LOCAL SURNAMES.
In well-nigh every country where personal nomenclature has assumed a
sure and settled basis, that is, where a second or surname has become an
hereditary possession in the family, we shall find that that portion of
it which is of local origin bears by far the largest proportion to the
whole. We could well proceed, therefore, to this class apart from any
other motive, but when we further reflect that it is this local class
which in the first instance became hereditary, we at once perceive an
additional claim upon our attention.
I need scarcely say at the outset that, as with all countries so with
England, prefixes of various kinds were at first freely used to declare
more particularly whence the nominee was sprung. Thus, if he were come
from some town or city he would be ‘William of York,’ or ‘John of
Bolton,’ this enclitic being familiarly pronounced ‘à,’ as ‘William a
York,’ or ‘John a Bolton.’ For instance, it is said in an old poem anent
Robin Hood—
It had been better of William a Trent
To have been abed with sorrowe;
where it simply means ‘William of Trent.’[105] This, of course, is met
in France by ‘de,’ as it was also on English soil during early Norman
times. If, on the other hand, the _situation_ only of the abode gave the
personality of the nominee, the connecting link was varied according to
the humour or caprice of the speaker, or the relative aspect of the site
itself. Thus, if we take up the old Hundred Rolls we shall find such
entries as ‘John Above-brook,’ or ‘Adelina Above-town,’ or ‘Thomas
Behind-water,’ or ‘John Beneath-the-town.’ Or take a more extended
instance, such as ‘Lane.’ We find it attached to the personal name in
such fashions as the following:—
Cecilia in the Lane.
Emma a la Lane.
John de la Lane.
John de Lane.
Mariota en le Lane.
Philippa ate Lane.
Thomas super Lane.
‘Brook,’ again, by the variety of the prefixes which I find employed,
may well be cited as a further example. We have such entries as these:—
Alice de la Broke.
Andreas ate Broke.
Peter ad le Broke.
Matilda ad Broke.
Reginald del Broke.
Richard apud Broke.
Sarra de Broke.
Reginald bihunde Broke.
These are extracts of more or less formal entries, but they serve at
least to show how it was at first a mere matter of course to put in the
enclitics that associated the personal or Christian name with that which
we call the surname. Glancing over the instances just quoted, we see
that of these definitive terms some are purely Norman, some equally
purely Latin, a few are an admixture of Norman and Latin, a common thing
in a day when the latter was the language of indenture, and the rest are
Saxon, ‘ate’ being the chief one. This ‘atte’ was ‘at the,’ answering to
the Norman ‘de la,’ ‘del,’ or ‘du,’ and was familiarly contracted by our
forefathers into the other forms of ‘ate’ and ‘att;’ or for the sake of
euphony, when a vowel preceded the name proper, extended to ‘atten.’ In
our larger and more formal Rolls these seldom occur, owing to their
being inscribed all but invariably in the Norman-French or Latin style I
have instanced above, but in the smaller abbey records, and those of a
more private interest, these Saxon prefixes are common. In the writers
of the period they are familiarly used. Thus, in the ‘Coventry
Mysteries,’ mention is made of—
Thom Tynker, and Betrys Belle,
Peyrs Potter, and Watt _at the_ Well;[106]
while ‘Piers Plowman’ represents Covetousness as saying—
For some tyme I served
Symme _atte_-Style
And was his prentice.
It may not be known to all my readers, probably not even to all those
most immediately concerned, that this ‘atte’ or ‘att’ has fared with us
in a manner similar to that of the Norman ‘du’ and ‘de la.’ It has
occasionally been incorporated with the sobriquet of locality, and thus
become a recognised part of the surname itself. Take the two names from
the two poems I have but just quoted, ‘Watt at the Well’ and ‘Symme atte
Style.’ Now we have at this present day but simple ‘Styles’ to represent
this latter, while in respect of the former we have not merely ‘Wells,’
but ‘Attwell,’ or ‘Atwell.’ These examples are not solitary ones. Thus,
such a name as ‘John atte Wood,’ or ‘Gilbert atte Wode,’ has bequeathed
us not merely the familiar ‘Wood,’ but ‘Attwood’ and ‘Atwood’ also.
‘William atte Lea,’ that is, the pasture, can boast a large posterity of
‘Leighs,’ ‘Leghs,’ and ‘Lees;’ but he is well-nigh as commonly
represented by our ‘Atlays’ and ‘Attlees.’ And not to become tedious in
illustrations, ‘atte-Borough’ is now ‘Attenborough’ or ‘Atterbury;’
‘atte-Ridge’ has become ‘Attridge,’ ‘atte-Field’ ‘Atfield;’ while such
other designations as ‘atte-Town,’ ‘atte-Hill,’ ‘atte-Water,’
‘atte-Worth,’ ‘atte-Tree,’ or ‘atte-Cliffe,’ are in this nineteenth
century of ours registered frequently as mere ‘Atton,’ ‘Athill,’
‘Atwater,’ ‘Atworth,’ ‘Attree,’ and ‘Atcliffe.’ Sometimes, however, this
prefix dropped down into the simple ‘a.’ The notorious Pinder of
Wakefield was ‘George a Green’ according to the ballads regarding Robin
Hood. ‘Thomas a Becket,’ literally, I doubt not, ‘Thomas atte
Becket’—that is, the streamlet—is but another instance from more general
history. The name is found in a more Norman dress in the Hundred Rolls,
where one ‘Wydo del Beck’t’ is set down. In the same way ‘atte-Gate’
became the jewelled ‘Agate,’ and ‘atte-More’ ‘Amore’ and the sentimental
‘Amor.’ I have said that where the name proper—_i.e._ the word of
locality—began with a vowel the letter ‘n’ was added to ‘atte’ for
purposes of euphony. It is interesting to note how this euphonic ‘n’ has
still survived when all else of the prefix has lapsed. Thus by a kind of
prosthesis our familiar ‘Noakes’ or ‘Nokes’ stands for ‘Atten-Oaks,’
that is, ‘At the Oaks.’ ‘Piers Plowman,’ in another edition from that I
have already quoted, makes Covetousness to say—
For sum tyme I served
Simme atte Noke,
And was his plight prentys,
His profit to look.
‘Nash’ is but put for ‘atten-Ash,’ or as some of our Rolls records it,
‘atte-Nash;’ ‘Nalder’ for ‘atten-Alder,’ ‘Nelmes’ for ‘atten-Elms,’
‘Nall’ for atten-Hall,’ while ‘Oven’ and ‘Orchard’ in the olden
registers are found as ‘atte-Novene’ and ‘atte-Norchard’ respectively.
That this practice, in a day of an unsettled orthography, was common, is
easily judged by the traces that may be detected in our ordinary
vocabulary of a similar habit. In the period we are considering ‘ale’
was the vulgar term for an ‘ale-house.’ We still talk of the
‘ale-stake,’ that is, the public-house sign. Thus ‘atten-ale’ got
corrupted into ‘nale.’ Chaucer, with many other writers, so uses it. In
the ‘Freres Tale’ we are told how the Sompnour—
Maken him gret festes at the nale.
An old poem, too, says—
Robin will Gilot
Leden to the nale
And sitten there togedres
And tellen their tale.
Thus our forefathers used to talk alike of ‘an ouch,’ or ‘a nouch,’ for
a jewel or setting of gold. Gower has it—
When thou hast taken any thynge
Of love’s gifte, or nouche, or rynge.
Even now, I need scarcely remind my readers, we talk of a ‘newt,’ which
is nothing but a contraction of ‘an ewt’ or ‘eft,’ and it is still a
question whether ‘nedder,’ provincially used for ‘an adder,’ was not
originally contracted in a similar manner. ‘Nale,’ or ‘Nail,’ thus
locally derived, still lives in our directories as a surname.[107]
While ‘atte’ has been unquestionably the one chief prefix to these more
familiar local terms, it is not the sole one that has left its mark. Our
‘Bywaters’ and ‘Bywoods’ are but the descendants of such mediæval folk
as ‘Elias Bi-the-water,’ or ‘Edward By-the-wode,’ and our ‘Byfords,’
‘Bytheseas,’ and ‘Bygates,’ or ‘Byatts,’ are equally clearly the
offspring of some early ancestor who dwelt beside some streamlet
shallow, or marine greensward, or woodland hatchway.
In this pursuit after individuality, however, this was not the only
method adopted. Another class of names arose from the somewhat contrary
practice of appending to the place-word a termination equally
significative of residence. This suffix was of two kinds, one ending in
‘er,’ the other in ‘man.’ Thus if the rustic householder dwelt in the
meadows, he became known among his acquaintance as ‘Robert the Fielder,’
or ‘Filder;’ if under the greenwood shade, ‘Woodyer,’ or ‘Woodyear,’ or
‘Woodman’—relics of the old ‘le Wodere’ and ‘le Wodeman;’ if by the
precincts of the sanctuary, ‘Churcher’ or ‘Churchman’ in the south of
England, or ‘Kirker’ or ‘Kirkman’ in the north; if by some priory,
‘Templer’ or ‘Templeman;’ if by the village cross, ‘Crosser,’ or
‘Crossman,’ or ‘Croucher,’ or ‘Crouchman;’ if by the bridge, ‘Bridger’
or ‘Bridgman;’ if by the brook, ‘Brooker,’ or ‘Brookman,’ or ‘Becker,’
or ‘Beckman;’ if by the well, the immortal ‘Weller,’ or ‘Welman,’ or
‘Crossweller,’ if, as was often the case, it lay beneath the roadside
crucifix; if by some particular tree, ‘Beecher,’ once written ‘le
Beechar,’ or ‘Asher,’ or ‘Hollier,’ or ‘Holleyman,’ or ‘Oker,’ and so
on.
A certain number of names of the class we are now dwelling upon have
arisen from a somewhat peculiar colloquial use of the term ‘end’ in
vogue with our Saxon forefathers. The method of its employment is still
common in Lancashire and Yorkshire. The poorer classes still speak of a
neighbour as dwelling ‘at the street end;’ they never by any chance use
the fuller phrase ‘the end of the street.’ Chaucer uses it as a familiar
mode of expression. The Friar, in the preface to his story, says
slightingly—
A Sompnour is a rener up and doun
With mandments for fornication,
And is beaten at every tounes ende.
In the ‘Persones Prologue,’ too, the same poet says—
Therewith the moons exaltation
In mene Libra, alway gan ascende
As we were entring at the thorpes ende.
How colloquial it must have been in his day we may judge from the
following list of names I have been enabled to pick up from various
records, and which I could have enlarged had I so chosen:—
John ate Bruge-ende.
Walter atte Townshende.
John de Poundesende.
Margaret ate Laneande.
William atte Streteshend.
John atte Burende.
Adam de Wodeshende.
Martin de Clyveshende.
John de la Wykhend.
William de Overende.
John de Dichende.
Thomas atte Greaveshende.
Besides these we have such a Latinized form for ‘Townsend,’ or
‘Townshend,’ as ‘Ad finem villæ,’ or ‘End’ itself without further
particularity, in such a sobriquet as ‘William atte-Nende.’[108] The
several points of the compass, too, are marked in ‘Northende,’
‘Eastende,’ and ‘Westende,’ the latter having become stereotyped in the
fashionable mouth as the quarter in which the more opulent portion of
the town reside, whether its aspect be towards the setting sun or the
reverse—but an exaggeration of this kind is a mere trifle where fashion
is concerned.
But these Saxon compounded names, numerous as they are, are but few in
comparison with the simple locative itself, without prefix, without
desinence, ‘Geoffrey atte Style,’ ‘Roger atte Lane,’ ‘Walter atte
Water,’ ‘Thomas atte Brooke;’ or in the more Norman fashion of many of
our rolls, ‘John de la Ford,’ ‘Robert del Holme,’ ‘Richard de la Field,’
‘Alice de la Strete:’ all these might linger for awhile, but in the end,
as we might foresee, as well in the mouths of men as later on in the
pages of our registers, they became simple ‘Geoffrey Styles’ and ‘Roger
Lane,’ ‘Walter Waters’ and ‘Thomas Brookes,’ ‘John Ford’ and ‘Robert
Holmes,’ ‘Alice Street’ and ‘Richard Field.’ Here, then, is an endless
source of surnames to our hands. Here is the spring from which have
issued those local sobriquets which preponderate so largely over those
of every other class. To analyse all these were impossible, and the task
of selection is little less difficult. But we may give the preference to
such leading provincialisms as are embodied in our personal
nomenclature, or to such terms as by their existence there betoken that,
though not now, yet they did then occupy a place in the vocabulary of
every-day converse. For it is wonderful how numberless are the local
words, now obsolete saving for our registers, which were used in
ordinary talk not more than five hundred years ago. That many of them
have been thus rescued from oblivion by our hereditary nomenclature is
due no doubt to the fact that the period of the formation of the latter
is that also during which our tongue was settling down into that
composite form of Saxon and Norman in which we now have it, and which in
spite of losses in consequence, in spite of here and there a noble word
crushed out, has given our English language its pliancy and suppleness,
its strengths and shades.
We have mentioned ‘de la Woode’ and Attewoode.’ ‘De la Hirst’ is exactly
similar—its compounds equally numerous. The pasture beside it is
‘Hursley’—if filberts abound it is ‘Hazlehurst;’ if ashes, ‘Ashurst;’ if
lindens or linds, ‘Lyndhurst;’ if elms, ‘Elmhurst.’ If hawks frequented
it we find it styled ‘Hawkhurst;’ if goats, ‘Goathirst;’ if badgers or
brocks, ‘Brocklehurst;’ if deer, ‘Dewhurst’ (spelt Duerhurst, 1375). The
‘holt’ was less in size, being merely a coppice or small thicket.
Chaucer speaks of ‘holtes and hayes.’ ‘De la Holt’ is of frequent
occurrence in our early rolls. Our ‘Cockshots’ are but the ‘cocksholt,’
the liquid letter being elided as in ‘Aldershot,’ ‘Oakshot,’[109] and
‘Bagshot,’ or badgers’ holt. A ‘shaw’ or ‘schaw’ was a small woody shade
or covert. An old manuscript says:—
In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
It is fulle mery in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.
As a shelter for game and the wilder animals, it is found in such
compounds as ‘Bagshaw,’ the badger being evidently common; ‘Hindshaw,’
‘Ramshaw,’ ‘Hogshaw,’[110] ‘Cockshaw,’ ‘Henshaw,’ and ‘Earnshaw.’ The
occurrence of such names as ‘Shallcross’ and ‘Shawcross,’ ‘Henshall’ and
‘Henshaw,’ and ‘Kersall’ and ‘Kershaw,’ would lead us to imagine that
this word too has been somewhat corrupted. Other descriptive compounds
are found in ‘Birkenshaw,’ or ‘Denshaw,’ or ‘Bradshaw,’ or ‘Langshaw,’
or ‘Openshaw.’ As for ‘Shaw’ simple, every county in England has it
locally, and every directory surnominally. Such a name as ‘Richard de la
Frith’ or ‘George ate Frith’ carries us at once to the woodland copses
that underlay our steeper mountain-sides—they represented the wider and
more wooded valleys in fact. We find the term lingering locally in such
a name as ‘Chapel-en-le-frith’ in the Peak of Derbyshire. The usual
alliterative expression of early days was ‘by frith and fell.’ We have
it varied in an old poem of the fourteenth century:—
The Duke of Braband first of all
Swore, for thing that might befall,
That he should both day and night
Help Sir Edward in his right,
In town, in field, in frith and fen.
Our ‘Friths’ are by no means in danger of obsoletism, to judge by our
directories—and they are a pleasant memorial of a term which was once in
familiar use as expressive of some of the most picturesque portions of
English scenery. Such a name as ‘De la Dene’ or ‘Atte Den,’ of frequent
occurrence formerly, and as ‘Dean’ or ‘Den’ equally familiar now, is
worthy of particularity. A den was a sunken and wooded vale, where
cattle might find alike covert and pasture. Thus it is that we are
accustomed to speak of a den in connexion with animal life, in such
phrases as a ‘den of lions’ or a ‘den of thieves.’ See how early this
notion sprang. We have a remembrance of the brock in ‘Brogden,’ the wolf
in ‘Wolfenden,’ the fox in ‘Foxden,’ the ram in ‘Ramsden,’ the hare in
‘Harden,’ and the deer in ‘Dearden,’[111] ‘Buckden’ or ‘Bugden,’
‘Rayden’ and ‘Roden,’ or ‘Rowden.’ The more domesticated animals abide
with us in ‘Horsden,’ ‘Oxenden,’ and ‘Cowden,’ ‘Lambden,’ or ‘Lamden,’
‘Borden,’ and ‘Sugden,’ or ‘Sowden;’ ‘Swinden,’ ‘Eversden,’ and ‘Ogden,’
at first written ‘de Hogdene.’ With regard especially to this latter
class it is that our ‘Court of Dens’ arose, which till late years
settled all disputes relative to forest pannage. The dweller therein,
engaged probably in the tendance of such cattle as I have mentioned
last, was the ‘Denyer’ or ‘Denman,’ both surnames still living in our
midst. While the _den_ was given up mainly to swine, the _ley_[112]
afforded shelter to all manner of domestic livestock, not to mention,
however, some few of the wilder quarry. The equine species has given to
us ‘Horsley;’ the bovine, ‘Cowley,’ ‘Kinley,’ and ‘Oxlee’ or ‘Oxley;’
the deer, ‘Hartley,’ ‘Rowley,’ ‘Buckley,’ and ‘Hindley;’ the fox,
‘Foxley;’[113] the hare, ‘Harley,’ and even the sheep, though generally
driven to the scantier pastures of the rocks and steeps, has left us in
‘Shipley’ a trace of its footprint in the deeper and more sheltered
glades. Characteristic of the trees which enclosed it, we get ‘Ashley,’
‘Elmsley,’ ‘Oakley,’ ‘Lindley,’ or ‘Berkeley.’ Of the name simple we
have endless forms; those of ‘Lee,’ ‘Legh,’ ‘Lea,’ ‘Lees,’ ‘Laye,’ and
‘Leigh’[114] being the most familiar. In the old rolls their ancestors
figure in an equal variety of dresses, for we may at once light upon
such names as ‘Emma de la Leye,’ or ‘Richard de la Legh,’ or ‘Robert de
la Lee,’ or ‘William de la Lea,’ or ‘Petronilla de la Le.’ Our ‘Atlays’
and ‘Atlees,’ as I have already said, are but the more Saxon ‘Atte Lee.’
In some of these surnames we can trace the early cuttings amongst the
thickly wooded districts where the larger wealds were situated. Our
‘Royds,’ or ‘Rodds,’ or ‘Rodes,’ all hail from some spot _ridded_ of
waste wood. Compounds may be found in our ‘Huntroyds,’ that is, the
clearing for the chase; ‘Holroyds,’ that is, the holly-clearing; and
‘Acroyds,’ that is, the oak-clearing, the term ‘acorn,’ that is,
‘oak-corn,’ and such local names as ‘Acton’ or ‘Acland,’ reminding us of
this the older spelling; ‘Ormerod,’ again, is but Ormes-clearing—Orme
being, as we have already shown, a common Saxon personal name. Our
‘Greaves’ and ‘Graves’ and ‘Groves,’ descendants of the ‘de la Groves’
and ‘Atte Groves’ of early rolls, not to mention the more personal
‘Grover’ and ‘Graver,’ convey the same idea. A ‘Greave’ was a woodland
avenue, graved or cut out of the forest. Fairfax speaks of the—
Wind in holts and shady greaves.
’Tis true we only ‘grave’ in stone now, but it was not always so. Thus
in the ‘Legend of Good Women’ mention is made of—
A little herber that I have
That benched was on turves fresh ygrave.
We still call the last resting-place of the dead in our churchyards a
_grave_, though dug from the soil. I have already mentioned ‘de la
Graveshend’ occurring as a surname. Our ‘Hargreaves’ hail from the grove
where the hares are plentiful; our ‘Congreves’ representing the same in
the coney. Our ‘Greeves’ we shall have occasion in another chapter to
show belong to another and more occupative class of surnames. Our
‘Thwaites,’ too, belong to this category. Locally the term is confined
to Cumberland and the north, where the Norwegians left it. It is exactly
equivalent to ‘field,’ a _felled_ place, or woodland clearing. The
compounds formed from it are too numerous to wade through. Amongst
others, however, we have, as denotive of the substances ridded,
‘Thornthwaite,’ ‘Limethwaite,’ ‘Rownthwaite,’ and ‘Hawthornthwaite;’ of
peculiarity in position or shape, ‘Brathwaite’ (broad), and
‘Micklethwaite;’ of contents, ‘Thistlethwaite,’ ‘Cornthwaite,’ and
‘Crossthwaite.’ The very dress of the majority of these compounds
testifies to the northern origin of the root-word.
Our ‘Slade’ represents the ‘de la Slades’ of the Hundred Rolls. A slade
was a small strip of green plain within a woodland. One of the
numberless rhymes concerning Robin Hood says—
It had been better of William a Trent
To have been abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the greenwood slade
To meet with Little John’s arrowe.
Its nature is still more characterised in ‘Robert de Greneslade,’ that
is, the green-slade; ‘William de la Morslade,’ the moorland-slade;
‘Richard de Wytslade,’ the white-slade; ‘Michael de Ocslade,’ the
oak-slade, and ‘William de Waldeslade,’[115] the forest-slade (weald);
‘Sladen,’ that is, slade-den, implies a woodland hollow. As a local term
there is a little difference betwixt it and ‘launde,’ only the latter
has no suspicion of indenture about it. A launde was a pretty and rich
piece of grassy sward in the heart of a forest, what we should now call
an open wood, in fact. Thus it is we term the space in our gardens
within the surrounding shrubberies _lawns_. Chaucer says of Theseus on
hunting bent—
To the _launde_ he rideth him ful right
There was the hart wont to have his flight.
In the ‘Morte Arthur,’ too, we are told of hunting—
At the hartes in these hye _laundes_.
This is the source of more surnames than we might imagine. Hence are
sprung our ‘Launds,’ ‘Lands,’ ‘Lowndes,’ ‘Landers,’ in many cases, and
our obsolete ‘Landmans.’ The forms, as at first met with, are equally
varied. We have ‘atte-Lond,’ ‘de la Laund,’ and ‘de la Lande,’ while the
origin of our ‘Lunds’ shows itself in ‘de la Lund.’ ‘De la Holme’ still
flourishes in our ‘Holmes,’ while the more personal form is found in our
‘Holmers’ and ‘Holmans.’ An holm was a flat meadow-land lying within the
windings of some valley stream. Our ‘Platts,’ found in such an entry as
‘Robert del Plat,’ are similarly sprung, but in the ‘plat’ there was
less thought of general surroundings. As an adjective it was in common
use formerly. For instance, in the ‘Romaunt of the Rose,’ when the God
of Love had shot his arrow, it is said—
When I was hurte thus in stound
I fell down plat unto the ground.
Our ‘Knowles,’ ‘Knowlers,’ and ‘Knowlmans’ carry us to the gently rising
slopes in the woods, grassy and free of timber, the old form of the
first being ‘de la Cnolle’ or ‘atte Knolle.’ Our ‘Lynches,’ once written
‘de Linches,’ I should surmise, are but a dress of the still familiar
_link_ across our northern border—the flatland running by the river and
sea-coast, while our ‘Kays’ (when not the old British ‘Kay’) represent
the more artificial ‘quay,’ reminding us of the knitting together of
beam and stone. It is but the same word as we apply to locks, the idea
of both being that of securing or fastening.
Though it is to the more open plains and woodlands we must look for the
majority of our place-names, nevertheless, looking up our steeps and
into the fissures of the hills, we may see that every feature in the
landscape has its memorial in our nomenclature. ‘De la Hill’ needs no
remark. ‘De la Helle’ and ‘atte Helle’ are somewhat less pleasant to
look upon, but they are only another form of the same. ‘De la Hulle,’
again, is but a third setting of the same. Gower says—
Upon the hulles hyhe
Of Othrin and Olympe also,
And eke of three hulles mo
She fond and gadreth herbes sweet.
‘Mountain’ is the ‘de la Montaigne’ of the twelfth century, but of
course of Norman introduction. This sobriquet reminds us of the story
told of a certain Dr. Mountain, chaplain to Charles II., who, when the
king asked him if he could recommend him a suitable man for a vacant
bishopric, is reported to have answered, ‘Sire, if you had but the faith
of a grain of mustard seed, the matter could be settled at once.’ ‘How?’
inquired the astonished monarch. ‘Why, my liege, you could then say unto
this _mountain_ (smiting his own breast), “be thou removed to that
_see_,” and it should be done.’[116] Our ‘Cloughs’ represent the narrow
fissures betwixt the hills. From the same root we owe our ‘Clives’ (the
‘de la Clive’ of the Hundred Rolls), ‘Cliffes,’ ‘Cleves,’ and ‘Clowes,’
not to mention our endless ‘Cliffords,’ ‘Cliftons,’ ‘Clifdens,’
‘Cliveleys,’ ‘Clevelands,’ ‘Tunnicliffes,’ ‘Sutcliffes,’
‘Nethercliffes,’ ‘Topliffs,’ ‘Ratcliffes,’ or ‘Redcliffes,’
‘Faircloughs,’ and ‘Stonecloughs.’ Any prominence of rock or earth was a
‘cop,’ or ‘cope,’ from the Saxon ‘cop,’ a head.[117] Chaucer talks of
the ‘cop of the nose.’ In Wicklyffe’s version of Luke iv. 29, it says,
‘And thei risen up and droven him out withouten the cytee, and ledden
him to the coppe of the hill on which their cytee was bilded to cast him
down.’ We still talk of a _coping_-stone. Hence, from its local use, we
have derived our ‘Copes’ and ‘Copps,’ ‘Copleys’ and ‘Copelands,’ and
‘Copestakes.’ From ‘cob,’ which is but another form of the same word, we
get our ‘Cobbs,’ Cobhams,’ ‘Cobwells,’ ‘Cobdens,’ and ‘Cobleys.’ Thus,
to consult the Parliamentary Writs alone, we find such entries as
‘Robert de Cobbe,’ ‘Reginald de Cobeham,’ ‘John de Cobwell,’ or ‘Godfrey
de Coppden.’ As a cant term for a rich or prominent man ‘cob’ is found
in many of our later writers, and ‘cobby’ more early implied a
headstrong nature. Another term in use for a local prominence was
‘ness,’ or ‘naze.’ ‘Roger atte Ness’ occurs in the thirteenth century;
and ‘Longness’ and ‘Thickness’ and ‘Redness’ are but compounds, unless,
as is quite possible, they be from the same root in its more personal
relationship to the human face, the word _nose_ being familiarly so
pronounced at this time. Our ‘Downs’ and ‘Dunns,’ when not sprung from
‘le Dun,’ are but descendants of the old ‘de la Dune,’ of the hilly
slopes; our ‘Combs’ and ‘Combes’ representing the ‘de la Cumbe’ of the
ridgy hollows, or ‘cup-shaped depressions’ of the higher hillsides, as
Mr. Taylor happily expresses it. It is thus we get our terms
‘honeycomb,’ ‘cockscomb,’ ‘haircomb,’ &c. Few terms have connected
themselves so much as this with the local nomenclature of our land, and
few have made themselves so conspicuous in our directories. The writer I
have just mentioned quotes a Cumberland poet, who says—
There’s Cumwhitton, Cumwhinton, Cumranton,
Cumrangan, Cumrew, and Cumcatch,
And mony mair Cums i’ the County,
But nin wi’ Cumdivock can match.
Of those compounds which have become surnames we cannot possibly recite
all, but among the more common are ‘Thorncombe’ and ‘Broadcombe,’
‘Newcombe’ and ‘Morcombe,’ ‘Lipscombe’ and ‘Woolcombe,’ ‘Withecombe’ and
‘Buddicom,’ and ‘Slocombe.’ We have already mentioned ‘Amore.’ The
simple ‘More,’ or ‘Moore,’ is very familiar; ‘atte Mor,’ or ‘de la
More,’ being the older forms. This has ever been a favourite name for
punning rhymes. In the ‘Book of Days,’ several plays of this kind have
been preserved. When Dr. Manners Sutton[118] succeeded Dr. Moore in the
Archiepiscopal chair of Canterbury, the following lines were written:—
What say you?—the archbishop’s dead?
A loss, indeed! Oh, on his head
May Heaven its blessings pour!
But if with such a heart and mind,
In _Manners_ we his equal find,
Why should we wish for _More_?
When Sir Thomas More was Chancellor, it is said, his great attention to
his duties caused all litigation to come to an end in the Court of
Chancery. The following epigram bearing upon this fact was written:—
When More some years had Chancellor been,
No more suits did remain;
The same shall never more be seen
Till _More_ be there again.
Our ‘Heaths’ explain themselves, but our ‘Heths,’ though the same, and
from the first found as ‘atte Heth,’ are not so transparent. Some might
be tempted to set them down in a more Israelitish category as
descendants of the ‘children of Heth,’ but such is not the case.
Somewhat similar to ‘Cope,’ mentioned above, was ‘Knop’ or ‘Knap’—a
summit.[119] Any protuberance, whatever it might be, was with our old
writers a ‘_knop_.’[120] Rose-buds and buttons alike, with Chaucer, are
‘_knops_’:—
Among the knops I chose one
So fair, that of the remnant none
Ne praise I halfe so wel as it.
North in his Plutarch says, ‘And both these rivers turning in one,
carrying a swift streame, doe make the knappe of the said hill very
strong of its situation to lodge a camp upon.’ To our hilltops, then, it
is we owe our ‘Knaps,’ ‘Knappers,’ ‘Knapmans,’ ‘Knopps,’ ‘Knopes,’
‘Knabwells,’ and ‘Knaptons.’ Our ‘Howes’ represent the smaller hills,
while still less prominent would be the abodes of our early
‘Lawes,’[121] and ‘Lowes,’ or ‘de la Lawe’ and ‘de la Lowe,’ as they are
found in the Hundred Rolls. Our ‘Shores’ need no explanation, but our
‘Overs’ are less known. An old poem, quoted by Mr. Halliwell, says:—
She come out of Sexlonde,
And rived here at Dovere,
That stondes upon the sees overe.
It seems to have been used generally to denote the flat-lands that lay
about the sea-coast or rivers generally—what we should call in Scotland
the links. I have already mentioned our ‘Overends’ as similar to our
‘Townsends;’ ‘Overman’ doubtless is but the more personal form of the
same.[122]
Coming gradually to more definite traces of human habitation, we may
mention some of our tree names. Of several, such as ‘Nash,’ and
‘Nalder,’ and ‘Nokes,’ we have already spoken. Such a name as ‘Henry
atte Beeche,’ or ‘Walter de la Lind,’ or ‘Richard atte Ok,’ now found as
simple ‘Beech,’ and ‘Lind,’ and ‘Oake,’ reminds us that we are not
without further obligations to the tree world. Settling by or under the
shade of some gigantic elm or oak, a sobriquet of this kind would be
perfectly natural. As our ‘Lyndhursts’ and ‘Lindleys’ prove, ‘lind’ was
once familiarly used for our now fuller ‘linden.’ Piers Plowman says:—
Blisse of the briddes
Broughte me aslepe,
And under a lynde
Upon a launde
Leaned I.
Were the Malvern dreamer describing poetically the birth and the origin
of the future Swedish nightingale who four hundred years afterwards was
to entrance the world with her song, he could not have been more happy
in his expression. Our ‘Ashes’ and ‘Birches,’ once ‘de la Byrche,’ need
little remark, but ‘Birks,’ the harder form of the latter, is not so
familiar, though it is still preserved in such names as ‘Birkenhead,’ or
‘Birkenshaw,’ or ‘Berkeley.’ A small group of trees would be equally
perspicuous. Thus have arisen our ‘Twelvetrees,’ and ‘Fiveashes,’ and
‘Snooks,’ a mere corruption of the Kentish ‘Sevenoaks.’ Mr. Lower
mentions ‘Quatrefages,’ that is, ‘four beeches,’ as a corresponding
instance in French nomenclature.[123]
A common object in the country lane or by-path would be the gate or
hatch that ran across the road to confine the deer. The old
provincialism for this was ‘yate.’ We are told of Griselda in the
‘Clerkes Tale’ that—
With glad chere to the yate
she is gone
To grete the markisesse;
and Piers Plowman says our Lord came in through
Both dore and yates
To Peter and to these apostles.[124]
Our ‘Yates,’ written once ‘Atte Yate,’ by their numbers can bear
testimony to the familiarity with which this expression was once used.
‘Byatt’ I have just shown to be the same as ‘Bygate,’ and ‘Woodyat’ is
but equivalent to ‘Woodgate.’ Other compounds are found in the old
registers. In the ‘Placitorum’ of the thirteenth century, for instance,
we light upon a ‘Christiana atte Chircheyate,’ and a ‘John atte
Foldyate;’ while in the Hundred Rolls of the same period we find a
‘Walter atte Lideyate,’ now familiarly known to us as ‘Lidgate.’ Our
‘Hatchs,’ once enrolled as ‘de la Hache,’ like our before-mentioned
‘Hatchers’ and ‘Hatchmans,’ represented the simple bar that ran athwart
the woodland pathway. We still call the upper-deck with its crossbars
the hatches, and a weir is yet with the country folk a hatch. Chaucer
speaks of—
Lurking in hernes and in lanes blinde.
Any nook or corner of land was with our forefathers a ‘hearne,’ and as
‘en le Herne’ or ‘atte Hurne’ the surname is frequently found in the
thirteenth century.[125] ‘De la Corner’ is, of course, but a synonymous
term. A passage betwixt two houses, or a narrow defile between two
hillsides, was a ‘gore,’ akin, we may safely say, to ‘gorge.’ Our
‘Gores,’ as descendants of the old ‘de la Gore,’ are thus explained. ‘De
la Goreway,’ which once existed, is now, I believe, obsolete. One of the
most fertile roots of nomenclature was the simple roadside ‘cross’ or
‘crouch,’ the latter old English form still lingering in our ‘crutched’
or ‘crouched Friars.’ Langland describes a pilgrim as having ‘many a
crouche on his cloke;’ _i.e._ many a mark of the cross embroidered
thereon. A dweller by one of these wayside crucifixes would easily get
the sobriquet therefrom, and thus we find ‘atte Crouch’ to be of early
occurrence. Our ‘Crouchmans’ and ‘Crouchers’ I have already mentioned. A
‘Richard Crocheman’ is found in the Hundred Rolls, and a ‘William
Croucheman’ in another entry of the same period. As for the simpler
‘Cross,’ once written ‘atte Cross,’ it is to be met with everywhere.
‘Crosier’ and ‘Crozier’ I shall, in my next chapter, show to be official
rather than local; so we may pass them by for the present. The more
Saxon ‘Rood’ or ‘Rudd’ is not without its representatives. ‘Margery atte
Rudde’ is found in the ‘Placitorum,’ and our ‘Rudders’ and ‘Ruddimans,’
I doubt not, stand for the more directly personal form. Talking of
crosses, we may mention, in passing, our ‘Bellhouses,’ not unfrequently
found as ‘atte Belhus’ or ‘de la Belhuse.’ The founder of this name
dwelt in the small domicile attached to the monastic pile, and, no
doubt, had for his care the striking of the innumerable calls to the
supply of either the bodily or spiritual wants of those within. Our
‘Bellows,’ I believe, are but a modification of this. The last syllable
has undergone a similar change in several other instances. Thus the form
‘del Hellus’ was but ‘Hill-house,’ ‘Woodus’ is but the old ‘de la
Wodehouse,’ ‘Stannus’ but ‘Stanehouse’ or ‘Stonehouse,’ ‘Malthus’ but
‘Malthouse,’ and ‘Bacchus’ is found originally as ‘del Bakehouse.’[126]
The old ‘Atte Grene,’ a name familiar enough without the prefix, may be
set beside our ‘Plastows,’ relics of the ‘Atte Pleistowe’ or ‘de la
Pleystowe’ of the period we are considering. The ‘play-stowe’ (that is,
‘playground’) seems to have been the general term in olden days for the
open piece of greensward near the centre of the village where the
may-pole stood, and where all the sports at holiday times and wake tides
were carried on.[127] Our ‘Meads’ or ‘Meddes’ hail from the ‘meadow,’ or
‘mead.’ ‘Ate Med’ is the early form.[128]
A ‘croft’ was an enclosed field for pasture. Besides ‘Croft’ it has
given us ‘Meadowcroft,’ ‘Ryecroft,’ ‘Bancroft’ (that is, _bean-croft_),
‘Berecroft’ (that is, _barley-croft_), and ‘Haycraft’ (that is,
_hedged-croft_). It seems, however, to have been freely used, also, in
the sense of garth or yard, the enclosure in which, or by which, the
house stood. Thus, in the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ Satan is represented as
calling to the depraved and vile, and saying—
Come to my crofte alle ye.
With the humour of the period, which was ever largely intermingled in
even the most sacred themes, one of the characters, acting as a demon,
replies—
Souls come so thyk now late unto hell
As ever
Our porter at hell-gate
Is holden so strait,
Up early and downe late,
He rests never.
There is little distinction to be drawn between ‘garth’ and ‘yard’ in
the North of England, and in reality there ought to be none. Such names,
however, as ‘Nicholas de Apelyerd,’ or ‘Robert del Apelgarth,’ or
‘Richard atte Orcheyerd,’ the descendants of whom are still in our
midst, bespeak a former familiarity of usage which we cannot find now.
We have just mentioned ‘Haycraft.’ This reminds us of our ‘Hayes.’
Chaucer, in his ‘Troilus,’ says—
But right so as these holtes and these hayes,
That han in winter dead been and dry,
Revesten them in grene when that May is,
When every lusty beast listeth to pley.
A ‘hay’ was nothing but a ‘hedge.’ In the Hundred Rolls we find such
names occurring as ‘Margery de la Haye’ or ‘Roger de la Hagh,’ or in a
compounded form ‘Richard de la Woodhaye,’ or ‘Robert de Brodheye.’ Of
the simple root the forms most common now are ‘Hay,’ ‘Hayes,’ ‘Haighs,’
‘Haigs,’ and ‘Hawes.’ The composite forms are endless. ‘Roundhay’
explains itself. ‘Lyndsay’ I find spelt at this period as ‘Lyndshay,’ so
that it is not the islet whereon the lind or linden grows, but the hedge
of these shrubs. Besides these we have ‘Haywood’ or ‘Heywood,’ ‘Hayland’
and ‘Hayley.’ From the form ‘hawe,’ mentioned above, we have our
‘Hawleys,’ ‘Haworths,’ and ‘Hawtons,’ or ‘Haughtons,’ and probably the
longest name in the directory, that of ‘Featherstonehaugh.’ We still
talk of the _haw_-thorn and haw-haw. Chaucer uses the term for a
farmyard or garth—
And eke there was a polkat in his hawe
That, as he sayd, his capons had yslawe.
This at once explains such a name as ‘Peter in le Hawe’ found in the
Hundred Rolls. But Chaucer has a prettier use of it than this, a use
still abiding in our ‘Churchays,’ relics of the mediæval ‘de
Chirchehay.’ He speaks twice of the ‘Churchhawe,’ or graveyard. How
pretty it is! almost as pretty as its Saxon synonym ‘Godsacre,’ only
that is more endeared to us, inasmuch as since the acre always denoted
the sowed land (Latin ‘ager’), so it whispers to us hopefully of the
great harvest-tide to come when the seed thus sown in corruption shall
be raised an incorruptible body. Our ‘Goodacres’ are doubtless thus
derived—and with such names as ‘Acreman’ or ‘Akerman,’ ‘Oldacre’ or
‘Oddiker,’ ‘Longacre’ and ‘Whittaker’ (or ‘Whytacre’ or ‘Witacre,’ as I
find it in the thirteenth century), help to remind us how in early days
an acre denoted less a fixed measure of land than soil itself that lay
under the plough. But this by the way. I have just mentioned ‘Hayworth.’
A name like ‘William de la Worth’ (H.R.) represented our ‘Worths’ in the
thirteenth century. Properly speaking, any sufficiently _warded_
place—it had come to denote a small farmstead at the time the surname
arose. ‘Charlesworth’ is the ‘churl’s worth,’ the familiar metamorphosis
of this name being identical with that of the astronomic ‘Charles Wain,’
and with such place-names as ‘Charle-wood,’ ‘Charlton,’ ‘Carlton,’ and
‘Charley.’ Our various ‘Unsworths,’ ‘Ainsworths,’ ‘Whitworths,’
‘Langworthys,’ ‘Kenworthys,’ ‘Wortleys,’ and others of this class are
familiar to us all. Surnames like ‘Roger de la Grange,’ or ‘Geoffrey de
la Grange,’ or ‘John le Granger,’[129] remind us that _grange_ also was
commonly used at this time for a farmstead, it being in reality nothing
more than our _granary_.[130] Piers Plowman portrays the good Samaritan
thus—
His wounds he washed,
Enbawmed hym, and bound his head,
And ledde hym forth on ‘Lyard’
To ‘lex Christi,’ a graunge
Wel sixe mile or sevene
Beside the newe market.
Our ‘Barnes,’ I need not say, are of similar origin. The Celtic ‘booth,’
a frail tenement of ‘boughs,’ whose temporary character our Biblical
account of the Israelitish wanderings so well helps to preserve, has
given birth to our ‘Booths’ and ‘Boothmans,’ once written ‘de la Bothe’
and ‘Botheman.’ They may possibly have kept the stall at the fair or
market. Comparisons we know are ever odious, but set beside the more
Saxon ‘Steads’ and ‘Steadmans’ the former inevitably suffer. The very
names of these latter betray to us the well-nigh best characteristics of
the race whence they are sprung. To be _steady_ and _sted_fast are its
best and most inherent qualities—qualities which, added to the dash and
spirit of the Norman, have given the position England to-day occupies
among the nations of the world. Our ‘Bowers’ and ‘Bowermans,’ when not
occupied in the bowyer’s or bower’s craft, represent the earlier ‘de la
Bore’ or ‘atte Bore,’ and have taken their origin from the old ‘bower,’
the rustics’ abode. It is the same word whence has sprung our bucolic
‘boor.’ An old English term for a house or mansion was ‘bold,’ that
which was _built_. The old ‘De la Bolde,’ therefore, will in many cases
be the origination of our ‘Bolds.’ Our ‘Halls’ explain themselves, but
the older form of ‘Hale’ (once ‘atte Hale’ or ‘de la Hale’) is not so
easily traceable. ‘De la Sale,’ sometimes also found as ‘de la Saule,’
was the Norman synonym of the same.
Soon they sembled in sale,
Both kynge and cardinale,
says an old writer. ‘Sale’ and ‘Saul’ are still extant. Names still more
curious than these are those taken, not from the residence itself, but
from particular rooms in such residence. They are doubtless the result
of the feudal system, which, with its formal list of house officers and
attendants, required the presence of at least one in each separate
chamber. Hence the Norman-introduced _parlour_, that is, the speaking or
reception room, gave us ‘Henry del Parlour,’ or ‘Richard ate Parlour;’
the kitchen, ‘Geoffrey atte Kitchen,’ or ‘Richard del Kechen;’ or the
pantry ‘John de la Panetrie,’ or ‘Henry de la Panetrie.’ But I shall
have occasion to speak more fully of this by-and-by, so I will say no
more here.
There is a pretty word which has been restored from an undeserved
oblivion within the last few years by Mr. Tennyson, in his ‘Brook,’ as
an idyll perhaps the distinctly finest thing of its kind in the English
language. The word referred to is ‘thorpe,’ a village, pronounced
‘throp’ or ‘trop’ by our forefathers. Thus in the ‘Clerkes Tale’ we are
told—
Nought far fro this palace honorable,
There stood a thorpe of sight delitable,
In which the poor folk of that village
Hadden their bestes and their harborage;
while in the ‘Assembly of Fowls’ mention is prettily made of
The tame ruddocke and the coward kite,
The cock, that horiloge is of thorpes lite.
This diversity is well exemplified in our nomenclature. Thus the term in
its simple form is found in such entries as ‘Adam de Thorpe,’ or ‘Simon
de Throp,’ or ‘Ralph de Trop,’ all of which are to be met with in the
one same register; while compounded with other words, we are all
familiar with such surnames as ‘Gawthorpe,’ ‘Winthrop,’ ‘Hartrop,’
‘Denthorp,’ ‘Buckthorp,’ ‘Fridaythorp,’ ‘Conythorp,’ ‘Calthrop,’ or
‘Westropp.’ Our ‘Thrupps,’ too, we must not forget as but another
corrupted form of the same root.
There are two words whose sense has become so enlarged and whose
importance among English local terms has become so great that we cannot
but give them a place by themselves. They are those of ‘town’ and
‘borough.’ Such registered names as ‘William de la Towne’ or ‘Ralph de
la Tune,’ now found as ‘Town’ and ‘Tune,’ represent the former in its
primeval sense. The term is still used in Scotland, as it was used here
some generations ago, to denote a farm and all its surrounding
enclosures. In Wicklyffe’s Bible, where we read ‘and went their ways,
one to his farm, another to his merchandize,’ it is ‘one into his toun.’
In the story of the Prodigal Son, too, it is similarly employed—‘And he
wente and drough him to one of the cyteseynes of that cuntre, and he
sente him into his toun to feed swyn.’ Let me quote Chaucer also to the
same effect—
Whan I out of the door came,
I fast about me beheld,
Then saw I but a large field,
As farre as ever I might see,
Without toune, house, or tree.
It is thus a name I have already mentioned, ‘de la Townshende,’ the
parent of our ‘Townsends,’ ‘Townshends,’ and ‘Townends,’ has arisen.
Another entry, that of ‘Robert Withouten-town,’ has, as we might have
expected, left no issue. Such names as ‘Adam de la Bury,’ or ‘Walter
atte Bure,’ or ‘John atte Burende’ (the latter now extinct, I fear),
open out to us a still larger mass of existing nomenclature. The
manorial residence is still in many parts of England, with the country
folk, the ‘bury.’ To this or ‘borough’ we owe our ‘Burys,’ ‘Boroughs,’
‘Borrows,’ ‘Buroughs,’ ‘Burkes,’ ‘Broughs,’ ‘Burghs,’ and even ‘Bugges,’
so that, though Hood has inquired—
If a party had a voice,
What mortal would be a Bugg by choice?
still the possessors of that not exactly euphonious cognomen can reflect
with pride upon not merely a long pedigree, but lofty relationships.
Another form of the same word, familiar, too, to early registers, was
‘de la Bere,’ and to this we owe our ‘Berrys,’ ‘Berrimans,’ ‘Beers,’ and
‘Beares.’ It is wonderful how the strict meaning of ‘shelter’ is
preserved in all the terms founded upon its root ‘beorgan,’ to hide. Is
it a repository to guard the ashes of the dead?—it is a _barrow_, the
act of sepulture itself being the _burial_. Is it a refuge for the
coneys?—it is a _burrow_, or _beare_, as in ‘Coneybeare.’[131] Is it a
raised mound for the security of man?—it is a _bury_, _borough_,
_brough_, or _burgh_. How altered now the meaning of these two words
‘borough’ and ‘town.’ Once but the abiding-place of a scattered family
or two, they are now the centres of teeming populations. Of these, while
some are still extending their tether, others have passed the middle age
of their strength and vigour, and from the accidents of physical and
industrial life are but surely succumbing to that dotage which, as in
man so in man’s works, seems to be but premonitory of their final decay.
How true is it that the fashion of this world passeth away. Even now
this ever restless spirit of change is going on. We ourselves can scarce
tell the spot upon which we were born. We need not wait for death to
find that our place very soon knoweth us no more, and when we talk of
treading in the footprints of the generations that have gone before, it
would seem as though it were but to blind ourselves to the sober and
unwelcome truth that we are rather treading upon the _débris_ of the
changing years.
But there is another class of surnames we may fitly introduce here,
which, I doubt not, forms no small proportion in the aggregate mass of
our nomenclature—that of sign-names. We in a cultivated age like that of
the present fail, as we must, to realize the effect of these latter upon
the current life of our forefathers. We now pass up and down a street,
and, apart from the aid of the numbered doors and larger windows, and a
more peculiar frontage, above the door we may see the name of the
proprietor and the character of his occupation in letters so large that
it is literally a fact that he who runs may read them. But all this is
of gradual and slowly developed growth. The day we are considering knew
nothing of these. It was a time when the clergy themselves in many cases
were unable to read, when such education as a child of twelve years is
now a dunce not to know would have given then for the possession of like
attainments the sobriquet of ‘le Clerke’ or ‘le Beauclerk.’ And if this
was the case with the learned, what would it be with the lower grades
and classes of society? We may, therefore, well inquire what would be
the use of gilded characters such as we now-a-days may see, detailing
the name of the shopkeeper and the fashion of his stores? None at all.
They could not read them. Thus we find in their stead the practice
prevailing of putting up signs and symbols to denote the character of
the shop, or to mark the individuality of the owner. In an age of
escutcheons and all the insignia of heraldry, this was but natural. All
manner of instruments, all styles of dress, all kinds of ensigns rudely
carved or painted, that a rough or quaint fancy could suggest, were
placed in a conspicuous position by the hatch or over the doorway, to
catch, if it were possible, the eye of the wayfarer. Even the name
itself, when it was capable of being so played upon, was turned into a
symbol readable to the popular mind. Nor was it deemed necessary that
the device should speak directly of the trade. Apart from implements and
utensils, Nature herself was exhausted to supply sufficiently attractive
signs; and what with mermaids and griffins, unicorns and centaurs, and
other winged monsters, we see that they did not stop here—the
supernatural also had to be pressed into this service. The animal
kingdom was, however, specially popular—the hostelries peculiarly
engrossing this class from the fact that they so often had emblazoned
the recognizances of the family with which they stood immediately
connected. Thus we still have ‘Red Lions’ and ‘White Lions,’ ‘Blue
Boars’ and ‘Boars’ Heads,’ ‘White Bears’ and ‘Roebucks,’ and ‘Bulls’
Heads.’ Relics of the more special emblems remain in the barber’s pole,
to the end of which a bowl was once generally attached, to show he was a
surgeon also—the pawnbroker’s three balls, the goldbeater’s mallet, or
the shoemaker’s last. Of the more fanciful we have a capital idea given
us in the lines from Pasquin’s ‘Nightcap,’ written so late as 1612—
First there is maister Peter at the Bell,
A linen-draper, and a wealthy man;
Then maister Thomas that doth stockings sell;
And George the Grocer at the Frying-pan;
And maister Timothie the woollen-draper;
And maister Salamon the leather-scraper;
And maister Frank the goldsmith at the Rose,
And maister Philip with the fiery nose;
And maister Miles the mercer at the Harrow;
And maister Mike the silkman at the Plow;
And maister Nicke the salter at the Sparrow;
And maister Dick the vintner at the Cow;
And Harry haberdasher at the Horne;
And Oliver the dyer at the Thorne;
And Bernard, barber-surgeon at the Fiddle;
And Moses, merchant-tailor at the Needle.[132]
More than three hundred years previous to this we find such names
figuring in our registers as ‘John de la Rose,’ ‘John atte Belle,’
‘Roger Horne,’ and ‘Nicholas Sparewe,’ while ‘Cow’ is met by its Norman
equivalent in the instance of ‘Richard de la Vache.’ Of the rest, too,
contained in the above lines, all are found in our existing nomenclature
with the exception of ‘Fryingpan.’ Still more recently, the ‘British
Apollo’ contained the following:—
I’m amused at the signs
As I pass through the town,
To see the odd mixture—
A ‘Magpie and Crown,’
The ‘Whale and the Crow,’
The ‘Razor and Hen,’
The ‘Leg and Seven Stars,’
The ‘Scissors and Pen,’
The ‘Axe and the Bottle,’
The ‘Tun and the Lute,’
The ‘Eagle and Child,’
The ‘Shovel and Boot.’
A word or two about these double signs before we pass on, as I cannot
but think much ingenious nonsense has been written thereon. There can be
no difficulty in accounting for these strange combinations, some of
which still exist. A partnership in business would be readily understood
by the conjoining of two hitherto separate signs. An apprentice who, on
the death of his master, had succeeded to his business, would gladly
retain the previous well-established badge, and simply show the change
of hands by adding thereto his own. I cannot but think that such
ingenious derivations as ‘God encompasseth us’ for the ‘Goat and
Compasses,’ or the ‘Satyr and Bacchanals’ for the ‘Devil and
Bag-o’-nails,’ or the ‘Boulogne Mouth’ for the ‘Bull and Mouth,’ are
altogether unnecessary. A clever and imaginative mind could soon produce
similar happy plays upon the conjunctions contained in the above lines,
and yet the originations I have suggested for them all I think my
readers will admit to be most natural. There is no more peculiarity
about these than about the ordinary combinations of names we are
accustomed to see in the streets every day of our lives, denoting
partnership. Thus the only difference is that what we now read as ‘Smith
and Wright,’ in an age when reading was less universal was, say, ‘Magpie
and Crown.’ Partnerships, or business transactions, often bring peculiar
conjunctions of names. So early as 1284, I find a ‘Nicholas Bacun’
acknowledging a bond to a certain ‘Hugh Motun,’ _i.e._ Mutton. (Riley’s
‘London,’ p. 23.) I have myself come across such combinations as
‘Shepherd and Calvert’—_i.e._ ‘Calveherd,’ or ‘Sparrow and Nightingale,’
or ‘Latimer and Ridley.’ During the early portion of my residence at
Oxford the two Bible-clerkships connected with my college were in the
hands of two gentlemen named ‘Robinson’ and ‘Crusoe.’ They lived on the
same staircase, and their names being (as is customary) emblazoned above
the door, the coincidence was the more remarkable. ‘Catchem’ and
‘Cheetham’ is said to have been the title of a lawyer’s firm, but I will
not vouch for the accuracy of the statement. A story, too, goes that
‘Penn, Quill, and Driver’ once figured over a scrivener’s office, but
this is still more hypothetical.
But to return. We may see, from what we have stated and quoted, that up
to a comparatively recent period the written name seems to have been
anything but customary even in the metropolis. Any one who will look
into a book printed up to the seventeenth century will see on the
titlepage the fact stated that it was published or sold at the sign of
the ‘Stork,’ or ‘Crown,’ or ‘Peacock,’ or ‘Crane,’ as the case might be.
How much we owe to this fashion I need scarcely say. The Hundred Rolls
contain not merely a ‘Henry le Hatter,’ but a ‘Thomas del Hat;’ not only
an ‘Adam le Lorimer,’ but a ‘Margery de Styrop.’ It is to some dealer in
earthenware we owe our existing ‘Potts,’ some worker in metals our
‘Hammers,’ some carpenter our ‘Coffins,’ once synonymous with ‘Coffer,’
some osierbinder our ‘Basketts,’ some shoemaker our ‘Lasts,’ some
cheesemonger our ‘Cheeses,’ some plowright our ‘Plows,’ some silversmith
our ‘Spoons’ and ‘Silverspoons,’ and some cooper our ‘Tubbs’ and
‘Cades,’ our ‘Barrills’ and ‘Punshons,’ and so on with endless others.
It was perfectly natural that all these should become surnames, that the
same practice which led to men being called in the less populous country
by such names as ‘Ralph atte Townsend,’ or ‘William atte Stile,’ or
‘Henry atte Hatch,’ or ‘Thomas atte Nash,’ should in the more closely
inhabited city cause men to be distinguished as ‘Hugh atte Cokke,’ or
‘Walter de Whitehorse,’ or ‘John atte Gote’ or ‘de la Gote,’ or ‘Richard
de la Vache,’ or ‘Thomas atte Ram,’ or ‘William atte Roebuck,’ or
‘Gilbert de la Hegle,’ or ‘John de la Roe,’ or ‘Reginald de la Wonte’
(weasel). Our only surprise would be were the case otherwise.
Nevertheless, as we shall see in another chapter, many of these
animal-names at least have arisen in another manner also.
And now we come to what we may term the second branch of local surnames,
that branch which throws a light upon the migratory habits and roving
tendencies of our forefathers. So far we have touched upon names
implying a fixed residence in a fixed locality. We may now notice that
class which by their very formation throw our minds upon that which
precedes settlement in a particular spot, viz., removal—that which
speaks to us of immigration. Such a name in our mediæval rolls as ‘Peter
le Newe,’ or ‘Gilbert le Newcomen,’ or ‘Walter le Neweman,’ declares to
us at once its origin. The owner has left his native village to push his
interests and get a livelihood elsewhere, and upon his entrance as a
stranger into some distant community, alone and friendless, nothing
could be more natural than to distinguish him from the familiar
‘Peters,’ ‘Gilberts,’ and ‘Walters’ around by styling him as Peter, or
Gilbert, or Walter the ‘New,’ or ‘Newman.’ This it is which is the
origin of our ‘Stranges,’ descendants as they are of such mediæval folk
as ‘Roger le Estrange’ or ‘Roger le Straunge.’ There was ‘Roger the
Cooper’ and ‘Roger the Cheesemonger’ round the corner close to the
market cross, and ‘Roger atte Ram,’ so, of course, this new-comer as
distinguished from them was ‘Roger the Straunge’ or ‘Strange,’ and once
so known, the more familiar he became, the more ‘Strange’ he became,
though this may seem somewhat of a paradox. Thus, too, have arisen our
‘Strangers’ and ‘Strangemans.’ These, however, are the general terms. To
quote a name like ‘Robert de Eastham’ or ‘William de Sutton’ is, as it
were, to take up the plug from a never-ceasing fountain. We are thrown
upon a list of sobriquets to which there is no tether. Take up a
subscription paper, look over a list of speakers at a farmers’ dinner,
scan the names of the clergy at a ministerial conference, all will
possess a fair average of this class of surnames, early wanderers from
one village to another, Saxons fresh escaped from serfdom seeking a
livelihood in a new district, Norman tradesmen or retainers pushing
forward for fresh positions and fresh gains in fresh fields. It is
through the frequency of these has arisen the old couplet quoted by
Verstigan—
In ‘Ford,’ in ‘Ham,’ in ‘Ley,’ in ‘Ton,’
The most of English surnames run.
There is probably no village or hamlet in England which has not
subscribed in this manner to the sum total of our nomenclature. It is
this which is so telltale of the present, for while a small rural spot
like, say ‘Debenham,’ in Suffolk, or ‘Ashford,’ in Derbyshire, will have
its score of representatives, a solitary ‘Richard de Lyverpole,’ or
‘Guido de Mancestre,’ or ‘John de Burmyngham’ will be all we can find to
represent such large centres of population as Manchester, or Liverpool,
or Birmingham. Mushroomlike they sprang up but yesterday, while for
centuries these insignificant hamlets have pursued the even tenor of
their way, somewhat disturbed, it may have been, from their equanimity
four or five centuries agone, by the announcement that Ralph or Miles
was about to leave them, and who, by thus becoming ‘Ralph de Debenham’
or ‘Miles de Ashford,’ have given to the world to the end of time the
story of their early departure.
In the same class with the village names of England must we set our
county surnames. These are of course but an insignificant number set by
their brethren, still we must not pass them by without a word. In the
present day, if we were to speak of a man in connexion with his county,
we should say he was a Derbyshire or a Lancashire man, as the case might
be. That they did this five or six hundred years ago is evidenced by the
existence of these very names in our midst. Thus we can point in our
records to such designations as ‘John Hamshire,’ or ‘Adam de Kent,’ or
‘Richard de Wiltshire,’ or ‘Geoffrey de Cornwayle.’ Still this was not
the only form of county nomenclature. The Normans, I suspect it was, who
introduced another. We have still ‘Kentish’ and ‘Devonish’ and ‘Cornish’
to represent the ‘William le Kentish’s,’ or ‘John le Devoneis’s,’ or
‘Margery le Cornyshe’s,’ of their early rolls; and our ‘Cornwallis’s’
also yet preserve such fuller forms as ‘Thomas le Cornwaleys,’ or
‘Philip le Cornwaleys.’
We may here mention our ‘Cockins,’ ‘Cockaignes,’ and ‘Cockaynes,’
instances of which are early found. An old poem begins—
Fur in sea, bi west Spayne,
Is a lond ihote Cockaigne.
There seems to be a general agreement among those who have studied the
subject that our ‘cockney’ was originally a denizen of this fabled
region, and then was afterwards, from a notion of London being the seat
of luxury and effeminacy, transferred to that city. A ‘William Cockayne’
is found in the ‘Placitorum’ of Richard I.’s reign, while the Hundred
Rolls are yet more precise in a ‘Richarde de Cockayne.’ Speaking of
London, however, we must not forget our ‘Londonish’s.’ They are but
relics of such mediæval entries as ‘Ralph le Lundreys,’ or ‘William
Londonissh,’ either of whom we should now term ‘Londoner,’ one who had
come from the metropolis and settled somewhere in the country. Chaucer
in one of his prose works spells it ‘Londenoys,’ which is somewhat
nearer the modern form. ‘London,’ once simple ‘de London,’ needs no
remark.
A passing from one part of the British Empire to another has been a
prolific source of nomenclature. Thus we find such names as ‘Henry de
Irlaund,’ ‘Adam de Irland,’ ‘John le Irreys,’ or ‘Thomas le Ireis,’ in
the ordinary dress of ‘Ireland’ and ‘Irish,’ to be by no means obsolete
in the present day. ‘Roger le Escot’ or ‘Maurice le Scot’ represents, I
need scarcely say, a surname that is all but interminable, the
Caledonian having ever been celebrated for his roving as well as canny
propensities. It is to our brethren over the Border, too, we owe the
more special form of ‘Inglis,’ known better in the south as ‘English.’
The Hundred Rolls furnish us with such names as ‘Walter le Engleis,’ or
‘Robert le Engleys,’ or ‘Walter Ingeleys.’ Laurence Minot has the modern
form. Describing Edward III.’s entrance into Brabant, he says—
The Inglis men were armed wéle,
Both in yren and in stele.
The representatives of our native-born Welshmen are well-nigh as
numerous as those across the Scottish line, and the early spellings we
light upon are equally varied—‘le Galeys,’[133] ‘le Waleys,’ ‘le
Waleis,’ and ‘le Walsshe’ being, however, the commonest. The last is
used by Piers Plowman, who speaks of
Rose the Disheress,
Godfrey of Garlekhithe,
And Gryfin the Walshe.
In these, of course, we at once discern the progenitors of our ‘Welshs’
and ‘Wallaces.’ ‘Walshman’ is also found as ‘Walseman.’ ‘Langlois’ seems
to be firmly established in our present midst as an importation from
France. It was evidently returned to us all but contemporaneously with
its rise there, for as ‘L’Angleys’ or ‘Lengleyse,’ it is found on
English soil in the thirteenth century. It is quite possible that our
‘Langleys’ are in some instances but a corruption of this name. Thus the
different quarters of the British Empire are well personified so far as
our directories are concerned.
We have not quite done with the home country, however. Our modern
‘Norris’s’ are of a somewhat comprehensive nature. In the first place
there can be little doubt they have become confounded by lapse of time
with the once not unfamiliar ‘la Noryce,’ or nurse. Apart from this,
too, the term ‘le Noreys’ was ever applied in early times to the
Norwegians, and to this sense mainly it is that we owe the rise of the
name. And yet it has another origin. It was used in the mere sense of
‘northern,’ one from the North-country. Thus in the Hundred Rolls we
meet with the two names of ‘Thomas le Noreys’ and ‘Geoffrey le
Northern,’ and there is no reason why these should not both have had the
same rise. A proof in favour of this view lies in the fact that we have
their counterparts in such entries as ‘Thomas le Surreys’ and ‘Thomas le
Southern,’ the latter now found in the other forms of ‘Sothern’ and
‘Sotheran.’ Nor are the other points of the compass wanting. A ‘Richard
le Westrys’ and a ‘Richard le Estrys’ both occur in the registers of the
thirteenth century, but neither, I believe, now exists. ‘North’ found as
‘de North’ needs no explanation, and the same can be said for our
‘Souths,’ ‘Easts,’ and ‘Wests.’
The distance from Dover to Calais is not great; but were it otherwise,
we should still feel bound in our notice of names of foreign
introduction first of all to mention Normandy. For not merely has this
country supplied us with many of our best family names, but it enjoys
the distinction of having been the first to establish an hereditary
surname. This it did in the case of the barons and their feudary
settlements. The close of the eleventh century we may safely say saw as
yet but one class of sobriquets, which, together with their other
property, fathers were in the habit of handing down to their sons. This
class was local, and was attached only to those followers of the
Conqueror who had been presented by their leader with landed estates in
the country they had but recently subdued. As a rule each of these
feudatories took as his surname the place whence he had set forth in his
Norman home. Thus arose so many of our sobriquets of which ‘Burke’s
Peerage’ is the best directory, and of which therefore I have little to
say here. Thus arose the ‘de Mortimers’ (the prefix was retained for
many generations by all), the ‘de Colevilles,’ the ‘de Corbets,’ the ‘de
Ferrers,’ the ‘de Beauchamps,’ the ‘de Courcys,’ the ‘de Lucys,’ and the
‘de Granvilles.’ Thus have sprung our ‘Harcourts,’ our Tankervilles,’
our ‘Nevilles,’ our ‘Bovilles,’ our Baskervilles,’ our ‘Lascelles,’ our
‘Beaumonts,’ our ‘Villiers,’ our ‘Mohuns,’ and our ‘Percys.’ Apropos of
Granville, a story is told of a former Lord Lyttelton contesting with
the head of that stock priority of family, and clenching his argument by
asserting his to be necessarily the most ancient, inasmuch as the
_littletown_ must have existed before the _grand-ville_. A similar
dispute is said to have occurred at Venice between the families ‘Ponti’
and ‘Canali’—the one asserting that the ‘Bridges’ were above the
‘Canals,’ the other that the ‘Canals’ were in existence before the
‘Bridges.’ So hot waxed the quarrel that the Senate was compelled to
remind the disputants that it had power alike to stop up Canals and pull
down Bridges if they became over troublesome. But to return: the number
of these Norman names was great. The muster-roll of William’s army
comprised but an item of the foreign incomers. As the tide of
after-immigration set in, there was no town, however insignificant, in
Normandy, or in the Duchies of Anjou and Maine, which was not soon
represented in the nomenclature of the land. From giving even a partial
list of these I must refrain, however tempted, but see what the
chapelries alone did for us. St. Denys gave us our ‘Sidneys,’ St. Clair,
or Clare, our ‘Sinclairs,’ vilely corrupted at times into ‘Sinkler;’ St.
Paul, our ‘Semples,’ ‘Samples,’ ‘Sempills,’ ‘Simpoles,’ and sometimes
‘Simples;’ St. Lowe, or Loe, our ‘Sallows;’ St. Amand, our ‘Sandemans’
and ‘Samands;’ St. Lis, our ‘Senlis’ and ‘Senleys;’ St. Saviour, our
‘Sissivers;’ St. Maur, our ‘Seymours;’ St. Barbe, our ‘Symbarbes;’ St.
Hillary, our ‘Sillerys;’ St. Pierre, our ‘Sempers’ and ‘Simpers;’ St.
Austin, our ‘Sustins;’ St. Omer, our ‘Somers;’ St. Leger, our
‘Sellingers,’ once more literally enrolled as ‘Steleger,’ and so on with
our less corrupted ‘St. Johns,’ ‘St. Georges,’ and others. I do not say,
however, that all these were later comers. Some of them must undoubtedly
be set among the earlier comrades in arms of the Conqueror. Indeed it is
impossible in every case to separate the warlike from the peaceful
invasion. Looking back from this distant period, and with but scanty and
imperfect memorials for guidance, it cannot but be so.
With respect to another class of these Norman names, however, we are
more certain. Their very formation seems to imply beyond a doubt that
they had a settlement as surnames in their own arrondissements before
their arrival on English soil. We may, therefore, with tolerable
certainty set them down as later comers. The distinguishing marks of
these are the prefixes ‘de la,’ or ‘del,’ or ‘du’ attached to them.
Thus from some local peculiarity with respect to their early homes
would arise such names as ‘Delamere,’ ‘Dupont,’ ‘Delisle,’ ‘Delarue,’
‘Dubois,’ ‘Ducatel,’ ‘Defontaine,’ ‘Decroix,’ or ‘Deville’ or
‘Deyville.’ This latter is now found also in the somewhat unpleasant
form of ‘Devil.’ They say the _devil_ is the source of every _evil_.
Whether this extends beyond the moral world may be open to doubt, but
our ‘Evils,’ ‘Evills,’ and ‘Eyvilles,’ from the fact of their once
being written with the prefix ‘de,’ seem to favour the suspicion of
there being a somewhat dangerous relationship between them.[134] These
names, though commonly met with in mediæval records, are,
nevertheless, I say, not to be put down as coeval with the Conquest,
but as after-introductions when England was securely won. There befell
Norman names of this class, however, what I have shown still more
commonly to have befallen those of a similar, but more Saxon,
category. If these prefixes ‘de la,’ ‘del,’ and ‘du’ are sometimes
found retained, they are as often conspicuous by their absence. Thus
while at an early date after the Conquest we find the Saxon ‘Atwood’
met by the Norman ‘Dubois,’ it is equally true that they had already
to battle with simple ‘Wood’ and ‘Boys’ or ‘Boyce.’ Thus it was we
find so early the Saxon ‘Beech’ faced by the Norman ‘Fail’ or ‘Fayle,’
‘Ash’ by ‘Freen,’ ‘Frean,’ or ‘Freyne,’ ‘Hasell’ by ‘Coudray,’ ‘Alder’
by ‘Aunay,’ and, let us say, for want of a ‘Walnut,’ ‘Nut’ by ‘Noyes.’
In the same way our ‘Halls’ or ‘Hales’ were matched by ‘Meynell’
(mesnil), ‘Hill’ by ‘Montaigne,’ now also ‘Mountain,’ ‘Mead’ or
‘Medd,’ or ‘Field,’ by ‘Prall’ or ‘Prail,’ relics of the old
‘prayell,’ a little meadow. I have just set ‘Wood’ by our ‘Boys’ and
‘Boyces.’ To these we must add our ‘Busks,’ ‘Bushes,’ ‘Busses,’ all
from ‘bois’ or ‘bosc.’ The ‘taillis,’ or underwood, too, gives us
‘Tallis,’ and the union of both in ‘Taillebois’ or ‘Talboys,’ as we
now have it, combines the names of two of our best church
musicians—‘Tallis’ and ‘Boyce.’ This comparison of early introduced
Norman with names of a Saxon local character we might carry on to any
extent, but this must suffice—illustrations and not categories are all
we can pretend to attempt.
But these were not our only foreign introduced names. Coeval with the
arrival of these later Norman designations a remarkable peculiarity
began to make itself apparent in the vast number of names that poured in
from various and more distant parts of the Continent. That they came for
purposes of trade, and to settle down into positions that the Saxons
themselves should have occupied, is undoubted. The lethargy of the Saxon
population at this period would be extraordinary, if it were not so
easily to be accounted for. There was no heart in the nation. The Saxons
had become a conquered people, and, although the spirit of Hereward the
Wake was quenched, there had come that settled sullen humour which,
finding no outlet for active enmity, fed in spirit upon itself, and
increased with the pampering. To punish open disaffection is easy; to
eradicate by the stern arm of power such a feeling as this is
impossible. Time alone can do it, and that but slowly. More than a
century after this we find Robin Hood the idol of popular sympathy; no
national hero has ever eclipsed him, and yet, putting sentiment aside,
he was naught but a robber, an outlawed knave. He was but a vent for the
still lingering current of a people’s feelings. It was but the Saxon and
Norman over again.
We can easily imagine, then, if the spirit of the people was so
lethargic as this, at how low an ebb would be the commercial enterprise
of this period. No country was there whose resources for
self-aggrandisement were greater than our own—none which had more
disregarded them up to the reign of the third Edward. Till then she was
the mere mine from which other countries might draw forth riches, the
carcase for the eagles of many nations to feed upon. Saving the
exportation of wool in its raw unmanufactured state, she did nothing for
her national prosperity. The Dutch cured the fish they themselves caught
on our coasts, and the looms of Flanders and Brabant manufactured the
weft and warp we sent them into the cloth we wore. If our kings and
barons were clad in scarlet and purple, little had England actively to
do with that; her share in such superior tints was nought, save the
production of the dye, for in conjunction with the Eastern indigo it was
our woad the Netherlands used. That other nations were advancing, and
that ours was not, is a statement, commercially speaking, I need not
enlarge upon; it is a mere matter of history which no one disputes.
Not, however, that there was no trade. Far from it. Long before Edward
III. had established a surer basis of order and industry, London had
become a mart of no small Continental importance. This outlying city, as
with other towns of growing industry abroad, had come under the
beneficial influence of the Crusades. So far as the redemption of the
Holy City was concerned, that strong, but noble madness which had set
Christendom ablaze was a failure. But it effected much in another way.
From the first moment when on the waters of the Levant were assembled a
host as diverse in nation as they were one in purpose; when in their
high-decked galleons and oar-banked pinnances men met each other face to
face of whose national existence they had been previously all but
unaware—one result, at least, was sure to follow—an intercommunion of
nations was inevitable, and, in the wake of this, other and not less
beneficial consequences. Healthy comparisons were drawn, jealousies were
allayed, navigation was improved, better ships were built, harbours
hitherto avoided as dangerous were rendered safe, and new havens were
discovered. This influence was felt everywhere. It reached so far as
England—London felt it.
But it was a minor influence—minor in comparison with our wonderful
appliances—minor in comparison with the commercial spirit developing
such Republics as Genoa and Venice, or the Easterling countries that
border the Baltic and German Seas—a minor influence, too, especially
because the Saxons had so little share in it. So far as they were
concerned, this internationality was all one-sided. Denizens of all
lands visited our shores, but their visits were unreturned. What an
infinitesimal part of our Continental surnames in the present day are
traceable to English sources. On the other hand, there was no town
however small, no hamlet however insignificant, in Normandy, in the
Duchies of Anjou and Maine, or protected by the cities of the Hanseatic
League, that is unrepresented in the nomenclature of our land. Nay, it
was this very lack of reciprocity of commerce that held out such
inducements to the dwellers in other lands to visit our shores. It was
to step into possession of those very advantages we slighted they came:
we became but a colony of foreign artisans. Truly our metropolis in
those early days of her industry was a motley community. Numerous names
of foreign locality have died out in the lapse of centuries between; a
large proportion have become so Anglicized that we cannot detect their
Continental birth, but there is still a formidable array left in our
midst whose lineage is manifest, and whose nationality is not to be
doubted. We dare not enumerate them all. Let us, however, take a short
tour over Europe and the East. We will begin with Normandy, and advance
westerly, and then southerly. The provinces that border upon Normandy
and Bretagne, especially to the south and eastwards, large or small,
have, as we should expect, supplied us with many names. We have besides
‘Norman,’ which, like ‘le Northern,’ is of doubtful locality, ‘Bret,’
‘Brett,’ ‘Britt,’ ‘Britten,’ ‘Briton,’ and ‘Brittain,’ from ‘Bretagne,’
and represented in our olden rolls by such men as ‘Hamo le Bret,’ or
‘Roger le Breton,’ or ‘Thomas le Brit,’ or ‘Ivo le Briton.’ Our ‘Angers’
are not necessarily so irascible as they look, for they are but
corruptions, as are ‘Angwin’ and ‘Aungier,’ of the ‘Angevine of Anjou.’
Like our ‘Maines’ and ‘Maynes’ from the neighbouring duchy, they would
be likely visitors to our shores from the intimate relationship which
for a while endured between the two countries through royal alliances.
Our ‘Arters’ and ‘Artis,’ once registered ‘de Artoys,’ came from
‘Artois;’ our ‘Gaskins,’ and more correct ‘Gascoignes,’ from ‘Gascony;’
and our ‘Burgons’ and ‘Burgoynes’ from Burgundy.[135] To Champagne it is
we are indebted for our ‘Champneys’ and ‘Champness’s,’ descendants as
they are from such old incomers as ‘Robert le Champeneis,’ or ‘Roger le
Chaumpeneys,’ while the more strictly local form appears in our
‘Champagnes,’ not to say some of our ‘Champions’ and ‘Campions.’[136]
Speaking of Champagne, it is curious that next in topographical order
come our ‘Port-wines,’ sprung from the Poictevine of Poictou. So early
as the thirteenth century, this name had become corrupted into
‘Potewyne,’ a ‘Pretiosa Potewyne’ occurring in the Hundred Rolls of that
period. More correct representatives are found in such entries as ‘Henry
le Poytevin,’ and ‘Peter le Pettevin.’ Pickardy has given us our
‘Pickards’ and ‘Pycards,’ Provence our ‘Provinces,’ and Lorraine our
‘Loraynes,’ ‘Lorraines,’ and ‘Lorings.’ ‘Peter le Loring’ and ‘John le
Loring’ are instances of the latter form. More general terms for the
countrymen of these various provinces are found in such registered names
as ‘Gilbert le Fraunceis,’ or ‘Henry le Franceis,’ or ‘Peter le Frensh,’
or ‘Gyllaume Freynsman.’
I have mentioned ‘Norman’—one of the commonest of early sobriquets is
‘le Bigod’ and ‘le Bigot.’ Well-nigh every record has its ‘Roger le
Bygod,’ or its ‘William le Bygot,’ or ‘Hugh le Bigot,’ or ‘Alina le
Bigod.’ Amid the varying opinions of so many high authorities, I dare
not speak in anywise with confidence; but, judging from these very
entries which are found at an early period, I cannot but think Dean
Trench and Mr. Wedgwood wrong in their conjecture that the word arose
from the ‘beguines’—_i.e._ the Franciscans. With Mr. Taylor[137] I am
firmly convinced it is _ethnic_, and that as such it was familiarly
applied to the Normans I am equally satisfied. In proof of its
_national_ character, Mr. Taylor quotes a passage from the romance of
Gerard of Roussillon—
Bigot, e Provençal e Rouergues,
E Bascle, e Gasco, e Bordales.
The popular story ascribes its origin to the fondness for oaths so
peculiar to the Anglo-Norman character, and in this particular instance
to the exclamation ‘by-God.’[138] My own impression is that the origin
of the word has yet to be found. With regard to surnames, however, I may
say that we have at this day ‘Bigots’ in our directories as well as in
everything else, and it is highly probable that our Bagots are but a
corruption of the same.
Turning westward, such names as ‘Michael de Spaigne,’ or ‘Arnold de
Espaigne,’ tell us at once who were the forefathers of our ‘Spains’ and
‘Espins;’[139] while ‘John le Moor’ suggests to us at least the
possibility that English heathlands did not enjoy the entire monopoly in
the production of this familiar cognomen. The intensive ‘Blackamoor,’ a
mere compound of ‘black’ and ‘moor,’ seems to have early existed. A
‘Beatrice Blackamour’ and a ‘William Blackamore’ occur in a London
Register of 1417—(Riley’s ‘London,’ p. 647). Nor is Italy void of
examples. The sturdy old republic of Genoa has supplied us with
‘Janeway’ and ‘Jannaway,’[140] ‘Genese’ and ‘Jayne’ or ‘Jeane.’ Chaucer
alludes to the Genoese coin the ‘jane.’ An old poem, too, speaking of
Brabant as a general mart, says—
Englysshe and Frensh, Lumbardes, Januayes,
Cathalones, theder they take their wayes.
The ‘Libel on English Policy’ has the word in a similar dress.
The Janueys comyne in sondre wyses,
Into this londe wyth dyverse merchaundysses,
In grete karrekes arrayde withouten lack,
Wyth clothes of golde, silke, and pepir black.
Hall, in his Chronicles, speaking of the Duke of Clarence ravaging the
French coast in Henry IV.’s reign, says, ‘in his retournyng he
encountred with two greate Carickes of Jeane laden with ryche
marchandise.’ (f. xxiv.)
Its old rival upon the Adriatic still vies with it in ‘Veness,’ once
enrolled as ‘de Venise.’ Rome has given us our early ‘Reginald le
Romayns’ and ‘John le Romayns,’ whose descendants now write their names
in the all but unaltered form of ‘Romaine,’[141] and to Lombardy and the
Jews we owe Lombard street, and our ‘Lombards,’ ‘Lumbards,’ ‘Lubbards,’
and perhaps ‘Lubbers’—not to mention our ‘Luckes,’ and ‘Luckies,’ a
progenitor of whom I find inscribed in the Hundred Rolls as ‘Luke of
Lucca.’ Advancing eastwards, a ‘Martin le Hunne’ looks strangely as if
sprung from a Hungarian source. Whatever doubt, however, there may be on
this point, there can be none on ‘William le Turc,’[142] whose name is
no solitary one in the records of the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries, and whose descendants are by no means extinct in the
nineteenth. ‘Peter le Russe’ would seem at first sight to be of Russian
origin, especially with such a Christian name to the fore as the one
above, but it is far more probably one more form of the endless
corruptions of ‘le Rous,’ a sobriquet of complexion so extremely
familiar to all who have spent any time over mediæval registers. I have
already mentioned ‘le Norrys’ as connected with our ‘Norris.’ ‘Dennis,’
I doubt not, in some cases, is equally representative of the former ‘le
Daneys.’ Entries like ‘William le Norris,’ or ‘Walter le Norreis,’ or
‘Roger le Daneis,’ or ‘Joel le Deneys,’ are of constant occurrence.
These, added to the others, may be mentioned as bringing before our eyes
the broadest limits of European immigration, and with scarcely an
exception they are found among the English surnames of to-day.
But we must not forget the Dutch—a term that once embraced all the
German race.[143] ‘Dutchman,’ though I have found no instance in early
rolls, is, I see, a denizen of our present directories, while
‘Dutchwomen,’ found in the fourteenth century, is extinct. Our ‘Pruces’
are but the old ‘le Pruce,’ or Prussian, as we should now term them. The
word is met with in an old political song, and, as it contains a list of
articles, the introduction of which into England from Flanders made the
two countries so closely connected, I will quote it fully:—
Now beer and bacon bene fro Pruse i-brought
Into fflaunders, as loved and fere i-soughte;
Osmonde, coppre, bowstaffes, stile and wex,
Peltre-ware, and grey, pych, tar, borde, and flex,
And Coleyne threde, fustiane, and canvase,
Corde, bokeram, of old tyme thus it wase.
But the fflemmynges among these things dere,
Incomen loven beste bacon and beer.
‘Fleming,’ as our registers prove, was seemingly the popular term for
all the Low Countrymen, bands of whom were specially invited over by two
of our kings to spread their industry in our own land. Numbers of them
came in, however, as simple wool-merchants, to transmit the raw material
into Holland. As the old ‘Libel on English Policy’ says—
But ye Fleminges, if ye be not wrothe,
The grete substance of your cloth, at the fulle,
Ye wot ye made it of youre English wolle.
But Flanders was not the only division represented. Our ‘Brabazons’ once
written ‘le Brabançon,’ together with our ‘Brabants,’ ‘Brabaners,’ and
‘Brabans,’ issued, of course, from the duchy of that name; while our
‘Hanways’[144] and ‘Hannants’ hailed from Hainault, the latter of the
two representing the usual early English pronunciation of the
place-word. The old enrolled forms are ‘de Hanoia’ and ‘de Henau.’ It is
very likely, therefore, that our ‘Hannahs’ are similarly derived. The
poem I have just quoted, after mentioning the products of ‘Braban,’
‘Selaunde,’ and ‘Henaulde,’ proceeds to say:—
But they of Holonde at Caleyse buy our felles
And our wolles, that Englyshe men then selles.
This, and such an entry as ‘Thurstan de Holland,’ give us at once a
clue, if clue were needed, to the source whence have issued our
‘Hollands.’ Holandman,’ which once existed, is, I believe, now extinct.
A common sobriquet for those enterprising traders who visited us from
the shores of the Baltic was ‘Easterling,’ and it is to their honest
integrity as merchants we owe the fact of their name in the form of
‘Sterling’ being so familiar. In contrast to the country-made money,
their coin obtained the name of ‘Easterling,’ or, as we now term it,
‘Sterling’ money—so many pounds _sterling_ being the ordinary phrase for
good and true coin. We have even come to apply the term generally in
such phrases as _sterling_ worth, _sterling_ honesty, or _sterling_
character. The more inland traders were styled ‘Almaines,’ or merchants
‘d’Almaine,’[145] terms common enough in our earlier archives, as ‘le
Aleman,’ or ‘de Almania,’ or ‘le Alemaund,’ and thus have sprung our
‘Alemans,’ ‘Almaines,’ and ‘Allmans,’ and through the French, probably,
our ‘Lallimands,’ ‘D’Almaines,’ ‘Dalmaines,’ and more perverted
‘Dalmans’ and ‘Dollmans.’[146] Thus to these enterprising and honest
traders we owe a surname which from the odious forms it has assumed
shows that their names, at least, were corruptible, if not their credit.
I ought to have mentioned, though I have no record to quote in proof of
my assertion, that our ‘Hansards’ are, I have no doubt, descendants of
such Hanse merchants in our country as were members of the Hanseatic
League. The founder of the Hansards, the publishers of the Parliamentary
Debates, came from Norwich in the middle of the last century, and I need
scarcely say that the city was the chief headquarters of the Flemish
weaving interest at the date we are considering.
Leaving Europe for a moment, a name of peculiar interest is that of
‘Sarson,’[147] or ‘Sarasin,’ a sobriquet undoubtedly sprung from the
Crusades in the East, and found contemporaneously, or immediately
afterwards, in England as ‘Sarrasin,’ ‘Sarrazein,’ ‘Sarracen,’ and in
the Latinized form of ‘Sarracenus.’ The maternal grandfather of Thomas à
Becket was a pure-blooded Saracen, settled in England. The ‘Saracen’s
Head,’ I need not remind the reader, has been a popular inn sign in our
land from the days of Cœur de Lion and Godfrey. It would seem as if they
were sufficient objects of public curiosity to be exhibited. In the
‘Issues of the Exchequer’ of Henry VI.’s reign is the following:—‘To a
certain Dutchman, bringing with him a Saracen to the Kingdom of England,
in money paid him in part payment of five marks which the Lord the King
commanded to be paid him, to have of his gift.’ Speaking of the
Saracens, however, we are led to say a word or two about the Jews, the
greatest money-makers, the greatest merchants, the greatest people, in a
commercial point of view at least, the world has known. No amount of
obloquy, no extent of cruel odium and persecution, could break the
spirit of the old Israelitish trader. Driven out of one city, he fled to
another. Rifled of his savings in one land, he soon found an asylum in
another, till a fresh revolution there also caused either the king or
the people to vent their passions and refill their coffers at the
expense of the despised Jew. ‘Jury’ would seem to be a corrupted surname
taken from the land which our Bible has made so familiar to us. It
certainly is derived from this term, but not the Jewry of Palestine. It
was that part of any large town which in the Early and Middle Ages was
set apart for these people, districts where, if they chose to face
contumely and despite, they could live and worship together. Every
considerable town in England and the Continent had its Jewish quarters.
London with its ‘Jewry’ is no exceptional case. Winchester, York,
Norwich, all our early centres of commerce, had the same. Johan Kaye, in
his account of the siege of Rhodes, says: ‘All the strete called the
Jure by the walles was full of their blood and caren (carrion).’ Our
‘Jurys’[148] are not, however, necessarily Jews, as it is but a local
name from residence in such quarters, and doubtless at one time or
another during the period of surname establishment Christians may have
had habitation there. ‘Jew,’ on the other hand, as representing such
former entries as ‘Roger le Jew’ or ‘Mirabilla Judæus,’ is undoubtedly
of purely Israelitish descent. But these are not all. Our early records
teem with such names as ‘Roger le Convers,’ or ‘Stephen le
Convers,’[149] deserters from the Jewish faith. We cannot be surprised
at many of the less steady adherents of the ancient creed changing their
religious status, when we reflect upon the cruel impositions made upon
them at various times.[150] I suspect our ‘Conyers’ have swallowed up
the representatives of this name. Even in the day of its rise we find it
set down in one record as ‘Nicholas le Conners.’
So much for general and national names. To pretend to give any category
of the town-names that have issued from these wide-spread localities
were, of course, impossible. Such sobriquets as ‘Argent,’ from Argentan;
‘Charters’ and ‘Charteris’ from Chartres; ‘Bullen,’ ‘Bollen,’ or
‘Boleyn’ from Boulogne,[151] with ‘Bulness’ as representative of ‘le
Boloneis;’ ‘Landels’ from Landelles; ‘Death’ or ‘D’Aeth’ from Aeth in
Flanders; ‘Twopenny’ from Tupigny in the same province; ‘Gant’ and
‘Gent’ from Ghent, once ‘de Gaunt;’ ‘Legge’ from Liege (in some cases at
least); ‘Lubbock,’ once written ‘de Lubyck’ and ‘de Lubek,’ from Lubeck
in Saxony; ‘Geneve,’ once ‘de Geneve,’ and ‘Antioch,’ once ‘de
Antiochia,’ are but instances taken haphazard from a list, which to
extend would occupy all my remaining space. Many of these are connected
with particular trades, or branches of trades, for which in their day
they had obtained a European celebrity. If the peculiar manufactures of
such places at home as ‘Kendall’ and ‘Lindsey’ and ‘Wolsey’ have left in
our own nomenclature the marks of their early renown, we should also
expect such foreign cities as were more especially united to us by the
ties of industry to leave a mark thereof upon our registers. Such names
as ‘Ralph de Arras’ or ‘Robert de Arraz,’ a sobriquet not yet extinct in
our midst, carry us to Arras in Artois, celebrated for its tapestried
hangings.[152] Rennes in Brittany has given birth to our ‘Raines’ and
‘Rains.’[153] Chaucer talks of pillows made of ‘cloth of raines.’
Elsewhere, too, he makes mention of ‘hornpipes of Cornewaile,’ reminding
us that in all probability some of our ‘Cornwalls’ hail from Cornouaile
in the same province. Romanee in Burgundy, celebrated for its wine, has
left a memory of that fact in our ‘Rumneys’ and ‘Rummeys.’ Some of my
readers will remember that in the ‘Squyr of low degree’ the king,
amongst other pleasures by which to soothe away his daughter’s
melancholy, promises her,
Ye shall have Rumney.
Our ‘Challens’ are but lingering memorials of the now decayed woollen
manufactures of Chalons, of which we shall have more to say anon; and
not to mention others, our ‘Roans’ (always so spelt and pronounced in
olden times), our ‘Anvers,’ once ‘de Anvers,’ our ‘Cullings,’
‘Cullens,’[154] ‘Collinges,’ and ‘Lyons,’ are but relics of former
trades for which the several towns of Rouen, and Antwerp, and Cologne,
and Lyons, were notorious. The rights of citizenship and all other
advantages seem early to have been accorded them. In the thirteenth
century we find Robert of Catalonia and Walter Turk acting as sheriffs,
and much about the same time a ‘Pycard’ was Mayor of London.
I must stop here. We have surveyed, comparatively speaking, but a few of
our local surnames. From the little I have been able to advance,
however, it will be clear, I think, that with regard to the general
subject of nomenclature these additional sobriquets had become a
necessity. The population of England, less than two millions at the
period of the Conquest, was rapidly increasing, and, which is of far
more importance so far as surnames are concerned, increasing
_corporately_. Population was becoming every day less evenly diffused.
Communities were fast being formed, and as circumstances but more and
more induced men to herd themselves together, so did the necessity
spring up for each to have a more fixed and determinate title than his
merely personal or baptismal one, by which he might be more currently
known among his fellows.
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