SURNAMES OF OFFICE.
A class of surnames which occupies no mean place in our lists is that
which has been bequeathed to us by the dignitaries and officers of
mediæval times. Of these sobriquets, while some hold but a precarious
existence, a goodly number are firmly established in our midst. On the
other hand, as with each other class of our surnames, many that once
figured in every register of the period are now extinct. Of these latter
not a few have lapsed through the decay of the very systems which
brought them into being. While the feudal constitution remained
encircled as it was with a complete scheme of service, while the
ecclesiastic system of Church government reigned supreme and without a
rival, there were numberless offices which in after days fell into
desuetude with the principle that held them together. Still, in the
great majority of cases the names of these have remained to remind us of
their former heyday glory, and to give us an insight into the reality of
those now decayed customs to which they owed their rise.
We must be careful, however, at the outset to remark that a certain
number of these names ought, strictly speaking, to be set down in our
chapter upon sobriquets. They are either vestiges of the many outdoor
pageantries and mock ceremonies so popular in that day, or of the
numberless nicknames our forefathers loved to affix one upon the other,
and in which practice all, high and low alike, joined. For instance, no
one could suspect such a sobriquet as ‘Alan le Pope,’ or ‘Hugh le Pape,’
the source of one of our commonest and most familiar names, to be
derived from the possessor of that loftiest of ecclesiastic
offices.[155] It could be but a nickname, and was doubtless given to
some unlucky individual whose overweening and pretentious bearing had
brought upon him the affix. So, again, would it be with such a title as
‘Robert le Keser,’ that is, Cæsar, corresponding to the French
‘L’empriere’ and the obsolete Norman ‘le Emperer.’ This is a word of
frequent occurrence in our earlier poets. Langland says of our Lord,
there was
No man so worthie
To be kaiser or king
Of the kyngdom of Juda.
Again, he finely says—
Death cam dryvynge after,
And al to duste passed
Kynges and knyghtes,
Kaysers and popes,
Lered and lewed.[156]
This surname, too, is now all but equally common with the other, being
met with in the several shapes of ‘Cæsar,’ ‘Cayser,’ ‘Cayzer,’ ‘Kaiser,’
and ‘Keyser.’[157] The name of ‘Julius Cæsar,’ as that of one of our
most esteemed professional cricketers, has only just disappeared from
the annals of that noble game. The posterity of such enrolled burgesses
as ‘William le Kyng’ or ‘Thomas le Kyng’ still flourish and abound in
our midst. An imperious temperament would thus readily meet with
good-humoured censure. ‘Matilda le Quen’ or ‘Simon Quene’ has not quite
failed of issue; but had it been otherwise, it could not have been
matter for any astonishment, as the sobriquet was doubtless anything but
a complimentary affix. We must remember that, somewhat curiously, the
old ‘quen,’ or, as the Scotch still term it, ‘quean,’ at once represents
the highest rank to which a woman can reach and the lowest depth to
which she can fall. So would it be once more with our endless ‘Princes,’
and ‘Comtes’ or ‘Counts,’ ‘Viscuntes,’ the heads of provincial
government.[158] There is no reason, however, why our ‘Dukes,’ ‘Dooks,’
or ‘Ducs,’ as they are more generally found in our rolls (‘Roger le
Duc,’ E., ‘Adam le Duk.’ M.),[159] should not be what they represent, or
rather then represented. A ‘duke’ was of course anything but what we now
understand by the term, being then, as it more literally signifies, a
leader, or chieftain, or head. It is thus used in Scripture. Langland,
to quote him again, says of Justice—
A-drad was he nevere
Neither of duc ne of deeth.
Elsewhere, too, he describes ‘Rex Gloriæ’ as addressing Lucifer upon the
brink of Hades, and saying—
Dukes of this dymme place,
Anoon undo these yates,
That Crist may come in,
The kynges sone of hevene.
It is in this same category we must set, I doubt not, such old
registrations as ‘Robert le Baron’ or ‘Walter le Baron,’ ‘John le Lorde’
or ‘Walter le Loverd,’ and ‘Walter le Theyn’ or ‘Nicholas le Then,’
names now found as ‘Baron,’ ‘Lord,’ and ‘Thain,’ ‘Thaine,’ or
‘Thane.’[160] Even in the case of names of a more ecclesiastic
character, we shall have to apply the same remark. We have still in our
midst descendants of the ‘le Cardinals’ and ‘le Bishops’ of the
thirteenth century, and there can be little doubt that these were, in
the majority of cases, but nicknames given to particular individuals by
way of ridiculing certain characteristics which seemed to tend in the
direction the name suggested.
As I have already hinted, however, there is another and equally probable
origin for many of the names I have mentioned. Pageantries and mock
ceremonies were at this time at the very height of their popularity. The
Romish Church fed this desire. Thus, for instance, take Epiphany. In
well-nigh every parish the visit of the Magi, always accounted to have
been royal personages, was regularly celebrated. Though the manner
varied in different places, the custom was more or less the same. There
was a great feast, and one of the company was always elected king, the
rest being, according to the lots they drew, either ministers of state
or maids of honour. Thus Herrick says—
For sports, for pageantrie, and playes,
Thou hast thy eves and holidayes:
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy Maypoles, too, with garlandes graced:
Thy mummeries, thy twelfe-tide _kings_
And _queens_, thy Christmas revellings.[161]
I need scarcely say that as popular nicknames these titles would be sure
to cling to the persons upon whom they had fallen, and that they should
even pass on to their descendants is no more unnatural than in the case
of a hundred other sobriquets we shall have occasion to recount.
Of the rest, however, and, as I have said, maybe in some of the cases I
have mentioned, the surname was but truly indicative of the office or
dignity held. The Saxon has suffered here. And yet to some this may seem
somewhat strange when we remember how little change really took place in
the institutions of the Kingdom by the Conquest. The Normans and Saxons,
after all, were but propagations from the same original stock, and
however distant the period of their separation, however affected by
difference of clime and association, still their customs bore a
sufficient affinity to make coalescence by no means a difficult task.
William was not given to great changes. He was vindictive, but not
destructive. His most cruel acts were retributive, done by way of
reprisal after sudden disaffection. If a conqueror must establish his
power, deeds of this kind are inevitable. And even these are
exaggerated. The story of the depopulation of the New Forest, it is now
pretty generally agreed, is impossible—its present condition forbids of
any such act to have been practicable—and the notion frequently conveyed
in our smaller books of English history, that the curfew was a badge and
token of servitude, is simply absurd, the fact being that the same
custom prevailed over the whole of Western Europe, as a mere precaution
against fire at a time when our towns were mainly constructed of wood. A
crushed people will always misinterpret such ordinances. Prejudice of
this kind is perfectly pardonable. William then, I say, was not inclined
to uproot Saxon institutions. The national council still remained. The
ancient tribunals with their various motes, the whole system of law
which guided the administration of justice, all was well-nigh as it had
been heretofore. But the language which was the medium of all this was
generally changed. The old laws were indeed used, but in a translated
form—old officerships still existed, but in a new dialect—the old policy
was mainly upheld, but new terms of police were introduced. It was not
till Edward III.’s reign that pleadings in the various courts were again
carried on in the English tongue—it was not till Henry VI.’s reign the
proceedings in Parliament were recorded in the people’s dialect—not till
Richard III.’s day its statutes and ordinances ceased to be indited in
Norman-French. This at once shows the difficulty of any officership,
however Saxon, retaining its original title. The office was maintained,
but the name was changed. This was the more certain to ensue, so far as
the Church was concerned, from the fact that for a considerable period
all ecclesiastic vacancies were filled up from abroad. Bishops and
abbots were removed on pretexts of one sort or another, and their places
supplied from the Conqueror’s chaplains. The monasteries were hived with
Normans; the clergy generally were of foreign descent. It was the same,
or nearly the same, with regard to civil government. The lesser courts
of judicature were ruled by foreigners and the foreign tongue. The
Barons, as they retired into the provinces and to the estates allotted
them, naturally bore with them a Norman retinue. All their surroundings
became quickly the same. Thus the French language was used not merely in
their common conversation—that of course—but so far as their power,
undoubtedly large, existed, in the provincial courts also.
Such entries as ‘Thomas le Shirreve’ and ‘Lena le Shireve’ remind us not
merely of our present existing ‘Sheriffs,’ ‘Sherrifs,’ and ‘Shreeves,’
but how firmly this Saxon word has maintained its hold through the many
fluctuations of English government. The Norman ‘Judge,’ though it is
firmly established in our courts of law, has not made any very great
impress upon our nomenclature. ‘Justice,’ a relic of ‘William’ or ‘Eva
le Justice,’[162] is more commonly met with. Our ‘Corners,’ when not
descendants of the local ‘de la Corners’ of the thirteenth century, are
but corruptions of many a ‘John le Coroner’ or ‘Henry le Corouner’ of
the same period. It is even found in the abbreviated form of ‘Corner,’
in ‘John le Corner’ and ‘Walter le Cornur.’ Thus we see that so early as
this our forefathers discerned in the death of a subject a matter that
concerned not merely the well-being of the crown, but that of which the
crown as the true parent of a nation’s interests was to take cognizance.
More directly opposed to the Norman ‘Judge’ and ‘Justice,’ and in the
end displaced by them, were our Saxon ‘Demer’ and ‘Dempster’ (the older
forms being ‘le Demere’ and ‘le Demester’), they who pronounced the
doom. An old English Psalter thus translates Psalm cxlviii. 11:—
Kinges of earth, and alle folk living,
Princes and all _demers_ of land.
An antique poem, too, has it in its other form in the following
couplet:—
Ayoth was then _demester_
Of Israel foure score yeer.
We still employ the term ‘doom’ for judgment. Chaucer speaks familiarly
of one of the Canterbury company as a ‘Serjeant of the Lawe.’ It is, in
the majority of cases, to the term ‘sergeant’ as used in this capacity
we owe our much-varied ‘Sargants,’ ‘Sargeants,’ ‘Sargeaunts,’
‘Sargents,’ ‘Sergents,’ ‘Sergeants,’ ‘Sarjants,’ and ‘Sarjeants.’ The
same poet says of him:—
Justice he was full often in assize,
By patent and by pleine commission.
‘Alured le Pledur,’ or ‘Henry le Pleidour,’ and ‘Peter le Escuzer,’ all
obsolete as surnames, need little or no explanation. Speaking of
assizes, we are reminded of our ‘Sisers’ and ‘Sizers,’ representatives
of the old ‘Assizer’—he who was commissioned to hold the court. Piers
Plowman frequently mentions him:—
To marien this mayde
Were many men assembled,
As of knyghts, and of clerkes,
And other commune people,
As sisours, and somenours,
Sherreves, and baillifs.
We are here reminded of ‘Hugh le Somenur,’ or ‘Henry le Sumenour,’ now
spelt ‘Sumner,’ the sheriff’s messenger, he by whom the delinquent was
brought up to the court. He was the modern apparitor in fact. In the
‘Coventry Mysteries’ it is said:—
Sim Somnor, in haste wend thou thi way,
Byd Joseph, and his wyff by name,
At the coorte to apper this day,
Him to purge of her defame.
A ‘Godwin Bedellus’ occurs so early as Domesday record, and as ‘Roger le
Bedel,’ or ‘Martin le Bedel,’ the name is by no means rare somewhat
later on. He was, whether in the forest or any other court, the
servitor, he who executed processes or attended to proclamations. The
modern forms of the name comprise, among others, ‘Beadell,’ ‘Beadle,’
‘Beaddall,’ and ‘Biddle.’ Such names as ‘Richard le Gayeler’ or ‘Ada le
Gaoler,’ are very commonly met with in our mediæval rolls. The term
itself is of Norman origin, reminding us that, however menial the duty,
the Saxon could not be entrusted with such an office as this. We cannot,
however, speak of the gaoler and his _confrères_ without referring to a
curious sobriquet of this period, a sobriquet to which we owe in the
present day our ‘Catchpoles’ and ‘Catchpooles.’[163] The catchpole was a
kind of under-bailiff or petty sergeant who distrained for debt, or
otherwise did the more unpleasant part of his superior’s work, and was
so called from his habit of seizing his luckless victim by the hair, or
_poll_, as was the familiar term then. So general was this nickname that
we find it occupying an all but official place. It is Latinized in our
records into ‘cachepollus,’ a word unknown to Cicero, I am afraid. In
the ‘Plowman’s Vision’ we are told of the two thieves crucified with the
Saviour that:—
A cachepol cam forth
And cracked both their legges.
Another name for the catchpole was that of ‘Cacherel’ or ‘Cacher,’ both
of which forms occur at this same period as surnames. An old political
song says, murmuringly:—
Nedes I must spend that I spared of yore
Ageyn this cacherele cometh.
This sobriquet also abides with us still.[164] ‘Le Cacher,’ I fear, has
been obsolete for centuries.[165]
Of such as were accountable for duties in the public streets, we may
mention first our ‘Cryers,’ registered at the time we are speaking of as
‘Philip le Criour,’ or ‘Wat le Creyer.’ He, like the still existing
‘Bellman,’[166] performed a fixed round, announcing in full and
sententious tones the mandates of bench and council, whenever it was
necessary to advertise to the public such news as concerned their common
well-being. Our _policeman_ may be modern in his name and in his attire,
but as the guardian of the peace, by night as well as by day, he is but
the descendant of a long line of servants who have in turn fulfilled
this important public trust. His early title was borne by ‘Ralph le
Weyte,’ or ‘Robert le Wayte,’ or ‘Hugh le Geyt,’ or ‘Robert le Gait.’
All these forms are of the commonest occurrence in our olden registries.
By night he carried a trump, with which to sound the watches or give the
alarm, and thus it was he acquired also the name of ‘Trumper,’ such
forms as ‘Adam le Trompour’ or ‘William le Trompour’ being frequently
met with at this time. To the former title of this official duty it is
we owe the fact of our still terming any company of night serenaders
‘waits,’ and especially those bands of strolling minstrels who keep up
the good old custom of watching in Christmas morn. A good old custom, I
say, even though it may cost us a few pence and rouse us somewhat
rudely, maybe, from our slumbers. ‘Wait,’ ‘Waite,’[167] ‘Wayt,’ and
‘Whaite,’ with ‘le Geyt,’ are the forms that still exist among us.
‘Trumper,’ too, has its place equally assured in our nomenclature.
Such names as we have just dwelt upon, however, remind us of other
municipal authorities, higher in position than these, to whom, indeed,
these were but servitors. A sobriquet like ‘Richard le Burgess’ or ‘John
le Burges’ reminds us of the freemen of the borough towns, while ‘le
Mayor,’ or ‘Mayer,’ or ‘Maire,’ or ‘Mair,’ or ‘Meyre,’[168] or ‘Mire,’
for all these different spellings are found, is equally suggestive of
the chief magistracy of such. Piers, to quote him once more, speaks of:—
The maistres,
Meirs and Jugges,
That have the welthe of this world.
The feminine form of this sobriquet appears in the early but obsolete
‘Margaret la Miresse.’ Speaking of mayors, some lines written some years
ago on the proposed elevation of a certain Alderman Wood as Lord Mayor
are not without humour, nor out of place, perhaps, here:—
In choice of Mayors ’twill be confest,
Our citizens are prone to jest:
Of late a gentle ‘Flower’ they tried—
November came and checked its pride.
A ‘Hunter’ next, on palfrey grey,
Proudly pranced his year away.
The next, good order’s foes to scare,
Placed ‘Birch’ upon the civic chair.
Alas! this year, ’tis understood,
They mean to make a mayor of ‘Wood!’
As a fellow to ‘Meir’ we may cite ‘Provost,’ or ‘Prevost,’ or ‘Provis,’
a term still used of the mayoralty in Scotland. ‘Councellor’ and
‘Councilman’ are still familiar terms in our midst. ‘Clavenger,’
‘Claver,’ and ‘Cleaver’ we will mention last as filling up a list of
civic offices entirely, so far as the language is concerned, the
property of the dominant power. A ‘Robert Clavynger’ occurs in the
Parliamentary Rolls. Its root is ‘claviger,’ the key-bearer,’ one whose
office it was at this time to protect the deposits, whether of money or
parchments, belonging to the civic authorities. The more common term was
that of ‘Clavier,’ such entries as ‘Henry le Claver,’ or ‘John le
Clavour,’ or ‘John le Clavier,’[169] being of familiar occurrence at
this time. Thus in a treaty agreed upon between the Mayor, sheriffs, and
commonalty of Norwich in 1414, it was declared that ‘the mayor and
twenty-four (of the council) shall choose a common clerk, a coroner, two
clavers, and eight constables, and the sixty common council shall choose
a common speaker, one coroner, two clavers, and eight constables.’
(‘Hist. Norf.,’ Blomefield.) In a day when there were no patent safes we
can readily understand the importance of appointing men whose one care
it was to guard the chests wherein were stored up the various
parchments, moneys, and seals belonging to the civic council. This
comprises our list of Norman civil officers. One name, and one only, of
this class is Saxon, that of ‘Alderman,’ but I have found it occurring
as a surname in only one or two instances, and I believe it has now
become obsolete.
Turning from municipal to ecclesiastical affairs, we find the Church of
mediæval times surrounded with memorials. Some of these I have already
hinted at as being mere sobriquets;[170] none the less, however, do we
owe them to the existing institutions. Such names as ‘Hugo le Archevesk’
or ‘William le Arceveske’ can be only thus viewed. In ‘Morte Arthure’
the hero holds festival at Caerleon,
Wyth dukez, and dusperes of dyvers rewmes,
Erles and erchevesques, and other ynowe,
Byschopes and bachelers and banerettes nobille.
While this has long vanished from our directories, the descendants of
‘John le Bissup’ or ‘Robert le Biscop’ are firmly established therein.
The more Norman ‘Robert le Vecke’ and ‘Nicholas le Vesk’ still live also
in our ‘Vicks’ and ‘Vecks.’ It was only the other day I saw ‘Archdeacon’
over a hatter’s shop—and that it is no corruption of some other word, we
may cite the early ‘Thomas le Arcedekne’ as a proof.[171] Whether
‘Archpriest,’ a sobriquet occurring at the same date, was but another
designation of the same, or performed more episcopal functions, I cannot
say.[172] The name, however, is obsolete in every sense. The old vicar
has bequeathed us our ‘Vicars,’ ‘Vicarys,’ and ‘Vickermans.’ Chaucer
says in the ‘Persons Prologue’—
Sire preest, quod he, art thou a vicary?
Or art thou a Person? say soth by thy fay.
Our ‘Parsons,’ as Mr. Lowther thinks, are but a form of ‘Piers’ son,’
that is, ‘Peters’ son.’ It is, however, quite possible for them to be
what they more nearly resemble; indeed, I find the name occurring as
such in the case of ‘Walter le Persone,’ found in the Parliamentary
Rolls. Well would it be if we could say of each village cure now what
our great early poet said of one he pictured forth—
A good man there was of religioun,
That was a poure Persone of a town,
But riche he was of holy thought and werk,
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche.
Our ‘Priests’ and ‘Priestmans’[173] answer for themselves. ‘Thomas le
Prestre’ and ‘Peter le Prest,’ I do not doubt myself, were but other
changes rung upon the same, but I shall have occasion hereafter to
propose, at least, a different origin for the latter. The lower
ministerial office is suggested to us in ‘Philip le Dekene’ and ‘Thomas
le Deken,’ but we must be careful not to confound them with ‘Deakin,’
which is often but another form of ‘Dakin,’ that is, ‘Dawkin,’ or
‘little David.’[174] Our ‘Chaplains’ or ‘Chaplins,’ once written more
fully as ‘Reginald le Chapeleine,’ represent less one who officiated in
any public sanctuary than him who was attached to some private oratory
belonging to one of the higher nobility. Our ‘Chanters’ or ‘Canters’
(‘Xtiana le Chauntour,’ A., ‘William le Chantour,’ M.) still maintain
the dignity of the old precentors who led the collegiate or cathedral
choir—but the once existing ‘Chanster’ (‘Stephen le Chanster,’ J.),
strictly speaking the feminine of the other, is now obsolete.[175] In
our ‘Chancellors’ we may recognise the ancient ‘John le Chanceler’ or
‘Geoffry le Chaunceler,’ he to whose care was committed the chapter,
books, scrolls, records, and what other literature belonged to the
establishment with which he stood connected. ‘Clerk’ as connected with
the Church has come down in the world, for as ‘clericus,’ or
‘clergyman,’ it once belonged entirely to the ordained ministry.[176]
The introduction of lay-clerks, appointed to lead the responses of the
congregation, has, however, connected them all but wholly with this
later office. Nor have our ‘Secretans,’ or ‘Sextons,’ or ‘Saxtons’
preserved their early dignity. The sacristan was he who had charge of
the church-edifice, especially the robes and vestments, and such things
as appertained to the actual service.[177] The present usually accepted
meaning of the term, that understood by our great humorist poet when he
said—
He went and _told_ the sexton,
And the sexton _tolled_ the bell,
is quite of later growth. In our ‘Colets’ and ‘Collets’ (sometimes the
diminutives of ‘Colin’) we are reminded of the colet, or acolyte, who
waited upon the priest and assisted in carrying the bread and wine, in
lighting the candles, and performing all subordinate duties. Our
‘Bennets,’ when not belonging to the class of baptismal names (as a
corruption of ‘Benedict’), once performed the functions of exorcists,
and by the imposition of hands and the aspersion of holy water expelled
evil spirits from those said to be thus possessed. Last of this group we
may mention our ‘Croziers’ and ‘Crosiers,’ they who at this time bore
the pastoral staff. Mediæval forms of these are met with in ‘Simon le
Croyzer’ or ‘Mabel la Croiser.’ I doubt not that he was a kind of
chaplain to his superior, whose official staff it was his duty to bear.
In the Book of Common Prayer of the 2nd year of Edward VI. it is
directed: ‘Whensoever the bishop shall celebrate the holy communion, or
execute any other public office, he shall have upon him, besides his
rochet, an alb and cope, or vestment, and also his pastoral staff in his
hand, or else borne by his chaplain.’
When we turn our eyes for a moment to the old monastic institutions, we
see that they, too, are far from being without their relics. In them we
have more distinctly the echo of a departed time. Many of my readers
will be familiar with the distinction recorded in such names as
‘Alexander le Seculer’ and ‘Walter le Religieuse,’ or ‘man of religion,’
as Chaucer would have termed the latter. To be ‘_religious_’ in the
thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was to be one of a monastic order
bound by vows. Thus our great mediæval poet says in his Romance—
Religious folk ben full covert,
Secular folke ben more apert,
But natheless, I will not blame
Religious folke, ne them defame
In what habite that ever they go;
Religion humble, and true also,
Will I not blame, ne despise.
The ‘religieuse’ has apparently stuck to his vows, for I have never
found the term in an hereditary form, while ‘Secular,’ as descended from
such enrolled folk as ‘Walter le Secular,’ or ‘Joan, uxor Nicholas le
Secular,’ still exists. I am afraid, however, the Secularist of that
time could and would have told us a different tale. Of these bound
orders too, while the general term, as I say, does not now exist
surnominally, all the more particular titles which it embraced do. As we
catch the cadence of their names a shadow falls athwart our memories,
and in its wake a crowd of dim and unsubstantial figures pass before us.
Once more we behold the fiery ‘Abbot’ (Juliana Abbot, A., Ralph le Abbe,
C.), and the portly ‘Prior’ or ‘Pryor’ (Roger le Priour, B., William le
Priur, E.). We see afresh the ‘Friar,’ or ‘Freere,’ or ‘Frere’ (Syward
le Frere, A., Geoffrey le Frere, A.), so ‘pleasant of absolution’ and
‘easy of penance.’ Again our eye falls mistily upon the ‘Canon,’ or
‘Cannon’ (William le Cannon, A., Thomas le Canun, E.), with his
well-trimmed beard and capped brow, and the ‘Moyne’ (now ‘Munn’) or
‘Monk’ (Beatrix le Munk, A., Thomas le Mun, A., Ivo le Moyne, A.), all
closely shaved and cloaked, and cowled, that knew his way to the cellar
better than to the chapel, who loved the song more than the chaunt.[178]
And now in quick succession flit by us a train of personages all
beshrouded in garbs of multitudinous and quaint aspect, in cloaks and
hoods, and tippets and girdles, and white and dark apparel. There is the
wimpled, grey-eyed ‘Nunn’ (Alice la Nonne, A.), and the Dorturer,
represented in olden registers by such a name as ‘Robert le Dorturer,’
he who looked to the arrangements of the dourtour, or dormitory—
His death saw I by revelation,
Sayde this frere, at home in our dortour.[179]
The word still existed in the sixteenth century, as is evidenced by
Heywood’s use of it. He says—
The tongue is assigned of wordes to be sorter;
The mouth is assigned to be the tongue’s _dorter_;
The teeth are assigned to be the tongue’s porter;
But wisdom is ’signed to tye the tongue shorter.
The figure is somewhat forced, but it has its beauty. The ‘Fermerer,’
now found as ‘Fermor’ and ‘Firmer,’ was he who superintended the
infirmary. Only a few lines further on, in the earlier of the two poems
from which I last quoted, we find Chaucer making mention of—
Our sexton, and our fermerere,
That have been trewe freres fifty year.
The ‘Tale of a Monk,’ too, begins—
A black munk of an abbaye
Was enfermer of alle I herd say—
He was halden an hali man
Imange his felaus.
The fermery was the hospital or ‘spital’[180] attached to each religious
house, and was under the immediate control of the above-mentioned
officer. It is with him, therefore, we may fitly ally ‘Robert le
Almoner,’ or ‘Michael le Aumoner,’ a name still abiding with us, and
representative of him who dispensed the alms to the lazars and the poor.
It is in allusion to this his office that Robert Brunne in one of his
tales says:—
Seynt Jone, the aumenere,[181]
Saith Pers, was an okerere
And was very coveytous
And a niggard and avarus.
Of the same officer in more lordly society the ‘Boke of Curtasye’ thus
speaks—
The Aumonere a rod schalle have in honde,
An office for almes, I understonde;
Alle the broken mete he kepys in wait
To dele to pore men at the gate.
Many of those who were supported at this time and in this manner were
lepers. We can take up no record, large or small, of the period without
coming across a ‘Nicholas’ or ‘Walter le Leper.’ Leprosy was introduced
into Western Europe with the return of the Crusaders. To such a degree
had it spread in England, that in 1346 Edward III. was compelled to
issue a royal mandate enjoining those ‘smitten with the blemish of
leprosy’ to ‘betake themselves to places in the country, solitary, and
notably distant’ from the dwellings of men. Such a distinctive
designation as this would readily cling to a man, even after he had been
cured of the disorder,[182] and no wonder that in our ‘Lepers’ and
‘Leppers’ the name still remains as but one more memorial of that noble
madness which set Christendom ablaze some six centuries ago. A term used
synonymously at this time with leper is found in such an entry as
‘Richard le Masele’ or ‘Richard le Masle,’ that is, ‘Measle.’ Wicklyffe
has the word in the case of Naaman, and also of the Samaritan
leper.[183] Langland speaks of those who are afflicted with various
ailments, and adds that they, if they
Take these myschiefs meeklike,
As mesels, and others,
Han as pleyn pardon
As the plowman hymselve.
Capgrave, too, to quote but one more instance, speaking of Deodatus, a
Pope of the seventh century, says ‘He kissed a mysel and sodeynly the
mysel was whole.’ Strange to say, this name also is not extinct. Our
‘Badmans’ are not so bad as they might seem. They, and our ‘Bidmans,’
are doubtless but corrupted forms of the old ‘bedeman,’ or ‘beadman,’ he
who professionally invoked Heaven in behalf of his patron. It is hence
we get our word ‘bead,’ our forefathers having been accustomed to score
off the number of aves and paternosters they said by means of these
small balls strung on a thread. This practice, I need not say, is still
familiar to the Romish Church.
But we have not yet done with the traces of these more distant
practices. The various religious wanderers or solitary recluses, though
belonging to a system long faded from our English life, find a perpetual
epitaph in the directories of to-day. Thus we have still our ‘Pilgrims,’
or ‘Pelerins’ (‘John Pelegrim,’ A., ‘William le Pelerin,’ E.), as the
Normans termed them. We may meet with ‘Palmers’ (‘Hervey le Palmer,’ A.,
‘John le Paumer,’ M.) any day in the streets of our large towns, names
distinctly relating the manner in which their owners have derived their
title. The pilgrim may have but visited the shrine of St. Thomas of
Canterbury; the latter, as his sobriquet proves, had, forlorn and weary,
battled against all difficulties, and trod the path that led to the Holy
Sepulchre—
The faded palm-branch in his hand
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.[184]
The ‘Pardoner,’ with his pouch choked to the full (‘Walter le Pardoner,’
M.) with saleable indulgences, had but come from Rome. He was an
itinerant retailer of ecclesiastic forgivenesses, and was as much a
quack as those who still impose upon the credulity of the bucolic mind
by selling cheap medicines. As Chaucer says of him—
With feigned flattering and japes,
He made the parson and the peple his apes.
‘Hermit’ I have failed to find as at present existing, though
‘Hermitage’ or ‘Armitage’ (‘John Harmaytayge,’ W. 3), as local names
expressive of his abode, are by no means unfamiliar. Our ‘Anchors’ and
‘Ankers,’ however, still live to commemorate the old ancre or anchorite;
he who, as his sobriquet implied, was wont to separate himself from the
world’s vain pleasures and dwell in seclusion and solitude. In the
‘Romance of the Rose’ it is said—
Sometime I am religious,
Now like an anker in an house.
Piers in his ‘Vision,’ too, speaks of—
Ancres and heremites
That holden them in their celles.
‘Hugh le Eremite’ or ‘Silvester le Hermite’ are early forms of the one,
while in the other case we find the aspirate added in ‘John le Haneker.’
The modern dress of this latter, however, presents the usual early and
more correct spelling.[185] What a vision is presented for our notice in
these various sobriquets. It is the vision of a day that has faded, a
day with many gleams of redeeming light, but a day of ignorance and
lethargy; a day which, after all, thank God, was but the precursor of
the brighter day of the Reformation, when the Church, true to herself
and true to her destiny, threw off the shackles and the fetters that
bound her, and began a work which her greatest foes have been compelled
to admit she carried through amid opposition of the deadliest and most
crushing kind.
Before passing on to a survey of our feudal aristocracy, I may mention
our ‘Latimers,’ or ‘le Latymer,’ as I find it recorded in early lists. A
latinier, or latimer, was literally a speaker or writer of Latin, that
language being then the vehicle of all record or transcript. Latin,
indeed, for centuries was the common ground on which all European
ecclesiastics met. Thus it became looked upon as the language of
interpretation. The term I am speaking of, however, seems to have become
general at an early stage. An old lyric says—
Lyare was mi latymer,
Sloth and sleep mi bedyner.
Sir John Maundeville, describing an eastern route, says (I am quoting
Mr. Lower)—‘And men alleweys fynden Latyneres to go with them in the
contrees and furthere beyonde in to tyme that men conne the language.’
Teachers of the Latin tongue itself were not wanting. ‘Le Scholemayster’
existed so early as the twelfth century to show that there were those
who professed to initiate our English youth in the rudiments of that
which was a polite and liberal education in the eyes of that period.
Such sobriquets as ‘le Gramayre,’ or ‘Gramary,’ or ‘Grammer,’
represented the same avocation, being nothing more than the old Norman
‘Gramaire,’ or ‘Grammarian’ as we should now call him, only we now apply
the term to a philologist rather than a professional teacher. As
‘Grammar’ the surname is far from being obsolete in our midst. A
‘Nicholas le Lessoner’ is met with in the Hundred Rolls. He was
evidently but a schoolmaster also. The verb ‘to lesson,’ _i.e._ to
teach, is still in use in various parts of the country, and we find even
Shakespeare using it. Clarence says to his murderer—
Bid Gloster think of this, and he will weep;
to which the murderer replies—
Ay, millstones; as he lessoned us to weep.
(_Richard III._, act. i. sc. iii.)
In looking over the pages of our early Anglo-Norman history we are at
once struck by the fact of the absence of any middle class; that
important branch of our community which in after and more civilised ages
has done so much for English liberty and English strength. The whole
genius of the feudal constitution was opposed to this. There was indeed
a graduating scale of feudal tenure which bound together and connected
each community; but there was of equal surety in the chain of these
independent links of society a certain ring where all alliance ceased
save that of service, and which separated each provincial society into
two widely-sundered classes. On the one side were the baron and his
nearer feudatories and retainers; and below this, on the other, came
under one common standard the villein, the peasant, and the boor, looked
upon by their superiors with contemptuous indifference, and barely
endured as necessary to the administration of their luxury and pleasure.
We have already mentioned many of those who gave the baron support. Of
other his vassals we may cite ‘le Vavasour,’ or ‘Valvasor,’ a kind of
middle-class landowner. The lower orders of chivalry have left us in our
many ‘Knights’[186] and ‘Bachelors’ or ‘Backlers’ a plentiful token of
former importance. Our ‘Squiers,’ ‘Squires,’ ‘Swiers,’ or ‘Swires’[187]
carry us, as does the now meaningless Esquire, to the time when the sons
of those ‘Knights’ bore, as the name implies, their shields. By the time
of Henry VI., however, it had become adopted by the heirs of the higher
gentry, and now it is used indiscriminately enough. Those who are so
surnamed may comfort themselves at any rate with the reflection that
they are lineally descended from those who bore the name when it was an
honourable and distinctive title. ‘Armiger,’ the form in which the word
was oftentimes recorded in our Latin rolls, still survives, though
barely, in our ‘Armingers,’ this corrupted form being in perfect harmony
with all similar instances, as we shall see almost immediately. One of
our mediæval rhymes speaks of—
Ten thousand knights stout and fers,
Withouten hobelers and squyers.
These hobelers are far from being uninteresting. When we talk of riding
a hobby, we little think what a history is concealed beneath the term. A
hobiler[188] in the days we are speaking of, was one who held by tenure
of maintaining a hobbie—a kind of small horse, then familiarly so known.
A song on the times, written in the fourteenth century, and complaining
of the manner in which the upper classes plundered the poor, says:—
And those hoblurs, namelich,
That husband benimeth eri of ground,
Men ne should them bury in none chirch,
But cast them out as a hound.
Later on, by its fictitious representation in the Morris dances of the
May-day sports, the hobby came to denote the mere dummy, and now as such
affords much scope for equestrian skill in the Rotten Row of our
nurseries. What tricks time plays with these words, to be sure, and what
a connexion for our ‘Hoblers’ and ‘Hobblers’ to meditate upon. Our
‘Bannermans’ are Scotch, but they represent an office, whether in
England or the North, whose importance it would be hard to estimate at
this period. Nor are we without traces in our nomenclature of its
existence in more southern districts. Our not unfamiliar ‘Pennigers’ and
‘Pennigars’ are but the former official _pennager_, he who bore the
ensign or standard of his lord. They figure even in more general and
festive pageants. In the York Procession we find walking alone and
between the different craftsmen the ‘Pennagers.’ Probably they bore the
ensigns of that then important corporate city. I have but recently
referred to ‘Robert Clavynger’ (H.) and the probability of his having
carried the club or mace or key of his superiors in office. All or
well-nigh all the above names find themselves well represented in the
registers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Our eye falls at
once on an ‘Andrew le Gramary,’ a ‘Richard le Gramayre,’ a ‘Thomas le
Skolmayster,’ a ‘Warin le Latimer,’ a ‘William le Latiner,’ a ‘Jordan le
Vavasur,’ a ‘Simon le Knyt,’ a ‘Gilbert le Bacholer,’ a ‘Walter le
Squier,’ or a ‘Nicholas Armiger.’
A curious relic of the military tactics of mediæval times is presented
to our notice in our ‘Reuters,’ ‘Ritters,’ and ‘Rutters.’ The old
English forms are found in such entries as ‘Thomas le Reuter,’ or
‘Ranulph le Ruter.’ The root of the term is probably the German ritter,
or rider, a name given at this period to certain mercenary soldiers
oftentimes hired by our English sovereigns out of Brabant and the
surrounding country. Thus we find William of Newburgh, under the date
1173, saying that Henry II. ‘stipendarias Bribantionum copias, quas
Rutas vocant, accersivit.’ (Lib. ii. cap. 27.) Trivet, relating the same
fact, says (p. 73), ‘Conduxit Brabanzones et Rutarios.’[189] An old song
begins—
Rutterkyn is come into owre towne,
In a cloke withoute cote or gowne,
Save a raggid hood to kover his crowne
Like a rutter hoyda.
Rutterkyn can speke no Englyssh,
His tonge runneth all on buttyrd fyssh,
Besmeared with grece abowte his disshe,
Like a rutter hoyda.
The nickname ‘rutterkin’ proves the Flemish origin of these troopers.
Their capacity for stowing away food and drink, from all accounts, is
not exaggerated in the poem from which the above is an extract. We have
just mentioned our ‘Bachelors,’ and this reminds us of our ‘Childs,’ and
of the days of chivalry. The term ‘child’ was a distinctly honourable
title in the olden times. It was borne by the sons of all the higher
nobility; if by the eldest son, then in right of his title to his
father’s honours and possessions; if more generally by others, then
until by some deed of prowess they had been raised to the ranks of
knighthood. In either case ‘child’ was the term in use during this
probationary state. Thus Byron in his ‘Childe Harold’ has but revived
the ‘Childe Waters,’ ‘Childe Rolands,’ and ‘Childe Thopas’s’ of earlier
times.[190] We owe many existing and several obsolete surnames to this
custom. Our ‘Childs’ are but descendants of such a sobriquet as ‘Ralph
le Child;’ our ‘Eyres’ of such an entry as ‘William le Eyre;’ some of
our ‘Barnes’ may be but the offspring of such a personage as ‘Thomas le
Barne’ (now ‘bairn,’ that is, the born one); while ‘Stephen le Enfant’
or ‘Walter le Enfaunt’ represents an appellation that is now obsolete in
England.[191] I need scarcely add that this last, in the form of Infante
and Infanta, still bears the same meaning in the royal families of Spain
that Child did in our own land in more chivalric days.
The details of early feudal life are wonderfully depicted by our
nomenclature. Owing to the boundless and forced ceremony which arose out
of the prevailing spirit of feudal pride, our official memorials are
well-nigh overwhelming. Feudal tenure itself became associated with
office, and none seemed too servile for acceptance. As has been said of
Charlemagne’s Court, so might it be said of those of others—‘they were
crowded with officers of every rank, some of the most eminent of whom
exercised functions about the royal person which would have been thought
fit only for slaves in the palace of Augustus or Antonine’—‘to carry his
banner or his lance, to lead his array, to be his marshall, or
constable, or sewer, or carver, to do in fact such services, trivial or
otherwise, as his lord might have done himself, in proper person, had it
so pleased him—this was the position coveted by youths of birth and
distinction at such a period as this.’ Many of these officerships, or
the bare titles, still linger round the court of our sovereign. The
higher feudatories, of course, followed the example thus set them by
their suzerain, and the lesser barons these, and thus household officers
sprang up on every side. See how this has left its mark upon our
surnames. ‘John le Conestable,’ or ‘Robert le Constable,’ I need not
say, is still well represented. In the ‘Man of Lawes Tale’ the poet
says:—
The constable of the castel doun is fare
To see this wreck.
With him we may ally our not unfamiliar ‘Castlemans,’ ‘Castelans,’ and
‘Chatelains,’ representatives of the old ‘John le Chastilioun,’ or
‘Joscelin le Castelan,’ or ‘Ralph le Chatelaine.’ The poet whom I have
just quoted says elsewhere:—
Now am I king, now chastelaine.
Doubtless this latter was but a synonym of the constable, and his duties
as governor but the same. Of decidedly lower position, but not
dissimilar in character, we have also ‘Wybert le Portere,’ or
‘Portarius,’ as he is Latinized in our rolls. An old book of etiquette
says:—
When thou comes to a lordis gate
The porter thou shalle fynde therate.
He at the postern would as carefully look against hostile, as our former
‘Peter le Ussher,’ or ‘Alan le Usser,’ within would against informal
approach.[192] The Saxon form, however, was evidently not wanting, for
we have still ‘Doorward’ and ‘Doorman’ (‘Geoffrey le Doreward,’ A.,
‘Nicholas le Doreman,’ O.) in our directories, not to mention their
corrupted, ‘Durwards,’ immortalized by Walter Scott, and ‘Dormans’ and
‘Domans.’ The term ‘doorward’ is found in many of our early writers.
Thus in an old metrical account of the bringing of Christ before
Caiaphas, it is said of John when he returned to fetch in Peter:—
He bid the dureward
Let in his fere.
Our ‘Chamberlaynes’ and ‘Chambers,’[193] (‘Simon le Chamberlain,’ M.,
‘Henry le Chaumberleyne,’ B., ‘William de la Chaumbre,’ B.) had access
to their lord’s inner privacy, and from their intimacy with his monetary
affairs occupied a position at times similar to that of our more
collegiate bursar. We have only to look at mediæval costume, its
grandeur, its colours, and its varied array, to understand how necessary
there should be a special officer to superintend his lord’s wardrobe.
Our ‘Wardrops’ are but the former ‘de la Wardrobe,’ or ‘de la
Garderoba,’ while ‘le Wardrober,’ or ‘le Garderober,’ has bequeathed us
our ‘Wardropers.’ Thus the ‘Book of Curtasye’ says:—
The usshere shalle bydde the wardropere
Make redy for alle, night before they fere.
Equally important as an attendant was the ‘Barbour.’ He especially was
on familiar terms with his master—when was he not? I need scarcely say
that among his other duties that of acting as surgeon in the household
was none of the lightest. Still his tonsorial capacity was his first
one. No one then thought of shaving himself, least of all the baron.
Even so late as the sixteenth century a writer defending the use of the
beard against Andrew Boorde employs this argument:—
But, syre, I praye you, if you tell can,
Declare to me, when God made man
(I meane by our forefather Adam),
Whether that he had a berde then;
And if he had, who did hym shave,
Since that a barber he could not have.
I have no doubt it is here we must set our ‘Simisters,’ relics, as they
probably are, of such a name as ‘John Somayster,’ or ‘William
Summister.’ The summaster seems from its orthography to have represented
one who acted as a clerk or comptroller, something akin to the
chamberlain or breviter, whom I shall mention almost immediately; one,
in fact, who cast up and certified accounts. Holinshed used the word as
if in his day it were of familiar import. Dwelling upon a certain event,
he says—‘Over this, if the historian be long, he is accompted a trifler;
if he be short, he is taken for a summister.’[194]
In such days as those, what with the number of personal retainers and
the excess of hospitality expected of the feudal chief, the culinary
department occupied far from an insignificant position in regard to the
general accessories of the baronial establishment. Our ‘Cooks,’ or
‘Cokes,’ or ‘Cookmans,’ relics of the old ‘Roger le Coke,’ or ‘Joan le
Cook,’ or ‘William Cokeman,’ even then ruled supreme over that most
absolute of all monarchies, the kitchen; our ‘Kitchenmans’ (now found
also as ‘Kitchingham’), ‘Kitcheners,’ and ‘Kitchens,’ or ‘de la
Kitchens,’ as they were once written, reminding us who it was that aided
them to turn the spit or handle the posnet. Our ‘Pottingers’ represent
the once common ‘Robert le Potager,’ or ‘Walter le Potager,’ the
soup-maker. _Potage_ was the ordinary term for soup, thickened well with
vegetables and meat.[195] Thus in the ‘Boke of Curtasye’ the guest is
bid—
Suppe not with grete sowndynge,
Neither potage ne other thynge—
a rule which still holds good in society. We are well aware of the
ingredients of the dish which our Bible translators have still
bequeathed to us as ‘a mess of potage.’ In its present corrupted form of
‘porridge’ this notion of a _mess_ rather than of a _soup_ is still
preserved. Another interesting servitorship of this class has well-nigh
escaped our notice—that of the hastiler: he who turned the _haste_ or
spit. In the Close Rolls we find a ‘Thurstan le Hastler’ recorded, and
in the Parliamentary Writs such names as ‘Henry Hastiler’ and ‘William
Hastiler.’ In the will of Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Essex, among other
household servants, such as potager, ferour, barber, ewer, is mentioned
‘William de Barton, hastiler.’ I need not remind Lancashire people that
a _haister_, or _haster_, is still the term used for the tin screen
employed for roasting purposes. The memorials of this interesting
servitorship still linger on in our ‘Hastlers,’ ‘Haslers,’ and
‘Haselers.’ If, however, the supervision of the roasting and basting
required an attendant, none the less was it so with the washing-up
department. How familiarly does such a term as ‘scullery’ fall from our
lips, and how little do many of us know of its history. An
_escuelle_[196] was a porringer or dish, and a _scullery_ was a place
where such vessels were stored after being washed.[197] Hence a
‘squiller’ or ‘squyler’ was he who looked to this; our modern
‘scullion,’ in fact, which is but a corrupted form of the same word. In
one of Robert of Brunne’s poems, we find him saying—
And the squyler of the kechyn,
Piers, that hath woned (dwelt) here yn.[198]
In a book of ‘Ordinances and Regulations’ we find mention made even of a
‘sergeant-squylloure.’ Doubtless his duty was to look after the carriage
of utensils at such times as his lord made any extended journey, or to
superintend the washing of cup and platter after the open-board
festivities which were the custom of early baronial establishments. To
provide for every retainer who chanced to come in would be, indeed, a
care. The occurrence of a ‘Roger de Norhamtone, Squyler,’ however, in
the London City rolls, seems to imply that occasionally the sale of such
vessels gave the title. I cannot say the name is obsolete, as I have met
with one ‘Squiller;’ and ‘Skiller,’ which would seem to be a natural
corruption, is not uncommon. Our ‘Spencers,’ abbreviated from
‘despencer,’ had an important charge—that of the ‘buttery,’ or ‘spence,’
the place where the household store was kept. The term is still in use,
I believe, in our country farm-houses. In the ‘Sumner’s Tale’ the
glutton is well described as—
All vinolent as botel in the spence;
and Mr. Halliwell, I see, with his wonted research, has lighted on the
following lines:—
Yet I had lever she and I
Were both togyther secretly
In some corner in the spence.[199]
‘De la Spence,’ as well as ‘le Spencer,’ has impressed itself upon our
living nomenclature. Our ‘Panters,’ ‘Pantlers,’ and ferocious-seeming
‘Panthers,’ descendants of such folk as ‘Richard le Panter,’ or ‘Robert
le Paneter,’ or ‘Henry de le Paneterie,’ are but relics of a similar
office. They had the superintendence of the ‘paneterie,’ or pantry;
literally, of course, the bread closet. It seems, however, early to have
become used in a wider and more general sense. In the Household
Ordinances of Edward IV. one of the sergeants is styled ‘the chief
Pantrer of the King’s mouth.’ John Russel in his ‘Boke of Nurture’ thus
directs his student—
The furst yere, my son, thou shalt be pantere or buttilare,
Thou must have three knyffes kene in pantry, I sey thee, evermare,
One knyfe the loaves to choppe, another them for to pare,
The third, sharp and kene, to smothe the trenchers and square.[200]
Of the old ‘Achatour’ (found as ‘Henry le Catour’ or ‘Bernard le
Acatour’), the purveyor for the establishment, we have many memorials,
those of ‘Cater,’ ‘Cator,’ and ‘Caterer’ being the commonest. Chaucer
quaintly remarks of the ‘Manciple,’[201] who was so
Wise in buying of victuals,
that of him
Achatours mighten take ensample.
The provisions thus purchased were called ‘cates,’ a favourite word with
some of our later poets. Equivalent to the more monastic ‘le
Cellarer,’[202] which is now obsolete, are our numberless ‘Butlers,’ the
most accepted form of the endless ‘Teobald le Botilers,’ ‘Richer le
Botillers,’ ‘Ralph le Botelers,’ ‘William le Botellers,’ ‘Walter le
Butillers,’ or ‘Hugh le Buteilliers,’ of this time. As we shall observe
by-and-by, however, this was also an occupative name.[203]
With so many officers to look after the preparations, we should expect
the dinner itself to be somewhat ceremonious. And so it was—far more
ceremonious, however, than elegant in the light of the nineteenth
century. Our ‘Senechals’ and ‘Senecals’ (‘Alexander le Seneschal,’ B.,
‘Ivo Seneschallus,’ T.), relics of the ancient ‘seneschal,’ Latinized in
our records as ‘Dapifer’ (‘Henry Dapifer,’ A.), arranged the table. The
root of this word is the Saxon ‘schalk,’ a servant which, though now
wholly obsolete, seems to have been in familiar use in early times.[204]
An old poem tells us—
Then the schalkes sharply shift their horses,
To show them seemly in their sheen weeds.
In ‘Sir Gawayne,’ too, the attendant is thus described—
Clene spurs under
Of bright golde, upon silk bordes, barred full rich,
And scholes (depending) under shanks, there the schalk rides.
We are not without traces of its existence in other compounds. Thus our
‘Marshalls’ were originally ‘marechals;’ that is, ‘mare-schalks,’ the
early name for a horse-groom or blacksmith. The Marshall, however, was
early turned into an indoor office, and seems to have been busied enough
in ordering the position of guests in the hall, a very punctilious
affair in those days. The ‘Boke of Curtasye’ says:—
In halle marshalle alle men schalle sett,
After their degre, withouten lett.
Our ‘Gateschales,’ a name now altogether obsolete, were the more simple
porter, while our ‘Gottschalks,’ a surname more frequently hailing from
Germany, but once common with ourselves as a Christian name, denote
simply ‘God’s servant.’ But we are wandering. Let us come back to the
dinner-table. Such sobriquets as ‘Ralph le Suur’[205] or ‘John le Sewer’
remind us of the _sewer_—he who brought in the viands.[206] A _sewe_,
from the old French sevre, to follow, was any cooked dish, and thus is
simply equivalent to our _course_. Chaucer, in describing the rich
feasts of Cambuscan, King of Tartary, says the time would fail him to
tell—
Of their strange sewes.
I believe the Queen’s household still boasts its four gentlemen sewers.
As a surname, too, the word is still common. A curious custom presents
itself to our remembrance in our ‘Says,’ who, when not of the ‘de Says’
(‘Hugh de Say,’ A.), are but descendants of the ‘le Says’ (‘John le
Say,’ M.) of the Hundred Rolls. An ‘assay’ or ‘say’ was he who assayed
or tasted the messes as they were set one by one before the baron, to
guard against his being accidentally or purposely poisoned. An old poem
uses the fuller form, where it says—
Thine assayer schalle be an hownde,
To assaye thy mete before thee.
In the ‘Boke of Curtasye,’ too, we are told to what ranks this privilege
belonged—
No mete for man schalle sayed be,
But for kynge, or prynce, or duke so fre.[207]
Another term for the same made its mark upon our nomenclature as
‘Gustur’ (‘Robert le Gustur,’ T.) To _gust_ was thus used till
Shakespeare’s day, and we still speak of ‘_gusto_’ as equivalent to
_relish_.
We are reminded by the fact of the existence of ‘Knifesmith’ and
‘Spooner’ only among our early occupative surnames that there were no
forks in those days.[208] There is no ‘Forker’ to be found. Even the
‘Carver’ (‘Adam le Kerver,’ A., ‘Richard le Karver,’ A.) had to use his
fingers. In the ‘Boke of Kervynge,’ a manual of the then strictest
etiquette in such matters, we find the following direction:—‘Set never
on fyshe, flesche, beest, ne fowle, more than two fyngers and a thombe.’
Seldom, too, did they use plates as we now understand them. Before each
guest was set a round slice of bread called a trencher, and the meat
being placed upon this, he consumed the whole, or as much as he pleased.
Under these circumstances we can easily understand how necessary would
be the office of ‘Ewer,’ a name found in every early roll as ‘Brian le
Ewer,’ or ‘Richard le Ewere,’ or ‘Adam de la Euerie.’ As he supplied
water for each to cleanse his hands he was close followed by the
‘napper’ or ‘napier,’ who proffered the towel or napkin. The word, I
need scarcely say, is but a diminutive of the old _nape_, which was
applied in general to the tablecloths and other linen used in setting
forth the dinner. An old book, which I have already quoted, in directing
the attendant how to lay the cloth, says—
The over nape schall double be layde.
The Hundred Rolls and other records furnish us with such names as
‘Jordan le Nappere,’ or ‘John le Napere,’ or ‘Walter de la Naperye.’
Behind the lord of the board, nigh to his elbow, stood the ‘page,’
holding his cup. This seems to have been an office much sought after by
the sons of the lower nobility, and it is to the honourable place in
which it was held we no doubt owe the fact that not merely are our
‘Pages’ decidedly numerous in the present day, but that we also find
such further particular compounds as ‘Small-page,’[209] ‘Little-page,’
or ‘Cup-page’ holding anything but a precarious existence in our midst.
There seems to have been but little difference between this office and
that of the ‘henchman,’ only that the latter, as his name, more strictly
written ‘haunchman,’ shows, attended his master’s behests out of doors.
He, too, lives on hale and hearty in our ‘Henchmans,’ ‘Hinxmans,’
‘Hincksmans,’ and ‘Hensmans.’[210]
In several of our early records of names we find ‘Peter le Folle,’
‘Alexander le Fol,’ and ‘Johannes Stultus’ appearing in apparently
honest and decent company. The old fool or jester was an important
entity in the retinue of the mediæval noble. He could at least say, if
he might not do, what he liked, and I am afraid the more ribald his
buffoonery the greater claim he possessed to be an adept in his
profession in the eyes of those who heard him. His dress was always in
character with his duties, being as uncouth as fashion reversed could
make it. In his hand he bore a mock rod of state, his head was
surmounted by a huge cap peaked at the summit and surrounded with little
jingling bells, his dress was in colour as conflicting as possible, and
the _tout ensemble_ I need not dwell upon. We still talk of a
‘foolscap,’ and even our paper has preserved the term from the fact that
one of the earliest watermarks we have was that of a fool’s cap with
bells. ‘Fools,’ I need not say, wherever else to be met with, are now
obsolete so far as our directories are concerned.
I have just mentioned the henchman. This at once carries us without the
baronial walls, and in whatever scene we are wont to regard the early
suzeraine as engaging, it is remarkable how fully marked is our
nomenclature with its surroundings. Several useful servitorships,
however, claim our first attention. In such days as these, when the
telegraph wire was an undreamt-of mystery, and highways traversed by
steam-engines would have been looked upon as something supernatural
indeed, we can readily understand the importance of the official ‘Roger
le Messager,’ or ‘John le Messager,’ nor need we be surprised by the
frequency with which he is met. In the ‘Man of Lawes Tale’ it is said—
This messager to don his avantage
Unto the Kinges mother rideth swift.
Though generally found as ‘Messinger’ or ‘Massinger,’ the truer and more
ancient form is not wholly obsolete.[211] But if there were no
telegraphs, neither was there any regular system of postage. The name of
‘Ely le Breviter’ or ‘Peter le Brevitour’ seems to remind us of this. I
do not doubt myself the ‘breviter’ was kept by his lord for the writing
or conveyance of letters or brevets.[212] Piers Plowman uses the word
where, of the Pardoner’s preaching, it is said—
Lewed men loved it wel,
And liked his wordes,
Comen up knelynge
To kissen his bulles.
He bouched them with his brevet
And blered their eighen.[213]
The signet of his lord was in the hands of the ‘Spigurnell’ or
‘Spigurell,’ both of which forms still exist, I believe, in our general
nomenclature. As the sealer of all the royal writs, the king’s spigurell
would have an office at once important and careful. The term itself is
Saxon, its root implying that which is shut up or sealed. Our ‘Coffers,’
relics of the old ‘Ralph le Cofferer,’ or ‘John le Cofferer,’ though
something occupative, were nevertheless official also, and are to be
found as such in the thirteenth century. They remind us of the day when
there were no such things as cheque-books, nor banks, nor a paper-money
currency. Then on every expedition, be it warlike or peaceful, solid
gold or silver had to be borne for the baron’s expenditure and that of
his retinue; therefore none would be more important than he who
superintended the transit from place to place of the chest of solid
coinage set under his immediate care. Our early ‘Passavants,’ or
‘Pursevaunts,’ or more literally pursuivants, were under the direction
of the ‘Herald,’or ‘Heraud,’ as Chaucer styles him, and usually preceded
the royal or baronial retinue to announce its approach, and attend to
such other duties of lesser importance as his superior delegated to him.
In this respect he occupied a position much akin to that of the
‘Harbinger’ or ‘Herberger,’ who prepared the _harborage_ or lodging, and
all other entertainment required ere the cavalcade arrived. When we
reflect upon the large number of retainers, the ceremonious list of
attendants, the greater impediments to early travel, and the
difficulties of forwarding information, we shall see that these
officerships were by no means so formal as we might be apt to imagine.
To give illustrations of all the above-mentioned surnames were easy,
were it not that the number is so large that it becomes a difficulty
which to select. Such entries, however, as ‘Jacob le Messager,’ ‘Godfrey
le Coffrer,’ ‘Roger Passavant,’ ‘Main le Heralt,’ ‘Herbert le
Herberjur,’ ‘Nicholas le Spigurnell,’ ‘Peter le Folle,’ or the Latinized
‘Johannes Stultus,’ may be recorded as among the more familiar. A
reference to the Index will furnish examples of the rest, as well as
additional ones of the above.
In a day when horses were of more consequence than now, we need not be
surprised to find the baronial manger under special supervision. This
officer figures in our mediæval archives in such entries as ‘Walter le
Avenur’ or ‘William le Avenare.’[214] As his very name suggests, it was
the avenar’s care to provide for the regular and sufficient feeding of
the animals placed under his charge.[215] The ‘Boke of Curtayse’ tells
us his duties—
The aveyner shall ordeyn provande good won
For the lordys horsis everychon,
They schyn have two cast of hay,
A peck of provande on a day.
Elsewhere, too, the same writer says—
A maystur of horsys a squyer ther is,
Aveyner and ferour under him i-wys.
Our ‘Palfreymans’ (‘John le Palfreyman,’ M.), though not always
official, I do not doubt had duties also of a similar character in
looking after the well-being of their mistress’s palfrey, and attending
the lady herself when she rode to the cover, or took an airing on the
more open and breezy hillside.
The two great amusements of the period we are considering were the hunt
and the tournament. Of the former we have many relics, nor is the latter
barren or unfruitful of terms connected therewith that still linger on
in the surnames of to-day. The exciting encounters which took place in
these chivalric meetings or jousts had a charm alike for the Saxon and
the Norman; alike, too, for spectator as well as for him who engaged in
the fierce mêlée. Training for this was by no means left to the
discretion of amateur intelligence. In three several records of the
thirteenth century I find such names as ‘Peter le Eskurmesur,’ ‘Henry le
Eskyrmessur,’ and ‘Roger le Skirmisour.’ The root of these terms is, of
course, the old French verb ‘eskirmir,’ to fence. It is thence we get
our _skirmish_ and _scrimmage_, the latter form, though looked upon now
as of a somewhat slang character, being found in the best of society in
our earlier writers. Originally it denoted a hand-to-hand encounter
between two horsemen. We still imply by a skirmish a short and sharp
conflict between the advanced posts of two contending armies. As a
teacher of ‘the noble art of self-defence,’[216] we can easily
understand how important was the skirmisher. The name has become much
corrupted by lapse of time, scarcely recognisable, in fact, in such a
garb as ‘Scrimmenger,’ ‘Skrymsher,’ ‘Skrimshire,’ and perchance
‘Scrimshaw,’ forms which I find in our present London and provincial
directories. Of those who were wont to engage we have already mentioned
the majority. All the different grades of nobility were present, and
with them were their esquires, with shield and buckler, ready to supply
a fresh unsplintered lance, or a new shield, with its proudly emblazoned
crest. I need scarce remind the reader of what consequence in such a day
as this would be the costume of him who thus engaged in such deadly
conflict. The invention of gunpowder has changed the early tactics of
fight. Battles are lost and won now long ere the real mêlée has taken
place. Then everything, whether in war or tournament, was settled face
to face. To pierce his opponent where an inlet could admit his spear, or
to unhorse him by the shock of meeting, was the knight’s one aim. The
bloodiness of such an affray can be better imagined than described. We
still hear of distorted features in the after inspection of the scene of
battle, but we can have no conception of the mangling that the bodies of
horse and rider underwent, the inevitable result of the earlier manner
of warfare. Death is mercifully quick now upon the battle-field. We have
still three or four professional surnames that remind us of this. We
have still our ‘Jackmans,’ or ‘Jakemans,’ as representatives of the
former cavalry; so called from the ‘jack’ or coat of mail they wore. It
is this latter article which has bequeathed to our youngsters of the
nineteenth century their more peaceful and diminutive _jacket_. Thus
mailed and horsed, they had to encounter the cruel onslaught of our
‘Spearmans,’ and ‘Pikemans,’ and ‘Billmans,’ names that themselves
suggest how bloody would be the strife when hatchet blade, and sharp
pike, and keen sword clashed together. To cover and shield the body,
then, was the one thought of these early days of military tactics, and
at the same time to give the fullest play to every limb and sinew. This
was a work of a most careful nature, and no wonder it demanded the
combined skill of several craftsmen. Such occupative sobriquets as ‘Adam
le Armerer’ or ‘Simon le Armurer’ are now represented by the curter
‘Armer’ or ‘Armour.’ In the ‘Knight’s Tale’ it is said—
There were also of Martes division
Th’ armerer, and the bowyer, and the smith,
That forgeth sharpe swerdes on his stith.
Our ‘Frobishers,’ ‘Furbishers,’ and ‘Furbers,’ once found as ‘Richard le
Fourbishour’ or ‘Alan le Fourbour,’ scoured and prepared the habergeon,
or jack just referred to, while ‘Gilbert le Hauberger’ or ‘John le
Haubergeour’ was more immediately engaged in constructing it. Our
present Authorized Version, I need hardly say, still retains the word.
In ‘Sire Thopas,’ too, it is used where it is said—
And next his schert an aketoun,
And over that an habergoun.
Our classical-looking ‘Homers’ are the naturally corrupted form of the
once familiar ‘le Heaumer,’ he who fashioned the warrior’s helmet.[217]
Our ‘Sworders,’ I imagine, forged him his trusty blade,[218] while our
‘Sheathers’ furnished forth its slip. Our ‘Platers’ I would suggest as
makers of his cuirass, while our ‘Kissers’—far less demonstrative than
they look—are but relics of such a name as ‘Richard le Kissere,’ he who
manufactured his _cuishes_ or thigh armour, one of the most careful
parts of the entire dress.[219] Lastly, our ‘Spurriers’ were there ready
to supply him with his rowel, and thus in warlike guise he was prepared
either for adventurous combat in behalf of the distressed damsel, or to
seek favour in the eyes of her he loved in the more deadly lists.[220]
I must not forget to mention our ‘Kemps’ while upon military affairs, a
general term as it was for a soldier in the days of which we are
speaking. I believe the phrase ‘to go a kemping’ is still in use in the
north. In the old rhyme of ‘Guy and Colbrand’ the minstrel says—
When meat and drink is great plentye,
Then lords and ladys still will be,
And sit and solace lythe:
Then it is time for mee to speake,
Of kern knightes and kempes greate,
Such carping for to kythe.
How familiar a term it must have been in the common mouth the frequency
with which the name is met fully shows.
Our ‘Slingers’ represent an all but forgotten profession, but they seem
to have been useful enough in their day and generation. The sling was
always attached to a stick, whence the old term ‘staffsling.’ Lydgate
describes David as armed
With a staffe slynge, voyde of plate and mayle;
while in ‘Richard Cœur de Lion’ we are told—
Foremost he sette hys arweblasteres,
And aftyr that hys good archeres,
And aftyr hys staff-slyngeres,
And other with scheeldes and speres.
But we must not forget old England’s one boast, her archers, and our
last quotation fitly brings them to our notice. They, too, in the
battle-field and in the rural list, maintained alike their supremacy. If
we would be proud of our early victories, we must ever look with
veneration on the bow. ‘Bowman’ and ‘Archer’ still represent the more
military professional, but not alone. Even more interesting, as speaking
for the more specific crossbow or ‘arbalist,’ are our ‘Alabasters,’
‘Arblasters,’ ‘Arblasts,’ and ‘Balsters.’ In Robert of Gloucester’s
description of the reign of the Conqueror, it is said—
So great power of this land and of France he nom (took)
With him into England, of knights and squires,
Spearmen anote, and bowemen, and also arblasters.
Chaucer, too, describing a battlement, says—
And eke within the castle were
Springoldes, gonnes, bowes, and archers,
And eke about at corners
Men seine over the wall stand
Grete engines, who were nere hand,
And in the kernels, here and there,
Of arblasters great plentie were.
In the Hundred Rolls he is Latinized as ‘John Alblastarius,’ and in the
York Records as ‘Thomas Balistarius.’ The Inquisitiones style him
‘Richard le Alblaster,’ while the Parliamentary Writs register him as
‘Reginald le Arblaster.’ It was to this class of armour our word
‘artillery’ was first applied, a fact which our Bible translators have
preserved, where, in describing the meeting between David and Jonathan,
they speak of the latter as giving his ‘artillery to the lad.’ Cotgrave,
too, in his dictionary, printed at the beginning of the seventeenth
century, has the following:—‘Artellier, a bowyer or bow-maker, also a
fletcher, or one that makes both bows and arrows.’ The mention of the
fletcher brings us to the more general weapon. Such an entry as the
following would seem strange to the eyes of the nineteenth century:—‘To
Nicolas Frost, bowman, Stephen Sedar, fletcher,[221] Ralph, the
stringer, and divers others of the said mysteries, in money, paid to
them, viz.:—to the aforesaid Nicholas, for 500 bows, 31_l._ 8_s._; to
the aforesaid Stephen, for 1,700 sheaves of arrows, 148_l._ 15_s._; and
to the aforesaid Ralph, for forty gross of bowstrings, 12_l._’
(Exchequer Issues, 14 Henry IV.) This short extract in itself shows us
the origin of at least three distinct surnames, viz.:—‘Bowyer,’
‘Fletcher,’ and ‘Stringer.’ We should hardly recognise the first,
however, in such entries as ‘Adam le Boghiere,’ or ‘William le
Boghyere.’ ‘John le Bower’ reminds us that some of our ‘Bowers’ are
similarly sprung, while ‘George le Boyer’ answers for our ‘Boyers.’
Besides these, we have ‘Robert Bowmaker’ or ‘John Bowmaykere’ to
represent the fuller sobriquet. So much for the bow. Next comes the
arrow. This was a very careful piece of workmanship. Four distinct
classes of artizans were engaged in its structure, and, as we might
expect, all are familiar names of to-day. ‘John le Arowsmyth’ we may set
first. He confined himself to the manufacture of the arrow-head. Thus we
find the following statement made in an Act passed in 1405:—‘Item,
because the Arrowsmyths do make many faulty heads for arrows and
quarels, it is ordained and established that all heads for arrows and
quarels, after this time to be made, shall be well boiled or braised,
and hardened at the points with steel.’ (Stat. Realm.)[222] ‘Clement le
Settere’ or ‘Alexander le Settere’[223] was busied in affixing these to
the shaft, and ‘John le Tippere’ or ‘William le Tippere’ in pointing
them off. Nor is this all—there is yet the feather. Of the origin of
such mediæval folk as ‘Robert le Fleccher’ or ‘Ada le Fletcher,’ we are
reminded by Milton, where, in describing an angel, he says—
His locks behind,
Illustrious on his shoulders, _fledge_ with wings,
Lay waving round.
The fletcher, or fledger as I had well-nigh called him, spent his time,
in fact, in feathering arrows.
Skelton in ‘The Maner of the World’ says:—
So proude and so gaye,
So riche in arraye,
And so skant of mon-ey
Saw I never:
So many bowyers,
So many fletchers,
And so few good archers
Saw I never.
While all these names, however, speak for specific workmanship, our
‘Flowers’ represent a more general term. We are told of Phœbus in the
‘Manciples Tale,’ that
His bowe he bent, and set therein a flo.
‘Flo,’ was a once familiar term for an arrow. ‘John le Floer,’ or
‘Nicholas le Flouer,’ therefore, would seem to be but synonymous with
‘Arrowsmith’ or ‘Fletcher.’ ‘Stringer’ and ‘Stringfellow’ are
self-explanatory, and are common surnames still. What a list of
sobriquets is here! What a change in English social life do they
declare. Time was when to be a sure marksman was the object of every
English boy’s ambition. The bow was his chosen companion. Evening saw
him on the village green, beneath the shade of the old yew tree, and as
he practised his accustomed sport, his breath would come thick and fast,
as he bethought him of the coming wake, and his chance of bringing down
the popinjay, and presenting the ribbon to his chosen queen of the May.
Yes, times are altered. Teeming cities cover the once rustic sward,
broadcloth has eclipsed the Lincoln green, the clothyard, the arrow; but
still amid the crowd that rushes to and fro in our streets the name of
an ‘Archer,’ or a ‘Bowman,’ or a ‘Butts,’ or a ‘Popgay’ spoken in our
ears will hush the hubbub of the city, and, forgotten for a brief moment
the greed for money, will carry us, like a pleasant dream recalled, into
the fresher and purer atmosphere of England’s past.
In the poem from which I have but recently quoted we have the record of
‘gonnes,’ or ‘guns,’ as we should now term them. It would be quite
possible for our nomenclature to be represented by memorials of the
powder magazine, and I should be far from asserting that such is not the
case.[224] In the household of Edward III. there are enumerated, among
others, ‘Ingyners lvij; Artellers vj; Gonners vj.’ Here there is a clear
distinction between the ‘gun’ and the ‘engine;’ between missiles hurled
by powder and those by the catapult. Fifty years even earlier than this
Chaucer had used the following sentence:—‘They dradde no assaut of
gynne, gonne, nor skaffaut.’ In his ‘Romance,’ too, as I have just
shown, he places in juxtaposition ‘grete engines’ and ‘gonnes.’ Of one,
if not both of these, we have undoubted memorials in our nomenclature.
The Hundred Rolls furnish us with a ‘William le Engynur’ and a ‘Walter
le Ginnur;’ the Inquisitiones with a ‘Richard le Enginer,’ and the Writs
with a ‘William le Genour.’ The descendants of such as these are, of
course, our ‘Gunners,’ ‘Ginners,’ ‘Jenour,’ and ‘Jenners,’[225] the last
of which are now represented by one who is as renowned for recovering as
his ancestor in days gone by would be for destroying life. Our ‘Gunns’
and ‘Ginns’ also must be referred to the same source. In one of the
records just alluded to a ‘Warin Engaine’ is to be met with. If we elide
the first syllable, as in the previous instances, the modern form at
once appears.
But if in the deadly tournament the baron and his retainers found an
ample pastime, nevertheless the chase was of all diversions the most
popular. In this the prince and the peasant alike found recreation,
while with regard to the latter, as we shall see, it was also combined
with service. The woody wastelands, so extended in these earlier days of
a sparse population, afforded sport enough for the most ardent huntsman.
According to the extent of privilege or the divisions into which they
were separated, these tracts were styled by the various terms of
‘forest,’ ‘chase,’ ‘park,’ and ‘warren.’ To any one at all conversant
with old English law these several words will be familiar enough. To
keep the wilder beasts within their prescribed limits, to prevent them
injuring the tilled lands, and in general to guard the common interests
of lord and tenant, keepers were appointed. The names of these officers,
the chief of whom are entitled by appellations whose root is of a local
character, are well-nigh all found to this day in our directories.
Indeed there is no class of names more firmly imbedded there. In the
order of division I have just alluded to, we have ‘Forester,’ with its
corrupted ‘Forster’ and ‘Foster,’ relics of such registered folk as ‘Ivo
le Forester,’ ‘Henry le Forster,’ or ‘Walter le Foster;’ ‘Chaser,’ now
obsolete, I believe, but lingering on for a considerable period as the
offspring of ‘William’ or ‘Simon le Chasur;’ ‘Parker,’ or ‘Parkman,’ or
‘Park,’ descended from ‘Adam le Parkere,’ or ‘Hamo le Parkere,’ or
‘Roger atte Parke,’ or ‘John del Parc,’ and ‘Warener’ or ‘Warner,’ or
‘Warren,’ lineally sprung from men of the stamp of ‘Thomas le Warrener,’
‘Jacke le Warner,’ or ‘Richard de Waren.’ The curtailed forms of these
several terms seem to have been all but consequent with the rise of the
officership itself. ‘Love’ in the ‘Romance’ says:—
Now am I knight, now chastelaine,
Now prelate, and now chaplaine,
Now priest, now clerke, now forstere.
In his description of the Yoman, too, Chaucer adds—
An horne he bere, the baudrick was of grene,
A fostere was he sothely as I guesse.
Thus, again, Langland, in setting forth Glutton’s encounter with the
frequenters of the tavern, speaks familiarly of—
Watte the Warner.
But these are not all. It is with them we must associate our ancestral
‘Woodwards’ or ‘Woodards,’ and still more common ‘Woodreefs,’
‘Woodrows,’ ‘Woodroffs,’ and ‘Woodruffs,’ all more or less perverted
forms of the original wood-reeve.[226] A song representing the
husbandmen as complaining of the burdens in Edward II.’s reign says—
The hayward heteth us harm to habben of his
The bailif beckneth us bale, and weneth wel do;
The wodeward waiteth us wo.
All these officers were more or less of legal capacity, men whose duty
it was, bill in hand, to guard the vert and venison under their
charge,[227] to act as agents for their lord in regard to the pannage of
hogs, to look carefully to the lawing of dogs, and in case of offences
to present them to the verderer at the forest assize. The ‘Moorward,’
found in our early records as ‘German le Morward’ or ‘Henry le Morward,’
guarded the wilder and bleaker districts. ‘The Rider,’ commonly found as
‘Roger le Rydere’ or ‘Ralph le Ryder,’ in virtue of having a larger
extent of jurisdiction, was mounted, though his office was essentially
the same. Mr. Lower, remarking upon this word, has a quotation from the
ballad of ‘William of Cloudesley,’ where the king, rewarding the brave
archer, says:—
I give thee eightene pence a day,
And my bowe thou shalt bere,
And over all the north countrè
I make thee chyfe rydere.
With him we must associate our ‘Rangers’ and ‘Keepers,’ who, acting
doubtless under him, assisted also in the work of patrolling the
woodland and recovering strayed beasts, and presenting trespassers to
the swainmote just referred to.
The bailiff, shortened as a surname into ‘Bailey,’ ‘Baillie’ (‘German le
Bailif,’ J., ‘Henry le Baillie,’ M.), like the reve, seems to have been
both of legal and private capacity; in either case acting as
deputy.[228] This word ‘reve’ did a large amount of duty formerly, but
seems now to be fast getting into its dotage. In composition, however,
it is far from being obsolete. The ‘Reeve’ (‘John le Reve,’ M., ‘Sager
le Reve,’ H.), who figured so conspicuously among the Canterbury
Pilgrims, would be the best representative of the term in his day, I
imagine—
His lordes shepe, his nete, and his deirie,
His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie,
Were wholly in this reves governing.
Our ‘Grieves’ (‘Thomas le Greyve,’ A.), who are but the fuller ‘Gerefa,’
fulfilled, and I believe in some parts of Scotland still fulfil, the
capacity here described, being but manorial bailiffs, in fact. ‘The Boke
of Curtasye’ says—
Grayvis, and baylys, and parker
Shall come to accountes every yere
Byfore the auditours of the lorde.
Thus, too, our ‘Portreeves’ (‘William le Portreve,’ A., ‘Augustin le
Portreve,’ A.), who in our coast towns fulfilled the capacity of our
more general mayor, are oftentimes in our earlier records enrolled as
Portgreve.’ ‘Hythereve’ (‘John le Huthereve,’ O.), from hithe, a haven,
would seem to denote the same office, while our obsolete ‘Fenreves’
(‘Adam le Fenreve,’ A.), like the ‘Moorward’ mentioned above, had
charge, I doubt not, of the wilder and more sparsely populated tracts of
land. Many other compounds of this word we have already recorded; some
we shall refer to by-and-by, and with them and these the reeve, after
all, is not likely to be soon forgotten.
But the poorer villeins were not without those who should guard their
interests also. In a day of fewer landmarks and scantier barriers
trespasses would be inevitable. An interesting relic of primitive
precaution against the straying of animals is found in the officership
of the ‘Hayward’ (or ‘Adam le Heyward,’ as the Hundred Rolls have it),
whose duty it was to guard the cattle that grazed on the village common.
He was so styled from the Saxon ‘hay’ or ‘hedge,’ already spoken of in
our previous chapter. An old poem has it—
In tyme of hervest mery it is ynough;
Peres and apples hongeth on bough,
The hayward bloweth mery his horne;
In every felde ripe is corne.
In ‘Piers Plowman,’ too, we have the word—
I have an horne, and be a hayward,
And liggen out a nyghtes
And kepe my corne and my croft
From pykers and theves.
It will be seen from these two references that the officership was of a
somewhat general character. The cattle might be his chief care, but the
common village interests were also under his supervision. The term has
left many surnames to maintain its now decayed and primitive character;
‘Hayward’ and ‘Haward’ are, however, the most familiar. ‘Hayman,’
doubtless, is of similar origin. If, in spite of the hayward’s care, it
came to pass that any trespass occurred, the village ‘pounder’ was ready
at hand to impound the animal till its owner claimed it, and paid the
customary fine—
In Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder,
In Wakefield, all on a green.
So we are told in ‘Robin Hood.’ I need not add that our many ‘Pounders,’
‘Pinders,’ and still more classic ‘Pindars,’ are but the descendants of
him or one of his _confrères_. I do not doubt myself, too, that our
‘Penders’ (‘William le Pendere’ in the Parliamentary Writs) will be
found to be of a similar origin.
While, however, these especial officers superintended the general
interests of lord and tenant, there were those also whose peculiar
function it was to guard the particular quarry his master loved to
chase; to see them unmolested and undisturbed during such time as the
hunt itself was in abeyance, and then, when the chase came on, to
overlook and conduct its course. These, too, are not without
descendants. Such names as ‘Stagman’ and ‘Buckmaster,’[229] ‘Hindman’
and ‘Hartman,’ ‘Deerman’ and its more amatory ‘Dearman,’ by their
comparative frequency, remind us how important would be their office in
the eye of their lord.
Nor are those who assisted in the lordly hunt itself left unrepresented
in our nomenclature. The old ‘Elyas le Hunderd,’ or ‘hund-herd,’ has
left in our ‘Hunnards’ an abiding memorial of the ‘houndsman.’ Similarly
the ‘vaultrier’ was he who unleashed them. It has been a matter of doubt
whether or no the more modern ‘feuterer’ owes his origin to this term,
but the gradations found in such registrations as ‘John le Veutrer,’
‘Geoffrey le Veuterer,’ and ‘Walter le Feuterer,’ to be met with in the
rolls of this period, set all question, I should imagine, at rest. An
old poem, describing the various duties of these officers and their
charges, says—
A halpeny the hunte takes on the day
For every hounde the sothe to say;
The vewtrer, two cast of brede he tase,
Two lesshe of greyhounds if that he has.
‘Fewter’ and ‘Futter,’[230] however, seem to be the only relics we now
possess of this once important care. Such names as ‘John le Berner’ or
‘Thomas le Berner,’ common enough in old rolls, must be distinguished
from our more aristocratic ‘Berners.’ The _berner_ was a special
houndsman who stood with fresh relays of dogs ready to unleash them if
the chase grew heated and long. In the Parliamentary Rolls he is termed
a ‘yeoman-berner.’ Our ‘Hornblows,’ curtailed from ‘Hornblower,’ and
simpler ‘Blowers,’ would seem to be closely related to the last, for the
horn figured as no mean addition by its jubilant sounds to the
excitement of the chase. He who used it held an office that required all
the attention he could bring to bear upon it. The dogs were not
unleashed until he had sounded the blast, and if at any time from his
elevated station he caught sight of the quarry, he was by the manner of
winding his instrument to certify to the huntsman the peculiar class to
which it belonged. In the Hundred Rolls we find him inscribed as
‘Blowhorn,’ a mere reversal of syllables. Of a more general and
professional character probably would be our ‘Hunters,’ ‘Huntsmans,’ and
‘Hunts,’ not to mention the more Norman ‘John le Venner’ or ‘Richard
Fenner.’ It may not be known to all our ‘Hunts’ that theirs, the shorter
form, was the most familiar term in use at that time; hence the number
that at present exist. We are told in the ‘Knight’s Tale’ of the—
Hunte and horne, and houndes him beside;
while but a little further on he speaks of—
The hunte ystrangled with the wilde beres.
Forms like ‘Walter le Hunte’ or ‘Nicholas le Hunte’ are very common to
the old records. As another proof of the general use of this word we may
cite its compounds. ‘Borehunte’ carries us back to the day when the wild
boar ranged the forest’s deeper gloom. ‘Wolfhunt,’ represented in the
Inquisitiones by such a sobriquet as ‘Walter le Wolfhunte,’ reminds us
that Edgar did not utterly exterminate that savage beast of prey, as is
oftentimes asserted. A family of this name held lands in the Peak of
Derbyshire at this period by the service of keeping the forest clear of
wolves. In the forty-third year of Edward III. one Thomas Engeine held
lands in Pitchley, in the county of Northampton, by service of finding
at his own cost certain dogs for the destruction of wolves, foxes, &c.,
in the counties of Northampton, Rutland, Oxford, Essex, and Buckingham;
nay, as late as the eleventh year of Henry VI. Sir Robert Plumpton held
one borate of land in Nottinghamshire, by service of winding a horn, and
chasing or frightening the wolves in Sherwood Forest.[231] Doubtless,
however, as in these recorded instances, it would be in the more hilly
and bleaker districts, or in the deeper forests, he found his safest and
last retreat. It seems well-nigh literally to be coming down from a
mountain to a mole-hill to speak of our ‘Mole-hunts,’ the other compound
of this word. But small as he was in comparison with the other, he was
scarcely less obnoxious on account of his burrowing propensities, for
which the husbandman gave him the longer name of mouldwarp. His numbers,
too, made him formidable, and it is no wonder that people found
occupation enough in his destruction, or that the name of ‘Molehunt’
should have found its way into our early rolls. So late, indeed, as
1641, we find in a farming book the statement that 12_d._ was the usual
price paid by the farmer for every dozen old moles secured, and 6_d._
for the same number of young ones. This speaks at least for their
plentifulness. An old provincialism for mole, and one not yet extinct,
was ‘wont’ or ‘want.’ This explains the name of ‘Henry le Wantur,’ which
may be met with in the Hundred Rolls. In the Sloane MS. is a method
given ‘for to take wontes.’ It would be in the deeper underwood our
‘Todmans’ and ‘Todhunters,’ the chasers of the fox, or ‘tod,’ as he was
popularly called, found diversion enough. It would be here our
‘Brockmans’ secured the badger. I doubt not these were both also of
professional character—aids and helps to the farmer. Indeed, he had many
upon whose services he could rely for a trifle of reward in the shape of
a silver penny, or a warm mess of potage on the kitchen settle. Our
‘Burders’ and ‘Fowlers,’ by their craft, whether of falconry or netting,
or in the use of the cross-bow bolt, aided to clear the air of the more
savage birds of prey, or of the lesser ones that would molest the
bursting seed. I need scarcely remark that the distinction between
‘bird’ and ‘fowl’ is modern. The ‘fowls of the air’ with our Saxon
Bible, and up to very recent days, embraced every winged creature, large
and small. In our very expression ‘barndoor-fowl’ we are only using a
phrase which served to mark the distinction between the wilder and the
more domesticated bird. The training and sale of bullfinches seem to
have given special employment then, as now, to such as would undertake
the care thereof. A ‘Robert le Fincher’ occurs at an early period, and I
see his descendants are yet in being. As we shall see in a later
chapter, this bird has set his mark deeply upon our sobriquet
nomenclature. Our ‘Trappers,’ whether for bird or beast, confined their
operations to the soil, capturing their spoil by net or gin.
We owe several names, or rather several forms of the same name, to the
once favourite pursuit of falconry. Of all sports in the open air this
was the one most entirely aristocratic. In it the lord and his lady
alike found pleasure. It had become popular so early as the ninth
century, and, as Mr. Lower says, in such estimation was the office of
State falconer held in Norman times that Domesday shows us, apart from
others, four different tenants-in-chief, who are described each as
‘accipitrarius,’ or falconer. Until John’s reign it was not lawful for
any but those of the highest rank to keep hawks, but in the ‘Forest
Charter’ a special clause was introduced which gave power to every free
man to have an aerie. So valuable was a good falcon that it even stood
chief among royal gifts, and up to the beginning of the seventeenth
century it brought as much as 100 marks in the market.[232] Royal edicts
were even passed for the preservation of their eggs. From all this, and
much more that might be adduced, it is easy to understand how important
was the office of falconer, nor need we wonder that it is one of the
most familiar names to be found in early rolls. Of many forms those of
‘Falconer,’ ‘Falconar,’ ‘Faulkner,’ ‘Falkner,’[233] ‘Faulconer,’ and
‘Faukener,’ seem to be the commonest. The last form is found in the
‘Boke of Curtasye’—
The chaunceler answeres for their clothyng,
For yomen, faukeners, and their horsyng,
For their wardrop and wages also.
In our former ‘Idonea or Walter le Oyseler’ we recognise but another
French term for the same. A special keeper of the goshawk, or ‘oster,’
got into mediæval records in the shape of ‘William le Astrier,’ or
‘Robert le Ostricer,’ or ‘Richard le Hostriciere,’ or ‘Godfrey
Ostriciarius.’ The Latin ‘accipiter’ is believed to be the root of the
term, which with such other perverted forms as ‘Ostregier,’ ‘Ostringer,’
‘Astringer,’ and ‘Austringer,’ lingered on the common tongue till so
late as the seventeenth century.[234] A curious proof of the prevailing
passion is found in the name of ‘Robert le Jessmaker,’ set down in the
Hundred Rolls. The ‘jess’ was the leathern or silken strap fastened
closely round the foot of the hawk, from which the line depended and was
held by the falconer. That the demand for these should be so great as to
cause a man to give himself up entirely to their manufacture, will be
the best evidence of the ardour with which our forefathers entered into
this pastime. The end of falconry was, however, sudden as it was
complete. The introduction of the musket at one fell swoop did away with
office, pursuit, with, in fact, the whole paraphernalia of the
amusement, and now it is without a relic, save in so far as these names
abide with us.
In concluding this part of our subject it is pleasant to remind
ourselves that, however strong might be the antagonism which this
chapter displays between Norman and Saxon, the pride of the one, the
oppression of the other, that antagonism is now overpast and gone. We
well know that a revolution was at work, sometimes showing itself
violently, but generally silent in its progress, by which happier
circumstances arrived, happier at any rate for the country at large. We
well know how this consummation came, how these several races became
afterwards one by the suppression of that power the more independent of
these barons had wielded, by confusion of blood, by the acquisition of
more general liberty, by mutuality of interests, by the contagious
influences of commerce, and, above all, by the kindly and
prejudice-weakening force of lapsing time. All this we know, and, as it
is in a sense foreign to our present purpose, I pass over it now. I
trust that I have already shown that there is something, after all, in a
name; at any rate in a surname, for that in it is supplied a link
between the past and the present, for that in the utterance of one of
these may be recalled not merely the lineaments of some face of to-day,
but the dimmer outline of an age which is past beyond recall for ever.
Viewed in a light so broad as this, the country churchyard, with each
mossy stone, is, apart from the diviner lessons it teaches, a living
page of history; and even the parish register, instead of being a mere
record of dry and uninteresting facts, becomes instinct with the lives
and surroundings of our English forefathers.
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