SURNAMES OF OCCUPATION. (TOWN).
We have already said enough to show that our early English pursuits were
mainly pastoral. Even to this day, as we are whisked across the midland
counties or driven across the Yorkshire wolds, we see what advantages we
must have enjoyed in this respect. Our one chief staple was wool, and to
export this in a raw unmanufactured state was the early practice. So
general was this occupation that even subsidies to the crown were given
in wool. In 1340, 30,000 sacks of wool were granted to Edward III. while
engaged in the French War. This would be a most valuable contribution,
for at this time it was held in the highest repute by foreign buyers.
‘The ribs of all nations throughout the world,’ wrote Matthew Paris,
‘are kept warm by the fleeces of English wool’ (Smiles). So early as
1056 we find the Count of Cleves obtaining a certain jurisdiction over
the burghers of Nimeguen upon condition of presenting to the Emperor
every year ‘three pieces of scarlet cloth of English wool’ (Macullum).
With the incoming of the Flemish refugees and other settlers already
mentioned this state of things was changed. The Conqueror himself had
settled one band near Carlisle, but his son Henry soon after coming into
possession removed them into Herefordshire, and the Southern Marches of
the Principality. Doubtless the object of both was that of setting up a
barrier against hostile encroachments on the part of the Scotch and
Welsh; but the result was the spread of a peaceful and useful industry
in two widely separated districts. Two other settlements, in Norfolk and
Suffolk, one by Henry I., the other under the direction of Edward III.,
made East Anglia for centuries the Yorkshire of England. When we talk so
familiarly of ‘worsted,’ or ‘lindsey-wolsey,’ or ‘kerseymere,’ or
‘bocking,’ we are but insensibly upholding a reputation which centuries
ago the several villages that went by these names had obtained through
Flemish aid. Thus was it then that at length our country was enabled to
produce a cloth which could afford a comparison with that of the Flemish
cities themselves. Of this incoming many surnames of this date remind
us, the most important of which I have already mentioned in my chapter
upon local names, ‘Fleming,’ as a general name for all these settlers,
being the commonest.
When, however, we turn to the occupations themselves connected with the
industry, we cannot but be struck by the wonderful impress it has made
upon our nomenclature. The child’s ancient rhyme—
Black sheep, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, sir; yes, sir;
Three bags full—
carries us to the first stage, and to the first dealer. In our ‘Woolers’
and ‘Woolmans,’ in our obsolete ‘Woolmongers’ and ‘Woolbuyers,’[315] in
our ‘Packers’[316] and once flourishing ‘Woolpackers,’ and in our
‘Lanyers’ and ‘Laners,’ relics of the old and more Norman ‘Bartholomew
le Laner’ or ‘John le Lanier,’ we can see once more the train of laden
mules bearing their fleecy treasure to the larger towns or distant
coast. No wonder that Piers Plowman and others should make familiar
mention of the ‘pack-needle,’ when we reflect upon the enormous number
of sacks that would be in constant use for this purpose; and no wonder
‘Adam le Sakkere’ (_i.e._ ‘Sacker’), and ‘Henry le Canevaser’ are to be
met with as busied in their provision.[317] Another proof of the
engrossing importance of this one English article of commerce is left us
in our ‘Staplers.’ The ‘stapleware’ of a town was, and is still, that
which is the chief commodity dealt in by that particular market. A
‘stapler,’ however, has for centuries been a generally accepted title
for a woolmerchant, and has therefore absorbed the more general meaning
the word ought to have conveyed.
The first stage towards manufacture would be the process of carding the
raw and tangled material, and numberless are the ‘Carders,’ ‘Combers,’
and ‘Kempsters,’[318] or ‘Kemsters,’ who remind us of this. In these
latter sobriquets we have but varied forms of the same root ‘cemb,’ to
comb. We still talk poetically of ‘unkempt locks,’ and we are told of
Emelie in the ‘Knight’s Tale’ that—
Her bright hair kembed was, untressed all.
The Norman corresponding name is found in ‘Robert le Peinnur’ or
‘William le Puigneur,’ but unless in our ‘Pinners’ (a supposition not
unnatural) it has left no descendants. But even these are not all. It is
with them we must associate our ‘Towzers’ and ‘Tozers,’ from the old
‘touse’ allied to ‘tease’—they who cleared the fibre from all
entanglements. Spenser talks of curs ‘tousing’ the poor bear at the
baiting, and I need not remind the reader that in our somewhat limited
canine nomenclature, ‘Towzer,’ as a name for a dog of more pugnacious
propensities, occupies a by no means mean place. As applicable to the
trade in question, Gower uses the word when he says, in his ‘Confessio
Amantis’:—
What schepe that is full of wulle
Upon his backe they tose and pulle.[319]
It is here, therefore, we must place our one or two solitary
relics of the rough machinery then in use. In ‘Cardmaker’ we have
the manufacturer of the ‘comb’ or ‘card’ thus usefully employed;
in ‘Spindler’ the maker of the pin round which the thread was
wound; while our ‘Slaymakers,’[320] ‘Slaymans,’ and obsolete
‘Slaywrights’[321] preserve the once so familiar ‘slay’—that
moveable part of the loom which the webbe with his fingers plied
nimbly and deftly along the threads. A petition to Parliament in
1467 from the worsted manufacturers complains that in the county
of Norfolk there are ‘divers persones that make untrue ware of all
manner of worstedes, not being of the assises in length nor brede,
nor of good, true stuffe and makyng, and the _slayes_ and yern
thereto belonging untruly made and wrought, etc.’ (Rot. Parl. Ed.
IV.) I believe the word is not yet obsolete as a term of the
craft.
I have mentioned ‘Webbe.’
My wife was a webbe
And woolen cloth made,
says Piers in his ‘Vision.’ This appears, judging at least from our
directories, to have been the more general term, and after it its longer
forms, the masculine ‘Webber’ and the originally feminine ‘Webster.’ A
poem written in the beginning of the sixteenth century refers to
Curriers, cordwayners, and cobelers,
Gyrdelers, forborers, and webbers.
Such entries as ‘Elyas le Webbe,’ or ‘Clarice le Webbere,’ or ‘John le
Webestre,’ are of common occurrence in our mediæval and still earlier
records. But the processes are anything but at an end. The cloth must be
dyed and fulled. Of the first our ‘Listers,’ once enrolled as ‘Hugh le
Litster’ or ‘Henry le Littester,’[322] speak, and ‘Dyer’ or ‘Dister,’
still harder of recognition in such a guise as ‘Geoffrey le Deghere’ or
‘Robert le Dighestere,’ forms found at the period we are writing about.
It was John Littester, a dyer, who in 1381 headed the rebellion in
Norwich. Here the surname was evidently taken from the occupation
followed. Halliwell gives the obsolete verb ‘to lit’ or dye, and quotes
an old manuscript in which the following sentence occurs: ‘We use na
clathis that are littede of dyverse coloures.’ Such names as ‘Gilbert le
Teinturer,’ or ‘Richard le Teynterer,’ or ‘Philip le Tentier,’ which I
have come across in three separate records, represent the old French
title for the same occupation, but I believe they have failed to come
down to us—at least I have not met with any after instance. The old
English forms of ‘tincture’ and ‘tint’ are generally found to be
‘teinture’ and ‘teint.’ The teinturer is not without relics. We still
speak when harassed of ‘being on the _stretch_,’ or when in a state of
suspense of ‘being upon _tenter_-hooks,’ both of which proverbial
expressions must have arisen in the common converse of cloth-workers.
The tenter itself was the stretcher upon which the cloth was laid while
in the dyer’s hands. On account of various deceits that had become
notorious in the craft, such, for instance, as the over-stretching of
the material, a law was passed in the first year of Richard III. that
‘tentering’ or ‘teyntering’ should only be done in an open place, and
for this purpose public tenters were to be set up. (‘Stat. Realm,’ Rich.
III.) We find many references to this important instrument in old
testaments. Thus an inventory of goods, dated 1562, belonging to a man
resident in the parish of Kendall, speaks of ‘Tenture posts and woodde,
6_d._—ii tentures 20_s._’ (‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p. 156.) The dyes
themselves used in the process of colouring are not without existing
memorials. In the York Pageant, already referred to, we find, walking in
procession with the woolpackers, the ‘Wadmen,’ that is, the sellers of
woad, unless indeed, they were the dyers themselves. The more common
spelling was ‘wode,’ and when not local, ‘Thomas le Wodere’ or ‘Alan le
Wodeman,’ with their modern ‘Wooder’ and ‘Woodman,’ will be found, I
doubt not, to be the representative of this calling. ‘John Maderman,’
and ‘Lawrence Maderer’ remind us of the more reddish and popular hues.
Great quantities of this were yearly imported from Holland, especially
Middleburgh. The old ‘Libel on English Policy’ speaks of—
The marchaundy of Braban and Selande,
as being
The madre and woode (woad) that dyers take on hande.
The thickening mill, however, has left us several words of much more
familiar import than these—viz., ‘Tucker,’ ‘Fuller,’ (or ‘Fulman’[323])
and ‘Walker.’[324] Among other older forms we find ‘Roger le Tukere,’
‘Percival le Toukare,’ ‘Walter le Fullere,’ ‘Ralph le Walkere,’ and
‘Peter le Walkar.’ Of the first Piers in his ‘Vision’ makes mention,
where he speaks of
Wollene websteris,
And weveris of lynen,
Taillours, tanneris,
And Tokkeris bothe.
‘Cocke Lorelle’ also refers to—
Multiplyers and clothe thyckers,
Called fullers everychone.
‘Walker,’ claiming as it does an almost unrivalled position in the rolls
of our nomenclature, reminds us of the early fashion of treading out the
cloth before the adaptations of machinery were brought to bear on this
phase of the craft. In Wicklyffe’s version of the story of Christ’s
transfiguration he speaks of his clothes shining so as no ‘fullere or
walkere of cloth’ may make white upon earth.[325] Reference is made to
the same practice by Langland also when, using this whole process of
cloth-making as an illustration, he says:—
Cloth that cometh fro the wevyng
Is nought comely to wear
Til it be fulled _under foot_,
Or in fullying stokkes,
Washen wel with water,
And with taseles cracched
Y-touked, and y-teynted,
And under taillours hande.
We are here not merely furnished with the entire process itself, but the
terms themselves employed harmonize well with the names I have
mentioned. ‘Walker’ and ‘Tucker’ or ‘Towkare’ or ‘Toker,’ as it was
variously spelt, together with ‘Tuckerman,’ have, however, disappeared
as terms of this trade; and it is in our directories alone we can find
them declaring these forgotten mysteries of a more uncouth manufacture.
The ‘taseles’ mentioned in the poem quoted above were the common
‘teasel’ or ‘tassel,’ a rough prickly plant allied to the thistle, which
when dried was used for scratching the cloth, and thus raising a nap
thereupon. Thus in Willsford’s ‘Nature’s Secrets’ it is said, ‘Tezils,
or Fuller’s Thistle, being gathered or hanged up in the house, where the
air may come freely to it, upon the alteration of cold and windy weather
will grow smoother, and against rain will close up his prickles.’
(Brand’s ‘Pop. Ant.,’ vol. iii. p. 133.) In an inventory of the property
of Edward Kyrkelands, of Kendall, dated 1578, we find the following
articles mentioned:—iiii syckles, a pair wyes and iii stafs, tazills,
5_s._ 8_d._—more in tazills, 2_s._—iiii tentors, 40_s._ (‘Richmondshire
Wills,’ p. 274.) The occupation itself is referred to in an old statute
of Edward IV.—‘Item, that every fuller, from the said feast of St.
Peter, in his craft and occupation of fuller, rower, or _tayseler_ of
cloth, shall exercise and use _taysels_ and no cards, deceitfully
impairing the same cloth’—‘en sa arte et occupacion de fuller et
scalpier ou tezeiler de drap, exercise et use teizels, &c.’ (4 Ed. IV.
c. 1.) It is probable that our ‘Taylors’ have engrossed this name. We
find it lingering in Westmoreland, about Kendal, till the middle of the
sixteenth century, in a form which required but little further change to
make it the same. In the will of Walter Strykland, dated 1568, there is
mentioned among other legatees a certain ‘Edward Taylzer,’ a manifest
corruption of ‘Teazeler.’ (‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p. 224.) A century
earlier than this, however, such names as ‘Gilbert le Tasseler’ or
‘Matilda le Tasselere’ were entered in our more formal registers.
Our ‘Baters’ and ‘Beaters,’ relics of the old ‘Avery le Batour’ or ‘John
Betere,’ were all but invariably cloth-beaters, although, like the
fuller ‘wollebeter,’[326] they may have been busied at an earlier stage
of the manufacture. Capgrave, in his ‘Chronicles,’ under date 30 A.D.,
says, ‘Jacobus, the son of Joseph first bishop of Jerusalem, was throwe
there fro the pinacle of the temple and after smet with a fuller’s
bat.’[327] With the mention of our ‘Shearers’ (‘Richard le Sherere,’ M.)
and endless ‘Shearmans,’ ‘Sharmans,’ or ‘Shermans’ (‘Robert le Sherman,’
‘John le Shereman,’ M.), who represent the shearing of the manufactured
fabric, rather than that of the sheep itself, we have the process
complete. The cloth is at length ready to be transmitted into the care
of our ‘Drapers’ and ‘Clothiers,’ and from them again through the
skilled and nimble fingers of our numberless ‘Tailors.’ From all this we
may readily see what an important influence has England’s one great
staple of earlier days had upon the nomenclature of our countrymen.
Such a name as ‘Ralph le Flexman,’ with its many descendants, reminds us
of the manufacture of linen, which, if not so popular as that of wool,
was nevertheless anything but unfamiliar to the early craftsman. Our
‘Spinners’ carry us to the primary task of thread-making, an employment,
however, all but entirely in the hands of the women. The distaff and the
weaker sex have been ever associated, whether in sacred or profane
narrative. Thus it is that ‘spinster’ has become stereotyped even as a
legal term. Chaucer, four hundred years ago, somewhat uncourteously
said:—
Deceite, weping, spinning, God hath given
To women kindly, while that they may liven.
Our modern ‘linen’ is formed from ‘lin’ or ‘line’—flax—as ‘woolen’ is
from ‘wool.’ Hence we still speak of the seed of that plant as
‘linseed.’ That this was the common form of the word we might prove by
many quotations.
He drank never cidre nor wyn
Nor never wered cloth of lyn,
says an old poem. Even Spenser speaks of ‘garment of line,’ and in
‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote’ allusion is made to ‘lyne-webbers’ and
‘lyne-drapers.’[328] We need not be surprised, therefore, to meet with
such names as ‘Elias Lyndraper,’ or ‘Henry le Lindraper,’ or ‘John le
Lyner.’ Only this last, however, has survived the changes of intervening
centuries, and still holds a precarious existence as ‘Liner.’ ‘Weaver’
was more common. A more Norman equivalent is found in such a sobriquet
as ‘John le Teler,’ or ‘Henry le Telere,’ or ‘Ida la Teleress,’ a name
which is not necessarily of modern French refugee origin, as Mr. Lower
would lead us to suppose. Indeed, a special part of the ladies’
head-dress had early obtained the name of a ‘teler,’ from the fine
texture of the linen of which it was composed.[329] It is but too
probable that this name has become lost, like ‘Taylzer,’ in the more
common ‘Taylor.’ This process of absorption we shall find to be not
unfrequent. Nor are we without a memorial of the bleaching of linen.
‘Whiter,’ if not ‘Whitster,’ still lives in our directories. It seems
strange that our ‘Blackers’ should denote but the same occupation; but
so it is—they, like our old ‘Walter le Blakesters’ or ‘Richard le
Bleckesters,’ being but the harder and more antique form of our present
‘bleacher.’[330] Our term ‘bleak,’ preserving as it does the earlier
pronunciation, is but the same word, being formerly used to denote
pallor, or wanness, or absence of colour. From this, by a natural
change, it came to signify anything cheerless or desolate. With perfect
honesty in this case, at any rate, we may ‘swear that black is white.’
With regard to silk, we had but little to do. The manufacture of this
important cloth was barely carried on in Western Europe during the
period of the establishment of surnames. It was nigh the close of the
fifteenth century before it appeared in France. All our silks were
imported from the East by Venetian and Genoese merchants. Of the latter
an old poem says, they come—
Into this londe wyth dyverse merchaundysses,
In grete karrekis arrayde wythouten lack,
Wyth clothes of golde, silke, and pepir black.
Still we find a company of silkwomen settled in London at an early
period. In the records of this city occur such names as ‘Johanna
Taylour, Silkwyfe,’ in 1348, and ‘Agatha Fowere, Silkewoman,’ in
1417.[331] In 1455 a complaint was raised by ‘the women of the mystery
and trade of silk and threadworkers in London, that divers Lombards and
other foreigners enriched themselves by ruining the said mystery.’ I
think, however, we shall find that all these were engaged less in the
manufacture of fabrics than of threads for the embroiderers to use.
Thus, as connected with the throwing or winding of these silken tissues,
we come across such names as ‘Thrower’ and ‘Throwster,’ the former
having been further corrupted into ‘Trower.’[332]
Next to wool, perhaps leather formed the most important item of early
manufacture. We can hardly now conceive the infinite use to which it was
put at this period. In military dress it had an especial place, and in
the ordinary costume it was far from being confined to the extremities,
as we have it now. Jerkins, chausses, girdles, pouches, gipsire—all came
under the leather-dresser’s hands. In 1378 we find a jury, called
together to decide upon a case of alleged bad tanning, to have been
composed of ‘saddlers, pouchmakes, girdlers, botel-makers, tanners,
curriers, and cordwainers.’ Of the more general manufacture of hides we
have numerous relics; indeed, we are at once introduced into the midst
of a throng of tradesmen, the very list of which proves the then
important character of the article on which they spent their energies.
Such names as ‘Jordan le Tannur,’ or ‘Loretta le Tannur,’ ‘Richard le
Skynnere,’ or ‘Hamo le Skynnere,’ are still numerous both in the tanyard
and the directory, and need little explanation. Our ‘Curriers’ are also
self-evident; but I have not met with any instance as yet in mediæval
times. Our more rare ‘Fellmongers’ were once occupied more directly with
the larger hides, or _fells_, as they were called, of the farmyard
stock. Less connected with them, therefore, than with the others, we may
mention such men as ‘William le Barcur,’ or ‘Nicholas le Barkere,’ or
‘Robert Barcarius,’ the ancestors of our modern ‘Barkers,’[333] who, by
the very frequency with which they are met, show how important was the
preparation of bark in the tanners’ yard. In the conversation between
Edward the Fourth and the Tanner of Tamworth, as given by Percy, it is
said—
‘What craftsman art thou?’ said the king;
‘I pray thee telle me trowe,’
‘I am a Barker, Sir, by my trade;
Now tell me, what art thou?’
Such names as ‘John le Tawyere’ or ‘Geoffrey le Whitetawier’ (now found
as ‘Whittear,’ ‘Whittier,’ and ‘Whityer’), not to mention such an entry
as that of ‘Richard le Megucer,’ throw us back upon the time when the
terms these men severally bore as surnames would be of the most familiar
import. Their owners spent their energies in preparing the lighter goat
and kid skins, which they whitened, and made ready for the glovers’
use.[334] The verb ‘to taw,’ however, was also used of dressing flax,
and we may have to place ‘Tawyer’ in some instances in this category.
And whilst that they did nimbly spin
The hemp he needs must taw,
we are told in ‘Robin Goodfellow.’ Our ‘Towers,’ while apparently local,
may be in some instances but a corruption of this same term. So early as
the 14th century we find a certain ‘Eustace le Wittowere’ occurring in
the Hundred Rolls, and that the simpler form should similarly be
corrupted would be natural enough.[335] Thus we see that leather, too,
is not without its memorials. The more furry skins, as used in a
somewhat more specific form as articles of dress, or to attach thereto,
we will allude to by-and-by. As we traverse in some semblance of order
the more definite wants and requirements of early social life, the
importance of these several crafts will be more clearly brought out. We
must not forget that there were the same needs then as now, though of a
different mould. Man in all time has had to be fed, and clothed, and
housed; and if in all these respects he has in these modern days become
more civilized and polished, it has been the result of a gradual process
by which he has slowly, and not without many a struggle, thrown off, one
by one, this custom and that, which belonged to a ruder era and a
rougher cast of society. Our surnames of occupation are a wonderful
guide in this respect. A tolerable picture of early life may be easily
set before us by their aid; for in them are preserved its more definite
lineaments, and all we need is to fill up the shading for ourselves.
Forgotten wants, needs now no longer felt, requirements of which a
progressive civilization slowly slipped the tether, necessities of
dress, of habit, of routine, all, while the reality has long faded from
view, have left their abiding memorial in the nomenclature of those who
directly supplied them. Let us, however, observe, as in our other
chapters, some kind of order—clothing, food, and general needs, this
seems the proper course of procedure. And yet one more observation ere
we do so. We have already spoken of the early system of signs as
advertising the character of the articles to be sold. The early shop was
far more prominent as a rule than the modern one. The counter, instead
of being within the walls of the house, projected forward upon the
pathway, so much so that we can only compare them to those tables we may
often see at night, where under the lee of the walls costermongers offer
shellfish, or tripe, or coffee to the passers-by. This was objectionable
enough; but it was not all. Each dealer loudly proclaimed to the
wayfarer the merits of his goods, vying with his neighbour in his
endeavours to attract attention to himself or distract it from the
other, especially if, as was often the case, a number of traders
trafficked in the same class of merchandise. Others, and their name was
legion, had no shop at all, not even the street table or counter, but
passing up and down with wooden platters or deep baskets, made the very
air discordant with their loudly reiterated cries of ‘Hot sheep’s feet,’
or ‘Mackerel,’ or ‘Fresh-herring,’[336] or ‘Hot peascods,’ or
‘Coloppes.’ It is in reference to this we find Langland saying—
Cokes and their knaves,
Cryden, ‘Hote pies, hote!
Goode gees and grys!
Gowe, dyne, gowe!’
Lydgate has a still fuller and more detailed description of this in his
‘London Lackpenny,’ and as it is tolerably humorous I will quote it
somewhat largely, using Mr. Bowen’s modernization of it—
Within this hall neither rich nor yet poor
Would do for me aught, although I should die:
Which seeing, I got me out of the door,
When Flemings began on me for to cry:
‘Master, what will you copen or buy?
Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read?
Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.’
Then into London I did me hie—
Of all the land it beareth the prize.
‘Hot peascods!’ one began to cry;
‘Strawberries ripe, and cherries in the rise!’
One bade me come near and buy some spice:
Pepper and saffron they gan me bede,
But, for lack of money, I might not speed.
Then to the Chepe I gan me drawen,
Where much people I saw for to stand.
One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn:
Another he taketh me by the hand:
‘Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!’
I never was used to such things indeed,
And, wanting money, I might not speed.
Then went I forth by London Stone,
And throughout all Candlewick Street:
Drapers much cloth me offered anon;
Then comes me one crying, ‘Hot sheep’s feet!’
One cried ‘Mackerel!’ ‘Ryster green!’ another gan me greet.
One bade me buy a hood to cover my head:
But, for lack of money, I might not speed.
Then into Cornhill anon I rode,
Where there was much stolen gear among.
I saw where hong mine owne hood
That I had lost among the throng—
To buy my own hood, I thought it wrong—
I knew it as I did my Creed,
But, for lack of money, I could not speed.
If we pass on from shop to shop in a more quiet and undisturbed fashion
than poor ‘London Lackpenny,’ we must not forget that we are, at least
so far, enjoying that which our forefathers could not.
With regard to the head-dress, and to begin with this, we have many
memorials. ‘Tire,’ once a familiar word enough, is still preserved from
decay by our Authorized Version of the Scriptures. Thus, for example, it
is said in Ezekiel, ‘make no mourning for the dead, bind the tire of
thine head upon thee.’[337] I do not know how comprehensive are the
duties belonging to our present ‘tirewoman’ or lady’s-maid, but in the
day when the tragic story of Jezebel was first translated, the sense of
the word was entirely confined to the arrangement of her mistress’s
‘tiara,’ which is but another form of the same term. In the ‘Paradise
Lost’ it is found as ‘tiar’—
Of beaming sunny rays, a golden tiar circled his head.
When we remember their former size, their horned and peaked character,
and the variety of the material used, arguing as they do the then
importance of the fact, we need not be surprised at meeting with
comparative frequency such a surname as ‘Tyrer,’ ‘Tyerman,’ or
‘Tireman.’ It is somewhat hard to say whether our ‘Coffers’ are relics
of the old ‘Coffrer’ or ‘Coifer,’ but as the latter business was all but
entirely in the hands of females, perhaps it will be safer to refer them
to the other. Such names, however, as ‘Emma la Coyfere’ or ‘Dionysia la
Coyfere,’ found in the thirteenth century, may serve to remind us of the
peculiar style of the head-gear which the ladies affected in these
earlier times. The more special occupation of preparing feathers or
plumes has left its mark in our ‘Plumer’ and ‘Plummer,’ memorials of the
old ‘Mariot le Plumer’ or ‘Peter le Plomer.’ The old ‘caul’ or ‘call’
still lives in our ‘Calmans’ and ‘Callers.’ ‘Elias le Callere’ occurs in
the Parliamentary Writs, and ‘Robert le Callerere’ in the ‘Munimenta
Gildhallæ.’ Judging from the ‘Wife of Bath’s Tale,’ we should imagine
this also to have been a female head-dress. There the old witch appeals
to the Queen and her court of lady attendants as to them who wear
‘kercheif or calle’—
Let see, which is the proudest of them alle,
That weareth on a kercheif or a calle.
Another form of the surname is found in ‘Alicia la Kellere,’ now simple
‘Keller,’ the article itself being also met with in a similar dress. In
the ‘Townley Mysteries’ a fallen angel is represented as saying that a
girl—
If she be never so foul a dowde
With her kelles and her pynnes,
The shrew herself can shroud
Both her chekys, and her chynnes.
In its several more general uses it has always maintained its strict
meaning of a covering.[338] Hoshea, we may recollect, speaks
figuratively of God’s ‘rending the caul of Israel’s heart.’ Probably the
word is connected with the ‘cowl’ of other monkish days, and thus may be
associated with our ‘Coulmans’ and ‘Cowlers.’ ‘Richard le Couhelere,’ an
entry of the fifteenth century, may belong to the same group.[339] A
once familiar sobriquet for a hood was that of ‘chapelle,’[340] whence
our edifice of that name and the diminutive ‘chaplet.’ The Parliamentary
Writs give us an ‘Edmund le Chapeler;’ the Hundred Rolls furnish us,
among other instances, with a ‘Robert le Chapeler.’ ‘Theobald le
Hatter,’ ‘Robert le Hattare,’ ‘Thomas le Capiere,’ ‘Symon le Cappere,’
or ‘John Capman’ need no explanation. The articles they sold, whether of
beaver, or felt, or mere woollen cloth, were largely imported from
Flanders. Thus it is that Lydgate, as I have but recently shown,
picturing the streets of London, mentions spots in his progress
therethrough where—
Flemings began on me for to cry,
‘Master, what will you copen or buy?
Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read?’
That many of these wares, however, were of home manufacture is equally
undoubted, and of this we are reminded by our ‘Blockers,’
representatives of the old ‘Deodatus le Blokkere.’ The ‘block’ was the
wooden mould upon which the hat was shaped and crowned. In ‘Much Ado
About Nothing’ Beatrice is made to say: ‘He wears his faith but as the
fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.’ The ‘blocker,’
I doubt not, was but a hat-maker; we still call a stupid man a
_blockhead_. Our ‘Hurrers’ (‘Alan le Hurer,’ H.R., ‘Geoffrey le
Hurwere,’ H.R.), once so important as to form a special company with
articles and overseers, as representative of an old general term, are
not so familiar as we might have expected them. Bonnets, caps, hoods,
hats, all came under their hands. Strictly speaking, however, a ‘hure’
or ‘howre,’ as Chaucer spells it, was a shaggy cap of fur, or coarse
jagged cloth. In an old political song of Edward the First’s time it is
said—
Furst there sit an old cherle in a blake hure,
Of all that there sitteth seemeth best sure.
That the word itself should have dropped from our vocabulary is to me a
mystery.[341] Even in our nomenclature the rarity of our ‘Hurers’ and
‘Hurrers’ is to me inexplicable, bearing as it does no possible
proportion to the former importance of the occupation. But this, as I
have said before, is one of the peculiarities of personal nomenclature,
depending entirely as it does on the uncertainties of descent. The head,
we see, was not neglected.
The sale of woollen cloth by our ‘clothiers’ and ‘drapers’ we have
already mentioned. The tailor then, as now, made it up into the garments
which the age required. Few names went through so many metamorphoses as
this. ‘Mainwaring,’ it is said, can be found in over a hundred and
thirty different spellings. The exact number with regard to ‘Taylor’ I
cannot state, as I have not dared hitherto to encounter the task of
collecting them. The forms recorded in one register alone give us such
varieties as ‘le Tayllur,’ ‘le Tayllour,’ ‘le Tayller,’ ‘le Taylir,’ ‘le
Taylour,’ ‘le Taylur,’ ‘le Taillur,’ and ‘le Talur.’ We have also the
feminine ‘la Taylurese’ in the same roll.[342] A name obsolete now in a
colloquial sense, but common enough in our directories, is ‘Parminter,’
‘Parmenter,’ or ‘Parmitar,’ a relic of the old Norman-French
‘Parmentier,’ a term a few hundred years ago familiarly used also for
the snip. Among other mediæval forms are ‘Geoffrey le Parmunter,’ ‘Saher
le Parmentier,’ ‘William le Parmeter,’ and ‘Richard le Parmuter.’ The
Hundred Rolls give us the same sobriquet in a Latin dress as ‘William
Parmuntarius.’[343] As associated with the tailor, we may here set down
our ‘Sempsters,’ that is, ‘Seamster,’ the once feminine of ‘Seamer,’ one
who seamed or sewed. Mr. Lower hints that our ‘Seymours’ may in some
instances be a corruption of this latter form, but I must confess I
discover no traces of it.
The sobriquet of ‘William le Burreller’ introduces us to a cloth of a
cheap mixture, brown in colour, of well-nigh everlasting wear, and worn
by all the poorer classes of society at this period. So universal was it
that they came to be known by the general term of ‘borel-folk,’ a phrase
familiar enough to deeper students of antiquarian lore. The Franklin
premises his story by saying—
But, sires, because I am a borel man,
At my beginning first I you beseech
Have me excused of my rude speech.
Our ‘Burrells’ are still sufficiently common to preserve a remembrance
of this now decayed branch of trade. They may derive their name either
from the term ‘borel’ or ‘burel’ pure and simple, or from ‘Burreller,’
and thus represent the trade from which the other, as a sobriquet, owed
its rise. The manufacturer is referred to by ‘Cocke Lorelle,’ in the
line—
Borlers, tapestry-work-makers, dyers.
Special articles of costume now wholly disused, or confined or altered
in sense, crop out abundantly in this class of surnames. At this period
a common outdoor covering for the neck was the wimple, or folded vail,
worn by women. To this day, I need not say, it is part of the conventual
dress. The author I have just quoted beautifully describes Shame as—
Humble of her port, and made it simple
Wearing a vaile, instede of wimple,
As nuns done in their abbey.
Of this princess, too, whose careful dress he so particularly describes,
he says—
Full seemly her wimple pinched was.
The maker of such was, of course, our ‘Wympler.’[344] Among other
ornaments belonging to the princess, also, is mentioned ‘a pair of
beads,’ that is, bracelets of small coral, worn upon the arm, and in
this case ‘gauded with green.’ A ‘Simon Wyld, Bedemaker,’ is found in
the London records of this time, and no doubt ‘Thomas le Perler’ could
have told us something about the same. Beside these, therefore, we may
set our still existing ‘Paternosters,’ relics of the old ‘Paternostrer,’
who strung the chaplet of beads for pattering aves. ‘Paternoster Row,’
literally the ‘Paternostrer’s Row’ was some centuries ago the abode of a
group of these, doubtless then busy artisans. Mr. Riley, in his
interesting ‘Memorials of London,’ records a ‘William le Paternostrer’
as dwelling thereby.[345] It is among such valuables we must undoubtedly
set pins at this period. Judging by those which have descended to us, we
should best describe them as ‘skewers.’ So anxious was Absolom the clerk
to please Alison that, according to Chaucer, he sent her—
Pinnes, methe (mead), and spiced ale.
Whatever her appetite for the latter, there can be little doubt that the
first would be acceptable enough in a day when these were so valued and
costly as to be oftentimes made objects of bequeathment. Such entries as
‘Andrew le Pynner’ or ‘Walter le Pinner’ are, of course, common at this
time, and their descendants still flourish in our midst. Our more rare
‘Needlers’ are but relics of such folk as ‘Richard le Nedlere’ or ‘John
le Nedlemakyere.’[346] Piers, in his Vision, speaks of—
Tymme the tynkere
And tweyne of his ’prentices:
Hikke the hakeney-man,
And Hugh the nedlere.
‘Cocke Lorelle’ also mentions—
Pavyers, belle-makers, and brasyers,
Pynners, nedelers, and glasyers.
The Norman form ‘le Agguiler,’ or ‘Auguiler,’ still lives in our
‘Aguilers’ if not ‘Aguilars.’ A ‘Thomas le Agguiler’ represented York in
the Parliament of 1305. Chaucer uses ‘aguiler’ in the sense of a
needlecase—
A silver needle forth I drew,
Out of an aguiler quaint ’ynow.
But if pins and needles were valued more highly then than they are now,
none the less did ‘buttons’ fulfil their own peculiar and important use.
‘Henry le Botoners’ or ‘Richard le Botyners’[347] may be found in most
of our records. I do not see, however, that their descendants have
preserved the sobriquet, unless, after the fashion of several other
words in our vocabulary, they are flourishing secretly among our
‘Butlers,’ and thus helping to swell the already strong phalanx that
surname has mustered. While, however, all these representatives of so
many though kindred occupations seem to have flourished in their
separate capacities, I do not doubt but that ‘Richard le Haberdasher’
would have been able to supply most of the wares they dealt in. His was
a common and lucrative employment in a day when, to judge by the
contents of a shop of this kind as set down in the London Rolls, he
could offer for purchase such a wide assortment as spurs and shirts,
chains and nightcaps, spectacles and woollen threads, beads and
pen-cases, combs and ink-horns, parchments and whipcords, gaming-tables
and coffins (Riley’s ‘London Memorials,’ p. 422). There seems to be
little doubt, however, that in the first place he dealt simply in the
‘hapertas,’ a kind of coarse, thick cloth much in vogue at this time,
and that it was from this he acquired the name he bore.[348]
The now, I fear, obsolete ‘Camiser’ made the ‘camis’ or chemise, or
linen underdress—he was the shirtmaker, in fact. The former spelling
lingered on to Spenser’s time, who writes of a
Camis light of purple silk.
It is with him we must properly associate our ‘Smockers,’ ‘Smookers,’
and anachronistic ‘Smokers,’ who, though their chief memorial remains in
the rustic smockfrock still familiar in our country districts, were
nevertheless chiefly busied with the ‘smok,’ such as the patient
Griselda wore. Of one of his characters Chaucer says—
Through her smocke wroughte with silke
The flesh was seene as white as milke.
Such phrases as ‘smock-treason,’ ‘smock-loyalty,’ and ‘smock-race,’ and
the flower ‘Lady-smock,’[349] still remind us that the word was once
generally understood of female attire. Of the flower Shakespeare makes
beautiful mention when he says—
And ladysmocks all silver white,
Do paint the meadows with delight.
The word slop is now well-nigh confined to the nether garments of our
youngsters, but though, in this pluralized sense, it can date back to
the time when the bard of Avon said of one of his personages that he
was—
From the waist downwards all slops,
still, singularly used, it was in vogue far earlier. A ‘slop’ in
Chaucer’s day, and even up to the fifteenth century, was a kind of frock
or overmantle.[350] In the ‘Chanon Yemannes’s Tale,’ the host expresses
his surprise that the Chanon, a ‘lord of so high degree,’ should make so
light of his worship and dignity as to wear garments well-nigh worn out.
He says—
His overest sloppe is not worth a mite.
Our ‘Slopers’ still remind us of this. Our ‘Pilchers,’ relics of ‘Hugh
le Pilecher’ or ‘Nicholas le Pilchere,’ are equally interesting. In his
proverbs on covetousness and negligence, the writer I have just
instanced thus speaks—
After great heat cometh cold,
No man cast his pylche away.
A ‘pilch’ was a large outer tippet made of fur, and worn in winter. The
modern ladies’ ‘pelisse’ is but another form of the same root. Speaking
of furs, however, we must not forget our ‘Furriers,’ and once common
‘Pelters’ and ‘Pellipers.’ They were engaged in the preparation of the
more furry coats of the wilder animals. In the Hundred and other Rolls
mention is frequently made of such names as ‘Geoffrey le Pelter’ or
‘Reyner le Peleter.’ A ‘pell’ or ‘pelt’ was any undressed skin. The
‘clerk of the Pells’ used to be the guardian of the rolls of the
Exchequer, which were written upon a coarse parchment of this kind. As a
general term of dress it was once of the most familiar import.
Wicklyffe, in his complaint to the king, speaks of the poor being
compelled to provide gluttonous priests with ‘fair hors, and jolly and
gay saddles and bridles, ringing by the way, and himself in costly cloth
and pelure.’ An old song written against the mendicant friars, too,
says—
Some friars beren pelure aboute,
For grete ladys and wenches stoute,
To reverce with their clothes withoute,
All after that they are.
Among the many ordinances passed to curtail the subject’s liberty in
regard to his attire, much is written on the fashion of wearing furs. It
seems to have been the great mark between the higher and lower classes.
In 1337 it was enacted by Edward III. that no one of those whom we now
term the operative class should wear any fur on his or her dress, the
fur to be forfeited if discovered. The names I have mentioned above
still remain in fair numbers as a memorial of this period.
Such a name from the ‘Rolls of Parliament’ as that of ‘John Orfroiser,’
although now obsolete, reminds us of an art for which English craftsmen
obtained a well-nigh European reputation in mediæval times, that of
embroidery. ‘Aurifrigium’ was the Latin word applied to it, and this
more clearly betrays the golden tissues of which its workmanship mainly
consisted. In the ‘Romance of the Rose,’ it is said of the fair maid
‘Idlenesse’—
And of fine orfrais had she eke
A chapelet, so seemly on,
Ne wered never maide upon.[351]
The term ‘Broiderer,’[352] however, was the more common, and with him
all textures and all colours and all threads came alike. The Hebrew word
in our Bible, variously rendered as ‘broidered work,’ ‘needlework,’ and
‘raiment of needlework,’ was translated in a day when this would be of
the most familiar import. Our ‘Pointers’ and ‘Poynters’ manufactured the
tagged lace which fastened the hose and doublet together. In
Shakespeare’s ‘1 Henry IV.’ there is a playful allusion to this where
Falstaff, in the act of saying—
Their points being broken,
is interrupted by the response—
Down fell their hose.
It has been asserted that the presence of this name in our modern
directories is entirely the result of later French refugee immigration;
but such registered forms as ‘John le Poyntour,’ ‘Robert le Poynter,’ or
‘William Poyntmakere’ are found in the records of the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries with sufficient frequency to justify the belief
that it was a much earlier denizen than many suppose.[353] In the former
‘Henry le Lacer’ or ‘Richard le Lacer’ we have, too, but a
fellow-manufacturer. Lace, it is true, is now rather a delicate fabric
of interwoven threads; once, however, it was but the braided string for
fastening the different articles of dress together. Thus, the
‘shoes-_latchet_’ mentioned in Scripture is a mere diminutive of the
word as thus used. The hose and doublet were invariably so attached. The
verb ‘to lace,’ I need not add, is still entirely employed in this its
literal sense. There were other means, however, of holding the several
garments together, and not a few of which are still brought to our
remembrance in our nomenclature. ‘Adam le Gurdlere’ or ‘Robert le
Girdlere’ speaks for himself. It was for the girdle our former ‘Agnes
Pouchemakers,’ ‘Henry Pouchers,’ ‘Robert le Purseres,’ and ‘Alard le
Bursers’ (when not official) made the leathern pouch carried thus at her
side for greater readiness by the careful housewife. Chaucer, whose
sharply-cut descriptions of the dress of his company are invaluable to
those who would study more closely the habits of the time, tells us of
the Carpenter’s wife that—
By her girdle hung a purse of leather,
Tasseled with silk and pearled with laton.
The Norman equivalent of Girdler was ‘le Ceynturer’ (‘Nicholas le
Ceynturer,’ A.) or ‘le Ceinter,’ but I have failed to find any traces of
it beyond the fourteenth century.[354] Our decayed ‘Brailers’[355] and
‘Bregirdlers’ represent but the same occupation in more definite terms.
The old English ‘brayle’ (from the Norman ‘braie’ or ‘braye,’ meaning
‘breeches’) was a waistband merely, a kind of strap, oftentimes attached
to and part of the trousers themselves. The nautical phrase of ‘brailing
up sails’ is, I fear, the only relic we possess conversationally of this
once useful term. A ‘brailer’ (‘Roger le Braeler,’ A., ‘Stephen le
Brayeler,’ X.) or ‘bregirdler’ (‘John le Bregerdelere,’ X.) was, of
course, a manufacturer of these. Maundeville, in his ‘Travels,’ speaks
of a ‘breek-girdille’ (p. 50). The now almost universal suspender was a
later introduction, the names of ‘Bracegirdler’ and ‘Bracegirdle,’ which
are not yet extinct, denoting, seemingly, the process of change by which
the one gradually made way for the other. A ‘brace,’ from the Latin
‘brachium,’ the arm, encircles the shoulder as a ‘bracelet’ does the
wrist. It is quite possible, however, they may be but a form of
‘breek-girdle.’ ‘Ivo le Glover’ or ‘Christiana la Glovere’ have left
descendants in plenty, but they had to fight a hard battle with such
naturalized foreigners as ‘Geoffery le Ganter’ or ‘Philip le Gaunter.’
At one time these latter had firmly established themselves as the
nominees of the manufacture, and the only wonder to me is how we managed
to prevent ‘gants’ from superseding ‘gloves’ in our common parlance. The
connexion of the ‘gauntlet’ with military dress, however, has preserved
that form of the term from decay. Both ‘Ganter’ and ‘Gaunter,’ I need
scarcely say, are firmly set in our midst.
And now we must descend once more till we come to the lower extremities,
and in a day of so much tramping it on foot we need not feel surprised
if we find many memorials of this branch of the personal outfit. The
once common expression for a shoemaker or cobbler was that of
_souter_.[356] It is of constant occurrence in our olden writers. Thus
the Malvern Dreamer speaks of—
Plowmen and pastours,
And othere commune laborers,
Sowters and shepherdes.
Elsewhere, too, he uses the feminine form when he makes mention of—
Cesse the souteresse.
The masculine term, I need not remind Scotchmen, is still in colloquial
use across the Border, and that it was once so in England our many
‘Souters,’ ‘Sowters,’ and ‘Suters,’ and ‘Suitors,’ misleading as these
latter are, are sufficient evidence. Such entries as ‘Andrew le
Soutere,’ ‘Robert le Souter,’ or ‘Richard le Sutor’ are common to old
registers. In the ‘Promptorium Parvulorum’ ‘sowtare’ is defined as a
‘cordewaner’ or ‘cordynare,’ and this at once brings us to our
‘Cordwaners,’ ‘Cordiners,’ and ‘Codners.’ They were so termed because
the goatskin leather they used came, or was supposed to have come, from
Cordova in Spain. In the ‘Rime of Sire Thopas,’ that personage is thus
described:—
His hair, his beard was like safroun,
That to his girdle raught adown,
His shoon of cordewane;
Of Brugges were his hosen brown,
His robe was of ciclatoun,
That cost many a jane.
In the ‘Libel on English Policy,’ too, we find it said of Portugal—
Their londe hath oyle, wyne, osey, wex, and grain,
Fygues, reysyns, honey and cordwayne.
In the Hundred Rolls it is represented by such a name as ‘Hugh le
Cordwaner’ or ‘Ranulph le Cordewaner.’[357] ‘William le Corviser,’ from
the same records, or ‘Durand le Corveser,’ held a name which struggled
for some time for a place, but had finally to collapse.[358] ‘Cobbler’
(‘Richard le Cobeler,’ A.), though it has existed as a name of
occupation fully as long as any of the above, has, I believe, never been
able so far to overcome the dislike to the fact of its being a mere
mending or patchwork trade as to obtain for itself an hereditary place
in our nomenclature. ‘Cosier’ has fared better, as have ‘Clouter’ and
‘Cloutman,’ relics of the old ‘John’ or ‘Stephen le Clutere,’ why I do
not know. We all remember how the inhabitants of Gibeon ‘did work
wilily, and went and made as if they had been ambassadors, and took old
sacks upon their asses, and wine bottles, old and rent, and bound up,
and old shoes and clouted upon their feet, and old garments upon them.’
Another name we may notice here is that of ‘Patten-maker,’ a ‘James
Patyn-makere’ being found enrolled in a Norwich guild of 1385. Cocke
Lorelle mentions among others:—
Alys Easy a gay tale-teller,
Also Peter Patynmaker.[359]
A patten seems in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries to have been
very similar to our clog, only that the former was more easily put on
and off. It was of a wooden sole, rimmed with iron. We find in 1464 the
Patynmakers of London presenting a grievance in that the fletchers alone
were allowed to use aspen-wood, whereas it was the ‘lightest tymbre to
make of patyns or clogges.’ (Rot. Parl. iv. 567.) Mr. Way, in his Notes
to the ‘Promptorium Parvulorum,’ says they were worn much by
ecclesiastics to protect the feet from chill when treading the cold bare
pavements of the churches, and he quotes a Harleian MS. dated 1390
regarding an archiepiscopal visitation at York: ‘Item, omnes ministri
ecclesie pro majore parte utuntur in ecclesiâ et in processione _patens_
et _clogges_ contra honestatem ecclesie, et antiquam consuetudenem
capituli.’ The patten-maker was evidently of some importance at this
time.[360]
Perhaps fashion never went to such an absurd extreme as it did in the
fourteenth century with respect to wearing peaked shoes. An old poem
entitled the ‘Complaint of the Ploughman,’ says of the friars, and
alluding to their inconsistencies, that they wear—
Cutted clothes to shewe their hewe,
With long pikes on their shoon:
Our Goddes Gospell is not trewe
Either they serve the devill or none.
Piers Plowman, too, speaks of a knight coming to be dubbed—
To geten him gilte spurs
Or galoches y-couped.
This last reminds us that they were commonly styled ‘copped shoon.’ Such
a sobriquet as ‘Hugh le Coppede’ or ‘John le Copede’ would seem to refer
to this. Probably the owner had carried on the practice to an even more
extravagant length than his neighbours, and very likely he was one of
those who caused a law to be passed in 1463 forbidding any knight, or
any one beneath that rank, to wear any shoes or boots having pikes
passing the length of two inches! Even this curtailment, I imagine,
would astonish the weak minds of pedestrians in the nineteenth century.
Of a similar craft with the shoemaker came ‘the hosier’ or ‘chaucer,’
the latter of which has become, surnominally, so famous in English
literature. Though now obsolete, such a name as ‘Robert le Chaucer’ or
‘William le Chaucier’ was anything but uncommon at this time. Like
‘Suter,’ above-mentioned, it has a Latin source, its root being
‘calcearius.’ Chausses, however, were not so much boots as a kind of
leathern breeches worn over mail armour. There is probably, therefore,
but little distinction to be made between them and the ‘hose’ of former
days, though it is somewhat odd that leather, which once undoubtedly was
the chief object of the hosier’s attention, should now in his shop be
conspicuous by its absence. While ‘Chaucer’ has long ago become extinct,
‘Hosier’ or ‘Hozier’ is firmly established in our nomenclature. Thus we
see that clothing is not without its mementoes.
A curious surname is presented for our notice in our ‘Dubbers,’ not to
be confounded with our ‘Daubers’ already mentioned. To ‘dub’ was to
dress, or trim, or decorate. Thus, with regard to military equipment,
Minot says in one of his political songs—
Knightes were there well two score
That were new dubbed to that dance.
It is thus we have acquired our phrase ‘to dub a knight.’ The term,
however, became very general in the sense of embellishing, rather than
mere dressing, and it is to this use of the word we owe the surname.
Thus, in the ‘Liber Albus’ we find a ‘Peter le Dubbour’ recorded, whose
trade was to furbish up old clothes; he was a fripperer in fact. In the
York Pageant, already referred to more than once, we see the ‘Dubbers’
walking in procession between the ‘Bookbinders’ and ‘Limners,’ and here
they were evidently mere trimmers or decorators externally of books. In
another register we find a ‘dubbour,’ so called because as a hawker of
fish he was in the habit of putting all the fine ones at the top of his
basket, a trick still in vogue in that profession, I fear.[361] In all
these cases we see that ‘adornment’ or ‘embellishment’ is the main idea.
I need not remind my more North-country readers how every gardener still
speaks of ‘dubbing’ when he heaps up afresh the soil about his flowers
and plants. The old forms of the name were ‘Jordan le Dubber,’ ‘Payen le
Dubbour,’ and ‘Ralph le Douber,’ which last most nearly approaches its
root, the old Norman-French ‘adouber,’ to arrange.
A curious occupation is preserved from oblivion in our somewhat rare
‘Raffmans.’ We have the root meaning of the word in our ‘reft’ and
‘bereft,’ implicative of that which is snatched away or swept off. Thus
we still use ‘riff-raff’ in regard to the off-scouring of the people. A
raff-merchant was a dealer in lumber of any kind. In the Guild of Saint
George, Norwich, 1385, we find not merely the name of ‘John Raffman,’
but such entries as ‘Robert Smith, raffman,’ or ‘John Smith, rafman.’
The term ‘raff’ for a low fellow is not yet obsolete, and Tennyson, when
he says
Let raffs be rife in prose or rhyme,
is only using a sobriquet which, until recently, was a very familiar one
in the mouths of our peasantry. I have placed the surname here because I
doubt not the occupation whence it sprung was chiefly in respect of
trimmings, and the shearings of cloth, wool, and such like articles of
merchandise.
Another surname we must consider here is that belonging to ‘Ketel le
Mercer’ or ‘Henry le Mercer,’ now found also as ‘Marcer.’ We see in the
very title that the term has engrossed a sense not strictly its own, and
that, though we visit the mercer’s shop for silken goods, he was
originally a dealer in every kind of ware. He represented in mediæval
times, in fact, the storekeeper of our colonies. Indeed I believe that
to this day in some of our more retired country parts the mercer will
supply his customers with haberdashery, drugs, draperies, hardware, and
all general wants, saving actual comestibles. Mr. Lower quotes an old
political song against the friars, in which this more correct sense of
the word is conveyed—
For thai have nought to live by,
They wandren here and there,
And dele with divers marcerye
Right as thai pedlars were.
Our ‘Chaloners’ and ‘Challenors,’ representatives of such old names as
‘Peter le Chaloner,’ ‘Jordan le Chaluner,’ or ‘Nicholas le Chalouner,’
originated in a foreign but most useful manufacture. Chalons-sur-Marne,
at this time one of the most thriving towns of the Continent, was
chiefly renowned for its woollen and worsted stuffs, and a peculiar
coverlet of this sort, called by the special name of a ‘chalon,’ became
celebrated over the more civilized world. In the ‘Reves’ Tale’ we are
told of the miller that—
In his owen chambre he made a bedde
With shetes, and with chalons fair yspredde.[362]
Any importer or manufacturer of these was a ‘Chaloner.’ In a public
solemn pageant held in 1415 in the City of York, at the end of a list of
trades to be represented, there follows this: ‘It is ordained that the
Porters and Coblers should go first, then, of the right, the Wevers and
Cordwaners: on the left, the Fullers, Cutlers, Girdellers, Chaloners,
Carpenters, and Taillyoures: then the better sort of citizens,’ etc.
(‘History and Antiquities of York,’ vol. ii. p. 126.) The trade name
seems to have died out about the end of the fifteenth century. How
corrupted a word may become in the lapse of time may be seen in the
modern ‘shalloon,’ a term used for a species of worsted cloth. In such a
name as ‘Hugh le Shetare’ or ‘Roger le Shetere’ we recognize him who
provided that other portion of the bed gear which is referred to in the
extract from Chaucer. This name is now extinct. Not so, however, our
‘Quilters,’ who still thrive in our midst hale and hearty, and need
never fear obsoletism. Doubtless, as the cold of winter set in, and its
warm padded qualities began to be appreciated, the quilters would be
busy enough in providing such a coverlet as this. ‘Quiltmaker’ (‘John le
Quyltemaker,’ H.) is also found as a variation of the above: an old poem
mentions among others—
Quyltemakers, shermen, and armorers;
Borlers, tapestry-work makers, and dyers.
Such a name as ‘Christiana le Heldere’ or ‘Robert le Holdere’ must, I
doubt not, be set here, both forms being still in existence. They
belonged, I think, to the craft of upholdsters or upholders, at this
time confined, it would seem, entirely to the manufacture and sale of
mattresses, bolsters, pillows, and quilts, anything of a padded nature
connected with bed furniture.[363] The insertion of flocks and feathers
and the stitching together of such would seem to be a woman’s work, and
this is the clue, I suspect, to the fact of our now using the feminine
form of upholdster. There is a curious complaint made to Parliament in
1495, by the metropolitan upholders, that ‘Quyltes, mattres, and
cussions (were) stuffed with horse hair, fen downe, neetis here, deris
here (deers’ hair), and gotis here, which is wrought in lyme fattes and
by the hete of mannys body the savour and taste is so abhomynable and
contagious that many of the King’s subgettis thereby been
destroied.’[364] It is prayed, therefore, that only one kind of stuff be
allowed to be inserted in any one of these articles (‘Stat: of Realm,’
Henry VII.). In ‘Henry le Canevacer’ or ‘Richard le Canevacer’ we are
carried back to a class of now all but entirely decayed trade. The
canvaser, of course, turned out canvas, and this more especially for
bags for the conveyance of the raw wool, or for tapestry purposes. In an
old poem relating to German imports, it is said at the close—
Coleyne threde, fustaine, and canvase,
Carde, bokeram, of olde time thus it wase.
Tapestry work would engage much of this. Hangings of this kind, ere
wainscot came into use, were the ordinary decorations of the baronial
apartment, covering as they generally did the entire length of the lower
wall. In the ‘Boke of Curtasye’ we are told of the duties of one
officer—
Tapetis of Spayne on flore by side
That sprad shall be for pompe and pryde,
The chambur sydes rygt to the dore
He hangs with tapetis that ben fulle store.
The name of ‘Tapiser,’ for one who wove this article, is familiarized to
us as that of one of the immortal company who sat down together at the
‘Tabard’ in Southwark. Our modern ‘Tapsters,’ I doubt not, afford but
another example of a surname engrossing what have been originally two
separate and distinct titles. In an old sacred pageant given in York in
1415, amongst other trades represented we find coupled together the
‘Couchers’ and ‘Tapisers.’[365] Our ‘Couchers’ and ‘Couchmans’ are thus
explained. They were evidently engaged less in the wooden framework, as
we might have supposed, than in the manufacture of the cushions that
covered it, and doubtless, like the broiderer mentioned above, worked in
gold and silver and coloured threads the raised figures thereon.[366]
Thus we must ally them with such names as ‘Robert le Dosier’ or ‘Richard
le Dosyere,’ makers of the ‘doss,’ a technical term given at this time
for cushions or stools worked in tapestry.[367] Thus the same book which
I have just quoted says of the groom’s duties—
The dosurs, curtines to hang in halle,
These offices needs do he shalle.
As a specific name for productions of this class the word is now quite
obsolete, though familiar enough in early days; tapestry indeed, in
general, has ceased to be popular, and is now all but entirely confined
professionally to the weaving of carpets, and as an amateur art among
ladies to those figured screens so much in vogue not more than one or
two generations ago, traces of which still remain in the framed
embroideries yet lingering in many of our drawing-rooms—embroideries of
cats with grizzly whiskers and tawny terriers—embroideries which as
children we heard with bated breath had been worked by our grandmothers
when they were little girls, and thus we realised for the first time,
not so much that they had done these wonderful things as that they had
once been small at all, like ourselves.
We have no surname to represent the weaving of carpets, as this was an
introduction of much later date than most of our other household
comforts in the way of furniture. In Brand’s ‘Popular Antiquities’ an
interesting quotation is given from Hentzner’s ‘Itinerary,’ who,
describing Queen Elizabeth’s Presence Chamber at Greenwich, says, ‘The
floor, after the English fashion, was strewed with hay.’ The strewing of
church pews with rushes was common until recent times, and in the North
of England the peculiar customs attaching to the ‘Rush-bearing,’ a kind
of ‘wakes,’ are not yet extinct. It is fair to add, however, that
carpets were in course of introduction at the beginning of the sixteenth
century; an old poem of that date mentions—
Broudurers, strayners, and carpyte-makers,
Spooners, turners, and hatters.
Before proceeding any further we had better introduce our ‘Lavenders,’
or washers, for be it linen or woollen stuff, be it garment for the back
or covering for the bed, all needed washing then as now. The contracted
feminine ‘laundress’ is still in common use. That the masculine form,
however, was early applied to the other sex is proved in the ‘Legend of
Good Women,’ where we are told—
Envie is lavender of the court alway,
For she ne parteth neither night ne day.
The gradation from ‘lavenderie’ to ‘laundry’ is marked by Stowe, who in
his ‘Chronicles’ writes it ‘laundery.’ By similar contractions our
‘Lavenders’ are now found also in the other forms of ‘Launder’ and
‘Lander.’ An old poem says—
Thou shalt be my launder,
To washe and keep clean all my gere.[368]
‘Alicia la Lavendar’ figures in the Hundred Rolls. Doubtless, like our
more Saxon ‘Washers,’ she was a professional washerwoman. The stiffening
process, of infinitely more consequence then than now, has left its mark
in such a name as ‘Ralph le Starkere,’ or even in that of ‘William
Starcman,’ starch and stark being once but synonymous words. Whether it
were the carefully pinched wimple or the kerchief, whether it were of
silk or lawn, both alike required all the rigidity that could be
imparted to them, would the head be befittingly adorned. Employed,
therefore, either in the sale of the starch itself or in the work of
stiffening the dress, we find men of such a title as the above.
Doubtless they are referred to by the author of ‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote’
where he speaks of—
Butlers, sterchers, and mustardmakers,
Hardeware men, mole seekers, and ratte-takers.
From the outer we may now naturally and fitly turn to the provision for
the inner man. Nor are we without interesting relics also in this
respect. We have already described the process by which the flour was
provided. The agencies in the towns for the sale of this, and the uses
to which it was put, are all more or less well defined, and well
established also in our present directories. I do not know whether
French rolls had obtained celebrity so early as this, but the name of
‘Richard Frenshbaker’ would seem at least to give some kind of credence
to the supposition. There can be no doubt, however, that he dealt in a
fancy way, for in solid bread-baking the Saxon ‘Baker’ has ever kept his
hands in the kneading-trough, and need never fear, so far as our
nomenclature is concerned, being ousted therefrom. The feminine form has
become almost equally well established among us, ‘Bagster’ or
‘Baxter’[369] or ‘Backster’ (the latter spelling found in Foxe’s Roll of
Marian martyrs) being among other forms of the old female ‘bakester.’
Piers Plowman speaks of—
Baksteres, and brewesteres,
And bochiers manye;
and such good folk as ‘Elias le Baxter’ or ‘Ralph le Bakster’ or
‘Giliana le Bacster’ are very plentifully represented in our olden
registers.[370] Still the foreigner did not give way without a struggle.
We have ‘Pollinger,’ ‘Bullinger,’ ‘Bollinger,’ and ‘Ballinger,’ as
corruptions of the ‘boulanger’ or ‘Richard le Bulenger,’ as he is
recorded. In our ‘Furners’ we see the representatives of such a name as
‘William le Furner’ or ‘Walter le Fernier,’ he who looked to the oven,
while in the all but unaltered form of ‘Pester’ we may still not
uncommonly meet with the descendants of many an old ‘Richard le Pestour’
or ‘Herman le Pestur,’ who had spent the best of his days in the
bakehouse. Such a name as ‘John Pastemakere’ or ‘Gregory le Pastemakere’
or ‘Andrew le Pyebakere,’ which once existed, reminds us of the
pastrycook, a member, as he then was, no doubt, of a by no means
unimportant fraternity—that of the ‘Pastelers’ or ‘Pie-bakers.’ An old
poem speaks of—
Drovers, cokes, and pulters,
Yermongers, pybakers, and waferers.
Best known, however, to most people would he be under the simple
professional name of ‘cook.’ I need not remind any student of olden
English records how familiar is ‘Roger le Coke’ or ‘William le Cook’ or
‘John Cokeman,’ nor will he be astonished at his being so well
represented in all those forms in the directories of the nineteenth
century. I could give endless references to show that this term was not
confined to the kitchen servitor. The ‘City Archives’ give us an
ordinance passed 2 Rich. II. (A.D. 1378) by the ‘Cooks and Pastelers,’
as an associated company, and Piers Plowman speaks of
Punishing on pillories,
Or on pynnyng stools,
Brewesters, Bakers,
Bochers, and Cookes,
For these be men upon molde (earth)
That most harm worken
To the poor people.
‘Cook’ or ‘Coke’ certainly holds a high position in the scale of
frequency at present, and, as I have had occasion to notice in another
chapter, is one of those few tradal names that have taken to them the
filial desinence, ‘Cookson’ being by no means uncommon. Of all these we
might have said much, but to mention them must suffice, and to pass on.
Solid bread-baking, however, as I have just hinted, was not the sole
employment of this nature in early days. A poem I have recently quoted
speaks of ‘waferers.’ Our ‘Wafers,’ relics of the old ‘Simon’ or ‘Robert
le Wafre,’ seem to have confined themselves all but entirely to the
provision of eucharistic bread, though they were probably vendors also
of those sweet and spiced cakes which, under the name of ‘marchpanes,’
were decidedly popular. Among other gifts that Absolom the clerk gave
Alison, Chaucer hints of—
Wafers piping hot out of the glede,[371]
and the ‘Pardoner,’ in enumerating the company of lewd folks of
Flanders, speaks of ‘fruitsters,’ ‘singers with harps,’ and ‘waferers.’
Piers Plowman puts them amid still more disreputable associates. No
doubt, true to the old adage, ‘near the church, never in it,’ they were
wont to hang about the sacred edifice abroad and at home, offering their
traffic to the devouter worshippers as they entered in. We ourselves
know how searing to heart and conscience is such a life as this. That
all were not of this kind we are reminded by the will of an Archbishop
of York of the thirteenth century, who therein bequeaths a certain sum
to two ‘waferers,’ evidently on account of their exemplary conduct while
conducting their trade at the Minster door.
Chaucer, describing the prioress, says that—
With rosted flesh, and milk, and wastel brede,
she fed her small hounds. Cakes of wastel were of the purest flour and
most careful bake, and were only second to the simnel in quality.
Wasteler, found in such an entry as ‘John Wasteler,’ is extinct, but the
shorter ‘Wastel’ still exists in our midst. Probably, in the latter
case, it was originally but a sobriquet affixed to a baker of this
peculiar kind of bread. It is in a similar manner, I doubt not, arose
such early nicknames as ‘William Wytebred,’ or ‘John Holibread,’ or
‘Roger Blancpain,’ or ‘Josce Barlibred,’ or ‘Matilda Havercake,’ or
‘Lambert Simnel,’ the latter a name familiarized to the youngest student
of English history. Strange to say, ‘Barlibred’ is the only one of this
list that has disappeared from our directories, although ‘Barleycorn’
was in existence, I believe, but a few years ago. But to keep more
strictly to tradesmen: I have no doubt myself it is here we must place
our ‘Mitcheners,’ as makers of the ‘mitche’ or ‘mitchkin.’ The
diminutive was the modern cracknel, while the larger seems to have been
a small loaf of mixed flour. Chaucer, in his praise of contentment,
says—
For he that hath mitches tweine,
Ne value in his demeine,
Liveth more at ease, and more is rich
Than doeth he that is chich (niggardly),
And in his barne hath sooth to saine,
A hundred mavis of wheat grain.
I have, however, no proof of the connexion I deem exists, so I merely
mention it and pass on. We are more certain about our rare ‘Flawners’
and ‘Flanners,’[372] once the manufacturers of the ‘flaon’ or ‘flawn,’
so popular as to have left its mark in our ‘Pancake Tuesday.’ Caxton, in
his ‘Boke for Travellers,’ says, ‘of mylke and of eggs men make
flawnes.’ In the story of Havelok the Dane, too, mention is made of—
Brede an chese, butere and milk,
Pasties and flaunes.
A ‘Roger le Flaoner’ comes in the London Corporation records, A.D. 1307,
while much about the same time I find a ‘Walter le Flawner’ in the
Parliamentary writs.
I have kept our ‘Panyers’ and ‘Panniers’ till the last, because there is
just a shade of doubt as to whether they owe their name to the
manufacture of the basket so called or to the hawking of bread, the very
practice of which custom, so familiar as it was then, has given us the
term. The original meaning of ‘pannier,’ the French ‘panier,’ was
bread-basket, and the word seems to have acquired a peculiar prominence
from the fact that in mediæval times bakers, through being the subjects
of a careful supervision, were forbidden to sell their bread anywhere
but in the public market—nay, so particular were the authorities with
regard to this that an officer was specially appointed to watch the
‘hutches,’ boxes, or baskets in which the loaves were exposed. A surname
‘Robert le Huchereve’ is even found in the Guildhall records as a relic
of this. We can thus readily understand how hawkers of these portable
covers or baskets would acquire the sobriquet of ‘panyers.’ Certain it
is we find such entries as ‘Simon le Pannier,’ ‘Robert le Pannere,’
‘Amiscus Panarius,’ or ‘Geoffrey Panyman,’ while in another register the
occupation of ‘panyere’ is distinctly mentioned. We can equally readily
understand how from this the term itself would, in course of time,
obtain a wider and more general sense. That it has done so the donkey’s
panniers are a proof. It is, however, somewhat strange, when we reflect
upon it, that perhaps the last thing we should expect to see borne in
this fashion in the present day would be that very article to which the
receptacle itself owed its name.
It is somewhat remarkable that while our directories possess many
records of the early manufacture of and traffic in cheese, yet there are
no names whatever in the present day, I believe, and barely any in the
past, which are associated with the most important of all country
produce—butter.[373] The most satisfactory clue to the difficulty will
be to suppose that the cheese-merchant of that day, as often in the
present, dealt in both articles. This is the more likely, as the many
sobriquets given to dealers in cheese in the fourteenth century would
appear to give that edible, important as it was and is, a greater
prominence than singly it deserved. Thus we find such names as ‘Edward
le Cheseman’ or ‘Robert le Chesemaker,’ ‘John le Chesewright,’ or
‘William le Cheswright,’ or ‘Alen le Chesmongere,’ as representatives of
the Saxons, figuring somewhat conspicuously in the registers of the
period.[374] For the foreign element, too, cognomens were not wanting.
‘Benedict’ or ‘Michael le Casiere’ may even now be living in our
‘Cayzers,’ if they be not but another form of ‘Kaiser,’ and ‘Wilkin le
Furmager’ or ‘William le Formager’ in our ‘Firmingers,’ is in no risk of
immediate oblivion. The majority of the Saxon forms, I need scarcely
add, are also thriving in our midst.