the majority
of cases, to the notoriety given to the sobriquet possessed by this murdered
prelate are many. The patronymic is clearly marked in our ‘Thomasons,’
‘Thomsons,’ and ‘Thompsons.’ The favoured Norman diminutive is equally
assured of perpetuation in our ‘Thomasetts,’ ‘Thomsetts,’ and ‘Thompsetts;’
the Saxon being as fully popularised in our ‘Thompkins,’ ‘Tompkins,’
‘Tomkins,’ and ‘Tomkinsons.’ The softer termination is also firmly settled
in our ‘Thomlins,’ ‘Tomlins,’ and ‘Tomlinsons.’[88] More abbreviated
patronymics are to be met with also in our ‘Thomms,’ ‘Thoms,’ and ‘Toms.’
With so many representatives in the list of rational beings, we need not be
surprised to find the lower order of creation under obligations to this title. It
was with the death of St. Thomas of Canterbury, and the consequent
popularity of his name, arose so many sobriquets of which the same name
became a component part. The cat became a ‘tom-cat,’ a simple-natured
man a ‘tom-coney,’ a silly fellow a ‘tom-noddy’ or ‘tom-fool,’ a romping
girl a ‘tom-boy,’ and a wren a ‘tom-tit.’ Andrew has made little impression
on English nomenclature, but in Scotland he is universal,[89] for not only is
St. Andrew the patron saint, but some of his relics are said to have been

brought thither in the 4th century. ‘Andrew,’ ‘Andrews,’ and ‘Anderson’ are
its surnames, but nearly all belong to the north side of the Tweed. ‘James,’
too, has failed to be popular in England, but ‘John’ in the shape of ‘Jack’
has robbed him, as we have seen, of nearly all his property. Such entries as
‘James le Queynt,’ or ‘Ralph Jamson,’ or ‘William Gimmison,’ were
occasionally registered, and in the form of ‘James’ ‘Jameson,’ ‘Jimson’ and
‘Jimpson’ they still exist.[90] ‘Jamieson’ is Scotch. Of the Gospel writers we
have already noticed ‘Matthew’ and ‘John.’ In ‘Mark’ we see the progenitor
not merely of our ‘Marks’ and the Latinized ‘Marcus,’ but of ‘Marcock,’
‘Markin,’ and ‘Marson’ also. The mention of ‘Luke’ recalls such names as
‘Luckins,’ ‘Luckock,’ ‘Lucock,’ or ‘Locock,’ ‘Luckett,’ and perchance
‘Lockett.’ It is in the form of ‘Lucus,’ however, that he is generally known.
The author of ‘Piers Plowman’ speaks of ‘Marc,’ ‘Mathew,’ ‘Johan,’ and
‘Lucas.’
Of the later period of New Testament history, few names were better
represented than ‘Nicholas,’ but it was ‘St. Nicholas’ of the fourth century
who chiefly gave it its position. Owing to several well-known legends that
connected themselves with this famous Archbishop of Myra, he became the
patron saint of boys, sailors, parish clerks, and even thieves. Two of the
most favoured curtailments of this name were ‘Nicol’ and ‘Nick.’ From the
one we have derived our ‘Nicholls’ and ‘Nicholsons;’ from the other our
‘Nixs,’ ‘Nicks,’ ‘Nixons,’ ‘Nicksons,’ and ‘Nickersons.’ Judging from our
surnames, ‘Nick’ was the more favoured term. In the old song ‘Joan to the
Maypole,’ it is said:
Nan, Noll, Kate, Moll,
Brave lasses have lads to attend ’em;
Hodge, Nick, Tom, Dick,
Brave country dancers, who can amend ’em?

But the most popular form of all was that of ‘Cole’[91] or ‘Colin,’ which
came to us through the Normans. ‘Colin’ is one more instance of the
diminutive ‘on’ or ‘in.’ Thus we derive our ‘Collins,’ ‘Collinsons,’ and
‘Colsons.’ The more usual desinence still lives in our ‘Colletts’ and
‘Colets.’ This is the form found in one of the ‘Coventry Mysteries,’ where
allusion is made to

Kytt Cakeler, and Colett Crane,
Gylle Fetyse, and Fayr Jane.

Miss Yonge mentions a ‘Collette Boilet’ who, in the fifteenth century,
caused a reformation of the nuns of St. Clara, and Mr. Lower has a ‘St.
Colette,’ whose parents had given him the name out of respect to ‘St.
Nicholas.’ ‘Coletta Clarke’ is found in Clutterbuck’s ‘Hertford’ (Index). St.
Nicholas, it is clear, was not neglected.
The proto-martyr Stephen has left many memorials in our nomenclature
of the popularity which his story obtained among the English peasantry. The
name proper is found in such entries as ‘Esteven Walays,’ or ‘Jordan fil.
Stephen,’ and their descendants now figure amongst us as ‘Stephens,’
‘Stevens,’ ‘Stephenson,’ and ‘Stevenson.’ More curtailed forms are met
with in ‘Steenson’ and ‘Stinson,’ and the more corrupted ‘Stimson’ and
‘Stimpson.’ The Norman diminutive was of course ‘Stevenet’ or ‘Stevenot,’
and this still remains with us in our ‘Stennets’ and ‘Stennetts.’ Nor do Paul
and Barnabas lack memorials. Traces of the former are found in our
‘Polsons,’[92] ‘Pawsons,’ ‘Powlsons,’ and more correct ‘Paulsons.’ In one of
these, at least, we are reminded of the old pronunciation of this name. Piers
Plowman styles it ‘Powel,’ and even so late as 1562 we find Heywood
writing the following epigram:—
Rob Peter and pay Poule, thou sayst I do;
But thou robst and poulst Peter and Poule, too.

This at once explains the origin of our more diminutive ‘Pauletts,’
‘Pouletts,’ ‘Powletts,’ and ‘Pollitts.’[93] ‘Barnabas’ has left his impress upon
our ‘Barnabys,’ and when not local, ‘Barnbys.’ Miss Yonge mentions an
epitaph in Durham, dated 1633, commemorative of one of the proctors of
the chapter—
Under this thorne tree
Lies honest Barnabee.

A century later we find it in one of D’Orsey’s ballads—

Davy the drowsy, and Barnaby bowzy,
At breakfast will flout and will jeer, boys;
Sluggards shall chatter, with small beer and water,
Whilst you shall tope off the March beer, boys.—Vol. i. 311.

This name is now entirely out of fashion.
With five Alexanders in the New Testament it did not need the celebrity
of the great commander nor that of more fabulous heroes to make his name
common. In Scotland it obtained great favour, both in palace and cottage.
The softer form was always used. Chaucer says—
Alisaundre’s storie is commune;

and Langland, among other foreign places of interest, speaks of
Armonye and Alisaundre.

This was no doubt the popular pronunciation of the time, except that it was
usually abbreviated into ‘Sander,’ or ‘Saunder.’ Thus, in ‘Cocke Lorells
Bote,’ it is said—
Here is Saunder Sadeler, of Frog-street Corner,
With Jelyan Joly at sign of the Bokeler.

Hence it is we find such entries as ‘Thomas fil. Saundre,’ ‘John Alisaundre,’
‘Edward Saundercock,’ or ‘Sandres Ewart,’ and hence again such surnames
as ‘Sandercock,’ ‘Sanderson,’ ‘Saunderson,’ ‘Sanders,’ and ‘Saunders.’
‘Timothy,’ saving in ‘Timms,’ ‘Timbs,’ ‘Timson,’ and ‘Timcock,’ seems to
have been overlooked, and yet Glutton in ‘Piers Plowman’ is followed into
the tavern by
Wat the warner, and his wife both,
Tymme the tinker, and twain of his ’prentices.

But, however unfortunate Paul’s spiritual son may have been, the same
cannot be said of Clement, his fellow-labourer. Raised to high distinction as
the title of one of the greatest of the early fathers, a popular name among
the Popes (for no less than fourteen were found to bear the sobriquet),

Clement could not fail to meet with honour. Its usual forms were ‘Clement,’
‘Clemence,’ and ‘Clemency.’ Diminutives were found also in ‘Clem’ and
‘Clim.’ Of the noted North English archer it is said, in one of the Robin
Hood ballads—
And Clim of the Clough hath plenty enough,
If he but a penny can spare;

and in the old song of the ‘Green-gown’ a rhyme is easily secured by the
conjunction of such names as—
Clem, Joan, and Isabel,
Sue, Alice, and bonny Nell.

The chief surnames whose paternity is traceable to ‘Clement’ are
‘Clements,’ ‘Clementson,’ ‘Clemms,’ ‘Clemson,’ and ‘Clempson.’
Archangelic names are found in our ‘Gabbs,’ ‘Gabbots,’ and ‘Gabcocks,’
from ‘Gabriel;’ and in our ‘Michaelson,’ ‘Mitchels,’ and ‘Mitchelsons,’
from ‘Michael.’
But let us somewhat more closely analyse these names. As I have said
before, from the most casual survey one thing is evident, they represent the
Church’s Calendar rather than the Church’s Bible. They are the extract of
sacred legends rather than of Holy Writ. There is not a single name to
betray any internal acquaintance with the Scriptures. Nor could there well
be. An English Bible was unknown, and had there been one to consult, the
reading powers of the nation were too limited for it to have been much
used. Many of the clergy themselves could not read. Thus the Bible, so far
as extends beyond the leading incidents it contains, was a sealed book. This
had its effect upon our nomenclature. We cannot find a single trace of
acquaintance with its rarer histories. What a wide change in this respect did
Wicklyffe and the Reformation effect! With an English Bible in their hand,
with the clearing away of the mists of ignorance and superstition, with the
destruction of all forces that could obstruct the spread of knowledge, all was
altered. The Bible, posted up in every church, might be read of all—and all
who could probably did read it. This at once had its effect upon our
nomenclature. Names familiar enough in our own day to those ordinarily
conversant with the Scriptures, but till then absolutely unknown, were

brought forth from their hiding-places and made subservient to the new
impulse of the nation. Names associated with the more obscure books, and
with personages less directly confronting us in our study of the Word, begin
now to be inscribed upon our registers. The ‘Proceedings in Chancery’ is
the best evidence how far this had affected our nomenclature towards the
close of the reign of Elizabeth. We come across such names, for example, as
‘Ezechie Newbold,’ ‘Dyna Bocher,’ ‘Phenenna Salmon,’ ‘Ezekiel Guppye,’
‘Dedimus Buckland,’ ‘Esdras Botright,’ ‘Sydrach Sympson,’ ‘Judith
Botswain,’ ‘Isachar Brookes,’ ‘Gamaliel Capell,’ ‘Emanuel Cole,’ ‘Abigaill
Cordell,’ ‘Reuben Crane,’ ‘Amos Boteler,’ ‘Philologus Forth,’ ‘Zabulon
Clerke,’ ‘Archelaus Gifford,’ ‘Gideon Hancock,’ ‘Seth Awcocke,’
‘Abacucke Harman,’ or ‘Melchizedek Payn.’ The ‘State Papers’ (domestic)
of James I.’s reign are still more largely imbued with the new influence. We
are now brought face to face with entries such as ‘Uriah Babington,’
‘Aquila Wykes,’ ‘Hilkiah Crooke,’ ‘Caleb Morley,’ ‘Philemon Powell,’
‘Melchior Rainald,’ ‘Zachæus Ivitt,’ ‘Ananias Dyce,’ ‘Agrippina Bingley,’
‘Apollonia Cotton,’ or ‘Phineas Pett.’ So far, however, the change was of a
certain kind. These new names did not clash with the old nomenclature.
There was a greater variety, that was all. Both romance and sacred names
went together, and in the same family might be seen ‘John’ and ‘Ralph,’
‘Isaac’ and ‘Robert,’ ‘Reuben’ and ‘Richard.’ But a new spirit was being
infused into the heart of the nation, that spirit which at length brought about
the Puritan Commonwealth. We all know how this great change came. It is
neither our intention, nor need we enter into it here. Sufficient for our
purpose that it came. This revolution marvellously affected our
nomenclature. It was not simply that the old and, so to speak, pagan names
‘William,’ ‘Roland,’ ‘Edward,’ ‘Ralph,’ ‘Aymon,’ and a hundred others,
once household words, were condemned to oblivion, but even the names of
the Christian saints were ignored. ‘Cromwell,’ says Cleveland, ‘hath beat up
his drums clean through the Old Testament—you may know the genealogy
of our Saviour by the names of his regiment. The muster master hath no
other list than the first chapter of St. Matthew.’ The Old Testament, indeed,
seems to have been alone in favour.[94] The practice of choosing such
designations borrowed therefrom as ‘Enoch,’ ‘Hiram,’ ‘Seth,’ ‘Phineas,’
‘Eli,’ ‘Obadiah,’ ‘Job,’ ‘Joel,’ ‘Hezekiah,’ ‘Habbakuk,’ ‘Caleb,’ ‘Zeruiah,’
‘Joshua,’ ‘Hephzibah,’ or ‘Zerubbabel,’ has left its mark to this very day,
especially in our more retired country districts. Self-abasement showed

itself, at least externally, in the choice of names of bad repute. ‘Cains,’
‘Absoloms,’ ‘Abners,’ ‘Delilahs,’ ‘Dinahs,’ ‘Tamars,’ ‘Korahs,’ ‘Abirams,’
and ‘Sapphiras,’[95] abounded. Nor was this all. Of all excesses those of a
religious character are proverbially most intemperate in their course.
Abstract qualities, prominent words of Scriptures, nay, even short and
familiar sentences culled from its pages, or parodied, were tacked on to
represent the Christian name. Camden mentions, as existing in his own day,
such appellations as ‘Free-gift,’ ‘Reformation,’ ‘Earth,’ ‘Dust,’ ‘Ashes,’
‘Delivery,’ ‘Morefruit,’ ‘Tribulation,’ ‘The Lord is near,’ ‘More trial,’
‘Discipline,’ ‘Joy again,’ ‘From above’—names which, he says, ‘have lately
been given by some to their children, with no evil meaning, but upon some
singular and precise conceit.’ ‘Praise-God-Barebones’ is but another
specimen of this extraordinary spirit. The brother of this latter could boast a
still longer sobriquet. He had chosen for himself, it is said, the title, ‘If-
Christ-had-not-died-for-you-you-had-been-damned-Barebones,’ but his
acquaintances becoming wearied of its length, retained only the last word,
and as ‘Damned-Barebones’ left him a sobriquet more curt than pleasant.
The following is a list of a jury said to have been enclosed in the county of
Sussex at this time, and selected of course from the number of the Saints:—
Accepted Trevor of Norsham.
Redeemed Compton of Battle.
Faint-not Hewit of Heathfield.
Make-peace Heaton of Hare.
God-reward Smart of Fivehurst.
Stand-fast-on-high Stringer of Crowhurst.
Earth Adams of Waketon.
Called Lower of the same.
Kill-sin Pimple of Witham.
Return Spelman of Watling.
Be-faithful Joiner of Butling.
Fly-debate Roberts of the same.
Fight-the-good-fight-of-faith White of Emer.
More-fruit Fowler of East Hadly.
Hope-for Bending of the same.
Graceful Herding of Lewes.
Weep-not Billing of the same.
Meek Brewer of Oakeham.

The above list may be thought by many a mere burlesque, and so I doubt
not it is, but a similar category could be quickly put together from more
reliable sources, and some of the names therein set down did certainly exist.

The following entries are quoted by Mr. Lower from the registers of
Warbleton:—
1617. Be-stedfast Elyarde.
— Goodgift Gynnings.
1622. Lament Willard.
1624. Defend Outered.
1625. Faint-not Dighurst.
— Fere-not Rhodes.
1677. Replenish French.[96]

The ‘Proceedings in Chancery’ furnish us with ‘Virtue Hunt,’ ‘Temperance
Dowlande,’ ‘Charitie Bowes,’ and ‘Lamentation Chapman.’ The ‘Visitation
of Yorkshire’ gives us ‘Fayth Neville,’ ‘Grace Clayton,’ ‘Troth Bellingham,’
and ‘Prudence Spenser;’ and amongst other more general instances may be
mentioned ‘Experience Mayhew,’[97] ‘Abstinence Pougher,’[98] ‘Increase
Mather,’[99] ‘Thankfull Frewen,’ ‘Accepted Frewen,’[100] ‘Live-well
Sherwood,’[101] ‘Faythful Fortescue,’[102] and ‘Silence Leigh.’[103] The more
extraordinary and rabid phases of this spirit have now passed away, but the
general effect remains. It is from this date, I have said, must be noted the
declension of such a familiar name as ‘Humphrey,’ or ‘Ralph,’ or
‘Joscelyn,’ and of the romance names generally. From this date we perceive
the use of some of our present most familiar and till then well-nigh
unknown baptismal names.
With the restoration of Charles II. much of the more rhapsodic features of
this curious spirit died out, but it is more than probable it was fed
elsewhere. The rigorous persecution of the Nonconformists which marked
and blotted his reign, the persecuting spirit which drove hundreds to seek
beyond the seas that asylum for religious liberty which was denied them at
home, could have none other effect than to make these settlers cling the
more tenaciously to the new scheme of doctrine and practice, for which
they had sacrificed so much. Thus the feeling which had led them at home
to allow the Written Word to be the only source from which to select names
for their children, or to make substitutions for their own, was not likely to
be suppressed in the backwoods.[104] Their very life and its surroundings
there but harmonized with the primitive histories of those whose names
they had chosen. A kind of affinity seemed to be established between them.
This spirit was fanned by the very paucity of population, and the difficulty

of keeping up any connexion with the outer world. They were shut up
within themselves, and thus the Bible became to them, not so much a record
of the past as that through which ran the chronicle of the present. It was a
living thread interwoven into their very lives. Their history was inscribed in
its pages, their piety was fed by its doctrines. Its impress lay upon all, its
influence pervaded all. All this has left its mark upon Anglo-American
nomenclature—nay, to such a degree do these influences still exist, that,
though derived from the same sources, the American system and our own
can scarce be viewed otherwise than as separate and distinct. Rare, indeed,
are the early romance and the Teutonic names in those tracts where the
descendants of the primitive settlers are found. All are derived from the
Scriptures, or are of that fancy character, a love of which arose with their
Puritan forefathers. Appellations such as ‘Seth,’ or ‘Abel,’ or ‘Lot,’ or
‘Jonas,’ or ‘Asa,’ or ‘Jabez,’ or ‘Abijah,’ or ‘Phineas,’ or ‘Priscilla,’ or
‘Epaphroditus,’ abound on every hand. Sobriquets like ‘Faith,’ and ‘Hope,’
and ‘Charity,’ and ‘Patience,’ and ‘Prudence,’ and ‘Grace,’ and ‘Mercy,’
have become literally as household words, and names yet more uncouth and
strange may be heard every day, sounding oddly indeed to English ears.
There would seem to have been a revulsion of feeling, even from such of
the Biblical names as had lived in the earlier centuries of our history, as if
the connexion of ‘Peter,’ and ‘John,’ and ‘James,’ and ‘Thomas’ with others
of more pagan origin had made them unworthy of further use; certain it is,
that these are in no way so familiar with them as with us. Such are the
strange humours that pass over the hearts of men and communities. Such
are the changes that the nomenclature of peoples, as well as of places and
things, undergo through the more extraordinary convulsions which
sometimes seize the body corporate of society. Truly it is a strange story
this that our surnames tell us. ‘What’s in a name?’ in the light of all this,
seems indeed but a pleasantry, meant to denote how full, how teeming with
the story of our lives is each—as so they are.

CHAPTER II.

LOCAL SURNAMES.

In well-nigh every country where personal nomenclature has assumed a
sure and settled basis, that is, where a second or surname has become an
hereditary possession in the family, we shall find that that portion of it
which is of local origin bears by far the largest proportion to the whole. We
could well proceed, therefore, to this class apart from any other motive, but
when we further reflect that it is this local class which in the first instance
became hereditary, we at once perceive an additional claim upon our
attention.
I need scarcely say at the outset that, as with all countries so with
England, prefixes of various kinds were at first freely used to declare more
particularly whence the nominee was sprung. Thus, if he were come from
some town or city he would be ‘William of York,’ or ‘John of Bolton,’ this
enclitic being familiarly pronounced ‘à,’ as ‘William a York,’ or ‘John a
Bolton.’ For instance, it is said in an old poem anent Robin Hood—
It had been better of William a Trent
To have been abed with sorrowe;

where it simply means ‘William of Trent.’[105] This, of course, is met in
France by ‘de,’ as it was also on English soil during early Norman times. If,
on the other hand, the situation only of the abode gave the personality of the
nominee, the connecting link was varied according to the humour or caprice
of the speaker, or the relative aspect of the site itself. Thus, if we take up the
old Hundred Rolls we shall find such entries as ‘John Above-brook,’ or
‘Adelina Above-town,’ or ‘Thomas Behind-water,’ or ‘John Beneath-the-

town.’ Or take a more extended instance, such as ‘Lane.’ We find it attached
to the personal name in such fashions as the following:—
Cecilia in the Lane.
Emma a la Lane.
John de la Lane.
John de Lane.
Mariota en le Lane.
Philippa ate Lane.
Thomas super Lane.

‘Brook,’ again, by the variety of the prefixes which I find employed, may
well be cited as a further example. We have such entries as these:—
Alice de la Broke.
Andreas ate Broke.
Peter ad le Broke.
Matilda ad Broke.
Reginald del Broke.
Richard apud Broke.
Sarra de Broke.
Reginald bihunde Broke.

These are extracts of more or less formal entries, but they serve at least to
show how it was at first a mere matter of course to put in the enclitics that
associated the personal or Christian name with that which we call the
surname. Glancing over the instances just quoted, we see that of these
definitive terms some are purely Norman, some equally purely Latin, a few
are an admixture of Norman and Latin, a common thing in a day when the
latter was the language of indenture, and the rest are Saxon, ‘ate’ being the
chief one. This ‘atte’ was ‘at the,’ answering to the Norman ‘de la,’ ‘del,’ or
‘du,’ and was familiarly contracted by our forefathers into the other forms
of ‘ate’ and ‘att;’ or for the sake of euphony, when a vowel preceded the
name proper, extended to ‘atten.’ In our larger and more formal Rolls these
seldom occur, owing to their being inscribed all but invariably in the
Norman-French or Latin style I have instanced above, but in the smaller
abbey records, and those of a more private interest, these Saxon prefixes are
common. In the writers of the period they are familiarly used. Thus, in the
‘Coventry Mysteries,’ mention is made of—

Thom Tynker, and Betrys Belle,
Peyrs Potter, and Watt at the Well;[106]

while ‘Piers Plowman’ represents Covetousness as saying—
For some tyme I served
Symme atte-Style
And was his prentice.

It may not be known to all my readers, probably not even to all those most
immediately concerned, that this ‘atte’ or ‘att’ has fared with us in a manner
similar to that of the Norman ‘du’ and ‘de la.’ It has occasionally been
incorporated with the sobriquet of locality, and thus become a recognised
part of the surname itself. Take the two names from the two poems I have
but just quoted, ‘Watt at the Well’ and ‘Symme atte Style.’ Now we have at
this present day but simple ‘Styles’ to represent this latter, while in respect
of the former we have not merely ‘Wells,’ but ‘Attwell,’ or ‘Atwell.’ These
examples are not solitary ones. Thus, such a name as ‘John atte Wood,’ or
‘Gilbert atte Wode,’ has bequeathed us not merely the familiar ‘Wood,’ but
‘Attwood’ and ‘Atwood’ also. ‘William atte Lea,’ that is, the pasture, can
boast a large posterity of ‘Leighs,’ ‘Leghs,’ and ‘Lees;’ but he is well-nigh
as commonly represented by our ‘Atlays’ and ‘Attlees.’ And not to become
tedious in illustrations, ‘atte-Borough’ is now ‘Attenborough’ or
‘Atterbury;’ ‘atte-Ridge’ has become ‘Attridge,’ ‘atte-Field’ ‘Atfield;’ while
such other designations as ‘atte-Town,’ ‘atte-Hill,’ ‘atte-Water,’ ‘atte-
Worth,’ ‘atte-Tree,’ or ‘atte-Cliffe,’ are in this nineteenth century of ours
registered frequently as mere ‘Atton,’ ‘Athill,’ ‘Atwater,’ ‘Atworth,’
‘Attree,’ and ‘Atcliffe.’ Sometimes, however, this prefix dropped down into
the simple ‘a.’ The notorious Pinder of Wakefield was ‘George a Green’
according to the ballads regarding Robin Hood. ‘Thomas a Becket,’
literally, I doubt not, ‘Thomas atte Becket’—that is, the streamlet—is but
another instance from more general history. The name is found in a more
Norman dress in the Hundred Rolls, where one ‘Wydo del Beck’t’ is set
down. In the same way ‘atte-Gate’ became the jewelled ‘Agate,’ and ‘atte-
More’ ‘Amore’ and the sentimental ‘Amor.’ I have said that where the name
proper—i.e. the word of locality—began with a vowel the letter ‘n’ was
added to ‘atte’ for purposes of euphony. It is interesting to note how this
euphonic ‘n’ has still survived when all else of the prefix has lapsed. Thus

by a kind of prosthesis our familiar ‘Noakes’ or ‘Nokes’ stands for ‘Atten-
Oaks,’ that is, ‘At the Oaks.’ ‘Piers Plowman,’ in another edition from that I
have already quoted, makes Covetousness to say—
For sum tyme I served
Simme atte Noke,
And was his plight prentys,
His profit to look.

‘Nash’ is but put for ‘atten-Ash,’ or as some of our Rolls records it, ‘atte-
Nash;’ ‘Nalder’ for ‘atten-Alder,’ ‘Nelmes’ for ‘atten-Elms,’ ‘Nall’ for atten-
Hall,’ while ‘Oven’ and ‘Orchard’ in the olden registers are found as ‘atte-
Novene’ and ‘atte-Norchard’ respectively. That this practice, in a day of an
unsettled orthography, was common, is easily judged by the traces that may
be detected in our ordinary vocabulary of a similar habit. In the period we
are considering ‘ale’ was the vulgar term for an ‘ale-house.’ We still talk of
the ‘ale-stake,’ that is, the public-house sign. Thus ‘atten-ale’ got corrupted
into ‘nale.’ Chaucer, with many other writers, so uses it. In the ‘Freres Tale’
we are told how the Sompnour—
Maken him gret festes at the nale.

An old poem, too, says—
Robin will Gilot
Leden to the nale
And sitten there togedres
And tellen their tale.

Thus our forefathers used to talk alike of ‘an ouch,’ or ‘a nouch,’ for a jewel
or setting of gold. Gower has it—
When thou hast taken any thynge
Of love’s gifte, or nouche, or rynge.

Even now, I need scarcely remind my readers, we talk of a ‘newt,’ which is
nothing but a contraction of ‘an ewt’ or ‘eft,’ and it is still a question
whether ‘nedder,’ provincially used for ‘an adder,’ was not originally

contracted in a similar manner. ‘Nale,’ or ‘Nail,’ thus locally derived, still
lives in our directories as a surname.[107]
While ‘atte’ has been unquestionably the one chief prefix to these more
familiar local terms, it is not the sole one that has left its mark. Our
‘Bywaters’ and ‘Bywoods’ are but the descendants of such mediæval folk as
‘Elias Bi-the-water,’ or ‘Edward By-the-wode,’ and our ‘Byfords,’
‘Bytheseas,’ and ‘Bygates,’ or ‘Byatts,’ are equally clearly the offspring of
some early ancestor who dwelt beside some streamlet shallow, or marine
greensward, or woodland hatchway.
In this pursuit after individuality, however, this was not the only method
adopted. Another class of names arose from the somewhat contrary practice
of appending to the place-word a termination equally significative of
residence. This suffix was of two kinds, one ending in ‘er,’ the other in
‘man.’ Thus if the rustic householder dwelt in the meadows, he became
known among his acquaintance as ‘Robert the Fielder,’ or ‘Filder;’ if under
the greenwood shade, ‘Woodyer,’ or ‘Woodyear,’ or ‘Woodman’—relics of
the old ‘le Wodere’ and ‘le Wodeman;’ if by the precincts of the sanctuary,
‘Churcher’ or ‘Churchman’ in the south of England, or ‘Kirker’ or
‘Kirkman’ in the north; if by some priory, ‘Templer’ or ‘Templeman;’ if by
the village cross, ‘Crosser,’ or ‘Crossman,’ or ‘Croucher,’ or ‘Crouchman;’
if by the bridge, ‘Bridger’ or ‘Bridgman;’ if by the brook, ‘Brooker,’ or
‘Brookman,’ or ‘Becker,’ or ‘Beckman;’ if by the well, the immortal
‘Weller,’ or ‘Welman,’ or ‘Crossweller,’ if, as was often the case, it lay
beneath the roadside crucifix; if by some particular tree, ‘Beecher,’ once
written ‘le Beechar,’ or ‘Asher,’ or ‘Hollier,’ or ‘Holleyman,’ or ‘Oker,’ and
so on.
A certain number of names of the class we are now dwelling upon have
arisen from a somewhat peculiar colloquial use of the term ‘end’ in vogue
with our Saxon forefathers. The method of its employment is still common
in Lancashire and Yorkshire. The poorer classes still speak of a neighbour
as dwelling ‘at the street end;’ they never by any chance use the fuller
phrase ‘the end of the street.’ Chaucer uses it as a familiar mode of
expression. The Friar, in the preface to his story, says slightingly—

A Sompnour is a rener up and doun
With mandments for fornication,
And is beaten at every tounes ende.

In the ‘Persones Prologue,’ too, the same poet says—
Therewith the moons exaltation
In mene Libra, alway gan ascende
As we were entring at the thorpes ende.

How colloquial it must have been in his day we may judge from the
following list of names I have been enabled to pick up from various
records, and which I could have enlarged had I so chosen:—
John ate Bruge-ende.
Walter atte Townshende.
John de Poundesende.
Margaret ate Laneande.
William atte Streteshend.
John atte Burende.
Adam de Wodeshende.
Martin de Clyveshende.
John de la Wykhend.
William de Overende.
John de Dichende.
Thomas atte Greaveshende.

Besides these we have such a Latinized form for ‘Townsend,’ or
‘Townshend,’ as ‘Ad finem villæ,’ or ‘End’ itself without further
particularity, in such a sobriquet as ‘William atte-Nende.’[108] The several
points of the compass, too, are marked in ‘Northende,’ ‘Eastende,’ and
‘Westende,’ the latter having become stereotyped in the fashionable mouth
as the quarter in which the more opulent portion of the town reside, whether
its aspect be towards the setting sun or the reverse—but an exaggeration of
this kind is a mere trifle where fashion is concerned.
But these Saxon compounded names, numerous as they are, are but few
in comparison with the simple locative itself, without prefix, without
desinence, ‘Geoffrey atte Style,’ ‘Roger atte Lane,’ ‘Walter atte Water,’
‘Thomas atte Brooke;’ or in the more Norman fashion of many of our rolls,
‘John de la Ford,’ ‘Robert del Holme,’ ‘Richard de la Field,’ ‘Alice de la

Strete:’ all these might linger for awhile, but in the end, as we might
foresee, as well in the mouths of men as later on in the pages of our
registers, they became simple ‘Geoffrey Styles’ and ‘Roger Lane,’ ‘Walter
Waters’ and ‘Thomas Brookes,’ ‘John Ford’ and ‘Robert Holmes,’ ‘Alice
Street’ and ‘Richard Field.’ Here, then, is an endless source of surnames to
our hands. Here is the spring from which have issued those local sobriquets
which preponderate so largely over those of every other class. To analyse all
these were impossible, and the task of selection is little less difficult. But
we may give the preference to such leading provincialisms as are embodied
in our personal nomenclature, or to such terms as by their existence there
betoken that, though not now, yet they did then occupy a place in the
vocabulary of every-day converse. For it is wonderful how numberless are
the local words, now obsolete saving for our registers, which were used in
ordinary talk not more than five hundred years ago. That many of them
have been thus rescued from oblivion by our hereditary nomenclature is due
no doubt to the fact that the period of the formation of the latter is that also
during which our tongue was settling down into that composite form of
Saxon and Norman in which we now have it, and which in spite of losses in
consequence, in spite of here and there a noble word crushed out, has given
our English language its pliancy and suppleness, its strengths and shades.
We have mentioned ‘de la Woode’ and Attewoode.’ ‘De la Hirst’ is
exactly similar—its compounds equally numerous. The pasture beside it is
‘Hursley’—if filberts abound it is ‘Hazlehurst;’ if ashes, ‘Ashurst;’ if
lindens or linds, ‘Lyndhurst;’ if elms, ‘Elmhurst.’ If hawks frequented it we
find it styled ‘Hawkhurst;’ if goats, ‘Goathirst;’ if badgers or brocks,
‘Brocklehurst;’ if deer, ‘Dewhurst’ (spelt Duerhurst, 1375). The ‘holt’ was
less in size, being merely a coppice or small thicket. Chaucer speaks of
‘holtes and hayes.’ ‘De la Holt’ is of frequent occurrence in our early rolls.
Our ‘Cockshots’ are but the ‘cocksholt,’ the liquid letter being elided as in
‘Aldershot,’ ‘Oakshot,’[109] and ‘Bagshot,’ or badgers’ holt. A ‘shaw’ or
‘schaw’ was a small woody shade or covert. An old manuscript says:—
In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
It is fulle mery in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.

As a shelter for game and the wilder animals, it is found in such compounds
as ‘Bagshaw,’ the badger being evidently common; ‘Hindshaw,’
‘Ramshaw,’ ‘Hogshaw,’[110] ‘Cockshaw,’ ‘Henshaw,’ and ‘Earnshaw.’ The
occurrence of such names as ‘Shallcross’ and ‘Shawcross,’ ‘Henshall’ and
‘Henshaw,’ and ‘Kersall’ and ‘Kershaw,’ would lead us to imagine that this
word too has been somewhat corrupted. Other descriptive compounds are
found in ‘Birkenshaw,’ or ‘Denshaw,’ or ‘Bradshaw,’ or ‘Langshaw,’ or
‘Openshaw.’ As for ‘Shaw’ simple, every county in England has it locally,
and every directory surnominally. Such a name as ‘Richard de la Frith’ or
‘George ate Frith’ carries us at once to the woodland copses that underlay
our steeper mountain-sides—they represented the wider and more wooded
valleys in fact. We find the term lingering locally in such a name as
‘Chapel-en-le-frith’ in the Peak of Derbyshire. The usual alliterative
expression of early days was ‘by frith and fell.’ We have it varied in an old
poem of the fourteenth century:—
The Duke of Braband first of all
Swore, for thing that might befall,
That he should both day and night
Help Sir Edward in his right,
In town, in field, in frith and fen.

Our ‘Friths’ are by no means in danger of obsoletism, to judge by our
directories—and they are a pleasant memorial of a term which was once in
familiar use as expressive of some of the most picturesque portions of
English scenery. Such a name as ‘De la Dene’ or ‘Atte Den,’ of frequent
occurrence formerly, and as ‘Dean’ or ‘Den’ equally familiar now, is worthy
of particularity. A den was a sunken and wooded vale, where cattle might
find alike covert and pasture. Thus it is that we are accustomed to speak of a
den in connexion with animal life, in such phrases as a ‘den of lions’ or a
‘den of thieves.’ See how early this notion sprang. We have a remembrance
of the brock in ‘Brogden,’ the wolf in ‘Wolfenden,’ the fox in ‘Foxden,’ the
ram in ‘Ramsden,’ the hare in ‘Harden,’ and the deer in ‘Dearden,’[111]
‘Buckden’ or ‘Bugden,’ ‘Rayden’ and ‘Roden,’ or ‘Rowden.’ The more
domesticated animals abide with us in ‘Horsden,’ ‘Oxenden,’ and
‘Cowden,’ ‘Lambden,’ or ‘Lamden,’ ‘Borden,’ and ‘Sugden,’ or ‘Sowden;’
‘Swinden,’ ‘Eversden,’ and ‘Ogden,’ at first written ‘de Hogdene.’ With
regard especially to this latter class it is that our ‘Court of Dens’ arose,

which till late years settled all disputes relative to forest pannage. The
dweller therein, engaged probably in the tendance of such cattle as I have
mentioned last, was the ‘Denyer’ or ‘Denman,’ both surnames still living in
our midst. While the den was given up mainly to swine, the ley[112] afforded
shelter to all manner of domestic livestock, not to mention, however, some
few of the wilder quarry. The equine species has given to us ‘Horsley;’ the
bovine, ‘Cowley,’ ‘Kinley,’ and ‘Oxlee’ or ‘Oxley;’ the deer, ‘Hartley,’
‘Rowley,’ ‘Buckley,’ and ‘Hindley;’ the fox, ‘Foxley;’[113] the hare, ‘Harley,’
and even the sheep, though generally driven to the scantier pastures of the
rocks and steeps, has left us in ‘Shipley’ a trace of its footprint in the deeper
and more sheltered glades. Characteristic of the trees which enclosed it, we
get ‘Ashley,’ ‘Elmsley,’ ‘Oakley,’ ‘Lindley,’ or ‘Berkeley.’ Of the name
simple we have endless forms; those of ‘Lee,’ ‘Legh,’ ‘Lea,’ ‘Lees,’ ‘Laye,’
and ‘Leigh’[114] being the most familiar. In the old rolls their ancestors figure
in an equal variety of dresses, for we may at once light upon such names as
‘Emma de la Leye,’ or ‘Richard de la Legh,’ or ‘Robert de la Lee,’ or
‘William de la Lea,’ or ‘Petronilla de la Le.’ Our ‘Atlays’ and ‘Atlees,’ as I
have already said, are but the more Saxon ‘Atte Lee.’
In some of these surnames we can trace the early cuttings amongst the
thickly wooded districts where the larger wealds were situated. Our
‘Royds,’ or ‘Rodds,’ or ‘Rodes,’ all hail from some spot ridded of waste
wood. Compounds may be found in our ‘Huntroyds,’ that is, the clearing for
the chase; ‘Holroyds,’ that is, the holly-clearing; and ‘Acroyds,’ that is, the
oak-clearing, the term ‘acorn,’ that is, ‘oak-corn,’ and such local names as
‘Acton’ or ‘Acland,’ reminding us of this the older spelling; ‘Ormerod,’
again, is but Ormes-clearing—Orme being, as we have already shown, a
common Saxon personal name. Our ‘Greaves’ and ‘Graves’ and ‘Groves,’
descendants of the ‘de la Groves’ and ‘Atte Groves’ of early rolls, not to
mention the more personal ‘Grover’ and ‘Graver,’ convey the same idea. A
‘Greave’ was a woodland avenue, graved or cut out of the forest. Fairfax
speaks of the—
Wind in holts and shady greaves.

’Tis true we only ‘grave’ in stone now, but it was not always so. Thus in the
‘Legend of Good Women’ mention is made of—

A little herber that I have
That benched was on turves fresh ygrave.

We still call the last resting-place of the dead in our churchyards a grave,
though dug from the soil. I have already mentioned ‘de la Graveshend’
occurring as a surname. Our ‘Hargreaves’ hail from the grove where the
hares are plentiful; our ‘Congreves’ representing the same in the coney. Our
‘Greeves’ we shall have occasion in another chapter to show belong to
another and more occupative class of surnames. Our ‘Thwaites,’ too, belong
to this category. Locally the term is confined to Cumberland and the north,
where the Norwegians left it. It is exactly equivalent to ‘field,’ a felled
place, or woodland clearing. The compounds formed from it are too
numerous to wade through. Amongst others, however, we have, as denotive
of the substances ridded, ‘Thornthwaite,’ ‘Limethwaite,’ ‘Rownthwaite,’
and ‘Hawthornthwaite;’ of peculiarity in position or shape, ‘Brathwaite’
(broad), and ‘Micklethwaite;’ of contents, ‘Thistlethwaite,’ ‘Cornthwaite,’
and ‘Crossthwaite.’ The very dress of the majority of these compounds
testifies to the northern origin of the root-word.
Our ‘Slade’ represents the ‘de la Slades’ of the Hundred Rolls. A slade
was a small strip of green plain within a woodland. One of the numberless
rhymes concerning Robin Hood says—
It had been better of William a Trent
To have been abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the greenwood slade
To meet with Little John’s arrowe.

Its nature is still more characterised in ‘Robert de Greneslade,’ that is, the
green-slade; ‘William de la Morslade,’ the moorland-slade; ‘Richard de
Wytslade,’ the white-slade; ‘Michael de Ocslade,’ the oak-slade, and
‘William de Waldeslade,’[115] the forest-slade (weald); ‘Sladen,’ that is,
slade-den, implies a woodland hollow. As a local term there is a little
difference betwixt it and ‘launde,’ only the latter has no suspicion of
indenture about it. A launde was a pretty and rich piece of grassy sward in
the heart of a forest, what we should now call an open wood, in fact. Thus it
is we term the space in our gardens within the surrounding shrubberies
lawns. Chaucer says of Theseus on hunting bent—

To the launde he rideth him ful right
There was the hart wont to have his flight.

In the ‘Morte Arthur,’ too, we are told of hunting—
At the hartes in these hye laundes.

This is the source of more surnames than we might imagine. Hence are
sprung our ‘Launds,’ ‘Lands,’ ‘Lowndes,’ ‘Landers,’ in many cases, and our
obsolete ‘Landmans.’ The forms, as at first met with, are equally varied. We
have ‘atte-Lond,’ ‘de la Laund,’ and ‘de la Lande,’ while the origin of our
‘Lunds’ shows itself in ‘de la Lund.’ ‘De la Holme’ still flourishes in our
‘Holmes,’ while the more personal form is found in our ‘Holmers’ and
‘Holmans.’ An holm was a flat meadow-land lying within the windings of
some valley stream. Our ‘Platts,’ found in such an entry as ‘Robert del Plat,’
are similarly sprung, but in the ‘plat’ there was less thought of general
surroundings. As an adjective it was in common use formerly. For instance,
in the ‘Romaunt of the Rose,’ when the God of Love had shot his arrow, it
is said—
When I was hurte thus in stound
I fell down plat unto the ground.

Our ‘Knowles,’ ‘Knowlers,’ and ‘Knowlmans’ carry us to the gently rising
slopes in the woods, grassy and free of timber, the old form of the first
being ‘de la Cnolle’ or ‘atte Knolle.’ Our ‘Lynches,’ once written ‘de
Linches,’ I should surmise, are but a dress of the still familiar link across
our northern border—the flatland running by the river and sea-coast, while
our ‘Kays’ (when not the old British ‘Kay’) represent the more artificial
‘quay,’ reminding us of the knitting together of beam and stone. It is but the
same word as we apply to locks, the idea of both being that of securing or
fastening.
Though it is to the more open plains and woodlands we must look for the
majority of our place-names, nevertheless, looking up our steeps and into
the fissures of the hills, we may see that every feature in the landscape has
its memorial in our nomenclature. ‘De la Hill’ needs no remark. ‘De la
Helle’ and ‘atte Helle’ are somewhat less pleasant to look upon, but they are

only another form of the same. ‘De la Hulle,’ again, is but a third setting of
the same. Gower says—
Upon the hulles hyhe
Of Othrin and Olympe also,
And eke of three hulles mo
She fond and gadreth herbes sweet.

‘Mountain’ is the ‘de la Montaigne’ of the twelfth century, but of course of
Norman introduction. This sobriquet reminds us of the story told of a
certain Dr. Mountain, chaplain to Charles II., who, when the king asked him
if he could recommend him a suitable man for a vacant bishopric, is
reported to have answered, ‘Sire, if you had but the faith of a grain of
mustard seed, the matter could be settled at once.’ ‘How?’ inquired the
astonished monarch. ‘Why, my liege, you could then say unto this mountain
(smiting his own breast), “be thou removed to that see,” and it should be
done.’[116] Our ‘Cloughs’ represent the narrow fissures betwixt the hills.
From the same root we owe our ‘Clives’ (the ‘de la Clive’ of the Hundred
Rolls), ‘Cliffes,’ ‘Cleves,’ and ‘Clowes,’ not to mention our endless
‘Cliffords,’ ‘Cliftons,’ ‘Clifdens,’ ‘Cliveleys,’ ‘Clevelands,’ ‘Tunnicliffes,’
‘Sutcliffes,’ ‘Nethercliffes,’ ‘Topliffs,’ ‘Ratcliffes,’ or ‘Redcliffes,’
‘Faircloughs,’ and ‘Stonecloughs.’ Any prominence of rock or earth was a
‘cop,’ or ‘cope,’ from the Saxon ‘cop,’ a head.[117] Chaucer talks of the ‘cop
of the nose.’ In Wicklyffe’s version of Luke iv. 29, it says, ‘And thei risen
up and droven him out withouten the cytee, and ledden him to the coppe of
the hill on which their cytee was bilded to cast him down.’ We still talk of a
coping-stone. Hence, from its local use, we have derived our ‘Copes’ and
‘Copps,’ ‘Copleys’ and ‘Copelands,’ and ‘Copestakes.’ From ‘cob,’ which is
but another form of the same word, we get our ‘Cobbs,’ Cobhams,’
‘Cobwells,’ ‘Cobdens,’ and ‘Cobleys.’ Thus, to consult the Parliamentary
Writs alone, we find such entries as ‘Robert de Cobbe,’ ‘Reginald de
Cobeham,’ ‘John de Cobwell,’ or ‘Godfrey de Coppden.’ As a cant term for
a rich or prominent man ‘cob’ is found in many of our later writers, and
‘cobby’ more early implied a headstrong nature. Another term in use for a
local prominence was ‘ness,’ or ‘naze.’ ‘Roger atte Ness’ occurs in the
thirteenth century; and ‘Longness’ and ‘Thickness’ and ‘Redness’ are but
compounds, unless, as is quite possible, they be from the same root in its
more personal relationship to the human face, the word nose being

familiarly so pronounced at this time. Our ‘Downs’ and ‘Dunns,’ when not
sprung from ‘le Dun,’ are but descendants of the old ‘de la Dune,’ of the
hilly slopes; our ‘Combs’ and ‘Combes’ representing the ‘de la Cumbe’ of
the ridgy hollows, or ‘cup-shaped depressions’ of the higher hillsides, as
Mr. Taylor happily expresses it. It is thus we get our terms ‘honeycomb,’
‘cockscomb,’ ‘haircomb,’ &c. Few terms have connected themselves so
much as this with the local nomenclature of our land, and few have made
themselves so conspicuous in our directories. The writer I have just
mentioned quotes a Cumberland poet, who says—
There’s Cumwhitton, Cumwhinton, Cumranton,
Cumrangan, Cumrew, and Cumcatch,
And mony mair Cums i’ the County,
But nin wi’ Cumdivock can match.

Of those compounds which have become surnames we cannot possibly
recite all, but among the more common are ‘Thorncombe’ and
‘Broadcombe,’ ‘Newcombe’ and ‘Morcombe,’ ‘Lipscombe’ and
‘Woolcombe,’ ‘Withecombe’ and ‘Buddicom,’ and ‘Slocombe.’ We have
already mentioned ‘Amore.’ The simple ‘More,’ or ‘Moore,’ is very
familiar; ‘atte Mor,’ or ‘de la More,’ being the older forms. This has ever
been a favourite name for punning rhymes. In the ‘Book of Days,’ several
plays of this kind have been preserved. When Dr. Manners Sutton[118]
succeeded Dr. Moore in the Archiepiscopal chair of Canterbury, the
following lines were written:—
What say you?—the archbishop’s dead?
A loss, indeed! Oh, on his head
May Heaven its blessings pour!
But if with such a heart and mind,
In Manners we his equal find,
Why should we wish for More?

When Sir Thomas More was Chancellor, it is said, his great attention to his
duties caused all litigation to come to an end in the Court of Chancery. The
following epigram bearing upon this fact was written:—

When More some years had Chancellor been,
No more suits did remain;
The same shall never more be seen
Till More be there again.

Our ‘Heaths’ explain themselves, but our ‘Heths,’ though the same, and
from the first found as ‘atte Heth,’ are not so transparent. Some might be
tempted to set them down in a more Israelitish category as descendants of
the ‘children of Heth,’ but such is not the case. Somewhat similar to ‘Cope,’
mentioned above, was ‘Knop’ or ‘Knap’—a summit.[119] Any protuberance,
whatever it might be, was with our old writers a ‘knop.’[120] Rose-buds and
buttons alike, with Chaucer, are ‘knops’:—
Among the knops I chose one
So fair, that of the remnant none
Ne praise I halfe so wel as it.

North in his Plutarch says, ‘And both these rivers turning in one, carrying a
swift streame, doe make the knappe of the said hill very strong of its
situation to lodge a camp upon.’ To our hilltops, then, it is we owe our
‘Knaps,’ ‘Knappers,’ ‘Knapmans,’ ‘Knopps,’ ‘Knopes,’ ‘Knabwells,’ and
‘Knaptons.’ Our ‘Howes’ represent the smaller hills, while still less
prominent would be the abodes of our early ‘Lawes,’[121] and ‘Lowes,’ or
‘de la Lawe’ and ‘de la Lowe,’ as they are found in the Hundred Rolls. Our
‘Shores’ need no explanation, but our ‘Overs’ are less known. An old poem,
quoted by Mr. Halliwell, says:—
She come out of Sexlonde,
And rived here at Dovere,
That stondes upon the sees overe.

It seems to have been used generally to denote the flat-lands that lay about
the sea-coast or rivers generally—what we should call in Scotland the links.
I have already mentioned our ‘Overends’ as similar to our ‘Townsends;’
‘Overman’ doubtless is but the more personal form of the same.[122]
Coming gradually to more definite traces of human habitation, we may
mention some of our tree names. Of several, such as ‘Nash,’ and ‘Nalder,’
and ‘Nokes,’ we have already spoken. Such a name as ‘Henry atte Beeche,’

or ‘Walter de la Lind,’ or ‘Richard atte Ok,’ now found as simple ‘Beech,’
and ‘Lind,’ and ‘Oake,’ reminds us that we are not without further
obligations to the tree world. Settling by or under the shade of some
gigantic elm or oak, a sobriquet of this kind would be perfectly natural. As
our ‘Lyndhursts’ and ‘Lindleys’ prove, ‘lind’ was once familiarly used for
our now fuller ‘linden.’ Piers Plowman says:—
Blisse of the briddes
Broughte me aslepe,
And under a lynde
Upon a launde
Leaned I.

Were the Malvern dreamer describing poetically the birth and the origin of
the future Swedish nightingale who four hundred years afterwards was to
entrance the world with her song, he could not have been more happy in his
expression. Our ‘Ashes’ and ‘Birches,’ once ‘de la Byrche,’ need little
remark, but ‘Birks,’ the harder form of the latter, is not so familiar, though it
is still preserved in such names as ‘Birkenhead,’ or ‘Birkenshaw,’ or
‘Berkeley.’ A small group of trees would be equally perspicuous. Thus have
arisen our ‘Twelvetrees,’ and ‘Fiveashes,’ and ‘Snooks,’ a mere corruption
of the Kentish ‘Sevenoaks.’ Mr. Lower mentions ‘Quatrefages,’ that is,
‘four beeches,’ as a corresponding instance in French nomenclature.[123]
A common object in the country lane or by-path would be the gate or
hatch that ran across the road to confine the deer. The old provincialism for
this was ‘yate.’ We are told of Griselda in the ‘Clerkes Tale’ that—
With glad chere to the yate

she is gone
To grete the markisesse;

and Piers Plowman says our Lord came in through
Both dore and yates
To Peter and to these apostles.[124]

Our ‘Yates,’ written once ‘Atte Yate,’ by their numbers can bear testimony
to the familiarity with which this expression was once used. ‘Byatt’ I have
just shown to be the same as ‘Bygate,’ and ‘Woodyat’ is but equivalent to
‘Woodgate.’ Other compounds are found in the old registers. In the
‘Placitorum’ of the thirteenth century, for instance, we light upon a
‘Christiana atte Chircheyate,’ and a ‘John atte Foldyate;’ while in the
Hundred Rolls of the same period we find a ‘Walter atte Lideyate,’ now
familiarly known to us as ‘Lidgate.’ Our ‘Hatchs,’ once enrolled as ‘de la
Hache,’ like our before-mentioned ‘Hatchers’ and ‘Hatchmans,’ represented
the simple bar that ran athwart the woodland pathway. We still call the
upper-deck with its crossbars the hatches, and a weir is yet with the country
folk a hatch. Chaucer speaks of—
Lurking in hernes and in lanes blinde.

Any nook or corner of land was with our forefathers a ‘hearne,’ and as ‘en
le Herne’ or ‘atte Hurne’ the surname is frequently found in the thirteenth
century.[125] ‘De la Corner’ is, of course, but a synonymous term. A passage
betwixt two houses, or a narrow defile between two hillsides, was a ‘gore,’
akin, we may safely say, to ‘gorge.’ Our ‘Gores,’ as descendants of the old
‘de la Gore,’ are thus explained. ‘De la Goreway,’ which once existed, is
now, I believe, obsolete. One of the most fertile roots of nomenclature was
the simple roadside ‘cross’ or ‘crouch,’ the latter old English form still
lingering in our ‘crutched’ or ‘crouched Friars.’ Langland describes a
pilgrim as having ‘many a crouche on his cloke;’ i.e. many a mark of the
cross embroidered thereon. A dweller by one of these wayside crucifixes
would easily get the sobriquet therefrom, and thus we find ‘atte Crouch’ to
be of early occurrence. Our ‘Crouchmans’ and ‘Crouchers’ I have already
mentioned. A ‘Richard Crocheman’ is found in the Hundred Rolls, and a
‘William Croucheman’ in another entry of the same period. As for the
simpler ‘Cross,’ once written ‘atte Cross,’ it is to be met with everywhere.
‘Crosier’ and ‘Crozier’ I shall, in my next chapter, show to be official rather
than local; so we may pass them by for the present. The more Saxon ‘Rood’
or ‘Rudd’ is not without its representatives. ‘Margery atte Rudde’ is found
in the ‘Placitorum,’ and our ‘Rudders’ and ‘Ruddimans,’ I doubt not, stand
for the more directly personal form. Talking of crosses, we may mention, in
passing, our ‘Bellhouses,’ not unfrequently found as ‘atte Belhus’ or ‘de la

Belhuse.’ The founder of this name dwelt in the small domicile attached to
the monastic pile, and, no doubt, had for his care the striking of the
innumerable calls to the supply of either the bodily or spiritual wants of
those within. Our ‘Bellows,’ I believe, are but a modification of this. The
last syllable has undergone a similar change in several other instances. Thus
the form ‘del Hellus’ was but ‘Hill-house,’ ‘Woodus’ is but the old ‘de la
Wodehouse,’ ‘Stannus’ but ‘Stanehouse’ or ‘Stonehouse,’ ‘Malthus’ but
‘Malthouse,’ and ‘Bacchus’ is found originally as ‘del Bakehouse.’[126] The
old ‘Atte Grene,’ a name familiar enough without the prefix, may be set
beside our ‘Plastows,’ relics of the ‘Atte Pleistowe’ or ‘de la Pleystowe’ of
the period we are considering. The ‘play-stowe’ (that is, ‘playground’)
seems to have been the general term in olden days for the open piece of
greensward near the centre of the village where the may-pole stood, and
where all the sports at holiday times and wake tides were carried on.[127] Our
‘Meads’ or ‘Meddes’ hail from the ‘meadow,’ or ‘mead.’ ‘Ate Med’ is the
early form.[128]
A ‘croft’ was an enclosed field for pasture. Besides ‘Croft’ it has given us
‘Meadowcroft,’ ‘Ryecroft,’ ‘Bancroft’ (that is, bean-croft), ‘Berecroft’ (that
is, barley-croft), and ‘Haycraft’ (that is, hedged-croft). It seems, however, to
have been freely used, also, in the sense of garth or yard, the enclosure in
which, or by which, the house stood. Thus, in the ‘Townley Mysteries,’
Satan is represented as calling to the depraved and vile, and saying—
Come to my crofte alle ye.

With the humour of the period, which was ever largely intermingled in even
the most sacred themes, one of the characters, acting as a demon, replies—
Souls come so thyk now late unto hell
As ever
Our porter at hell-gate
Is holden so strait,
Up early and downe late,
He rests never.

There is little distinction to be drawn between ‘garth’ and ‘yard’ in the
North of England, and in reality there ought to be none. Such names,
however, as ‘Nicholas de Apelyerd,’ or ‘Robert del Apelgarth,’ or ‘Richard

atte Orcheyerd,’ the descendants of whom are still in our midst, bespeak a
former familiarity of usage which we cannot find now. We have just
mentioned ‘Haycraft.’ This reminds us of our ‘Hayes.’ Chaucer, in his
‘Troilus,’ says—
But right so as these holtes and these hayes,
That han in winter dead been and dry,
Revesten them in grene when that May is,
When every lusty beast listeth to pley.

A ‘hay’ was nothing but a ‘hedge.’ In the Hundred Rolls we find such
names occurring as ‘Margery de la Haye’ or ‘Roger de la Hagh,’ or in a
compounded form ‘Richard de la Woodhaye,’ or ‘Robert de Brodheye.’ Of
the simple root the forms most common now are ‘Hay,’ ‘Hayes,’ ‘Haighs,’
‘Haigs,’ and ‘Hawes.’ The composite forms are endless. ‘Roundhay’
explains itself. ‘Lyndsay’ I find spelt at this period as ‘Lyndshay,’ so that it
is not the islet whereon the lind or linden grows, but the hedge of these
shrubs. Besides these we have ‘Haywood’ or ‘Heywood,’ ‘Hayland’ and
‘Hayley.’ From the form ‘hawe,’ mentioned above, we have our ‘Hawleys,’
‘Haworths,’ and ‘Hawtons,’ or ‘Haughtons,’ and probably the longest name
in the directory, that of ‘Featherstonehaugh.’ We still talk of the haw-thorn
and haw-haw. Chaucer uses the term for a farmyard or garth—
And eke there was a polkat in his hawe
That, as he sayd, his capons had yslawe.

This at once explains such a name as ‘Peter in le Hawe’ found in the
Hundred Rolls. But Chaucer has a prettier use of it than this, a use still
abiding in our ‘Churchays,’ relics of the mediæval ‘de Chirchehay.’ He
speaks twice of the ‘Churchhawe,’ or graveyard. How pretty it is! almost as
pretty as its Saxon synonym ‘Godsacre,’ only that is more endeared to us,
inasmuch as since the acre always denoted the sowed land (Latin ‘ager’), so
it whispers to us hopefully of the great harvest-tide to come when the seed
thus sown in corruption shall be raised an incorruptible body. Our
‘Goodacres’ are doubtless thus derived—and with such names as
‘Acreman’ or ‘Akerman,’ ‘Oldacre’ or ‘Oddiker,’ ‘Longacre’ and
‘Whittaker’ (or ‘Whytacre’ or ‘Witacre,’ as I find it in the thirteenth
century), help to remind us how in early days an acre denoted less a fixed

measure of land than soil itself that lay under the plough. But this by the
way. I have just mentioned ‘Hayworth.’ A name like ‘William de la Worth’
(H.R.) represented our ‘Worths’ in the thirteenth century. Properly speaking,
any sufficiently warded place—it had come to denote a small farmstead at
the time the surname arose. ‘Charlesworth’ is the ‘churl’s worth,’ the
familiar metamorphosis of this name being identical with that of the
astronomic ‘Charles Wain,’ and with such place-names as ‘Charle-wood,’
‘Charlton,’ ‘Carlton,’ and ‘Charley.’ Our various ‘Unsworths,’ ‘Ainsworths,’
‘Whitworths,’ ‘Langworthys,’ ‘Kenworthys,’ ‘Wortleys,’ and others of this
class are familiar to us all. Surnames like ‘Roger de la Grange,’ or
‘Geoffrey de la Grange,’ or ‘John le Granger,’[129] remind us that grange
also was commonly used at this time for a farmstead, it being in reality
nothing more than our granary.[130] Piers Plowman portrays the good
Samaritan thus—
His wounds he washed,
Enbawmed hym, and bound his head,
And ledde hym forth on ‘Lyard’
To ‘lex Christi,’ a graunge
Wel sixe mile or sevene
Beside the newe market.

Our ‘Barnes,’ I need not say, are of similar origin. The Celtic ‘booth,’ a frail
tenement of ‘boughs,’ whose temporary character our Biblical account of
the Israelitish wanderings so well helps to preserve, has given birth to our
‘Booths’ and ‘Boothmans,’ once written ‘de la Bothe’ and ‘Botheman.’
They may possibly have kept the stall at the fair or market. Comparisons we
know are ever odious, but set beside the more Saxon ‘Steads’ and
‘Steadmans’ the former inevitably suffer. The very names of these latter
betray to us the well-nigh best characteristics of the race whence they are
sprung. To be steady and stedfast are its best and most inherent qualities—
qualities which, added to the dash and spirit of the Norman, have given the
position England to-day occupies among the nations of the world. Our
‘Bowers’ and ‘Bowermans,’ when not occupied in the bowyer’s or bower’s
craft, represent the earlier ‘de la Bore’ or ‘atte Bore,’ and have taken their
origin from the old ‘bower,’ the rustics’ abode. It is the same word whence
has sprung our bucolic ‘boor.’ An old English term for a house or mansion
was ‘bold,’ that which was built. The old ‘De la Bolde,’ therefore, will in

many cases be the origination of our ‘Bolds.’ Our ‘Halls’ explain
themselves, but the older form of ‘Hale’ (once ‘atte Hale’ or ‘de la Hale’) is
not so easily traceable. ‘De la Sale,’ sometimes also found as ‘de la Saule,’
was the Norman synonym of the same.
Soon they sembled in sale,
Both kynge and cardinale,

says an old writer. ‘Sale’ and ‘Saul’ are still extant. Names still more
curious than these are those taken, not from the residence itself, but from
particular rooms in such residence. They are doubtless the result of the
feudal system, which, with its formal list of house officers and attendants,
required the presence of at least one in each separate chamber. Hence the
Norman-introduced parlour, that is, the speaking or reception room, gave
us ‘Henry del Parlour,’ or ‘Richard ate Parlour;’ the kitchen, ‘Geoffrey atte
Kitchen,’ or ‘Richard del Kechen;’ or the pantry ‘John de la Panetrie,’ or
‘Henry de la Panetrie.’ But I shall have occasion to speak more fully of this
by-and-by, so I will say no more here.
There is a pretty word which has been restored from an undeserved
oblivion within the last few years by Mr. Tennyson, in his ‘Brook,’ as an
idyll perhaps the distinctly finest thing of its kind in the English language.
The word referred to is ‘thorpe,’ a village, pronounced ‘throp’ or ‘trop’ by
our forefathers. Thus in the ‘Clerkes Tale’ we are told—
Nought far fro this palace honorable,
There stood a thorpe of sight delitable,
In which the poor folk of that village
Hadden their bestes and their harborage;

while in the ‘Assembly of Fowls’ mention is prettily made of
The tame ruddocke and the coward kite,
The cock, that horiloge is of thorpes lite.

This diversity is well exemplified in our nomenclature. Thus the term in its
simple form is found in such entries as ‘Adam de Thorpe,’ or ‘Simon de
Throp,’ or ‘Ralph de Trop,’ all of which are to be met with in the one same
register; while compounded with other words, we are all familiar with such

surnames as ‘Gawthorpe,’ ‘Winthrop,’ ‘Hartrop,’ ‘Denthorp,’ ‘Buckthorp,’
‘Fridaythorp,’ ‘Conythorp,’ ‘Calthrop,’ or ‘Westropp.’ Our ‘Thrupps,’ too,
we must not forget as but another corrupted form of the same root.
There are two words whose sense has become so enlarged and whose
importance among English local terms has become so great that we cannot
but give them a place by themselves. They are those of ‘town’ and
‘borough.’ Such registered names as ‘William de la Towne’ or ‘Ralph de la
Tune,’ now found as ‘Town’ and ‘Tune,’ represent the former in its primeval
sense. The term is still used in Scotland, as it was used here some
generations ago, to denote a farm and all its surrounding enclosures. In
Wicklyffe’s Bible, where we read ‘and went their ways, one to his farm,
another to his merchandize,’ it is ‘one into his toun.’ In the story of the
Prodigal Son, too, it is similarly employed—‘And he wente and drough him
to one of the cyteseynes of that cuntre, and he sente him into his toun to
feed swyn.’ Let me quote Chaucer also to the same effect—
Whan I out of the door came,
I fast about me beheld,
Then saw I but a large field,
As farre as ever I might see,
Without toune, house, or tree.

It is thus a name I have already mentioned, ‘de la Townshende,’ the parent
of our ‘Townsends,’ ‘Townshends,’ and ‘Townends,’ has arisen. Another
entry, that of ‘Robert Withouten-town,’ has, as we might have expected, left
no issue. Such names as ‘Adam de la Bury,’ or ‘Walter atte Bure,’ or ‘John
atte Burende’ (the latter now extinct, I fear), open out to us a still larger
mass of existing nomenclature. The manorial residence is still in many parts
of England, with the country folk, the ‘bury.’ To this or ‘borough’ we owe
our ‘Burys,’ ‘Boroughs,’ ‘Borrows,’ ‘Buroughs,’ ‘Burkes,’ ‘Broughs,’
‘Burghs,’ and even ‘Bugges,’ so that, though Hood has inquired—
If a party had a voice,
What mortal would be a Bugg by choice?

still the possessors of that not exactly euphonious cognomen can reflect
with pride upon not merely a long pedigree, but lofty relationships. Another
form of the same word, familiar, too, to early registers, was ‘de la Bere,’

and to this we owe our ‘Berrys,’ ‘Berrimans,’ ‘Beers,’ and ‘Beares.’ It is
wonderful how the strict meaning of ‘shelter’ is preserved in all the terms
founded upon its root ‘beorgan,’ to hide. Is it a repository to guard the ashes
of the dead?—it is a barrow, the act of sepulture itself being the burial. Is it
a refuge for the coneys?—it is a burrow, or beare, as in ‘Coneybeare.’[131] Is
it a raised mound for the security of man?—it is a bury, borough, brough, or
burgh. How altered now the meaning of these two words ‘borough’ and
‘town.’ Once but the abiding-place of a scattered family or two, they are
now the centres of teeming populations. Of these, while some are still
extending their tether, others have passed the middle age of their strength
and vigour, and from the accidents of physical and industrial life are but
surely succumbing to that dotage which, as in man so in man’s works,
seems to be but premonitory of their final decay. How true is it that the
fashion of this world passeth away. Even now this ever restless spirit of
change is going on. We ourselves can scarce tell the spot upon which we
were born. We need not wait for death to find that our place very soon
knoweth us no more, and when we talk of treading in the footprints of the
generations that have gone before, it would seem as though it were but to
blind ourselves to the sober and unwelcome truth that we are rather treading
upon the débris of the changing years.
But there is another class of surnames we may fitly introduce here,
which, I doubt not, forms no small proportion in the aggregate mass of our
nomenclature—that of sign-names. We in a cultivated age like that of the
present fail, as we must, to realize the effect of these latter upon the current
life of our forefathers. We now pass up and down a street, and, apart from
the aid of the numbered doors and larger windows, and a more peculiar
frontage, above the door we may see the name of the proprietor and the
character of his occupation in letters so large that it is literally a fact that he
who runs may read them. But all this is of gradual and slowly developed
growth. The day we are considering knew nothing of these. It was a time
when the clergy themselves in many cases were unable to read, when such
education as a child of twelve years is now a dunce not to know would have
given then for the possession of like attainments the sobriquet of ‘le Clerke’
or ‘le Beauclerk.’ And if this was the case with the learned, what would it
be with the lower grades and classes of society? We may, therefore, well
inquire what would be the use of gilded characters such as we now-a-days
may see, detailing the name of the shopkeeper and the fashion of his stores?

None at all. They could not read them. Thus we find in their stead the
practice prevailing of putting up signs and symbols to denote the character
of the shop, or to mark the individuality of the owner. In an age of
escutcheons and all the insignia of heraldry, this was but natural. All
manner of instruments, all styles of dress, all kinds of ensigns rudely carved
or painted, that a rough or quaint fancy could suggest, were placed in a
conspicuous position by the hatch or over the doorway, to catch, if it were
possible, the eye of the wayfarer. Even the name itself, when it was capable
of being so played upon, was turned into a symbol readable to the popular
mind. Nor was it deemed necessary that the device should speak directly of
the trade. Apart from implements and utensils, Nature herself was
exhausted to supply sufficiently attractive signs; and what with mermaids
and griffins, unicorns and centaurs, and other winged monsters, we see that
they did not stop here—the supernatural also had to be pressed into this
service. The animal kingdom was, however, specially popular—the
hostelries peculiarly engrossing this class from the fact that they so often
had emblazoned the recognizances of the family with which they stood
immediately connected. Thus we still have ‘Red Lions’ and ‘White Lions,’
‘Blue Boars’ and ‘Boars’ Heads,’ ‘White Bears’ and ‘Roebucks,’ and ‘Bulls’
Heads.’ Relics of the more special emblems remain in the barber’s pole, to
the end of which a bowl was once generally attached, to show he was a
surgeon also—the pawnbroker’s three balls, the goldbeater’s mallet, or the
shoemaker’s last. Of the more fanciful we have a capital idea given us in
the lines from Pasquin’s ‘Nightcap,’ written so late as 1612—
First there is maister Peter at the Bell,
A linen-draper, and a wealthy man;
Then maister Thomas that doth stockings sell;
And George the Grocer at the Frying-pan;
And maister Timothie the woollen-draper;
And maister Salamon the leather-scraper;
And maister Frank the goldsmith at the Rose,
And maister Philip with the fiery nose;
And maister Miles the mercer at the Harrow;
And maister Mike the silkman at the Plow;
And maister Nicke the salter at the Sparrow;
And maister Dick the vintner at the Cow;
And Harry haberdasher at the Horne;
And Oliver the dyer at the Thorne;
And Bernard, barber-surgeon at the Fiddle;
And Moses, merchant-tailor at the Needle.[132]

More than three hundred years previous to this we find such names figuring
in our registers as ‘John de la Rose,’ ‘John atte Belle,’ ‘Roger Horne,’ and
‘Nicholas Sparewe,’ while ‘Cow’ is met by its Norman equivalent in the
instance of ‘Richard de la Vache.’ Of the rest, too, contained in the above
lines, all are found in our existing nomenclature with the exception of
‘Fryingpan.’ Still more recently, the ‘British Apollo’ contained the
following:—
I’m amused at the signs
As I pass through the town,
To see the odd mixture—
A ‘Magpie and Crown,’
The ‘Whale and the Crow,’
The ‘Razor and Hen,’
The ‘Leg and Seven Stars,’
The ‘Scissors and Pen,’
The ‘Axe and the Bottle,’
The ‘Tun and the Lute,’
The ‘Eagle and Child,’
The ‘Shovel and Boot.’

A word or two about these double signs before we pass on, as I cannot
but think much ingenious nonsense has been written thereon. There can be
no difficulty in accounting for these strange combinations, some of which
still exist. A partnership in business would be readily understood by the
conjoining of two hitherto separate signs. An apprentice who, on the death
of his master, had succeeded to his business, would gladly retain the
previous well-established badge, and simply show the change of hands by
adding thereto his own. I cannot but think that such ingenious derivations as
‘God encompasseth us’ for the ‘Goat and Compasses,’ or the ‘Satyr and
Bacchanals’ for the ‘Devil and Bag-o’-nails,’ or the ‘Boulogne Mouth’ for
the ‘Bull and Mouth,’ are altogether unnecessary. A clever and imaginative
mind could soon produce similar happy plays upon the conjunctions
contained in the above lines, and yet the originations I have suggested for
them all I think my readers will admit to be most natural. There is no more
peculiarity about these than about the ordinary combinations of names we
are accustomed to see in the streets every day of our lives, denoting
partnership. Thus the only difference is that what we now read as ‘Smith
and Wright,’ in an age when reading was less universal was, say, ‘Magpie
and Crown.’ Partnerships, or business transactions, often bring peculiar

conjunctions of names. So early as 1284, I find a ‘Nicholas Bacun’
acknowledging a bond to a certain ‘Hugh Motun,’ i.e. Mutton. (Riley’s
‘London,’ p. 23.) I have myself come across such combinations as
‘Shepherd and Calvert’—i.e. ‘Calveherd,’ or ‘Sparrow and Nightingale,’ or
‘Latimer and Ridley.’ During the early portion of my residence at Oxford
the two Bible-clerkships connected with my college were in the hands of
two gentlemen named ‘Robinson’ and ‘Crusoe.’ They lived on the same
staircase, and their names being (as is customary) emblazoned above the
door, the coincidence was the more remarkable. ‘Catchem’ and ‘Cheetham’
is said to have been the title of a lawyer’s firm, but I will not vouch for the
accuracy of the statement. A story, too, goes that ‘Penn, Quill, and Driver’
once figured over a scrivener’s office, but this is still more hypothetical.
But to return. We may see, from what we have stated and quoted, that up
to a comparatively recent period the written name seems to have been
anything but customary even in the metropolis. Any one who will look into
a book printed up to the seventeenth century will see on the titlepage the
fact stated that it was published or sold at the sign of the ‘Stork,’ or
‘Crown,’ or ‘Peacock,’ or ‘Crane,’ as the case might be. How much we owe
to this fashion I need scarcely say. The Hundred Rolls contain not merely a
‘Henry le Hatter,’ but a ‘Thomas del Hat;’ not only an ‘Adam le Lorimer,’
but a ‘Margery de Styrop.’ It is to some dealer in earthenware we owe our
existing ‘Potts,’ some worker in metals our ‘Hammers,’ some carpenter our
‘Coffins,’ once synonymous with ‘Coffer,’ some osierbinder our ‘Basketts,’
some shoemaker our ‘Lasts,’ some cheesemonger our ‘Cheeses,’ some
plowright our ‘Plows,’ some silversmith our ‘Spoons’ and ‘Silverspoons,’
and some cooper our ‘Tubbs’ and ‘Cades,’ our ‘Barrills’ and ‘Punshons,’
and so on with endless others. It was perfectly natural that all these should
become surnames, that the same practice which led to men being called in
the less populous country by such names as ‘Ralph atte Townsend,’ or
‘William atte Stile,’ or ‘Henry atte Hatch,’ or ‘Thomas atte Nash,’ should in
the more closely inhabited city cause men to be distinguished as ‘Hugh atte
Cokke,’ or ‘Walter de Whitehorse,’ or ‘John atte Gote’ or ‘de la Gote,’ or
‘Richard de la Vache,’ or ‘Thomas atte Ram,’ or ‘William atte Roebuck,’ or
‘Gilbert de la Hegle,’ or ‘John de la Roe,’ or ‘Reginald de la Wonte’
(weasel). Our only surprise would be were the case otherwise. Nevertheless,
as we shall see in another chapter, many of these animal-names at least have
arisen in another manner also.

And now we come to what we may term the second branch of local
surnames, that branch which throws a light upon the migratory habits and
roving tendencies of our forefathers. So far we have touched upon names
implying a fixed residence in a fixed locality. We may now notice that class
which by their very formation throw our minds upon that which precedes
settlement in a particular spot, viz., removal—that which speaks to us of
immigration. Such a name in our mediæval rolls as ‘Peter le Newe,’ or
‘Gilbert le Newcomen,’ or ‘Walter le Neweman,’ declares to us at once its
origin. The owner has left his native village to push his interests and get a
livelihood elsewhere, and upon his entrance as a stranger into some distant
community, alone and friendless, nothing could be more natural than to
distinguish him from the familiar ‘Peters,’ ‘Gilberts,’ and ‘Walters’ around
by styling him as Peter, or Gilbert, or Walter the ‘New,’ or ‘Newman.’ This
it is which is the origin of our ‘Stranges,’ descendants as they are of such
mediæval folk as ‘Roger le Estrange’ or ‘Roger le Straunge.’ There was
‘Roger the Cooper’ and ‘Roger the Cheesemonger’ round the corner close
to the market cross, and ‘Roger atte Ram,’ so, of course, this new-comer as
distinguished from them was ‘Roger the Straunge’ or ‘Strange,’ and once so
known, the more familiar he became, the more ‘Strange’ he became, though
this may seem somewhat of a paradox. Thus, too, have arisen our
‘Strangers’ and ‘Strangemans.’ These, however, are the general terms. To
quote a name like ‘Robert de Eastham’ or ‘William de Sutton’ is, as it were,
to take up the plug from a never-ceasing fountain. We are thrown upon a list
of sobriquets to which there is no tether. Take up a subscription paper, look
over a list of speakers at a farmers’ dinner, scan the names of the clergy at a
ministerial conference, all will possess a fair average of this class of
surnames, early wanderers from one village to another, Saxons fresh
escaped from serfdom seeking a livelihood in a new district, Norman
tradesmen or retainers pushing forward for fresh positions and fresh gains
in fresh fields. It is through the frequency of these has arisen the old couplet
quoted by Verstigan—
In ‘Ford,’ in ‘Ham,’ in ‘Ley,’ in ‘Ton,’
The most of English surnames run.

There is probably no village or hamlet in England which has not subscribed
in this manner to the sum total of our nomenclature. It is this which is so

telltale of the present, for while a small rural spot like, say ‘Debenham,’ in
Suffolk, or ‘Ashford,’ in Derbyshire, will have its score of representatives, a
solitary ‘Richard de Lyverpole,’ or ‘Guido de Mancestre,’ or ‘John de
Burmyngham’ will be all we can find to represent such large centres of
population as Manchester, or Liverpool, or Birmingham. Mushroomlike
they sprang up but yesterday, while for centuries these insignificant hamlets
have pursued the even tenor of their way, somewhat disturbed, it may have
been, from their equanimity four or five centuries agone, by the
announcement that Ralph or Miles was about to leave them, and who, by
thus becoming ‘Ralph de Debenham’ or ‘Miles de Ashford,’ have given to
the world to the end of time the story of their early departure.
In the same class with the village names of England must we set our
county surnames. These are of course but an insignificant number set by
their brethren, still we must not pass them by without a word. In the present
day, if we were to speak of a man in connexion with his county, we should
say he was a Derbyshire or a Lancashire man, as the case might be. That
they did this five or six hundred years ago is evidenced by the existence of
these very names in our midst. Thus we can point in our records to such
designations as ‘John Hamshire,’ or ‘Adam de Kent,’ or ‘Richard de
Wiltshire,’ or ‘Geoffrey de Cornwayle.’ Still this was not the only form of
county nomenclature. The Normans, I suspect it was, who introduced
another. We have still ‘Kentish’ and ‘Devonish’ and ‘Cornish’ to represent
the ‘William le Kentish’s,’ or ‘John le Devoneis’s,’ or ‘Margery le
Cornyshe’s,’ of their early rolls; and our ‘Cornwallis’s’ also yet preserve
such fuller forms as ‘Thomas le Cornwaleys,’ or ‘Philip le Cornwaleys.’
We may here mention our ‘Cockins,’ ‘Cockaignes,’ and ‘Cockaynes,’
instances of which are early found. An old poem begins—
Fur in sea, bi west Spayne,
Is a lond ihote Cockaigne.

There seems to be a general agreement among those who have studied the
subject that our ‘cockney’ was originally a denizen of this fabled region,
and then was afterwards, from a notion of London being the seat of luxury
and effeminacy, transferred to that city. A ‘William Cockayne’ is found in
the ‘Placitorum’ of Richard I.’s reign, while the Hundred Rolls are yet more
precise in a ‘Richarde de Cockayne.’ Speaking of London, however, we

must not forget our ‘Londonish’s.’ They are but relics of such mediæval
entries as ‘Ralph le Lundreys,’ or ‘William Londonissh,’ either of whom we
should now term ‘Londoner,’ one who had come from the metropolis and
settled somewhere in the country. Chaucer in one of his prose works spells
it ‘Londenoys,’ which is somewhat nearer the modern form. ‘London,’ once
simple ‘de London,’ needs no remark.
A passing from one part of the British Empire to another has been a
prolific source of nomenclature. Thus we find such names as ‘Henry de
Irlaund,’ ‘Adam de Irland,’ ‘John le Irreys,’ or ‘Thomas le Ireis,’ in the
ordinary dress of ‘Ireland’ and ‘Irish,’ to be by no means obsolete in the
present day. ‘Roger le Escot’ or ‘Maurice le Scot’ represents, I need
scarcely say, a surname that is all but interminable, the Caledonian having
ever been celebrated for his roving as well as canny propensities. It is to our
brethren over the Border, too, we owe the more special form of ‘Inglis,’
known better in the south as ‘English.’ The Hundred Rolls furnish us with
such names as ‘Walter le Engleis,’ or ‘Robert le Engleys,’ or ‘Walter
Ingeleys.’ Laurence Minot has the modern form. Describing Edward III.’s
entrance into Brabant, he says—
The Inglis men were armed wéle,
Both in yren and in stele.

The representatives of our native-born Welshmen are well-nigh as
numerous as those across the Scottish line, and the early spellings we light
upon are equally varied—‘le Galeys,’[133] ‘le Waleys,’ ‘le Waleis,’ and ‘le
Walsshe’ being, however, the commonest. The last is used by Piers
Plowman, who speaks of
Rose the Disheress,
Godfrey of Garlekhithe,
And Gryfin the Walshe.

In these, of course, we at once discern the progenitors of our ‘Welshs’ and
‘Wallaces.’ ‘Walshman’ is also found as ‘Walseman.’ ‘Langlois’ seems to be
firmly established in our present midst as an importation from France. It
was evidently returned to us all but contemporaneously with its rise there,
for as ‘L’Angleys’ or ‘Lengleyse,’ it is found on English soil in the
thirteenth century. It is quite possible that our ‘Langleys’ are in some

instances but a corruption of this name. Thus the different quarters of the
British Empire are well personified so far as our directories are concerned.
We have not quite done with the home country, however. Our modern
‘Norris’s’ are of a somewhat comprehensive nature. In the first place there
can be little doubt they have become confounded by lapse of time with the
once not unfamiliar ‘la Noryce,’ or nurse. Apart from this, too, the term ‘le
Noreys’ was ever applied in early times to the Norwegians, and to this sense
mainly it is that we owe the rise of the name. And yet it has another origin.
It was used in the mere sense of ‘northern,’ one from the North-country.
Thus in the Hundred Rolls we meet with the two names of ‘Thomas le
Noreys’ and ‘Geoffrey le Northern,’ and there is no reason why these should
not both have had the same rise. A proof in favour of this view lies in the
fact that we have their counterparts in such entries as ‘Thomas le Surreys’
and ‘Thomas le Southern,’ the latter now found in the other forms of
‘Sothern’ and ‘Sotheran.’ Nor are the other points of the compass wanting.
A ‘Richard le Westrys’ and a ‘Richard le Estrys’ both occur in the registers
of the thirteenth century, but neither, I believe, now exists. ‘North’ found as
‘de North’ needs no explanation, and the same can be said for our ‘Souths,’
‘Easts,’ and ‘Wests.’
The distance from Dover to Calais is not great; but were it otherwise, we
should still feel bound in our notice of names of foreign introduction first of
all to mention Normandy. For not merely has this country supplied us with
many of our best family names, but it enjoys the distinction of having been
the first to establish an hereditary surname. This it did in the case of the
barons and their feudary settlements. The close of the eleventh century we
may safely say saw as yet but one class of sobriquets, which, together with
their other property, fathers were in the habit of handing down to their sons.
This class was local, and was attached only to those followers of the
Conqueror who had been presented by their leader with landed estates in
the country they had but recently subdued. As a rule each of these
feudatories took as his surname the place whence he had set forth in his
Norman home. Thus arose so many of our sobriquets of which ‘Burke’s
Peerage’ is the best directory, and of which therefore I have little to say
here. Thus arose the ‘de Mortimers’ (the prefix was retained for many
generations by all), the ‘de Colevilles,’ the ‘de Corbets,’ the ‘de Ferrers,’ the
‘de Beauchamps,’ the ‘de Courcys,’ the ‘de Lucys,’ and the ‘de Granvilles.’

Thus have sprung our ‘Harcourts,’ our Tankervilles,’ our ‘Nevilles,’ our
‘Bovilles,’ our Baskervilles,’ our ‘Lascelles,’ our ‘Beaumonts,’ our
‘Villiers,’ our ‘Mohuns,’ and our ‘Percys.’ Apropos of Granville, a story is
told of a former Lord Lyttelton contesting with the head of that stock
priority of family, and clenching his argument by asserting his to be
necessarily the most ancient, inasmuch as the littletown must have existed
before the grand-ville. A similar dispute is said to have occurred at Venice
between the families ‘Ponti’ and ‘Canali’—the one asserting that the
‘Bridges’ were above the ‘Canals,’ the other that the ‘Canals’ were in
existence before the ‘Bridges.’ So hot waxed the quarrel that the Senate was
compelled to remind the disputants that it had power alike to stop up Canals
and pull down Bridges if they became over troublesome. But to return: the
number of these Norman names was great. The muster-roll of William’s
army comprised but an item of the foreign incomers. As the tide of after-
immigration set in, there was no town, however insignificant, in Normandy,
or in the Duchies of Anjou and Maine, which was not soon represented in
the nomenclature of the land. From giving even a partial list of these I must
refrain, however tempted, but see what the chapelries alone did for us. St.
Denys gave us our ‘Sidneys,’ St. Clair, or Clare, our ‘Sinclairs,’ vilely
corrupted at times into ‘Sinkler;’ St. Paul, our ‘Semples,’ ‘Samples,’
‘Sempills,’ ‘Simpoles,’ and sometimes ‘Simples;’ St. Lowe, or Loe, our
‘Sallows;’ St. Amand, our ‘Sandemans’ and ‘Samands;’ St. Lis, our ‘Senlis’
and ‘Senleys;’ St. Saviour, our ‘Sissivers;’ St. Maur, our ‘Seymours;’ St.
Barbe, our ‘Symbarbes;’ St. Hillary, our ‘Sillerys;’ St. Pierre, our ‘Sempers’
and ‘Simpers;’ St. Austin, our ‘Sustins;’ St. Omer, our ‘Somers;’ St. Leger,
our ‘Sellingers,’ once more literally enrolled as ‘Steleger,’ and so on with
our less corrupted ‘St. Johns,’ ‘St. Georges,’ and others. I do not say,
however, that all these were later comers. Some of them must undoubtedly
be set among the earlier comrades in arms of the Conqueror. Indeed it is
impossible in every case to separate the warlike from the peaceful invasion.
Looking back from this distant period, and with but scanty and imperfect
memorials for guidance, it cannot but be so.
With respect to another class of these Norman names, however, we are
more certain. Their very formation seems to imply beyond a doubt that they
had a settlement as surnames in their own arrondissements before their
arrival on English soil. We may, therefore, with tolerable certainty set them
down as later comers. The distinguishing marks of these are the prefixes ‘de

la,’ or ‘del,’ or ‘du’ attached to them. Thus from some local peculiarity with
respect to their early homes would arise such names as ‘Delamere,’
‘Dupont,’ ‘Delisle,’ ‘Delarue,’ ‘Dubois,’ ‘Ducatel,’ ‘Defontaine,’ ‘Decroix,’
or ‘Deville’ or ‘Deyville.’ This latter is now found also in the somewhat
unpleasant form of ‘Devil.’ They say the devil is the source of every evil.
Whether this extends beyond the moral world may be open to doubt, but
our ‘Evils,’ ‘Evills,’ and ‘Eyvilles,’ from the fact of their once being written
with the prefix ‘de,’ seem to favour the suspicion of there being a somewhat
dangerous relationship between them.[134] These names, though commonly
met with in mediæval records, are, nevertheless, I say, not to be put down as
coeval with the Conquest, but as after-introductions when England was
securely won. There befell Norman names of this class, however, what I
have shown still more commonly to have befallen those of a similar, but
more Saxon, category. If these prefixes ‘de la,’ ‘del,’ and ‘du’ are sometimes
found retained, they are as often conspicuous by their absence. Thus while
at an early date after the Conquest we find the Saxon ‘Atwood’ met by the
Norman ‘Dubois,’ it is equally true that they had already to battle with
simple ‘Wood’ and ‘Boys’ or ‘Boyce.’ Thus it was we find so early the
Saxon ‘Beech’ faced by the Norman ‘Fail’ or ‘Fayle,’ ‘Ash’ by ‘Freen,’
‘Frean,’ or ‘Freyne,’ ‘Hasell’ by ‘Coudray,’ ‘Alder’ by ‘Aunay,’ and, let us
say, for want of a ‘Walnut,’ ‘Nut’ by ‘Noyes.’ In the same way our ‘Halls’ or
‘Hales’ were matched by ‘Meynell’ (mesnil), ‘Hill’ by ‘Montaigne,’ now
also ‘Mountain,’ ‘Mead’ or ‘Medd,’ or ‘Field,’ by ‘Prall’ or ‘Prail,’ relics of
the old ‘prayell,’ a little meadow. I have just set ‘Wood’ by our ‘Boys’ and
‘Boyces.’ To these we must add our ‘Busks,’ ‘Bushes,’ ‘Busses,’ all from
‘bois’ or ‘bosc.’ The ‘taillis,’ or underwood, too, gives us ‘Tallis,’ and the
union of both in ‘Taillebois’ or ‘Talboys,’ as we now have it, combines the
names of two of our best church musicians—‘Tallis’ and ‘Boyce.’ This
comparison of early introduced Norman with names of a Saxon local
character we might carry on to any extent, but this must suffice—
illustrations and not categories are all we can pretend to attempt.
But these were not our only foreign introduced names. Coeval with the
arrival of these later Norman designations a remarkable peculiarity began to
make itself apparent in the vast number of names that poured in from
various and more distant parts of the Continent. That they came for
purposes of trade, and to settle down into positions that the Saxons
themselves should have occupied, is undoubted. The lethargy of the Saxon

population at this period would be extraordinary, if it were not so easily to
be accounted for. There was no heart in the nation. The Saxons had become
a conquered people, and, although the spirit of Hereward the Wake was
quenched, there had come that settled sullen humour which, finding no
outlet for active enmity, fed in spirit upon itself, and increased with the
pampering. To punish open disaffection is easy; to eradicate by the stern
arm of power such a feeling as this is impossible. Time alone can do it, and
that but slowly. More than a century after this we find Robin Hood the idol
of popular sympathy; no national hero has ever eclipsed him, and yet,
putting sentiment aside, he was naught but a robber, an outlawed knave. He
was but a vent for the still lingering current of a people’s feelings. It was
but the Saxon and Norman over again.
We can easily imagine, then, if the spirit of the people was so lethargic as
this, at how low an ebb would be the commercial enterprise of this period.
No country was there whose resources for self-aggrandisement were greater
than our own—none which had more disregarded them up to the reign of
the third Edward. Till then she was the mere mine from which other
countries might draw forth riches, the carcase for the eagles of many
nations to feed upon. Saving the exportation of wool in its raw
unmanufactured state, she did nothing for her national prosperity. The
Dutch cured the fish they themselves caught on our coasts, and the looms of
Flanders and Brabant manufactured the weft and warp we sent them into
the cloth we wore. If our kings and barons were clad in scarlet and purple,
little had England actively to do with that; her share in such superior tints
was nought, save the production of the dye, for in conjunction with the
Eastern indigo it was our woad the Netherlands used. That other nations
were advancing, and that ours was not, is a statement, commercially
speaking, I need not enlarge upon; it is a mere matter of history which no
one disputes.
Not, however, that there was no trade. Far from it. Long before Edward
III. had established a surer basis of order and industry, London had become
a mart of no small Continental importance. This outlying city, as with other
towns of growing industry abroad, had come under the beneficial influence
of the Crusades. So far as the redemption of the Holy City was concerned,
that strong, but noble madness which had set Christendom ablaze was a
failure. But it effected much in another way. From the first moment when

on the waters of the Levant were assembled a host as diverse in nation as
they were one in purpose; when in their high-decked galleons and oar-
banked pinnances men met each other face to face of whose national
existence they had been previously all but unaware—one result, at least,
was sure to follow—an intercommunion of nations was inevitable, and, in
the wake of this, other and not less beneficial consequences. Healthy
comparisons were drawn, jealousies were allayed, navigation was
improved, better ships were built, harbours hitherto avoided as dangerous
were rendered safe, and new havens were discovered. This influence was
felt everywhere. It reached so far as England—London felt it.
But it was a minor influence—minor in comparison with our wonderful
appliances—minor in comparison with the commercial spirit developing
such Republics as Genoa and Venice, or the Easterling countries that border
the Baltic and German Seas—a minor influence, too, especially because the
Saxons had so little share in it. So far as they were concerned, this
internationality was all one-sided. Denizens of all lands visited our shores,
but their visits were unreturned. What an infinitesimal part of our
Continental surnames in the present day are traceable to English sources.
On the other hand, there was no town however small, no hamlet however
insignificant, in Normandy, in the Duchies of Anjou and Maine, or
protected by the cities of the Hanseatic League, that is unrepresented in the
nomenclature of our land. Nay, it was this very lack of reciprocity of
commerce that held out such inducements to the dwellers in other lands to
visit our shores. It was to step into possession of those very advantages we
slighted they came: we became but a colony of foreign artisans. Truly our
metropolis in those early days of her industry was a motley community.
Numerous names of foreign locality have died out in the lapse of centuries
between; a large proportion have become so Anglicized that we cannot
detect their Continental birth, but there is still a formidable array left in our
midst whose lineage is manifest, and whose nationality is not to be doubted.
We dare not enumerate them all. Let us, however, take a short tour over
Europe and the East. We will begin with Normandy, and advance westerly,
and then southerly. The provinces that border upon Normandy and
Bretagne, especially to the south and eastwards, large or small, have, as we
should expect, supplied us with many names. We have besides ‘Norman,’
which, like ‘le Northern,’ is of doubtful locality, ‘Bret,’ ‘Brett,’ ‘Britt,’
‘Britten,’ ‘Briton,’ and ‘Brittain,’ from ‘Bretagne,’ and represented in our

olden rolls by such men as ‘Hamo le Bret,’ or ‘Roger le Breton,’ or
‘Thomas le Brit,’ or ‘Ivo le Briton.’ Our ‘Angers’ are not necessarily so
irascible as they look, for they are but corruptions, as are ‘Angwin’ and
‘Aungier,’ of the ‘Angevine of Anjou.’ Like our ‘Maines’ and ‘Maynes’
from the neighbouring duchy, they would be likely visitors to our shores
from the intimate relationship which for a while endured between the two
countries through royal alliances. Our ‘Arters’ and ‘Artis,’ once registered
‘de Artoys,’ came from ‘Artois;’ our ‘Gaskins,’ and more correct
‘Gascoignes,’ from ‘Gascony;’ and our ‘Burgons’ and ‘Burgoynes’ from
Burgundy.[135] To Champagne it is we are indebted for our ‘Champneys’ and
‘Champness’s,’ descendants as they are from such old incomers as ‘Robert
le Champeneis,’ or ‘Roger le Chaumpeneys,’ while the more strictly local
form appears in our ‘Champagnes,’ not to say some of our ‘Champions’ and
‘Campions.’[136] Speaking of Champagne, it is curious that next in
topographical order come our ‘Port-wines,’ sprung from the Poictevine of
Poictou. So early as the thirteenth century, this name had become corrupted
into ‘Potewyne,’ a ‘Pretiosa Potewyne’ occurring in the Hundred Rolls of
that period. More correct representatives are found in such entries as ‘Henry
le Poytevin,’ and ‘Peter le Pettevin.’ Pickardy has given us our ‘Pickards’
and ‘Pycards,’ Provence our ‘Provinces,’ and Lorraine our ‘Loraynes,’
‘Lorraines,’ and ‘Lorings.’ ‘Peter le Loring’ and ‘John le Loring’ are
instances of the latter form. More general terms for the countrymen of these
various provinces are found in such registered names as ‘Gilbert le
Fraunceis,’ or ‘Henry le Franceis,’ or ‘Peter le Frensh,’ or ‘Gyllaume
Freynsman.’
I have mentioned ‘Norman’—one of the commonest of early sobriquets
is ‘le Bigod’ and ‘le Bigot.’ Well-nigh every record has its ‘Roger le
Bygod,’ or its ‘William le Bygot,’ or ‘Hugh le Bigot,’ or ‘Alina le Bigod.’
Amid the varying opinions of so many high authorities, I dare not speak in
anywise with confidence; but, judging from these very entries which are
found at an early period, I cannot but think Dean Trench and Mr.
Wedgwood wrong in their conjecture that the word arose from the
‘beguines’—i.e. the Franciscans. With Mr. Taylor[137] I am firmly convinced
it is ethnic, and that as such it was familiarly applied to the Normans I am
equally satisfied. In proof of its national character, Mr. Taylor quotes a
passage from the romance of Gerard of Roussillon—

Bigot, e Provençal e Rouergues,
E Bascle, e Gasco, e Bordales.

The popular story ascribes its origin to the fondness for oaths so peculiar to
the Anglo-Norman character, and in this particular instance to the
exclamation ‘by-God.’[138] My own impression is that the origin of the word
has yet to be found. With regard to surnames, however, I may say that we
have at this day ‘Bigots’ in our directories as well as in everything else, and
it is highly probable that our Bagots are but a corruption of the same.
Turning westward, such names as ‘Michael de Spaigne,’ or ‘Arnold de
Espaigne,’ tell us at once who were the forefathers of our ‘Spains’ and
‘Espins;’[139] while ‘John le Moor’ suggests to us at least the possibility that
English heathlands did not enjoy the entire monopoly in the production of
this familiar cognomen. The intensive ‘Blackamoor,’ a mere compound of
‘black’ and ‘moor,’ seems to have early existed. A ‘Beatrice Blackamour’
and a ‘William Blackamore’ occur in a London Register of 1417—(Riley’s
‘London,’ p. 647). Nor is Italy void of examples. The sturdy old republic of
Genoa has supplied us with ‘Janeway’ and ‘Jannaway,’[140] ‘Genese’ and
‘Jayne’ or ‘Jeane.’ Chaucer alludes to the Genoese coin the ‘jane.’ An old
poem, too, speaking of Brabant as a general mart, says—
Englysshe and Frensh, Lumbardes, Januayes,
Cathalones, theder they take their wayes.

The ‘Libel on English Policy’ has the word in a similar dress.
The Janueys comyne in sondre wyses,
Into this londe wyth dyverse merchaundysses,
In grete karrekes arrayde withouten lack,
Wyth clothes of golde, silke, and pepir black.

Hall, in his Chronicles, speaking of the Duke of Clarence ravaging the
French coast in Henry IV.’s reign, says, ‘in his retournyng he encountred
with two greate Carickes of Jeane laden with ryche marchandise.’ (f. xxiv.)
Its old rival upon the Adriatic still vies with it in ‘Veness,’ once enrolled
as ‘de Venise.’ Rome has given us our early ‘Reginald le Romayns’ and
‘John le Romayns,’ whose descendants now write their names in the all but

unaltered form of ‘Romaine,’[141] and to Lombardy and the Jews we owe
Lombard street, and our ‘Lombards,’ ‘Lumbards,’ ‘Lubbards,’ and perhaps
‘Lubbers’—not to mention our ‘Luckes,’ and ‘Luckies,’ a progenitor of
whom I find inscribed in the Hundred Rolls as ‘Luke of Lucca.’ Advancing
eastwards, a ‘Martin le Hunne’ looks strangely as if sprung from a
Hungarian source. Whatever doubt, however, there may be on this point,
there can be none on ‘William le Turc,’[142] whose name is no solitary one in
the records of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and whose
descendants are by no means extinct in the nineteenth. ‘Peter le Russe’
would seem at first sight to be of Russian origin, especially with such a
Christian name to the fore as the one above, but it is far more probably one
more form of the endless corruptions of ‘le Rous,’ a sobriquet of
complexion so extremely familiar to all who have spent any time over
mediæval registers. I have already mentioned ‘le Norrys’ as connected with
our ‘Norris.’ ‘Dennis,’ I doubt not, in some cases, is equally representative
of the former ‘le Daneys.’ Entries like ‘William le Norris,’ or ‘Walter le
Norreis,’ or ‘Roger le Daneis,’ or ‘Joel le Deneys,’ are of constant
occurrence. These, added to the others, may be mentioned as bringing
before our eyes the broadest limits of European immigration, and with
scarcely an exception they are found among the English surnames of to-day.
But we must not forget the Dutch—a term that once embraced all the
German race.[143] ‘Dutchman,’ though I have found no instance in early
rolls, is, I see, a denizen of our present directories, while ‘Dutchwomen,’
found in the fourteenth century, is extinct. Our ‘Pruces’ are but the old ‘le
Pruce,’ or Prussian, as we should now term them. The word is met with in
an old political song, and, as it contains a list of articles, the introduction of
which into England from Flanders made the two countries so closely
connected, I will quote it fully:—
Now beer and bacon bene fro Pruse i-brought
Into fflaunders, as loved and fere i-soughte;
Osmonde, coppre, bowstaffes, stile and wex,
Peltre-ware, and grey, pych, tar, borde, and flex,
And Coleyne threde, fustiane, and canvase,
Corde, bokeram, of old tyme thus it wase.
But the fflemmynges among these things dere,
Incomen loven beste bacon and beer.

‘Fleming,’ as our registers prove, was seemingly the popular term for all the
Low Countrymen, bands of whom were specially invited over by two of our
kings to spread their industry in our own land. Numbers of them came in,
however, as simple wool-merchants, to transmit the raw material into
Holland. As the old ‘Libel on English Policy’ says—
But ye Fleminges, if ye be not wrothe,
The grete substance of your cloth, at the fulle,
Ye wot ye made it of youre English wolle.

But Flanders was not the only division represented. Our ‘Brabazons’
once written ‘le Brabançon,’ together with our ‘Brabants,’ ‘Brabaners,’ and
‘Brabans,’ issued, of course, from the duchy of that name; while our
‘Hanways’[144] and ‘Hannants’ hailed from Hainault, the latter of the two
representing the usual early English pronunciation of the place-word. The
old enrolled forms are ‘de Hanoia’ and ‘de Henau.’ It is very likely,
therefore, that our ‘Hannahs’ are similarly derived. The poem I have just
quoted, after mentioning the products of ‘Braban,’ ‘Selaunde,’ and
‘Henaulde,’ proceeds to say:—
But they of Holonde at Caleyse buy our felles
And our wolles, that Englyshe men then selles.

This, and such an entry as ‘Thurstan de Holland,’ give us at once a clue, if
clue were needed, to the source whence have issued our ‘Hollands.’
Holandman,’ which once existed, is, I believe, now extinct. A common
sobriquet for those enterprising traders who visited us from the shores of
the Baltic was ‘Easterling,’ and it is to their honest integrity as merchants
we owe the fact of their name in the form of ‘Sterling’ being so familiar. In
contrast to the country-made money, their coin obtained the name of
‘Easterling,’ or, as we now term it, ‘Sterling’ money—so many pounds
sterling being the ordinary phrase for good and true coin. We have even
come to apply the term generally in such phrases as sterling worth, sterling
honesty, or sterling character. The more inland traders were styled
‘Almaines,’ or merchants ‘d’Almaine,’[145] terms common enough in our
earlier archives, as ‘le Aleman,’ or ‘de Almania,’ or ‘le Alemaund,’ and thus
have sprung our ‘Alemans,’ ‘Almaines,’ and ‘Allmans,’ and through the
French, probably, our ‘Lallimands,’ ‘D’Almaines,’ ‘Dalmaines,’ and more

perverted ‘Dalmans’ and ‘Dollmans.’[146] Thus to these enterprising and
honest traders we owe a surname which from the odious forms it has
assumed shows that their names, at least, were corruptible, if not their
credit. I ought to have mentioned, though I have no record to quote in proof
of my assertion, that our ‘Hansards’ are, I have no doubt, descendants of
such Hanse merchants in our country as were members of the Hanseatic
League. The founder of the Hansards, the publishers of the Parliamentary
Debates, came from Norwich in the middle of the last century, and I need
scarcely say that the city was the chief headquarters of the Flemish weaving
interest at the date we are considering.
Leaving Europe for a moment, a name of peculiar interest is that of
‘Sarson,’[147] or ‘Sarasin,’ a sobriquet undoubtedly sprung from the Crusades
in the East, and found contemporaneously, or immediately afterwards, in
England as ‘Sarrasin,’ ‘Sarrazein,’ ‘Sarracen,’ and in the Latinized form of
‘Sarracenus.’ The maternal grandfather of Thomas à Becket was a pure-
blooded Saracen, settled in England. The ‘Saracen’s Head,’ I need not
remind the reader, has been a popular inn sign in our land from the days of
Cœur de Lion and Godfrey. It would seem as if they were sufficient objects
of public curiosity to be exhibited. In the ‘Issues of the Exchequer’ of
Henry VI.’s reign is the following:—‘To a certain Dutchman, bringing with
him a Saracen to the Kingdom of England, in money paid him in part
payment of five marks which the Lord the King commanded to be paid him,
to have of his gift.’ Speaking of the Saracens, however, we are led to say a
word or two about the Jews, the greatest money-makers, the greatest
merchants, the greatest people, in a commercial point of view at least, the
world has known. No amount of obloquy, no extent of cruel odium and
persecution, could break the spirit of the old Israelitish trader. Driven out of
one city, he fled to another. Rifled of his savings in one land, he soon found
an asylum in another, till a fresh revolution there also caused either the king
or the people to vent their passions and refill their coffers at the expense of
the despised Jew. ‘Jury’ would seem to be a corrupted surname taken from
the land which our Bible has made so familiar to us. It certainly is derived
from this term, but not the Jewry of Palestine. It was that part of any large
town which in the Early and Middle Ages was set apart for these people,
districts where, if they chose to face contumely and despite, they could live
and worship together. Every considerable town in England and the
Continent had its Jewish quarters. London with its ‘Jewry’ is no exceptional

case. Winchester, York, Norwich, all our early centres of commerce, had the
same. Johan Kaye, in his account of the siege of Rhodes, says: ‘All the
strete called the Jure by the walles was full of their blood and caren
(carrion).’ Our ‘Jurys’[148] are not, however, necessarily Jews, as it is but a
local name from residence in such quarters, and doubtless at one time or
another during the period of surname establishment Christians may have
had habitation there. ‘Jew,’ on the other hand, as representing such former
entries as ‘Roger le Jew’ or ‘Mirabilla Judæus,’ is undoubtedly of purely
Israelitish descent. But these are not all. Our early records teem with such
names as ‘Roger le Convers,’ or ‘Stephen le Convers,’[149] deserters from the
Jewish faith. We cannot be surprised at many of the less steady adherents of
the ancient creed changing their religious status, when we reflect upon the
cruel impositions made upon them at various times.[150] I suspect our
‘Conyers’ have swallowed up the representatives of this name. Even in the
day of its rise we find it set down in one record as ‘Nicholas le Conners.’
So much for general and national names. To pretend to give any category
of the town-names that have issued from these wide-spread localities were,
of course, impossible. Such sobriquets as ‘Argent,’ from Argentan;
‘Charters’ and ‘Charteris’ from Chartres; ‘Bullen,’ ‘Bollen,’ or ‘Boleyn’
from Boulogne,[151] with ‘Bulness’ as representative of ‘le Boloneis;’
‘Landels’ from Landelles; ‘Death’ or ‘D’Aeth’ from Aeth in Flanders;
‘Twopenny’ from Tupigny in the same province; ‘Gant’ and ‘Gent’ from
Ghent, once ‘de Gaunt;’ ‘Legge’ from Liege (in some cases at least);
‘Lubbock,’ once written ‘de Lubyck’ and ‘de Lubek,’ from Lubeck in
Saxony; ‘Geneve,’ once ‘de Geneve,’ and ‘Antioch,’ once ‘de Antiochia,’
are but instances taken haphazard from a list, which to extend would
occupy all my remaining space. Many of these are connected with
particular trades, or branches of trades, for which in their day they had
obtained a European celebrity. If the peculiar manufactures of such places at
home as ‘Kendall’ and ‘Lindsey’ and ‘Wolsey’ have left in our own
nomenclature the marks of their early renown, we should also expect such
foreign cities as were more especially united to us by the ties of industry to
leave a mark thereof upon our registers. Such names as ‘Ralph de Arras’ or
‘Robert de Arraz,’ a sobriquet not yet extinct in our midst, carry us to Arras
in Artois, celebrated for its tapestried hangings.[152] Rennes in Brittany has
given birth to our ‘Raines’ and ‘Rains.’[153] Chaucer talks of pillows made of
‘cloth of raines.’ Elsewhere, too, he makes mention of ‘hornpipes of

Cornewaile,’ reminding us that in all probability some of our ‘Cornwalls’
hail from Cornouaile in the same province. Romanee in Burgundy,
celebrated for its wine, has left a memory of that fact in our ‘Rumneys’ and
‘Rummeys.’ Some of my readers will remember that in the ‘Squyr of low
degree’ the king, amongst other pleasures by which to soothe away his
daughter’s melancholy, promises her,
Ye shall have Rumney.

Our ‘Challens’ are but lingering memorials of the now decayed woollen
manufactures of Chalons, of which we shall have more to say anon; and not
to mention others, our ‘Roans’ (always so spelt and pronounced in olden
times), our ‘Anvers,’ once ‘de Anvers,’ our ‘Cullings,’ ‘Cullens,’[154]
‘Collinges,’ and ‘Lyons,’ are but relics of former trades for which the
several towns of Rouen, and Antwerp, and Cologne, and Lyons, were
notorious. The rights of citizenship and all other advantages seem early to
have been accorded them. In the thirteenth century we find Robert of
Catalonia and Walter Turk acting as sheriffs, and much about the same time
a ‘Pycard’ was Mayor of London.
I must stop here. We have surveyed, comparatively speaking, but a few of
our local surnames. From the little I have been able to advance, however, it
will be clear, I think, that with regard to the general subject of nomenclature
these additional sobriquets had become a necessity. The population of
England, less than two millions at the period of the Conquest, was rapidly
increasing, and, which is of far more importance so far as surnames are
concerned, increasing corporately. Population was becoming every day less
evenly diffused. Communities were fast being formed, and as circumstances
but more and more induced men to herd themselves together, so did the
necessity spring up for each to have a more fixed and determinate title than
his merely personal or baptismal one, by which he might be more currently
known among his fellows.

CHAPTER III.

SURNAMES OF OFFICE.

A class of surnames which occupies no mean place in our lists is that which
has been bequeathed to us by the dignitaries and officers of mediæval times.
Of these sobriquets, while some hold but a precarious existence, a goodly
number are firmly established in our midst. On the other hand, as with each
other class of our surnames, many that once figured in every register of the
period are now extinct. Of these latter not a few have lapsed through the
decay of the very systems which brought them into being. While the feudal
constitution remained encircled as it was with a complete scheme of
service, while the ecclesiastic system of Church government reigned
supreme and without a rival, there were numberless offices which in after
days fell into desuetude with the principle that held them together. Still, in
the great majority of cases the names of these have remained to remind us
of their former heyday glory, and to give us an insight into the reality of
those now decayed customs to which they owed their rise.
We must be careful, however, at the outset to remark that a certain number
of these names ought, strictly speaking, to be set down in our chapter upon
sobriquets. They are either vestiges of the many outdoor pageantries and
mock ceremonies so popular in that day, or of the numberless nicknames
our forefathers loved to affix one upon the other, and in which practice all,
high and low alike, joined. For instance, no one could suspect such a
sobriquet as ‘Alan le Pope,’ or ‘Hugh le Pape,’ the source of one of our
commonest and most familiar names, to be derived from the possessor of
that loftiest of ecclesiastic offices.[155] It could be but a nickname, and was
doubtless given to some unlucky individual whose overweening and

pretentious bearing had brought upon him the affix. So, again, would it be
with such a title as ‘Robert le Keser,’ that is, Cæsar, corresponding to the
French ‘L’empriere’ and the obsolete Norman ‘le Emperer.’ This is a word
of frequent occurrence in our earlier poets. Langland says of our Lord, there
was
No man so worthie
To be kaiser or king
Of the kyngdom of Juda.

Again, he finely says—
Death cam dryvynge after,
And al to duste passed
Kynges and knyghtes,
Kaysers and popes,
Lered and lewed.[156]

This surname, too, is now all but equally common with the other, being met
with in the several shapes of ‘Cæsar,’ ‘Cayser,’ ‘Cayzer,’ ‘Kaiser,’ and
‘Keyser.’[157] The name of ‘Julius Cæsar,’ as that of one of our most
esteemed professional cricketers, has only just disappeared from the annals
of that noble game. The posterity of such enrolled burgesses as ‘William le
Kyng’ or ‘Thomas le Kyng’ still flourish and abound in our midst. An
imperious temperament would thus readily meet with good-humoured
censure. ‘Matilda le Quen’ or ‘Simon Quene’ has not quite failed of issue;
but had it been otherwise, it could not have been matter for any
astonishment, as the sobriquet was doubtless anything but a complimentary
affix. We must remember that, somewhat curiously, the old ‘quen,’ or, as the
Scotch still term it, ‘quean,’ at once represents the highest rank to which a
woman can reach and the lowest depth to which she can fall. So would it be
once more with our endless ‘Princes,’ and ‘Comtes’ or ‘Counts,’
‘Viscuntes,’ the heads of provincial government.[158] There is no reason,
however, why our ‘Dukes,’ ‘Dooks,’ or ‘Ducs,’ as they are more generally
found in our rolls (‘Roger le Duc,’ E., ‘Adam le Duk.’ M.),[159] should not be
what they represent, or rather then represented. A ‘duke’ was of course
anything but what we now understand by the term, being then, as it more
literally signifies, a leader, or chieftain, or head. It is thus used in Scripture.
Langland, to quote him again, says of Justice—

A-drad was he nevere
Neither of duc ne of deeth.

Elsewhere, too, he describes ‘Rex Gloriæ’ as addressing Lucifer upon the
brink of Hades, and saying—
Dukes of this dymme place,
Anoon undo these yates,
That Crist may come in,
The kynges sone of hevene.

It is in this same category we must set, I doubt not, such old registrations as
‘Robert le Baron’ or ‘Walter le Baron,’ ‘John le Lorde’ or ‘Walter le
Loverd,’ and ‘Walter le Theyn’ or ‘Nicholas le Then,’ names now found as
‘Baron,’ ‘Lord,’ and ‘Thain,’ ‘Thaine,’ or ‘Thane.’[160] Even in the case of
names of a more ecclesiastic character, we shall have to apply the same
remark. We have still in our midst descendants of the ‘le Cardinals’ and ‘le
Bishops’ of the thirteenth century, and there can be little doubt that these
were, in the majority of cases, but nicknames given to particular individuals
by way of ridiculing certain characteristics which seemed to tend in the
direction the name suggested.
As I have already hinted, however, there is another and equally probable
origin for many of the names I have mentioned. Pageantries and mock
ceremonies were at this time at the very height of their popularity. The
Romish Church fed this desire. Thus, for instance, take Epiphany. In well-
nigh every parish the visit of the Magi, always accounted to have been royal
personages, was regularly celebrated. Though the manner varied in different
places, the custom was more or less the same. There was a great feast, and
one of the company was always elected king, the rest being, according to
the lots they drew, either ministers of state or maids of honour. Thus
Herrick says—
For sports, for pageantrie, and playes,
Thou hast thy eves and holidayes:
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy Maypoles, too, with garlandes graced:
Thy mummeries, thy twelfe-tide kings
And queens, thy Christmas revellings.[161]

I need scarcely say that as popular nicknames these titles would be sure to
cling to the persons upon whom they had fallen, and that they should even
pass on to their descendants is no more unnatural than in the case of a
hundred other sobriquets we shall have occasion to recount.
Of the rest, however, and, as I have said, maybe in some of the cases I
have mentioned, the surname was but truly indicative of the office or
dignity held. The Saxon has suffered here. And yet to some this may seem
somewhat strange when we remember how little change really took place in
the institutions of the Kingdom by the Conquest. The Normans and Saxons,
after all, were but propagations from the same original stock, and however
distant the period of their separation, however affected by difference of
clime and association, still their customs bore a sufficient affinity to make
coalescence by no means a difficult task. William was not given to great
changes. He was vindictive, but not destructive. His most cruel acts were
retributive, done by way of reprisal after sudden disaffection. If a conqueror
must establish his power, deeds of this kind are inevitable. And even these
are exaggerated. The story of the depopulation of the New Forest, it is now
pretty generally agreed, is impossible—its present condition forbids of any
such act to have been practicable—and the notion frequently conveyed in
our smaller books of English history, that the curfew was a badge and token
of servitude, is simply absurd, the fact being that the same custom prevailed
over the whole of Western Europe, as a mere precaution against fire at a
time when our towns were mainly constructed of wood. A crushed people
will always misinterpret such ordinances. Prejudice of this kind is perfectly
pardonable. William then, I say, was not inclined to uproot Saxon
institutions. The national council still remained. The ancient tribunals with
their various motes, the whole system of law which guided the
administration of justice, all was well-nigh as it had been heretofore. But
the language which was the medium of all this was generally changed. The
old laws were indeed used, but in a translated form—old officerships still
existed, but in a new dialect—the old policy was mainly upheld, but new
terms of police were introduced. It was not till Edward III.’s reign that
pleadings in the various courts were again carried on in the English tongue
—it was not till Henry VI.’s reign the proceedings in Parliament were
recorded in the people’s dialect—not till Richard III.’s day its statutes and
ordinances ceased to be indited in Norman-French. This at once shows the
difficulty of any officership, however Saxon, retaining its original title. The

office was maintained, but the name was changed. This was the more
certain to ensue, so far as the Church was concerned, from the fact that for a
considerable period all ecclesiastic vacancies were filled up from abroad.
Bishops and abbots were removed on pretexts of one sort or another, and
their places supplied from the Conqueror’s chaplains. The monasteries were
hived with Normans; the clergy generally were of foreign descent. It was
the same, or nearly the same, with regard to civil government. The lesser
courts of judicature were ruled by foreigners and the foreign tongue. The
Barons, as they retired into the provinces and to the estates allotted them,
naturally bore with them a Norman retinue. All their surroundings became
quickly the same. Thus the French language was used not merely in their
common conversation—that of course—but so far as their power,
undoubtedly large, existed, in the provincial courts also.
Such entries as ‘Thomas le Shirreve’ and ‘Lena le Shireve’ remind us not
merely of our present existing ‘Sheriffs,’ ‘Sherrifs,’ and ‘Shreeves,’ but how
firmly this Saxon word has maintained its hold through the many
fluctuations of English government. The Norman ‘Judge,’ though it is
firmly established in our courts of law, has not made any very great impress
upon our nomenclature. ‘Justice,’ a relic of ‘William’ or ‘Eva le Justice,’[162]
is more commonly met with. Our ‘Corners,’ when not descendants of the
local ‘de la Corners’ of the thirteenth century, are but corruptions of many a
‘John le Coroner’ or ‘Henry le Corouner’ of the same period. It is even
found in the abbreviated form of ‘Corner,’ in ‘John le Corner’ and ‘Walter
le Cornur.’ Thus we see that so early as this our forefathers discerned in the
death of a subject a matter that concerned not merely the well-being of the
crown, but that of which the crown as the true parent of a nation’s interests
was to take cognizance. More directly opposed to the Norman ‘Judge’ and
‘Justice,’ and in the end displaced by them, were our Saxon ‘Demer’ and
‘Dempster’ (the older forms being ‘le Demere’ and ‘le Demester’), they
who pronounced the doom. An old English Psalter thus translates Psalm
cxlviii. 11:—
Kinges of earth, and alle folk living,
Princes and all demers of land.

An antique poem, too, has it in its other form in the following couplet:—

Ayoth was then demester
Of Israel foure score yeer.

We still employ the term ‘doom’ for judgment. Chaucer speaks familiarly of
one of the Canterbury company as a ‘Serjeant of the Lawe.’ It is, in the
majority of cases, to the term ‘sergeant’ as used in this capacity we owe our
much-varied ‘Sargants,’ ‘Sargeants,’ ‘Sargeaunts,’ ‘Sargents,’ ‘Sergents,’
‘Sergeants,’ ‘Sarjants,’ and ‘Sarjeants.’ The same poet says of him:—
Justice he was full often in assize,
By patent and by pleine commission.

‘Alured le Pledur,’ or ‘Henry le Pleidour,’ and ‘Peter le Escuzer,’ all
obsolete as surnames, need little or no explanation. Speaking of assizes, we
are reminded of our ‘Sisers’ and ‘Sizers,’ representatives of the old
‘Assizer’—he who was commissioned to hold the court. Piers Plowman
frequently mentions him:—
To marien this mayde
Were many men assembled,
As of knyghts, and of clerkes,
And other commune people,
As sisours, and somenours,
Sherreves, and baillifs.

We are here reminded of ‘Hugh le Somenur,’ or ‘Henry le Sumenour,’ now
spelt ‘Sumner,’ the sheriff’s messenger, he by whom the delinquent was
brought up to the court. He was the modern apparitor in fact. In the
‘Coventry Mysteries’ it is said:—
Sim Somnor, in haste wend thou thi way,
Byd Joseph, and his wyff by name,
At the coorte to apper this day,
Him to purge of her defame.

A ‘Godwin Bedellus’ occurs so early as Domesday record, and as ‘Roger
le Bedel,’ or ‘Martin le Bedel,’ the name is by no means rare somewhat later
on. He was, whether in the forest or any other court, the servitor, he who
executed processes or attended to proclamations. The modern forms of the
name comprise, among others, ‘Beadell,’ ‘Beadle,’ ‘Beaddall,’ and ‘Biddle.’

Such names as ‘Richard le Gayeler’ or ‘Ada le Gaoler,’ are very commonly
met with in our mediæval rolls. The term itself is of Norman origin,
reminding us that, however menial the duty, the Saxon could not be
entrusted with such an office as this. We cannot, however, speak of the
gaoler and his confrères without referring to a curious sobriquet of this
period, a sobriquet to which we owe in the present day our ‘Catchpoles’ and
‘Catchpooles.’[163] The catchpole was a kind of under-bailiff or petty
sergeant who distrained for debt, or otherwise did the more unpleasant part
of his superior’s work, and was so called from his habit of seizing his
luckless victim by the hair, or poll, as was the familiar term then. So general
was this nickname that we find it occupying an all but official place. It is
Latinized in our records into ‘cachepollus,’ a word unknown to Cicero, I am
afraid. In the ‘Plowman’s Vision’ we are told of the two thieves crucified
with the Saviour that:—
A cachepol cam forth
And cracked both their legges.

Another name for the catchpole was that of ‘Cacherel’ or ‘Cacher,’ both of
which forms occur at this same period as surnames. An old political song
says, murmuringly:—
Nedes I must spend that I spared of yore
Ageyn this cacherele cometh.

This sobriquet also abides with us still.[164] ‘Le Cacher,’ I fear, has been
obsolete for centuries.[165]
Of such as were accountable for duties in the public streets, we may
mention first our ‘Cryers,’ registered at the time we are speaking of as
‘Philip le Criour,’ or ‘Wat le Creyer.’ He, like the still existing
‘Bellman,’[166] performed a fixed round, announcing in full and sententious
tones the mandates of bench and council, whenever it was necessary to
advertise to the public such news as concerned their common well-being.
Our policeman may be modern in his name and in his attire, but as the
guardian of the peace, by night as well as by day, he is but the descendant
of a long line of servants who have in turn fulfilled this important public
trust. His early title was borne by ‘Ralph le Weyte,’ or ‘Robert le Wayte,’ or

‘Hugh le Geyt,’ or ‘Robert le Gait.’ All these forms are of the commonest
occurrence in our olden registries. By night he carried a trump, with which
to sound the watches or give the alarm, and thus it was he acquired also the
name of ‘Trumper,’ such forms as ‘Adam le Trompour’ or ‘William le
Trompour’ being frequently met with at this time. To the former title of this
official duty it is we owe the fact of our still terming any company of night
serenaders ‘waits,’ and especially those bands of strolling minstrels who
keep up the good old custom of watching in Christmas morn. A good old
custom, I say, even though it may cost us a few pence and rouse us
somewhat rudely, maybe, from our slumbers. ‘Wait,’ ‘Waite,’[167] ‘Wayt,’
and ‘Whaite,’ with ‘le Geyt,’ are the forms that still exist among us.
‘Trumper,’ too, has its place equally assured in our nomenclature.
Such names as we have just dwelt upon, however, remind us of other
municipal authorities, higher in position than these, to whom, indeed, these
were but servitors. A sobriquet like ‘Richard le Burgess’ or ‘John le Burges’
reminds us of the freemen of the borough towns, while ‘le Mayor,’ or
‘Mayer,’ or ‘Maire,’ or ‘Mair,’ or ‘Meyre,’[168] or ‘Mire,’ for all these
different spellings are found, is equally suggestive of the chief magistracy
of such. Piers, to quote him once more, speaks of:—
The maistres,
Meirs and Jugges,
That have the welthe of this world.

The feminine form of this sobriquet appears in the early but obsolete
‘Margaret la Miresse.’ Speaking of mayors, some lines written some years
ago on the proposed elevation of a certain Alderman Wood as Lord Mayor
are not without humour, nor out of place, perhaps, here:—
In choice of Mayors ’twill be confest,
Our citizens are prone to jest:
Of late a gentle ‘Flower’ they tried—
November came and checked its pride.
A ‘Hunter’ next, on palfrey grey,
Proudly pranced his year away.
The next, good order’s foes to scare,
Placed ‘Birch’ upon the civic chair.
Alas! this year, ’tis understood,
They mean to make a mayor of ‘Wood!’

As a fellow to ‘Meir’ we may cite ‘Provost,’ or ‘Prevost,’ or ‘Provis,’ a
term still used of the mayoralty in Scotland. ‘Councellor’ and ‘Councilman’
are still familiar terms in our midst. ‘Clavenger,’ ‘Claver,’ and ‘Cleaver’ we
will mention last as filling up a list of civic offices entirely, so far as the
language is concerned, the property of the dominant power. A ‘Robert
Clavynger’ occurs in the Parliamentary Rolls. Its root is ‘claviger,’ the key-
bearer,’ one whose office it was at this time to protect the deposits, whether
of money or parchments, belonging to the civic authorities. The more
common term was that of ‘Clavier,’ such entries as ‘Henry le Claver,’ or
‘John le Clavour,’ or ‘John le Clavier,’[169] being of familiar occurrence at
this time. Thus in a treaty agreed upon between the Mayor, sheriffs, and
commonalty of Norwich in 1414, it was declared that ‘the mayor and
twenty-four (of the council) shall choose a common clerk, a coroner, two
clavers, and eight constables, and the sixty common council shall choose a
common speaker, one coroner, two clavers, and eight constables.’ (‘Hist.
Norf.,’ Blomefield.) In a day when there were no patent safes we can
readily understand the importance of appointing men whose one care it was
to guard the chests wherein were stored up the various parchments, moneys,
and seals belonging to the civic council. This comprises our list of Norman
civil officers. One name, and one only, of this class is Saxon, that of
‘Alderman,’ but I have found it occurring as a surname in only one or two
instances, and I believe it has now become obsolete.
Turning from municipal to ecclesiastical affairs, we find the Church of
mediæval times surrounded with memorials. Some of these I have already
hinted at as being mere sobriquets;[170] none the less, however, do we owe
them to the existing institutions. Such names as ‘Hugo le Archevesk’ or
‘William le Arceveske’ can be only thus viewed. In ‘Morte Arthure’ the
hero holds festival at Caerleon,
Wyth dukez, and dusperes of dyvers rewmes,
Erles and erchevesques, and other ynowe,
Byschopes and bachelers and banerettes nobille.

While this has long vanished from our directories, the descendants of ‘John
le Bissup’ or ‘Robert le Biscop’ are firmly established therein. The more
Norman ‘Robert le Vecke’ and ‘Nicholas le Vesk’ still live also in our
‘Vicks’ and ‘Vecks.’ It was only the other day I saw ‘Archdeacon’ over a

hatter’s shop—and that it is no corruption of some other word, we may cite
the early ‘Thomas le Arcedekne’ as a proof.[171] Whether ‘Archpriest,’ a
sobriquet occurring at the same date, was but another designation of the
same, or performed more episcopal functions, I cannot say.[172] The name,
however, is obsolete in every sense. The old vicar has bequeathed us our
‘Vicars,’ ‘Vicarys,’ and ‘Vickermans.’ Chaucer says in the ‘Persons
Prologue’—
Sire preest, quod he, art thou a vicary?
Or art thou a Person? say soth by thy fay.

Our ‘Parsons,’ as Mr. Lowther thinks, are but a form of ‘Piers’ son,’ that is,
‘Peters’ son.’ It is, however, quite possible for them to be what they more
nearly resemble; indeed, I find the name occurring as such in the case of
‘Walter le Persone,’ found in the Parliamentary Rolls. Well would it be if
we could say of each village cure now what our great early poet said of one
he pictured forth—
A good man there was of religioun,
That was a poure Persone of a town,
But riche he was of holy thought and werk,
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche.

Our ‘Priests’ and ‘Priestmans’[173] answer for themselves. ‘Thomas le
Prestre’ and ‘Peter le Prest,’ I do not doubt myself, were but other changes
rung upon the same, but I shall have occasion hereafter to propose, at least,
a different origin for the latter. The lower ministerial office is suggested to
us in ‘Philip le Dekene’ and ‘Thomas le Deken,’ but we must be careful not
to confound them with ‘Deakin,’ which is often but another form of
‘Dakin,’ that is, ‘Dawkin,’ or ‘little David.’[174] Our ‘Chaplains’ or
‘Chaplins,’ once written more fully as ‘Reginald le Chapeleine,’ represent
less one who officiated in any public sanctuary than him who was attached
to some private oratory belonging to one of the higher nobility. Our
‘Chanters’ or ‘Canters’ (‘Xtiana le Chauntour,’ A., ‘William le Chantour,’
M.) still maintain the dignity of the old precentors who led the collegiate or
cathedral choir—but the once existing ‘Chanster’ (‘Stephen le Chanster,’
J.), strictly speaking the feminine of the other, is now obsolete.[175] In our
‘Chancellors’ we may recognise the ancient ‘John le Chanceler’ or ‘Geoffry

le Chaunceler,’ he to whose care was committed the chapter, books, scrolls,
records, and what other literature belonged to the establishment with which
he stood connected. ‘Clerk’ as connected with the Church has come down
in the world, for as ‘clericus,’ or ‘clergyman,’ it once belonged entirely to
the ordained ministry.[176] The introduction of lay-clerks, appointed to lead
the responses of the congregation, has, however, connected them all but
wholly with this later office. Nor have our ‘Secretans,’ or ‘Sextons,’ or
‘Saxtons’ preserved their early dignity. The sacristan was he who had
charge of the church-edifice, especially the robes and vestments, and such
things as appertained to the actual service.[177] The present usually accepted
meaning of the term, that understood by our great humorist poet when he
said—
He went and told the sexton,
And the sexton tolled the bell,

is quite of later growth. In our ‘Colets’ and ‘Collets’ (sometimes the
diminutives of ‘Colin’) we are reminded of the colet, or acolyte, who
waited upon the priest and assisted in carrying the bread and wine, in
lighting the candles, and performing all subordinate duties. Our ‘Bennets,’
when not belonging to the class of baptismal names (as a corruption of
‘Benedict’), once performed the functions of exorcists, and by the
imposition of hands and the aspersion of holy water expelled evil spirits
from those said to be thus possessed. Last of this group we may mention
our ‘Croziers’ and ‘Crosiers,’ they who at this time bore the pastoral staff.
Mediæval forms of these are met with in ‘Simon le Croyzer’ or ‘Mabel la
Croiser.’ I doubt not that he was a kind of chaplain to his superior, whose
official staff it was his duty to bear. In the Book of Common Prayer of the
2nd year of Edward VI. it is directed: ‘Whensoever the bishop shall
celebrate the holy communion, or execute any other public office, he shall
have upon him, besides his rochet, an alb and cope, or vestment, and also
his pastoral staff in his hand, or else borne by his chaplain.’
When we turn our eyes for a moment to the old monastic institutions, we
see that they, too, are far from being without their relics. In them we have
more distinctly the echo of a departed time. Many of my readers will be
familiar with the distinction recorded in such names as ‘Alexander le
Seculer’ and ‘Walter le Religieuse,’ or ‘man of religion,’ as Chaucer would

have termed the latter. To be ‘religious’ in the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries was to be one of a monastic order bound by vows. Thus our great
mediæval poet says in his Romance—
Religious folk ben full covert,
Secular folke ben more apert,
But natheless, I will not blame
Religious folke, ne them defame
In what habite that ever they go;
Religion humble, and true also,
Will I not blame, ne despise.

The ‘religieuse’ has apparently stuck to his vows, for I have never found the
term in an hereditary form, while ‘Secular,’ as descended from such
enrolled folk as ‘Walter le Secular,’ or ‘Joan, uxor Nicholas le Secular,’ still
exists. I am afraid, however, the Secularist of that time could and would
have told us a different tale. Of these bound orders too, while the general
term, as I say, does not now exist surnominally, all the more particular titles
which it embraced do. As we catch the cadence of their names a shadow
falls athwart our memories, and in its wake a crowd of dim and
unsubstantial figures pass before us. Once more we behold the fiery
‘Abbot’ (Juliana Abbot, A., Ralph le Abbe, C.), and the portly ‘Prior’ or
‘Pryor’ (Roger le Priour, B., William le Priur, E.). We see afresh the ‘Friar,’
or ‘Freere,’ or ‘Frere’ (Syward le Frere, A., Geoffrey le Frere, A.), so
‘pleasant of absolution’ and ‘easy of penance.’ Again our eye falls mistily
upon the ‘Canon,’ or ‘Cannon’ (William le Cannon, A., Thomas le Canun,
E.), with his well-trimmed beard and capped brow, and the ‘Moyne’ (now
‘Munn’) or ‘Monk’ (Beatrix le Munk, A., Thomas le Mun, A., Ivo le
Moyne, A.), all closely shaved and cloaked, and cowled, that knew his way
to the cellar better than to the chapel, who loved the song more than the
chaunt.[178] And now in quick succession flit by us a train of personages all
beshrouded in garbs of multitudinous and quaint aspect, in cloaks and
hoods, and tippets and girdles, and white and dark apparel. There is the
wimpled, grey-eyed ‘Nunn’ (Alice la Nonne, A.), and the Dorturer,
represented in olden registers by such a name as ‘Robert le Dorturer,’ he
who looked to the arrangements of the dourtour, or dormitory—
His death saw I by revelation,
Sayde this frere, at home in our dortour.[179]

The word still existed in the sixteenth century, as is evidenced by
Heywood’s use of it. He says—
The tongue is assigned of wordes to be sorter;
The mouth is assigned to be the tongue’s dorter;
The teeth are assigned to be the tongue’s porter;
But wisdom is ’signed to tye the tongue shorter.

The figure is somewhat forced, but it has its beauty. The ‘Fermerer,’ now
found as ‘Fermor’ and ‘Firmer,’ was he who superintended the infirmary.
Only a few lines further on, in the earlier of the two poems from which I
last quoted, we find Chaucer making mention of—
Our sexton, and our fermerere,
That have been trewe freres fifty year.

The ‘Tale of a Monk,’ too, begins—
A black munk of an abbaye
Was enfermer of alle I herd say—
He was halden an hali man
Imange his felaus.

The fermery was the hospital or ‘spital’[180] attached to each religious house,
and was under the immediate control of the above-mentioned officer. It is
with him, therefore, we may fitly ally ‘Robert le Almoner,’ or ‘Michael le
Aumoner,’ a name still abiding with us, and representative of him who
dispensed the alms to the lazars and the poor. It is in allusion to this his
office that Robert Brunne in one of his tales says:—
Seynt Jone, the aumenere,[181]
Saith Pers, was an okerere
And was very coveytous
And a niggard and avarus.

Of the same officer in more lordly society the ‘Boke of Curtasye’ thus
speaks—

The Aumonere a rod schalle have in honde,
An office for almes, I understonde;
Alle the broken mete he kepys in wait
To dele to pore men at the gate.

Many of those who were supported at this time and in this manner were
lepers. We can take up no record, large or small, of the period without
coming across a ‘Nicholas’ or ‘Walter le Leper.’ Leprosy was introduced
into Western Europe with the return of the Crusaders. To such a degree had
it spread in England, that in 1346 Edward III. was compelled to issue a
royal mandate enjoining those ‘smitten with the blemish of leprosy’ to
‘betake themselves to places in the country, solitary, and notably distant’
from the dwellings of men. Such a distinctive designation as this would
readily cling to a man, even after he had been cured of the disorder,[182] and
no wonder that in our ‘Lepers’ and ‘Leppers’ the name still remains as but
one more memorial of that noble madness which set Christendom ablaze
some six centuries ago. A term used synonymously at this time with leper is
found in such an entry as ‘Richard le Masele’ or ‘Richard le Masle,’ that is,
‘Measle.’ Wicklyffe has the word in the case of Naaman, and also of the
Samaritan leper.[183] Langland speaks of those who are afflicted with various
ailments, and adds that they, if they
Take these myschiefs meeklike,
As mesels, and others,
Han as pleyn pardon
As the plowman hymselve.

Capgrave, too, to quote but one more instance, speaking of Deodatus, a
Pope of the seventh century, says ‘He kissed a mysel and sodeynly the
mysel was whole.’ Strange to say, this name also is not extinct. Our
‘Badmans’ are not so bad as they might seem. They, and our ‘Bidmans,’ are
doubtless but corrupted forms of the old ‘bedeman,’ or ‘beadman,’ he who
professionally invoked Heaven in behalf of his patron. It is hence we get
our word ‘bead,’ our forefathers having been accustomed to score off the
number of aves and paternosters they said by means of these small balls
strung on a thread. This practice, I need not say, is still familiar to the
Romish Church.

But we have not yet done with the traces of these more distant practices.
The various religious wanderers or solitary recluses, though belonging to a
system long faded from our English life, find a perpetual epitaph in the
directories of to-day. Thus we have still our ‘Pilgrims,’ or ‘Pelerins’ (‘John
Pelegrim,’ A., ‘William le Pelerin,’ E.), as the Normans termed them. We
may meet with ‘Palmers’ (‘Hervey le Palmer,’ A., ‘John le Paumer,’ M.) any
day in the streets of our large towns, names distinctly relating the manner in
which their owners have derived their title. The pilgrim may have but
visited the shrine of St. Thomas of Canterbury; the latter, as his sobriquet
proves, had, forlorn and weary, battled against all difficulties, and trod the
path that led to the Holy Sepulchre—
The faded palm-branch in his hand
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.[184]

The ‘Pardoner,’ with his pouch choked to the full (‘Walter le Pardoner,’ M.)
with saleable indulgences, had but come from Rome. He was an itinerant
retailer of ecclesiastic forgivenesses, and was as much a quack as those who
still impose upon the credulity of the bucolic mind by selling cheap
medicines. As Chaucer says of him—
With feigned flattering and japes,
He made the parson and the peple his apes.

‘Hermit’ I have failed to find as at present existing, though ‘Hermitage’ or
‘Armitage’ (‘John Harmaytayge,’ W. 3), as local names expressive of his
abode, are by no means unfamiliar. Our ‘Anchors’ and ‘Ankers,’ however,
still live to commemorate the old ancre or anchorite; he who, as his
sobriquet implied, was wont to separate himself from the world’s vain
pleasures and dwell in seclusion and solitude. In the ‘Romance of the Rose’
it is said—
Sometime I am religious,
Now like an anker in an house.

Piers in his ‘Vision,’ too, speaks of—

Ancres and heremites
That holden them in their celles.

‘Hugh le Eremite’ or ‘Silvester le Hermite’ are early forms of the one, while
in the other case we find the aspirate added in ‘John le Haneker.’ The
modern dress of this latter, however, presents the usual early and more
correct spelling.[185] What a vision is presented for our notice in these
various sobriquets. It is the vision of a day that has faded, a day with many
gleams of redeeming light, but a day of ignorance and lethargy; a day
which, after all, thank God, was but the precursor of the brighter day of the
Reformation, when the Church, true to herself and true to her destiny, threw
off the shackles and the fetters that bound her, and began a work which her
greatest foes have been compelled to admit she carried through amid
opposition of the deadliest and most crushing kind.
Before passing on to a survey of our feudal aristocracy, I may mention
our ‘Latimers,’ or ‘le Latymer,’ as I find it recorded in early lists. A latinier,
or latimer, was literally a speaker or writer of Latin, that language being
then the vehicle of all record or transcript. Latin, indeed, for centuries was
the common ground on which all European ecclesiastics met. Thus it
became looked upon as the language of interpretation. The term I am
speaking of, however, seems to have become general at an early stage. An
old lyric says—
Lyare was mi latymer,
Sloth and sleep mi bedyner.

Sir John Maundeville, describing an eastern route, says (I am quoting Mr.
Lower)—‘And men alleweys fynden Latyneres to go with them in the
contrees and furthere beyonde in to tyme that men conne the language.’
Teachers of the Latin tongue itself were not wanting. ‘Le Scholemayster’
existed so early as the twelfth century to show that there were those who
professed to initiate our English youth in the rudiments of that which was a
polite and liberal education in the eyes of that period. Such sobriquets as ‘le
Gramayre,’ or ‘Gramary,’ or ‘Grammer,’ represented the same avocation,
being nothing more than the old Norman ‘Gramaire,’ or ‘Grammarian’ as
we should now call him, only we now apply the term to a philologist rather
than a professional teacher. As ‘Grammar’ the surname is far from being

obsolete in our midst. A ‘Nicholas le Lessoner’ is met with in the Hundred
Rolls. He was evidently but a schoolmaster also. The verb ‘to lesson,’ i.e. to
teach, is still in use in various parts of the country, and we find even
Shakespeare using it. Clarence says to his murderer—
Bid Gloster think of this, and he will weep;

to which the murderer replies—
Ay, millstones; as he lessoned us to weep.
(Richard III., act. i. sc. iii.)

In looking over the pages of our early Anglo-Norman history we are at
once struck by the fact of the absence of any middle class; that important
branch of our community which in after and more civilised ages has done
so much for English liberty and English strength. The whole genius of the
feudal constitution was opposed to this. There was indeed a graduating
scale of feudal tenure which bound together and connected each
community; but there was of equal surety in the chain of these independent
links of society a certain ring where all alliance ceased save that of service,
and which separated each provincial society into two widely-sundered
classes. On the one side were the baron and his nearer feudatories and
retainers; and below this, on the other, came under one common standard
the villein, the peasant, and the boor, looked upon by their superiors with
contemptuous indifference, and barely endured as necessary to the
administration of their luxury and pleasure. We have already mentioned
many of those who gave the baron support. Of other his vassals we may cite
‘le Vavasour,’ or ‘Valvasor,’ a kind of middle-class landowner. The lower
orders of chivalry have left us in our many ‘Knights’[186] and ‘Bachelors’ or
‘Backlers’ a plentiful token of former importance. Our ‘Squiers,’ ‘Squires,’
‘Swiers,’ or ‘Swires’[187] carry us, as does the now meaningless Esquire, to
the time when the sons of those ‘Knights’ bore, as the name implies, their
shields. By the time of Henry VI., however, it had become adopted by the
heirs of the higher gentry, and now it is used indiscriminately enough.
Those who are so surnamed may comfort themselves at any rate with the
reflection that they are lineally descended from those who bore the name
when it was an honourable and distinctive title. ‘Armiger,’ the form in
which the word was oftentimes recorded in our Latin rolls, still survives,

though barely, in our ‘Armingers,’ this corrupted form being in perfect
harmony with all similar instances, as we shall see almost immediately. One
of our mediæval rhymes speaks of—
Ten thousand knights stout and fers,
Withouten hobelers and squyers.

These hobelers are far from being uninteresting. When we talk of riding a
hobby, we little think what a history is concealed beneath the term. A
hobiler[188] in the days we are speaking of, was one who held by tenure of
maintaining a hobbie—a kind of small horse, then familiarly so known. A
song on the times, written in the fourteenth century, and complaining of the
manner in which the upper classes plundered the poor, says:—
And those hoblurs, namelich,
That husband benimeth eri of ground,
Men ne should them bury in none chirch,
But cast them out as a hound.

Later on, by its fictitious representation in the Morris dances of the May-
day sports, the hobby came to denote the mere dummy, and now as such
affords much scope for equestrian skill in the Rotten Row of our nurseries.
What tricks time plays with these words, to be sure, and what a connexion
for our ‘Hoblers’ and ‘Hobblers’ to meditate upon. Our ‘Bannermans’ are
Scotch, but they represent an office, whether in England or the North,
whose importance it would be hard to estimate at this period. Nor are we
without traces in our nomenclature of its existence in more southern
districts. Our not unfamiliar ‘Pennigers’ and ‘Pennigars’ are but the former
official pennager, he who bore the ensign or standard of his lord. They
figure even in more general and festive pageants. In the York Procession we
find walking alone and between the different craftsmen the ‘Pennagers.’
Probably they bore the ensigns of that then important corporate city. I have
but recently referred to ‘Robert Clavynger’ (H.) and the probability of his
having carried the club or mace or key of his superiors in office. All or well-
nigh all the above names find themselves well represented in the registers
of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Our eye falls at once on an
‘Andrew le Gramary,’ a ‘Richard le Gramayre,’ a ‘Thomas le Skolmayster,’
a ‘Warin le Latimer,’ a ‘William le Latiner,’ a ‘Jordan le Vavasur,’ a ‘Simon

le Knyt,’ a ‘Gilbert le Bacholer,’ a ‘Walter le Squier,’ or a ‘Nicholas
Armiger.’
A curious relic of the military tactics of mediæval times is presented to
our notice in our ‘Reuters,’ ‘Ritters,’ and ‘Rutters.’ The old English forms
are found in such entries as ‘Thomas le Reuter,’ or ‘Ranulph le Ruter.’ The
root of the term is probably the German ritter, or rider, a name given at this
period to certain mercenary soldiers oftentimes hired by our English
sovereigns out of Brabant and the surrounding country. Thus we find
William of Newburgh, under the date 1173, saying that Henry II.
‘stipendarias Bribantionum copias, quas Rutas vocant, accersivit.’ (Lib. ii.
cap. 27.) Trivet, relating the same fact, says (p. 73), ‘Conduxit Brabanzones
et Rutarios.’[189] An old song begins—
Rutterkyn is come into owre towne,
In a cloke withoute cote or gowne,
Save a raggid hood to kover his crowne
Like a rutter hoyda.
Rutterkyn can speke no Englyssh,
His tonge runneth all on buttyrd fyssh,
Besmeared with grece abowte his disshe,
Like a rutter hoyda.

The nickname ‘rutterkin’ proves the Flemish origin of these troopers. Their
capacity for stowing away food and drink, from all accounts, is not
exaggerated in the poem from which the above is an extract. We have just
mentioned our ‘Bachelors,’ and this reminds us of our ‘Childs,’ and of the
days of chivalry. The term ‘child’ was a distinctly honourable title in the
olden times. It was borne by the sons of all the higher nobility; if by the
eldest son, then in right of his title to his father’s honours and possessions;
if more generally by others, then until by some deed of prowess they had
been raised to the ranks of knighthood. In either case ‘child’ was the term in
use during this probationary state. Thus Byron in his ‘Childe Harold’ has
but revived the ‘Childe Waters,’ ‘Childe Rolands,’ and ‘Childe Thopas’s’ of
earlier times.[190] We owe many existing and several obsolete surnames to
this custom. Our ‘Childs’ are but descendants of such a sobriquet as ‘Ralph
le Child;’ our ‘Eyres’ of such an entry as ‘William le Eyre;’ some of our
‘Barnes’ may be but the offspring of such a personage as ‘Thomas le Barne’
(now ‘bairn,’ that is, the born one); while ‘Stephen le Enfant’ or ‘Walter le
Enfaunt’ represents an appellation that is now obsolete in England.[191] I

need scarcely add that this last, in the form of Infante and Infanta, still bears
the same meaning in the royal families of Spain that Child did in our own
land in more chivalric days.
The details of early feudal life are wonderfully depicted by our
nomenclature. Owing to the boundless and forced ceremony which arose
out of the prevailing spirit of feudal pride, our official memorials are well-
nigh overwhelming. Feudal tenure itself became associated with office, and
none seemed too servile for acceptance. As has been said of Charlemagne’s
Court, so might it be said of those of others—‘they were crowded with
officers of every rank, some of the most eminent of whom exercised
functions about the royal person which would have been thought fit only for
slaves in the palace of Augustus or Antonine’—‘to carry his banner or his
lance, to lead his array, to be his marshall, or constable, or sewer, or carver,
to do in fact such services, trivial or otherwise, as his lord might have done
himself, in proper person, had it so pleased him—this was the position
coveted by youths of birth and distinction at such a period as this.’ Many of
these officerships, or the bare titles, still linger round the court of our
sovereign. The higher feudatories, of course, followed the example thus set
them by their suzerain, and the lesser barons these, and thus household
officers sprang up on every side. See how this has left its mark upon our
surnames. ‘John le Conestable,’ or ‘Robert le Constable,’ I need not say, is
still well represented. In the ‘Man of Lawes Tale’ the poet says:—
The constable of the castel doun is fare
To see this wreck.

With him we may ally our not unfamiliar ‘Castlemans,’ ‘Castelans,’ and
‘Chatelains,’ representatives of the old ‘John le Chastilioun,’ or ‘Joscelin le
Castelan,’ or ‘Ralph le Chatelaine.’ The poet whom I have just quoted says
elsewhere:—
Now am I king, now chastelaine.

Doubtless this latter was but a synonym of the constable, and his duties as
governor but the same. Of decidedly lower position, but not dissimilar in
character, we have also ‘Wybert le Portere,’ or ‘Portarius,’ as he is Latinized
in our rolls. An old book of etiquette says:—

When thou comes to a lordis gate
The porter thou shalle fynde therate.

He at the postern would as carefully look against hostile, as our former
‘Peter le Ussher,’ or ‘Alan le Usser,’ within would against informal
approach.[192] The Saxon form, however, was evidently not wanting, for we
have still ‘Doorward’ and ‘Doorman’ (‘Geoffrey le Doreward,’ A.,
‘Nicholas le Doreman,’ O.) in our directories, not to mention their
corrupted, ‘Durwards,’ immortalized by Walter Scott, and ‘Dormans’ and
‘Domans.’ The term ‘doorward’ is found in many of our early writers. Thus
in an old metrical account of the bringing of Christ before Caiaphas, it is
said of John when he returned to fetch in Peter:—
He bid the dureward
Let in his fere.

Our ‘Chamberlaynes’ and ‘Chambers,’[193] (‘Simon le Chamberlain,’ M.,
‘Henry le Chaumberleyne,’ B., ‘William de la Chaumbre,’ B.) had access to
their lord’s inner privacy, and from their intimacy with his monetary affairs
occupied a position at times similar to that of our more collegiate bursar.
We have only to look at mediæval costume, its grandeur, its colours, and its
varied array, to understand how necessary there should be a special officer
to superintend his lord’s wardrobe. Our ‘Wardrops’ are but the former ‘de la
Wardrobe,’ or ‘de la Garderoba,’ while ‘le Wardrober,’ or ‘le Garderober,’
has bequeathed us our ‘Wardropers.’ Thus the ‘Book of Curtasye’ says:—
The usshere shalle bydde the wardropere
Make redy for alle, night before they fere.

Equally important as an attendant was the ‘Barbour.’ He especially was on
familiar terms with his master—when was he not? I need scarcely say that
among his other duties that of acting as surgeon in the household was none
of the lightest. Still his tonsorial capacity was his first one. No one then
thought of shaving himself, least of all the baron. Even so late as the
sixteenth century a writer defending the use of the beard against Andrew
Boorde employs this argument:—

But, syre, I praye you, if you tell can,
Declare to me, when God made man
(I meane by our forefather Adam),
Whether that he had a berde then;
And if he had, who did hym shave,
Since that a barber he could not have.

I have no doubt it is here we must set our ‘Simisters,’ relics, as they
probably are, of such a name as ‘John Somayster,’ or ‘William Summister.’
The summaster seems from its orthography to have represented one who
acted as a clerk or comptroller, something akin to the chamberlain or
breviter, whom I shall mention almost immediately; one, in fact, who cast
up and certified accounts. Holinshed used the word as if in his day it were
of familiar import. Dwelling upon a certain event, he says—‘Over this, if
the historian be long, he is accompted a trifler; if he be short, he is taken for
a summister.’[194]
In such days as those, what with the number of personal retainers and the
excess of hospitality expected of the feudal chief, the culinary department
occupied far from an insignificant position in regard to the general
accessories of the baronial establishment. Our ‘Cooks,’ or ‘Cokes,’ or
‘Cookmans,’ relics of the old ‘Roger le Coke,’ or ‘Joan le Cook,’ or
‘William Cokeman,’ even then ruled supreme over that most absolute of all
monarchies, the kitchen; our ‘Kitchenmans’ (now found also as
‘Kitchingham’), ‘Kitcheners,’ and ‘Kitchens,’ or ‘de la Kitchens,’ as they
were once written, reminding us who it was that aided them to turn the spit
or handle the posnet. Our ‘Pottingers’ represent the once common ‘Robert
le Potager,’ or ‘Walter le Potager,’ the soup-maker. Potage was the ordinary
term for soup, thickened well with vegetables and meat.[195] Thus in the
‘Boke of Curtasye’ the guest is bid—
Suppe not with grete sowndynge,
Neither potage ne other thynge—

a rule which still holds good in society. We are well aware of the ingredients
of the dish which our Bible translators have still bequeathed to us as ‘a
mess of potage.’ In its present corrupted form of ‘porridge’ this notion of a
mess rather than of a soup is still preserved. Another interesting servitorship
of this class has well-nigh escaped our notice—that of the hastiler: he who

turned the haste or spit. In the Close Rolls we find a ‘Thurstan le Hastler’
recorded, and in the Parliamentary Writs such names as ‘Henry Hastiler’
and ‘William Hastiler.’ In the will of Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Essex,
among other household servants, such as potager, ferour, barber, ewer, is
mentioned ‘William de Barton, hastiler.’ I need not remind Lancashire
people that a haister, or haster, is still the term used for the tin screen
employed for roasting purposes. The memorials of this interesting
servitorship still linger on in our ‘Hastlers,’ ‘Haslers,’ and ‘Haselers.’ If,
however, the supervision of the roasting and basting required an attendant,
none the less was it so with the washing-up department. How familiarly
does such a term as ‘scullery’ fall from our lips, and how little do many of
us know of its history. An escuelle[196] was a porringer or dish, and a scullery
was a place where such vessels were stored after being washed.[197] Hence a
‘squiller’ or ‘squyler’ was he who looked to this; our modern ‘scullion,’ in
fact, which is but a corrupted form of the same word. In one of Robert of
Brunne’s poems, we find him saying—
And the squyler of the kechyn,
Piers, that hath woned (dwelt) here yn.[198]

In a book of ‘Ordinances and Regulations’ we find mention made even of a
‘sergeant-squylloure.’ Doubtless his duty was to look after the carriage of
utensils at such times as his lord made any extended journey, or to
superintend the washing of cup and platter after the open-board festivities
which were the custom of early baronial establishments. To provide for
every retainer who chanced to come in would be, indeed, a care. The
occurrence of a ‘Roger de Norhamtone, Squyler,’ however, in the London
City rolls, seems to imply that occasionally the sale of such vessels gave the
title. I cannot say the name is obsolete, as I have met with one ‘Squiller;’
and ‘Skiller,’ which would seem to be a natural corruption, is not
uncommon. Our ‘Spencers,’ abbreviated from ‘despencer,’ had an important
charge—that of the ‘buttery,’ or ‘spence,’ the place where the household
store was kept. The term is still in use, I believe, in our country farm-
houses. In the ‘Sumner’s Tale’ the glutton is well described as—
All vinolent as botel in the spence;

and Mr. Halliwell, I see, with his wonted research, has lighted on the
following lines:—
Yet I had lever she and I
Were both togyther secretly
In some corner in the spence.[199]

‘De la Spence,’ as well as ‘le Spencer,’ has impressed itself upon our living
nomenclature. Our ‘Panters,’ ‘Pantlers,’ and ferocious-seeming ‘Panthers,’
descendants of such folk as ‘Richard le Panter,’ or ‘Robert le Paneter,’ or
‘Henry de le Paneterie,’ are but relics of a similar office. They had the
superintendence of the ‘paneterie,’ or pantry; literally, of course, the bread
closet. It seems, however, early to have become used in a wider and more
general sense. In the Household Ordinances of Edward IV. one of the
sergeants is styled ‘the chief Pantrer of the King’s mouth.’ John Russel in
his ‘Boke of Nurture’ thus directs his student—
The furst yere, my son, thou shalt be pantere or buttilare,
Thou must have three knyffes kene in pantry, I sey thee, evermare,
One knyfe the loaves to choppe, another them for to pare,
The third, sharp and kene, to smothe the trenchers and square.[200]

Of the old ‘Achatour’ (found as ‘Henry le Catour’ or ‘Bernard le Acatour’),
the purveyor for the establishment, we have many memorials, those of
‘Cater,’ ‘Cator,’ and ‘Caterer’ being the commonest. Chaucer quaintly
remarks of the ‘Manciple,’[201] who was so
Wise in buying of victuals,

that of him
Achatours mighten take ensample.

The provisions thus purchased were called ‘cates,’ a favourite word with
some of our later poets. Equivalent to the more monastic ‘le Cellarer,’[202]
which is now obsolete, are our numberless ‘Butlers,’ the most accepted
form of the endless ‘Teobald le Botilers,’ ‘Richer le Botillers,’ ‘Ralph le
Botelers,’ ‘William le Botellers,’ ‘Walter le Butillers,’ or ‘Hugh le

Buteilliers,’ of this time. As we shall observe by-and-by, however, this was
also an occupative name.[203]
With so many officers to look after the preparations, we should expect
the dinner itself to be somewhat ceremonious. And so it was—far more
ceremonious, however, than elegant in the light of the nineteenth century.
Our ‘Senechals’ and ‘Senecals’ (‘Alexander le Seneschal,’ B., ‘Ivo
Seneschallus,’ T.), relics of the ancient ‘seneschal,’ Latinized in our records
as ‘Dapifer’ (‘Henry Dapifer,’ A.), arranged the table. The root of this word
is the Saxon ‘schalk,’ a servant which, though now wholly obsolete, seems
to have been in familiar use in early times.[204] An old poem tells us—
Then the schalkes sharply shift their horses,
To show them seemly in their sheen weeds.

In ‘Sir Gawayne,’ too, the attendant is thus described—
Clene spurs under
Of bright golde, upon silk bordes, barred full rich,
And scholes (depending) under shanks, there the schalk rides.

We are not without traces of its existence in other compounds. Thus our
‘Marshalls’ were originally ‘marechals;’ that is, ‘mare-schalks,’ the early
name for a horse-groom or blacksmith. The Marshall, however, was early
turned into an indoor office, and seems to have been busied enough in
ordering the position of guests in the hall, a very punctilious affair in those
days. The ‘Boke of Curtasye’ says:—
In halle marshalle alle men schalle sett,
After their degre, withouten lett.

Our ‘Gateschales,’ a name now altogether obsolete, were the more simple
porter, while our ‘Gottschalks,’ a surname more frequently hailing from
Germany, but once common with ourselves as a Christian name, denote
simply ‘God’s servant.’ But we are wandering. Let us come back to the
dinner-table. Such sobriquets as ‘Ralph le Suur’[205] or ‘John le Sewer’
remind us of the sewer—he who brought in the viands.[206] A sewe, from the
old French sevre, to follow, was any cooked dish, and thus is simply

equivalent to our course. Chaucer, in describing the rich feasts of
Cambuscan, King of Tartary, says the time would fail him to tell—
Of their strange sewes.

I believe the Queen’s household still boasts its four gentlemen sewers. As a
surname, too, the word is still common. A curious custom presents itself to
our remembrance in our ‘Says,’ who, when not of the ‘de Says’ (‘Hugh de
Say,’ A.), are but descendants of the ‘le Says’ (‘John le Say,’ M.) of the
Hundred Rolls. An ‘assay’ or ‘say’ was he who assayed or tasted the messes
as they were set one by one before the baron, to guard against his being
accidentally or purposely poisoned. An old poem uses the fuller form,
where it says—
Thine assayer schalle be an hownde,
To assaye thy mete before thee.

In the ‘Boke of Curtasye,’ too, we are told to what ranks this privilege
belonged—
No mete for man schalle sayed be,
But for kynge, or prynce, or duke so fre.[207]

Another term for the same made its mark upon our nomenclature as
‘Gustur’ (‘Robert le Gustur,’ T.) To gust was thus used till Shakespeare’s
day, and we still speak of ‘gusto’ as equivalent to relish.
We are reminded by the fact of the existence of ‘Knifesmith’ and
‘Spooner’ only among our early occupative surnames that there were no
forks in those days.[208] There is no ‘Forker’ to be found. Even the ‘Carver’
(‘Adam le Kerver,’ A., ‘Richard le Karver,’ A.) had to use his fingers. In the
‘Boke of Kervynge,’ a manual of the then strictest etiquette in such matters,
we find the following direction:—‘Set never on fyshe, flesche, beest, ne
fowle, more than two fyngers and a thombe.’ Seldom, too, did they use
plates as we now understand them. Before each guest was set a round slice
of bread called a trencher, and the meat being placed upon this, he
consumed the whole, or as much as he pleased. Under these circumstances
we can easily understand how necessary would be the office of ‘Ewer,’ a

name found in every early roll as ‘Brian le Ewer,’ or ‘Richard le Ewere,’ or
‘Adam de la Euerie.’ As he supplied water for each to cleanse his hands he
was close followed by the ‘napper’ or ‘napier,’ who proffered the towel or
napkin. The word, I need scarcely say, is but a diminutive of the old nape,
which was applied in general to the tablecloths and other linen used in
setting forth the dinner. An old book, which I have already quoted, in
directing the attendant how to lay the cloth, says—
The over nape schall double be layde.

The Hundred Rolls and other records furnish us with such names as ‘Jordan
le Nappere,’ or ‘John le Napere,’ or ‘Walter de la Naperye.’ Behind the lord
of the board, nigh to his elbow, stood the ‘page,’ holding his cup. This
seems to have been an office much sought after by the sons of the lower
nobility, and it is to the honourable place in which it was held we no doubt
owe the fact that not merely are our ‘Pages’ decidedly numerous in the
present day, but that we also find such further particular compounds as
‘Small-page,’[209] ‘Little-page,’ or ‘Cup-page’ holding anything but a
precarious existence in our midst. There seems to have been but little
difference between this office and that of the ‘henchman,’ only that the
latter, as his name, more strictly written ‘haunchman,’ shows, attended his
master’s behests out of doors. He, too, lives on hale and hearty in our
‘Henchmans,’ ‘Hinxmans,’ ‘Hincksmans,’ and ‘Hensmans.’[210]
In several of our early records of names we find ‘Peter le Folle,’
‘Alexander le Fol,’ and ‘Johannes Stultus’ appearing in apparently honest
and decent company. The old fool or jester was an important entity in the
retinue of the mediæval noble. He could at least say, if he might not do,
what he liked, and I am afraid the more ribald his buffoonery the greater
claim he possessed to be an adept in his profession in the eyes of those who
heard him. His dress was always in character with his duties, being as
uncouth as fashion reversed could make it. In his hand he bore a mock rod
of state, his head was surmounted by a huge cap peaked at the summit and
surrounded with little jingling bells, his dress was in colour as conflicting as
possible, and the tout ensemble I need not dwell upon. We still talk of a
‘foolscap,’ and even our paper has preserved the term from the fact that one
of the earliest watermarks we have was that of a fool’s cap with bells.

‘Fools,’ I need not say, wherever else to be met with, are now obsolete so
far as our directories are concerned.
I have just mentioned the henchman. This at once carries us without the
baronial walls, and in whatever scene we are wont to regard the early
suzeraine as engaging, it is remarkable how fully marked is our
nomenclature with its surroundings. Several useful servitorships, however,
claim our first attention. In such days as these, when the telegraph wire was
an undreamt-of mystery, and highways traversed by steam-engines would
have been looked upon as something supernatural indeed, we can readily
understand the importance of the official ‘Roger le Messager,’ or ‘John le
Messager,’ nor need we be surprised by the frequency with which he is met.
In the ‘Man of Lawes Tale’ it is said—
This messager to don his avantage
Unto the Kinges mother rideth swift.

Though generally found as ‘Messinger’ or ‘Massinger,’ the truer and more
ancient form is not wholly obsolete.[211] But if there were no telegraphs,
neither was there any regular system of postage. The name of ‘Ely le
Breviter’ or ‘Peter le Brevitour’ seems to remind us of this. I do not doubt
myself the ‘breviter’ was kept by his lord for the writing or conveyance of
letters or brevets.[212] Piers Plowman uses the word where, of the Pardoner’s
preaching, it is said—
Lewed men loved it wel,
And liked his wordes,
Comen up knelynge
To kissen his bulles.
He bouched them with his brevet
And blered their eighen.[213]

The signet of his lord was in the hands of the ‘Spigurnell’ or ‘Spigurell,’
both of which forms still exist, I believe, in our general nomenclature. As
the sealer of all the royal writs, the king’s spigurell would have an office at
once important and careful. The term itself is Saxon, its root implying that
which is shut up or sealed. Our ‘Coffers,’ relics of the old ‘Ralph le
Cofferer,’ or ‘John le Cofferer,’ though something occupative, were
nevertheless official also, and are to be found as such in the thirteenth

century. They remind us of the day when there were no such things as
cheque-books, nor banks, nor a paper-money currency. Then on every
expedition, be it warlike or peaceful, solid gold or silver had to be borne for
the baron’s expenditure and that of his retinue; therefore none would be
more important than he who superintended the transit from place to place of
the chest of solid coinage set under his immediate care. Our early
‘Passavants,’ or ‘Pursevaunts,’ or more literally pursuivants, were under the
direction of the ‘Herald,’or ‘Heraud,’ as Chaucer styles him, and usually
preceded the royal or baronial retinue to announce its approach, and attend
to such other duties of lesser importance as his superior delegated to him. In
this respect he occupied a position much akin to that of the ‘Harbinger’ or
‘Herberger,’ who prepared the harborage or lodging, and all other
entertainment required ere the cavalcade arrived. When we reflect upon the
large number of retainers, the ceremonious list of attendants, the greater
impediments to early travel, and the difficulties of forwarding information,
we shall see that these officerships were by no means so formal as we might
be apt to imagine. To give illustrations of all the above-mentioned surnames
were easy, were it not that the number is so large that it becomes a difficulty
which to select. Such entries, however, as ‘Jacob le Messager,’ ‘Godfrey le
Coffrer,’ ‘Roger Passavant,’ ‘Main le Heralt,’ ‘Herbert le Herberjur,’
‘Nicholas le Spigurnell,’ ‘Peter le Folle,’ or the Latinized ‘Johannes
Stultus,’ may be recorded as among the more familiar. A reference to the
Index will furnish examples of the rest, as well as additional ones of the
above.
In a day when horses were of more consequence than now, we need not
be surprised to find the baronial manger under special supervision. This
officer figures in our mediæval archives in such entries as ‘Walter le
Avenur’ or ‘William le Avenare.’[214] As his very name suggests, it was the
avenar’s care to provide for the regular and sufficient feeding of the animals
placed under his charge.[215] The ‘Boke of Curtayse’ tells us his duties—
The aveyner shall ordeyn provande good won
For the lordys horsis everychon,
They schyn have two cast of hay,
A peck of provande on a day.

Elsewhere, too, the same writer says—

A maystur of horsys a squyer ther is,
Aveyner and ferour under him i-wys.

Our ‘Palfreymans’ (‘John le Palfreyman,’ M.), though not always official, I
do not doubt had duties also of a similar character in looking after the well-
being of their mistress’s palfrey, and attending the lady herself when she
rode to the cover, or took an airing on the more open and breezy hillside.
The two great amusements of the period we are considering were the
hunt and the tournament. Of the former we have many relics, nor is the
latter barren or unfruitful of terms connected therewith that still linger on in
the surnames of to-day. The exciting encounters which took place in these
chivalric meetings or jousts had a charm alike for the Saxon and the
Norman; alike, too, for spectator as well as for him who engaged in the
fierce mêlée. Training for this was by no means left to the discretion of
amateur intelligence. In three several records of the thirteenth century I find
such names as ‘Peter le Eskurmesur,’ ‘Henry le Eskyrmessur,’ and ‘Roger le
Skirmisour.’ The root of these terms is, of course, the old French verb
‘eskirmir,’ to fence. It is thence we get our skirmish and scrimmage, the
latter form, though looked upon now as of a somewhat slang character,
being found in the best of society in our earlier writers. Originally it
denoted a hand-to-hand encounter between two horsemen. We still imply by
a skirmish a short and sharp conflict between the advanced posts of two
contending armies. As a teacher of ‘the noble art of self-defence,’[216] we can
easily understand how important was the skirmisher. The name has become
much corrupted by lapse of time, scarcely recognisable, in fact, in such a
garb as ‘Scrimmenger,’ ‘Skrymsher,’ ‘Skrimshire,’ and perchance
‘Scrimshaw,’ forms which I find in our present London and provincial
directories. Of those who were wont to engage we have already mentioned
the majority. All the different grades of nobility were present, and with them
were their esquires, with shield and buckler, ready to supply a fresh
unsplintered lance, or a new shield, with its proudly emblazoned crest. I
need scarce remind the reader of what consequence in such a day as this
would be the costume of him who thus engaged in such deadly conflict. The
invention of gunpowder has changed the early tactics of fight. Battles are
lost and won now long ere the real mêlée has taken place. Then everything,
whether in war or tournament, was settled face to face. To pierce his
opponent where an inlet could admit his spear, or to unhorse him by the

shock of meeting, was the knight’s one aim. The bloodiness of such an
affray can be better imagined than described. We still hear of distorted
features in the after inspection of the scene of battle, but we can have no
conception of the mangling that the bodies of horse and rider underwent,
the inevitable result of the earlier manner of warfare. Death is mercifully
quick now upon the battle-field. We have still three or four professional
surnames that remind us of this. We have still our ‘Jackmans,’ or
‘Jakemans,’ as representatives of the former cavalry; so called from the
‘jack’ or coat of mail they wore. It is this latter article which has bequeathed
to our youngsters of the nineteenth century their more peaceful and
diminutive jacket. Thus mailed and horsed, they had to encounter the cruel
onslaught of our ‘Spearmans,’ and ‘Pikemans,’ and ‘Billmans,’ names that
themselves suggest how bloody would be the strife when hatchet blade, and
sharp pike, and keen sword clashed together. To cover and shield the body,
then, was the one thought of these early days of military tactics, and at the
same time to give the fullest play to every limb and sinew. This was a work
of a most careful nature, and no wonder it demanded the combined skill of
several craftsmen. Such occupative sobriquets as ‘Adam le Armerer’ or
‘Simon le Armurer’ are now represented by the curter ‘Armer’ or ‘Armour.’
In the ‘Knight’s Tale’ it is said—
There were also of Martes division
Th’ armerer, and the bowyer, and the smith,
That forgeth sharpe swerdes on his stith.

Our ‘Frobishers,’ ‘Furbishers,’ and ‘Furbers,’ once found as ‘Richard le
Fourbishour’ or ‘Alan le Fourbour,’ scoured and prepared the habergeon, or
jack just referred to, while ‘Gilbert le Hauberger’ or ‘John le Haubergeour’
was more immediately engaged in constructing it. Our present Authorized
Version, I need hardly say, still retains the word. In ‘Sire Thopas,’ too, it is
used where it is said—
And next his schert an aketoun,
And over that an habergoun.

Our classical-looking ‘Homers’ are the naturally corrupted form of the once
familiar ‘le Heaumer,’ he who fashioned the warrior’s helmet.[217] Our
‘Sworders,’ I imagine, forged him his trusty blade,[218] while our ‘Sheathers’

furnished forth its slip. Our ‘Platers’ I would suggest as makers of his
cuirass, while our ‘Kissers’—far less demonstrative than they look—are but
relics of such a name as ‘Richard le Kissere,’ he who manufactured his
cuishes or thigh armour, one of the most careful parts of the entire dress.[219]
Lastly, our ‘Spurriers’ were there ready to supply him with his rowel, and
thus in warlike guise he was prepared either for adventurous combat in
behalf of the distressed damsel, or to seek favour in the eyes of her he loved
in the more deadly lists.[220]
I must not forget to mention our ‘Kemps’ while upon military affairs, a
general term as it was for a soldier in the days of which we are speaking. I
believe the phrase ‘to go a kemping’ is still in use in the north. In the old
rhyme of ‘Guy and Colbrand’ the minstrel says—
When meat and drink is great plentye,
Then lords and ladys still will be,
And sit and solace lythe:
Then it is time for mee to speake,
Of kern knightes and kempes greate,
Such carping for to kythe.

How familiar a term it must have been in the common mouth the frequency
with which the name is met fully shows.
Our ‘Slingers’ represent an all but forgotten profession, but they seem to
have been useful enough in their day and generation. The sling was always
attached to a stick, whence the old term ‘staffsling.’ Lydgate describes
David as armed
With a staffe slynge, voyde of plate and mayle;

while in ‘Richard Cœur de Lion’ we are told—
Foremost he sette hys arweblasteres,
And aftyr that hys good archeres,
And aftyr hys staff-slyngeres,
And other with scheeldes and speres.

But we must not forget old England’s one boast, her archers, and our last
quotation fitly brings them to our notice. They, too, in the battle-field and in
the rural list, maintained alike their supremacy. If we would be proud of our

early victories, we must ever look with veneration on the bow. ‘Bowman’
and ‘Archer’ still represent the more military professional, but not alone.
Even more interesting, as speaking for the more specific crossbow or
‘arbalist,’ are our ‘Alabasters,’ ‘Arblasters,’ ‘Arblasts,’ and ‘Balsters.’ In
Robert of Gloucester’s description of the reign of the Conqueror, it is said—
So great power of this land and of France he nom (took)
With him into England, of knights and squires,
Spearmen anote, and bowemen, and also arblasters.

Chaucer, too, describing a battlement, says—
And eke within the castle were
Springoldes, gonnes, bowes, and archers,
And eke about at corners
Men seine over the wall stand
Grete engines, who were nere hand,
And in the kernels, here and there,
Of arblasters great plentie were.

In the Hundred Rolls he is Latinized as ‘John Alblastarius,’ and in the York
Records as ‘Thomas Balistarius.’ The Inquisitiones style him ‘Richard le
Alblaster,’ while the Parliamentary Writs register him as ‘Reginald le
Arblaster.’ It was to this class of armour our word ‘artillery’ was first
applied, a fact which our Bible translators have preserved, where, in
describing the meeting between David and Jonathan, they speak of the latter
as giving his ‘artillery to the lad.’ Cotgrave, too, in his dictionary, printed at
the beginning of the seventeenth century, has the following:—‘Artellier, a
bowyer or bow-maker, also a fletcher, or one that makes both bows and
arrows.’ The mention of the fletcher brings us to the more general weapon.
Such an entry as the following would seem strange to the eyes of the
nineteenth century:—‘To Nicolas Frost, bowman, Stephen Sedar, fletcher,
[221]
Ralph, the stringer, and divers others of the said mysteries, in money,
paid to them, viz.:—to the aforesaid Nicholas, for 500 bows, 31l. 8s.; to the
aforesaid Stephen, for 1,700 sheaves of arrows, 148l. 15s.; and to the
aforesaid Ralph, for forty gross of bowstrings, 12l.’ (Exchequer Issues, 14
Henry IV.) This short extract in itself shows us the origin of at least three
distinct surnames, viz.:—‘Bowyer,’ ‘Fletcher,’ and ‘Stringer.’ We should
hardly recognise the first, however, in such entries as ‘Adam le Boghiere,’

or ‘William le Boghyere.’ ‘John le Bower’ reminds us that some of our
‘Bowers’ are similarly sprung, while ‘George le Boyer’ answers for our
‘Boyers.’ Besides these, we have ‘Robert Bowmaker’ or ‘John
Bowmaykere’ to represent the fuller sobriquet. So much for the bow. Next
comes the arrow. This was a very careful piece of workmanship. Four
distinct classes of artizans were engaged in its structure, and, as we might
expect, all are familiar names of to-day. ‘John le Arowsmyth’ we may set
first. He confined himself to the manufacture of the arrow-head. Thus we
find the following statement made in an Act passed in 1405:—‘Item,
because the Arrowsmyths do make many faulty heads for arrows and
quarels, it is ordained and established that all heads for arrows and quarels,
after this time to be made, shall be well boiled or braised, and hardened at
the points with steel.’ (Stat. Realm.)[222] ‘Clement le Settere’ or ‘Alexander
le Settere’[223] was busied in affixing these to the shaft, and ‘John le Tippere’
or ‘William le Tippere’ in pointing them off. Nor is this all—there is yet the
feather. Of the origin of such mediæval folk as ‘Robert le Fleccher’ or ‘Ada
le Fletcher,’ we are reminded by Milton, where, in describing an angel, he
says—
His locks behind,
Illustrious on his shoulders, fledge with wings,
Lay waving round.

The fletcher, or fledger as I had well-nigh called him, spent his time, in fact,
in feathering arrows.
Skelton in ‘The Maner of the World’ says:—
So proude and so gaye,
So riche in arraye,
And so skant of mon-ey
Saw I never:
So many bowyers,
So many fletchers,
And so few good archers
Saw I never.

While all these names, however, speak for specific workmanship, our
‘Flowers’ represent a more general term. We are told of Phœbus in the
‘Manciples Tale,’ that

His bowe he bent, and set therein a flo.

‘Flo,’ was a once familiar term for an arrow. ‘John le Floer,’ or ‘Nicholas le
Flouer,’ therefore, would seem to be but synonymous with ‘Arrowsmith’ or
‘Fletcher.’ ‘Stringer’ and ‘Stringfellow’ are self-explanatory, and are
common surnames still. What a list of sobriquets is here! What a change in
English social life do they declare. Time was when to be a sure marksman
was the object of every English boy’s ambition. The bow was his chosen
companion. Evening saw him on the village green, beneath the shade of the
old yew tree, and as he practised his accustomed sport, his breath would
come thick and fast, as he bethought him of the coming wake, and his
chance of bringing down the popinjay, and presenting the ribbon to his
chosen queen of the May. Yes, times are altered. Teeming cities cover the
once rustic sward, broadcloth has eclipsed the Lincoln green, the clothyard,
the arrow; but still amid the crowd that rushes to and fro in our streets the
name of an ‘Archer,’ or a ‘Bowman,’ or a ‘Butts,’ or a ‘Popgay’ spoken in
our ears will hush the hubbub of the city, and, forgotten for a brief moment
the greed for money, will carry us, like a pleasant dream recalled, into the
fresher and purer atmosphere of England’s past.
In the poem from which I have but recently quoted we have the record of
‘gonnes,’ or ‘guns,’ as we should now term them. It would be quite possible
for our nomenclature to be represented by memorials of the powder
magazine, and I should be far from asserting that such is not the case.[224] In
the household of Edward III. there are enumerated, among others, ‘Ingyners
lvij; Artellers vj; Gonners vj.’ Here there is a clear distinction between the
‘gun’ and the ‘engine;’ between missiles hurled by powder and those by the
catapult. Fifty years even earlier than this Chaucer had used the following
sentence:—‘They dradde no assaut of gynne, gonne, nor skaffaut.’ In his
‘Romance,’ too, as I have just shown, he places in juxtaposition ‘grete
engines’ and ‘gonnes.’ Of one, if not both of these, we have undoubted
memorials in our nomenclature. The Hundred Rolls furnish us with a
‘William le Engynur’ and a ‘Walter le Ginnur;’ the Inquisitiones with a
‘Richard le Enginer,’ and the Writs with a ‘William le Genour.’ The
descendants of such as these are, of course, our ‘Gunners,’ ‘Ginners,’
‘Jenour,’ and ‘Jenners,’[225] the last of which are now represented by one
who is as renowned for recovering as his ancestor in days gone by would be

for destroying life. Our ‘Gunns’ and ‘Ginns’ also must be referred to the
same source. In one of the records just alluded to a ‘Warin Engaine’ is to be
met with. If we elide the first syllable, as in the previous instances, the
modern form at once appears.
But if in the deadly tournament the baron and his retainers found an
ample pastime, nevertheless the chase was of all diversions the most
popular. In this the prince and the peasant alike found recreation, while with
regard to the latter, as we shall see, it was also combined with service. The
woody wastelands, so extended in these earlier days of a sparse population,
afforded sport enough for the most ardent huntsman. According to the
extent of privilege or the divisions into which they were separated, these
tracts were styled by the various terms of ‘forest,’ ‘chase,’ ‘park,’ and
‘warren.’ To any one at all conversant with old English law these several
words will be familiar enough. To keep the wilder beasts within their
prescribed limits, to prevent them injuring the tilled lands, and in general to
guard the common interests of lord and tenant, keepers were appointed. The
names of these officers, the chief of whom are entitled by appellations
whose root is of a local character, are well-nigh all found to this day in our
directories. Indeed there is no class of names more firmly imbedded there.
In the order of division I have just alluded to, we have ‘Forester,’ with its
corrupted ‘Forster’ and ‘Foster,’ relics of such registered folk as ‘Ivo le
Forester,’ ‘Henry le Forster,’ or ‘Walter le Foster;’ ‘Chaser,’ now obsolete, I
believe, but lingering on for a considerable period as the offspring of
‘William’ or ‘Simon le Chasur;’ ‘Parker,’ or ‘Parkman,’ or ‘Park,’ descended
from ‘Adam le Parkere,’ or ‘Hamo le Parkere,’ or ‘Roger atte Parke,’ or
‘John del Parc,’ and ‘Warener’ or ‘Warner,’ or ‘Warren,’ lineally sprung
from men of the stamp of ‘Thomas le Warrener,’ ‘Jacke le Warner,’ or
‘Richard de Waren.’ The curtailed forms of these several terms seem to
have been all but consequent with the rise of the officership itself. ‘Love’ in
the ‘Romance’ says:—
Now am I knight, now chastelaine,
Now prelate, and now chaplaine,
Now priest, now clerke, now forstere.

In his description of the Yoman, too, Chaucer adds—

An horne he bere, the baudrick was of grene,
A fostere was he sothely as I guesse.

Thus, again, Langland, in setting forth Glutton’s encounter with the
frequenters of the tavern, speaks familiarly of—
Watte the Warner.

But these are not all. It is with them we must associate our ancestral
‘Woodwards’ or ‘Woodards,’ and still more common ‘Woodreefs,’
‘Woodrows,’ ‘Woodroffs,’ and ‘Woodruffs,’ all more or less perverted forms
of the original wood-reeve.[226] A song representing the husbandmen as
complaining of the burdens in Edward II.’s reign says—
The hayward heteth us harm to habben of his
The bailif beckneth us bale, and weneth wel do;
The wodeward waiteth us wo.

All these officers were more or less of legal capacity, men whose duty it
was, bill in hand, to guard the vert and venison under their charge,[227] to act
as agents for their lord in regard to the pannage of hogs, to look carefully to
the lawing of dogs, and in case of offences to present them to the verderer at
the forest assize. The ‘Moorward,’ found in our early records as ‘German le
Morward’ or ‘Henry le Morward,’ guarded the wilder and bleaker districts.
‘The Rider,’ commonly found as ‘Roger le Rydere’ or ‘Ralph le Ryder,’ in
virtue of having a larger extent of jurisdiction, was mounted, though his
office was essentially the same. Mr. Lower, remarking upon this word, has a
quotation from the ballad of ‘William of Cloudesley,’ where the king,
rewarding the brave archer, says:—
I give thee eightene pence a day,
And my bowe thou shalt bere,
And over all the north countrè
I make thee chyfe rydere.

With him we must associate our ‘Rangers’ and ‘Keepers,’ who, acting
doubtless under him, assisted also in the work of patrolling the woodland
and recovering strayed beasts, and presenting trespassers to the swainmote
just referred to.

The bailiff, shortened as a surname into ‘Bailey,’ ‘Baillie’ (‘German le
Bailif,’ J., ‘Henry le Baillie,’ M.), like the reve, seems to have been both of
legal and private capacity; in either case acting as deputy.[228] This word
‘reve’ did a large amount of duty formerly, but seems now to be fast getting
into its dotage. In composition, however, it is far from being obsolete. The
‘Reeve’ (‘John le Reve,’ M., ‘Sager le Reve,’ H.), who figured so
conspicuously among the Canterbury Pilgrims, would be the best
representative of the term in his day, I imagine—
His lordes shepe, his nete, and his deirie,
His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie,
Were wholly in this reves governing.

Our ‘Grieves’ (‘Thomas le Greyve,’ A.), who are but the fuller ‘Gerefa,’
fulfilled, and I believe in some parts of Scotland still fulfil, the capacity
here described, being but manorial bailiffs, in fact. ‘The Boke of Curtasye’
says—
Grayvis, and baylys, and parker
Shall come to accountes every yere
Byfore the auditours of the lorde.

Thus, too, our ‘Portreeves’ (‘William le Portreve,’ A., ‘Augustin le
Portreve,’ A.), who in our coast towns fulfilled the capacity of our more
general mayor, are oftentimes in our earlier records enrolled as Portgreve.’
‘Hythereve’ (‘John le Huthereve,’ O.), from hithe, a haven, would seem to
denote the same office, while our obsolete ‘Fenreves’ (‘Adam le Fenreve,’
A.), like the ‘Moorward’ mentioned above, had charge, I doubt not, of the
wilder and more sparsely populated tracts of land. Many other compounds
of this word we have already recorded; some we shall refer to by-and-by,
and with them and these the reeve, after all, is not likely to be soon
forgotten.
But the poorer villeins were not without those who should guard their
interests also. In a day of fewer landmarks and scantier barriers trespasses
would be inevitable. An interesting relic of primitive precaution against the
straying of animals is found in the officership of the ‘Hayward’ (or ‘Adam
le Heyward,’ as the Hundred Rolls have it), whose duty it was to guard the
cattle that grazed on the village common. He was so styled from the Saxon

‘hay’ or ‘hedge,’ already spoken of in our previous chapter. An old poem
has it—
In tyme of hervest mery it is ynough;
Peres and apples hongeth on bough,
The hayward bloweth mery his horne;
In every felde ripe is corne.

In ‘Piers Plowman,’ too, we have the word—
I have an horne, and be a hayward,
And liggen out a nyghtes
And kepe my corne and my croft
From pykers and theves.

It will be seen from these two references that the officership was of a
somewhat general character. The cattle might be his chief care, but the
common village interests were also under his supervision. The term has left
many surnames to maintain its now decayed and primitive character;
‘Hayward’ and ‘Haward’ are, however, the most familiar. ‘Hayman,’
doubtless, is of similar origin. If, in spite of the hayward’s care, it came to
pass that any trespass occurred, the village ‘pounder’ was ready at hand to
impound the animal till its owner claimed it, and paid the customary fine—
In Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder,
In Wakefield, all on a green.

So we are told in ‘Robin Hood.’ I need not add that our many ‘Pounders,’
‘Pinders,’ and still more classic ‘Pindars,’ are but the descendants of him or
one of his confrères. I do not doubt myself, too, that our ‘Penders’
(‘William le Pendere’ in the Parliamentary Writs) will be found to be of a
similar origin.
While, however, these especial officers superintended the general
interests of lord and tenant, there were those also whose peculiar function it
was to guard the particular quarry his master loved to chase; to see them
unmolested and undisturbed during such time as the hunt itself was in
abeyance, and then, when the chase came on, to overlook and conduct its
course. These, too, are not without descendants. Such names as ‘Stagman’
and ‘Buckmaster,’[229] ‘Hindman’ and ‘Hartman,’ ‘Deerman’ and its more

amatory ‘Dearman,’ by their comparative frequency, remind us how
important would be their office in the eye of their lord.
Nor are those who assisted in the lordly hunt itself left unrepresented in
our nomenclature. The old ‘Elyas le Hunderd,’ or ‘hund-herd,’ has left in
our ‘Hunnards’ an abiding memorial of the ‘houndsman.’ Similarly the
‘vaultrier’ was he who unleashed them. It has been a matter of doubt
whether or no the more modern ‘feuterer’ owes his origin to this term, but
the gradations found in such registrations as ‘John le Veutrer,’ ‘Geoffrey le
Veuterer,’ and ‘Walter le Feuterer,’ to be met with in the rolls of this period,
set all question, I should imagine, at rest. An old poem, describing the
various duties of these officers and their charges, says—
A halpeny the hunte takes on the day
For every hounde the sothe to say;
The vewtrer, two cast of brede he tase,
Two lesshe of greyhounds if that he has.

‘Fewter’ and ‘Futter,’[230] however, seem to be the only relics we now
possess of this once important care. Such names as ‘John le Berner’ or
‘Thomas le Berner,’ common enough in old rolls, must be distinguished
from our more aristocratic ‘Berners.’ The berner was a special houndsman
who stood with fresh relays of dogs ready to unleash them if the chase grew
heated and long. In the Parliamentary Rolls he is termed a ‘yeoman-berner.’
Our ‘Hornblows,’ curtailed from ‘Hornblower,’ and simpler ‘Blowers,’
would seem to be closely related to the last, for the horn figured as no mean
addition by its jubilant sounds to the excitement of the chase. He who used
it held an office that required all the attention he could bring to bear upon it.
The dogs were not unleashed until he had sounded the blast, and if at any
time from his elevated station he caught sight of the quarry, he was by the
manner of winding his instrument to certify to the huntsman the peculiar
class to which it belonged. In the Hundred Rolls we find him inscribed as
‘Blowhorn,’ a mere reversal of syllables. Of a more general and
professional character probably would be our ‘Hunters,’ ‘Huntsmans,’ and
‘Hunts,’ not to mention the more Norman ‘John le Venner’ or ‘Richard
Fenner.’ It may not be known to all our ‘Hunts’ that theirs, the shorter form,
was the most familiar term in use at that time; hence the number that at
present exist. We are told in the ‘Knight’s Tale’ of the—

Hunte and horne, and houndes him beside;

while but a little further on he speaks of—
The hunte ystrangled with the wilde beres.

Forms like ‘Walter le Hunte’ or ‘Nicholas le Hunte’ are very common to the
old records. As another proof of the general use of this word we may cite its
compounds. ‘Borehunte’ carries us back to the day when the wild boar
ranged the forest’s deeper gloom. ‘Wolfhunt,’ represented in the
Inquisitiones by such a sobriquet as ‘Walter le Wolfhunte,’ reminds us that
Edgar did not utterly exterminate that savage beast of prey, as is oftentimes
asserted. A family of this name held lands in the Peak of Derbyshire at this
period by the service of keeping the forest clear of wolves. In the forty-third
year of Edward III. one Thomas Engeine held lands in Pitchley, in the
county of Northampton, by service of finding at his own cost certain dogs
for the destruction of wolves, foxes, &c., in the counties of Northampton,
Rutland, Oxford, Essex, and Buckingham; nay, as late as the eleventh year
of Henry VI. Sir Robert Plumpton held one borate of land in
Nottinghamshire, by service of winding a horn, and chasing or frightening
the wolves in Sherwood Forest.[231] Doubtless, however, as in these recorded
instances, it would be in the more hilly and bleaker districts, or in the
deeper forests, he found his safest and last retreat. It seems well-nigh
literally to be coming down from a mountain to a mole-hill to speak of our
‘Mole-hunts,’ the other compound of this word. But small as he was in
comparison with the other, he was scarcely less obnoxious on account of his
burrowing propensities, for which the husbandman gave him the longer
name of mouldwarp. His numbers, too, made him formidable, and it is no
wonder that people found occupation enough in his destruction, or that the
name of ‘Molehunt’ should have found its way into our early rolls. So late,
indeed, as 1641, we find in a farming book the statement that 12d. was the
usual price paid by the farmer for every dozen old moles secured, and 6d.
for the same number of young ones. This speaks at least for their
plentifulness. An old provincialism for mole, and one not yet extinct, was
‘wont’ or ‘want.’ This explains the name of ‘Henry le Wantur,’ which may
be met with in the Hundred Rolls. In the Sloane MS. is a method given ‘for
to take wontes.’ It would be in the deeper underwood our ‘Todmans’ and

‘Todhunters,’ the chasers of the fox, or ‘tod,’ as he was popularly called,
found diversion enough. It would be here our ‘Brockmans’ secured the
badger. I doubt not these were both also of professional character—aids and
helps to the farmer. Indeed, he had many upon whose services he could rely
for a trifle of reward in the shape of a silver penny, or a warm mess of
potage on the kitchen settle. Our ‘Burders’ and ‘Fowlers,’ by their craft,
whether of falconry or netting, or in the use of the cross-bow bolt, aided to
clear the air of the more savage birds of prey, or of the lesser ones that
would molest the bursting seed. I need scarcely remark that the distinction
between ‘bird’ and ‘fowl’ is modern. The ‘fowls of the air’ with our Saxon
Bible, and up to very recent days, embraced every winged creature, large
and small. In our very expression ‘barndoor-fowl’ we are only using a
phrase which served to mark the distinction between the wilder and the
more domesticated bird. The training and sale of bullfinches seem to have
given special employment then, as now, to such as would undertake the care
thereof. A ‘Robert le Fincher’ occurs at an early period, and I see his
descendants are yet in being. As we shall see in a later chapter, this bird has
set his mark deeply upon our sobriquet nomenclature. Our ‘Trappers,’
whether for bird or beast, confined their operations to the soil, capturing
their spoil by net or gin.
We owe several names, or rather several forms of the same name, to the
once favourite pursuit of falconry. Of all sports in the open air this was the
one most entirely aristocratic. In it the lord and his lady alike found
pleasure. It had become popular so early as the ninth century, and, as Mr.
Lower says, in such estimation was the office of State falconer held in
Norman times that Domesday shows us, apart from others, four different
tenants-in-chief, who are described each as ‘accipitrarius,’ or falconer. Until
John’s reign it was not lawful for any but those of the highest rank to keep
hawks, but in the ‘Forest Charter’ a special clause was introduced which
gave power to every free man to have an aerie. So valuable was a good
falcon that it even stood chief among royal gifts, and up to the beginning of
the seventeenth century it brought as much as 100 marks in the market.[232]
Royal edicts were even passed for the preservation of their eggs. From all
this, and much more that might be adduced, it is easy to understand how
important was the office of falconer, nor need we wonder that it is one of
the most familiar names to be found in early rolls. Of many forms those of
‘Falconer,’ ‘Falconar,’ ‘Faulkner,’ ‘Falkner,’[233] ‘Faulconer,’ and ‘Faukener,’

seem to be the commonest. The last form is found in the ‘Boke of
Curtasye’—
The chaunceler answeres for their clothyng,
For yomen, faukeners, and their horsyng,
For their wardrop and wages also.

In our former ‘Idonea or Walter le Oyseler’ we recognise but another
French term for the same. A special keeper of the goshawk, or ‘oster,’ got
into mediæval records in the shape of ‘William le Astrier,’ or ‘Robert le
Ostricer,’ or ‘Richard le Hostriciere,’ or ‘Godfrey Ostriciarius.’ The Latin
‘accipiter’ is believed to be the root of the term, which with such other
perverted forms as ‘Ostregier,’ ‘Ostringer,’ ‘Astringer,’ and ‘Austringer,’
lingered on the common tongue till so late as the seventeenth century.[234] A
curious proof of the prevailing passion is found in the name of ‘Robert le
Jessmaker,’ set down in the Hundred Rolls. The ‘jess’ was the leathern or
silken strap fastened closely round the foot of the hawk, from which the line
depended and was held by the falconer. That the demand for these should be
so great as to cause a man to give himself up entirely to their manufacture,
will be the best evidence of the ardour with which our forefathers entered
into this pastime. The end of falconry was, however, sudden as it was
complete. The introduction of the musket at one fell swoop did away with
office, pursuit, with, in fact, the whole paraphernalia of the amusement, and
now it is without a relic, save in so far as these names abide with us.
In concluding this part of our subject it is pleasant to remind ourselves
that, however strong might be the antagonism which this chapter displays
between Norman and Saxon, the pride of the one, the oppression of the
other, that antagonism is now overpast and gone. We well know that a
revolution was at work, sometimes showing itself violently, but generally
silent in its progress, by which happier circumstances arrived, happier at
any rate for the country at large. We well know how this consummation
came, how these several races became afterwards one by the suppression of
that power the more independent of these barons had wielded, by confusion
of blood, by the acquisition of more general liberty, by mutuality of
interests, by the contagious influences of commerce, and, above all, by the
kindly and prejudice-weakening force of lapsing time. All this we know,
and, as it is in a sense foreign to our present purpose, I pass over it now. I

trust that I have already shown that there is something, after all, in a name;
at any rate in a surname, for that in it is supplied a link between the past and
the present, for that in the utterance of one of these may be recalled not
merely the lineaments of some face of to-day, but the dimmer outline of an
age which is past beyond recall for ever. Viewed in a light so broad as this,
the country churchyard, with each mossy stone, is, apart from the diviner
lessons it teaches, a living page of history; and even the parish register,
instead of being a mere record of dry and uninteresting facts, becomes
instinct with the lives and surroundings of our English forefathers.

CHAPTER IV.

SURNAMES OF OCCUPATION (COUNTRY).

I now come to the consideration of occupations generally, and to this I think
it will be advisable to devote two chapters. One reason for so doing, the
main one in fact, is that they seem naturally to divide themselves into two
classes—those of a rural character, very numerous at that time on account
of agricultural pursuits being so general, and those of a more diverse and I
may say civilized kind, bearing upon the community’s life—literature and
art, dress, with all its varied paraphernalia, the boudoir and the kitchen. In
considering the former, the character of our surnames will give us, I
imagine, by no means a bad or ineffective picture of the simplicity of our
early rural life, its retirement, and even calm. In shadowing forth the latter,
we shall be enabled to see what were the available means of that age, and
by the very absence of certain names to realise how numberless have been
the resources that discovery has added at a more recent period. It will be
well, too, to give two entire chapters to these surnames, as being worthy of
somewhat further particularity than the others. They betray much more of
our English life that has become obsolete. Local names, as I have said
already, while they must ever denote much of change, denote the changes
more especially of Nature herself, which are slow in general, and require
more than the test of four or five centuries to make their transitions
apparent. Personal or Christian names vary almost less than these. The
Western European system is set upon the same foundation, and whatever
has been peculiar to separate countries has long since, by the intermingling
of nations, whether peaceful or revolutionary, been added to the one
common stock. Some indeed have fallen into disuse through crises of
various kinds. A certain number, too, of a fanciful kind, as we have already

seen, have been added within the last two centuries, but these latter have not
of course affected our surnames. Nicknames, which form so large a
proportion of our nomenclature, remain much the same; for a nation’s
tongue, while receiving a constant deposit and throwing off ever a
redundant phraseology, still, as a rule, does not touch these; they are taken
from the deeper channel of a people’s speech. But the fashion and custom
of living is ever changing. New wants spring up, and old requirements
become unneeded; fresh resources come to hand, and the more antique are
at once despised and thrown aside. In a word, invention and discovery cast
their shafts at the very heart of usage. Thus it is that we shall have such a
large number of obsolete occupations to recount—occupations which but
for our rolls even the oldest and most reliable of our less formal writings
would have failed to preserve to us.
It is quite possible for the eye to light upon hamlets in the more retired
nooks and crannies of England that have undergone but little change during
even the last six centuries, hamlets of which we could say with Goldsmith:
—
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made.

I have seen, or I at least imagined I have seen, such a picture as this; but if
there be, this of all times is that in which we must be prepared for a
revolution. Our railways are every day but connecting us with the more
inaccessible districts, following as they do the curves of our valleys,
winding alongside our streams, like nature and art in parallel. As they thus
increase they bear with them equally increased facilities for carrying the
modernized surroundings and accessories of life on this, on that, and on
every hand. Thus usage is everywhere fast giving way before utility, and
thus in proportion as art and invention get elbow-room, so does the
primitive poetry of our existence fade from view. We can remember villages
—there are still such—around which time had flung a halo of so simple
aspect, villages whose steads were grouped with so exquisite a quaintness,
so utterly and beautifully irregular, so full of unexpected joints and curves,

and all so thatched, and embrowned, and trellised, that with the loss of them
we have lost a pastoral. There may be indeed a certain poetry in model
villas of undeviating line and exact altitude; there may be a beauty in an
erection which reminds you in perpetuity of the great Euclidian truth that a
straight line is that which lies evenly between its extreme points, but at
times it puts one in sober mood to think all the touches of a past time are to
fade away, and these be in their stead. How different the tale nomenclature
tells us of former rusticity and simpler tastes.
The early husbandman required but little decorative refinement for his
homestead. To keep out the cold blast and the driving rain, to have a niche
by the fireside comfortable and warm, this was all he asked or wished for.
His roof was all but invariably composed of thack or thatch, and every
village had its ‘thatcher.’ Busy indeed would he be as the late autumn drew
nigh, and stack and stead must be shielded from the keen and chilling
winter. The Hundred Roll forms of the surname are ‘Joan le Thaccher’ and
‘Thomas le Thechare;’ the Parliamentary Writs ‘John le Thacher;’ while the
more modern directory furnishes us with such changes rung upon the same
as ‘Thatcher,’ ‘Thacker’[235] (still a common provincialism for the
occupation), and ‘Thackery,’ or ‘Thackeray,’ or Thackwray.’[236] These latter
are of course but akin to the old ‘John le Fermery,’ or ‘Richard le Vicary,’
the termination added being the result of popular whim or caprice. Our
‘Readers’ had less to do with book lore than we might have supposed, being
but descendants of the mediæval ‘William le Redere,’[237] another term for
the same kind of labour. The old ‘Hellier,’ or ‘Helier,’ carries us back to a
once well-known root. To ‘hill,’ or ‘hele,’ was to cover, and a ‘hilyer’ was a
roofer.[238] Sir John Maundville says with regard to the Tartars, ‘the helynge
of their houses, and ... the dores ben alle of woode;’ and John of Trevisa
speaks of the English ‘whyt cley and red’ as useful ‘for to make crokkes and
other vessels, and barned tyyl to hele with houses and churches.’ Gower,
too, uses the word prettily, but perfectly naturally, when he says—
She took up turves (turfs) of the lond,
Withouten help of mannes hond,
All heled with the grene grass.[239]

Amongst other of the many forms that still survive surnominally we have
‘Hillyer,’ ‘Hillier,’ ‘Hellier,’ ‘Hellyer,’ and the somewhat unpleasant

‘Helman’ and ‘Hellman.’ Earlier instances may be found in the Hundred
Rolls in such entries as ‘Robert le Heliere’ or ‘Will. Heleman.’ Our ‘Tylers’
are well and quaintly represented in the early rolls. One mediæval spelling
of this good old-fashioned name is ‘Tyghelere’ (Adam le Tyghelere, P.W.),
while such forms as ‘le Tuglur,’ ‘le Tuler,’ or ‘le Tewler,’ as representatives
of the Norman-French vocabulary, meet us on every hand. Whether any of
their descendants have had the courage to reproduce any of these renderings
I cannot say. I do not find any in our directories. Our ‘Smiths’ have not been
quite so qualmish. With the tylers we may fitly introduce our ‘Shinglers,’
they who used the stout oaken wood in the place of burnt clay. Churches
were oftentimes so covered. Mr. Halliwell quotes the following somewhat
sarcastic couplet:—
Flouren cakes beth the schingles alle
Of cherche, cloister, boure, and halle.

Piers Plowman, too, speaks similarly of Noah’s Ark as the ‘shyngled
ship.’[240] All these names have, occupatively speaking, now become
obsolete, or nearly so; our ‘Slaters,’ or ‘Sclaters,’ or ‘Slatters,’ having
usurped the entire position they were formerly content to share with their
humbler brethren.[241]
In the majority of the above names we shall find the Saxon to be in all
but whole possession of the field. The fact is, the roof and its appurtenances
were little regarded for a long period by our early architects, if we may give
such a grand term to those who set up the ordinary homestead of the
thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. There were no chimneys even in the
residences of the rich and noble. A hole in the roof, or the window, or the
door, one of these, whether in the homes of the peer or the peasant, was the
outlet for all obnoxious vapours. With the Normans, however, came a great
increase of refinement in the masonry and wooden framework of which our
houses are composed. Such names as ‘Adam le Quarreur,’ or ‘Hugh le
Quareur,’ ‘Walter le Marbiler,’ or ‘Geoffrey le Merberer,’ ‘Gotte le
Mazoun,’ or ‘Walter le Masun,’ or ‘Osbert le Machun’ represent a
cultivation of which the earlier settled race, if they knew something, did not
avail themselves in their merely domestic architecture. Two of these
occupations are referred to by ‘Cocke Lorelle,’ when he speaks of—

Masones, male-makers, and merbelers.[242]

‘Henry le Wallere,’ whose sobriquet was ennobled later on by one of our
poets, is the only entry I can set by these as belonging to the Saxon tongue.
[243]
It is the same with the Norman ‘Amice le Charpenter’ and ‘Alan le
Joygnour.’ While the former framed the more solid essentials, the very
name of the latter infers a careful supervision of minutiæ, of which only a
more refined taste would take cognizance. The descendants of such settlers
as these still hold the place they then obtained, and are unchanged otherwise
than in the fashion of spelling their name.
Of the plaster work we have a goodly array of memorials, the majority of
which, of course, are connected with a higher class work than the mere
cottager required. The ordinary term in use at present for a maker of lime is
‘limeburner.’ It is quite possible that in our ‘Limebears’ or ‘Limebeers’ we
have but a corruption of this. Such sobriquets as ‘Hugh le Limwryte’ and
‘John le Limer’ give us, however, the more general mediæval forms. The
latter is still to be met with among our surnames. But these are not all. We
have in our ‘Dawbers’ the descendants of the old ‘Thomas le Daubour,’ or
‘Roger le Daubere,’ of the thirteenth century. ‘Cocke Lorelle,’ whom I have
but just quoted, mentions among other workmen—
Tylers, bryckeleyers, hardehewers;
Parys-plasterers, daubers, and lymeborners.

Our ‘Authorised Version’ when it speaks of ‘the wall daubed with
untempered mortar,’ still preserves their memorial, and our ‘Plasters’ and
‘Plaisters’ are but sturdy scions of many an early registered ‘Adam le
Plastier,’ ‘Joanna le Plaisterer,’ or ‘John le Cementarius.’ The last of this
class I would mention is ‘Robert Pargeter’ or ‘William Pergiter,’ a name
inherited by our ‘Pargiters’ and ‘Pargeters.’ This was an artisan of a higher
order. He laboured, in fact, at the more ornamental plaster work. In the
accounts of Sir John Howard, A.D. 1467, is the following entry:—‘Item, the
vj day of Aprylle my master made a covenaunt with Saunsam the tylere,
that he schalle pergete, and whighte and bemefelle all the new byldynge,
and he schalle have for his labore xiijs. ivd.’[244] It is used metaphorically,
but I cannot add very happily, in an old translation of Ovid—

Thus having where they stood in vaine complained of their wo,
When night drew neare they bad adue, and eche gave kisses sweete
Unto the parget on their side, the which did never meete.

‘Roger le Peynture’ or ‘Henry le Peintur,’ ‘Ralph le Gilder’ and ‘Robert le
Stainer,’ were engaged, I imagine, in the equally careful work of decorating
passage and hall within, and all have left offspring enough to keep up their
perpetual memorial. Thus, within and without, the house itself has afforded
room for little change in our nomenclature, though the artisans themselves
have now a very different work to perform to that of their mediæval
prototypes. The increase of wealth and a progressive culture have not
merely taught but demanded a more careful and refined workmanship in the
details of ordinary housebuilding. We may readily imagine, however, even
in this early day, how little the simple bondsman, or freer husbandman, had
to do with such artisans as even then existed. I do not find, at least the
exceptions are of the rarest, that these workmen dwelt in the more rural
districts at all. Their names are to be met with in the towns, where the richer
tradespeople and burgesses were already beginning to copy the fashions and
habits of life of the higher aristocracy.
We have already noticed the ‘town’—how it originally denoted but the
simple farmstead with its immediate surroundings, then its gradual
enlargement of sense as other steads increased and multiplied around it. We
have also seen how the old ‘ham’ or home gathered about it such accessions
of human abodes as converted it in time into one of those village
communities, so many of which we still find in the outer districts, almost,
as I have said, unaltered from their early foundation. It was in these various
homesteads dwelt the peasantry. There might be seen our ‘Cotmans’ and
‘Cotters’ (‘Richard Coteman,’ A., ‘Simon le Cotere,’ F.F.), the descendants,
doubtless, of the ‘cotmanni’ of Domesday Book. Similar in origin and as
humble in degree would be our now numerous ‘Cotterels’ or ‘Cottrels’
(‘William Coterel,’ M., ‘Joice Cotterill,’ Z.), till a comparatively recent
period an ordinary sobriquet of that class of our country population. A
curious memorial of a past state of life abides with us in our ‘Boardmans,’
‘Boarders,’ ‘Bordmans,’ and ‘Borders.’ They were the tenants of lands
which their lord kept expressly for the maintenance of his table, the rental
being paid in kind. Hence our old English law-books speak familiarly of
bord-service, or bord-load, or bord-land. The term board in this same sense

still lingers on the common tongue, for we are yet wont to use such phrases
as bed and board, or a frugal board, or a board plentifully spread. A
determinate, as distinct from an unfixed service, has left its mark in our
‘Sockermans,’ ‘Suckermans,’ and ‘Sockmans,’ they who held by socage, or
socmanry, as the old law-books have it. Under this tenure, as a condition of
the meagre rental, the stout-hearted, thick-limbed rustic was to be ready, as
his lord’s adherent, to stand by him in every assault, either as archer, or
arbalister, or pikeman—that is, fealty was to eke out the remaining sum
which would otherwise have been due. But there were of these Saxon
husbandmen some under no such thraldom, however honourable, as this,
and of these freeholders we must set as the highest our ‘Yomans’ and
‘Yeomans.’ This term, however, became an official one, and it is doubtful to
which aspect of the word we are to refer the present owners of the name. It
is possible both features may have had something to do with its origination.
How anxious they who had been redeemed, or who had been born free,
though of humble circumstances, were to preserve themselves from a
doubtful or suspected position such names as ‘Walter le Free’ or ‘John le
Freman’ will fully show. We find even such appellatives as ‘Matilda
Frewoman’ or ‘Agnes Frewyfe,’ in the latter case the husband possibly
being yet in bondage. In our ‘Frys,’ a sobriquet that has acquired much
honour of late years and represented in mediæval rolls by such entries as
‘Thomas le Frye’ or ‘Walter le Frie,’ we have but an obsolete rendering of
‘free.’[245] These, as we see, are all Saxon—but Norman equivalents are not
wanting. Our ‘Francoms’ or ‘Francombs’ and ‘Frankhams,’ names by no
means uncommon in our existing registers, are but Anglicised dresses worn
by the posterity of such registered folk as ‘Henry le Franchome,’ or
‘Reginald le Fraunchome,’ or ‘Hugh le Fraunch-humme.’ ‘William le
Fraunk,’ too, or ‘Fulco le Franc,’ can boast many a hale descendant in our
‘Franks;’ and ‘Roger le Franklyn’ or ‘John le Fraunkelyn’ in our
‘Franklins,’ a name from henceforth endeared to Englishmen as that of our
gallant but lost Arctic hero. From Chaucer’s description of one such we
should deem the ‘franklin’ to have been of decidedly comfortable position,
a well-to-do householder, in fact.

Withouten bake mete never was his house,
Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous,
It snowed in his hous of mete and drinke
Of all deintees that men coud of thinke:
After the sondry sesons of the yere,
So changed he his mete and soupere.

But we are not without vestiges of the baser servitudes of the time, and in
this category we must set the great bulk of the agricultural classes of the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The descendants of the old ‘Ivo le Bondes’
and ‘Richard le Bondes’ are still in our midst, and to judge merely from
their number then and now enrolled, we see what a familiar position must
that of personal bondage have been.
Of alle men in londe
Most toileth the bonde,

says an old rhyme.[246] Still more general terms for those who lay under this
miserable serfdom were those of ‘Knave’ or ‘Villein.’ ‘Walter le Knave’ or
‘Lambert le Vilein’ or ‘Philip le Vylayn’ are names registered at the time of
which we are speaking. The odium, however, that has gradually gathered
around these sobriquets has caused them to be thrown off by the posterity of
those who first acquired them as simple bondmen. Indeed, there was the
time when, as I shall have occasion to show in a succeeding chapter, our
forefathers could speak of ‘Goodknaves’ and ‘Goodvilleins.’ Feudal disdain
of all that lay beneath chivalric service, however, has done its work, and we
all now speak, not merely as if these terms implied that which was mean
and despicable in outward condition, but that which also was morally
depraved and vile. ‘Geoffrey le Sweyn’ or ‘Hugh le Sweyn,’ however, by
becoming the exponent of honest rusticity, has rescued his sobriquet from
such an ill-merited destiny, and has left in many of our ‘Swains’ a token of
his mediæval gallantry. ‘John le Hyne’ or ‘William le Hyne’ (found also as
Hind), as representative of the country labourer, is equally sure of
perpetuity, as the most cursory survey of our directories will prove.[247] Of
the ‘Reve’ in the ‘Canterbury Tales,’ we are told:—
There was no bailif, nor herd, nor other hine
That he nor knew his sleight, and his covine.

In the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ too, the word occurs. In the account of the
reconciliation betwixt Jacob and Esau the former is made to say:—
God yeld you, brother, that it so is,
That thou thy hyne so would kiss.

In the rural habitations we have mentioned, then dwelt these various
members of the lower class community.
The sobriquets we have just briefly surveyed, however, are of a more
general character. We must now, and as briefly, scan some of those which in
themselves imply the particular service which as rustic labourers their first
owners performed, and by which the titles were got. This class is well
represented by such a name as ‘Plowman.’ Langland, when he would take
from a peasant point of view a sarcastic survey of the low morality of his
time, as exemplified in the English Church ere yet she was reformed, could
fix upon no better sobriquet than that of ‘Piers Plowman,’ and has thus
given a prominence to the name it can never lose. What visions of homely
and frugal content we discern in the utterance of such a surname as this;
what thoughts of healthy life, such as are becoming rarer with each
returning year—
For times are altered—trade’s unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain.

It was with him at early dawn would issue forth our ‘Tillyers’ or ‘Tillmans,’
to help him cleave the furrow. A little later on we might have seen our
‘Mowers’ and ‘Croppers’[248] hanging up their scythes and sickles, as the
autumn, in richly clad garb, passed slowly by. Then again in due season
busy enough would be the ‘Dyker,’ now spelt ‘Dicker,’[249] and the
‘Dykeman’ or ‘Dickman.’ With what an enviable appetite would these eat
up to the last relic their rasher of bacon and black bread, and quaff their
home-brewed ale, a princely feast after the hard toil of draining the field. To
dike was merely to dig, the root being the same. Of the kindly plowman
Chaucer says—
He would thresh, and thereto dike and delve,
For Christ’s sake, for every poor wight,
Withouten hire, if it lay in his might.

The Malvern dreamer, too, speaks in the same fashion of ‘dikeres and
delvers,’ and among other characters introduces to our notice ‘Daw the
Dykere,’ ‘Daw’ being, as I have already shown, but the shorter David. Our
‘Drayners,’ I need not add, were but his compeers in the same labour.
Perhaps one of the most beautiful features that help to make up a truly
English rural landscape is the hedgerows, following the windings of our
lanes, and mazy bypaths skirting our meadows. England is eminently a land
of enclosures. Still all this has been the result of progressing time. If our
pinder be now an obsolete officership it is because the lines of appropriation
have become more clearly marked. It is only thus we can understand the
importance of his position in every rural community four or five hundred
years ago. No wonder, then, our ‘Hedgers’ and ‘Hedgmans’ are to be found
whose ancestors were once occupied in setting up these pretty barriers. An
old song of James I.’s day says:—
Come all you farmers out of the country,
Carters, ploughmen, hedgers, and all;
Tom, Dick, and Will, Ralph, Roger, and Humphrey,
Leave off your gestures rusticall.[250]

If stakes or pales were used, it is to our ‘Pallisers’ and obsolete ‘Herdleres’
our forefathers looked to set them up. The former term I have but come
across once as an absolute surname, but such entries as ‘Robert Redman,
palayser,’ or ‘James Foster, palycer,’ are to be met with occasionally, and at
once testify to the origin of the term as found in our existing registers.
‘Pallister,’ too, is not obsolete; strictly speaking, the feminine form of the
above. I find it written ‘Pallyster’ and ‘Palyster’ in an old Yorkshire
inventory. But there is one more term belonging to this group which I am
afraid has disappeared from our family nomenclature—that of ‘Tiner,’ he
who tined or mended hedges. A ‘John le Tynere’ occurs in the Parliamentary
Writs. We are reminded by Verstigan’s book on ‘Decayed Intelligence’ that
‘hedging and tining’ was a phrase in vogue not more than 200 years ago.
Mr. Taylor, in his ‘Words and Places,’ connects our ‘tine’ in the ‘tines of a
stag’s horns’ or ‘the tines of a fork,’ with the same root implying a ‘twig.’ In
our old English forest law a ‘tineman’ was an officer very similar to the
‘hayward,’ the only apparent difference being that he served by night. The
two terms are exactly similar in sense. We are not without relics, too, of our
former means and methods of enriching the glebe. Even here several

interesting memorials are preserved to us. ‘Marler,’[251] ‘Clayer,’ and
‘Chalker’ (‘Alice le Marlere,’ A., ‘Thomas le Chalker,’ A., ‘Simon le
Clayere,’ A.), still existing, remind us how commonly the land was manured
with marl and other substances of a calcareous nature. Trevisa, writing upon
this very subject, says—‘Also in this land (England), under the turf of the
land, is good marl found. The thrift of the fatness drieth himself (itself)
therein, so that even the thicker the field is marled, the better corn will it
bear.’[252] An old rhyme says:—
He that marles sand may buy land;
He that marles moss shall suffer no loss;
But he that marles clay throws all away.

An interesting surname of this class is that of ‘Acreman,’ or, as it is now
generally spelt, ‘Acherman,’ ‘Akerman,’ or ‘Aikman,’ for it is far from
being of modern German introduction, as some have supposed. In the
Hundred Rolls and elsewhere it appears in such entries as ‘Alexander le
Acherman,’ ‘Roger le Acreman,’ ‘Peter le Akerman,’ and ‘John le
Akurman.’ His was indeed a common and familiar sobriquet, and we are but
once more reminded by it of the day when the acre was what it really
denoted—the ager, or land open to tillage, without thought of definite or
statute measure. Indeed, it is quite possible the term was at first strictly
applied thus, for a contemporaneous poem has the following couplet:—
The foules up, and song on bough,
And acremen yede to the plough.

If this be the case the surname is but synonymous with ‘Plowman’ and
‘Tillman,’ already referred to.
A curious name is found in the writs of this period, and one well worthy
of mention, that of ‘Adam le Imper.’ An ‘imp,’ I need scarcely remind the
reader, was originally a ‘scion’ or ‘offshoot,’ whether of plants or animals,
the former seemingly most common, to judge from instances. That nothing
more than this was intended by it we may prove by Archbishop Trench’s
quotation from Bacon, where he speaks of ‘those most virtuous and goodly
young imps, the Duke of Suffolk and his brother.’[253] Chaucer says that of
feble trees their comen wretched imps—

and ‘Piers Plowman’ uses the word still more explicitly—
I was some tyme a frere
And the conventes gardyner
For to graffen impes,

he says. This latter quotation explains the surname. ‘Imper,’ doubtless,
simply differed from ‘Gardiner’ or ‘Gardner’ in that he was more
particularly engaged in the grafting of young shoots.
From the consideration of the last we may fitly turn to the subject of
fruits. There can be no doubt that in early days, so far at least as the south,
and more particularly the south-west of England was concerned, the vine
was very generally cultivated by the peasantry, and the wine made
therefrom, however poor it might be, used by them. So early as Domesday
Survey a ‘Walter Vinitor’ lived in Surrey, and a century or two later such
names as ‘Symon le Vynur,’ or ‘William le Viner,’ or ‘Roger le Vynour,’ the
ancestry of our ‘Viners,’ show that the vine-dresser’s occupation was not
yet extinct. We have long left the production of this beverage, however, to
the sunnier champaign lands of the Continent, and are content by paying a
higher price to get a richer and fuller juice. Our ‘Dressers’ may either
belong to this or the curriers’ fraternity. An old poem, which I have already
had occasion to quote, says—
In tyme of harvest merry it is enough,
Pears and apples hangeth on bough,
The hayward bloweth merry his horne,
In every felde ripe is corne,
The grapes hongen on the vyne,
Swete is trewe love and fyne.

We have here the mention of pears and apples. The cultivation of these by
our ‘Orcharders,’ or ‘de la Orchards,’ or ‘de la Apelyards,’ was a familiar
occupation, and ‘le Cyderer,’[254] and ‘le Perriman,’ or ‘Pearman,’ and ‘le
Perrer,’ testify readily as to the use to which they were put. The home-made
drinks of these early days were almost all sweet. Such decoctions as mead,
piment, or hippocras, in the absence of sugar, were mingled with honey. We
can at once understand, therefore, what an important pursuit would that be
of the bee-keeper.[255] Not merely did the occasional husbandman possess
his two or three hives, but there were those who gave themselves up wholly

to the tendence of bees, and who made for themselves a comfortable
livelihood in the sale of their produce. Many of our surnames still bear
testimony to this. ‘Beman,’ or ‘Beeman,’ or ‘Beaman,’ will be familiar to
all, and ‘Honeyman’ is scarcely less common. In an old roll of 1183 we
have the name Latinised in such an entry as ‘Ralph Custosapium.’ But not
merely honey, but spices of all kinds were also infused into these various
drinks, whether of wine or ale. We have a well-drawn picture of this in Piers
Plowman’s vision where ‘Glutton’ comes across Beton the Brewstere, and
the latter bidding him good-morrow, says—
‘I have good ale, gossib,’ quoth she,
‘Glutton, wilt thou assaye?’
‘Hast thou aught in thy purse,’ quoth he;
‘Any hote spices?’
‘I have pepir, and peonies,’ quoth she,
‘And a pound of garleck,
And a farthing-worth of fenel-seed
For fastyng dayes.’

Such an array of hot ingredients as this poor Glutton could not resist, and
instead of going to Mass he turned into the tavern, and having supped
A galon and a gille,

of course got uproariously drunk. Thus we see how natural it is we should
come across such names as ‘Balmer,’ or ‘le Oyncterer,’ or ‘le Hoincter,’ as it
is also registered, or ‘le Garlyckmonger,’ in our early records. The first still
exists. The second does not, but the cumbersome and ungainly appearance
of the last affords sufficient excuse for its absence. It is quite possible,
however, that our ‘Garlicks’ are but a curtailment of it, and this is the more
likely, as such forms as ‘Henry le Garleckmonger,’ or ‘Thomas le
Garlykmonger,’ are commonly found, and evidently represented an
important occupation. The Normans, like the Saxons, loved a highly
stimulative dish, and garlic sauce went to everything; bird, beast, fish, all
alike found their seasoning in a concoction of which this acrid and pungent
herb was the chief ingredient. ‘Roger le Gaderer,’ or as we should now say
‘Gatherer,’ has left no descendant, but he may be mentioned as representing
a more general term for many of the above.

In the woodlands and its open glades and devious windings, where
several of these herbalists I have mentioned would be often found, we shall
see, too, other frequenters. It would be here, subject to the condition of
agistment and pannage, our ‘Swinnarts,’ or swineherds, tended their hogs. It
would be here by the hazel bank and deeper forest pathways our ‘Nutters’
and ‘Nutmans’ would be found, as the autumn began to set in, and browner
and more golden tints to fleck the trees and hedgerows. It would be here, as
the chills of early winter drew on, and the fallen leaves lay strewn around,
our ‘Bushers’ or ‘Boshers’ (relics of the old ‘John le Busscher’ or ‘Reginald
le Buscher’), and our more Saxon ‘Thomas le Woderes,’ ‘Robert
Wudemongers,’ and ‘Alan le Wodemans’ (now ‘Woodyers’ and
‘Woodmans’), would be occupied in gathering the refuse branches for firing
purposes—here our ‘Hewers’ (once found as ‘Ralph le Heuer’) and more
specific ‘Robert le Wodehewers,’[256] our ‘Hackers’ and ‘Hackmans,’ would
be engaged in chopping timber, perchance for building purposes, perchance
for our ‘Ashburners,’[257] to procure their potash from. Oftentimes, no doubt,
would these various frequenters of the woodland boscage be roused from
their rude labours to watch as the hornblower (now ‘Hornblow’) awoke the
shrill echoes, the lordly chase sweep through the glade till it was hidden by
the embrasures of the forest, or the darkening twilight, or the bending hill.
One single glance backward over the names we have so far recorded in
this chapter, and one thing will be obvious—their all but entirely Saxon
character. Our agriculture terms, whether with regard to the work itself or
the labourer, belong to the earlier tongue. There is nothing surprising in this.
While in the nomenclature of trade we find the superior force and energy of
the Norman temperament struggling with and oftentimes overcoming the
more sober humour of the conquered race, in the country and all the
pursuits of the country the latter was far ahead of its rival. It was better
versed in agricultural pursuits, and ever retained them in its own hands. At
the same time, as we well know, this very detention was but the mark of its
defeat and the badge of its slavery. It was a victory where, nevertheless, all
is lost. Wamba the jester, in ‘Ivanhoe,’ if I may be excused such a trite
illustration, reminds us that our cattle, while in the field, and under the
guardianship of the enslaved Saxon, were called by the Saxon terms of ‘ox,’
‘sheep,’ and ‘calf,’ but served upon the tables of their lords became Norman
‘beef,’ ‘mutton,’ and ‘veal’—that is, while the former fed them, the latter it
was that fed on them. Thus in the same way, if those homely pursuits which

attached to the tilling of the soil, the breeding of cattle, the gathering in and
the storing of the harvest—if these maintained the terms which belonged to
them ere the Conquest, they are so many marks of serfdom. Provided the
supply on his board was only profuse enough, the proud baron troubled
himself little as to the supplier, or how or under what names it was
procured. See how true this is from our nomenclature. There is a little word
which has dropped from our lips which once played an important part in our
vocabulary—I mean that of ‘herd’—not as applied to the flock, but the
keeper. We still use it familiarly in compounds, such as swineherd or
shepherd, but that it once had a separate existence of its own is proved by
the many ‘Heards,’ or ‘Herds,’ or ‘Hurds,’ that still abound surnominally in
our midst; relics as they are of the ‘John le Hirdes,’ or ‘Alice la Herdes,’ or
‘Robert le Hyrdes,’ of our olden records. Chaucer so uses it. We now speak
of our Lord as the ‘Good Shepherd.’ He, however, gives us the simpler form
where St. Urban is made to say—
‘Almighty Lord, O Jesu Christ,’ quoth he,
‘Sower of chaste counsel, herd of us all.’

Thus again, in the ‘Townley Mysteries’ the angel who visited the shepherds
as they kept their flocks by night is represented as arousing them by saying
—
Herkyn, hyrdes, awake!

See now the many compounds of which this purely Saxon word is the root.
Are we in the low-lying pastures. In our ‘Stotherds’ and ‘Stothards,’ our
‘Stoddarts’ and ‘Stoddards,’ still clings the remembrance of the old stot or
bullock-herd; in our ‘Yeatherds’ (as in our ‘Yeatmans’), the heifer herd; and
in our ‘Cowards,’ far from being so pusillanimous as they look, the homely
‘cowherd.’ In ‘William and the Werfolf’ we are told—
It bifel in that forest
There fast byside,
There woned (dwelt) a wel old churl
That was a couherde.

Nor are these all. In our ‘Calverts’ and ‘Calverds’ we are reminded of the
once well-known ‘Warin le Calveherd,’ or ‘William le Calverd,’ as I find
him recorded; in our ‘Nuttards’ the more general but now faded ‘neteherd’
or ‘noutherd,’[258] and in our obsolete ‘John Oxenhyrds’ and ‘Peter
Oxherds,’ the familiar ox. Are we in the grazing paddock. In our
‘Coultherds,’ ‘Coulthards,’ and ‘Coultards’ (‘John Colthird,’ W. 9), not to
mention our ‘Coultmans’ and ‘Coltmans,’ we have ample trace of their
presence. Are we again on the bleak hill-side. The sheep have given us our
‘Shepherds,’ the rams our ‘Wetherherds’ (now generally written
‘Weatherheads’), the kids our ‘Gottards,’ not to say some of our
‘Goddards,’ memorials of the once common goatherd. Are we under the
woodland pathways where the beech-nuts abound. There, too, the herd was
to be found, for in our ‘Swinnarts,’ ‘Hoggarts,’ and ‘Sowards’ we are not
without a further token of his usefulness. In three instances I have found
‘herd’ connected with the winged creation. In the Parliamentary Writs
occurs ‘William le Swonherde,’ in the Corpus Christi Guild (Surt. Soc.),
‘Agnes Gusehyrd’ and ‘Joan Gusehyrd,’ and in the Hundred Rolls ‘Henry le
Rocherde,’ i.e., rook-herd.[259] ‘Swanherd’ reminds us that swans were an
important article of diet in early times. In 1482 an Act was passed
forbidding any but freeholders (and they only if they had lands of the
annual value of five marks) to have marks or games of swans. (‘Stat.
Realm,’ vol. ii. p. 447.)
It will have already become clear to the reader that this term ‘herd’
played no unimportant part in the vocabulary of the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries. But even now we have not done. For instance, our
‘Stobbarts’ and ‘Stubbards’ are manifestly descendants of such a name as
‘Alice Stobhyrd’ or ‘Thomas Stobart,’ the owners of both of which are set
down in the Black Book of Hexham Priory in company with ‘John
Stodard,’ ‘William Oxhyrd,’ and ‘Thomas Schipherde.’[260] I should have
been in some difficulty in regard to the meaning of this ‘stob’ or ‘stub’ had
not Mr. Halliwell in his dictionary of archaic words given it as an old rural
term for a bull. This surname, therefore, is satisfactorily accounted for. I
cannot be quite so positive with regard to our ‘Geldards’ and ‘Geldarts,’ but
I strongly suspect their early ancestor was but a confrère of the swineherd
or hogherd, ‘gelt,’ or ‘geld,’ as a porcine title, being a familiar word to our
forefathers of that date. Our ‘Gattards’ and ‘Gathards,’ too, may be
mentioned as but mediævalisms for the goatherd, ‘Gateard’ and ‘Gatherd’

being met with in North English records contemporaneously with the
above. Such a sobriquet as ‘Adam le Gayt,’ while it may be but a form of
the old ‘wayt’ or watchman, is, I imagine, but representative of this northern
provincialism. It occurs locally in ‘William de Gatesden’ or ‘John de
Gatesden,’ both found in the Parliamentary Writs. With two more instances
I will conclude. In our ‘Hunnards’ still lives the memory of ‘Helyas le
Hunderd,’ the old houndsman, while in ‘Richard le Wodehirde’ or ‘William
le Wodehirde’ we have but another, though more general, sobriquet of one
of those many denizens of the forest I have already hinted at. How purely
Saxon are all these names! What a freshness seems to breathe about them!
What a fragrance as of the wild heather and thyme, and all that is sweet and
fresh and free! And yet they are but so many marks of serfdom.
I have just incidentally referred to the swineherd. It is difficult for us, in
this nineteenth century of ours, to conceive the vast importance of this
occupation in the days of which we are writing. Few avocations have so
much changed as this. Hog-tending as a distinct livelihood is well-nigh
extinct. Time was, however, when the rustic community lived upon bacon,
when the surveillance of swine was a lazy, maybe, but nevertheless an all-
important care. We still speak of a ‘flitch of bacon,’ a term which, while
etymologically the same as ‘flesh,’ shows how to the early popular mind
that article represented the sum total of carnal luxuries. Our use of the word
‘brawn’ is of an equally tell-tale character. Every one knows what we mean
by brawn. Originally, however, it was the flesh of any animal. Chaucer says
—
The Miller was a stout carl for the nones,
Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones.

When, however, the wild boar had been brought down, and salted, and put
aside for winter use, how natural that to the housewife it should engross this
general sense. It is to the importance this unsavoury-looking animal held in
the eyes of early rustics we must attribute the fact of so many names
coming down to us connected with its keep. As I have just hinted, such
sobriquets as ‘John le Swineherd’ or ‘Nicholas le Hogherd’ were common
enough in the country parts, our ‘Swinnarts’ and ‘Hoggarts’ being
witnesses. The sowherd remains in our ‘Sowards,’ and is as Saxon as the
others. The same tongue is strong again in our ‘Pigmans’ ‘Sowmans,’

‘Hogmans,’ and still more secluded ‘Denyers’ and ‘Denmans.’ The Norman,
however, is to be accredited with our many ‘Gilbert le Porchers’ and
‘Thomas le Porkeres,’ by which we may see that when daintily served up
under the name of ‘pork’ it was not disdained on the baron’s table. Lastly,
we may mention our early ‘Philip le Lardiners’ and ‘Hugh le Lardiners,’
names that in themselves suggest to us the one purpose of the herdsman, the
fattening of his charge. They would be found generally, therefore, neath the
fastnesses of the forest, where the
Oak with his nuts larded many a swine,

and where the mast and beech-nuts abounded, the chief pannage, it would
seem, of that day.[261] Higher up, as far indeed as the bleak and barren wolds,
the shepherd cared for and tended his flock. His was a common occupation,
too, as our nomenclature shows. Evidently he was as prone in those days to
the oaten reed as the poets of all ages have loved to depict him, for it is to
his Norman-introduced name of ‘Berger’ we owe the ‘bergeret,’ or pastoral
ode. The song indeed, so called, has died away from our ears, but ‘Berger,’
or ‘Bercher,’ as it was often written, still lives, and may carry us back for a
moment to these wholesomer times.
Nor, if we approach more closely to the farmyard enclosure, are we
without memorials. The farm of old, as applied to the soil, was of course
that piece of land which was rented for agricultural purposes, and I doubt
not the chief of the old ‘Robert le Fermers’ and ‘Matilda le Fermeres’
represent this more confined sense. ‘Farmer,’ whether colloquially or in our
registers, is the modern form. Udal, however, maintains the more antique
dress, when he says, ‘And that the thyng should so be, Chryst Hymself had
signyfied to fore by the parable of the husbandmen or fermers.’
While ‘herd,’ as a root-word, implied the tendance of cattle in the
meadows and woods and on the hillsides, ‘man,’ I suspect, was equally
significative of their guardianship in the stable and the yard. Thus if the
‘cowherd’ was in the field, the ‘cowman’ would be in the stall. We may
here, therefore, set our familiar ‘Cowmans,’ ‘Bullmans,’ ‘Heiffermans,’ and
‘Steermans,’ or ‘Stiermans.’[262] One or two provincialisms, I imagine, have
added also to this stock. Mr. Lower thinks our ‘Twentymans’ to be derived
from ‘Vintenarius,’ a captain of twenty. This may be so, but I suspect the

more correct origin will be found in ‘twenterman’ or ‘twinterman,’ he who
tended the ‘twenters’ or ‘twinters,’ the old and once familiar ‘two-winter,’
or, as we now generally say, ‘two-year-old.’ If the ‘steer,’ the ‘heifer,’ the
‘cow,’ and the ‘bull’ gave a sobriquet to the farm labourer, why not this? As
a farmyard term it occurs in every provincial record of the fifteenth and
even sixteenth century. Thus, to quote but one instance, I find in a will
dated 1556 mention made of ‘6 oxen, item, 18 sterres (steers), item, 11
heifers, item, 21 twenters, item, 23 stirks.’ (Richmondshire Wills, p. 93.) An
inventory of the same date includes ‘3 kye, item, one whye.’ This latter term
was equally commonly used at this period for a ‘heifer.’ Our ‘Whymans’
and ‘Wymans’ will, we may fairly surmise, be their present memorial.
‘Cowman,’ mentioned above, was met by the Norman ‘Vacher,’ such entries
as ‘John le Vacher’ or ‘Walter le Vacher’ being common, and as ‘Vacher,’ or
more corruptly ‘Vatcher,’ it still abides in our midst. ‘Thomas le Stabeler,’
or ‘William le Stabler,’ too, are yet with us; but descendants for ‘Thomas le
Milkar’ or ‘William le Melker’ are, I fear, wanting. A Norman
representative for these latter is found in the Parliamentary Writs in the case
of ‘John le Lacter.’ There is the smack of a kindred labour in the registered
‘Thomas le Charner,’ for I doubt not his must have been but an antique
dress of ‘Churner.’ Another form is found in an old Richmondshire will
dated 1592, where mention is made of ‘Robert Chirner’ and his sister ‘Jane
Chirner.’ As an additional proof that his occupation was such as I have
surmised, I may add that in the same record in the valuation of household
property the churn is spelt chirne. (Richmondshire Wills, p. 235, note.) The
most interesting sobriquet of this class, and the one which has left the most
memorials, is found in such mediæval names as ‘Cecilia le Day,’ or
‘Christiana la Daye,’ or ‘Stephen le Dagh.’ A ‘day’ was a dairyman, of
which word it is but another form. Chaucer, in one of the most charming of
his descriptions, tells us of a poor widow, how that she—

Since that day that she was last a wife
In patience led a ful simple life,
For litel was her cattle, and her rent:
By husbandry of such as God her sent
She found herself and eke her doughtren two.
————
Her board was served most with white and black,
Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack,
Singed bacon, and sometimes an egg or twey,
For she was as it were a maner dey.[263]

The present representatives of this name are met with in the several forms
of ‘Deye,’ ‘Daye,’ ‘Day,’ ‘Dayman,’ and the more unpleasantly corrupted
‘Deman.’
It is quite evident, judging from the places of abode in which we find our
early ‘Fishers’ and ‘Fishermans,’ that it is to followers, though professional,
of the quaint and gentle-minded Izaac Walton we owe our many possessors
of these names, rather than to the dwellers upon the coast, although both,
doubtless, are represented. Such entries as ‘Margaret le Fischere,’ or ‘Henry
le Fissere,’ or ‘Robert le Fiscere’ are very common. This latter seems a sort
of medium between the others and such a more hard form as ‘Laurence le
Fisker.’ The finny species themselves gave us such sobriquets as ‘John le
Fysche’ or ‘William Fyske,’ and both ‘Fish’ and ‘Fisk’ still exist amongst
us. The Norman angler is seen in ‘Godard le Pescher’ or ‘Walter le
Pecheur,’ while ‘Agnes le Pecheresse’ bespeaks the fact that even women
did not disdain the gentle art.
But the moment we hint of the village streamlet we are thrown upon a
subject vast indeed—the mill and the miller. He was emphatically, you see,
the miller. Even now, in these busy grasping days, when we have cotton
mills and saw mills, silk mills and powder mills, mills for this and mills for
that, still it never occurs to us, when we talk of the miller, that any one
could possibly mistake our meaning. And well may it be so, for it is with
him we entwine pleasant remembrances of the country, the wheel, the
stream, the lusty dimpled trout; with him we associate all of comfortable,
peaceful content. A white jacket and a white cap, with a black coat for
Sundays—how black it would look to be sure—a bluff, good-humoured
face, a friendly nod, and a blithe good-morrow, up early and to bed betimes,
and his memoir is written, and a very pleasant memoir, too, with a moral to

boot for discontented folk, would they but see it. The old word for mill was
‘milne,’ hence we still have the earlier form, ‘Milnes’ and ‘Milner’ being
nearly as familiar to us in that respect as ‘Mills’ and ‘Miller.’ Besides these
we have ‘Milman’ and ‘Milward,’ who once, no doubt, acted as custodian,
the modern ‘man on the premises,’ in fact.[264] The ancestry of all these is
proved by such registered forms as ‘John le Mellere,’ ‘William le Melner,’
‘Robert le Milleward,’[265] ‘John del Mill,’ or ‘Thomas atte Milne,’ all of
which are found scattered over our earlier rolls.[266] Our ‘Threshers’ and
‘Taskers’ (Benedict le Tasker,’ H.R.) busied themselves in urging the flail. I
have only lit upon the latter term once as in ordinary colloquial use. Burton
in the preface to his ‘Anatomy’ says—‘many poor country-vicars, for want
of other means, are driven to their shifts,’ and ‘as Paul did, at last turn
taskers, maltsters, costermongers, graziers, etc.’[267] Our ‘Winners,’
shortened from ‘Winnower,’ winnowed the grain with the fan; our
‘Boulters’ or ‘Bulters,’[268] ‘Siviers’ and ‘Riddlers,’ (‘Geoffrey le Boltere,’
A., ‘William Rydler,’ Z., ‘Ralph le Siviere,’ A.), still more carefully
separated the flour from the bran. How beautifully Shakespeare presses this
into his imagery many will remember, where Florizel speaks of—
The fanned snow that’s bolted
By the northern blasts twice o’er.

Our Bible translators, too, must have yet been familiar with the simpler
process of this earlier time when they rendered one of the prophet’s happier
foretellings into the beautiful Saxon we still possess:—‘The oxen likewise,
and the young asses that ear the ground shall eat clean provender, which
hath been winnowed with the shovel and with the fan.’ The manufacture or
use of the fan wherewith to purge the flour made our ‘Walter le Vanners,’
‘Simon le Fanneres,’ ‘Richard atte Vannes,’ or ‘William atte Fannes,’
familiar names at this time. In Cocke Lorelle’s Bote, we find among other
craftsmen—
Barbers, bokebynders, and lymners;
Repers, faners, and horners.

We must not forget, too, our ‘Shovellers’ and more common ‘Showlers,’
‘showl’ being ever the vulgar form. It was for no purpose of rhyme, only the
word is so used where we are asked—

‘Who’ll dig his grave?’
‘I,’ said the owl; ‘with my spade and showl
I’ll dig his grave.’

With these many reminders, it is not likely that either the miller or his men
are likely to become soon forgotten.
The smithy, of course, was an inseparable adjunct to the small
community. The smith, unlike the wright, was engaged upon the harder
metals, the latter being incidentally described to us by Chaucer when he
says of one of his personages in the Reeves Story, that—
He was a well good wright, a carpenter.

Looking at the many compounds formed from these two roots, we find that
in the main this distinction is maintained. Let us take the wright first. We
have but just mentioned ‘Ralph le Siviere,’ or ‘Peter le Syvyere.’ For him
our ‘Sivewrights’ were manifestly occupied, to say nothing of the farmer’s
wife. The farmer himself would need the services of our ‘Plowwrights’
(‘William le Plowritte,’ A., ‘William le Ploughwryte,’ M.), and would he
carry his produce safely to the distant market or fair he must needs have a
good stout wain, for the track athwart the hillside was rough and uneven,
and here therefore he must call into requisition the skill of our many
‘Wheelwrights,’ or ‘Wheelers,’ ‘Cartwrights’ and their synonymous
‘Wainwrights.’[269] Adding to these ‘Boatwright,’ or ‘Botwright,’
‘Shipwright,’ and the obsolete ‘Slaywright,’ the old loom manufacturer, we
see wood to have been the chief object at least of the wright’s attention. But
we have other names of a different character. ‘Limewright’ or ‘Limer’
(‘Hugh le Limwryte,’ A., ‘John le Limer,’ A.) ceases to maintain this
distinction, so do our ‘Glasswrights,’ equivalent to our ‘Glaziers’ or
‘Glaishers’ (‘Thomas le Glaswryghte,’ X., ‘Walter Glasenwryht,’ W. ii.,
‘William Glaseer,’ Z.).[270] ‘Le Cheesewright,’ or ‘Chesswright,’ like
‘Firminger’ and ‘Casier,’ brings us once more into the scullery, and
‘Breadwright’ into the kitchen. ‘Alwright’ is doubtless but the old
‘alewright,’ and ‘Goodwright,’ which Mr. Lower deems to be a maker of
goads, I cannot but imagine to be simply complimentary, after the fashion
of many others which I shall mention in another chapter. Our ‘Tellwrights’
or ‘Telwrights’ have given me much trouble, and though at first I did not

like it, I think Mr. Lower’s suggestion that they have arisen from the
Pauline occupation of tent-making is a natural one. ‘Teld’ was the old
English word for a tent. In the metrical Anglo-Saxon Psalter the fourteenth
psalm thus commences—
Lord, in thi teld wha sal wone (dwell)?
In thi hali hille or wha reste mone (shall)?

We still speak of a ‘tilt’ when referring to the cover of a cart or wagon, or to
any small awning of a boat. It is quite possible, therefore, that the name has
originated in the manufacture of such canopies as these. Admitting this, I
would merely suggest ‘Tilewright’ as requiring but little corruptive
influence to bring it into the forms in which we at present find the word.[271]
Should this be the case, we must place it with ‘le Tyler,’ of whom we have
but recently spoken. ‘Arkwright’ I mention last as being worthy of more
extended notice. In this is preserved the memory of a once familiar and all-
important piece of cabinet furniture—that of the old-fashioned ark. Much
store was set by this long years ago by the north-country folk, as is shown
by the position it occupies in antique wills, often being found as the first
legacy bequeathed.[272] Shaped exactly like the child’s Noah’s ark, it seems
to have had a twofold character. In one it was simply a meal-bin. Thus in
the ‘Tale of a Usurer’ we are told:—
When this corn to the kniht was sold,
He did it in an arc to hold,
And opened this arc the third day.

In the other it was more carefully put together. The trick of its secret spring,
known only to the housewife and her lord—sometimes I dare say, only to
the latter—it contained all the treasure the family could boast. Here were
kept what parchments they possessed; here lay stored up fold on fold of
household linen, venerated by the female inmates nearly as much as the
grandmothers themselves, whose thrifty fingers had woven it in days long
past and gone. We see thus that upon the whole the wright wrought his
manufacture out of his own more specific material, seldom, at any rate,
poaching upon the preserves of his friend the smith. The smith worked in
iron and the metals. This good old Saxon name, with the many quaint
changes that have been rung upon it, deserves a whole chapter to itself.

How then can we hope to do justice to it in a few sentences? We do not
know where to begin, and having once begun, the difficulty at once arises
as to where we can end. How few of us reflect upon the close connexion
that exists between the anvil and the smith himself, and yet it is because he
smote thereupon that he got his name. As old Verstigan has it:—
From whence comes Smith, all be he knight or squire,
But from the smith that forgeth at the fire?

Putting in all the needs which in this agricultural age his occupation would
be necessary to supply, still we could scarcely account for the enormous
preponderance he has attained over other artisans, did we not remember that
his services would also be required in the production of warlike
implements. Sword and ploughshare alike would be to his hands. Chaucer
speaks of:—
The smith
That forgeth sharpe swords on the stith.

Between and including the years 1838 and 1854 there were registered as
born, or married, or dead, no less than 286,307 Smiths. Were we indeed to
put into one community the persons who bear this name in our land, we
should have a town larger than Leeds, and scarcely inferior in size and
importance to that of the capital of the midland counties.
The smith is often spoken of colloquially as the blacksmith, a title which,
while it has not itself a place in our nomenclature, reminds us of others that
have, and of a peculiar custom of earlier days. The word ‘blacksmith’ dates
from the days of ‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote,’ and it is quite evident that at that
time it was customary for the smith to have his name compounded with
sobriquets according to the colour of the metal upon which he spent his
energies. Thus the former ‘Thomas Brownesmythe’ evidently worked in
copper and brass, ‘William le Whytesmyth’ in tinplate, ‘John Redesmith’ in
gold, a ‘Goldsmith’ in fact; ‘Richard Grensmythe’ in I am not sure what,
unless it be lead; and ‘John Blackesmythe’ in iron. The last is the only one I
fail to discover as now existing among our surnames—a circumstance,
however, easily accounted for from the settled position the simple ‘Smith’
himself had obtained as an artificer of that metal. But these are not the only

compounds. Our ‘Smiths’ are surrounded with connexions of not merely
every hue, but every type. Thus ‘Arrowsmith,’ already alluded to with its
contracted ‘Arsmith,’ tells its own tale of archery service; ‘Billsmith’ and
‘Spearsmith’ remind us of the lances, or rather lance heads, that did such
duty in the golden days of Agincourt and Poictiers. Of a more peaceful
nature would be the work of our ‘Nasmyths,’ like our ‘Naylors,’ mere relics
of the old nailsmith. Closely connected with them, therefore, we may set
our ‘Shoosmiths,’[273] but Saxon representatives of the Norman-introduced
‘Farrier.’ The surname still clings chiefly to the north of England, where the
Saxon, retaining so much more of its strength and vigour than in the south,
preserved it as the occupative term for centuries. Springtide and the
approach of sheep-washing would see our ‘Sheersmiths’ busy, while the
later autumn would have its due effect upon the trade of our ‘Sixsmiths’ and
‘Sucksmiths,’ pleasant though curiously corrupted memorials of the old
sicklesmith, or ‘Sykelsmith,’ as I find the name spelt. The bucklesmith
(‘John le Bokelsmythe,’ X.), whose name is referred to in the poem I have
but recently quoted, has similarly and as naturally curtailed himself to
‘Bucksmith.’[274] Our ‘Bladesmiths’ fashioned swords, being found
generally in fellowship with our ‘Cutlers’ and obsolete ‘Knyfesmythes.’ Our
‘Locksmiths,’ of course, looked to the security of door, and closet, and
cupboard;[275] while our ‘Minsmiths’ (‘John le Mynsmuth,’ M.), for I believe
they are not as yet quite obsolete, hard at work in the mint smithy, forged
the coin for the early community. As, however, I shall have occasion to
refer to him again I shall merely cite him, and pass on.[276] But we may see
from the little I have said that the smith never need fear obsoletism. Apart
from his own immediate circle, he is surrounded by many, if not needy, yet
closely attached relatives. We must not forget, however, that the Norman
had his smith, too, and though the Saxon, as we have thus seen, has ever
maintained his dignity and position, still our early rolls are not without a
goodly number of ‘Adam le Fevres,’ ‘Richard le Fevers,’ or ‘Reginald le
Feures,’ and their cognate ‘Alan le Ferons’ and ‘Roger le Feruns.’
Representatives of all these, minus the article, may be readily met with to-
day in any of the large towns of our country.
We may take this opportunity of saying a word about lead, inasmuch as
the uses to which it was put made the manufacturer therein familiar to rural
society. The leadbeater, in fact, was all-important to the farmer’s wife and
the dairy, for the vessels which held the milk, as it underwent its various

processes until it was turned out into butter, were commonly his handiwork.
Such names as ‘Gonnilda le Leadbetre,’ or ‘Reginald le Ledbeter,’ we find
in every considerable roll, and our modern ‘Leadbeaters,’ ‘Ledbetters,’
‘Leadbitters,’ ‘Lidbetters,’ and probably ‘Libertys,’ are but their
descendants. That mixture of lead with brass or copper which went by the
term of ‘latten’ or ‘laton’ has left in our ‘Latoners’ and ‘Latners’ a memorial
of the metal of which our old country churchyard tablets were made, not to
say some of the household utensils just referred to. We find even more
costly and ornamental ware manufactured of this, for among other relics
preserved by the pardoner, Chaucer tells us:—
He had a gobbet (piece) of the sail
That seint Peter had, when that he went
Upon the sea, till Jesu Christ him hent.
He had a cross of laton, full of stones,
And in a glass he had pig’s bones.

Such a name then as ‘Thomas le Latoner’ or ‘Richard le Latoner’ would
be well understood by our forefathers.
But we must not wander. In nothing does our nomenclature bequeath us a
more significant record than in that which relates to the isolation of
primitive life. We who live in such remarkable days of locomotive
appliance cannot possibly enter into the difficulties our forefathers had to
encounter in regard to intercommunication. An all but impassable barrier
separated our villages from the larger and distant towns. The roads, or
rather, not to dignify them by such a term, the tracks,[277] were sometimes
scarce to be recognised, everywhere rough and dangerous. Streams,
oftentimes much swollen, must be forded. Where bridges existed our
‘Bridgers’ and ‘Bridgemans’ took the king’s levy; where none were to be
found our ‘Ferrimans’ rendered their necessary aid. The consequent
difficulties with regard to conveyance were great. The larger of the county
towns carried on but an uncertain and irregular communication, while the
remoter villages were wholly dependent either on the travelling trader or
peddler, or on the great fair, as it came round in its annual course. What a
stock of goods would be laid in by the bustling wife, and the farmer himself
on this latter occasion! Imagine them starting forth to lay in a supply for a
whole year’s wants. No wonder the good, sound cob and the stout wagon it
drew are remembered in our surnames. Of the importance of the former

such names as ‘Horsman,’ if it be not official, and ‘Palfreyman,’ or
‘Palfriman,’ not to mention ‘Asseman,’ are good witnesses. Such entries as
‘Agnes le Horsman,’ or ‘Roger le Palefreyour,’ or ‘John le Palfreyman’ are
familiar to every early register. Our ‘Tranters’ and ‘Traunters’ are but relics
of the old ‘Traventer,’ he who let out posthorses. In process of time,
however, he got numbered among the many itinerant peddlers or carriers, of
whom I shall speak shortly. Bishop Hall, in one of his Satires, says—
And had some traunting chapman to his sire,
That trafficked both by water and by fire,

Our ‘Corsers’[278] or ‘Cossers,’ too, little altered from the former ‘le
Corsour,’ represent, as did the obsolete ‘Horsmonger,’ the dealer in
horseflesh. Another branch of this occupation is represented by our
‘Runchemans,’ ‘Runcimans,’ or ‘Runchmans.’ They dealt in hackney-
horses, ‘rounce’ or ‘rouncie’ being the then general term for such. Chaucer’s
‘Shipman’ was mounted upon one—
For aught I wot, he was of Dertemouth,
He rode upon a rouncie, as he couthe.

It was, however, a term applied in common to all manner of horses, and it is
quite possible the names given above must be classed simply with
‘Horseman’ and such like. Brunne, in describing Arthur’s Coronation,
mentions among other his gifts—
Good palfreys he gave to clerks
Bows and arrows he gave archers,
Runces good unto squiers.[279]

In such grand-looking entries as ‘William le Charreter,’ or ‘John le
Caretter,’ or ‘Andrew le Chareter,’[280] we should now scarce recognise the
humble ‘Carter,’ but so is he commonly set down in the thirteenth century,
our ‘cart’ itself being nothing more than the old Norman-French ‘charette,’
so familiarized to us by our present Bible version as ‘chariot.’ This in the
edition of 1611 even was spelt after the old fashion as ‘charet.’ Our
‘Charters’ are evidently but relics of the fuller form, a ‘John le Charter’

appearing in the Parliamentary Writs.[281] ‘Char,’ the root of ‘charet,’ still
remains with us as ‘car.’ In ‘Cursor Mundi’ it is said—
Nay, sir, but ye must to him fare,
He hath sent after thee his chare.

Gower, too, has the word—
With that she looked and was war,
Doun fro’ the sky ther cam a char,
The which dragons aboute drew.

This was used by people of rank as a fashionable vehicle for purposes of
pleasure; oftentimes, too, by ladies.[282] Corresponding with the other, the
driver of such was ‘John le Charer’ or ‘Richard le Charrer,’ the present
existing forms in our directories being ‘Charman’ and ‘Carman.’[283]
‘Cartman,’ I need not add, is also found as well as ‘Carter.’ All these terms,
however, are from the Norman vocabulary. The Saxon word in general use
was ‘wagon’ or ‘wain,’ the conductor of which now dwells in our midst as
‘Wagoner’ or ‘Wagner,’ and ‘Wainman’ or ‘Wenman.’ ‘Charles Wain’ or the
‘Churls Wain’ is the name that constellation still bears, and which has clung
to it, in spite of the Norman, since the day, a thousand years and more, that
the Saxon so likened it. As in the case of so many other double words
representative of our twofold language, these two separate terms have come
now to denote their own specialty of vehicle, and it is even possible that so
early as the day in which ‘le Wainwright’ and ‘le Cartwright’ took their rise
this distinction had already begun to exist. It is thus our English language
has become so rich, this sheep-and-mutton redundancy of which Walter
Scott in his ‘Ivanhoe’ has so well reminded us. ‘Richard le Drivere’ or ‘John
le Drivere’ of course must be placed here, not to mention an ‘Alice le
Driveress,’ who figures in the Hundred Rolls.
Of such consequence was it that the horse-gear should be carefully put
together that it occupied the full attention of several different artisans. Such
names as ‘Benedict le Sporier,’ or ‘Alan le Lorymer,’ or ‘Nicholas le
Lorimer,’ are found in every considerable roll of the period, and they still
exist. The one of course looked to the rowel, the other to the bit. ‘John le
Sadeler’ needs little explanation, his posterity being still alive to speak in
his behalf. The old Norman-introduced word for a saddle was ‘sell,’ and

that it lingered on for a considerable period is shown by Spenser’s use of it,
where he says—
And turning to that place, in which whyleare
He left his loftie steed with golden sell,
And goodly gorgeous barbes.

Every mediæval roll has its ‘Warin le Seler’ or ‘Thomas le Seller.’[284] The
pack-saddle was of such importance that it required a special manufacturer,
and this it had in our now somewhat rare ‘Fusters’ or ‘Fewsters.’[285] In his
‘Memorials of London,’ Mr. Riley mentions a ‘Walter Polyt, fuyster’ (p.
xxii.). A fuster was, strictly speaking, a joiner employed in the manufacture
of the saddle-bow, that is, the wooden framework of the old saddle. It is
derived from the French ‘fust,’ wood, and that from the late Latin ‘fustis.’
Our ‘Shoosmiths,’ as I have before hinted, made the horseshoe, while ‘John
le Mareshall,’ or ‘Ranulph le Marescal,’ or ‘Osbert le Ferrur,’ or ‘Peter le
Ferrour,’ fitted it to the foot. The modern forms are simple ‘Marshall,’ and
‘Ferrier,’ or ‘Ferrer.’ In the ‘Boke of Curtasye’ it is said—
For eche a hors that ferroure schalle scho,
An halpeny on day he takes hym to.

Nothing could be more natural than that the shoeing-forge should become
associated with the doctoring of horseflesh, but it is somewhat strange that
when we now speak of a farrier we recognise in this old term[286] simply and
only the horse-leech. So full of changes are the lives of words, as well as
places and people.
A curious insight into mediæval travel is presented to our notice in our
‘Ostlers’ and ‘Oastlers’ and ‘Oslers,’ relics of such old registries as ‘Ralph
le Hostiler’ or ‘William le Ostiller.’ This term, once applied, as it rightly
should, to the ‘host’ or ‘hosteller’ himself, has now become confined to the
stableman, thus incidentally reminding us how important this part of the
hostel duties would be at such a time as I am endeavouring to describe. The
idea of the hosteller being one whose especial office it was to tend that
which was their sole means of locomotion, thus in time resolved itself into a
distinct name for that branch of his occupation.[287] The old ‘Herberjour’
gave lodging, whence it is we get our ‘arbour.’ Our kings and barons in their
journeys always kept an officer so termed, whose duty it was to go before

and prepare and make ready for their coming. Owing to the large number of
household attendants for whom lodging was required, this was an important
and responsible duty. Thus has arisen our ‘harbinger,’ so often poetically
applied to the sun as heralding the approach of day. The older spelling is
preserved in the ‘Canterbury Tales,’ where it is said—
The fame anon throughout the town is born,
How Alla King shal come on pilgrimage,
By herbergeours that wenten him beforn.

It is, however, as applied to lodging-house keepers our many enrolled
‘Herbert le Herberjurs,’ ‘Roger le Herberers,’ ‘William le Herbers,’ or
‘Richard le Harebers,’ are met with, and I doubt not our ‘Harbers’ and
‘Harbours’ are their offspring. In this sense the word is used by our
mediæval writers in all its forms, whether verb, or adjective, or substantive.
Tyndale’s version of Romans xii. 13 is, ‘Be ready to harbour,’ where we
now have it ‘given to hospitality.’ Bishop Coverdale, speaking of the grave,
says—‘There is the harborough of all flesh; there lie the rich and the poor in
one bed’ (Fruitful Lessons). He adds also, in another place, that Abraham
was ‘liberal, merciful, and harborous’—i.e., ready to entertain strangers
(The Old Faith). Bradford, too, to give but one more quotation, prays God
may ‘sweep the houses of our hearts, and make them clean, that they may
be a worthy harborough and lodging for the Lord’ (Bradford’s Works).
Market Harborough still preserves this old word and its true sense from
being forgotten. With the bearers, therefore, of the above names we may
ally our ‘Inmans’ and ‘Taverners.’ The latter term is frequently found in
early writings, and was evidently in ordinary use for the occupation—
Ryght as of a tavernere
The grene busche that hangeth out
Is a sygne, it is no dowte,
Outward folkys for to telle
That within is wyne to selle.

While, however, the tavern has undergone but little change, the inn has.
With our present Bible an inn is ever a lodging, and this was once the sole
idea the term conveyed. It was not for casual callers by day, but for lodgers
by night. Thus Chaucer in his ‘Knight’s Tale’ uses the verb—

This Theseus, this duk, this worthy knight,
When he had brought them into his cite,
And ynned them, everich (each) at his degre
He festeth them.

Until the fair or wake came on, as I have said, the community in the more
retired nooks and corners of the country depended entirely on the mounted
merchant. He it was who conveyed to them the gossip of the time. He it
was, or one of his confrères, that brought them everything which in those
days went under the category of small luxuries. The more lonely parts of the
highway were infested by robbers. Hence the pack-horsemen and other
mounted traders generally travelled in company, with jingling bell and
belted sword—a warning to evil-minded roadsters. This was all the more
necessary as they but seldom kept to the main thoroughfare. A straight line
between the adjacent hamlets best describes their course. Such local terms
as ‘Pedlar’s Way,’ or ‘Pedder’s Way,’ or ‘Copmansford,’ still found in
various parts of the country, are but interesting memorials of the direct and
then lonely route these itinerant traders took in passing from one village to
another. The number of these roadsters we cannot otherwise speak of than
as that of a small army. Many of them, so far as our nomenclature is
concerned, are now obsolete, but not a few still survive. Amongst those of a
more general character we find ‘Sellman’ or ‘Selman.’[288] From the old verb
‘to pad,’ which is still used colloquially in many districts, for the sober and
staid pace the pack-horsemen preserved, we get our ‘Padmans’ and
‘Pedlers,’ or ‘Pedlars,’ once inscribed as ‘William le Pedeleure’ or ‘Thomas
le Pedeler.’ It is of kin to ‘path.’ We still talk of a ‘footpad,’ who not more
than two centuries ago would also have been spoken of as a ‘padder.’ So
late as 1726 Gay, in one of his ballads, says—
Will-a-wisp leads the traveller a-gadding
Through ditch and through quagmire and bog,
No light can e’er set me a-padding
But the eyes of my sweet Molly Mogg.

Perchance of similar origin, but more probably from the old ‘ped,’ the
basket they carried, are our ‘Pedders,’ ‘Peddars,’ and ‘Pedmans.’ ‘Martin le
Peddere’ or ‘Hugh le Pedder’ or ‘William Pedman’ was a common entry at
this time. On many parts of the English coast a fish-basket is still familiarly

known as a ‘ped,’ and Mr. Halliwell, I see, quotes from another writer a
statement to the effect that in Norwich, up to a recent day, or even now, an
assemblage whither women bring their small wares of eggs, chickens, and
other farm produce for sale, is called a ‘ped-market.’ It is likely, therefore,
that with these we must ally ‘Godewyn le Hodere’ or ‘John le Hottere,’ who
derived their sobriquets, I doubt not, from the fact of their carrying their
hods or panyers on their backs, just as masons do now those wooden trays
for mortar which bear the same name.[289] Their very titles remind us that
our ‘Huckers,’ ‘Hawkers,’ and ‘Hucksters,’ relics of the old ‘William le
Huckere,’ ‘Simon le Hauckere,’ or ‘Peter le Huckster,’ were from the first
good at haggling and chaffering wherever a bargain was concerned. Our
‘Kidders,’ the ‘William le Kyderes’ of the fourteenth century, were of a
similar type, whatever their origin, which is doubtful. Probably, however,
we must refer them to the ‘kid’ or ‘kit,’ the rush-plaited basket they carried
their goods in. We still speak of ‘the whole kit of them,’ meaning thereby
the collective mass of any set of articles.[290] This view is strengthened—we
might almost say proved—by the fact of a ‘Robert Butrekyde’ being found
in the Hundred Rolls of this period. This would be a sobriquet given to
some one from the basket he was wont to bear to and from the country
market where he carried on his calling. Later on we find it used for a large
mug or bowl. In the ‘Farming Book of Henry Best,’ written in 1641, we
find it said—‘Some will cutte their cake and putte (it) into the creame, and
this feast is called the creame-potte or creame-kitte’ (p. 93). The kidder’s
usual confrère was the ‘Badger’—up to the seventeenth century an ordinary
term for one who had a special licence to purchase corn from farmers at the
provincial markets and fairs, and then dispose of it again elsewhere without
the penalties of engrossing. It is generally said the sobriquet arose from the
habits of the four-legged animal of that name in stealing and storing up the
grain. The more probable solution, however, is that it is but a corruption of
‘baggager,’ from his method of carriage.
But we must not forget in our list of early English strolling merchants
that the wandering friars themselves were oftentimes to be met with bearing
treasure wherewith to tempt the housewife, and no bad bargainers, if we
may accept the statement made against them by an old political song:—

There is no pedler that pak can bere,
That half so dere can selle his gere,
Than a frere can do;
For if he give a wyfe a knyfe
That cost but penys two,
Worthe ten knyves, so may I thrive,
He wyl have ere he go.[291]

Our ‘Tinklers’ and ‘Tinkers,’ like our more northern ‘Cairds,’ seem to have
been scarcely removed in degree from the strolling gipsies. They acquired
their name from the plan they adopted of heralding their coming by striking
a kettle, a plan of attracting attention more euphoniously practised by our
bellmen, with whom we are still familiar. Such names as ‘Alice Tynkeller’
in the fourteenth century, or ‘Peter le Teneker’ found in the thirteenth
century, show how early had this method been adopted and the sobriquet
given.[292] Last, but not least, come our ‘Chapman’ or ‘Copeman’[293] and
‘Packman.’[294] The former is sometimes met with as ‘Walter’ or ‘John le
Chepman,’ which at once reminds us of his origin, that of the ‘cheap-man,’
or ‘cheap-jack,’ as we should now style him. The old ‘cheaping,’ or
‘chipping,’ a market-place, still lingers locally in such place-names as
‘Chipping-Norton,’ or ‘Chipping-Camden,’ or the local surname
‘Chippendale;’ and the verb ‘to chop’—i.e., to purchase, I believe, is not yet
extinct amongst us. The once common phrase for selling and exchanging
was ‘chopping and changing.’ Coverdale uses it. Speaking of Christ driving
out the money-changers from the Temple, he says, ‘The Temple was
ordained for general prayer, thanksgiving, and preaching, and not for
chopping and changing, or other such like things’ (The Old Faith). Thus the
term ‘chapman’ would be no unmeaning one to our forefathers. But we
must give him a paragraph to himself.
The chapman, you must know, was a great man. According to more
modern usage, he had a fixed residence, but we may still see him at times,
after the olden fashion, travelling about in a large booth-like conveyance or
rumble. This vehicular mode of transit set him far above the rank of
ordinary footpads. He was a sort of pedlar in high life, in fact, and if his
position was lofty, his abilities were generally equal to a performance of its
duties. O the sensation his arrival caused! The village green was instantly
instinct with life. From impossible nooks and crannies surged forth a small
army of all ages. Hoarded pennies or twopennies were drawn forth from

cherished hiding-places, and flinty maternal pockets were for the nonce
assailed with comparative success. To the young folks it was the next best
thing to Punchinello, the chapman was so funny. Besides, he had so many
things wherewith to tempt their juvenile fancy. What was there he had not?
Everything that could under any lax code of fancy possibly or impossibly
come under the all-expansive term of hardware was crowded within the
magic recesses of that chapman’s van. Dolls and dishes, scissors and hats,
cornplasters and cosmetics, lollipops in the shape of soldiers, and lollipops
in the shape of windmills issued forth in a succession as insinuating to the
purse as it was tempting to the imagination. And what a man was Jack
himself; he had a joke for everyone, a frown for none. His face was an ever-
changing picture, bluffed by the wind and burnt by the sun; still it was ever
cheery withal, now demure, half waggish, half impudent, anon all
benevolence as he details the merits of his latest painless corn-suppressing
plaster, and assures the gaping swains that his sole object in life, since the
happy moment when he first became acquainted with its virtues, has been to
carry through the world the blissful tidings to suffering man. All this, he
adds, with reckless impudence, has been done at a great personal pecuniary
sacrifice; but an approving conscience, and the blessings showered upon his
head by the recipients of his generosity, have been his ample reward. Of
course they sell like wildfire, and the profits are enormous.[295]
Our ‘Packmans,’ ‘Paxmans,’ and perhaps ‘Packers,’ were, as a rule, the
village commissioners.[296] What a simple and homely state of life do their
names suggest. No half-hourly omnibus, or still more frequent train,
whisked off the bustling housewife to the big town—now some sleepy old
place with grass-grown streets, and half a century behind the times, where
‘news much older than the ale goes round’—but then the thrifty emporium
of cheese and butter and such like stores, and great in the eyes of country
bumpkins. No; if you visited the town in those days you must make a day of
it. And the mistress knew better than do this. Leave her dairy, forsooth—
what would become of the cream if she left Malkin to forget her work, and
talk with Giles the cowboy behind the stable door all morning? She leave,
indeed! Of course she could not, so there was the pack-horseman, who for a
trifling commission went to and from the market for her and her
neighbours. As he returned in the cool of the evening, when the sun was
low and work over, you might see him pausing awhile at the door of the
farmsteads, long after he has given the mistress her store, and, more slily,

Malkin her ribbon. He is in no hurry now, for he is telling the country folk
all the news; how the great world is wagging, and how there has been a
great battle with the Frenchers some six or eight weeks ago (news, good or
bad, did not travel fast in those days). The Frenchmen are looked upon by
the simple rustics as the very impersonification of iniquity, they being under
a sort of impression that a Frenchman is a being who defies God and man
alike, and would think no bones of eating you up. At once the packman is
plied for a full, true, and particular account of the battle, and he, there being
none to gainsay his description, and with an eye probably to the good wife’s
best ale, which, as he well knows from experience, will be brought forth
with a freedom of hospitality proportionate to the horror of the details, fills
up a bloody tale with sundry touches of a most tragic character, while the
country folk gape in wide-mouthed terror, and the old grandmother cries
‘Lord, ha’ mercy on us!’ His face is lost to sight once more in the ale jug,
and then he passes on to other steads, where a similar scene and a similar
reward await his thirsty soul. Another name in evident use for the packman
was that of ‘Sumpter,’ ‘Martin le Someter’ or ‘William le Sumeter’ being
common entries at this time. We are still familiar with the term as applied to
the mule or horse that carried the baggage, but in a personal sense it has
long been extinct,[297] saving in our directories, where as ‘Sumpter’ and
‘Sumter’ it is by no means seldom met with. How large a load these animals
were required to bear we may picture to ourselves from a verse found in
‘Percy’s Reliques’—
But, for you have not furniture
Beseeming such a guest,
I bring his owne, and come myselfe,
To see his lodging drest.

With that two sumpters were discharged,
In which were hangings brave,
Silke coverings, curteins, carpets, plate,
And all such turn should have.

But useful as were all these various itinerants, it was at the great yearly
wakes or fairs, held in commemoration of the church dedication, that the
housekeepers round laid in their greatest store. The term ‘wake’ denotes ‘a
watching,’ because of the vigil observed during the night preceding the
festival itself. Indeed ‘wake’ and ‘watch’ were for centuries synonymous

words.[298] Wicklyffe translates Mark xii. 37—‘Forsooth, that that I say to
you, I say to all, Wake ye.’[299] Thus it is that our ‘Wakemans’ are but
memorials of the old village guardian or night watchman, while our
‘Wakes’ can boast a title dating so far back as the time when ‘Hereward the
Wake,’ or Watchful, was fighting the last battle of the down-trodden and
oppressed Saxon.[300] These fairs were by no means for mere pleasure-
seekers, as we might imagine from such a term as ‘church-ale,’ or judging
by the aspect of such festivals in the present day. They had an end to
answer, and an important end, and in early times they fulfilled it. It was here
the farmers round brought their produce, ready to sell their wool for good
sound money, or to exchange it for commodities of which they stood in
need. It was here the foreign trader came to purchase sheep-fells and other
skins, soon, by transmission abroad, to be worked up by Flemish hands into
good broadcloth, and retransmitted again to London or provincial marts.
Edward the Confessor obtained a sum of 70l., an immense amount at such a
time as this, from the tollage at a fair held in Bedfordshire. Of many
celebrated fairs, those of Smithfield on St. Bartholomew’s Day (which still
exists as a kind of perpetual one), York, Winchester, and Ely seem to have
been the most frequented. That in the Isle of Ely was kept up on and for
some days after the feast of St. Awdrey, or Audrey, the corrupted name of
St. Etheldreda, which as a surname our ‘Awdreys’ still preserve. This seems
to have become specially noted for its sale of trinkets, toys, and cheap and
gay laces—so much so that in course of time ‘tawdry,’ or St.-Awdry, ware
became the colloquial and general term for such. Drayton we even find
using the word substantively when he says:—
Of which the Naiads and blue Nereids make
Them tawdries for their neck.[301]

Of the still greater one held at Winchester, we find Piers the Plowman
speaking:—

To Wye and to Winchester
I went to the fair,
With many manner merchandise,
As my master me hight:
But it had been unsold
These seven years,
So God me help,
Had there not gone
The grace of guile
Among my chaffer.

The ‘Wife of Bath,’ too, has a word to say upon this subject. Says she:—
I governed them so wel after my lawe,
That eche of them ful blissful was and fawe
To bringen me gay thinges fro the feyre.

What a picture does all this present to our eye. We can see the circular stand
of booths belting the rails of the quaint belfried edifice, sometimes, I am
afraid, the sacred precincts within.[302] Behind these we may note how busy
are our ‘le Stallers’ and ‘le Stallmans,’ now found also as ‘Stalman;’ not to
say our ‘Stallards,’ that is, stall-wards, and obsolete ‘le Vendours.’ No
infliction too severe can be made upon their readiness to please. Elbowing
and chaffering and good-humoured haggling are the order of the day. Here
the stupid, happy swain, with his be-ribboned sweetheart tucked under his
arm, is buying their little stock wherewith to start life; here the child is
made blissful with a trumpet, and the hoary-headed rustic gets a warmer cap
for his crown. Here, too, it is that the chapman and other of his confrères, as
I have already hinted, are buying in their varied commodities. All alike are
well catered for. When we talk of ‘packing up our duds,’ few of us, I
imagine, are aware that we are using a word of most familiar import in long
generations gone by. A ‘dud’ then was a coarse, patched linen gown, gaudy
in colour, made up in fact of variegated pieces of this material. Hence he
who sold such cheap, flashy goods at a fair, any old fripperer in truth, was
styled a ‘dudder’ up to comparatively recent times, and the booth itself a
‘duddery.’ ‘Duderman’ and ‘Dudder’ (now obsolete), ‘Dudman’ and
‘Dodman,’ are all, I doubt not, but interesting memorials of this once
flourishing lower class trade. Such names as ‘Thomas Dudman’ or ‘Ralph
Deuderman’ greet us occasionally in the olden rolls. ‘William Fairman,’[303]

found in the Parliamentary Writs, would be, I suppose, a more general
vendor. He has not a few descendants.
But while bartering and the purchase and sale of these varied household
commodities occupied no small amount of attention, such a sober mode of
passing the fairtide was very far from being the intention of the younger and
gayer portion of the assemblage; nor was there, indeed, any lack of that
which could feed or give zest to their relish for amusement, though it was
not always of the most innocent nature. Our ‘Champions’ and ‘Campions’
are but relics of the old ‘William le Champion,’[304] or ‘Katerine le
Chaumpion,’ a sobriquet which would easily affix itself to some sturdy and
swarthy rustic who had thrown his adversary in the wrestling ground. This
has ever been a popular sport amid our more rural communities. The Miller,
Chaucer says:—
Was a stout carl for the nones,
Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones,
That proved wel, for over all ther he came,
At wrestling he would bear away the ram.

In an old poem I have already quoted, the mother warns her daughter:—
Go not to the wrestling, nor shooting the cock,
As it were a strumpet or a giglot.[305]

Doubtless such a sobriquet as ‘Richard le Fytur,’ that is ‘Fighter,’ would be
but representative of the same. The country folks were not slow, too, to
copy their masters, and in the friendly joust the former, ‘Thomas le Justere’
or ‘Robert le Justure,’ would brace himself amid the excited ring to unseat
his fellow-swain, affording much sport to the on-looking wags.
By the maypole you may see the conjuror, or ‘Wiseman,’ as he was
generally termed, battening himself upon the superstitious minds of the
assembled hinds. In the Hundred Rolls he figures as ‘Wysman’ and
‘Wyseman.’ A little further on our ‘Players’ would be enacting their
mummery. The great crowd there in the corner are watching the showman
with his dancing bear, a yearly treat the younger holiday-seekers always
appreciated. What a change has come over our English habits with regard to
this animal. Dancing was the least cruel of the sports connected with it.

Time was when every noble of position had his bears and his bearward,
when even royalty could boast a master of the king’s bears, and when as a
pastime the bear-baiting took an easy pre-eminence in the eyes of all
holiday folk. A skit on the Earl of Warwick, banished to the Isle of Man,
written 1399, says:—
A bereward found a rag:
Of this rag he made a bag:
He dude in gode entent.
Thorwe the bag the bereward is taken;
All his beres have hym forsaken.
Thus is the berewarde schent.[306]

In one of our earlier rolls I find several names that bear relation to this
familiar sport. Of such are ‘Geoffrey Bearbaste’ and ‘Alexander Bearbait.’
More common to us in the present day, however, are the descendants of the
more simple ‘Berward’ (‘Michael le Berward,’ H.R.) and ‘Bearman,’ or
‘Berman’ (‘Ralph Bareman,’ H.R.). In ‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote’ mention is
made of—
Jenkyne Berwarde of Barwyche.

Whether ‘Jenkyne’ was a mythic personage, or whether any of our present
‘Berwards’ are his lineal issue, I cannot pretend to say.[307] Any way,
however, the name would be common enough then. Bull as well as bear
baiting, I need not say, was a popular pastime with our forefathers. We still
talk of bulldogs. Probably our ‘Bullards’ could formerly have told us
something about this. Fit rival to these latter, you may see the ‘Cockman,’
or, as he was more generally termed, the ‘Cocker,’ matching his birds in the
adjacent pit. The author of the ‘Townley Mysteries’ does not give the cocker
a good character—at least he places him in very bad company—
These dysars, and these hullars,
These cokkers, and these bullars,
And alle purse cuttars,
Be welle ware of these men.

Among other instances the Hundred Rolls furnish us with ‘Simon le
Cockere’ and ‘William le Koker.’

Professional dancers, I need scarcely say, were seldom absent from the
mediæval festival. Tripping it lightly to some Moorish round, we may see
such folk as ‘Harvey le Danser’ or ‘Geoffrey le Hoppere,’ inciting the
younger villagers to follow their example. The latter name, which occurs
frequently at this time, reminds us that our modern slang term ‘hop’ has but
restored the ancient use of this word. Our Prayer-Book version of the
Psalms still employs the verb in the verse, ‘Why hop ye so, ye high
hills?’[308]—and Chaucer, in picturing the merry ’prentice, says—
At every bridale would he sing and hoppe;
He loved bet the taverne than the shoppe.

The feminine ‘hoppestere,’ which he also uses, does not sound quite so
euphonious. In the ‘Pardoner’s Tale,’ among other of the dissolute folk in
Flanders, are mentioned ‘tombesteres’—
And right anon in comen tombesteres
Fetis and smale, and yonge fruitesteres.

These, I doubt not, were female dancers, and performers of such bodily
gyrations and flexions as mountebanks are still skilled in. The masculine
form is found in such an entry as ‘William le Tumbere,’ whom we should
now, so far as his professional tricks were concerned, term a tumbler.
All this time the mirth of music is at its loudest, though it is somewhat
hard to separate the tones of the various rival minstrels. There is a trio in
one corner by the tavern door there, discoursing sounds which are certainly
equal, if not superior, to the Teutonic bands of more modern days. Indeed,
with regard to the latter, I am beginning to suspect the conjecture of a friend
of mine to be perfectly true—that they are German convicts shipped off,
with cracked and second-hand trumpets, by the Commissioners of Police to
save their keep. It is, however, right perhaps that the country which sends us
the best should also have the option of sending us the worst music in the
world. The trio we may see here, at any rate, have one advantage—that of
their poetic mediæval costume. The first we may notice is the ‘Fiddler,’
represented by such men as ‘Robert Fyffudlere,’ or ‘John le Fythelere,’ or
the Latinized ‘Rulard Vidulator.’ This last reminds us that it is now also
written ‘Vidler.’ He of course played on the violin, for I must not say

‘fiddle,’ it is far too Saxon, for modern cultivated days. The Clerk of
Oxenforde seems to have been superior to the generality of later university
men, for he had—
Liefer have at his beddes head
A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red,
Of Aristotle and his philosophie,
Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie.

Certainly time effects wonderful changes. But I doubt whether even he
would have found much profit, not to say pleasure, in the study of Aristotle,
or any other philosopher, had he been subjected to the daily practice of a
well-scraped viol in an adjacent dormitory,[309] the author of which could
boast but one tune in his repertoire, and was determined that every one
should know it. After the Fiddler—Saxon or no Saxon, I’ll stick to it for the
nonce—comes the ‘Piper’ with his reedy stop, and next to him the ‘Taborer’
beating his drum with such rare effect as to make him the very idol of the
youngsters. Spenser calls him the ‘tabrere,’ which form, as well as ‘Tabrar,’
Tabberer,’ ‘Tabor,’ and ‘Taber,’ still exists in our nomenclature.
I saw a shole of shepherds out go,
Before them yode a lusty tabrere,
That to the merry hornpipe plaid,
Whereto they danced.

Such entries as ‘Arnold le Pyper,’ or ‘Robert le Pipere,’ or ‘William le
Tabourer,’ or ‘John le Taburer,’ are of frequent occurrence in mediæval
rolls.
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling crowd,

is the order of the gentle author of the ‘Faerie Queen;’ so having disposed of
the two former, the ‘Crowder’ with his six-stringed viol duly engages our
attention next, though he ought more correctly to have been yoked with the
‘Fiddler.’ ‘Crouth’ was but another form of the same word. An old Saxon
Psalter thus renders Psalm cl. 4—
Loves him in crouth and timpane,
Loves him in stringes and organe.

Wicklyffe, too, translates Luke xv. 25 as follows:—‘But his eldre sone was
in the feeld, and whaune he cam and neighede to the hous he herde a
symfonye and a crowde.’[310] Like our ‘Harpers’ and more northern ‘Bairds,’
the ‘Crowder’ or ‘Crowther’ (for as surnames both forms exist) was
oftentimes blind, and thus gained the ear of an audience, if not appreciative,
at least sympathetic. Seldom, indeed, did he leave cottage, or hall festival,
or fair, without a guerdon, and a kind word to boot; for while customs fade
out and die, pity, thank God, knows neither change of season nor chance of
time. Mediæval forms of the above may be found in ‘Richard le Cruder’ or
‘Thomas le Crowder.’ But we have yet several more surnames to mention
which prove the once great popularity of this latter class of instrument.
‘German le Lutrere’ and ‘John le Leuter’ have left no descendants, I think.
[311]
The more common term was lutanist, but of this I have found no
instance. While the lute had generally ten strings, and was struck by the
hand, the viele or viol had six, was of stronger make, and was played with a
bow. It seems to have been a favourite instrument in the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries, for such registrations as ‘Benedict le Viler,’ ‘Nicholas
le Vylour,’ ‘Wyot le Vilur,’ or ‘Jacob le Vielur,’ occur with tolerable
frequency at that period. Another Norman-introduced word was that of
‘gigue,’ or ‘gig.’ This, however, seems to have differed from the others in
being of the very roughest manufacture, and made specially for professional
dancers. These ‘giguers’ were extremely popular at rural festivals of any
kind. At one and the same instant they would be tripping it round on the
‘light fantastic toe,’ singing some not too select verses, accompanying
themselves on their sturdy instrument, and yet would have a hand to spare
for a trifle if you should offer it. If you doubted it you had but to try them. It
is thus we have got our ‘jig,’ our ‘gigot,’ or leg of mutton, too, being so
called from its resemblance thereto. The surnominal form is found in such
entries as ‘Walter le Gigur,’ or ‘Alexander le Gygur,’ but I doubt whether
either is represented now. The last of this class of instrumentalists we may
mention is ‘William le Sautreour,’ he who struck the ‘gay sawtrye,’ as
Chaucer terms it. The more correct form of the word was ‘psaltery.’ It was
specially used as an accompaniment for the voice, hence it is freely used in
this sense in the Authorized Version. I do not doubt myself that some of our
‘Salters’ are but a change rung on the mediæval ‘Sawtrer.’ The ‘Fluter,’ I
believe, has left no descendants, but in ‘Nicholas le Floutere’ he was to be
met with at this date, and, I need not say, would be as familiar as he would

be acceptable on such an occasion as this. The lusty young Squire was so
musical that—
Singing he was, or floyting alle the day,
He was as freshe as is the month of May.

There is one name I must mention here, that of ‘Peter le Organer,’[312]
perhaps connected with ‘Orger’ of the same date. The owner of this more
modern-looking term may either have been organist at some monastery or
abbey-church, or he may have played upon the portable regal, in which
latter case he too might possibly have been seen here. But ‘organ’ was a
very general term. In the old psalters it seems to have been used for nearly
every species of instrument. We should scarcely speak now of ‘hanging up
our “organs” upon the willows,’ but so an old version of the Psalms has it.
Did we not know they were a modern invention we might have been
inclined to suspect ‘le Organer’ to have been but a strolling performer upon
the ‘hurdy-gurdy.’ That, however, was an infliction mercifully spared to our
forefathers. In concluding this brief survey of mediæval music, I cannot, I
think, do better than quote, as I have done partially once before, Robert de
Brunne’s account of the coronation of King Arthur, wherein we shall find
many, if not most, of the professional characters I have been mentioning
familiarly spoken of. He says—
Jogelours weren there enow
That their quaintise forthe drew:
Minstrels many with divers glew (glee)
Sounds of bemes (trumps) that men blew,
Harpes, pipes, and tabours,
Fithols (fiddles), citolles (cymbals), sautreours,
Belles, chimès and synfan
Other enow and some I cannot name.
Songsters that merry sung,
Sound of glee over all rung;
Disours enow telled fables:
And some played with dice at tables.

But we are not without traces of the troubadour. The simple vocalist, a
strolling professionalist, too, in many instances, remains hale and hearty in
our ‘Glemans,’ ‘Gleemans,’ and ‘Glemmans,’ not to mention our
‘Sangsters.’ Amid such lulls as might intervene, we should hear them at the

popular festivals bidding for favour with their old-fashioned stories of
‘hawk and hound,’ and ‘my ladyes bower,’ set, no doubt, to airs equally à la
mode. A contemporary poet tells us their song
Hath been sung at festivals
On ember eves, and holy-ales.

The recitation of these stories seems to have been a peculiarly popular
profession. Our ‘Rhymers’ oftentimes showed their skill in the art of
rhythmical narration by weaving the exploits they described into extempore
verse.[313] The ‘Juggler’ or ‘Joculator,’ originally a minstrel or ‘jester,’
something akin to the clown of later days, became by-and-by more
celebrated for his skill in legerdemain than loquacity, and now little else is
understood by the word. Almost every baron, and even the king himself,
had his favourite jester; but it was an art put to the most corrupt purposes,
and ‘Jagge the Jogelour’ is set in very low company by Piers Plowman.
Certainly his jokes were of the lewdest description, even for the rough times
in which he lived. His voice, too, was sufficiently elevated, if we may trust
the account given in the ‘Romance of Alexander,’ for—
No scholde mon have herd the thondur,
For the noise of the taboures,
And the trumpours, and the jangelours.

The ‘Dissour,’ the old Norman ‘diseur,’ similar in character to the rhymer
and the juggler, seems to have left no memorial, saving it be in our
‘Dissers;’[314] neither can I trace ‘le Tregetour’ later than the fifteenth
century. Every footprint of his professional existence, indeed, is now faded
from our view. And yet there was the day when none could be more familiar
than he. The Hundred Rolls record not merely ‘Symon le Tregetor,’ but
‘William le Tregetur’ also, while ‘Maister John Rykele’ is spoken of by
Lydgate as ‘sometime Tregitour of noble Henrie, King of Engleland.’
Chaucer, too, mentions sciences

By which men maken divers apparences,
Such as these subtil tregetoures play.
For oft at feasts have I wel heard say
That tragetoures, within an halle large
Have made come in a water and a barge
And in the halle rowen up and down:

while in another place he speaks of seeing
Coll Tragetour
Upon a table of sicamour
Play an uncouth thing to tell;
I saw him carry a wind-mill
Under a walnut-shell;

with other equally marvellous feats. Thus we see that the art of legerdemain
was not neglected at this time.
I doubt whether any relics we possess so completely convey to our minds
the radical changes which have swept across the face of our English
Commonwealth as do these lingering surnames. They remind us of the
invention of printing, of the spread of literature, and of the slow decay
thereby of the professions they represented. They tell us of a changed
society, they tell us of a day of rougher cast and looser trammels; they tell
us of a life around which the lapse of intervening years has thrown a halo of
so quaint aspect that we all but long, in our more sentimental moods, to be
thrown back upon it again. Placing these tell-tale names by the life of the
present, we see what a change has passed over all. Let us hope this change
denotes progress. In some respects it assuredly does: progress in the
settlement of our common rights and duties, progress in civilization and
order, progress in mental culture, progress in decorum. Still we may yet ask,
with all this has there been any true progress? The juggler, ’tis true, with his
licentious story, and the dissolute tragetour, both are gone—they would be
handcuffed now, and put in gaol. This speaks something for a higher
cultivation. But, after all, may not this be a mere outside refinement—a
refinement to meet the requirements of an age in which the head is educated
more than the heart—a refinement which may be had in our shops—the
refinement, in fact, of the lowest of God’s endowed creatures, that of the
exquisite? This is, indeed, an artificial age, and it warns us to see to it
whether we are hypocrites or no; whether our life is entirely external or the

reverse; whether it is all shell and no kernel, all the outside cup and platter,
and within naught save extortion and excess. That mortal shall have attained
the highest wisdom who, in the light of the world to come, shall have seen
to the cleansing of that which is within, and if that, if the heart be cleansed,
then the external life will as naturally, as it will of necessity, be pure.

CHAPTER V.

SURNAMES OF OCCUPATION. (TOWN).

We have already said enough to show that our early English pursuits were
mainly pastoral. Even to this day, as we are whisked across the midland
counties or driven across the Yorkshire wolds, we see what advantages we
must have enjoyed in this respect. Our one chief staple was wool, and to
export this in a raw unmanufactured state was the early practice. So general
was this occupation that even subsidies to the crown were given in wool. In
1340, 30,000 sacks of wool were granted to Edward III. while engaged in
the French War. This would be a most valuable contribution, for at this time
it was held in the highest repute by foreign buyers. ‘The ribs of all nations
throughout the world,’ wrote Matthew Paris, ‘are kept warm by the fleeces
of English wool’ (Smiles). So early as 1056 we find the Count of Cleves
obtaining a certain jurisdiction over the burghers of Nimeguen upon
condition of presenting to the Emperor every year ‘three pieces of scarlet
cloth of English wool’ (Macullum). With the incoming of the Flemish
refugees and other settlers already mentioned this state of things was
changed. The Conqueror himself had settled one band near Carlisle, but his
son Henry soon after coming into possession removed them into
Herefordshire, and the Southern Marches of the Principality. Doubtless the
object of both was that of setting up a barrier against hostile encroachments
on the part of the Scotch and Welsh; but the result was the spread of a
peaceful and useful industry in two widely separated districts. Two other
settlements, in Norfolk and Suffolk, one by Henry I., the other under the
direction of Edward III., made East Anglia for centuries the Yorkshire of
England. When we talk so familiarly of ‘worsted,’ or ‘lindsey-wolsey,’ or
‘kerseymere,’ or ‘bocking,’ we are but insensibly upholding a reputation

which centuries ago the several villages that went by these names had
obtained through Flemish aid. Thus was it then that at length our country
was enabled to produce a cloth which could afford a comparison with that
of the Flemish cities themselves. Of this incoming many surnames of this
date remind us, the most important of which I have already mentioned in
my chapter upon local names, ‘Fleming,’ as a general name for all these
settlers, being the commonest.
When, however, we turn to the occupations themselves connected with
the industry, we cannot but be struck by the wonderful impress it has made
upon our nomenclature. The child’s ancient rhyme—
Black sheep, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, sir; yes, sir;
Three bags full—

carries us to the first stage, and to the first dealer. In our ‘Woolers’ and
‘Woolmans,’ in our obsolete ‘Woolmongers’ and ‘Woolbuyers,’[315] in our
‘Packers’[316] and once flourishing ‘Woolpackers,’ and in our ‘Lanyers’ and
‘Laners,’ relics of the old and more Norman ‘Bartholomew le Laner’ or
‘John le Lanier,’ we can see once more the train of laden mules bearing
their fleecy treasure to the larger towns or distant coast. No wonder that
Piers Plowman and others should make familiar mention of the ‘pack-
needle,’ when we reflect upon the enormous number of sacks that would be
in constant use for this purpose; and no wonder ‘Adam le Sakkere’ (i.e.
‘Sacker’), and ‘Henry le Canevaser’ are to be met with as busied in their
provision.[317] Another proof of the engrossing importance of this one
English article of commerce is left us in our ‘Staplers.’ The ‘stapleware’ of
a town was, and is still, that which is the chief commodity dealt in by that
particular market. A ‘stapler,’ however, has for centuries been a generally
accepted title for a woolmerchant, and has therefore absorbed the more
general meaning the word ought to have conveyed.
The first stage towards manufacture would be the process of carding the
raw and tangled material, and numberless are the ‘Carders,’ ‘Combers,’ and
‘Kempsters,’[318] or ‘Kemsters,’ who remind us of this. In these latter
sobriquets we have but varied forms of the same root ‘cemb,’ to comb. We

still talk poetically of ‘unkempt locks,’ and we are told of Emelie in the
‘Knight’s Tale’ that—
Her bright hair kembed was, untressed all.

The Norman corresponding name is found in ‘Robert le Peinnur’ or
‘William le Puigneur,’ but unless in our ‘Pinners’ (a supposition not
unnatural) it has left no descendants. But even these are not all. It is with
them we must associate our ‘Towzers’ and ‘Tozers,’ from the old ‘touse’
allied to ‘tease’—they who cleared the fibre from all entanglements.
Spenser talks of curs ‘tousing’ the poor bear at the baiting, and I need not
remind the reader that in our somewhat limited canine nomenclature,
‘Towzer,’ as a name for a dog of more pugnacious propensities, occupies a
by no means mean place. As applicable to the trade in question, Gower uses
the word when he says, in his ‘Confessio Amantis’:—
What schepe that is full of wulle
Upon his backe they tose and pulle.[319]

It is here, therefore, we must place our one or two solitary relics of the
rough machinery then in use. In ‘Cardmaker’ we have the manufacturer of
the ‘comb’ or ‘card’ thus usefully employed; in ‘Spindler’ the maker of the
pin round which the thread was wound; while our ‘Slaymakers,’[320]
‘Slaymans,’ and obsolete ‘Slaywrights’[321] preserve the once so familiar
‘slay’—that moveable part of the loom which the webbe with his fingers
plied nimbly and deftly along the threads. A petition to Parliament in 1467
from the worsted manufacturers complains that in the county of Norfolk
there are ‘divers persones that make untrue ware of all manner of
worstedes, not being of the assises in length nor brede, nor of good, true
stuffe and makyng, and the slayes and yern thereto belonging untruly made
and wrought, etc.’ (Rot. Parl. Ed. IV.) I believe the word is not yet obsolete
as a term of the craft.
I have mentioned ‘Webbe.’
My wife was a webbe
And woolen cloth made,

says Piers in his ‘Vision.’ This appears, judging at least from our
directories, to have been the more general term, and after it its longer forms,
the masculine ‘Webber’ and the originally feminine ‘Webster.’ A poem
written in the beginning of the sixteenth century refers to
Curriers, cordwayners, and cobelers,
Gyrdelers, forborers, and webbers.

Such entries as ‘Elyas le Webbe,’ or ‘Clarice le Webbere,’ or ‘John le
Webestre,’ are of common occurrence in our mediæval and still earlier
records. But the processes are anything but at an end. The cloth must be
dyed and fulled. Of the first our ‘Listers,’ once enrolled as ‘Hugh le Litster’
or ‘Henry le Littester,’[322] speak, and ‘Dyer’ or ‘Dister,’ still harder of
recognition in such a guise as ‘Geoffrey le Deghere’ or ‘Robert le
Dighestere,’ forms found at the period we are writing about. It was John
Littester, a dyer, who in 1381 headed the rebellion in Norwich. Here the
surname was evidently taken from the occupation followed. Halliwell gives
the obsolete verb ‘to lit’ or dye, and quotes an old manuscript in which the
following sentence occurs: ‘We use na clathis that are littede of dyverse
coloures.’ Such names as ‘Gilbert le Teinturer,’ or ‘Richard le Teynterer,’ or
‘Philip le Tentier,’ which I have come across in three separate records,
represent the old French title for the same occupation, but I believe they
have failed to come down to us—at least I have not met with any after
instance. The old English forms of ‘tincture’ and ‘tint’ are generally found
to be ‘teinture’ and ‘teint.’ The teinturer is not without relics. We still speak
when harassed of ‘being on the stretch,’ or when in a state of suspense of
‘being upon tenter-hooks,’ both of which proverbial expressions must have
arisen in the common converse of cloth-workers. The tenter itself was the
stretcher upon which the cloth was laid while in the dyer’s hands. On
account of various deceits that had become notorious in the craft, such, for
instance, as the over-stretching of the material, a law was passed in the first
year of Richard III. that ‘tentering’ or ‘teyntering’ should only be done in an
open place, and for this purpose public tenters were to be set up. (‘Stat.
Realm,’ Rich. III.) We find many references to this important instrument in
old testaments. Thus an inventory of goods, dated 1562, belonging to a man
resident in the parish of Kendall, speaks of ‘Tenture posts and woodde, 6d.
—ii tentures 20s.’ (‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p. 156.) The dyes themselves

used in the process of colouring are not without existing memorials. In the
York Pageant, already referred to, we find, walking in procession with the
woolpackers, the ‘Wadmen,’ that is, the sellers of woad, unless indeed, they
were the dyers themselves. The more common spelling was ‘wode,’ and
when not local, ‘Thomas le Wodere’ or ‘Alan le Wodeman,’ with their
modern ‘Wooder’ and ‘Woodman,’ will be found, I doubt not, to be the
representative of this calling. ‘John Maderman,’ and ‘Lawrence Maderer’
remind us of the more reddish and popular hues. Great quantities of this
were yearly imported from Holland, especially Middleburgh. The old ‘Libel
on English Policy’ speaks of—
The marchaundy of Braban and Selande,

as being
The madre and woode (woad) that dyers take on hande.

The thickening mill, however, has left us several words of much more
familiar import than these—viz., ‘Tucker,’ ‘Fuller,’ (or ‘Fulman’[323]) and
‘Walker.’[324] Among other older forms we find ‘Roger le Tukere,’ ‘Percival
le Toukare,’ ‘Walter le Fullere,’ ‘Ralph le Walkere,’ and ‘Peter le Walkar.’
Of the first Piers in his ‘Vision’ makes mention, where he speaks of
Wollene websteris,
And weveris of lynen,
Taillours, tanneris,
And Tokkeris bothe.

‘Cocke Lorelle’ also refers to—
Multiplyers and clothe thyckers,
Called fullers everychone.

‘Walker,’ claiming as it does an almost unrivalled position in the rolls of our
nomenclature, reminds us of the early fashion of treading out the cloth
before the adaptations of machinery were brought to bear on this phase of
the craft. In Wicklyffe’s version of the story of Christ’s transfiguration he
speaks of his clothes shining so as no ‘fullere or walkere of cloth’ may

make white upon earth.[325] Reference is made to the same practice by
Langland also when, using this whole process of cloth-making as an
illustration, he says:—
Cloth that cometh fro the wevyng
Is nought comely to wear
Til it be fulled under foot,
Or in fullying stokkes,
Washen wel with water,
And with taseles cracched
Y-touked, and y-teynted,
And under taillours hande.

We are here not merely furnished with the entire process itself, but the
terms themselves employed harmonize well with the names I have
mentioned. ‘Walker’ and ‘Tucker’ or ‘Towkare’ or ‘Toker,’ as it was
variously spelt, together with ‘Tuckerman,’ have, however, disappeared as
terms of this trade; and it is in our directories alone we can find them
declaring these forgotten mysteries of a more uncouth manufacture.
The ‘taseles’ mentioned in the poem quoted above were the common
‘teasel’ or ‘tassel,’ a rough prickly plant allied to the thistle, which when
dried was used for scratching the cloth, and thus raising a nap thereupon.
Thus in Willsford’s ‘Nature’s Secrets’ it is said, ‘Tezils, or Fuller’s Thistle,
being gathered or hanged up in the house, where the air may come freely to
it, upon the alteration of cold and windy weather will grow smoother, and
against rain will close up his prickles.’ (Brand’s ‘Pop. Ant.,’ vol. iii. p. 133.)
In an inventory of the property of Edward Kyrkelands, of Kendall, dated
1578, we find the following articles mentioned:—iiii syckles, a pair wyes
and iii stafs, tazills, 5s. 8d.—more in tazills, 2s.—iiii tentors, 40s.
(‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p. 274.) The occupation itself is referred to in an
old statute of Edward IV.—‘Item, that every fuller, from the said feast of St.
Peter, in his craft and occupation of fuller, rower, or tayseler of cloth, shall
exercise and use taysels and no cards, deceitfully impairing the same
cloth’—‘en sa arte et occupacion de fuller et scalpier ou tezeiler de drap,
exercise et use teizels, &c.’ (4 Ed. IV. c. 1.) It is probable that our ‘Taylors’
have engrossed this name. We find it lingering in Westmoreland, about
Kendal, till the middle of the sixteenth century, in a form which required
but little further change to make it the same. In the will of Walter Strykland,
dated 1568, there is mentioned among other legatees a certain ‘Edward

Taylzer,’ a manifest corruption of ‘Teazeler.’ (‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p.
224.) A century earlier than this, however, such names as ‘Gilbert le
Tasseler’ or ‘Matilda le Tasselere’ were entered in our more formal
registers.
Our ‘Baters’ and ‘Beaters,’ relics of the old ‘Avery le Batour’ or ‘John
Betere,’ were all but invariably cloth-beaters, although, like the fuller
‘wollebeter,’[326] they may have been busied at an earlier stage of the
manufacture. Capgrave, in his ‘Chronicles,’ under date 30 A.D., says,
‘Jacobus, the son of Joseph first bishop of Jerusalem, was throwe there fro
the pinacle of the temple and after smet with a fuller’s bat.’[327] With the
mention of our ‘Shearers’ (‘Richard le Sherere,’ M.) and endless
‘Shearmans,’ ‘Sharmans,’ or ‘Shermans’ (‘Robert le Sherman,’ ‘John le
Shereman,’ M.), who represent the shearing of the manufactured fabric,
rather than that of the sheep itself, we have the process complete. The cloth
is at length ready to be transmitted into the care of our ‘Drapers’ and
‘Clothiers,’ and from them again through the skilled and nimble fingers of
our numberless ‘Tailors.’ From all this we may readily see what an
important influence has England’s one great staple of earlier days had upon
the nomenclature of our countrymen.
Such a name as ‘Ralph le Flexman,’ with its many descendants, reminds
us of the manufacture of linen, which, if not so popular as that of wool, was
nevertheless anything but unfamiliar to the early craftsman. Our ‘Spinners’
carry us to the primary task of thread-making, an employment, however, all
but entirely in the hands of the women. The distaff and the weaker sex have
been ever associated, whether in sacred or profane narrative. Thus it is that
‘spinster’ has become stereotyped even as a legal term. Chaucer, four
hundred years ago, somewhat uncourteously said:—
Deceite, weping, spinning, God hath given
To women kindly, while that they may liven.

Our modern ‘linen’ is formed from ‘lin’ or ‘line’—flax—as ‘woolen’ is
from ‘wool.’ Hence we still speak of the seed of that plant as ‘linseed.’ That
this was the common form of the word we might prove by many quotations.
He drank never cidre nor wyn
Nor never wered cloth of lyn,

says an old poem. Even Spenser speaks of ‘garment of line,’ and in ‘Cocke
Lorelle’s Bote’ allusion is made to ‘lyne-webbers’ and ‘lyne-drapers.’[328]
We need not be surprised, therefore, to meet with such names as ‘Elias
Lyndraper,’ or ‘Henry le Lindraper,’ or ‘John le Lyner.’ Only this last,
however, has survived the changes of intervening centuries, and still holds a
precarious existence as ‘Liner.’ ‘Weaver’ was more common. A more
Norman equivalent is found in such a sobriquet as ‘John le Teler,’ or ‘Henry
le Telere,’ or ‘Ida la Teleress,’ a name which is not necessarily of modern
French refugee origin, as Mr. Lower would lead us to suppose. Indeed, a
special part of the ladies’ head-dress had early obtained the name of a
‘teler,’ from the fine texture of the linen of which it was composed.[329] It is
but too probable that this name has become lost, like ‘Taylzer,’ in the more
common ‘Taylor.’ This process of absorption we shall find to be not
unfrequent. Nor are we without a memorial of the bleaching of linen.
‘Whiter,’ if not ‘Whitster,’ still lives in our directories. It seems strange that
our ‘Blackers’ should denote but the same occupation; but so it is—they,
like our old ‘Walter le Blakesters’ or ‘Richard le Bleckesters,’ being but the
harder and more antique form of our present ‘bleacher.’[330] Our term
‘bleak,’ preserving as it does the earlier pronunciation, is but the same
word, being formerly used to denote pallor, or wanness, or absence of
colour. From this, by a natural change, it came to signify anything cheerless
or desolate. With perfect honesty in this case, at any rate, we may ‘swear
that black is white.’
With regard to silk, we had but little to do. The manufacture of this
important cloth was barely carried on in Western Europe during the period
of the establishment of surnames. It was nigh the close of the fifteenth
century before it appeared in France. All our silks were imported from the
East by Venetian and Genoese merchants. Of the latter an old poem says,
they come—
Into this londe wyth dyverse merchaundysses,
In grete karrekis arrayde wythouten lack,
Wyth clothes of golde, silke, and pepir black.

Still we find a company of silkwomen settled in London at an early period.
In the records of this city occur such names as ‘Johanna Taylour, Silkwyfe,’
in 1348, and ‘Agatha Fowere, Silkewoman,’ in 1417.[331] In 1455 a

complaint was raised by ‘the women of the mystery and trade of silk and
threadworkers in London, that divers Lombards and other foreigners
enriched themselves by ruining the said mystery.’ I think, however, we shall
find that all these were engaged less in the manufacture of fabrics than of
threads for the embroiderers to use. Thus, as connected with the throwing or
winding of these silken tissues, we come across such names as ‘Thrower’
and ‘Throwster,’ the former having been further corrupted into ‘Trower.’[332]
Next to wool, perhaps leather formed the most important item of early
manufacture. We can hardly now conceive the infinite use to which it was
put at this period. In military dress it had an especial place, and in the
ordinary costume it was far from being confined to the extremities, as we
have it now. Jerkins, chausses, girdles, pouches, gipsire—all came under the
leather-dresser’s hands. In 1378 we find a jury, called together to decide
upon a case of alleged bad tanning, to have been composed of ‘saddlers,
pouchmakes, girdlers, botel-makers, tanners, curriers, and cordwainers.’ Of
the more general manufacture of hides we have numerous relics; indeed, we
are at once introduced into the midst of a throng of tradesmen, the very list
of which proves the then important character of the article on which they
spent their energies. Such names as ‘Jordan le Tannur,’ or ‘Loretta le
Tannur,’ ‘Richard le Skynnere,’ or ‘Hamo le Skynnere,’ are still numerous
both in the tanyard and the directory, and need little explanation. Our
‘Curriers’ are also self-evident; but I have not met with any instance as yet
in mediæval times. Our more rare ‘Fellmongers’ were once occupied more
directly with the larger hides, or fells, as they were called, of the farmyard
stock. Less connected with them, therefore, than with the others, we may
mention such men as ‘William le Barcur,’ or ‘Nicholas le Barkere,’ or
‘Robert Barcarius,’ the ancestors of our modern ‘Barkers,’[333] who, by the
very frequency with which they are met, show how important was the
preparation of bark in the tanners’ yard. In the conversation between
Edward the Fourth and the Tanner of Tamworth, as given by Percy, it is said
—
‘What craftsman art thou?’ said the king;
‘I pray thee telle me trowe,’
‘I am a Barker, Sir, by my trade;
Now tell me, what art thou?’

Such names as ‘John le Tawyere’ or ‘Geoffrey le Whitetawier’ (now
found as ‘Whittear,’ ‘Whittier,’ and ‘Whityer’), not to mention such an entry
as that of ‘Richard le Megucer,’ throw us back upon the time when the
terms these men severally bore as surnames would be of the most familiar
import. Their owners spent their energies in preparing the lighter goat and
kid skins, which they whitened, and made ready for the glovers’ use.[334] The
verb ‘to taw,’ however, was also used of dressing flax, and we may have to
place ‘Tawyer’ in some instances in this category.
And whilst that they did nimbly spin
The hemp he needs must taw,

we are told in ‘Robin Goodfellow.’ Our ‘Towers,’ while apparently local,
may be in some instances but a corruption of this same term. So early as the
14th century we find a certain ‘Eustace le Wittowere’ occurring in the
Hundred Rolls, and that the simpler form should similarly be corrupted
would be natural enough.[335] Thus we see that leather, too, is not without its
memorials. The more furry skins, as used in a somewhat more specific form
as articles of dress, or to attach thereto, we will allude to by-and-by. As we
traverse in some semblance of order the more definite wants and
requirements of early social life, the importance of these several crafts will
be more clearly brought out. We must not forget that there were the same
needs then as now, though of a different mould. Man in all time has had to
be fed, and clothed, and housed; and if in all these respects he has in these
modern days become more civilized and polished, it has been the result of a
gradual process by which he has slowly, and not without many a struggle,
thrown off, one by one, this custom and that, which belonged to a ruder era
and a rougher cast of society. Our surnames of occupation are a wonderful
guide in this respect. A tolerable picture of early life may be easily set
before us by their aid; for in them are preserved its more definite
lineaments, and all we need is to fill up the shading for ourselves. Forgotten
wants, needs now no longer felt, requirements of which a progressive
civilization slowly slipped the tether, necessities of dress, of habit, of
routine, all, while the reality has long faded from view, have left their
abiding memorial in the nomenclature of those who directly supplied them.
Let us, however, observe, as in our other chapters, some kind of order—
clothing, food, and general needs, this seems the proper course of

procedure. And yet one more observation ere we do so. We have already
spoken of the early system of signs as advertising the character of the
articles to be sold. The early shop was far more prominent as a rule than the
modern one. The counter, instead of being within the walls of the house,
projected forward upon the pathway, so much so that we can only compare
them to those tables we may often see at night, where under the lee of the
walls costermongers offer shellfish, or tripe, or coffee to the passers-by.
This was objectionable enough; but it was not all. Each dealer loudly
proclaimed to the wayfarer the merits of his goods, vying with his
neighbour in his endeavours to attract attention to himself or distract it from
the other, especially if, as was often the case, a number of traders trafficked
in the same class of merchandise. Others, and their name was legion, had no
shop at all, not even the street table or counter, but passing up and down
with wooden platters or deep baskets, made the very air discordant with
their loudly reiterated cries of ‘Hot sheep’s feet,’ or ‘Mackerel,’ or ‘Fresh-
herring,’[336] or ‘Hot peascods,’ or ‘Coloppes.’ It is in reference to this we
find Langland saying—
Cokes and their knaves,
Cryden, ‘Hote pies, hote!
Goode gees and grys!
Gowe, dyne, gowe!’

Lydgate has a still fuller and more detailed description of this in his
‘London Lackpenny,’ and as it is tolerably humorous I will quote it
somewhat largely, using Mr. Bowen’s modernization of it—