If we may trust the accredited origin of the term nickname—viz., that it is prosthetically put for ‘an ekename,’ that is, an added name—it may seem somewhat inconsistent to entitle a special branch of my book by that which in reality embraces the whole. But I do not think I shall be misunderstood, since, whatever be the original meaning intended, the word has now so thoroughly settled down into its present sphere of verbal usefulness that it would be a matter of still more lengthened explanation if I were to put it in its more pretentious and literal sense. By ‘nickname,’ in this chapter, at any rate, I intend to take in all those fortuitous and accidental sobriquets which, once expressive of peculiar and individual characteristics, have survived the age in which they sprang, and now preserved only in the lumber-room of our directories, may be brought forth once more wherever they help to throw a brighter light upon the decayed memorials of a bygone era. It will be seen at a glance that it is no easy task that of assorting a large body of nondescript and unclassed terms, but I will do my best under pleaded indulgence.

We are not without traces of this special kind of sobriquets even in the early days before the Norman Conquest was dreamt or thought of. I have already instanced the Venerable Bede as speaking of two missionaries who, both bearing the name of Hewald, were distinguished by the surnames of ‘White’ and ‘Black,’ on account of their hair partaking of those respective hues. In the ninth century, too, Ethelred, Earl of the Gaini, was styled the ‘Mucel’ or ‘Mickle’—‘eo quod erat corpore magnus et prudenti grandis.’ With the incoming of the Normans, however, came a great change. The burlesque was part of their nature. A vein for the ludicrous was speedily acquired. It spread in every rank and grade of society. The Saxon himself was touched with the contagion, ere yet the southern blood was infused into his veins. Equally among the high and the low did such sobriquets as ‘le Bastard,’ ‘le Rouse,’ ‘le Beauclerk,’ ‘le Grisegonel’ (Greycloke), ‘Plantagenet,’ ‘Sansterre,’ and ‘Coeur de lion’ find favour. But it did not stay here; the more ridiculous and absurd characteristics became the butt of attack. In a day when buffoonery had become a profession, when every roughly-sketched drawing was a caricature, every story a record of licentious adventure, it could not be otherwise. The only wonderment is the tame acquiescence on the part of the stigmatized bearer. To us now-a-days, to be termed amongst our fellows ‘Richard the Crookbacked,’ ‘William Blackinthemouth,’ ‘Thomas the Pennyfather’ (that is, the Miser), or ‘Thomas Wrangeservice’ (the opposite of Walter Scott’s ‘Andrew Fairservice’), would be looked upon as mere wanton insult. But it was then far different. The times, as I have said, were rougher and coarser, and the delicacy of feeling which would have shrunk from so addressing those with whom we had to deal, or from making them the object of our banter, would have been perfectly misunderstood. Apart from this, too, the bearer, after all, had little to do with the question. He did not give himself the nickname he received it; pleasant or unpleasant, as he had no voice in the acquisition, so had he none in its retention. There was nothing for it but good-tempered acquiescence. We know to this very day how difficult was the task of getting rid of our school nicknames, how they clung to us from the unhappy hour in which some sharp-witted, quick, discerning youngster found out our weak part, and dubbed us by a sobriquet, which, while it perhaps exaggerated the characteristic to which it had reference, had the effect which a hundred admonitions from paternal or magisterial head-quarters had not, to make us see our folly and mend our ways. None the less, however, did the affix remain, and this was our punishment. How often, when in after years we come accidentally across some quondam schoolfellow, each staring strangely at the other’s grizzly beard or beetled brow, the old sobriquet will crop up to the lips, and in the very naturalness with which the expression is uttered all the separation of years of thought and feeling is forgotten, and we are instantly back to the old days and the old haunts, and pell-mell in the thick of old boyish scrapes again. Yet perchance these names were offensive. But they have wholly lost their force. We had ceased to feel hurt by them long before we parted in early days. See how this, too, is illustrated in the present day in the names of certain sects and parties. We talk calmly of ‘Capuchins,’ ‘Quakers,’ ‘Ranters,’ ‘Whigs’ and ‘Tories,’ and yet some of these taken literally are offensive enough, especially the political ones. But, as we know, all that attached to them of odium has long ago become clouded, obscured, and forgotten, and now they are the accepted, nay, proudly owned, titles of the party they represent. Were it not for this we might be puzzled to conceive why in these early times such a name as ‘le Bonde,’ significant of nothing but personal servitude and galling oppression, was allowed to remain. That ‘le Free’ and ‘le Freman’ and ‘le Franch-homme’ should survive the ravages of time is natural enough. But with ‘Bond’ it is different. It bespoke slavery. Yet it is one of our most familiar names of to-day. How is this? The explanation is easy. The term was used to denote personality, not position; the notion of condition was lost in that of identity. It was just the same with sobriquets of a more humorous and broad character, with nicknames in fact. The roughest humour of those rough days is oftentimes found in these early records, and the surnames which, putting complimentary and objectionable and neutral together, belong to this day to this class, form still well-nigh the largest proportion of our national nomenclature. There is something indescribably odd, when we reflect about it, that the turn of a toe, the twist of a leg, the length of a limb, the colour of a lock of hair, a conceited look, a spiteful glance, a miserly habit of some in other respects unknown and long-forgotten ancestor, should still five or six centuries afterwards be unblushingly proclaimed to the world by the immediate descendants therefrom. And yet so it is with our ‘Cruickshanks’ or ‘Whiteheads’ or ‘Meeks’ or ‘Proudmans;’ thus it is with our ‘Longmans’ and ‘Shortmans,’ our ‘Biggs’ and ‘Littles,’ and the endless others we shall speedily mention. Still these represent a better class of surnames. As time wore on, and the nation became more refined, there was an attempt made, successful in many instances, to throw off the more objectionable of these names. Some were so utterly gross and ribald as even in that day to sink into almost instant oblivion. Some, I doubt not, never became hereditary at all.

In glancing briefly over a portion of these names we must endeavour to affect some order. We might divide them into two classes merely, physical and moral or mental peculiarities; but this would scarcely suffice for distinction, as each would still be so large as to make us feel ourselves to be in a labyrinth that had no outlet. Nor would these two classes be sufficiently comprehensive? There would still be left a large mass of sobriquets which could scarcely be placed with fitness in either category: nicknames from Nature, nicknames from oaths, or street-cries, or mottoes, or nicknames again in the shape of descriptive compounds. Names from the animal kingdom, of course, could be set under either a moral or physical head, as, in all cases, saving when they have arisen from inn-signs or ensigns, they would be affixed on the owner for some supposed affinity he bore in mind or body to the creature in question. Still it will be easier to place them, as well as some others, under a third and more miscellaneous category. These three divisions I would again subdivide in the following fashion:—

I.—Physical and External Peculiarities.

(1) Nicknames from peculiarities of relationship, condition, age, size, shape, and capacity.

(2) Nicknames from peculiarities of complexion.

(3) Nicknames from peculiarities of dress and its accoutrements.

II.—Mental and Moral Peculiarities.

(1) Nicknames from peculiarities of disposition—complimentary.

(2) Nicknames from peculiarities of disposition—objectionable.

III.—Miscellaneous.

(1) Nicknames from the animal and vegetable kingdom.

(2) Descriptive compounds affixed as nicknames.^[438]

(3) Nicknames from oaths, street-cries, and mottoes.

I.—Physical and External Peculiarities.

(1) Nicknames from Peculiarities of Relationship, Age, Size, and Capacity.

(a) Relationship.—There is scarcely any position in which one man can stand to another which is not found recorded pure and simple in the surnames of to-day. The manner in which these arose was natural enough. We still talk of ‘John Smith, Senior,’ and ‘John Smith, Junior,’ when we require a distinction to be made between two of the same name. So it was then, only the practice was carried further. I find, for instance, in one simple record, the following insertions:—‘John Darcy le fiz,’ ‘John Darcy le frere,’ ‘John Darcy le unkle,’ ‘John Darcy le cosyn,’ ‘John Darcy le nevue,’ and ‘John Darcy, junior.’ How easy would it be for those in whose immediate community these different representatives of the one same name lived to style each by his term of relationship, and for this, once familiarised, to become his surname. ‘Uncle,’^[439] once found as ‘Robert le Unkle,’ or ‘John le Uncle,’ is now quite obsolete, I think; but the pretty old Saxon ‘Eame’ abides hale and hearty in our numberless ‘Eames,’ ‘Ames,’ ‘Emes,’ and ‘Yeames.’ We find it used in the ‘Townley Mysteries.’ In one of them Rebecca tells Jacob he must flee for fear of Esau—

The ‘Promp. Par.’ defines a cozen to be an ‘emys son,’ and it is from him, no doubt, our many ‘Cousens,’ ‘Cousins,’ ‘Couzens,’ and ‘Cozens’ have sprung, descended as they are from ‘Richard le Cusyn’ (A.), or ‘John le Cosyn’ (G.), or ‘Thomas le Cozun’ (E.). ‘Kinsman’ (‘John Kynnesman,’ Z.Z.) may be of the same degree. ‘Widowson’ (‘William le Wedweson,’ R., ‘Simon fil. Vidue,’ A.^[440]) is apparently the same as the once existing ‘Faderless’ (‘John Faderless,’ M.),^[441] while ‘Brotherson’ and ‘Sisterson’ (‘Jacob Systerson,’ W. 3) seem to be but old-fashioned phrases for a nephew, in which case they are but synonymous with the Norman ‘Nephew,’ ‘Neve,’ ‘Neave,’ or ‘Neaves;’ all these forms being familiar to our directories, and descendants of ‘Reyner le Neve’ (A.), or ‘Richard le Nevu’ (E.), or ‘Robert le Neave’ (Z.). Capgrave, giving the descent of Eber, says: ‘In this yere (anno 2509) Sala begat Heber; and of this Eber, as auctouris say, came the people Hebrak, for Heber was neve unto Sem.’ Thus again, the Saxon ‘Arnold le Fader’ was met by the Norman ‘John Parent,’ and the still more foreign ‘Ralph le Padre,’ while ‘William le Brother’ found his counterpart in ‘Geoffrey le Freer,’ or ‘Frere;’ but as in so many cases this latter must be a relic of the old freere or friar, we had better refer it, perhaps, to that more spiritual relationship.^[442]

(b) Condition.—We have still traces in our midst of sobriquets relating to the poverty or wealth of the original bearer. Our ‘Poores,’ often found as ‘Powers,’ are descended from the ‘Roger le Poveres,’ or ‘Robert le Poors,’ of the thirteenth century, while our ‘Riches’ are set down at the same period as ‘Swanus le Riche’ or ‘Gervase le Riche.’ Of several kindred surnames we may mention a ‘John le Nedyman,’ now obsolete, and an ‘Elyas le Diveys,’ which, in the more Biblical form of Dives, still exists in the metropolis. It is somewhat remarkable that we should have the Jewish ‘Lazarus’ also, and that this too should have arisen in not a few instances from the fact that its first possessor was a leper. ‘Nicholas le Lepere’ and ‘Walter le Lepper’ speak for themselves. With the above we may ally our early ‘Robert le Ragiddes’ and ‘Thomas le Raggedes,’ which remind us that our vagabonds, if not our ‘Raggs’ and ‘Raggetts,’ are of no modern extraction, but come of a very old family indeed! ‘Half-naked,’ I unhesitatingly at first set down as one of this class, but it is local.^[443]

(c) Age, Size, Shape, Capacity.—This class is very large, and embraces every possible, and well-nigh impossible feature of human life. A glance over our old records, and we can almost at once find ‘Lusty’ and ‘Strong,’ ‘Long’ and ‘Short,’ ‘Bigg’^[444] and ‘Little,’ ‘High’ and ‘Lowe’ (both perchance local), ‘Large’ and ‘Small,’ ‘Thick’ and ‘Thin,’ ‘Slight’ and ‘Round,’ ‘Lean’ and ‘Fatt,’ ‘Megre’ and ‘Stout,’^[445] ‘Ould’ and ‘Young,’ and ‘Light’ and ‘Heavy.’ Was this not sufficient? Were there several in the same community who could boast similarity in respect to one or other of these varieties? Then we got ‘Stronger,’ ‘Shorter,’ ‘Younger,’^[446] ‘Littler,’ ‘Least,’^[447] ‘Senior,’ ‘Junior,’ and in some cases ‘Elder.’ Some of these are of course Norman; but when Saxon occur we can all but invariably find the Norman equivalent. Thus, if ‘Large’ be Saxon, ‘Gros’ (now ‘Grose’ and ‘Gross’) is Norman; if ‘Bigge’ be Saxon, ‘Graunt’ or ‘Grant’ or ‘Grand’ is Norman;^[448] if ‘Small’ be Saxon, ‘Pettitt’ or ‘Pettye’ or ‘Petty’ or ‘Peat’ is Norman. Thus again, ‘Lowe’ meets face to face with ‘Bas’ or ‘Bass,’ ‘Short’ with ‘Curt,’ ‘Fatte’ with ‘Gras’ or ‘Grass’ or ‘Grace,’^[449] ‘Strong’ with ‘Fort,’ ‘Ould’ with ‘Viele,’ ‘Twist’ with ‘Tort,’ and ‘Young’ or ‘Yonge’ with ‘Jeune.’ Sometimes the termination ‘man’ is added, as in ‘Strongman,’ ‘Longman,’ ‘Smallman,’ ‘Oldman,’ and ‘Youngman,’ or if a woman, dame, as in such a case as ‘Matilda Lenedame,’ which as a surname died probably with its owner. Sometimes, again, we have the older and more antique form, as in ‘Smale’ and ‘Smaleman,’ that is, small; ‘Yonge’ and ‘Yongeman,’ that is, young; and ‘Lyte’ and ‘Lyteman,’ that is, little; ‘Wight’ and ‘Wightman,’ now obsolete in our general vocabulary, referred to personal strength and activity. In the ‘Vision of Piers Plowman,’ one of the sons of ‘Sire Inwit’ is described as being—

‘Manikin,’ found at the same period, needs no explanation.^[450]

Of the less general we have well-nigh numberless illustrations. It is only when we come to look at our nomenclature we find out how many separate limbs, joints, and muscles we individually possess, and by what a variety of terms they severally went in earlier days. No treatise of anatomy can be more precise in regard to this than our directories. Some prominence or other peculiarity about the head or face has given us our ‘Chins,’ ‘Chekes,’ or ‘Cheeks,’ and ‘Jowles,’ or ‘Joules.’ We are all familiar with the protruding fangs of our friend ‘Jowler’ of the canine community. Thus even here also we must place ‘cheek by jowl.’ ‘Glossycheek’ (‘Bertholomew Gloscheke,’ A.) once existed, but is obsolete now. The same is true in respect of ‘Duredent’ (‘Walter Duredent,’ E.), or ‘Dent-de-fer,’ i.e., ‘Irontoothed’ (‘Robert Dent-de-fer,’ E.), which spoke well no doubt for the masticatory powers of its owner. ‘Merrymouth’ (‘Richard Merymouth,’ X.) would be a standing testimony to its possessor’s good humour. It is decidedly more acceptable than ‘Dogmow’^[451] (‘Arnulph Dogmow,’ A.) or ‘Calvesmawe’ (‘Robert Calvesmaghe,’ M.), recorded at the same period. Sweetmouth’ (‘Robert Swetemouth,’ D.) also speaks for the sentiment of the times. In modern days, at least, the eye is supposed to be one of the chief points of personal identity. I only find one or two instances, however, where this feature has given the sobriquet in our mediÆval rolls. In the ‘Calendarium Genealogicum’ a ‘Robertus Niger-oculus,’ or ‘Robert Blackeye,’ is set down as having been ‘pro felonia suspensus.’ We are reminded in his name of the ‘Blackeyed Susan’ of later days, but whether Nature had given him the said hue or some pugilistic encounter I cannot say. Judging by his antecedents, so far as the above Latin sentence betrays them, the latter would seem to be the more likely origin.^[452] ‘William le Blynd,’ or ‘Ralph le Blinde,’ speak for themselves.^[453] The ‘Saxon Head,’ in some cases local, doubtless, is still familiar to us. Its more Norman ‘Tait’ fitly sits at present upon the archiepiscopal throne of Canterbury. Grostete, one of which name was a distinguished bishop of Lincoln in the fourteenth century, is now represented by ‘Greathead’ and ‘Broadhead’ only. Butler, in his ‘Hudibras,’ records it in the more colloquial form of Grosted—

The equally foreign ‘Belteste’ (‘John Beleteste,’ A.) is content, likewise, to allow ‘Fairhead’ (‘Richard Faireheved,’ H.) to transmit to posterity the claims of its early possessor to capital grace. ‘Blackhead’^[454] existed in the seventeenth, and ‘Hardhead’ in the fifteenth century. These are all preferable, however, to ‘Lambshead’ (‘Agnes Lambesheved,’ A.), found some generations earlier, and still firmly settled in our midst, as the ‘London Directory’ can vouch.^[455] So much for the head. ‘Neck’ and ‘Swire’ are both synonymous. Chaucer describes Envy as ready to ‘scratch her face,’ or ‘rend her clothes,’ or ‘tear her swire,’^[456] in respect of which latter feat we should now more generally say ‘tear her hair.’ Either operation, however, would be unpleasant enough, and it is just as well that for all practical purposes it only occurs in poetry. Some characteristic of strength, or beauty, or deformity (let us assume one of the former) has given us our ‘Hands,’ ‘Armes,’ and ‘Brass’s,’ from the old ‘Braz.’ ‘Finger,’ once existing (‘Matilda Finger,’ H.), is now obsolete. Whether this sobriquet was given on the same grounds as that bestowed on the redoubtable ‘Tom Thumb,’ I cannot say. ‘Brazdifer’ (‘Simon Braz-de-fer,’ E., ‘Michael Bras-de-fer,’ B.B.), arm of iron, once a renowned nom-de-plume, still dwells, though obsolete in itself, in our ‘Strongithams’ and ‘Armstrongs.’^[457] A common form of this North-country name was ‘Armstrang’ or ‘Armestrang’ (‘Adam le Armstrang,’ G.), reminding us that our ‘Strangs’ are but the fellows of our more southern ‘Strongs’ (‘John le Strang,’ E., ‘Joscelin le Strong,’ H.). ‘Lang’^[458] and ‘Long’ represent a similar difference of pronunciation. The ‘Armstrongs’ were a great Border clan. Mr. Lower reminds me of the following lines:—

Another and more foreign form of this sobriquet, ‘Ferbas’ (‘Robert Ferbras,’ M.), has come down to us in our somewhat curious-looking ‘Firebraces.’ Still earlier than any of these we find the sobriquet ‘Swartbrand.’ Thus we see the arm wielded a powerful influence over names as well as people, no mere accident in a day when ‘might was right.’ ‘Main,’ when not local, corresponds to the Saxon ‘Hand,’ and is found in composition in such designations as ‘Blanchmains,’ that is, white-hand, ‘Grauntmains,’ big-hand, ‘Tortesmain,’ twisted-hand, ‘Malemeyn,’ evil-hand, or perhaps maimed-hand, equivalent therefore to ‘Male-braunch’ (found at the same early date) in ‘Mainstrong,’ a mere variation of ‘Armstrong,’ and in ‘Quarterman,’ scarcely recognisable in such an English-like form as the Norman ‘Quatre-main,’ the four-handed. In the reign of the second Richard it had become registered as ‘Quatremayn’ and ‘Quatreman,’ and the inversion of the two letters in this latter case was of course inevitable.^[459] ‘Brazdifer,’ I have said, is extinct—not so, however, ‘Pedifer’ (‘Bernard Pedefer,’ G., ‘Fulbert Pedefer,’ X.), that is, iron-footed, which, occurring from the earliest times, still looks stout and hearty in its present guise of ‘Petifer,’ ‘Pettifer,’^[460] and ‘Potiphar,’ though the last would seem to claim for it a pedigree nearly as ancient as that of the Welshman who, half-way up his genealogical tree, had made the interesting note: ‘About this time Adam was born.’ Even this name, however, did not escape translation, for we find an ‘Ironfoot’ (‘Peter Yrenefot,’ A.) recorded at the same date as the above.^[461] Our ‘Legges,’ our ‘Shanks’ and ‘Footes,’^[462] are all familiar to us, though the first is in most cases undoubtedly local, as being but an olden form of ‘Leigh.’^[463] We all remember the inimitable couplet placed over the memorial to Samuel Foote, the comedian—

‘Jambe’ was the Norman synonym of ‘Shank,’ and by way of more definite distinction we light upon the somewhat flattering ‘Bellejambe,’ the equally unflattering ‘Foljambe,’ the doubtful ‘Greyshank,’^[464] the historic ‘Longshank,’ the hapless ‘Cruikshank’ or ‘Bowshank,’^[465] the decidedly uncomplimentary ‘Sheepshank,’ and, last and worst, ‘Pelkeshank,’ seemingly intended to be ‘Pelican-shanked,’ which, when we recall the peculiar disproportion of that bird’s extremities to the rest of its body, affords ample reason for the absence of that sobriquet in our more modern rolls. Some fifty years ago a certain Mr. Sheepshanks, of Jesus College, Cambridge, while undergoing an examination in Juvenal, pronounced ‘satire’ ‘satyr.’ A wag, thereupon, wrote the following epigram, which soon found its way through the University:—

Swiftness of foot was not allowed to go unrecorded, and we have an interesting instance of the way in which this class of surnames arose from an entry recorded in the ‘Issues of the Exchequer.’ There we find a ‘Ralph Swyft’ mentioned as courier to Edward III. Nothing could be more natural than for such a sobriquet to become affixed to a man fulfilling an office like this, requiring, as it did at times, all the running and riding powers of which he could be capable.^[466] Other memorials of former agility in this respect are still preserved in our ‘Golightlys’^[467] and ‘Lightfoots,’ while of still earlier date, and more poetical form, we may instance ‘Harefoot’ and ‘Roefoot.’ These, however, are altogether inexpressive in comparison with such a sobriquet as ‘Scherewind’ or ‘Shearwind,’ which seems to have been a familiar expression at this time, for I find it recorded in three several rolls. It is strange, and yet not strange, that every peculiarity that can mark the human gait is distinctly preserved in our nomenclature. ‘Isabel Stradling’ or ‘William Stradling’ represent the straddle; ‘Thomas le Ambler’ or ‘Ralph le Ambuler’ (when not occupative), the amble; our ‘Shailers,’ ‘Shaylors,’ and ‘Shaylers,’ the shuffle; ‘Robert le Liltere,’ the hop; our ‘Scamblers’ and ‘Shamblers,’ the weak-kneed shamble; ‘Ralph le Todeler,’ the toddle; and ‘Samuel Trotman’ or ‘Richard Trotter’ (when not occupative), the trot, if that be possible on two legs. Besides these, we may mention the obsolete ‘Thomas Petitpas’ or ‘John Petypase,’ ‘William Noblepas,’ and ‘Malpas,’ which we might Saxonize into ‘Short-step,’ ‘High-step,’ and ‘Bad-step.’ ‘Christiana Lameman’ and ‘William Laymeman’ remind us of more pitiable weaknesses. ‘Barefoot’ may have been the designation of some one under penitential routine, unless it be a corruption of ‘Bearfoot.’ ‘Proudfoot’ and ‘Platfoot’ (plat = flat) need no comment, while ‘Sikelfoot,’ found by Mr. Lower as existing in the thirteenth century, seems, as he says, to bespeak a splayed appearance or outward twist.^[468] If this be so, the owner was not alone in his distress. We have just mentioned ‘Cruikshank.’ Our ‘Crooks’ are, I doubt not, of similar origin, and another compound of the same, now obsolete, was ‘Crookbone’ (‘Henry Crokebane,’ A.). Our ‘Crumps’ are but relics of the old ‘Richard le Crumpe’ or ‘Hugh le Crump,’ the crookbacked, and perhaps our ‘Cramps’ and ‘Crimps’ are but changes rung on the same. Our nursery literature still preserves the story of the ‘cow with the crumpled horn.’ Thus, also, was it with our ‘Cams,’ once ‘William le Cam.’ As a Celtic stream-name, denoting a winding course, it has survived the aggressions of Saxon and Norman, and is still familiar. Cambridge and Camford are on two different streams of this name. In the north a man is still said to ‘cam his shoe’ who wears it down on one side. I have heard the phrase often among the poorer classes of Lancashire. ‘Camoys’ or ‘Camuse,’ from the same root, was generally applied to the nasal organ. In the description of the Miller, which I shall have occasion to quote again shortly, Chaucer says—

As, however, I find both ‘John le Camoys’ and ‘Reginald de Camoys,’ it is only a fair presumption that in some cases it is of Norman local origin. With one of our leading families it is undoubtedly so. The two great clans of ‘Cameron’ and ‘Campbell,’ I may say in passing, though treading upon Scottish soil, are said to mean severally ‘crook-nosed’ and ‘crook-mouthed.’ If this be so, we may see how firmly has this little word imbedded itself upon our nomenclature, if not upon our more general vocabulary. Not to mention ‘Crypling,’ ‘Handless,’ and ‘Onehand,’^[469] we find ‘Blind’ significative of blindness; ‘Daffe’ and ‘Daft,’ of deafness; ‘Mutter’ and ‘Stutter,’ not to say ‘Stuttard’ and ‘Stammer,’ of lisping speech; and ‘Dumbard,’ of utter incapacity in that respect. Such a sobriquet as ‘Mad’^[470] of course explains itself. As we might well presume, this has not come down to us. Still less pleasant in their associations are our ‘Burls’ (‘Henry le Burle,’ A.), that is, blotch-skinned. But complimentary allusions to the smoothness of the hands and face were not wanting. Apart from a touch of poetry, such names as ‘Elizabeth Lyllywhite,’ now ‘Lilywhite;’ ‘William Beauflour,’ now spelt ‘Boutflower’ and ‘Buffler;’ and ‘Faith Blanchflower,’ still existing also, are not without a certain prettiness. Of equally clear complexion would be the obsolete ‘William Whiteflesh’ or ‘Gilbert Whitehand’^[471] or ‘Robert Blanchmains,’ not to mention our ‘Chits’ and ‘Chittys’ (‘John le Chit,’ A., ‘Agnes Chittye,’ Z.). We still talk in our nurseries of a ‘little chit,’ a word which, though strictly speaking confined to no age, had early become a pet name as applied to young children. It is with these, therefore, we must ally our ‘Slicks,’ from ‘sleek,’ ‘smooth,’^[472] ‘Sam Slick’ being by no means in possession of an imaginary name. Chaucer says of ‘Idleness,’ in his Romance—

It is astonishing how carefully will a sobriquet of an undoubtedly complimentary nature find itself preserved. Such a name as ‘Hugh le Bell’ or ‘Richard le Bell’ is an instance in point.^[473] While objectionable designations, or even those of but equivocal character, have been gradually shuffled off or barely allowed to survive, the mere fact of this being at the present day one of the most familiar, and in respect of sobriquet nomenclature the absolutely most common, of our surnames, shows that the human heart is not altered by lapse of generations, and that pride then, as now, wielded a powerful sceptre over the minds of men. Our ‘Belhams’ represent but the fuller ‘Bellehomme’ (‘William Bellehomme,’ M.). Thus the two may be set against our Saxon ‘Prettys’ and ‘Prettimans,’^[474] though ‘pretty’ would scarcely find itself so acceptable now, denoting as it does a style of beauty rather too effeminate for the lords of creation. In the Hundred Rolls occur ‘Matilda Winsome’ and ‘Alicia Welliking.’ Both these terms, complimentary as they undoubtedly were, are now obsolete, so far as our directories are concerned.

(2) Nicknames from Peculiarities of Complexion.

After all, however, it is, perhaps, complexion which has occupied for itself the largest niche in our more general nomenclature. Nor is this unnatural. It is still that which, in describing people, we seize upon as the best means of recognition. Sobriquets of this kind were so numerous, indeed, that there was no term in the vocabulary of the day which could be used to denote the colour of the dress, the hair, or the face, which did not find itself a place among our surnames.

It was the same with our beasts of burden or animals of the chase. In these days their hides almost invariably furnished forth their current designations. Thus we find the horse familiarly known by such titles as ‘Morell,’ from its moorish or swarthy tan, or ‘Lyard,’ that is, dapple-grey, or ‘Bayard,’ bay, or ‘Favell,’ dun, or ‘Blank,’ white. The dark hide of the ass got for it the sobriquet of ‘Dun,’ a term still preserved in the old proverb, ‘As dull as Dun in the mire,’ while again as ‘Burnell’ its browner aspect will be familiar to all readers of Chaucer. Thus, also, the fox was known as ‘Russell,’ the bear as ‘Bruin,’ and the young hind, from its early indefinite red, ‘Sorrell.’ How natural that the same custom should have its effect upon human nomenclature. How easy for a country community to create the distinction between ‘John le Rouse’ and ‘John le Black,’ ‘William le Hore’ and ‘William le Sor’ or ‘Sorrell,’ if the complexion of the hair or face were sufficiently distinctive to allow it. Some of these adjectives were applied to human peculiarities of this kind till within recent times. Burns uses ‘lyart’ for locks of iron grey, and Aubyn, in his ‘Lives,’ describes Butler, author of ‘Hudibras,’ as having ‘a head of sorrell haire.’ We ourselves talk of ‘brunettes’ and ‘blondes,’ of ‘dark’ and ‘fair.’ Thus it was then such sobriquets as ‘Philip le Sor,’ ‘Adam le Morell,’ ‘William le Favele’ or ‘Favell,’ ‘Walter le Bay’ or ‘Theobald le Bayard,’ ‘Henry le Dun’ or ‘Thomas le Lyard,’ arose. Thus was it our ‘Rouses’ and ‘Russells,’ our ‘Brownes’^[475] and ‘Brunes,’ with the obsolete ‘Brunman,’ or ‘Brunells’ and ‘Burnells,’ our ‘Whites’ and ‘Whitemans,’ our ‘Hores’ and ‘Hoares,’ our ‘Greys’ and ‘Grissels’^[476] sprang into being. Nor are these all. Our ‘Reeds,’ ‘Reids,’ and ‘Reads’ are all but forms of the old ‘rede’ or red, once so pronounced;^[477] while ‘Redman,’ when not a descendant of ‘Adam’ or ‘Thomas de Redmayne,’ is the bequest of some ‘Robert’ or ‘John Redman’ of the thirteenth century. Our ‘Swarts’ are but relics of the old ‘John le Swarte,’ applied no doubt to the tawny or sunburnt face of its original owner. The word was in common use at this time. In ‘Guy of Warwick’ we are told:—

The darker-hued countenances of our forefathers are immortalised also in such entries as ‘Reyner le Blake’ or ‘Stephen le Blak,’ now found as ‘Blake’ and ‘Black,’ or ‘Elias le Blakeman’ or ‘Henry Blacman,’ now ‘Blakeman’ and ‘Blackman’ respectively. ‘John le Blanc’ and ‘Warin Blench’ find themselves in the nineteenth century supported by our ‘Blanks’ and ‘Blanches;’^[478] while the descendants of such people as ‘Amabilla le Blund,’ or ‘Walter le Blunt,’ or ‘Reginald le Blond,’ or ‘Richard le Blount’ still preserve a memorial of their ancestry in such familiar forms as ‘Blund,’ ‘Blunt,’ ‘Blond,’ and ‘Blount.’ ‘Blanket’ and ‘Blanchet,’ as fuller forms, we shall notice shortly, and ‘Blondin,’ ‘Blundell,’ and the immortalised but mythic ‘Blondel’ are but changes rung upon the others. Our ‘Fallows’ are but relics of the ‘Fales’ and ‘Falemans’ of the Hundred Rolls. The somewhat pallid yellow they represented we still apply to park deer and untilled earth. We find it, however, used more personally in the ‘Knight’s Tale,’ where it is said of Arcite that he began to wax lean—

‘Scarlet’ doubtless was a sobriquet given, as may have been some of the above, from the colour of the dress, this being a very popular complexion of cloth in early days. Tripping it—

would be a familiar and pretty sight, no doubt, as the village maidens went round to the tune of the fife and tabor at the rural feast or ingathering, nor would umbrage be taken at the title. Several ‘Blues’ are recorded in the more Norman-French form of ‘le Bleu.’ Whether they still exist I am not quite sure, nor are we helped to any satisfactory conclusion by the epitaph which Mr. Lower wisely italicises, when he says it is said to exist in a church in Berkshire—

There may be more or less doubt as to the precise reference some of the above-mentioned names bear to the physical peculiarities of their owners, whether to the complexion of the face, or the hair, or, as I have lately hinted, to the dress. But in many other cases there can be no such controversy. For instance, no one can be in perplexity as to how our ‘Downyheads,’ ‘Rufheads,’^[479] ‘Hardheads,’ ‘Whiteheads,’ ‘Redheads,’ ‘Flaxenheads,’^[480] ‘Shavenheads,’ ‘Goldenheads,’ ‘Weaselheads,’^[481] ‘Coxheads’ or ‘Cocksheads,’ and ‘Greenheads’ arose, many of which, now extinct, were evidently intended to be obnoxious. Nor is there any greater difficulty in deciphering the meaning of such names as ‘Whitelock’ or ‘Whitlock,’ ‘Silverlock’ or ‘Blacklock.’ ‘Shakelock’ seems to refer to some eccentricity on the part of the owner, unless it be but a corruption of ‘Shacklock,’ a likely sobriquet for a gaoler, from the fetterlocks, once so termed, which he was wont to employ—

‘Whitehair,’^[482] ‘Fairhair,’^[483] and ‘Yalowhair,’ are equally transparent. The latter was once a decidedly favourite hue, as I believe it is still, only we now say ‘golden.’^[484] With the gross flattery so commonly resorted to by courtier historians, every princess was described as having yellow tresses. How they allowed themselves to be so cajoled is an equally historic mystery. Queen Elizabeth had more obsequious adulation uttered to her face, and possessed a greater stomach for it, than any other royal personage who ever sat upon or laid claim to a crown, but nothing pleased her more than a compliment upon her golden locks, carroty as they really were. In a description of another Elizabeth, the Queen of Henry VII., as she appeared before her coronation, 1487, quoted by Mr. Way, it is said that she wore ‘her faire yellow hair hanging down pleyne behynd her back, with a calle of pipes over it,’ and further back still, when Chaucer would describe the beauty of Dame Gladness, he must needs finish off the portrayal by touching up her locks with the popular hue—

‘Yalowhair’ is obsolete, but in our ‘Fairfax’ is preserved a sobriquet commemorative no doubt of the same favoured colour. In ‘Sir Gawayne’ we are told, after the alliterative style of the day, how ‘fair fanning fax’ encircled the shoulders of the doughty warrior. In the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ too, a demon is represented in one place as saying—

‘Beard,’ once entered as ‘Peter Wi’-the-berd,’ or ‘Hugo cum-BarbÂ,’ still thrives in our midst; and even ‘Copperbeard,’ ‘Greybeard,’ ‘Blackbeard,’^[485] and ‘Whitebeard’ contrive to exist. ‘Redbeard’^[486] together with ‘Featherbeard,’ ‘Eaglebeard,’ ‘Wisebeard,’ and ‘Brownbeard,’^[487] have long disappeared, and ‘Bluebeard,’ of whose dread existence we were, as children, only too awfully assured, has also left no descendants; but this, I fancy, we gather from his history. ‘Lovelock’ is a relic of the once familiar plaited and beribboned lock which I have already alluded to, as having been familiarly worn by our forefathers of the more exquisite type. To the same peculiar, if not effeminate propensity, we owe, I doubt not, ‘Locke’ (‘Nicol Locke,’ A.) itself, not to mention ‘Curl’ (‘Marcus Curle,’ Z.) and ‘Crisp’ (‘Reginald le Crispe,’ J.). The former of these two, however, seems to denote the natural waviness, the latter the artificial production. In the poem from which I have but just quoted we find the same hero described as having his hair—

and a memorial of the fashion still lingers in the ‘crisping pins’ of our present Bible version. In the Hundred Rolls appears the sobriquet of ‘Prikeavant.’ This, as Mr. Lower proves, lingered on till the close at least of the seventeenth century, in the form of ‘Prick-advance.’^[488] I cannot agree with him, however, that it arose as a mere spur-expression. I doubt not it is but the earlier form of the later ‘pickedevaunt,’ the pointed or spiked beard so much in vogue in mediÆval times. The word occurs in the ‘Taming of a Shrew’—

Nothing could be more natural than for such a custom as this to find itself memorialised in our nomenclature. Exaggeration in the habit would easily affix the name upon the wearer, and though not very euphonious as a surname, the popularity of the usage would take from its unpleasantness. This also will explain ‘Thomas Stykebeard,’ found in the H.R. at this time. But let us turn for a moment to an opposite peculiarity. Though we often talk of getting our heads polled, few, I imagine, reflect that our ‘Pollards’ must have obtained their title from their well-shorn appearance. It is with them, therefore, we must set our ‘Notts,’ ‘Notmans,’ and doubtless some of our ‘Knotts.’ The term ‘nott’ was evidently synonymous with ‘shorn,’ and to have a nothead was to have the hair closely cut all round the head. It is still commonly done in some parts of the country among the peasantry. Chaucer, describing the ‘Yeoman,’ says—

Andrew Boorde, too, later on, writing of the ‘Mores whyche do dwel in Barbary,’ says: ‘They have gret lyppes and nottyd heare, black and curled.’^[489] The name as a sobriquet is very common in the old registers. Among other instances may be mentioned ‘Henry le Not’ and ‘Herbert le Notte’ in the ‘Placitorum’ at Westminster. Nature, however, did for our ‘Callows’ what art had done for the latter. The term is written ‘calewe’ with our earlier writers, and in this form is found as a surname in 1313, one ‘Richard le Calewe,’ or bald-headed, occurring in the Parliamentary Writs for that year. We still talk of fledgelings as ‘callow young.’ From its Latin root ‘calvus,’^[490] and through the French ‘chauve,’ we get also the early ‘John le Chauf,’ ‘Geoffrey le Cauf,’ and ‘Richard le Chaufyn’—forms which still abide with us in our ‘Corfes’ and ‘Caffins.’ Our ‘Balls’ are manifestly sprung from some ‘Custance Balde’ or ‘Richard Bald.’ But there is yet one more name to be mentioned in this category, that of ‘Peel’ or ‘Peile,’ descended, as it doubtless is in many cases, from such folk as ‘Thomas le Pele’ or ‘William le Pyl.’

is the not very complimentary description Chaucer gives of the Miller of Trumpington. It is but the same word as occurs in our Authorised Version of Ezekiel xxix. 18, where it is said: ‘Every head was made bald, and every shoulder was peeled.’ In Isaiah xviii. 2, too, we read of a ‘nation scattered and peeled,’ the marginal reading being ‘outspread and polished.’^[491] Used as a surname, it seems to have denoted that glossy smoothness, that utter guiltlessness of capillary protection which belongs only to elderly gentlemen, and even then to but a few.^[492]

It can be no matter of astonishment to us, when we reflect upon it, that our nomenclature should owe so much to this one single specialty of the human physique. The face is the mark of all recognition among men, and how much of its character belongs to the simple appanage we have been speaking of we may easily gather from the difference the slightest change in the style of dressing or cutting it makes among those with whom we are most familiar. Looking back at what has been recorded, what a living proof they afford us of the truth of Horace Smith’s assertion that surnames ‘ever go by contraries.’ The art of colouring may be hereditary, but certainly not the dyes themselves. Who ever saw a ‘Whytehead’ who was not dark, or a ‘Blacklock’ who was not a blonde? Who ever saw reddish hair on a ‘Russell,’ or a swarthy complexion on a ‘Morell’? How invariably does it happen that our ‘Lightfoots’ are gouty, and our ‘Hales’ dyspeptic, our ‘Bigges’ are manikins, and our ‘Littles’ giants. Such are the tricks that Time plays with us. Recorded history gives us the slow development of change in the habits and customs of domestic life, but here we can compare the physical shifts of the family itself. As history and everything else, however, are said to repeat themselves, we may comfort or condole with, as the case may require, those who, if this dictum, like the Pope’s, be infallible, shall some time or other return to their primitive hues and original proportions.

(3) Nicknames from Peculiarities of Dress and Accoutrements.

An interesting peep into the minuter details of mediÆval life is given us in the case of names derived from costume and ensigncy, whether peaceful or warlike. The colour of the cloth of which the dress was composed seems to have furnished us with several surnames. For instance, our ‘Burnets’ would seem to be associated with the fabric of a brown mixture common at one period. Our great early poet, in describing Avarice, says—

It was the same with our ‘Burrels’ (‘Roger Burell,’ J., ‘Robert Burell,’ R.), whom I have already had occasion to mention. So familiar was this cloth that the poorer classes acquired from it the sobriquet of ‘borelfolk.’ This is only analogous to the French ‘grisette,’ from the grey cheap stuff she usually wore. Our ‘Blankets’ (‘Robert Blanket,’ B., ‘John Blanket,’ X.) or ‘Blanchets’ or ‘Plunkets,’^[493] for all these forms are found, are in the same way but relics of the time when the colourless woollen mixture, called by all these names, was in everyday demand, whether for dress or coverlet. A story has been spread abroad that our woollen ‘blanket’ owes its origin to a man of that name, who first manufactured it. Even otherwise well-informed writers have lent themselves to the furtherance of this fable. ‘Blanket’ was originally the name of a cheap woollen cloth, used for the apparel of the lower orders, and so entitled from its pale and colourless hue, just as russet and burrel were in vogue to express similar manufactures of more decided colours. It was but the Norman form of the Saxon ‘whittle,’ once the household word for this fabric. Thus we find it occurring in an old Act, already referred to, passed in 1363, to restrict the dress of the peasantry:—All people not possessing 40 shillings’ worth of goods and chattels ‘ne usent nule manere de drap, si noun blanket et russet, laune de xiid.,’ that is, shall not take nor wear any manner of cloth, but blanket and russet wool of twelvepence. (Stat. Realm, vol. i. p. 381.) An old indenture of goods contains the following:—‘Item, 1 olde Kendale gowne, and a hood of the same, pris ixd., the gowne lynyd with white blanket.’ (Mun. Acad. Oxon., p. 566.) Both ‘Whittle’ and ‘Blanket’ are existing surnames. The reader will see from these references alone that, whether in the case of the man or the manufacture, it is the colour, or rather lack of colour, which has given the sobriquet. Our ‘Greenmans,’ whether as surname or tavern sign, are but sprung from the old forester—

of Lincoln or Kendal make. The ‘Greenman’ was a favourite rural signboard, and I doubt not the reader will have seen it occasionally swinging still in the more retired parts of the country. Crabbe knew it well in his day—

Turning from the colour of the cloth to the garments into which it was fashioned, nothing could be more natural to our forefathers than to take off with a sobriquet the more whimsical aspects of dress indulged in by particular individuals. Royalty itself did not escape. It was through his introduction of a new fashion our second Henry got his nickname of ‘Curtmantel,’ and this was matched by ‘Capet’ and ‘Grisegonel’ across the water. ‘Richard Curtepy’ reminds us of the poor clerk of whom Chaucer says—

that is, his cloak or gabardine. ‘Henry Curtmantle,’ just mentioned, ‘Martin Curtwallet,’ and ‘Robert Curthose’ (still existing in Derbyshire in the more Saxon form of ‘Shorthose’),^[494] satirise the introduction of a curtailment in the general as ‘Reginald Curtbrant’ does in the more military habit; ‘Richard Widehose’ and the Scotch ‘Macklehose,’ on the other hand, suggesting a change of an opposite and more sailorlike character. ‘Hose,’ itself a surname, is again found in composition in ‘Richard Goldhose,’ ‘Nicholas Strokehose,’ ‘John Scrothose’ (‘Scratchhose,’), and ‘Richard Letherhose;’ the latter still to be met with in Germany as ‘Ledderhose.’ ‘Emma Wastehose,’ though now obsolete, evidently bespoke the reckless habits of the wearer, while ‘John Sprenhose’ (i.e., ‘Spurnhose’) seems to have declared its owner’s want of appreciation of that article altogether. The old ‘paletoque’ or doublet, a loose kind of frock often worn by priests, left itself a memorial in ‘Thomas Pyletok,’ which is now extinct, but ‘Pylch’ (‘Symon Pylche,’ A.), the maker of which has already been mentioned, remains hale and hearty in our midst. ‘Mantel’ (‘Walter Mantel,’ L.) and ‘Fremantel’^[495] are well established among us, the latter probably owing its origin to the frieze-cloth which the Frieslander of the Low Countries once manufactured out of our own wool. It is Latinized in our records into ‘Hugh de Frigido-Mantello,’ and the cloth itself as ‘Frisius pannus.’^[496] The herald’s tunic, barely covering the chest and open from the shoulder downwards, gave us our ‘Tabards.’ It must have had plenty of last in it, for Piers Plowman talks of—

The variegated dress, much in favour then apparently, still survives in our ‘Medlecote’ and ‘Medlicott.’^[497] The stuffed doublet gave us ‘Thomas Gambeson,’ now perhaps ‘Gamson,’ while the short petticoat is memorialised in ‘John Grenecurtel.’ ‘Alicia Caperon’ and ‘Thomas Chaperoun’ are early found. The chaperon was a hood by which the entire face could be concealed if it were so desired. Taylor, in the seventeenth century, mentions it as but recently out of fashion—

It is thus, by a somewhat strange but easy association of ideas, has come our modern protector in society so called.

Excess of apparel has often in olden days been under penal statute. Chaucer, in his time, decried its abuse, and an old rhyme of Edward III. date is still preserved, which is scathing enough—

We are reminded in this of ‘Gai-cote’ (‘William Gaicote,’ A.), which once was a surname, though now extinct. ‘Woolward’ or ‘Woolard’ (‘Geoffey Woleward,’ A., ‘Reginald Wolleward,’ N.) still thrives. To go ‘woolward’ was to undergo the penance of wearing the outer woollen cloth without any linen under-dress. It was often prescribed by the priesthood. Piers, in his Vision, says—

while another old poem bids us—

The name was not an unfrequent one at the time of which I am writing, and I doubt not was oftentimes familiarly applied to friars. We must probably refer to more warlike accoutrements for the origin of our ‘Gantletts’ or ‘Gauntletts’ (‘Henry Gauntelett,’ Z., ‘Roger Gauntlet,’ Z.), our ‘Pallets’ and ‘Vizards.’ The latter was that part of the helmet which was perforated for the wearer to see through, ‘pallet’ being the general term for the helmet itself. ‘Ranulf Strong-bowe’ was a likely sobriquet for a brawny-armed bowman to acquire, and, like ‘Isabella Fortiscue’ (brave shield) and ‘Emelina Longespee,’ belongs to more general history. ‘Sword,’ ‘Buckler,’ ‘Lance,’^[499] ‘Spear,’ ‘Pike,’ ‘Bill,’ the renowned ‘Brownbill,’ and others too many for enumeration, have similarly found a place in our nomenclature. What a revolution in the mode of warfare do they betoken. What a sweeping change has the invention of gunpowder effected on the battlegrounds of Europe.

But I mentioned ‘badges.’ It is amusing to see how the early love of distinctive ensigns has made its mark here. While it is an English instinct to reverence authority, this authority itself has ever been distinguished by the outward manifestation of dress and emblem. The ceremonious requirements of the feudal state have had their effect. As I endeavoured to show in a previous chapter, these were simply overwhelming. The office of each was not more distinct than his outward accompaniments, and it was by the latter his precise position was known. The ‘baton,’ however, seems to have held the foremost place as a token of authority—a sword, a javelin, a spear, a wand, a rod, it mattered not what, a something borne in the hand, and you might have known in that day an official. Nor are we as yet free from its influence. Royalty still has its sceptre, the Household of State its ‘black rod,’ magistracy has its mace, proctorship its poker, the churchwarden his staff, the beadle—far the most important of all to the charity children and himself—his stick. From official, this rage for badges seems to have passed on to the quieter and more ordinary avocations. The shepherd was not better known by his crook, the huntsman not better known by his horn, than the pilgrim by his ‘bourdon,’ the woodward by his ‘bill,’ or the surveyor by his ‘meteyard’^[500] or ‘metewand.’ How easy then for all these words to be turned into sobriquets. How natural they should become slang epithets for those who carried them. How natural that we should find them all in our directories. ‘Meatyard,’ ‘Burdon’ or ‘Bourdon,’ ‘Crook,’ ‘Wand,’ ‘Staff,’ ‘Rodd,’ ‘Horne,’^[501] all are there. Nor did the personal characteristics of such bearers escape the good-humoured raillery of our ancestors. Far from it. ‘Waghorn,’^[502] would easily fix itself upon some awkward horn-blower; ‘Wagspear’ (‘Mabill Wagspere,’ W. 1.), or ‘Shakespeare’ (‘William Shakespeare,’ V. 1.), or ‘Shakeshaft’^[503] or ‘Drawsword’ (‘Henry Drawswerde,’ A.), or ‘Drawespe’ (‘Thomas Drawespe,’ A.) upon some over-demonstrative sergeant or clearer of the way; or ‘Wagstaffe’ (‘Robert Waggestaff,’ A.) on some obnoxious beadle.^[504] ‘Tipstaffe’ we know for certain as a name of this class—he was a bumbailiff. In 1392 one Roger Andrew was publicly indicted for pretending to be an officer of the Marshalsea, which he did by bearing a ‘wooden staff with horn at either end, called a “tippestaffe.”’ It does not seem, however, to have been confined only to him. Chaucer says of the frÈre, that—

and but two lines further on he tells us—

which thus explicitly explains the term. The same humour found vent in ‘John Swyrdebrake,’^[505] ‘Adrian Breakspear,’ ‘William Longstaffe,’ ‘Antony Halstaff’ (perchance ‘Hale-staff’),^[506] and ‘Thomas Ploghstaf’ (Plowstaff). With one or two more general terms of this class we may proceed. ‘Robert Hurlebat’^[507] and ‘Matthew Winspear,’ ‘Richard Spurdaunce’ and ‘Robert Bruselance,’ ‘Simon Lovelaunce’ and ‘Thomas Crakyshield,’^[508] ‘Roger Benbow,’ ‘Cicely Brownsword,’ and ‘Thomas Shotbolte,’ are evidently nicknames fastened upon certain individuals for special prowess in some of the sports of the Middle Ages, probably at some church-ale or wakes.

(1) Nicknames from Peculiarities of Disposition—Complimentary.

Let us now turn to the varied characteristics of the human heart. If we wish to know how many good and excellent qualities there are in the world, and at the same time deceive ourselves into a belief that the evils are few, we must look into our directories. Scan their contents, and we might almost persuade ourselves that Utopia was a fact, and that we were consulting its muster-roll. At every turn we meet with virtue in the guise of a ‘Goode,’ or an ‘Upright,’ or a ‘Righteous,’^[509] or a ‘Patient,’ or a ‘Best,’ or a ‘Faithful;’ or infallibility in a ‘Perfect’ or ‘Faultless.’ We are ever coming across philosophy in the shape of a ‘Wise’ or a ‘Sage.’ Conscience must surely trouble but little, where ‘Merry’ and ‘Gay,’ ‘Blythe’ and ‘Joyce,’ that is, joyous, are all but interminable; and companionship must be ever sweet with such people to converse with as ‘Makepeace’^[510] and ‘Friend,’ ‘Goodhart’ and ‘Truman,’ ‘True’ and ‘Leal,’ ‘Kind’ and ‘Curtis’ or ‘Curteis.’ ‘Fulhardy’ and ‘Giddyhead,’ ‘Cruel’ and ‘Fierce,’ ‘Wilfulle’ and ‘Sullen,’ and ‘Envious’ did indeed find a habitation in its pages, but they have long since disappeared, being quite out of place in the presence of such better folk as ‘Hardy’^[511] and ‘Grave,’ and ‘Gentle’ and ‘Sweet;’ or if the cloven foot of pride be still visible in ‘Proud’ and ‘Proudfoot,’ it is nevertheless under constant rebuke by our familiarity with such lowly characters as ‘Humble’ and ‘Meek.’^[512] Nevertheless, this was anything but so in the old time. The evil roots of sin may still abide hale and strong and ineradicable in the heart of man, but he has carefully weeded the more apparent traces of this out of his nomenclature. I do not mean to say we are utterly without names of objectionable import, but we shall see that what I have stated once before is true in the main. We shall see that as a rule it is only when the sobriquet word has changed its meaning, or that meaning become obscure and doubtful, or when the name itself has lost the traces of its origin—easy enough in the lapse of so many days of unsettled orthography—that the surname has lingered on. This will make itself apparent as we advance.

Such names as ‘Walter Snel,’ ‘Richard Quicke’ (A.), including the immortal Quickly, ‘Richard le Smert’ (M.), now ‘Smart,’ ‘Thomas Scharp,’ now ‘Sharp,’^[513] ‘Gilbert Poygnant’ (A.), ‘Thedric le Witte’ (A.), now ‘Witt’ and ‘Witty,’ ‘Nicholas le Cute’ (A.), and ‘Ralph le Delivre’^[514] (M.M.), argue well for the keen perceptions and brisk habits of early days.^[515] The slang sense of several of these, strangely enough, is but the original meaning restored. ‘Witty’ arose when the word implied keenness of intellect rather than of humour. Chaucer thus speaks of ‘witty clerkes,’ using the latter word too in a perfectly unofficial sense. Our numberless ‘Clarkes’ and ‘Clerkes,’ sprung from equally numberless ‘Beatrix le Clercs’ or ‘Milo le Clerks,’ may therefore belong either to the professional class or to the one we are considering. ‘William le Frek’ (M.) or ‘Ralph Frike’ (A.), now found as ‘Freak,’ ‘Frick,’ and ‘Freke,’ was a complimentary sobriquet implicative of bravery and daring even to rashness.^[516] Minot in his political songs tells us in alliterative verse how the doughty men of Edward the Third’s army were—

The old ‘William le Orpede,’ or ‘Stephen le Horpede,’ or ‘Peter Orpedeman’ denotes a disposition equally stout-hearted.^[517] It is a term found in well-nigh all our mediÆval writers, and was evidently in common and familiar use. Trevisa, in his account of the Norman invasion, represents ‘Gurth’ as saying to Harold, ‘Why wilt thou unwary fight with so many orped men?’ The monk of Glastonbury also, speaking of Edward the Third’s expedition to Calais in 1350, relates that he ‘towke with him the nobleis, and the gentelles, and other worthi and orpedde menne of armes.’ Our ‘Keats’ and ‘Ketts’ are the old ‘Walter le Ket’ (G.) or ‘Osbert le Ket’ (J.), that is, the fierce, the bold. Thus the cowherd in ‘William of Pelerne’ directs the child how to conduct himself—

With these therefore we may associate ‘William le Prew,’ now ‘Prew,’^[518] ‘Nicholas Vigerous,’ now found also as ‘Vigors,’ ‘Helen Gallant,’ ‘John le Stallworth,’^[519] ‘Thomas Doughtye,’ and ‘Robert le Bolde,’ all still well-known names. ‘Prest,’ ‘Peter le Prest’ (M.), when not the archaic form of ‘Priest,’ is of kin to the mountebank’s ‘presto,’ and means—quick, ready. It was thus used till the seventeenth century. ‘Kean,’ found as ‘Hugh le Kene’ or ‘Joan le Kene,’ implies impetuosity. All these names speak well for the pluck of our forefathers. They are found with tolerable frequency, and naturally have not been suffered to die out for lack of pride. The Norman element, as we see, is strong in these chivalrous sobriquets. Nor is it less so with many other terms of no unpleasant meaning. Our ‘Purefoys’ or ‘Purfeys’ represent the pure faith of their countrymen.^[520] Our ‘Parfitts’ are but the quainter form of ‘Perfect.’^[521] Our ‘Bones,’ ‘Boons,’ and ‘Bunns’ are but variously corrupted forms of ‘Duran le Bon,’ or ‘Richard le Bone,’ or ‘Alice le Bonne,’ or ‘William le Boon,’ equivalent therefore to the earlier ‘Goods.’ ‘Bunker’ is similarly but ‘Bon-coeur’ (‘William Bonquer,’ O.),^[522] our Saxon ‘Goodhart,’ and ‘Bonner,’ and the longer ‘Debonaire’ (‘Philip le Debeneyre,’ A.),^[523] our more naturalized ‘Gentle’ (‘William le Gentil,’ M.), ‘Gentilman’ (‘Robert Gentilman,’ V. 1.),^[524] and ‘Curteis’ or ‘Curtis’ (‘Walter le Curteys’ J., ‘Richard le Curteis,’ C.), Chaucer says—

‘Amiable’ (‘Edward Amiable,’ Z., ‘Joan Amiable,’ Z.) once existed, but in our registers, at least, that sweet grace is now wanting. Equivalent to these latter, but more Saxon in character, come our ‘Hendys’ or ‘Hentys’ (‘Thomas le Hendy,’ F.F., ‘John le Hendy,’ F.F.), a term found in all our early writers, and prettily expressive of that which was gentle and courteous combined. In the ‘Canterbury Tales’ the host reproves the friar for lack of civility to one of the company by saying—

In the Hundred Rolls we find a ‘William Hendiman’ occurring, and a ‘John Hende’ was Lord Mayor of London in 1391. We have just mentioned the word ‘musarde.’ This reminds us of our ‘Musards’ (‘Malcolm le Musard,’ M.), who were originally of a dreamy temperament.^[525] With our Saxon ‘Moodys’^[526] (‘Richard Mody,’ G.), however, their title has fallen in general estimation, the one now denoting, when used at all, a trifling, the other a morose and gloomy disposition. Our ‘Sadds’ (‘Robert Sad,’ H.), too, from being merely serious, sedate folk, have become sorrowful of heart. Our great early poet speaks in the negative sense of—

that is, unstable and fickle. In a short poem, ascribed to Lydgate, pointing out to children their course of behaviour in company, we are told—

Here of course sobriety of demeanour, rather than sorrowfulness, is intended.^[528] That ‘Henry le Wepere’ (A.), and ‘Peter le Walur’ (A.), and ‘William le Blubere’ (A.), however, must have been of rueful countenance we need not doubt.

Many changes too have passed over the names as well doubtless as over the lives of another section of our nomenclatural community. Our ‘Cunnings,’ we will hope, dated from the time when he who kenned his work well was so entitled without any suspicion of duplicity.^[529] Very likely too our ‘Slys’ (‘John Slye,’ H.), and ‘Sleighs’ (‘Simon le Slegh,’ M.), ‘Slees’ (‘Isabella Slee,’ W.G.), and ‘Slemmans’ and Slymans’ were simply remarkable for being honestly dexterous in their several avocations.^[530] The ‘mighty hand and outstretched arm’ of modern psalters was once translated ‘a hand that was slegh.’ But as slyness got by degrees but more and more associated with the juggler’s sleight-of-hand tricks, the word fell into disrepute. Such is the invariable effect of keeping bad company. So late, however, as the seventeenth century, one of our commonwealth poets was not misunderstood when he spoke of one whom—

But the same predisposition to give ‘crafty’ and ‘sly’ and ‘cunning’ and ‘artful’ a dishonest sense has not been therewith content, but must needs throw ridicule upon the unsophisticated and artless natures of our ‘Simples’ (‘Jordan le Simple,’ A.), who would scarcely feel complimented if their surname were to originate in the present day.^[531] It is the same with our ‘Seeleys’ (‘Benedict Sely,’ D.) and ‘Selymans’ (‘George Selyman,’ D.), the older forms of ‘Silly’ and ‘Sillyman.’ Perhaps the phrase ‘silly lamb’ is the only one in which we colloquially preserve the former idea of ‘silly,’ that of utter guilelessness. A ‘silly virgin’ with Spenser was no foolish maiden, but one helpless in her innocence, and the ‘silly women’ Shakespeare hints at in his ‘Two Gentlemen of Verona’ were but inoffensive and unprotected females.^[532] ‘Sealey,’ ‘Silly,’ ‘Sillyman,’ and ‘Selyman,’^[533] are all pleasant memorials of the earlier sense of this word. Our ‘Quaints’ and ‘Cants’ have gone through a changeful career. They are but the descendants of the old ‘Margaret le Coynte’ or ‘Richard le Queynte,’ from the early French ‘coint,’ neat, elegant. A shadow fell over it, however, and a notion of artfulness becoming attached to the word, to be quaint was to be crafty. Thus Wicklyffe, in his translation of St. Mark’s account of Christ’s betrayal, makes Judas say to the servants of the high priest, ‘Whomever I shall touch, he it is, hold ye him, and lead him warily, or queintly.’ Thus, too, Lawrence Minot, in his ‘Political Songs,’ tells us how—

Strange to say, the word has well-nigh recovered its original sense, betokening as it does a whimsical and antique prettiness, if not the bare quality itself. Our original ‘Careless’ (‘Antony Careless,’ Z.) was of that happy disposition which the petty worries and anxieties of life do not easily disturb, and, to judge from our nomenclature, he forms but one of a large band of cheery and easy-minded mortals. ‘Joyce,’ that is, ‘Jocose,’ when not a Christian name,^[534] and ‘Jolly’ must be set here, not forgetting the older and prettier ‘Jolyffe’ (‘Henry Jolyffe,’ M.). In the ‘Miller’s Tale’ we are told of ‘Absolon,’ how that when at eventide he had taken up his ‘giterne’—

to the window of his lady-love. ‘Gay’ (‘William le Gay,’ R.), and ‘Blythe’ (‘Richard Blythe,’ Z.),^[535] and ‘Merry’ (‘William Merrye,’ Z.), or ‘Merriman’ (‘John Meryman,’ X.), and ‘Gaillard,’ or ‘Gallard,’ or ‘Gayliard,’ or ‘Gaylord’ (‘Nicholas Gaylard,’ T., ‘William Gallard,’ A., ‘Sabina Gaylard,’ H.), must all be placed also in this category.^[536] I am not quite sure, however, that the last are without a suspicion of that conviviality which the buxom alewife was but too ready to bestow. Our merry, versatile friend Absolon, whom I have just referred to, among other his unclerkly arts, could play on the ‘giterne’ as well as any ‘galliard tapstere.’ It seems to have been a common epithet, and would readily find a place in our nomenclature, where it is now firmly fixed. Our ‘Merryweathers’ (‘Andrew Meriweder,’ A.) and ‘Fairweathers’ (‘John Fayrweder,’ A.)^[537] may seem somewhat difficult of explanation to those who are unaware of the colloquial use of these expressions in former times, ‘Mery-weder’ especially being of the most familiar import. In the ‘Coventry Mysteries’ mention is made of—

A happy sunshiny fellow would easily acquire the sobriquet, and indeed both are found at a very early day as such.^[538]

Not a few of those expressive terms of endearment, some of which still flourish in our nurseries, have made their mark upon our directories. We have already alluded to our ‘Chittys.’ Our ‘Leafs’ represent the old ‘Alice le Lef’ or ‘Matilda la Lef,’ beloved or dear. We still use it in the well-nigh solitary expression ‘lief as loth,’ but once it was in familiar request. Robert of Brunne, in one of his stories, says—

Akin to this latter is ‘Love,’ which, when not the old ‘Robert le Love’ or wolf, is found in composition in not a few instances. ‘Lovekin’ and ‘Lovecock,’ after the remarks made in our first chapter on these terminations, will be readily explainable; and ‘Truelove,’ ‘Derelove,’ ‘Honeylove,’ and ‘Sweetlove’^[539] supply us with expletives of so amorous a nature, we can but conjecture them to have arisen through the too publicly proclaimed feelings of their early possessors. ‘Newlove’ sounds somewhat inconstant, ‘Winlove’ attractive.^[540] ‘Goodlove,’ ‘Spendlove,’ and ‘Likelove,’ I believe, are now obsolete—a lot, too, which has befallen the hardened ‘Lacklove,’ while our ‘Fulliloves’^[541] still declare the brimming affection which belongs to their nature—or at least did to that of their progenitor. But even they are commonplace beside our ‘Waddeloves’ or ‘Waddelows,’ the early form of which, ‘Wade-in-love,’ would seem to tell of some lovesick ancestor so helplessly involved in the meshes cast about him as to have become the object of the unkind sarcasms of his neighbours. A longer and equally curious sobriquet abides in our ‘Wellbeloveds’ and ‘Wellbiloves.’ It is this latter form in which it is found in the ‘Issues of the Exchequer.’^[542] The French form of this was ‘Bienayme’ (‘William Bienayme,’ A.), and to some settler of that name upon our shores I suspect it is we owe our ‘Bonamys’ (‘William Bonamy,’ A.). I have just mentioned ‘Sweetlove.’ Associated with this are our simpler ‘Sweets,’ the nursery ‘Sweetcock,’ and ‘Sweetman,’^[543] variously corrupted into ‘Sweatman,’ ‘Swetman,’ and ‘Swatman.’ ‘Bawcock’ and ‘Baucock,’ if not from ‘Baldwin,’ will be the endearing ‘beau-coq,’ once in familiar use. Our ‘Follets,’ ‘Follits,’ and ‘Foliots,’ the last the original form, meant nothing more than ‘my foolish one’ or ‘fond one,’ and were very common. They are but varied in the longer ‘Hugh Folenfaunt,’ but I am afraid ‘Walter Fulhardy’ at the same period is less complimentary. ‘Poppet,’ or puppet, once the doll of English infancy, only remains in the gilded and waxen manikins of the showman. The surname, however, abides with us, as does also ‘Poplett.’ The old ‘fere,’ a companion, has left its mark in our ‘Fairs.’ We all remember Byron’s resuscitation of the word. In ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ mention is made of—

Thus ‘Playfair,’ once written ‘Playfere,’ is simply ‘playfellow,’ while the obsolete ‘Makefere’ (‘Hugh Makefare,’ A.) would seem to be but intensive, ‘make’ being the invariable dress with olden writers of our more familiar ‘mate.’^[544]

There is something in obtrusive virtue that instinctively repels us. We always like a man’s face to be the index to the book of his heart, but when he would seem to have carefully turned down each leaf for our inspection, we get a revulsion of feeling—we like to look out the page for ourselves. An elevated sense of self-esteem was decidedly approved of by our forefathers, but its too demonstrative exhibition soon showed itself condemned in our ‘Prouds,’ ‘Prouts,’ ‘Proudmans,’ ‘Proudloves,’ and ‘Proudfoots’ (‘Hugh le Proud,’ A., ‘John le Prute,’ H., ‘George Proudelove,’ Z.Z., ‘Robert Prudefot,’ A.). A very interesting name which has escaped the notice of surname hunters is that of ‘Gerish’ or ‘Gerrish,’ both forms being found in our modern directories. They are but the truer representatives of the word ‘garish’ as used by our later poets. Shakespeare’s Juliet, we may remember, apostrophizes Night, and bids her, when Romeo be dead, cut him into stars, and thus—

This splendidly describes the term, expressing as it does that which glares ostentatiously and showily upon the eye. Lydgate, far earlier, had used it thus, in the form of ‘gerysshe;’ and such names as ‘Umfrey le Gerische’ or ‘John le Gerisse,’ found yet more remotely, testify to its once familiar and frequent use. We now talk of a prude as one who exaggerates woman’s innate modesty of demeanour. Formerly it denoted the virtue pure and untravestied. The root, the Latin ‘probus,’ excellent, still remains in our ‘Prudhommes’ (‘William Prodhomme,’ R., ‘Peter Prodhomme,’ A.), with their more commonly corrupted ‘Pridhams’ and ‘Prudames’ and ‘Prudens,’^[545] a sobriquet which once referred simply to the honest and guileless uprightness of their owners. How truly do such words as these remind us of the poor estimate man, after all, forms of himself. Man often rebels at the declaration of Revelation that he is a fallen being, and yet how strongly does he assert this fact in the changes he himself has made in the meaning of words. Our ‘Bauds’ (‘William le Baud,’ B., ‘Wauter le Baud,’ M.) were once but the Norman equivalent of our ‘Merrys’ already mentioned.^[546] Must lightness of heart inevitably end in wanton levity? There was a day when our ‘Parramores’ (‘Roger Paramour,’ M.; ‘Henry Parramore,’ Z.)^[547] were but the simple honest lover of either sex, when our ‘Lemons,’ ‘Lemans,’ and ‘Lemmans’ (‘Eldred Leman,’ A., ‘John Leman,’ M.) meant but the beloved one from ‘lief,’ ‘dear.’ Both Chaucer and Piers Plowman employ the term ‘lef-man’ or ‘leef-man’ as an expression of endearment, with no thought of obloquy. Thus, too, in the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ God is represented as bidding Gabriel to go to Nazareth—

Still, so early as the days of Gower, its corrupted leman had become a sobriquet for one of loose, disorderly habits.^[548]

(2) Nicknames from Peculiarities of Disposition—Objectionable.

The mention of such names as ‘Baud,’ ‘Parramore,’ ‘Leman’ or ‘Lemon,’ ‘Proud,’ ‘Proudman,’ and ‘Proudfoot,’ which we have charitably set in the list of complimentary nicknames, as having, perchance, risen at a time when the meaning of the words conveyed a totally different idea from that which they now convey, brings us to the category of those which can scarcely seek any shelter of such a kind. ‘Lorel,’ ‘Lurdan,’ and ‘Lordan,’ together with the once familiar ‘losel’ and ‘losard,’ denoted a waif, or stray, one who preyed upon society, exactly identical, in fact, with the Latin ‘perditus.’ Thus we find Herod, in the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ saying to his officers—

‘Cocke Lorelle,’ too, speaks of—

Cotgrave explains a ‘loricard’ to mean a luske, lowt, or lorell. This luske, from the old French lasque, or lache—slothful—though now wholly obsolete, did much duty formerly. The adjective luskish and the substantive luskishness are often found. In law lache still survives as a term for culpable remissness. Our ‘Laches,’ ‘Lashes,’ ‘Laskies,’ and ‘Lusks,’ I am afraid, therefore, come of but an indifferent ancestry. Nor can anything better be said of our ‘Paillards’ or ‘Pallards.’ We still talk of a ‘pallet,’ the old ‘paillet,’ or straw bed, from ‘paille,’ chaff. A paillard was a cant term for a lie-a-bed.

By ‘ribaldry’ we always mean that which is foul-mouthed in expression. This was ever its implication. A ‘ribaud,’ or ‘ribaut’ belonged to the very scum of society. He was a man who hung on to the skirts of the nobility by doing all their more infamous work for them. Chaucer, wishing to comprise in one sentence the highest and the lowest grades of society, speaks in his ‘Romance’ of ‘king, knighte, or ribaude.’ ‘William le Ribote,’ therefore, mentioned in the ‘Chapter House Records of Westminster,’ or ‘William Ribaud’ (W. 15), could not have borne the best of characters, I am afraid. Although not quite so degraded in the world’s esteem as some of these last, we may here include our ‘Gedlings,’ reminiscences of the old ‘Gadling’ or ‘Gedling,’ one who gadded about from door to door to talk the gossip and scandal—the modern tattler, in fact. Our former ‘Gerard le Gaburs’ and ‘Stephen le Gabbers’ were equally talkative, if not such ramblers. As overmuch talking and jesting always beget a suspicion of overstretching the truth, so was it here. Wicklyffe uses ‘gabbing’ in the sense of lying, and an old poem says:—

In the North of England, I need scarcely add, this is the ordinary and colloquial sense of the term to the present day. The name of ‘John Totiller’ might well-nigh induce us to believe that teetotalism was not unknown by that name at this period, but it is not so. A ‘totiller’ was a ‘whisperer’ of secrets. In the ‘Legend of Good Women,’ one says to the God of Love—

The name of ‘Dera Gibelot’ or ‘John Gibbelote’^[550] reminds us of a term now obsolete, but once familiar as denoting a giddy, flighty girl.^[551] It is found in various forms, the commonest being that of ‘giglot.’^[552] Mr. Halliwell quotes an old proverb by way of adding a further variation—

I would, however, suggest this as but the pet form of ‘Gill,’ mentioned in my chapter on Christian names. In either case the meaning is the same. An often met with sobriquet in the fourteenth century is that of ‘Robert le Burgulion,’ or ‘Geoffrey le Burgillon,’ the old term for a braggart. It is now, however, wholly obsolete. ‘Robert le Lewed,’ or ‘William le Lewed,’ is also lost to our directories, and certainly would be an unpleasant appellation in the nineteenth century. Its general meaning four hundred years ago, however, was its more literal one, that of simplicity or ignorance. It is connected with our word ‘lay’ as opposed to ‘cleric,’ and arose at a time when knowledge was all but entirely in the hands of the clergy. Thus in the ‘Pardoner’s Tale’ it is said—

Such a name then, we may trust, implied nothing beyond a lack of knowledge in respect of its possessor. ‘William Milksop,’ or ‘Thomas Milkesop,’ or ‘Maurice Ducedame’ were but types of a class of dandified and effeminate beings who have ever existed, but even their names would be more acceptable than those which fell to ‘Robert le Sot,’ or ‘Maurice Druncard,’ or ‘Jakes Drynk-ale,’^[553] or ‘Geoffrey Dringkedregges,’^[554] or ‘Thomas Sourale.’^[555] It is evident that there were those who were disposed to follow the dictate of at least one portion of the old rhyme—

‘Ralph Sparewater,’ I fear, was a man of dirty habits, while ‘John Klenewater’ was a model of cleanliness.

But we have not yet done with sobriquets of an unpleasant nature. Men of miserly and penurious habits seem to have flourished in plentiful force in olden days as well as the present. ‘Irenpurse’ figures several times in early rolls, and would be a strong, if somewhat rough, sarcasm against the besetting weakness of its first possessor. ‘Lovegold’ is equally explicable. ‘Pennifather,’ however, was the favourite title of such. An old couplet says—

It is found in the various forms of ‘Penifader,’ ‘Panyfader,’ and ‘Penifadir,’ in the fourteenth century. ‘Pennypurse,’^[556] ‘Halfpeny,’ and ‘Turnpeny’^[557] are met with at the same time, and somewhat later on ‘Thickpeny.’ ‘Broadpeny,’ ‘Manypenny,’ now corrupted into ‘Moneypeny,’ ‘Winpeny,’ now also found as ‘Wimpenny,’ ‘Pinchpenny,’ with its more directly Norman ‘Pinsemaille,’ and ‘Kachepeny,’ with its equally foreign ‘Cache-maille,’ are all also of the same early date, and with one or two exceptions are to be met with to this very day.^[558] It is a true criticism which, as is noticed by Archbishop Trench, has marked the miserly as indeed the emphatically miserable soul. ‘Whirlepeny’ is now extinct, but alone, so far as my researches go, existed formerly to remind men that the spendthrift character is equally subversive of the true basis of human happiness.^[559] Several names combined with ‘peck’ and ‘pick,’ as ‘Peckcheese,’ ‘Peckbean,’ ‘Peckweather,’ and ‘Pickbone,’ seem to be expressive of the gluttonous habits of the possessors, but it is possible they may be but the moral antecedents of our modern ‘Pecksniffs’!^[560]

Our ‘Starks’ and ‘Starkies,’ if not ‘Starkmans,’ represent a word which can hardly be said to exist in our vocabulary, since it now but survives in certain phrases, such as ‘stark-mad,’ or ‘stark-naked.’ We should never say a man was ‘stark’ simply. A forcible word, it once expressed the rude untutored nature of anything. Thus, on account of his unbridled passion, the Bastard King is termed in the Saxon chronicle ‘a stark man, and very savage,’ while just before he is asserted to be ‘stark beyond all bounds to them who withsaid his will.’ Thus it will be akin to such names as ‘Walter le Wyld,’^[561] or ‘Warin Cruel,’ or ‘Ralph le Ferce,’ or ‘John le Savage,’ or ‘William le Salvage,’ or ‘Adelmya le Sauvage,’ or ‘William Ramage.’ Chaucer speaks somewhere of a ‘ramage goat.’

III.—Miscellaneous.

(1) Nicknames from the Animal and Vegetable Kingdom.

Mr. Lower, in his ‘English Surnames,’ gives a long list of names from what he calls vegetable productions, but, although he does not say so, I am confident he would be the first to admit that the great majority of those which he instances should really be set among our local surnames. For example, he includes ‘Cherry,’ ‘Broome,’ ‘Bramble,’ ‘Ferne,’ ‘Holyoak,’ ‘Peach,’ ‘Rowntree,’ in this category. While ‘Cherry’ and ‘Peach’ might possibly be sobriquets of complexion, the manifest course is to look upon them as of local origin. So persuaded am I of this, after a long perusal of mediÆval records, that I shall notice but some half-dozen names from the vegetable kingdom, and only those of which I can find memorials in past registers. This is a place which of all others might well tempt me to run riot among our directories, and collect a curious list from our present existing nomenclature; but I would even here persistently adhere to the idea with which I set out, and to which I have mainly been true, viz., to instance names about which I can speak somewhat positively, because I have found them imbedded in the nomenclature of the period in which surnames had their rise. ‘Blanchflower,’ ‘Lilywhite,’ and ‘Boutflower’ I have already dealt with. ‘Robert Daisye’ occurs in the ‘Trial of Dame Alice Kyteler’ (Cam. Soc.), ‘Nicholas Pescodde’ in the ‘Proceedings in Chancery’ (Elizabeth), ‘Godfrey Gingivre’ (Ginger) in the ‘Writs of Parliament,’^[562] ‘Geoffrey Peppercorn’ in the Hundred Rolls, ‘Robert Primerose’ and ‘Sara Garlek’ in the ‘History of Norfolk’ (Blomefield), and ‘Roger Pluckerose’ and ‘John Pullrose’ in a Sussex Roll of 1296.^[563] I doubt whether more than one or two of these can be said rightly to belong to the nickname class. As sign-names—for I feel assured they thus arose—they will have their place in our second chapter on ‘Local Names.’^[564]

But when we come to the Animal Kingdom we are on clearer and more definite ground. The local class must undoubtedly embrace a large number of these names, as such an entry as ‘William atte Roebuck’ (M.), or ‘Richard de la Vache’ (A.), or ‘Thomas atte Ram’ (N.), or ‘John de la Roe’ (O.), or ‘Gilbert de la Hegle’ (A.), or ‘Hugh atte Cokke’ (B.), or ‘Walter de Whitehorse’ (C.), or ‘John atte Gote’ (M.) dearly testifies. But on the other hand we find a class, set by which the last is insignificant—a class which has its own entries—‘William le Got’ (A.), ‘Katerina le Cok’ (B.), ‘Alicia le Ro’ (A.), ‘Philip la Vache’ (C.), or ‘Joachim le Ram’ (T.), corresponding to the former, only differing in that such entries are vastly more numerous and embrace a wider range, taking in, in fact, the whole genus and species that belong alike to ‘the fish of the sea, the fowl of the air, the cattle, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.’ In dealing with this large and varied assortment of sobriquets, I would say then that, where there is no proof positive to the contrary, the course is to survey a name of this class as referable to three distinct origins, and I put them in the following order of probability:—1. A nickname taken from that animal whose generally understood habits seemed to bear affinity to those of the nominee. 2. A local sign-name. 3. An heraldic device. With these preliminary statements, let us proceed.

As we find all the moral qualities seized upon to give individuality to the possessors, so, too, we find the names of animals whose peculiarities gave pretext for the sobriquets pressed into the service of our nomenclature. In our earlier Pagan history it had been the wont of Saxon fathers to style their children by the names of such beasts as from their nobler qualities it was hoped the little one would one day copy. The same fashion still existed, only that the nickname as the exponent of popular feeling was really more or less appropriate to him who was made to bear it. In the latter case, too, it was the ridiculous aspects of character that were most eagerly caught at. Our general vocabulary is not without traces of this custom. We still term a shrewish wife a vixen, i.e. a she fox. Men of a vile, mean character are rascals, i.e. lean deer; and rough boys are urchins,^[565] a corruption of the old herison, or hedgehog. Applying this to surnames, we come first to

(a) Beasts.—Our ‘Bests,’ when not local, are but the ‘Richard le Bestes’ or ‘Henry le Bestes’ of the thirteenth century. Their superlative excellence is therefore imaginary, I fear, but we may be permitted to hope that they are what they appear. ‘Edith Beest,’ in the sixteenth century, is nearer our modern form. Our ‘Oliphants,’ ‘Olivants,’ and ‘Ollivants’ represent but the elephant, and owe their origin, doubtless, to the huge and ungainly proportions of some early ancestor. In the ‘Romance of Alexander’ is a strange description of the fabled monoceros, which would seem to have been a kind of potpourri of all other beasts, for besides a tail like a hog, tusks like a dog, and a head like a hart’s—

This sobriquet, in a day when size and strength went for much, does not seem to have been thought objectionable, for its owners have left issue enough to prevent its ever falling into abeyance.^[567] Thus we see we may meet with elephants every day in our streets without going to the Zoological Gardens for them. Our ‘Lions’ (‘Richard Lion,’ V. 2) and ‘Lyons,’ when not local,^[568] speak doubtless for the brave heart of some early progenitor. Our ‘Bears,’ relics of ‘Richard le Bere’ (A.) or ‘Lawrence le Bere’ (M.), as a reflection upon a surly temper, would be less complimentary, or perhaps the original nominee wore his hair shaggy and long. A fierce disposition would meet with rebuke or praise, as the case might be, in such a sobriquet as ‘John Lepard,’ or ‘Tiger,’ now all but obsolete, saving for our striped and liveried youths; or ‘Wolf’ (‘Elena le Wolfe,’ A., ‘Philip le Wolf,’ M.), with its more Norman ‘Lupe’^[569] (‘Robert le Lupe,’ B.), or ‘Lovel’^[570] or ‘Love’ (‘Robert le Love,’ A.), the latter being in flat contradiction to the usually ascribed instincts of the animal. Timidity or reserve, or perchance fleetness of foot, would soon find itself exalted in ‘Geoffrey le Hare,’ ‘Reginalde le Raye,’ ‘Walter le Buk,’ ‘Hobart le Hart,’ ‘Dorothie le Stagge,’ ‘Henry Rascal,’^[571] ‘William le Do,’ or ‘Alicia le Ro,’ the ancestors of our ‘Hares,’ ‘Rays,’ or ‘Wrays,’ ‘Bucks,’^[572] ‘Harts,’ ‘Stags,’ ‘Does,’ or ‘Roes,’ of legal notoriety, and ‘Prickets.’ That old spoiler of hen-roosts, the polecat, has left us in ‘Fitch’ and ‘Fitchett’ no very happy relationship of ideas. Craftiness would be very properly stigmatised in ‘Henry le Fox’ or ‘John le Tod,’ and a ‘John le Renaud’ occurring in the Parliamentary Rolls reminds us that some of our ‘Renauds’ and ‘Renards’ may be more closely associated with this wily denizen of our forest fastnesses than they think. The badger has originated ‘Walter le Broc’ or ‘Henry le Brok’ (now Brock); the beaver ‘John le Bever,’ or ‘John le Bevere’ (now Beaver).^[573] The rabbit gave us ‘Henry Cony’ and ‘John Conay;’ the weasel ‘Mathew le Martun’ (now Marten); the mole ‘Walter le Want’ (now Want); the nimble haunter of our forest boughs ‘Thomas le Squyrelle’ (now Squirrell), and the otter ‘Alan Otere,’ or ‘Edward Oter’ (now Otter).

Nor must we forget the farmyard and its accessories, which, as we might readily presume, are well represented. ‘Alice le Buie,’ or ‘William le Buie’ (now Bull), is a sobriquet which has now such a firm place as symbolic of our national character that we need not show to what peculiarities of temperament they owed their name. ‘Simon le Steer,’ ‘Peter le Vache,’ with its Saxon ‘Thomas le Cu’ or ‘Ralph le Cou,’ ‘Richard le Calf’^[574] ‘Godwin le Bulloc,’ ‘Peter le Stot,’ ‘Roger le Colt,’ are all of common occurrence, and still abide with us. ‘Roger le Mule,’ as representative of obstinacy, we might have suspected, would have become early obsolete, but it still survives.^[575] ‘Robert le Veyle,’ or ‘William le Veel,’ now written ‘Veale,’ ‘Philip le Mutton,’ and ‘John le Boeuf,’ or ‘Robert le Bef,’^[576] carry us back to the day when these several terms denoted the living animal. Thus, with respect to the last, Burton in his ‘Anatomy,’ translating Plautus, says—

Alongside our ‘Muttons’ we may place our ‘William le Lambs’ and ‘Richard le Lombs,’^[577] and if they were remarkable for their meek disposition, playfulness, I doubt not, was equally characteristic of our ‘Reginald Kidds’ and ‘Cheevers,’ relics of the old ‘Henry le Chivre’ or goat. I am afraid the connexion of ideas that gave rise to such sobriquets as were represented by ‘Alice le Hog,’ ‘John le Bacun,’^[578] ‘William le Gryse,’ ‘Gilbert Galt,’ ‘Walter Pigge,’^[579] ‘Roger Sugge,’ ‘Richard le Bor’ (Boar), ‘Richard Wildbore,’ ‘John Pork,’ and ‘John Purcell’ (little porker, that is), is not of the pleasantest—terms, too, as they are, all familiar to our directories to this present day. Several of these words are now colloquially obsolete. ‘Grice,’ I fancy, is one such. We still speak of the ‘griskin.’ Locally it comes in such names as ‘Grisdale’ and ‘Griswood.’ As a sobriquet of the animal, it was quite familiar in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Piers Plowman says—

‘Sug’ was provincial for ‘sow,’ and comes in the local ‘Sugden’ mentioned in my first chapter. Richard III. was sometimes styled the ‘Boar’ or ‘Hog.’ It was in allusion to this that the rhyme got abroad—

The first two referred of course to Ratcliffe and Catesby. But the mention of these reminds us of our household pets and indoor foes. ‘Elias le Cat,’ or ‘Adam le Kat,’ or ‘Milo le Chat’ still boasts descendants, and the same can be said for ‘Nicholas Dogge,’ or ‘Eborard le Kenn,’ or ‘Thomas le Chen.’ The usual forms are Catt, Ken, and Kenn. In our kennel we still preserve a memorial of this Norman-introduced word. Our ‘Hunds’ and ‘Hounds’ are but the old ‘Gilbert le Hund’ or ‘William le Hund,’ and carry us to the forest and the chase. The especial bugbear of cat and dog alike found remembrance in our early ‘Nicholas le Rat’ and ‘Walter le Rat,’ or ‘Ralph Ratun,’^[580] and in ‘John le Mous,’ ‘Hugh le Mus,’ or ‘Richard Mowse.’ ‘Ratton,’ ‘Ratt,’ and ‘Mowse’ still exist. With one more name we conclude. Through Spain and the Moors of Barbary monkeys were early introduced for the amusement of the English people. In the ‘Miller’s Tale’ it is said of Alison—

that is, she was wont to make a fool of him. The sobriquet is found in such an entry as ‘John le Ape,’ registered in the Hundred Rolls, or ‘John Jackanapes,’ in the Parliamentary Writs.

(b) Birds.—The surname that represents the genus is ‘Bird,’ the name being met with as ‘John le Bryd’ or ‘David le Brid,’ a pronunciation still in vogue in many parts of England. Falconry has given us many sobriquets of this class. Accustomed as our fathers were to seeing the fierce and eager instincts of the bird, to nickname a man of rapacious and grasping habits by such a term as ‘John le Kyte,’ or ‘William le Hawk,’ or ‘Richard le Falcon,’ would be the most natural thing in the world. And just as the difference in breed and disposition in these birds themselves gave rise to separate definitions, so an imagined resemblance to these distinct qualities must have originated such different names as ‘Muskett,’ ‘Buzzard,’ ‘Puttock,’^[582] ‘Goshawk,’ ‘Tassell,’ ‘Gleed,’ or ‘Glide,’^[583] and ‘Sparrowhawk,’ or ‘Spark,’ or ‘Sparke,’ as it is now more generally spelt. So early as Chaucer, however, this last was written ‘Spar-hawk,’^[584] and that once gained the further contraction in our nomenclature became inevitable. Thus was it with other birds. Did a man develop such propensities as showiness, then he was nicknamed ‘Jay;’ if pride, ‘Peacock’ or ‘Pocock,’ as it was once pronounced; if guile, ‘Rook;’ if pertness, ‘Pye,’ with its diminutive ‘Pyet’ or ‘Pyett;’ if garrulity, ‘Parrott’ or ‘Parratt;’ if he was a votary of song he was styled ‘Nightingale’ or ‘Lark,’ or in its more antique dress ‘Laverock’ or ‘Woodlark,’ or ‘Finch,’ or ‘Bulfinch,’ or ‘Goldfinch,’ or ‘Chaffinch,’ or ‘Spink,’ or ‘Goldspink,’ or ‘Thrush,’ or ‘Thrussel,’ or ‘Cuckoo.’ If jauntiness displayed itself in his actions he was nicknamed ‘Cock’ or ‘Cockerell’ or ‘Chauntecler;’ if homeliness, ‘Sparrow;’ if tenderness, ‘Pigeon’ or ‘Dove,’ and so on with our ‘Swans,’ ‘Herons,’ ‘Cootes,’ ‘Gulls,’ ‘Storks,’ ‘Ravens,’ ‘Crows,’ ‘Speights,’ ‘Cranes,’ ‘Capons,’ ‘Henns,’ ‘Chickens,’^[585] ‘Ducks,’ ‘Duckerells,’ ‘Drakes,’ ‘Sheldrakes’ or ‘Sheldricks,’ ‘Wildgooses,’ ‘Mallards’ (i.e. wild duck), ‘Gooses’ or ‘Goss’s,’^[586] ‘Greygooses,’ ‘Goslings,’^[587] ‘Ganders,’ ‘Woodcocks,’ ‘Partridges,’ ‘Partricks,’ ‘Pheasants,’ or ‘Fesants,’ as once spelt, and ‘Blackbirds.’^[588] These are names ornithologically familiar to us. Many a pretty name, however, once on the common tongue but now obsolete, or well-nigh so, still abides in our surnames. Thus our ‘Popjays’ still preserve the remembrance of the once common popinjay or parrot, ‘the popinjay, full of delicasy,’ as Chaucer styles her.^[589] In ‘Culver’ or ringdove we are reminded of the pathetic story of Philomine, where the same writer likens her to

Our ‘Ruddocks’ or ‘Ruddicks’ (‘Ralph Ruddoc,’ A.), again, are but the old ruddock or robin-redbreast, ‘the tame ruddock,’ as he is termed in the ‘Assembly of Fowls.’ The hedge-sparrow still lives represented by our ‘Pinnocks’ or ‘Pinnicks’ ‘John Pynnock’ (G.), ‘Richard Pinnoc’ (A.)—

So an old writer says. Our ‘Turtles’ (‘Roger Turtle’ D.) are but pleasant memorials of the bird that has been so long emblematic of constancy, the dove; our ‘Challenders,’ if not a corruption of ‘Callender,’ are representatives of the chelaunder or goldfinch, so often mentioned by early poets; and in our ‘Woodalls,’ ‘Woodales,’ and ‘Woodwalls,’ not to say some of our ‘Woodwells,’ we are but reminded of the woodwale, the early woodpecker. Our ‘Rains’ are but the old ‘Robert or William le Rain,’ another term for the same;^[591] while our ‘Stars’ and ‘Stares’ (‘Robert Stare,’ A.) carry us back to the day when the starling was so familiarly styled. In the ‘Assembly of Fowls’ the author speaks of—

In the ‘Romance of the Rose’ a list of birds is given embracing many of the above—

Every one of these birds so styled is still to be met with in our directories, for even the alpe or bull-finch is not absent. It is only in the investigation of subjects like this we see how great are the changes that creep over a people’s language. What a list of words is this, which if uttered now would fall dead and meaningless upon the ear of the listener, and yet they were once familiar as household words.

(c) Fish.—‘John le Fysche’ or ‘William Fyske’ have left descendants enough to prove that many a Fish can live out of water, although much has been advanced to the contrary. At a time when the peasants lived daily on the products of the inland streams and sandy sea-banks, and when the supply was infinitely more plentiful than it is now, we can easily perceive the naturalness of the sobriquets that belong to this class. Terms that are all but obsolete to us now, were household words then. Hence it is that we find our directories of to-day abounding with such entries as ‘Whale,’^[592] ‘Shark,’ ‘Dolphin,’ Herring,’^[593] ‘Codde,’ ‘Codling,’ ‘Salmon,’^[594] ‘Trout,’ ‘Mackarel,’ ‘Grayling,’ ‘Smelt,’ ‘Pilchard,’ ‘Whiting,’ ‘Turbot,’^[595] ‘Keeling,’ ‘Crabbe,’ ‘Chubb,’^[596] ‘Tench,’^[597] ‘Pike,’ and ‘Pickerel.’ ‘John Sturgeon’ is mentioned by Foxe in his ‘Martyrology,’ under date 1541, and still remains. The Hundred Rolls contain a ‘William Lampreye.’ ‘Barnacle’ is still common, and ‘Mussell’ and ‘Spratt’^[598] are not unknown. But perhaps the most curious of these early nicknames are those belonging to ‘Matilda le Welke’ and ‘William Welkeshorn.’ Probably they were notorious for a weakness towards that mollusk, which is still eaten in large quantities in some parts of England.

(d) Insects and Reptiles.—This is not a large class. The Hundred Rolls furnish us with a ‘Magge Flie’ and an ‘Oda^[599] Flie.’ The same records contain a ‘Margaret Gnatte’ and a ‘William Gnatte.’ ‘Baldewin Bugg’ (B.) and ‘Bate Bugge’ (A.) are also found, but although the question has been asked—

I fancy the cognomen is local, one of the endless forms, like ‘Brough,’ ‘Burgh,’ ‘Burkes,’ of the old ‘Borough.’ ‘Roger le Waps’^[600] reminds us of the still existing provincialism for wasp, and ‘William Snake’ or ‘John Frog’ would be as little acceptable.^[601] The smallest and most repulsive insect we have, the parasitic louse, is found in ‘Nicholas le Lus’ (J.), but our directories have now got rid of it—an example that might be followed with no small advantage in other quarters.

(2) Descriptive Compounds affixed as Nicknames.

But in an age like that of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries we cannot imagine that society would be merely required to come under a verbal castigation such as, after all, did nothing more than strike off the names of the animals that entered into Noah’s Ark. To call a man a ‘wolf’ or a ‘bull’ or a ‘grayling’ or a ‘salmon’ or a ‘peacock,’ after all, is not very dreadful. Terms of a more compound form, sobriquets more minutely anatomical, are also met with, the unpleasantness of which is proved by the fact of so few of them having come down to us, while not a small portion, as not fit for ears polite, must be altogether left in their obscurity. There are others, however, of which none need to be ashamed. For instance, the kingly denomination of ‘Quer-de-lyun’ (‘Ralph Querdelyun,’ T., ‘William Querdelion,’ X.),^[602] found in several lists, could not but be agreeable, while ‘Dan-de-lyun,’ or ‘lion-toothed’ (‘William Daundelyun,’ B.), would be in thorough harmony with the spirit of the age. ‘Colfox’ (‘Thomas Colfox,’ Z.), still existing, would be less pleasant. The term ‘fox’ is supposed in itself to be synonymous with deceit, but the intensive ‘col-fox’ or ‘deceitful-fox’ must have implied duplicity indeed! Chaucer, in his ‘Nunn’s Story,’ speaks of

‘Clenehog’ (‘William Clenehog,’ A.) or ‘Clenegrise’ (‘Roger Clenegrise,’ A.) would seem to be a sarcasm upon the dirty habits of its early owner, while ‘Piggesflesh’ (‘Reyner Piggesflesh,’ M.) or Hoggesflesh’ (‘Margery Hoggesflesh,’ Z.)^[603] is as obviously intended to be a reflection upon the general appearance. ‘Herring’ (‘Robert Heryng,’ A.), already mentioned, is not objectionable, but ‘Goodherring’ (‘Adam Godharing,’ A.) and ‘Redherring’^[604] (‘William Redhering,’ M.) are. ‘Fish’ one would not for a moment find fault with, but few young ladies, I imagine, would be found to face at the matrimonial altar a ‘John Pourfishe’ (M.). Objection, too, if not by the fair inamorata, yet by her parents, would be raised, I suspect, to an alliance with a ‘Roger Feldog,’ or ‘Thomas Catsnose,’ or ‘William Cocksbrain,’ or ‘Robert Calvesmaw,’ or ‘Peter Buckeskyn,’ or ‘Arnulph Dogmaw,’ or ‘Henry Crowfoot,’ or ‘Matthew Goosebeak,’ or ‘John Bullhead.’^[605] Talking of the last, however, it is interesting to notice how much the bull has entered into compounds of this kind. Thus we light upon such names as ‘Walter Oyl-de-beof’ or ‘William Oldbeof,’ that is, bull-eyed; ‘Ralph Front-de-boeuf,’ that is, bull-faced; ‘John Cors-de-boeuf’ or ‘Thomas Cordebeofe,’ that is, bull-bodied; ‘John Queer-de-boef,’ that is, bull-hearted, or ‘Amice le Wildeboef’ or ‘Nicholas Waldebeof,’ seemingly like ‘Wild-bore,’ referring to some wild untutored characteristics of the bearer. In all these the genius of the age is quite apparent, and probably not one was looked upon as otherwise than complimentary. ‘William Scorchebouef’ was evidently some unlucky young kitchener who had mismanaged his duties as spit-turner, but it betrays the process by which the term ‘boeuf’ has come into its present position of verbal usefulness. In this light ‘Cors-de-boeuf’ also is further interesting as reminding us that there was a time when ‘corpse’ did not necessarily imply the inanimate frame. ‘Behold, they were all dead corpses,’ found in our Authorized Version, was no tautology, it would appear, even in the seventeenth century. Thus do changes creep over the lives of words as well as men.

We might fill a book with these descriptive compounds—surnames so whimsical, so absurdly humorous that they manifestly could not live. For instance, we meet in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries with such a sobriquet as ‘William Hondeshakere,’ which no doubt spoke for the hearty goodwill of its easy possessor. ‘Geoffry Chese-and-brede’ seems to refer to the peculiar taste of its owner, while ‘Arnold Scutelmouth’ would be a sarcasm on personal capacity for such things. ‘Alan Swet-in-bedde’ would not be an acceptable cognomen, nor ‘William Badneighbour,’ nor ‘Thomas Two-year-olde,’ nor ‘Geoffrey Dringkedregges,’ nor ‘Anna Hellicate’ (hell-cat).^[606] ‘Alice Gude-ale-house’ was evidently a homely landlady, who kept her tavern in good repute by assiduous attention and good-humoured ways. ‘William Kepegest’ would seem to bespeak the kindly cheer of more private hospitality, while ‘John Drybread,’ if not stingy, was doubtless crusty. ‘John Ratelle-bagge,’ or ‘John Leve-to-day,’ or ‘Serle Go-to-Kirk,’ or ‘Thomas Horsenail,’ or ‘John Lightharness,’ or ‘Richard Myldew,’ or ‘John Buckleboots,’ or ‘Edward Tortoise-shell,’^[607] or ‘John Hornbuckle,’ while conveying no slight upon the character, would be obnoxious enough as surnames. Our ‘Doolittles,’ ‘Lovejoys,’ ‘Scattergoods,’ ‘Makepeaces,’ and ‘Hatewrongs’ belong to this same category. A large and varied assortment of this class will be found in the notes to this chapter, and to them I refer the reader. They are of a class which were especially popular at the time of which we are writing. Many of them are used as expletives in the railing poets and writers of the period. For instance, the author of ‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote’ speaks of—

The above selection of fancy names will give us a fair idea of the kind of sobriquet which went down with the lower orders during the Angevine and Plantagenet dynasties.

But the largest branch of descriptive compounds is yet to be mentioned. We find not a few instances where names of simple relationship or occupation or office, or even, we may add, of patronymic character, having become compounded with adjectives expressive of the feeling of those with whom the nominee had to deal, naturally place themselves under this same category. These, so far as they have come down to us, are generally of a favourable, or at least harmless, description. Thus, to notice Christian names first, this has especially been the case with ‘John.’ Probably as this sobriquet grew into favour the practice became the means of distinguishing between several of the same title. Thus, as I hinted in my previous chapter, if John were doughty, he became ‘Prujean,’^[609] that is, preux-jean; if fat, ‘Grosjean;’ if young, ‘Youngjohn;’^[610] if clownish, ‘Hobjohn;’ if big, ‘Micklejohn;’ if small, ‘Littlejohn,’^[611] or ‘Petitjean;’^[612] if of a sunburnt countenance, ‘Brownjohn;’^[613] and if comely or well proportioned, ‘Properjohn;’ thus preserving a once familiar sense of ‘proper,’ which we may meet with in such an olden phrase as a ‘proper knight,’ or in our present Authorized Scripture Version, where our translators make St. Paul speak of Moses in his infancy as a ‘proper child.’^[614] Lastly, we have the estimable ‘Bonjohn,’ the origin, I doubt not, of ‘Bunyon’ and ‘Bunyan,’ the familiar bearer of the latter form of which we shall all doubtless admit to be well worthy his name. It is happy chance that when we speak, as we often do, of ‘good John Bunyan,’ we simply give him a reduplication of that very title which none more richly merits than he. In 1310 there was a ‘Jon Bonjon’ in London, and still earlier than this a ‘Durand le Bon Johan’ figures in the Hundred Rolls.^[615] Several others we may mention, more Saxon in their character, and all long obsolete, save one. Indeed, I doubt not they died with their original possessors. These are ‘Robert Good-robert’ (P.) and ‘Richard White-richard’ (J.), ‘William Holy-peter’ (A.) ‘William Jolif-will’ (A.) (i.e. ‘Jolly-Will’),^[616] and ‘William Prout-pierre’ (M.). ‘William Goodhugh’ (M.), however, has contrived to hold his own, unless, as Mr. Lower thinks, it belongs not to this category, but one I have already surveyed, that regarding complexion. Its early form of ‘Godhewe’ would seem perhaps to favour his notion. Names of this class, however, are rare. When we come to occupation the instances are much more common. Thus if we have ‘Husband,’ who doubtless owes his origin to his economical rather than his marital position, we have, besides, ‘Younghusband’—in his day, I dare say, a somewhat precocious youth—the now obsolete ‘Goodhusband;’ if ‘Skinner,’ then ‘Langskinner;’ if ‘Wright,’ then ‘Longwright’ or ‘Longus-Faber,’ as it is Latinized in our rolls; if ‘Smith,’ then ‘Gros-smith,’ that is ‘big-smith,’ or ‘Wild-smith’ or ‘Youngsmith;’ or if ‘Groom,’ then ‘Good-groom’^[617] and ‘Old-groom.’ If we have ‘Swain,’ we had also ‘Goodswain,’ or ‘Brownswain,’ or ‘Madswain,’ or ‘Summerswain,’ or ‘Cuteswain,’ or ‘Colswain’ (that is, deceitful swain, or ‘Littleswain;’ if ‘King,’^[618] then ‘Littleking,’ ‘Coyking,’ ‘Brownking,’ ‘Whiteking,’ and ‘Redking;’ if ‘Hine,’ or ‘Hyne,’ or ‘Hind,’ a peasant somewhat similar to Swain, then also ‘Goodhyne;’ if ‘Bond,’ then ‘Youngbond;’ if ‘Knave’ or servant, then ‘Smartknave,’ ‘Whiteknave,’ ‘Brownknave,’ and ‘Goodknave,’ the latter a strange compound to modern ears;^[619] if ‘Clerk,’ then ‘Bonclerk,’ ‘Beauclerk,’ ‘Goodclerk,’ ‘Mauclerk,’^[620] and ‘Redclerk;’^[621] if ‘Page,’ then ‘Littlepage’^[622] and ‘Smallpage,’ and to put it here for convenience, ‘Lawpage;’ if ‘Wayt,’ a ‘watchman,’ then ‘Smartwayt,’ ‘Stertwait’ (active, on the alert), and ‘Goodwayt;’ if ‘Man’ or ‘Mann,’ a relic of the old ‘le Man’ or menial, then also ‘Goodman,’ a term, however, which became early used of any honest householder.^[623] ‘Le Mayster’ or ‘Master’ was common enough, but I am sorry to say I have not lighted upon a ‘Goodmayster’ as yet. Thus ‘Fellowe’ also, or ‘Fellowes,’ as we now have it, is met by ‘Goodfellow’ and ‘Longfellow;’ ‘Child’ by ‘Goodchild’ and the obsolete ‘Evilchild;’ ‘Son’ by ‘Littleson’ and ‘Fairson;’ ‘Sire’ by ‘Littlesire’ and ‘Fairsire;’ ‘Nurse’ by ‘Goodnurse,’ and ‘Fowl’ by ‘Goodfowl.’ Norman equivalents for these, however, were not wanting. ‘Goodfellow’ had its mate in ‘Boncompagnon,’ ‘Goodbody’ in ‘Bonecors,’ ‘Goodwait’ in ‘Bonserjeant,’ ‘Goodclerk’^[624] in ‘Bonclerk,’ and ‘Goodman’^[625] in ‘Bonhomme’ (our present ‘Bonham’)^[626] and ‘Prudhomme’ or ‘Pridham.’ ‘Evilchild’ found itself face to face with ‘Malenfant,’ ‘Littlesire’ with ‘Petitsire,’ ‘Goodchild’ with ‘Bonyfant,’ ‘Bonenfant,’ or ‘Bullivant,’ as we now have it, and ‘Godson’ or ‘Goodson,’ it may be, with ‘Bonfils’ or ‘Boffill.’ We have still ‘Clerk,’ but ‘Bonclerke,’ if not ‘Beauclerk,’ is obsolete; ‘Squier,’ but ‘Bonsquier’ has disappeared; ‘Chevalier’ also thrives, while ‘Bonchevalier’ is extinct. In some cases the simple and the compound forms are both wanting. It is so with our former ‘Vadlets’ and ‘Bonvalets,’ our ‘Vileins,’ ‘Beauvileyns,’ and ‘Mangevileyns’ (scabby), our ‘Queynts’ and ‘Bonqueynts,’ and our ‘Aventures’ and ‘Bonaventures,’ the latter sobriquet evidently given to one who had acquitted himself well in some mediÆval joust or tournament. It is found in several records. Piers Plowman uses the term simple, when he speaks of Faith crying—

‘Christian,’ which may be but the proper name, still lives, though ‘Bonchristien’ is gone; and ‘Count,’ too, lingers, ‘Boncount’ being obsolete. Sometimes, strangely enough, the French idiomatic compounds got literally translated into Saxon, resulting in terms of utterly different meaning. Thus, as I have already shown, ‘Beaupere’ met face to face with ‘Fairsire,’ ‘Beaufiz’^[627] with ‘Fairchild,’ and ‘Beaufrere’ with ‘Fairbrother.’ But this bare and naked translation into the vernacular seems to have been a general practice. The Norman ‘Petyclerk,’ for instance, was speedily met by ‘Smalwritere,’ ‘Blauncpayne’ by ‘Whitbred,’ and ‘Handsomebody,’ over which much obscurity has lingered, is, I have no hesitation in asserting, a directly Saxonised form of ‘Gentilcors,’ a name not unfrequently met with at this date.

Many of the names I have mentioned above, however, are, strange to say, being reproduced in the present day after a curious fashion. The multiplication of forenames has been the primary cause of this.^[628] In many cases these, by becoming as it were adjectives to the surname, form sobriquets no less ludicrous and striking than those which for that very reason so soon became obsolete. Thus such a combination as ‘Choice Pickrell’ is exactly equivalent to ‘Goodherring’ just alluded to. ‘Arch Bishop’ restores the archiepiscopal name which fell into abeyance in the twelfth century; while such other names as ‘Perfect Sparrow,’ ‘Savage Bear,’^[629] ‘Royal King,’ ‘Sing Song,’ ‘Ivory Mallet,’^[630] ‘More Fortune,’^[631] ‘Christmas Day,’ ‘Paschal Lamb,’ ‘River Jordan,’^[632] or ‘Pine Coffin,’^[633] may be met by designations equally absurd, if less travestied. These, of course, must be attributed to mere eccentricity on the part of parents, rather than to accident. Combinations of this kind, however, have arisen of late years through another circumstance. It not unfrequently occurs that through certain circumstances two family names are united. Thus we have such conjunctions as ‘Burdett-Coutts’ or ‘Sclater-Booth.’ Speaking of these reminds me of a story I have heard anent a combination of this kind. A certain gentleman, it is said, of the name of Colley, in bequeathing in his will a considerable estate to a friend of the name of ‘Mellon,’ made it the condition of his acceptance that the legatee added his benefactor’s name to his own. His friend had no objection to the property, but when he found that his acquiescence in the terms imposed would make him ‘Mellon-Colley’ to the end of his days, he considered the matter afresh and declined the offer.

(a) Oaths.—A remarkable, though not a very large, batch of surnames is to be referred to perhaps the most peculiar characteristic of all—that of the use of profane, or at least idle oaths. The prevalence of imprecations in mediÆval times was simply extraordinary.^[634] If the writings of that period bear but the faintest comparison to the talk of men, their conversation must have been strangely seasoned. For instance, in the ‘Canterbury Tales’ we find introduced without the slightest ceremony such oaths as ‘for Cristes passion,’ ‘by Goddes saule,’ ‘for Cristes saule,’ ‘by Goddes dignitee,’ ‘Goddes banes,’^[635] ‘Cristes pein,’ ‘Goddes love,’ ‘Goddes hate,’ ‘Cristes foot,’ ‘God me save,’ and the more simple ‘By-God,’ or ‘Parde’ or ‘Pardieu.’ That they are mostly meaningless is their chief characteristic. ‘John Pardieu’ in the Rolls of Parliament will represent our many ‘Pardews,’ ‘Pardows,’ ‘Pardoes,’ and ‘Pardies;’ and although I have given a different origin in my second chapter,^[636] I may mention ‘Alina le Bigod’ (J.), or ‘John le Bygot’ (M.). ‘Barbara Godselve’^[637] (F.F.), ‘Richard Godesname’ (X.), ‘Richard Godbeare’ (Z.), (now ‘Godbeer,’ ‘Godbehere,’ and ‘Goodbeer’), ‘Roger Godblod’ (E.) (God’s blood), ‘Alicia Godbodi’ (A.) (God’s body), seem all to be representative of familiar imprecations.

(b) Mottoes.—In many cases we can scarcely doubt that ensigncy has had something to do with the origin of our surnames. Edward III. at a tournament had his trappings embroidered with the couplet—

‘Godsol’ and ‘Godsoule’ formerly existed, and may have so risen. Among other names of this class may be mentioned ‘Janett God-send-us’^[638] (W. 13), ‘Roger Deus-salvet-dominas,’^[639] ‘John God-me-fetch,’ ‘John Dieu-te-ayde,’ ‘John Flourdieu,’ ‘Henry Grace-dieu,’^[640] ‘Henry Warde-dieu,’ ‘John Depart-dieu,’ and ‘John Angel-dieu.’^[641] From the escutcheons of their wearers these would easily pass on to the men themselves who first bore them as surnames.

(c) Exclamations.—‘Peter Damegod’ (M.) and ‘John Domegode’ (O.), meaning literally ‘Lord God,’ represent a once favourite expletive.^[642] We are here reminded that there was a time when ‘Dame,’ from dominus and domina alike, was applied to either sex. One or two exclamations of less objectionable import are also to be met with. ‘William Godthanke’ (A.) seems but a reversal of our ‘Thank God,’ while ‘Ralph Godisped’ (A.), fossilised in our ‘Goodspeeds,’ may represent ‘God-speed-thee.’^[643] ‘Richard Farewel’ (A.), ‘Simon Welfare’ (A.), ‘John Welcome’ (Z.Z.), ‘William Adieu’ (M.), would possess affixes readily given for their kindly and oft utterance. Our ‘Rummelows,’ ‘Rummileys,’ and ‘Rumbelows,’ without dispute, represent but the old well-known cry of ‘Rombylow’ or ‘Rummylow,’ the sailor’s ‘Heave-ho’ of later days. In the ‘Squire of Low Degree’ it is said—

The ancestor of those who bear the name was doubtless a sailor at some period of his career.^[644]

(d) Street-cries.—The calls of hawkers could not of course escape the good-humoured raillery of our forefathers. We find ‘Robert Freshfissh’ (X.) to have been a fishmonger, and ‘John Freshfisch’ is set down in the Rolls of Parliament. About the same time ‘Margaret Fressheharyng’ dwelt in the Metropolis. ‘Agnes Godefouele’ (A.) and ‘Basilia Godfowele’ (A.) were manifestly poultry-women, for even the most respectable occupations were then, as I have already shown, itinerant. But perhaps the most curious thing of all is to notice the price-calls that have found themselves inscribed in our registers. The larger sums will have a different origin, but I place them here for convenience sake. The Writs of Parliament give us a ‘Robert Peny;’ the ‘Wills and Inventories’ (Surt. Soc.), a ‘Thomas Fourpeni;’ the Hundred Rolls, a ‘John Fivepeni;’ the ‘Cal. Rot. Originalium,’ a ‘Thomas Sexpenne;’ the ‘Yorkshire Wills and Inventories’ (Surt. Soc.), a ‘John Ninepennies;’ and the Hundred Rolls, a ‘Fulco Twelpenes.’^[645] ‘James Fyppound’ (Fivepound) is mentioned in ‘Materials for History of Henry VII.’ So early as 1342 we find ‘John Twenti-mark’ to have been Rector of Risingham (Norfolk, 1, 64); while ‘William Hunderpound’ was Mayor of Lynn Regis in 1417 (do. viii. 532). This latter may be a translation of a Norman sobriquet, for ‘Grace Centlivre’ and ‘Joseph Centlivre’ are set down in a Surrey register of the same date. (‘Hist. and Ant. Survey,’ Index.) In both cases, I doubt not, the nickname was acquired from the peculiarity of the source whence the income was derived. ‘Centlivre’ existed in the eighteenth century at least, for it was Mrs. Centlivre who wrote the ‘Platonic Lady,’ which was issued in 1707. ‘Thomas Thousandpound,’ the last of this class, appears in the ‘Wardrobe Accounts’ (Edward I.), and concludes a list as strange as the most ardent ‘lover of the curious’ could desire.^[646]

Looking back, however, upon these earlier names, how many varied and conflicting qualities of the human heart do they all reflect, some honourable, some harmlessly innocent, the greater part, I fear, discreditable. Of all how much might be said, but I refrain, lest I be liable to a charge of acting contrary to the spirit of the kindly old adage, ‘de mortuis nil nisi bonum’—‘speak no evil of the dead.’ Thus telltale, however, are our surnames, and if it be no pleasant task to expose the weaknesses and the frailties of them whose bones have so long ere this crumbled into decay, still we may comfort ourselves with the remembrance that their names, with many others I could have adduced had space permitted, offer no kind of reflection upon their present possessors. It is not unseldom we see the bearer of a worthy name dragging the same through the dust and mire of an ignoble life. It is amongst these names of somewhat unsavoury origin we oftentimes meet with the best, and the truest, and the noblest of our fellows.

The Alphabetical Letters appended to the Names furnished in the Index refer to the Documents in the List here cited.