CHAPTER VI.

‘NICKNAMES.’

If we may trust the accredited origin of the term nickname—viz., that it

is prosthetically put for ‘an ekename,’ that is, an added name—it may

seem somewhat inconsistent to entitle a special branch of my book by

that which in reality embraces the whole. But I do not think I shall be

misunderstood, since, whatever be the original meaning intended, the

word has now so thoroughly settled down into its present sphere of

verbal usefulness that it would be a matter of still more lengthened

explanation if I were to put it in its more pretentious and literal

sense. By ‘nickname,’ in this chapter, at any rate, I intend to take in

all those fortuitous and accidental sobriquets which, once expressive of

peculiar and individual characteristics, have survived the age in which

they sprang, and now preserved only in the lumber-room of our

directories, may be brought forth once more wherever they help to throw

a brighter light upon the decayed memorials of a bygone era. It will be

seen at a glance that it is no easy task that of assorting a large body

of nondescript and unclassed terms, but I will do my best under pleaded

indulgence.

We are not without traces of this special kind of sobriquets even in the

early days before the Norman Conquest was dreamt or thought of. I have

already instanced the Venerable Bede as speaking of two missionaries

who, both bearing the name of Hewald, were distinguished by the surnames

of ‘White’ and ‘Black,’ on account of their hair partaking of those

respective hues. In the ninth century, too, Ethelred, Earl of the Gaini,

was styled the ‘Mucel’ or ‘Mickle’—‘eo quod erat corpore magnus et

prudentiâ grandis.’ With the incoming of the Normans, however, came a

great change. The burlesque was part of their nature. A vein for the

ludicrous was speedily acquired. It spread in every rank and grade of

society. The Saxon himself was touched with the contagion, ere yet the

southern blood was infused into his veins. Equally among the high and

the low did such sobriquets as ‘le Bastard,’ ‘le Rouse,’ ‘le Beauclerk,’

‘le Grisegonel’ (Greycloke), ‘Plantagenet,’ ‘Sansterre,’ and ‘Cœur de

lion’ find favour. But it did not stay here; the more ridiculous and

absurd characteristics became the butt of attack. In a day when

buffoonery had become a profession, when every roughly-sketched drawing

was a caricature, every story a record of licentious adventure, it could

not be otherwise. The only wonderment is the tame acquiescence on the

part of the stigmatized bearer. To us now-a-days, to be termed amongst

our fellows ‘Richard the Crookbacked,’ ‘William Blackinthemouth,’

‘Thomas the Pennyfather’ (that is, the Miser), or ‘Thomas Wrangeservice’

(the opposite of Walter Scott’s ‘Andrew Fairservice’), would be looked

upon as mere wanton insult. But it was then far different. The times, as

I have said, were rougher and coarser, and the delicacy of feeling which

would have shrunk from so addressing those with whom we had to deal, or

from making them the object of our banter, would have been perfectly

misunderstood. Apart from this, too, the bearer, after all, had little

to do with the question. He did not give himself the nickname he

received it; pleasant or unpleasant, as he had no voice in the

acquisition, so had he none in its retention. There was nothing for it

but good-tempered acquiescence. We know to this very day how difficult

was the task of getting rid of our school nicknames, how they clung to

us from the unhappy hour in which some sharp-witted, quick, discerning

youngster found out our weak part, and dubbed us by a sobriquet, which,

while it perhaps exaggerated the characteristic to which it had

reference, had the effect which a hundred admonitions from paternal or

magisterial head-quarters had not, to make us see our folly and mend our

ways. None the less, however, did the affix remain, and this was our

punishment. How often, when in after years we come accidentally across

some quondam schoolfellow, each staring strangely at the other’s grizzly

beard or beetled brow, the old sobriquet will crop up to the lips, and

in the very naturalness with which the expression is uttered all the

separation of years of thought and feeling is forgotten, and we are

instantly back to the old days and the old haunts, and pell-mell in the

thick of old boyish scrapes again. Yet perchance these names were

offensive. But they have wholly lost their force. We had ceased to feel

hurt by them long before we parted in early days. See how this, too, is

illustrated in the present day in the names of certain sects and

parties. We talk calmly of ‘Capuchins,’ ‘Quakers,’ ‘Ranters,’ ‘Whigs’

and ‘Tories,’ and yet some of these taken literally are offensive

enough, especially the political ones. But, as we know, all that

attached to them of odium has long ago become clouded, obscured, and

forgotten, and now they are the accepted, nay, proudly owned, titles of

the party they represent. Were it not for this we might be puzzled to

conceive why in these early times such a name as ‘le Bonde,’ significant

of nothing but personal servitude and galling oppression, was allowed to

remain. That ‘le Free’ and ‘le Freman’ and ‘le Franch-homme’ should

survive the ravages of time is natural enough. But with ‘Bond’ it is

different. It bespoke slavery. Yet it is one of our most familiar names

of to-day. How is this? The explanation is easy. The term was used to

denote personality, not position; the notion of condition was lost in

that of identity. It was just the same with sobriquets of a more

humorous and broad character, with nicknames in fact. The roughest

humour of those rough days is oftentimes found in these early records,

and the surnames which, putting complimentary and objectionable and

neutral together, belong to this day to this class, form still well-nigh

the largest proportion of our national nomenclature. There is something

indescribably odd, when we reflect about it, that the turn of a toe, the

twist of a leg, the length of a limb, the colour of a lock of hair, a

conceited look, a spiteful glance, a miserly habit of some in other

respects unknown and long-forgotten ancestor, should still five or six

centuries afterwards be unblushingly proclaimed to the world by the

immediate descendants therefrom. And yet so it is with our

‘Cruickshanks’ or ‘Whiteheads’ or ‘Meeks’ or ‘Proudmans;’ thus it is

with our ‘Longmans’ and ‘Shortmans,’ our ‘Biggs’ and ‘Littles,’ and the

endless others we shall speedily mention. Still these represent a better

class of surnames. As time wore on, and the nation became more refined,

there was an attempt made, successful in many instances, to throw off

the more objectionable of these names. Some were so utterly gross and

ribald as even in that day to sink into almost instant oblivion. Some, I

doubt not, never became hereditary at all.

In glancing briefly over a portion of these names we must endeavour to

affect some order. We might divide them into two classes merely,

physical and moral or mental peculiarities; but this would scarcely

suffice for distinction, as each would still be so large as to make us

feel ourselves to be in a labyrinth that had no outlet. Nor would these

two classes be sufficiently comprehensive? There would still be left a

large mass of sobriquets which could scarcely be placed with fitness in

either category: nicknames from Nature, nicknames from oaths, or

street-cries, or mottoes, or nicknames again in the shape of descriptive

compounds. Names from the animal kingdom, of course, could be set under

either a moral or physical head, as, in all cases, saving when they have

arisen from inn-signs or ensigns, they would be affixed on the owner for

some supposed affinity he bore in mind or body to the creature in

question. Still it will be easier to place them, as well as some others,

under a third and more miscellaneous category. These three divisions I

would again subdivide in the following fashion:—

I.—_Physical and External Peculiarities._

(1) Nicknames from peculiarities of relationship, condition, age,

size, shape, and capacity.

(2) Nicknames from peculiarities of complexion.

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

II.—_Mental and Moral Peculiarities._

(1) Nicknames from peculiarities of disposition—_complimentary_.

(2) Nicknames from peculiarities of disposition—_objectionable_.

III.—_Miscellaneous._

(1) Nicknames from the animal and vegetable kingdom.

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

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

I.—PHYSICAL AND EXTERNAL PECULIARITIES.

(1) _Nicknames from Peculiarities of Relationship, Age, Size, and

Capacity._

(_a_) _Relationship._—There is scarcely any position in which one man

can stand to another which is not found recorded pure and simple in the

surnames of to-day. The manner in which these arose was natural enough.

We still talk of ‘John Smith, Senior,’ and ‘John Smith, Junior,’ when we

require a distinction to be made between two of the same name. So it was

then, only the practice was carried further. I find, for instance, in

one simple record, the following insertions:—‘John Darcy le fiz,’ ‘John

Darcy le frere,’ ‘John Darcy le unkle,’ ‘John Darcy le cosyn,’ ‘John

Darcy le nevue,’ and ‘John Darcy, junior.’ How easy would it be for

those in whose immediate community these different representatives of

the one same name lived to style each by his term of relationship, and

for this, once familiarised, to become his surname. ‘Uncle,’[439] once

found as ‘Robert le Unkle,’ or ‘John le Uncle,’ is now quite obsolete, I

think; but the pretty old Saxon ‘Eame’ abides hale and hearty in our

numberless ‘Eames,’ ‘Ames,’ ‘Emes,’ and ‘Yeames.’ We find it used in the

‘Townley Mysteries.’ In one of them Rebecca tells Jacob he must flee for

fear of Esau—

_Jacob._ Wheder-ward shuld I go, dame?

_Rebecca._ To Mesopotameam

To my brother and thyne _eme_,

That dwellys beside Jordan streme.

The ‘Promp. Par.’ defines a _cozen_ to be an ‘emys son,’ and it is from

him, no doubt, our many ‘Cousens,’ ‘Cousins,’ ‘Couzens,’ and ‘Cozens’

have sprung, descended as they are from ‘Richard le Cusyn’ (A.), or

‘John le Cosyn’ (G.), or ‘Thomas le Cozun’ (E.). ‘Kinsman’ (‘John

Kynnesman,’ Z.Z.) may be of the same degree. ‘Widowson’ (‘William le

Wedweson,’ R., ‘Simon fil. Vidue,’ A.[440]) is apparently the same as

the once existing ‘Faderless’ (‘John Faderless,’ M.),[441] while

‘Brotherson’ and ‘Sisterson’ (‘Jacob Systerson,’ W. 3) seem to be but

old-fashioned phrases for a nephew, in which case they are but

synonymous with the Norman ‘Nephew,’ ‘Neve,’ ‘Neave,’ or ‘Neaves;’ all

these forms being familiar to our directories, and descendants of

‘Reyner le Neve’ (A.), or ‘Richard le Nevu’ (E.), or ‘Robert le Neave’

(Z.). Capgrave, giving the descent of Eber, says: ‘In this yere (anno

2509) Sala begat Heber; and of this Eber, as auctouris say, came the

people Hebrak, for Heber was _neve_ unto Sem.’ Thus again, the Saxon

‘Arnold le Fader’ was met by the Norman ‘John Parent,’ and the still

more foreign ‘Ralph le Padre,’ while ‘William le Brother’ found his

counterpart in ‘Geoffrey le Freer,’ or ‘Frere;’ but as in so many cases

this latter must be a relic of the old freere or friar, we had better

refer it, perhaps, to that more spiritual relationship.[442]

(_b_) _Condition._—We have still traces in our midst of sobriquets

relating to the poverty or wealth of the original bearer. Our ‘Poores,’

often found as ‘Powers,’ are descended from the ‘Roger le Poveres,’ or

‘Robert le Poors,’ of the thirteenth century, while our ‘Riches’ are set

down at the same period as ‘Swanus le Riche’ or ‘Gervase le Riche.’ Of

several kindred surnames we may mention a ‘John le Nedyman,’ now

obsolete, and an ‘Elyas le Diveys,’ which, in the more Biblical form of

Dives, still exists in the metropolis. It is somewhat remarkable that we

should have the Jewish ‘Lazarus’ also, and that this too should have

arisen in not a few instances from the fact that its first possessor was

a leper. ‘Nicholas le Lepere’ and ‘Walter le Lepper’ speak for

themselves. With the above we may ally our early ‘Robert le Ragiddes’

and ‘Thomas le Raggedes,’ which remind us that our vagabonds, if not our

‘Raggs’ and ‘Raggetts,’ are of no modern extraction, but come of a very

old family indeed! ‘Half-naked,’ I unhesitatingly at first set down as

one of this class, but it is local.[443]

(_c_) _Age, Size, Shape, Capacity._—This class is very large, and

embraces every possible, and well-nigh impossible feature of human life.

A glance over our old records, and we can almost at once find ‘Lusty’

and ‘Strong,’ ‘Long’ and ‘Short,’ ‘Bigg’[444] and ‘Little,’ ‘High’ and

‘Lowe’ (both perchance local), ‘Large’ and ‘Small,’ ‘Thick’ and ‘Thin,’

‘Slight’ and ‘Round,’ ‘Lean’ and ‘Fatt,’ ‘Megre’ and ‘Stout,’[445]

‘Ould’ and ‘Young,’ and ‘Light’ and ‘Heavy.’ Was this not sufficient?

Were there several in the same community who could boast similarity in

respect to one or other of these varieties? Then we got ‘Stronger,’

‘Shorter,’ ‘Younger,’[446] ‘Littler,’ ‘Least,’[447] ‘Senior,’ ‘Junior,’

and in some cases ‘Elder.’ Some of these are of course Norman; but when

Saxon occur we can all but invariably find the Norman equivalent. Thus,

if ‘Large’ be Saxon, ‘Gros’ (now ‘Grose’ and ‘Gross’) is Norman; if

‘Bigge’ be Saxon, ‘Graunt’ or ‘Grant’ or ‘Grand’ is Norman;[448] if

‘Small’ be Saxon, ‘Pettitt’ or ‘Pettye’ or ‘Petty’ or ‘Peat’ is Norman.

Thus again, ‘Lowe’ meets face to face with ‘Bas’ or ‘Bass,’ ‘Short’ with

‘Curt,’ ‘Fatte’ with ‘Gras’ or ‘Grass’ or ‘Grace,’[449] ‘Strong’ with

‘Fort,’ ‘Ould’ with ‘Viele,’ ‘Twist’ with ‘Tort,’ and ‘Young’ or ‘Yonge’

with ‘Jeune.’ Sometimes the termination ‘_man_’ is added, as in

‘Strongman,’ ‘Longman,’ ‘Smallman,’ ‘Oldman,’ and ‘Youngman,’ or if a

woman, _dame_, as in such a case as ‘Matilda Lenedame,’ which as a

surname died probably with its owner. Sometimes, again, we have the

older and more antique form, as in ‘Smale’ and ‘Smaleman,’ that is,

small; ‘Yonge’ and ‘Yongeman,’ that is, young; and ‘Lyte’ and ‘Lyteman,’

that is, little; ‘Wight’ and ‘Wightman,’ now obsolete in our general

vocabulary, referred to personal strength and activity. In the ‘Vision

of Piers Plowman,’ one of the sons of ‘Sire Inwit’ is described as

being—

A wight man of strength.

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

Of the less general we have well-nigh numberless illustrations. It is

only when we come to look at our nomenclature we find out how many

separate limbs, joints, and muscles we individually possess, and by what

a variety of terms they severally went in earlier days. No treatise of

anatomy can be more precise in regard to this than our directories. Some

prominence or other peculiarity about the head or face has given us our

‘Chins,’ ‘Chekes,’ or ‘Cheeks,’ and ‘Jowles,’ or ‘Joules.’ We are all

familiar with the protruding fangs of our friend ‘Jowler’ of the canine

community. Thus even here also we must place ‘cheek by jowl.’

‘Glossycheek’ (‘Bertholomew Gloscheke,’ A.) once existed, but is

obsolete now. The same is true in respect of ‘Duredent’ (‘Walter

Duredent,’ E.), or ‘Dent-de-fer,’ _i.e._, ‘Irontoothed’ (‘Robert

Dent-de-fer,’ E.), which spoke well no doubt for the masticatory powers

of its owner. ‘Merrymouth’ (‘Richard Merymouth,’ X.) would be a standing

testimony to its possessor’s good humour. It is decidedly more

acceptable than ‘Dogmow’[451] (‘Arnulph Dogmow,’ A.) or ‘Calvesmawe’

(‘Robert Calvesmaghe,’ M.), recorded at the same period. Sweetmouth’

(‘Robert Swetemouth,’ D.) also speaks for the sentiment of the times. In

modern days, at least, the eye is supposed to be one of the chief points

of personal identity. I only find one or two instances, however, where

this feature has given the sobriquet in our mediæval rolls. In the

‘Calendarium Genealogicum’ a ‘Robertus Niger-oculus,’ or ‘Robert

Blackeye,’ is set down as having been ‘pro felonia suspensus.’ We are

reminded in his name of the ‘Blackeyed Susan’ of later days, but whether

Nature had given him the said hue or some pugilistic encounter I cannot

say. Judging by his antecedents, so far as the above Latin sentence

betrays them, the latter would seem to be the more likely origin.[452]

‘William le Blynd,’ or ‘Ralph le Blinde,’ speak for themselves.[453] The

‘Saxon Head,’ in some cases local, doubtless, is still familiar to us.

Its more Norman ‘Tait’ fitly sits at present upon the archiepiscopal

throne of Canterbury. Grostete, one of which name was a distinguished

bishop of Lincoln in the fourteenth century, is now represented by

‘Greathead’ and ‘Broadhead’ only. Butler, in his ‘Hudibras,’ records it

in the more colloquial form of Grosted—

None a deeper knowledge boasted,

Since Hodge Bacon, and Bob Grosted.

The equally foreign ‘Belteste’ (‘John Beleteste,’ A.) is content,

likewise, to allow ‘Fairhead’ (‘Richard Faireheved,’ H.) to transmit to

posterity the claims of its early possessor to _capital_ grace.

‘Blackhead’[454] existed in the seventeenth, and ‘Hardhead’ in the

fifteenth century. These are all preferable, however, to ‘Lambshead’

(‘Agnes Lambesheved,’ A.), found some generations earlier, and still

firmly settled in our midst, as the ‘London Directory’ can vouch.[455]

So much for the head. ‘Neck’ and ‘Swire’ are both synonymous. Chaucer

describes Envy as ready to ‘scratch her face,’ or ‘rend her clothes,’ or

‘tear her swire,’[456] in respect of which latter feat we should now

more generally say ‘tear her hair.’ Either operation, however, would be

unpleasant enough, and it is just as well that for all practical

purposes it only occurs in poetry. Some characteristic of strength, or

beauty, or deformity (let us assume one of the former) has given us our

‘Hands,’ ‘Armes,’ and ‘Brass’s,’ from the old ‘Braz.’ ‘Finger,’ once

existing (‘Matilda Finger,’ H.), is now obsolete. Whether this sobriquet

was given on the same grounds as that bestowed on the redoubtable ‘Tom

Thumb,’ I cannot say. ‘Brazdifer’ (‘Simon Braz-de-fer,’ E., ‘Michael

Bras-de-fer,’ B.B.), arm of iron, once a renowned nom-de-plume, still

dwells, though obsolete in itself, in our ‘Strongithams’ and

‘Armstrongs.’[457] A common form of this North-country name was

‘Armstrang’ or ‘Armestrang’ (‘Adam le Armstrang,’ G.), reminding us that

our ‘Strangs’ are but the fellows of our more southern ‘Strongs’ (‘John

le Strang,’ E., ‘Joscelin le Strong,’ H.). ‘Lang’[458] and ‘Long’

represent a similar difference of pronunciation. The ‘Armstrongs’ were a

great Border clan. Mr. Lower reminds me of the following lines:—

Ye need not go to Liddisdale,

For when they see the blazing bale

Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.

(_Lay of the Last Minstrel._)

Another and more foreign form of this sobriquet, ‘Ferbas’ (‘Robert

Ferbras,’ M.), has come down to us in our somewhat curious-looking

‘Firebraces.’ Still earlier than any of these we find the sobriquet

‘Swartbrand.’ Thus we see the arm wielded a powerful influence over

names as well as people, no mere accident in a day when ‘might was

right.’ ‘Main,’ when not local, corresponds to the Saxon ‘Hand,’ and is

found in composition in such designations as ‘Blanchmains,’ that is,

white-hand, ‘Grauntmains,’ big-hand, ‘Tortesmain,’ twisted-hand,

‘Malemeyn,’ evil-hand, or perhaps maimed-hand, equivalent therefore to

‘Male-braunch’ (found at the same early date) in ‘Mainstrong,’ a mere

variation of ‘Armstrong,’ and in ‘Quarterman,’ scarcely recognisable in

such an English-like form as the Norman ‘Quatre-main,’ the four-handed.

In the reign of the second Richard it had become registered as

‘Quatremayn’ and ‘Quatreman,’ and the inversion of the two letters in

this latter case was of course inevitable.[459] ‘Brazdifer,’ I have

said, is extinct—not so, however, ‘Pedifer’ (‘Bernard Pedefer,’ G.,

‘Fulbert Pedefer,’ X.), that is, iron-footed, which, occurring from the

earliest times, still looks stout and hearty in its present guise of

‘Petifer,’ ‘Pettifer,’[460] and ‘Potiphar,’ though the last would seem

to claim for it a pedigree nearly as ancient as that of the Welshman

who, _half-way_ up his genealogical tree, had made the interesting note:

‘About this time Adam was born.’ Even this name, however, did not escape

translation, for we find an ‘Ironfoot’ (‘Peter Yrenefot,’ A.) recorded

at the same date as the above.[461] Our ‘Legges,’ our ‘Shanks’ and

‘Footes,’[462] are all familiar to us, though the first is in most cases

undoubtedly local, as being but an olden form of ‘Leigh.’[463] We all

remember the inimitable couplet placed over the memorial to Samuel

Foote, the comedian—

Here lies one _Foote_, whose death may thousands save,

For death has now one _foot_ within the grave.

‘Jambe’ was the Norman synonym of ‘Shank,’ and by way of more definite

distinction we light upon the somewhat flattering ‘Bellejambe,’ the

equally unflattering ‘Foljambe,’ the doubtful ‘Greyshank,’[464] the

historic ‘Longshank,’ the hapless ‘Cruikshank’ or ‘Bowshank,’[465] the

decidedly uncomplimentary ‘Sheepshank,’ and, last and worst,

‘Pelkeshank,’ seemingly intended to be ‘Pelican-shanked,’ which, when we

recall the peculiar disproportion of that bird’s extremities to the rest

of its body, affords ample reason for the absence of that sobriquet in

our more modern rolls. Some fifty years ago a certain Mr. Sheepshanks,

of Jesus College, Cambridge, while undergoing an examination in Juvenal,

pronounced ‘satire’ ‘satyr.’ A wag, thereupon, wrote the following

epigram, which soon found its way through the University:—

The satyrs of old were satyrs of note,

With the head of a man, they’d the shanks of a goat:

But the satyr of Jesus all satyrs surpasses,

Whilst his _shanks_ are a _sheep’s_, his head is an ass’s.

Swiftness of foot was not allowed to go unrecorded, and we have an

interesting instance of the way in which this class of surnames arose

from an entry recorded in the ‘Issues of the Exchequer.’ There we find a

‘Ralph Swyft’ mentioned as _courier_ to Edward III. Nothing could be

more natural than for such a sobriquet to become affixed to a man

fulfilling an office like this, requiring, as it did at times, all the

running and riding powers of which he could be capable.[466] Other

memorials of former agility in this respect are still preserved in our

‘Golightlys’[467] and ‘Lightfoots,’ while of still earlier date, and

more poetical form, we may instance ‘Harefoot’ and ‘Roefoot.’ These,

however, are altogether inexpressive in comparison with such a sobriquet

as ‘Scherewind’ or ‘Shearwind,’ which seems to have been a familiar

expression at this time, for I find it recorded in three several rolls.

It is strange, and yet not strange, that every peculiarity that can mark

the human gait is distinctly preserved in our nomenclature. ‘Isabel

Stradling’ or ‘William Stradling’ represent the _straddle_; ‘Thomas le

Ambler’ or ‘Ralph le Ambuler’ (when not occupative), the _amble_; our

‘Shailers,’ ‘Shaylors,’ and ‘Shaylers,’ the _shuffle_; ‘Robert le

Liltere,’ the _hop_; our ‘Scamblers’ and ‘Shamblers,’ the weak-kneed

_shamble_; ‘Ralph le Todeler,’ the _toddle_; and ‘Samuel Trotman’ or

‘Richard Trotter’ (when not occupative), the _trot_, if that be possible

on two legs. Besides these, we may mention the obsolete ‘Thomas

Petitpas’ or ‘John Petypase,’ ‘William Noblepas,’ and ‘Malpas,’ which we

might Saxonize into ‘Short-step,’ ‘High-step,’ and ‘Bad-step.’

‘Christiana Lameman’ and ‘William Laymeman’ remind us of more pitiable

weaknesses. ‘Barefoot’ may have been the designation of some one under

penitential routine, unless it be a corruption of ‘Bearfoot.’

‘Proudfoot’ and ‘Platfoot’ (plat = flat) need no comment, while

‘Sikelfoot,’ found by Mr. Lower as existing in the thirteenth century,

seems, as he says, to bespeak a splayed appearance or outward

twist.[468] If this be so, the owner was not alone in his distress. We

have just mentioned ‘Cruikshank.’ Our ‘Crooks’ are, I doubt not, of

similar origin, and another compound of the same, now obsolete, was

‘Crookbone’ (‘Henry Crokebane,’ A.). Our ‘Crumps’ are but relics of the

old ‘Richard le Crumpe’ or ‘Hugh le Crump,’ the crookbacked, and perhaps

our ‘Cramps’ and ‘Crimps’ are but changes rung on the same. Our nursery

literature still preserves the story of the ‘cow with the crumpled

horn.’ Thus, also, was it with our ‘Cams,’ once ‘William le Cam.’ As a

Celtic stream-name, denoting a winding course, it has survived the

aggressions of Saxon and Norman, and is still familiar. Cambridge and

Camford are on two different streams of this name. In the north a man is

still said to ‘cam his shoe’ who wears it down on one side. I have heard

the phrase often among the poorer classes of Lancashire. ‘Camoys’ or

‘Camuse,’ from the same root, was generally applied to the nasal organ.

In the description of the Miller, which I shall have occasion to quote

again shortly, Chaucer says—

A Sheffield thwitel bare he in his hose,

Round was his face, and camuse was his nose.

As, however, I find both ‘John le Camoys’ and ‘Reginald de Camoys,’ it

is only a fair presumption that in some cases it is of Norman local

origin. With one of our leading families it is undoubtedly so. The two

great clans of ‘Cameron’ and ‘Campbell,’ I may say in passing, though

treading upon Scottish soil, are said to mean severally ‘crook-nosed’

and ‘crook-mouthed.’ If this be so, we may see how firmly has this

little word imbedded itself upon our nomenclature, if not upon our more

general vocabulary. Not to mention ‘Crypling,’ ‘Handless,’ and

‘Onehand,’[469] we find ‘Blind’ significative of blindness; ‘Daffe’ and

‘Daft,’ of deafness; ‘Mutter’ and ‘Stutter,’ not to say ‘Stuttard’ and

‘Stammer,’ of lisping speech; and ‘Dumbard,’ of utter incapacity in that

respect. Such a sobriquet as ‘Mad’[470] of course explains itself. As we

might well presume, this has not come down to us. Still less pleasant in

their associations are our ‘Burls’ (‘Henry le Burle,’ A.), that is,

blotch-skinned. But complimentary allusions to the smoothness of the

hands and face were not wanting. Apart from a touch of poetry, such

names as ‘Elizabeth Lyllywhite,’ now ‘Lilywhite;’ ‘William Beauflour,’

now spelt ‘Boutflower’ and ‘Buffler;’ and ‘Faith Blanchflower,’ still

existing also, are not without a certain prettiness. Of equally clear

complexion would be the obsolete ‘William Whiteflesh’ or ‘Gilbert

Whitehand’[471] or ‘Robert Blanchmains,’ not to mention our ‘Chits’ and

‘Chittys’ (‘John le Chit,’ A., ‘Agnes Chittye,’ Z.). We still talk in

our nurseries of a ‘little chit,’ a word which, though strictly speaking

confined to no age, had early become a pet name as applied to young

children. It is with these, therefore, we must ally our ‘Slicks,’ from

‘sleek,’ ‘smooth,’[472] ‘Sam Slick’ being by no means in possession of

an imaginary name. Chaucer says of ‘Idleness,’ in his Romance—

Her flesh tender as is a chicke

With bent browes; smooth and slicke.

It is astonishing how carefully will a sobriquet of an undoubtedly

complimentary nature find itself preserved. Such a name as ‘Hugh le

Bell’ or ‘Richard le Bell’ is an instance in point.[473] While

objectionable designations, or even those of but equivocal character,

have been gradually shuffled off or barely allowed to survive, the mere

fact of this being at the present day one of the most familiar, and in

respect of sobriquet nomenclature the absolutely most common, of our

surnames, shows that the human heart is not altered by lapse of

generations, and that pride then, as now, wielded a powerful sceptre

over the minds of men. Our ‘Belhams’ represent but the fuller

‘Bellehomme’ (‘William Bellehomme,’ M.). Thus the two may be set against

our Saxon ‘Prettys’ and ‘Prettimans,’[474] though ‘pretty’ would

scarcely find itself so acceptable now, denoting as it does a style of

beauty rather too effeminate for the lords of creation. In the Hundred

Rolls occur ‘Matilda Winsome’ and ‘Alicia Welliking.’ Both these terms,

complimentary as they undoubtedly were, are now obsolete, so far as our

directories are concerned.

(2) _Nicknames from Peculiarities of Complexion._

After all, however, it is, perhaps, complexion which has occupied for

itself the largest niche in our more general nomenclature. Nor is this

unnatural. It is still that which, in describing people, we seize upon

as the best means of recognition. Sobriquets of this kind were so

numerous, indeed, that there was no term in the vocabulary of the day

which could be used to denote the colour of the dress, the hair, or the

face, which did not find itself a place among our surnames.

It was the same with our beasts of burden or animals of the chase. In

these days their hides almost invariably furnished forth their current

designations. Thus we find the horse familiarly known by such titles as

‘Morell,’ from its moorish or swarthy tan, or ‘Lyard,’ that is,

dapple-grey, or ‘Bayard,’ bay, or ‘Favell,’ dun, or ‘Blank,’ white. The

dark hide of the ass got for it the sobriquet of ‘Dun,’ a term still

preserved in the old proverb, ‘As dull as Dun in the mire,’ while again

as ‘Burnell’ its browner aspect will be familiar to all readers of

Chaucer. Thus, also, the fox was known as ‘Russell,’ the bear as

‘Bruin,’ and the young hind, from its early indefinite red, ‘Sorrell.’

How natural that the same custom should have its effect upon human

nomenclature. How easy for a country community to create the distinction

between ‘John le Rouse’ and ‘John le Black,’ ‘William le Hore’ and

‘William le Sor’ or ‘Sorrell,’ if the complexion of the hair or face

were sufficiently distinctive to allow it. Some of these adjectives were

applied to human peculiarities of this kind till within recent times.

Burns uses ‘lyart’ for locks of iron grey, and Aubyn, in his ‘Lives,’

describes Butler, author of ‘Hudibras,’ as having ‘a head of sorrell

haire.’ We ourselves talk of ‘brunettes’ and ‘blondes,’ of ‘dark’ and

‘fair.’ Thus it was then such sobriquets as ‘Philip le Sor,’ ‘Adam le

Morell,’ ‘William le Favele’ or ‘Favell,’ ‘Walter le Bay’ or ‘Theobald

le Bayard,’ ‘Henry le Dun’ or ‘Thomas le Lyard,’ arose. Thus was it our

‘Rouses’ and ‘Russells,’ our ‘Brownes’[475] and ‘Brunes,’ with the

obsolete ‘Brunman,’ or ‘Brunells’ and ‘Burnells,’ our ‘Whites’ and

‘Whitemans,’ our ‘Hores’ and ‘Hoares,’ our ‘Greys’ and ‘Grissels’[476]

sprang into being. Nor are these all. Our ‘Reeds,’ ‘Reids,’ and ‘Reads’

are all but forms of the old ‘rede’ or red, once so pronounced;[477]

while ‘Redman,’ when not a descendant of ‘Adam’ or ‘Thomas de Redmayne,’

is the bequest of some ‘Robert’ or ‘John Redman’ of the thirteenth

century. Our ‘Swarts’ are but relics of the old ‘John le Swarte,’

applied no doubt to the tawny or sunburnt face of its original owner.

The word was in common use at this time. In ‘Guy of Warwick’ we are

told:—

His nek is greater than a bole,

His body is swarter than ani cole.

The darker-hued countenances of our forefathers are immortalised also in

such entries as ‘Reyner le Blake’ or ‘Stephen le Blak,’ now found as

‘Blake’ and ‘Black,’ or ‘Elias le Blakeman’ or ‘Henry Blacman,’ now

‘Blakeman’ and ‘Blackman’ respectively. ‘John le Blanc’ and ‘Warin

Blench’ find themselves in the nineteenth century supported by our

‘Blanks’ and ‘Blanches;’[478] while the descendants of such people as

‘Amabilla le Blund,’ or ‘Walter le Blunt,’ or ‘Reginald le Blond,’ or

‘Richard le Blount’ still preserve a memorial of their ancestry in such

familiar forms as ‘Blund,’ ‘Blunt,’ ‘Blond,’ and ‘Blount.’ ‘Blanket’ and

‘Blanchet,’ as fuller forms, we shall notice shortly, and ‘Blondin,’

‘Blundell,’ and the immortalised but mythic ‘Blondel’ are but changes

rung upon the others. Our ‘Fallows’ are but relics of the ‘Fales’ and

‘Falemans’ of the Hundred Rolls. The somewhat pallid yellow they

represented we still apply to park deer and untilled earth. We find it,

however, used more personally in the ‘Knight’s Tale,’ where it is said

of Arcite that he began to wax lean—

His eye hollow, and grisly to behold,

His hewe falew, and pale as ashen cold.

‘Scarlet’ doubtless was a sobriquet given, as may have been some of the

above, from the colour of the dress, this being a very popular

complexion of cloth in early days. Tripping it—

In skerlet kyrtells, every one,

would be a familiar and pretty sight, no doubt, as the village maidens

went round to the tune of the fife and tabor at the rural feast or

ingathering, nor would umbrage be taken at the title. Several ‘Blues’

are recorded in the more Norman-French form of ‘le Bleu.’ Whether they

still exist I am not quite sure, nor are we helped to any satisfactory

conclusion by the epitaph which Mr. Lower wisely italicises, when he

says _it is said_ to exist in a church in Berkshire—

Underneath this ancient pew

Lieth the body of Jonathan Blue.

_N.B._—His name was ‘Black,’ but that wouldn’t do.

There may be more or less doubt as to the precise reference some of the

above-mentioned names bear to the physical peculiarities of their

owners, whether to the complexion of the face, or the hair, or, as I

have lately hinted, to the dress. But in many other cases there can be

no such controversy. For instance, no one can be in perplexity as to how

our ‘Downyheads,’ ‘Rufheads,’[479] ‘Hardheads,’ ‘Whiteheads,’

‘Redheads,’ ‘Flaxenheads,’[480] ‘Shavenheads,’ ‘Goldenheads,’

‘Weaselheads,’[481] ‘Coxheads’ or ‘Cocksheads,’ and ‘Greenheads’ arose,

many of which, now extinct, were evidently intended to be obnoxious. Nor

is there any greater difficulty in deciphering the meaning of such names

as ‘Whitelock’ or ‘Whitlock,’ ‘Silverlock’ or ‘Blacklock.’ ‘Shakelock’

seems to refer to some eccentricity on the part of the owner, unless it

be but a corruption of ‘Shacklock,’ a likely sobriquet for a gaoler,

from the fetterlocks, once so termed, which he was wont to employ—

And bids his man bring out the fivefold twist,

His shackles, shacklocks, hampers, gyves, and chains.

‘Whitehair,’[482] ‘Fairhair,’[483] and ‘Yalowhair,’ are equally

transparent. The latter was once a decidedly favourite hue, as I believe

it is still, only we now say ‘golden.’[484] With the gross flattery so

commonly resorted to by courtier historians, every princess was

described as having yellow tresses. How they allowed themselves to be so

cajoled is an equally historic mystery. Queen Elizabeth had more

obsequious adulation uttered to her face, and possessed a greater

stomach for it, than any other royal personage who ever sat upon or laid

claim to a crown, but nothing pleased her more than a compliment upon

her golden locks, carroty as they really were. In a description of

another Elizabeth, the Queen of Henry VII., as she appeared before her

coronation, 1487, quoted by Mr. Way, it is said that she wore ‘her faire

yellow hair hanging down pleyne behynd her back, with a calle of pipes

over it,’ and further back still, when Chaucer would describe the beauty

of Dame Gladness, he must needs finish off the portrayal by touching up

her locks with the popular hue—

Her hair was yellow, and clear shining,

I wot no lady so liking.

‘Yalowhair’ is obsolete, but in our ‘Fairfax’ is preserved a sobriquet

commemorative no doubt of the same favoured colour. In ‘Sir Gawayne’ we

are told, after the alliterative style of the day, how ‘_fair_ fanning

_fax_’ encircled the shoulders of the doughty warrior. In the ‘Townley

Mysteries,’ too, a demon is represented in one place as saying—

A horne, and a Dutch axe,

His sleeve must be flecked,

A syde head, and a fare fax,

His goune must be specked.

‘Beard,’ once entered as ‘Peter Wi’-the-berd,’ or ‘Hugo cum-Barbâ,’

still thrives in our midst; and even ‘Copperbeard,’ ‘Greybeard,’

‘Blackbeard,’[485] and ‘Whitebeard’ contrive to exist. ‘Redbeard’[486]

together with ‘Featherbeard,’ ‘Eaglebeard,’ ‘Wisebeard,’ and

‘Brownbeard,’[487] have long disappeared, and ‘Bluebeard,’ of whose

dread existence we were, as children, only too awfully assured, has also

left no descendants; but this, I fancy, we gather from his history.

‘Lovelock’ is a relic of the once familiar plaited and beribboned lock

which I have already alluded to, as having been familiarly worn by our

forefathers of the more exquisite type. To the same peculiar, if not

effeminate propensity, we owe, I doubt not, ‘Locke’ (‘Nicol Locke,’ A.)

itself, not to mention ‘Curl’ (‘Marcus Curle,’ Z.) and ‘Crisp’

(‘Reginald le Crispe,’ J.). The former of these two, however, seems to

denote the natural waviness, the latter the artificial production. In

the poem from which I have but just quoted we find the same hero

described as having his hair—

Well crisped and cemmed (combed) with knots full many,

and a memorial of the fashion still lingers in the ‘crisping pins’ of

our present Bible version. In the Hundred Rolls appears the sobriquet of

‘Prikeavant.’ This, as Mr. Lower proves, lingered on till the close at

least of the seventeenth century, in the form of ‘Prick-advance.’[488] I

cannot agree with him, however, that it arose as a mere spur-expression.

I doubt not it is but the earlier form of the later ‘pickedevaunt,’ the

pointed or spiked beard so much in vogue in mediæval times. The word

occurs in the ‘Taming of a Shrew’—

Boy, oh! disgrace to my person! Sounes, boy,

Of your face! You have many boys with such

Pickedevaunts, I am sure.

Nothing could be more natural than for such a custom as this to find

itself memorialised in our nomenclature. Exaggeration in the habit would

easily affix the name upon the wearer, and though not very euphonious as

a surname, the popularity of the usage would take from its

unpleasantness. This also will explain ‘Thomas Stykebeard,’ found in the

H.R. at this time. But let us turn for a moment to an opposite

peculiarity. Though we often talk of getting our heads polled, few, I

imagine, reflect that our ‘Pollards’ must have obtained their title from

their well-shorn appearance. It is with them, therefore, we must set our

‘Notts,’ ‘Notmans,’ and doubtless some of our ‘Knotts.’ The term ‘nott’

was evidently synonymous with ‘shorn,’ and to have a nothead was to have

the hair closely cut all round the head. It is still commonly done in

some parts of the country among the peasantry. Chaucer, describing the

‘Yeoman,’ says—

A not-hed hadde he, with a browne visage.

Andrew Boorde, too, later on, writing of the ‘Mores whyche do dwel in

Barbary,’ says: ‘They have gret lyppes and nottyd heare, black and

curled.’[489] The name as a sobriquet is very common in the old

registers. Among other instances may be mentioned ‘Henry le Not’ and

‘Herbert le Notte’ in the ‘Placitorum’ at Westminster. Nature, however,

did for our ‘Callows’ what art had done for the latter. The term is

written ‘calewe’ with our earlier writers, and in this form is found as

a surname in 1313, one ‘Richard le Calewe,’ or bald-headed, occurring in

the Parliamentary Writs for that year. We still talk of fledgelings as

‘callow young.’ From its Latin root ‘calvus,’[490] and through the

French ‘chauve,’ we get also the early ‘John le Chauf,’ ‘Geoffrey le

Cauf,’ and ‘Richard le Chaufyn’—forms which still abide with us in our

‘Corfes’ and ‘Caffins.’ Our ‘Balls’ are manifestly sprung from some

‘Custance Balde’ or ‘Richard Bald.’ But there is yet one more name to be

mentioned in this category, that of ‘Peel’ or ‘Peile,’ descended, as it

doubtless is in many cases, from such folk as ‘Thomas le Pele’ or

‘William le Pyl.’

As pilled as an ape was his crown

is the not very complimentary description Chaucer gives of the Miller of

Trumpington. It is but the same word as occurs in our Authorised Version

of Ezekiel xxix. 18, where it is said: ‘Every head was made bald, and

every shoulder was peeled.’ In Isaiah xviii. 2, too, we read of a

‘nation scattered and peeled,’ the marginal reading being ‘outspread and

polished.’[491] Used as a surname, it seems to have denoted that glossy

smoothness, that utter guiltlessness of capillary protection which

belongs only to elderly gentlemen, and even then to but a few.[492]

It can be no matter of astonishment to us, when we reflect upon it, that

our nomenclature should owe so much to this one single specialty of the

human physique. The face is the mark of all recognition among men, and

how much of its character belongs to the simple appanage we have been

speaking of we may easily gather from the difference the slightest

change in the style of dressing or cutting it makes among those with

whom we are most familiar. Looking back at what has been recorded, what

a living proof they afford us of the truth of Horace Smith’s assertion

that surnames ‘ever go by contraries.’ The art of colouring may be

hereditary, but certainly not the dyes themselves. Who ever saw a

‘Whytehead’ who was not dark, or a ‘Blacklock’ who was not a blonde? Who

ever saw reddish hair on a ‘Russell,’ or a swarthy complexion on a

‘Morell’? How invariably does it happen that our ‘Lightfoots’ are gouty,

and our ‘Hales’ dyspeptic, our ‘Bigges’ are manikins, and our ‘Littles’

giants. Such are the tricks that Time plays with us. Recorded history

gives us the slow development of change in the habits and customs of

domestic life, but here we can compare the physical shifts of the family

itself. As history and everything else, however, are said to repeat

themselves, we may comfort or condole with, as the case may require,

those who, if this dictum, like the Pope’s, be infallible, shall some

time or other return to their primitive hues and original proportions.

(3) _Nicknames from Peculiarities of Dress and Accoutrements._

An interesting peep into the minuter details of mediæval life is given

us in the case of names derived from costume and ensigncy, whether

peaceful or warlike. The colour of the cloth of which the dress was

composed seems to have furnished us with several surnames. For instance,

our ‘Burnets’ would seem to be associated with the fabric of a brown

mixture common at one period. Our great early poet, in describing

Avarice, says—

A mantle hung her faste by

Upon a benche weak and small,

A burnette cote hung there withall,

Furred with no minevere,

But with a furre rough of hair.

It was the same with our ‘Burrels’ (‘Roger Burell,’ J., ‘Robert Burell,’

R.), whom I have already had occasion to mention. So familiar was this

cloth that the poorer classes acquired from it the sobriquet of

‘borelfolk.’ This is only analogous to the French ‘grisette,’ from the

grey cheap stuff she usually wore. Our ‘Blankets’ (‘Robert Blanket,’ B.,

‘John Blanket,’ X.) or ‘Blanchets’ or ‘Plunkets,’[493] for all these

forms are found, are in the same way but relics of the time when the

colourless woollen mixture, called by all these names, was in everyday

demand, whether for dress or coverlet. A story has been spread abroad

that our woollen ‘blanket’ owes its origin to a man of that name, who

first manufactured it. Even otherwise well-informed writers have lent

themselves to the furtherance of this fable. ‘Blanket’ was originally

the name of a cheap woollen cloth, used for the apparel of the lower

orders, and so entitled from its pale and colourless hue, just as

_russet_ and _burrel_ were in vogue to express similar manufactures of

more decided colours. It was but the Norman form of the Saxon ‘whittle,’

once the household word for this fabric. Thus we find it occurring in an

old Act, already referred to, passed in 1363, to restrict the dress of

the peasantry:—All people not possessing 40 shillings’ worth of goods

and chattels ‘ne usent nule manere de drap, si noun blanket et russet,

laune de xii_d._,’ that is, shall not take nor wear any manner of cloth,

but blanket and russet wool of twelvepence. (_Stat. Realm_, vol. i. p.

381.) An old indenture of goods contains the following:—‘Item, 1 olde

Kendale gowne, and a hood of the same, pris ix_d._, the gowne lynyd with

white blanket.’ (_Mun. Acad. Oxon._, p. 566.) Both ‘Whittle’ and

‘Blanket’ are existing surnames. The reader will see from these

references alone that, whether in the case of the man or the

manufacture, it is the colour, or rather lack of colour, which has given

the sobriquet. Our ‘Greenmans,’ whether as surname or tavern sign, are

but sprung from the old forester—

Clad in cote and hode of grene,

of Lincoln or Kendal make. The ‘Greenman’ was a favourite rural

signboard, and I doubt not the reader will have seen it occasionally

swinging still in the more retired parts of the country. Crabbe knew it

well in his day—

But the ‘Green Man’ shall I pass by unsung,

Which mine own James upon his signpost hung?

His sign, his image—for he once was seen

A squire’s attendant, clad in keeper’s green.

Turning from the colour of the cloth to the garments into which it was

fashioned, nothing could be more natural to our forefathers than to take

off with a sobriquet the more whimsical aspects of dress indulged in by

particular individuals. Royalty itself did not escape. It was through

his introduction of a new fashion our second Henry got his nickname of

‘Curtmantel,’ and this was matched by ‘Capet’ and ‘Grisegonel’ across

the water. ‘Richard Curtepy’ reminds us of the poor clerk of whom

Chaucer says—

Full thredbare was his overest courtepy,

that is, his cloak or gabardine. ‘Henry Curtmantle,’ just mentioned,

‘Martin Curtwallet,’ and ‘Robert Curthose’ (still existing in Derbyshire

in the more Saxon form of ‘Shorthose’),[494] satirise the introduction

of a curtailment in the general as ‘Reginald Curtbrant’ does in the more

military habit; ‘Richard Widehose’ and the Scotch ‘Macklehose,’ on the

other hand, suggesting a change of an opposite and more sailorlike

character. ‘Hose,’ itself a surname, is again found in composition in

‘Richard Goldhose,’ ‘Nicholas Strokehose,’ ‘John Scrothose’

(‘Scratchhose,’), and ‘Richard Letherhose;’ the latter still to be met

with in Germany as ‘Ledderhose.’ ‘Emma Wastehose,’ though now obsolete,

evidently bespoke the reckless habits of the wearer, while ‘John

Sprenhose’ (_i.e._, ‘Spurnhose’) seems to have declared its owner’s want

of appreciation of that article altogether. The old ‘paletoque’ or

doublet, a loose kind of frock often worn by priests, left itself a

memorial in ‘Thomas Pyletok,’ which is now extinct, but ‘Pylch’ (‘Symon

Pylche,’ A.), the maker of which has already been mentioned, remains

hale and hearty in our midst. ‘Mantel’ (‘Walter Mantel,’ L.) and

‘Fremantel’[495] are well established among us, the latter probably

owing its origin to the frieze-cloth which the Frieslander of the Low

Countries once manufactured out of our own wool. It is Latinized in our

records into ‘Hugh de Frigido-Mantello,’ and the cloth itself as

‘Frisius pannus.’[496] The herald’s tunic, barely covering the chest and

open from the shoulder downwards, gave us our ‘Tabards.’ It must have

had plenty of last in it, for Piers Plowman talks of—

A tawny tabard of twelf wynters age.

The variegated dress, much in favour then apparently, still survives in

our ‘Medlecote’ and ‘Medlicott.’[497] The stuffed doublet gave us

‘Thomas Gambeson,’ now perhaps ‘Gamson,’ while the short petticoat is

memorialised in ‘John Grenecurtel.’ ‘Alicia Caperon’ and ‘Thomas

Chaperoun’ are early found. The _chaperon_ was a hood by which the

entire face could be concealed if it were so desired. Taylor, in the

seventeenth century, mentions it as but recently out of fashion—

Her _shapperoones_, her periwigs and tires,

Are reliques which this flattery much admires.

It is thus, by a somewhat strange but easy association of ideas, has

come our modern protector in society so called.

Excess of apparel has often in olden days been under penal statute.

Chaucer, in his time, decried its abuse, and an old rhyme of Edward III.

date is still preserved, which is scathing enough—

Longbeards, heartlesse,

Painted hoods, witlesse,

Gaycoates, gracelesse,

Makes England thriftlesse.

We are reminded in this of ‘Gai-cote’ (‘William Gaicote,’ A.), which

once was a surname, though now extinct. ‘Woolward’ or ‘Woolard’

(‘Geoffey Woleward,’ A., ‘Reginald Wolleward,’ N.) still thrives. To go

‘woolward’ was to undergo the penance of wearing the outer woollen cloth

without any linen under-dress. It was often prescribed by the

priesthood. Piers, in his Vision, says—

_Wolleward_ and weetshoed

Wente I forth;

while another old poem bids us—

Faste, and go _wolward_, and wake,

And suffre hard for Godys sake.[498]

The name was not an unfrequent one at the time of which I am writing,

and I doubt not was oftentimes familiarly applied to friars. We must

probably refer to more warlike accoutrements for the origin of our

‘Gantletts’ or ‘Gauntletts’ (‘Henry Gauntelett,’ Z., ‘Roger Gauntlet,’

Z.), our ‘Pallets’ and ‘Vizards.’ The latter was that part of the helmet

which was perforated for the wearer to see through, ‘pallet’ being the

general term for the helmet itself. ‘Ranulf Strong-bowe’ was a likely

sobriquet for a brawny-armed bowman to acquire, and, like ‘Isabella

Fortiscue’ (brave shield) and ‘Emelina Longespee,’ belongs to more

general history. ‘Sword,’ ‘Buckler,’ ‘Lance,’[499] ‘Spear,’ ‘Pike,’

‘Bill,’ the renowned ‘Brownbill,’ and others too many for enumeration,

have similarly found a place in our nomenclature. What a revolution in

the mode of warfare do they betoken. What a sweeping change has the

invention of gunpowder effected on the battlegrounds of Europe.

But I mentioned ‘badges.’ It is amusing to see how the early love of

distinctive ensigns has made its mark here. While it is an English

instinct to reverence authority, this authority itself has ever been

distinguished by the outward manifestation of dress and emblem. The

ceremonious requirements of the feudal state have had their effect. As I

endeavoured to show in a previous chapter, these were simply

overwhelming. The office of each was not more distinct than his outward

accompaniments, and it was by the latter his precise position was known.

The ‘baton,’ however, seems to have held the foremost place as a token

of authority—a sword, a javelin, a spear, a wand, a rod, it mattered not

what, a something borne in the hand, and you might have known in that

day an official. Nor are we as yet free from its influence. Royalty

still has its sceptre, the Household of State its ‘black rod,’

magistracy has its mace, proctorship its poker, the churchwarden his

staff, the beadle—far the most important of all to the charity children

and himself—his stick. From official, this rage for badges seems to have

passed on to the quieter and more ordinary avocations. The shepherd was

not better known by his crook, the huntsman not better known by his

horn, than the pilgrim by his ‘bourdon,’ the woodward by his ‘bill,’ or

the surveyor by his ‘meteyard’[500] or ‘metewand.’ How easy then for all

these words to be turned into sobriquets. How natural they should become

slang epithets for those who carried them. How natural that we should

find them all in our directories. ‘Meatyard,’ ‘Burdon’ or ‘Bourdon,’

‘Crook,’ ‘Wand,’ ‘Staff,’ ‘Rodd,’ ‘Horne,’[501] all are there. Nor did

the personal characteristics of such bearers escape the good-humoured

raillery of our ancestors. Far from it. ‘Waghorn,’[502] would easily fix

itself upon some awkward horn-blower; ‘Wagspear’ (‘Mabill Wagspere,’ W.

1.), or ‘Shakespeare’ (‘William Shakespeare,’ V. 1.), or

‘Shakeshaft’[503] or ‘Drawsword’ (‘Henry Drawswerde,’ A.), or ‘Drawespe’

(‘Thomas Drawespe,’ A.) upon some over-demonstrative sergeant or clearer

of the way; or ‘Wagstaffe’ (‘Robert Waggestaff,’ A.) on some obnoxious

beadle.[504] ‘Tipstaffe’ we know for certain as a name of this class—he

was a bumbailiff. In 1392 one Roger Andrew was publicly indicted for

pretending to be an officer of the Marshalsea, which he did by bearing a

‘wooden staff with horn at either end, called a “tippestaffe.”’ It does

not seem, however, to have been confined only to him. Chaucer says of

the frère, that—

With scrippe, and tipped staf, tucked high

In every house he gan to pore and pry;

and but two lines further on he tells us—

His felaw had a staff tipped with horn,

which thus explicitly explains the term. The same humour found vent in

‘John Swyrdebrake,’[505] ‘Adrian Breakspear,’ ‘William Longstaffe,’

‘Antony Halstaff’ (perchance ‘Hale-staff’),[506] and ‘Thomas Ploghstaf’

(Plowstaff). With one or two more general terms of this class we may

proceed. ‘Robert Hurlebat’[507] and ‘Matthew Winspear,’ ‘Richard

Spurdaunce’ and ‘Robert Bruselance,’ ‘Simon Lovelaunce’ and ‘Thomas

Crakyshield,’[508] ‘Roger Benbow,’ ‘Cicely Brownsword,’ and ‘Thomas

Shotbolte,’ are evidently nicknames fastened upon certain individuals

for special prowess in some of the sports of the Middle Ages, probably

at some church-ale or wakes.

II.—MENTAL AND MORAL PECULIARITIES.

(1) _Nicknames from Peculiarities of Disposition—Complimentary._

Let us now turn to the varied characteristics of the human heart. If we

wish to know how many good and excellent qualities there are in the

world, and at the same time deceive ourselves into a belief that the

evils are few, we must look into our directories. Scan their contents,

and we might almost persuade ourselves that Utopia was a fact, and that

we were consulting its muster-roll. At every turn we meet with virtue in

the guise of a ‘Goode,’ or an ‘Upright,’ or a ‘Righteous,’[509] or a

‘Patient,’ or a ‘Best,’ or a ‘Faithful;’ or infallibility in a ‘Perfect’

or ‘Faultless.’ We are ever coming across philosophy in the shape of a

‘Wise’ or a ‘Sage.’ Conscience must surely trouble but little, where

‘Merry’ and ‘Gay,’ ‘Blythe’ and ‘Joyce,’ that is, joyous, are all but

interminable; and companionship must be ever sweet with such people to

converse with as ‘Makepeace’[510] and ‘Friend,’ ‘Goodhart’ and ‘Truman,’

‘True’ and ‘Leal,’ ‘Kind’ and ‘Curtis’ or ‘Curteis.’ ‘Fulhardy’ and

‘Giddyhead,’ ‘Cruel’ and ‘Fierce,’ ‘Wilfulle’ and ‘Sullen,’ and

‘Envious’ did indeed find a habitation in its pages, but they have long

since disappeared, being quite out of place in the presence of such

better folk as ‘Hardy’[511] and ‘Grave,’ and ‘Gentle’ and ‘Sweet;’ or if

the cloven foot of pride be still visible in ‘Proud’ and ‘Proudfoot,’ it

is nevertheless under constant rebuke by our familiarity with such lowly

characters as ‘Humble’ and ‘Meek.’[512] Nevertheless, this was anything

but so in the old time. The evil roots of sin may still abide hale and

strong and ineradicable in the heart of man, but he has carefully weeded

the more apparent traces of this out of his nomenclature. I do not mean

to say we are utterly without names of objectionable import, but we

shall see that what I have stated once before is true in the main. We

shall see that as a rule it is only when the sobriquet word has changed

its meaning, or that meaning become obscure and doubtful, or when the

name itself has lost the traces of its origin—easy enough in the lapse

of so many days of unsettled orthography—that the surname has lingered

on. This will make itself apparent as we advance.

Such names as ‘Walter Snel,’ ‘Richard Quicke’ (A.), including the

immortal Quickly, ‘Richard le Smert’ (M.), now ‘Smart,’ ‘Thomas Scharp,’

now ‘Sharp,’[513] ‘Gilbert Poygnant’ (A.), ‘Thedric le Witte’ (A.), now

‘Witt’ and ‘Witty,’ ‘Nicholas le Cute’ (A.), and ‘Ralph le Delivre’[514]

(M.M.), argue well for the keen perceptions and brisk habits of early

days.[515] The slang sense of several of these, strangely enough, is but

the original meaning restored. ‘Witty’ arose when the word implied

keenness of intellect rather than of humour. Chaucer thus speaks of

‘witty clerkes,’ using the latter word too in a perfectly unofficial

sense. Our numberless ‘Clarkes’ and ‘Clerkes,’ sprung from equally

numberless ‘Beatrix le Clercs’ or ‘Milo le Clerks,’ may therefore belong

either to the professional class or to the one we are considering.

‘William le Frek’ (M.) or ‘Ralph Frike’ (A.), now found as ‘Freak,’

‘Frick,’ and ‘Freke,’ was a complimentary sobriquet implicative of

bravery and daring even to rashness.[516] Minot in his political songs

tells us in alliterative verse how the doughty men of Edward the Third’s

army were—

Ful frek to fight.

The old ‘William le Orpede,’ or ‘Stephen le Horpede,’ or ‘Peter

Orpedeman’ denotes a disposition equally stout-hearted.[517] It is a

term found in well-nigh all our mediæval writers, and was evidently in

common and familiar use. Trevisa, in his account of the Norman invasion,

represents ‘Gurth’ as saying to Harold, ‘Why wilt thou unwary fight with

so many orped men?’ The monk of Glastonbury also, speaking of Edward the

Third’s expedition to Calais in 1350, relates that he ‘towke with him

the nobleis, and the gentelles, and other worthi and orpedde menne of

armes.’ Our ‘Keats’ and ‘Ketts’ are the old ‘Walter le Ket’ (G.) or

‘Osbert le Ket’ (J.), that is, the fierce, the bold. Thus the cowherd in

‘William of Pelerne’ directs the child how to conduct himself—

When thou komest to kourt

Among the kete lordes.

With these therefore we may associate ‘William le Prew,’ now

‘Prew,’[518] ‘Nicholas Vigerous,’ now found also as ‘Vigors,’ ‘Helen

Gallant,’ ‘John le Stallworth,’[519] ‘Thomas Doughtye,’ and ‘Robert le

Bolde,’ all still well-known names. ‘Prest,’ ‘Peter le Prest’ (M.), when

not the archaic form of ‘Priest,’ is of kin to the mountebank’s

‘presto,’ and means—quick, ready. It was thus used till the seventeenth

century. ‘Kean,’ found as ‘Hugh le Kene’ or ‘Joan le Kene,’ implies

impetuosity. All these names speak well for the pluck of our

forefathers. They are found with tolerable frequency, and naturally have

not been suffered to die out for lack of pride. The Norman element, as

we see, is strong in these chivalrous sobriquets. Nor is it less so with

many other terms of no unpleasant meaning. Our ‘Purefoys’ or ‘Purfeys’

represent the _pure faith_ of their countrymen.[520] Our ‘Parfitts’ are

but the quainter form of ‘Perfect.’[521] Our ‘Bones,’ ‘Boons,’ and

‘Bunns’ are but variously corrupted forms of ‘Duran le Bon,’ or ‘Richard

le Bone,’ or ‘Alice le Bonne,’ or ‘William le Boon,’ equivalent

therefore to the earlier ‘Goods.’ ‘Bunker’ is similarly but ‘Bon-cœur’

(‘William Bonquer,’ O.),[522] our Saxon ‘Goodhart,’ and ‘Bonner,’ and

the longer ‘Debonaire’ (‘Philip le Debeneyre,’ A.),[523] our more

naturalized ‘Gentle’ (‘William le Gentil,’ M.), ‘Gentilman’ (‘Robert

Gentilman,’ V. 1.),[524] and ‘Curteis’ or ‘Curtis’ (‘Walter le Curteys’

J., ‘Richard le Curteis,’ C.), Chaucer says—

All men holde thee for musarde,

That debonaire have founden thee.

‘Amiable’ (‘Edward Amiable,’ Z., ‘Joan Amiable,’ Z.) once existed, but

in our registers, at least, that sweet grace is now wanting. Equivalent

to these latter, but more Saxon in character, come our ‘Hendys’ or

‘Hentys’ (‘Thomas le Hendy,’ F.F., ‘John le Hendy,’ F.F.), a term found

in all our early writers, and prettily expressive of that which was

gentle and courteous combined. In the ‘Canterbury Tales’ the host

reproves the friar for lack of civility to one of the company by saying—

Sire, ye should be _hende_,

And curteis as a man of your estate,

In company we will have no debate.

In the Hundred Rolls we find a ‘William Hendiman’ occurring, and a ‘John

Hende’ was Lord Mayor of London in 1391. We have just mentioned the word

‘musarde.’ This reminds us of our ‘Musards’ (‘Malcolm le Musard,’ M.),

who were originally of a dreamy temperament.[525] With our Saxon

‘Moodys’[526] (‘Richard Mody,’ G.), however, their title has fallen in

general estimation, the one now denoting, when used at all, a trifling,

the other a morose and gloomy disposition. Our ‘Sadds’ (‘Robert Sad,’

H.), too, from being merely serious, sedate folk, have become sorrowful

of heart. Our great early poet speaks in the negative sense of—

People unsad and eke untrue,

that is, unstable and fickle. In a short poem, ascribed to Lydgate,

pointing out to children their course of behaviour in company, we are

told—

Who spekithe to thee in any maner place,

Rudely cast not thyn eye adowne,

But with a sad cheer look hym in the face.[527]

Here of course sobriety of demeanour, rather than sorrowfulness, is

intended.[528] That ‘Henry le Wepere’ (A.), and ‘Peter le Walur’ (A.),

and ‘William le Blubere’ (A.), however, must have been of rueful

countenance we need not doubt.

Many changes too have passed over the names as well doubtless as over

the lives of another section of our nomenclatural community. Our

‘Cunnings,’ we will hope, dated from the time when he who _kenned_ his

work well was so entitled without any suspicion of duplicity.[529] Very

likely too our ‘Slys’ (‘John Slye,’ H.), and ‘Sleighs’ (‘Simon le

Slegh,’ M.), ‘Slees’ (‘Isabella Slee,’ W.G.), and ‘Slemmans’ and

Slymans’ were simply remarkable for being honestly dexterous in their

several avocations.[530] The ‘mighty hand and outstretched arm’ of

modern psalters was once translated ‘a hand that was slegh.’ But as

slyness got by degrees but more and more associated with the juggler’s

sleight-of-hand tricks, the word fell into disrepute. Such is the

invariable effect of keeping bad company. So late, however, as the

seventeenth century, one of our commonwealth poets was not misunderstood

when he spoke of one whom—

Graver age had made wise and sly.

But the same predisposition to give ‘crafty’ and ‘sly’ and ‘cunning’ and

‘artful’ a dishonest sense has not been therewith content, but must

needs throw ridicule upon the unsophisticated and artless natures of our

‘Simples’ (‘Jordan le Simple,’ A.), who would scarcely feel complimented

if their surname were to originate in the present day.[531] It is the

same with our ‘Seeleys’ (‘Benedict Sely,’ D.) and ‘Selymans’ (‘George

Selyman,’ D.), the older forms of ‘Silly’ and ‘Sillyman.’ Perhaps the

phrase ‘silly lamb’ is the only one in which we colloquially preserve

the former idea of ‘silly,’ that of utter guilelessness. A ‘silly

virgin’ with Spenser was no foolish maiden, but one helpless in her

innocence, and the ‘silly women’ Shakespeare hints at in his ‘Two

Gentlemen of Verona’ were but inoffensive and unprotected females.[532]

‘Sealey,’ ‘Silly,’ ‘Sillyman,’ and ‘Selyman,’[533] are all pleasant

memorials of the earlier sense of this word. Our ‘Quaints’ and ‘Cants’

have gone through a changeful career. They are but the descendants of

the old ‘Margaret le Coynte’ or ‘Richard le Queynte,’ from the early

French ‘coint,’ neat, elegant. A shadow fell over it, however, and a

notion of artfulness becoming attached to the word, to be quaint was to

be crafty. Thus Wicklyffe, in his translation of St. Mark’s account of

Christ’s betrayal, makes Judas say to the servants of the high priest,

‘Whomever I shall touch, he it is, hold ye him, and lead him warily, or

queintly.’ Thus, too, Lawrence Minot, in his ‘Political Songs,’ tells us

how—

The King of Berne was _cant_ and kene,

But there he lost both play and pride.

Strange to say, the word has well-nigh recovered its original sense,

betokening as it does a whimsical and antique prettiness, if not the

bare quality itself. Our original ‘Careless’ (‘Antony Careless,’ Z.) was

of that happy disposition which the petty worries and anxieties of life

do not easily disturb, and, to judge from our nomenclature, he forms but

one of a large band of cheery and easy-minded mortals. ‘Joyce,’ that is,

‘Jocose,’ when not a Christian name,[534] and ‘Jolly’ must be set here,

not forgetting the older and prettier ‘Jolyffe’ (‘Henry Jolyffe,’ M.).

In the ‘Miller’s Tale’ we are told of ‘Absolon,’ how that when at

eventide he had taken up his ‘giterne’—

Forth he goth, jolif and amorous,

to the window of his lady-love. ‘Gay’ (‘William le Gay,’ R.), and

‘Blythe’ (‘Richard Blythe,’ Z.),[535] and ‘Merry’ (‘William Merrye,’

Z.), or ‘Merriman’ (‘John Meryman,’ X.), and ‘Gaillard,’ or ‘Gallard,’

or ‘Gayliard,’ or ‘Gaylord’ (‘Nicholas Gaylard,’ T., ‘William Gallard,’

A., ‘Sabina Gaylard,’ H.), must all be placed also in this

category.[536] I am not quite sure, however, that the last are without a

suspicion of that conviviality which the buxom alewife was but too ready

to bestow. Our merry, versatile friend Absolon, whom I have just

referred to, among other his unclerkly arts, could play on the ‘giterne’

as well as any ‘galliard tapstere.’ It seems to have been a common

epithet, and would readily find a place in our nomenclature, where it is

now firmly fixed. Our ‘Merryweathers’ (‘Andrew Meriweder,’ A.) and

‘Fairweathers’ (‘John Fayrweder,’ A.)[537] may seem somewhat difficult

of explanation to those who are unaware of the colloquial use of these

expressions in former times, ‘Mery-weder’ especially being of the most

familiar import. In the ‘Coventry Mysteries’ mention is made of—

Bontyng the Brewster, and Sybyly Slynge,

Megge Mery-wedyr, and Sabyn Sprynge.

A happy sunshiny fellow would easily acquire the sobriquet, and indeed

both are found at a very early day as such.[538]

Not a few of those expressive terms of endearment, some of which still

flourish in our nurseries, have made their mark upon our directories. We

have already alluded to our ‘Chittys.’ Our ‘Leafs’ represent the old

‘Alice le Lef’ or ‘Matilda la Lef,’ beloved or dear. We still use it in

the well-nigh solitary expression ‘lief as loth,’ but once it was in

familiar request. Robert of Brunne, in one of his stories, says—

Blessed be alle poor men,

For God Almyghty loveth them:

And weyl is them that poor are here,

They are with God bothe lefe and dere.

Akin to this latter is ‘Love,’ which, when not the old ‘Robert le Love’

or wolf, is found in composition in not a few instances. ‘Lovekin’ and

‘Lovecock,’ after the remarks made in our first chapter on these

terminations, will be readily explainable; and ‘Truelove,’ ‘Derelove,’

‘Honeylove,’ and ‘Sweetlove’[539] supply us with expletives of so

amorous a nature, we can but conjecture them to have arisen through the

too publicly proclaimed feelings of their early possessors. ‘Newlove’

sounds somewhat inconstant, ‘Winlove’ attractive.[540] ‘Goodlove,’

‘Spendlove,’ and ‘Likelove,’ I believe, are now obsolete—a lot, too,

which has befallen the hardened ‘Lacklove,’ while our ‘Fulliloves’[541]

still declare the brimming affection which belongs to their nature—or at

least did to that of their progenitor. But even they are commonplace

beside our ‘Waddeloves’ or ‘Waddelows,’ the early form of which,

‘Wade-in-love,’ would seem to tell of some lovesick ancestor so

helplessly involved in the meshes cast about him as to have become the

object of the unkind sarcasms of his neighbours. A longer and equally

curious sobriquet abides in our ‘Wellbeloveds’ and ‘Wellbiloves.’ It is

this latter form in which it is found in the ‘Issues of the

Exchequer.’[542] The French form of this was ‘Bienayme’ (‘William

Bienayme,’ A.), and to some settler of that name upon our shores I

suspect it is we owe our ‘Bonamys’ (‘William Bonamy,’ A.). I have just

mentioned ‘Sweetlove.’ Associated with this are our simpler ‘Sweets,’

the nursery ‘Sweetcock,’ and ‘Sweetman,’[543] variously corrupted into

‘Sweatman,’ ‘Swetman,’ and ‘Swatman.’ ‘Bawcock’ and ‘Baucock,’ if not

from ‘Baldwin,’ will be the endearing ‘beau-coq,’ once in familiar use.

Our ‘Follets,’ ‘Follits,’ and ‘Foliots,’ the last the original form,

meant nothing more than ‘my foolish one’ or ‘fond one,’ and were very

common. They are but varied in the longer ‘Hugh Folenfaunt,’ but I am

afraid ‘Walter Fulhardy’ at the same period is less complimentary.

‘Poppet,’ or puppet, once the doll of English infancy, only remains in

the gilded and waxen manikins of the showman. The surname, however,

abides with us, as does also ‘Poplett.’ The old ‘fere,’ a companion, has

left its mark in our ‘Fairs.’ We all remember Byron’s resuscitation of

the word. In ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ mention is made of—

Orpheus and Euridice his fere.

Thus ‘Playfair,’ once written ‘Playfere,’ is simply ‘playfellow,’ while

the obsolete ‘Makefere’ (‘Hugh Makefare,’ A.) would seem to be but

intensive, ‘make’ being the invariable dress with olden writers of our

more familiar ‘mate.’[544]

There is something in obtrusive virtue that instinctively repels us. We

always like a man’s face to be the index to the book of his heart, but

when he would seem to have carefully turned down each leaf for our

inspection, we get a revulsion of feeling—we like to look out the page

for ourselves. An elevated sense of self-esteem was decidedly approved

of by our forefathers, but its too demonstrative exhibition soon showed

itself condemned in our ‘Prouds,’ ‘Prouts,’ ‘Proudmans,’ ‘Proudloves,’

and ‘Proudfoots’ (‘Hugh le Proud,’ A., ‘John le Prute,’ H., ‘George

Proudelove,’ Z.Z., ‘Robert Prudefot,’ A.). A very interesting name which

has escaped the notice of surname hunters is that of ‘Gerish’ or

‘Gerrish,’ both forms being found in our modern directories. They are

but the truer representatives of the word ‘garish’ as used by our later

poets. Shakespeare’s Juliet, we may remember, apostrophizes Night, and

bids her, when Romeo be dead, cut him into stars, and thus—

All the world will be in love with night,

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

This splendidly describes the term, expressing as it does that which

glares ostentatiously and showily upon the eye. Lydgate, far earlier,

had used it thus, in the form of ‘gerysshe;’ and such names as ‘Umfrey

le Gerische’ or ‘John le Gerisse,’ found yet more remotely, testify to

its once familiar and frequent use. We now talk of a prude as one who

exaggerates woman’s innate modesty of demeanour. Formerly it denoted the

virtue pure and untravestied. The root, the Latin ‘probus,’ excellent,

still remains in our ‘Prudhommes’ (‘William Prodhomme,’ R., ‘Peter

Prodhomme,’ A.), with their more commonly corrupted ‘Pridhams’ and

‘Prudames’ and ‘Prudens,’[545] a sobriquet which once referred simply to

the honest and guileless uprightness of their owners. How truly do such

words as these remind us of the poor estimate man, after all, forms of

himself. Man often rebels at the declaration of Revelation that he is a

fallen being, and yet how strongly does he assert this fact in the

changes he himself has made in the meaning of words. Our ‘Bauds’

(‘William le Baud,’ B., ‘Wauter le Baud,’ M.) were once but the Norman

equivalent of our ‘Merrys’ already mentioned.[546] Must lightness of

heart inevitably end in wanton levity? There was a day when our

‘Parramores’ (‘Roger Paramour,’ M.; ‘Henry Parramore,’ Z.)[547] were but

the simple honest lover of either sex, when our ‘Lemons,’ ‘Lemans,’ and

‘Lemmans’ (‘Eldred Leman,’ A., ‘John Leman,’ M.) meant but the beloved

one from ‘lief,’ ‘dear.’ Both Chaucer and Piers Plowman employ the term

‘lef-man’ or ‘leef-man’ as an expression of endearment, with no thought

of obloquy. Thus, too, in the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ God is represented as

bidding Gabriel to go to Nazareth—

And hail that madyn, my lemman,

As heyndly (courteously) as thou can.

Still, so early as the days of Gower, its corrupted _leman_ had become a

sobriquet for one of loose, disorderly habits.[548]

(2) _Nicknames from Peculiarities of Disposition—Objectionable._

The mention of such names as ‘Baud,’ ‘Parramore,’ ‘Leman’ or ‘Lemon,’

‘Proud,’ ‘Proudman,’ and ‘Proudfoot,’ which we have charitably set in

the list of complimentary nicknames, as having, perchance, risen at a

time when the meaning of the words conveyed a totally different idea

from that which they now convey, brings us to the category of those

which can scarcely seek any shelter of such a kind. ‘Lorel,’ ‘Lurdan,’

and ‘Lordan,’ together with the once familiar ‘losel’ and ‘losard,’

denoted a waif, or stray, one who preyed upon society, exactly

identical, in fact, with the Latin ‘perditus.’ Thus we find Herod, in

the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ saying to his officers—

Fie, losels and lyars, lurdans each one,

Tratours and well worse, knaves, but knyghts none.

‘Cocke Lorelle,’ too, speaks of—

Lollers, lordaynes, and fagot berers,

Luskes, slovens, and kechen knaves.

Cotgrave explains a ‘loricard’ to mean a _luske_, _lowt_, or _lorell_.

This _luske_, from the old French _lasque_, or _lache_—slothful—though

now wholly obsolete, did much duty formerly. The adjective _luskish_ and

the substantive _luskishness_ are often found. In law _lache_ still

survives as a term for culpable remissness. Our ‘Laches,’ ‘Lashes,’

‘Laskies,’ and ‘Lusks,’ I am afraid, therefore, come of but an

indifferent ancestry. Nor can anything better be said of our ‘Paillards’

or ‘Pallards.’ We still talk of a ‘pallet,’ the old ‘paillet,’ or straw

bed, from ‘paille,’ chaff. A paillard was a cant term for a lie-a-bed.

By ‘ribaldry’ we always mean that which is foul-mouthed in expression.

This was ever its implication. A ‘ribaud,’ or ‘ribaut’ belonged to the

very scum of society. He was a man who hung on to the skirts of the

nobility by doing all their more infamous work for them. Chaucer,

wishing to comprise in one sentence the highest and the lowest grades of

society, speaks in his ‘Romance’ of ‘king, knighte, or ribaude.’

‘William le Ribote,’ therefore, mentioned in the ‘Chapter House Records

of Westminster,’ or ‘William Ribaud’ (W. 15), could not have borne the

best of characters, I am afraid. Although not quite so degraded in the

world’s esteem as some of these last, we may here include our

‘Gedlings,’ reminiscences of the old ‘Gadling’ or ‘Gedling,’ one who

gadded about from door to door to talk the gossip and scandal—the modern

tattler, in fact. Our former ‘Gerard le Gaburs’ and ‘Stephen le Gabbers’

were equally talkative, if not such ramblers. As overmuch talking and

jesting always beget a suspicion of overstretching the truth, so was it

here. Wicklyffe uses ‘gabbing’ in the sense of lying, and an old poem

says:—

Alle those false chapmen

The fiend them will habbe,

Bakeres and breowares

For alle men they gabbe.[549]

(_A litel soth Sermun._)

In the North of England, I need scarcely add, this is the ordinary and

colloquial sense of the term to the present day. The name of ‘John

Totiller’ might well-nigh induce us to believe that teetotalism was not

unknown by that name at this period, but it is not so. A ‘totiller’ was

a ‘whisperer’ of secrets. In the ‘Legend of Good Women,’ one says to the

God of Love—

In ye court is many a losengeour

And many a queinte totoler accusour.

The name of ‘Dera Gibelot’ or ‘John Gibbelote’[550] reminds us of a term

now obsolete, but once familiar as denoting a giddy, flighty girl.[551]

It is found in various forms, the commonest being that of ‘giglot.’[552]

Mr. Halliwell quotes an old proverb by way of adding a further

variation—

The smaller pesun (peas), the more to pott,

The fayrer woman the more gylott.

I would, however, suggest this as but the pet form of ‘Gill,’ mentioned

in my chapter on Christian names. In either case the meaning is the

same. An often met with sobriquet in the fourteenth century is that of

‘Robert le Burgulion,’ or ‘Geoffrey le Burgillon,’ the old term for a

braggart. It is now, however, wholly obsolete. ‘Robert le Lewed,’ or

‘William le Lewed,’ is also lost to our directories, and certainly would

be an unpleasant appellation in the nineteenth century. Its general

meaning four hundred years ago, however, was its more literal one, that

of simplicity or ignorance. It is connected with our word ‘lay’ as

opposed to ‘cleric,’ and arose at a time when knowledge was all but

entirely in the hands of the clergy. Thus in the ‘Pardoner’s Tale’ it is

said—

Lewed people loven tales olde,

Such things can they wel report and holde.

Such a name then, we may trust, implied nothing beyond a lack of

knowledge in respect of its possessor. ‘William Milksop,’ or ‘Thomas

Milkesop,’ or ‘Maurice Ducedame’ were but types of a class of dandified

and effeminate beings who have ever existed, but even their names would

be more acceptable than those which fell to ‘Robert le Sot,’ or ‘Maurice

Druncard,’ or ‘Jakes Drynk-ale,’[553] or ‘Geoffrey Dringkedregges,’[554]

or ‘Thomas Sourale.’[555] It is evident that there were those who were

disposed to follow the dictate of at least one portion of the old rhyme—

Walke groundly, talke profoundly,

Drinke roundly, sleape soundly.

‘Ralph Sparewater,’ I fear, was a man of dirty habits, while ‘John

Klenewater’ was a model of cleanliness.

But we have not yet done with sobriquets of an unpleasant nature. Men of

miserly and penurious habits seem to have flourished in plentiful force

in olden days as well as the present. ‘Irenpurse’ figures several times

in early rolls, and would be a strong, if somewhat rough, sarcasm

against the besetting weakness of its first possessor. ‘Lovegold’ is

equally explicable. ‘Pennifather,’ however, was the favourite title of

such. An old couplet says—

The liberall doth spend his pelfe,

The pennyfather wastes himself.

It is found in the various forms of ‘Penifader,’ ‘Panyfader,’ and

‘Penifadir,’ in the fourteenth century. ‘Pennypurse,’[556] ‘Halfpeny,’

and ‘Turnpeny’[557] are met with at the same time, and somewhat later on

‘Thickpeny.’ ‘Broadpeny,’ ‘Manypenny,’ now corrupted into ‘Moneypeny,’

‘Winpeny,’ now also found as ‘Wimpenny,’ ‘Pinchpenny,’ with its more

directly Norman ‘Pinsemaille,’ and ‘Kachepeny,’ with its equally foreign

‘Cache-maille,’ are all also of the same early date, and with one or two

exceptions are to be met with to this very day.[558] It is a true

criticism which, as is noticed by Archbishop Trench, has marked the

_miserly_ as indeed the emphatically _miserable_ soul. ‘Whirlepeny’ is

now extinct, but alone, so far as my researches go, existed formerly to

remind men that the spendthrift character is equally subversive of the

true basis of human happiness.[559] Several names combined with ‘peck’

and ‘pick,’ as ‘Peckcheese,’ ‘Peckbean,’ ‘Peckweather,’ and ‘Pickbone,’

seem to be expressive of the gluttonous habits of the possessors, but it

is possible they may be but the moral antecedents of our modern

‘Pecksniffs’![560]

Our ‘Starks’ and ‘Starkies,’ if not ‘Starkmans,’ represent a word which

can hardly be said to exist in our vocabulary, since it now but survives

in certain phrases, such as ‘stark-mad,’ or ‘stark-naked.’ We should

never say a man was ‘stark’ simply. A forcible word, it once expressed

the rude untutored nature of anything. Thus, on account of his unbridled

passion, the Bastard King is termed in the Saxon chronicle ‘a stark man,

and very savage,’ while just before he is asserted to be ‘stark beyond

all bounds to them who withsaid his will.’ Thus it will be akin to such

names as ‘Walter le Wyld,’[561] or ‘Warin Cruel,’ or ‘Ralph le Ferce,’

or ‘John le Savage,’ or ‘William le Salvage,’ or ‘Adelmya le Sauvage,’

or ‘William Ramage.’ Chaucer speaks somewhere of a ‘ramage goat.’

III.—MISCELLANEOUS.

(1) _Nicknames from the Animal and Vegetable Kingdom._

Mr. Lower, in his ‘English Surnames,’ gives a long list of names from

what he calls vegetable productions, but, although he does not say so, I

am confident he would be the first to admit that the great majority of

those which he instances should really be set among our local surnames.

For example, he includes ‘Cherry,’ ‘Broome,’ ‘Bramble,’ ‘Ferne,’

‘Holyoak,’ ‘Peach,’ ‘Rowntree,’ in this category. While ‘Cherry’ and

‘Peach’ might possibly be sobriquets of complexion, the manifest course

is to look upon them as of local origin. So persuaded am I of this,

after a long perusal of mediæval records, that I shall notice but some

half-dozen names from the vegetable kingdom, and only those of which I

can find memorials in past registers. This is a place which of all

others might well tempt me to run riot among our directories, and

collect a curious list from our present existing nomenclature; but I

would even here persistently adhere to the idea with which I set out,

and to which I have mainly been true, viz., to instance names about

which I can speak somewhat positively, because I have found them

imbedded in the nomenclature of the period in which surnames had their

rise. ‘Blanchflower,’ ‘Lilywhite,’ and ‘Boutflower’ I have already dealt

with. ‘Robert Daisye’ occurs in the ‘Trial of Dame Alice Kyteler’ (Cam.

Soc.), ‘Nicholas Pescodde’ in the ‘Proceedings in Chancery’ (Elizabeth),

‘Godfrey Gingivre’ (Ginger) in the ‘Writs of Parliament,’[562] ‘Geoffrey

Peppercorn’ in the Hundred Rolls, ‘Robert Primerose’ and ‘Sara Garlek’

in the ‘History of Norfolk’ (Blomefield), and ‘Roger Pluckerose’ and

‘John Pullrose’ in a Sussex Roll of 1296.[563] I doubt whether more than

one or two of these can be said rightly to belong to the nickname class.

As sign-names—for I feel assured they thus arose—they will have their

place in our second chapter on ‘Local Names.’[564]

But when we come to the Animal Kingdom we are on clearer and more

definite ground. The local class must undoubtedly embrace a large number

of these names, as such an entry as ‘William atte Roebuck’ (M.), or

‘Richard de la Vache’ (A.), or ‘Thomas atte Ram’ (N.), or ‘John de la

Roe’ (O.), or ‘Gilbert de la Hegle’ (A.), or ‘Hugh atte Cokke’ (B.), or

‘Walter de Whitehorse’ (C.), or ‘John atte Gote’ (M.) dearly testifies.

But on the other hand we find a class, set by which the last is

insignificant—a class which has its own entries—‘William le Got’ (A.),

‘Katerina le Cok’ (B.), ‘Alicia le Ro’ (A.), ‘Philip la Vache’ (C.), or

‘Joachim le Ram’ (T.), corresponding to the former, only differing in

that such entries are vastly more numerous and embrace a wider range,

taking in, in fact, the whole genus and species that belong alike to

‘the fish of the sea, the fowl of the air, the cattle, and every

creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.’ In dealing with this large

and varied assortment of sobriquets, I would say then that, where there

is no proof positive to the contrary, the course is to survey a name of

this class as referable to three distinct origins, and I put them in the

following order of probability:—1. A nickname taken from that animal

whose generally understood habits seemed to bear affinity to those of

the nominee. 2. A local sign-name. 3. An heraldic device. With these

preliminary statements, let us proceed.

As we find all the moral qualities seized upon to give individuality to

the possessors, so, too, we find the names of animals whose

peculiarities gave pretext for the sobriquets pressed into the service

of our nomenclature. In our earlier Pagan history it had been the wont

of Saxon fathers to style their children by the names of such beasts as

from their nobler qualities it was hoped the little one would one day

copy. The same fashion still existed, only that the nickname as the

exponent of popular feeling was really more or less appropriate to him

who was made to bear it. In the latter case, too, it was the ridiculous

aspects of character that were most eagerly caught at. Our general

vocabulary is not without traces of this custom. We still term a

shrewish wife a _vixen_, _i.e._ a she fox. Men of a vile, mean character

are rascals, _i.e._ lean deer; and rough boys are _urchins_,[565] a

corruption of the old _herison_, or hedgehog. Applying this to surnames,

we come first to

(_a_) _Beasts._—Our ‘Bests,’ when not local, are but the ‘Richard le

Bestes’ or ‘Henry le Bestes’ of the thirteenth century. Their

superlative excellence is therefore imaginary, I fear, but we may be

permitted to hope that they are what they appear. ‘Edith Beest,’ in the

sixteenth century, is nearer our modern form. Our ‘Oliphants,’

‘Olivants,’ and ‘Ollivants’ represent but the elephant, and owe their

origin, doubtless, to the huge and ungainly proportions of some early

ancestor. In the ‘Romance of Alexander’ is a strange description of the

fabled monoceros, which would seem to have been a kind of potpourri of

all other beasts, for besides a tail like a hog, tusks like a dog, and a

head like a hart’s—

Made is his cors

After the forme of a hors,

Fete after _olifant_, certis.[566]

This sobriquet, in a day when size and strength went for much, does not

seem to have been thought objectionable, for its owners have left issue

enough to prevent its ever falling into abeyance.[567] Thus we see we

may meet with elephants every day in our streets without going to the

Zoological Gardens for them. Our ‘Lions’ (‘Richard Lion,’ V. 2) and

‘Lyons,’ when not local,[568] speak doubtless for the brave heart of

some early progenitor. Our ‘Bears,’ relics of ‘Richard le Bere’ (A.) or

‘Lawrence le Bere’ (M.), as a reflection upon a surly temper, would be

less complimentary, or perhaps the original nominee wore his hair shaggy

and long. A fierce disposition would meet with rebuke or praise, as the

case might be, in such a sobriquet as ‘John Lepard,’ or ‘Tiger,’ now all

but obsolete, saving for our striped and liveried youths; or ‘Wolf’

(‘Elena le Wolfe,’ A., ‘Philip le Wolf,’ M.), with its more Norman

‘Lupe’[569] (‘Robert le Lupe,’ B.), or ‘Lovel’[570] or ‘Love’ (‘Robert

le Love,’ A.), the latter being in flat contradiction to the usually

ascribed instincts of the animal. Timidity or reserve, or perchance

fleetness of foot, would soon find itself exalted in ‘Geoffrey le Hare,’

‘Reginalde le Raye,’ ‘Walter le Buk,’ ‘Hobart le Hart,’ ‘Dorothie le

Stagge,’ ‘Henry Rascal,’[571] ‘William le Do,’ or ‘Alicia le Ro,’ the

ancestors of our ‘Hares,’ ‘Rays,’ or ‘Wrays,’ ‘Bucks,’[572] ‘Harts,’

‘Stags,’ ‘Does,’ or ‘Roes,’ of legal notoriety, and ‘Prickets.’ That old

spoiler of hen-roosts, the polecat, has left us in ‘Fitch’ and

‘Fitchett’ no very happy relationship of ideas. Craftiness would be very

properly stigmatised in ‘Henry le Fox’ or ‘John le Tod,’ and a ‘John le

Renaud’ occurring in the Parliamentary Rolls reminds us that some of our

‘Renauds’ and ‘Renards’ may be more closely associated with this wily

denizen of our forest fastnesses than they think. The _badger_ has

originated ‘Walter le Broc’ or ‘Henry le Brok’ (now Brock); the _beaver_

‘John le Bever,’ or ‘John le Bevere’ (now Beaver).[573] The _rabbit_

gave us ‘Henry Cony’ and ‘John Conay;’ the _weasel_ ‘Mathew le Martun’

(now Marten); the _mole_ ‘Walter le Want’ (now Want); the nimble haunter

of our forest boughs ‘Thomas le Squyrelle’ (now Squirrell), and the

_otter_ ‘Alan Otere,’ or ‘Edward Oter’ (now Otter).

Nor must we forget the farmyard and its accessories, which, as we might

readily presume, are well represented. ‘Alice le Buie,’ or ‘William le

Buie’ (now Bull), is a sobriquet which has now such a firm place as

symbolic of our national character that we need not show to what

peculiarities of temperament they owed their name. ‘Simon le Steer,’

‘Peter le Vache,’ with its Saxon ‘Thomas le Cu’ or ‘Ralph le Cou,’

‘Richard le Calf’[574] ‘Godwin le Bulloc,’ ‘Peter le Stot,’ ‘Roger le

Colt,’ are all of common occurrence, and still abide with us. ‘Roger le

Mule,’ as representative of obstinacy, we might have suspected, would

have become early obsolete, but it still survives.[575] ‘Robert le

Veyle,’ or ‘William le Veel,’ now written ‘Veale,’ ‘Philip le Mutton,’

and ‘John le Bœuf,’ or ‘Robert le Bef,’[576] carry us back to the day

when these several terms denoted the living animal. Thus, with respect

to the last, Burton in his ‘Anatomy,’ translating Plautus, says—

Like other cooks I do not supper dress,

That put whole meadows into a platter,

And make no better of their guests than beeves,

With herbs and grass to feed them fatter.—p. 69.

Alongside our ‘Muttons’ we may place our ‘William le Lambs’ and ‘Richard

le Lombs,’[577] and if they were remarkable for their meek disposition,

playfulness, I doubt not, was equally characteristic of our ‘Reginald

Kidds’ and ‘Cheevers,’ relics of the old ‘Henry le Chivre’ or goat. I am

afraid the connexion of ideas that gave rise to such sobriquets as were

represented by ‘Alice le Hog,’ ‘John le Bacun,’[578] ‘William le Gryse,’

‘Gilbert Galt,’ ‘Walter Pigge,’[579] ‘Roger Sugge,’ ‘Richard le Bor’

(Boar), ‘Richard Wildbore,’ ‘John Pork,’ and ‘John Purcell’ (little

porker, that is), is not of the pleasantest—terms, too, as they are, all

familiar to our directories to this present day. Several of these words

are now colloquially obsolete. ‘Grice,’ I fancy, is one such. We still

speak of the ‘griskin.’ Locally it comes in such names as ‘Grisdale’ and

‘Griswood.’ As a sobriquet of the animal, it was quite familiar in the

fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Piers Plowman says—

Cokes and their knaves

Cryden, ‘Hote pies, hote!

Goode gees and grys!’

‘Sug’ was provincial for ‘sow,’ and comes in the local ‘Sugden’

mentioned in my first chapter. Richard III. was sometimes styled the

‘Boar’ or ‘Hog.’ It was in allusion to this that the rhyme got abroad—

The Rat, the Cat, and Lovel the Dog,

Rule all England under the Hog.

The first two referred of course to _Rat_cliffe and _Cat_esby. But the

mention of these reminds us of our household pets and indoor foes.

‘Elias le Cat,’ or ‘Adam le Kat,’ or ‘Milo le Chat’ still boasts

descendants, and the same can be said for ‘Nicholas Dogge,’ or ‘Eborard

le Kenn,’ or ‘Thomas le Chen.’ The usual forms are Catt, Ken, and Kenn.

In our _kennel_ we still preserve a memorial of this Norman-introduced

word. Our ‘Hunds’ and ‘Hounds’ are but the old ‘Gilbert le Hund’ or

‘William le Hund,’ and carry us to the forest and the chase. The

especial bugbear of cat and dog alike found remembrance in our early

‘Nicholas le Rat’ and ‘Walter le Rat,’ or ‘Ralph Ratun,’[580] and in

‘John le Mous,’ ‘Hugh le Mus,’ or ‘Richard Mowse.’ ‘Ratton,’ ‘Ratt,’ and

‘Mowse’ still exist. With one more name we conclude. Through Spain and

the Moors of Barbary monkeys were early introduced for the amusement of

the English people. In the ‘Miller’s Tale’ it is said of Alison—

And thus she maketh Absolom her ape,

And all his earnest turneth to a gape.[581]

that is, she was wont to make a fool of him. The sobriquet is found in

such an entry as ‘John le Ape,’ registered in the Hundred Rolls, or

‘John Jackanapes,’ in the Parliamentary Writs.

(_b_) _Birds._—The surname that represents the genus is ‘Bird,’ the name

being met with as ‘John le Bryd’ or ‘David le Brid,’ a pronunciation

still in vogue in many parts of England. Falconry has given us many

sobriquets of this class. Accustomed as our fathers were to seeing the

fierce and eager instincts of the bird, to nickname a man of rapacious

and grasping habits by such a term as ‘John le Kyte,’ or ‘William le

Hawk,’ or ‘Richard le Falcon,’ would be the most natural thing in the

world. And just as the difference in breed and disposition in these

birds themselves gave rise to separate definitions, so an imagined

resemblance to these distinct qualities must have originated such

different names as ‘Muskett,’ ‘Buzzard,’ ‘Puttock,’[582] ‘Goshawk,’

‘Tassell,’ ‘Gleed,’ or ‘Glide,’[583] and ‘Sparrowhawk,’ or ‘Spark,’ or

‘Sparke,’ as it is now more generally spelt. So early as Chaucer,

however, this last was written ‘Spar-hawk,’[584] and that once gained

the further contraction in our nomenclature became inevitable. Thus was

it with other birds. Did a man develop such propensities as showiness,

then he was nicknamed ‘Jay;’ if pride, ‘Peacock’ or ‘Pocock,’ as it was

once pronounced; if guile, ‘Rook;’ if pertness, ‘Pye,’ with its

diminutive ‘Pyet’ or ‘Pyett;’ if garrulity, ‘Parrott’ or ‘Parratt;’ if

he was a votary of song he was styled ‘Nightingale’ or ‘Lark,’ or in its

more antique dress ‘Laverock’ or ‘Woodlark,’ or ‘Finch,’ or ‘Bulfinch,’

or ‘Goldfinch,’ or ‘Chaffinch,’ or ‘Spink,’ or ‘Goldspink,’ or ‘Thrush,’

or ‘Thrussel,’ or ‘Cuckoo.’ If jauntiness displayed itself in his

actions he was nicknamed ‘Cock’ or ‘Cockerell’ or ‘Chauntecler;’ if

homeliness, ‘Sparrow;’ if tenderness, ‘Pigeon’ or ‘Dove,’ and so on with

our ‘Swans,’ ‘Herons,’ ‘Cootes,’ ‘Gulls,’ ‘Storks,’ ‘Ravens,’ ‘Crows,’

‘Speights,’ ‘Cranes,’ ‘Capons,’ ‘Henns,’ ‘Chickens,’[585] ‘Ducks,’

‘Duckerells,’ ‘Drakes,’ ‘Sheldrakes’ or ‘Sheldricks,’ ‘Wildgooses,’

‘Mallards’ (_i.e._ wild duck), ‘Gooses’ or ‘Goss’s,’[586] ‘Greygooses,’

‘Goslings,’[587] ‘Ganders,’ ‘Woodcocks,’ ‘Partridges,’ ‘Partricks,’

‘Pheasants,’ or ‘Fesants,’ as once spelt, and ‘Blackbirds.’[588] These

are names ornithologically familiar to us. Many a pretty name, however,

once on the common tongue but now obsolete, or well-nigh so, still

abides in our surnames. Thus our ‘Popjays’ still preserve the

remembrance of the once common _popinjay_ or parrot, ‘the popinjay, full

of delicasy,’ as Chaucer styles her.[589] In ‘Culver’ or ringdove we are

reminded of the pathetic story of Philomine, where the same writer

likens her to

the lamb that of the wolf is bitten,

Or as the culver, that of the eagle is smitten.[590]

Our ‘Ruddocks’ or ‘Ruddicks’ (‘Ralph Ruddoc,’ A.), again, are but the

old _ruddock_ or robin-redbreast, ‘the tame ruddock,’ as he is termed in

the ‘Assembly of Fowls.’ The hedge-sparrow still lives represented by

our ‘Pinnocks’ or ‘Pinnicks’ ‘John Pynnock’ (G.), ‘Richard Pinnoc’ (A.)—

Thus in the pinnick’s nest the cuckoo lays,

Then, easy as a Frenchman, takes her flight.

So an old writer says. Our ‘Turtles’ (‘Roger Turtle’ D.) are but

pleasant memorials of the bird that has been so long emblematic of

constancy, the dove; our ‘Challenders,’ if not a corruption of

‘Callender,’ are representatives of the _chelaunder_ or goldfinch, so

often mentioned by early poets; and in our ‘Woodalls,’ ‘Woodales,’ and

‘Woodwalls,’ not to say some of our ‘Woodwells,’ we are but reminded of

the _woodwale_, the early woodpecker. Our ‘Rains’ are but the old

‘Robert or William le Rain,’ another term for the same;[591] while our

‘Stars’ and ‘Stares’ (‘Robert Stare,’ A.) carry us back to the day when

the starling was so familiarly styled. In the ‘Assembly of Fowls’ the

author speaks of—

The false lapwing, full of trecherie,

The _stare_, that the counsaile can beurie.

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

the above—

For there was many a bird singing,

Throughout the yard all thringing,

In many places were nightingales,

Alpes, finches, and wodewales,

That in their sweet song delighten,

In thilke (such) places as they habiten.

There might men see many flocks

of turtles, and laverocks,

Chelaundres fele (many) saw I there,

That very nigh forsongen were (tired of singing).

Every one of these birds so styled is still to be met with in our

directories, for even the _alpe_ or bull-finch is not absent. It is only

in the investigation of subjects like this we see how great are the

changes that creep over a people’s language. What a list of words is

this, which if uttered now would fall dead and meaningless upon the ear

of the listener, and yet they were once familiar as household words.

(_c_) _Fish._—‘John le Fysche’ or ‘William Fyske’ have left descendants

enough to prove that many a Fish can live out of water, although much

has been advanced to the contrary. At a time when the peasants lived

daily on the products of the inland streams and sandy sea-banks, and

when the supply was infinitely more plentiful than it is now, we can

easily perceive the naturalness of the sobriquets that belong to this

class. Terms that are all but obsolete to us now, were household words

then. Hence it is that we find our directories of to-day abounding with

such entries as ‘Whale,’[592] ‘Shark,’ ‘Dolphin,’ Herring,’[593]

‘Codde,’ ‘Codling,’ ‘Salmon,’[594] ‘Trout,’ ‘Mackarel,’ ‘Grayling,’

‘Smelt,’ ‘Pilchard,’ ‘Whiting,’ ‘Turbot,’[595] ‘Keeling,’ ‘Crabbe,’

‘Chubb,’[596] ‘Tench,’[597] ‘Pike,’ and ‘Pickerel.’ ‘John Sturgeon’ is

mentioned by Foxe in his ‘Martyrology,’ under date 1541, and still

remains. The Hundred Rolls contain a ‘William Lampreye.’ ‘Barnacle’ is

still common, and ‘Mussell’ and ‘Spratt’[598] are not unknown. But

perhaps the most curious of these early nicknames are those belonging to

‘Matilda le Welke’ and ‘William Welkeshorn.’ Probably they were

notorious for a weakness towards that mollusk, which is still eaten in

large quantities in some parts of England.

(_d_) _Insects and Reptiles._—This is not a large class. The Hundred

Rolls furnish us with a ‘Magge Flie’ and an ‘Oda[599] Flie.’ The same

records contain a ‘Margaret Gnatte’ and a ‘William Gnatte.’ ‘Baldewin

Bugg’ (B.) and ‘Bate Bugge’ (A.) are also found, but although the

question has been asked—

If a party had a voice,

What mortal would be a Bugg by choice,

I fancy the cognomen is local, one of the endless forms, like ‘Brough,’

‘Burgh,’ ‘Burkes,’ of the old ‘Borough.’ ‘Roger le Waps’[600] reminds us

of the still existing provincialism for wasp, and ‘William Snake’ or

‘John Frog’ would be as little acceptable.[601] The smallest and most

repulsive insect we have, the parasitic louse, is found in ‘Nicholas le

Lus’ (J.), but our directories have now got rid of it—an example that

might be followed with no small advantage in other quarters.

(2) _Descriptive Compounds affixed as Nicknames._

But in an age like that of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries we

cannot imagine that society would be merely required to come under a

verbal castigation such as, after all, did nothing more than strike off

the names of the animals that entered into Noah’s Ark. To call a man a

‘wolf’ or a ‘bull’ or a ‘grayling’ or a ‘salmon’ or a ‘peacock,’ after

all, is not very dreadful. Terms of a more compound form, sobriquets

more minutely anatomical, are also met with, the unpleasantness of which

is proved by the fact of so few of them having come down to us, while

not a small portion, as not fit for ears polite, must be altogether left

in their obscurity. There are others, however, of which none need to be

ashamed. For instance, the kingly denomination of ‘Quer-de-lyun’ (‘Ralph

Querdelyun,’ T., ‘William Querdelion,’ X.),[602] found in several lists,

could not but be agreeable, while ‘Dan-de-lyun,’ or ‘lion-toothed’

(‘William Daundelyun,’ B.), would be in thorough harmony with the spirit

of the age. ‘Colfox’ (‘Thomas Colfox,’ Z.), still existing, would be

less pleasant. The term ‘fox’ is supposed in itself to be synonymous

with deceit, but the intensive ‘col-fox’ or ‘deceitful-fox’ must have

implied duplicity indeed! Chaucer, in his ‘Nunn’s Story,’ speaks of

A col fox full of sleigh iniquity.

‘Clenehog’ (‘William Clenehog,’ A.) or ‘Clenegrise’ (‘Roger Clenegrise,’

A.) would seem to be a sarcasm upon the dirty habits of its early owner,

while ‘Piggesflesh’ (‘Reyner Piggesflesh,’ M.) or Hoggesflesh’ (‘Margery

Hoggesflesh,’ Z.)[603] is as obviously intended to be a reflection upon

the general appearance. ‘Herring’ (‘Robert Heryng,’ A.), already

mentioned, is not objectionable, but ‘Goodherring’ (‘Adam Godharing,’

A.) and ‘Redherring’[604] (‘William Redhering,’ M.) are. ‘Fish’ one

would not for a moment find fault with, but few young ladies, I imagine,

would be found to face at the matrimonial altar a ‘John Pourfishe’ (M.).

Objection, too, if not by the fair inamorata, yet by her parents, would

be raised, I suspect, to an alliance with a ‘Roger Feldog,’ or ‘Thomas

Catsnose,’ or ‘William Cocksbrain,’ or ‘Robert Calvesmaw,’ or ‘Peter

Buckeskyn,’ or ‘Arnulph Dogmaw,’ or ‘Henry Crowfoot,’ or ‘Matthew

Goosebeak,’ or ‘John Bullhead.’[605] Talking of the last, however, it is

interesting to notice how much the bull has entered into compounds of

this kind. Thus we light upon such names as ‘Walter Oyl-de-beof’ or

‘William Oldbeof,’ that is, bull-eyed; ‘Ralph Front-de-bœuf,’ that is,

bull-faced; ‘John Cors-de-bœuf’ or ‘Thomas Cordebeofe,’ that is,

bull-bodied; ‘John Queer-de-bœf,’ that is, bull-hearted, or ‘Amice le

Wildebœf’ or ‘Nicholas Waldebeof,’ seemingly like ‘Wild-bore,’ referring

to some wild untutored characteristics of the bearer. In all these the

genius of the age is quite apparent, and probably not one was looked

upon as otherwise than complimentary. ‘William Scorchebouef’ was

evidently some unlucky young kitchener who had mismanaged his duties as

spit-turner, but it betrays the process by which the term ‘bœuf’ has

come into its present position of verbal usefulness. In this light

‘Cors-de-bœuf’ also is further interesting as reminding us that there

was a time when ‘corpse’ did not necessarily imply the inanimate frame.

‘Behold, they were all dead corpses,’ found in our Authorized Version,

was no tautology, it would appear, even in the seventeenth century. Thus

do changes creep over the lives of words as well as men.

We might fill a book with these descriptive compounds—surnames so

whimsical, so absurdly humorous that they manifestly could not live. For

instance, we meet in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries with such a

sobriquet as ‘William Hondeshakere,’ which no doubt spoke for the hearty

goodwill of its easy possessor. ‘Geoffry Chese-and-brede’ seems to refer

to the peculiar taste of its owner, while ‘Arnold Scutelmouth’ would be

a sarcasm on personal capacity for such things. ‘Alan Swet-in-bedde’

would not be an acceptable cognomen, nor ‘William Badneighbour,’ nor

‘Thomas Two-year-olde,’ nor ‘Geoffrey Dringkedregges,’ nor ‘Anna

Hellicate’ (hell-cat).[606] ‘Alice Gude-ale-house’ was evidently a

homely landlady, who kept her tavern in good repute by assiduous

attention and good-humoured ways. ‘William Kepegest’ would seem to

bespeak the kindly cheer of more private hospitality, while ‘John

Drybread,’ if not stingy, was doubtless crusty. ‘John Ratelle-bagge,’ or

‘John Leve-to-day,’ or ‘Serle Go-to-Kirk,’ or ‘Thomas Horsenail,’ or

‘John Lightharness,’ or ‘Richard Myldew,’ or ‘John Buckleboots,’ or

‘Edward Tortoise-shell,’[607] or ‘John Hornbuckle,’ while conveying no

slight upon the character, would be obnoxious enough as surnames. Our

‘Doolittles,’ ‘Lovejoys,’ ‘Scattergoods,’ ‘Makepeaces,’ and ‘Hatewrongs’

belong to this same category. A large and varied assortment of this

class will be found in the notes to this chapter, and to them I refer

the reader. They are of a class which were especially popular at the

time of which we are writing. Many of them are used as expletives in the

railing poets and writers of the period. For instance, the author of

‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote’ speaks of—

‘Slingthrift Fleshmonger,’

Also ‘Fabian Flatterer,’ and ‘Cicely Claterer,’

With ‘Adam Averus,’ flail-swinger,

And ‘Francis Flaproach,’ ...

With ‘Giles Unreste,’ mayor of Newgate,

And ‘Lewis Unlusty, the leesing-monger.’

Here is ‘Will Wily,’ the mill-pecker (thief),

And ‘Patrick Peevish,’ hairbeater,

With ‘Davy Drawlatch’[608] of Rockingham.

Also ‘Hick Crookneck,’ the rope-maker,

And ‘Steven Measellmouth,’ mussell-taker,

With ‘Gogle-eyed Thompson,’ shepster of Lynn.

The above selection of fancy names will give us a fair idea of the kind

of sobriquet which went down with the lower orders during the Angevine

and Plantagenet dynasties.

But the largest branch of descriptive compounds is yet to be mentioned.

We find not a few instances where names of simple relationship or

occupation or office, or even, we may add, of patronymic character,

having become compounded with adjectives expressive of the feeling of

those with whom the nominee had to deal, naturally place themselves

under this same category. These, so far as they have come down to us,

are generally of a favourable, or at least harmless, description. Thus,

to notice Christian names first, this has especially been the case with

‘John.’ Probably as this sobriquet grew into favour the practice became

the means of distinguishing between several of the same title. Thus, as

I hinted in my previous chapter, if John were doughty, he became

‘Prujean,’[609] that is, preux-jean; if fat, ‘Grosjean;’ if young,

‘Youngjohn;’[610] if clownish, ‘Hobjohn;’ if big, ‘Micklejohn;’ if

small, ‘Littlejohn,’[611] or ‘Petitjean;’[612] if of a sunburnt

countenance, ‘Brownjohn;’[613] and if comely or well proportioned,

‘Properjohn;’ thus preserving a once familiar sense of ‘proper,’ which

we may meet with in such an olden phrase as a ‘proper knight,’ or in our

present Authorized Scripture Version, where our translators make St.

Paul speak of Moses in his infancy as a ‘proper child.’[614] Lastly, we

have the estimable ‘Bonjohn,’ the origin, I doubt not, of ‘Bunyon’ and

‘Bunyan,’ the familiar bearer of the latter form of which we shall all

doubtless admit to be well worthy his name. It is happy chance that when

we speak, as we often do, of ‘_good John_ Bunyan,’ we simply give him a

reduplication of that very title which none more richly merits than he.

In 1310 there was a ‘Jon Bonjon’ in London, and still earlier than this

a ‘Durand le Bon Johan’ figures in the Hundred Rolls.[615] Several

others we may mention, more Saxon in their character, and all long

obsolete, save one. Indeed, I doubt not they died with their original

possessors. These are ‘Robert Good-robert’ (P.) and ‘Richard

White-richard’ (J.), ‘William Holy-peter’ (A.) ‘William Jolif-will’ (A.)

(_i.e._ ‘Jolly-Will’),[616] and ‘William Prout-pierre’ (M.). ‘William

Goodhugh’ (M.), however, has contrived to hold his own, unless, as Mr.

Lower thinks, it belongs not to this category, but one I have already

surveyed, that regarding complexion. Its early form of ‘Godhewe’ would

seem perhaps to favour his notion. Names of this class, however, are

rare. When we come to occupation the instances are much more common.

Thus if we have ‘Husband,’ who doubtless owes his origin to his

economical rather than his marital position, we have, besides,

‘Younghusband’—in his day, I dare say, a somewhat precocious youth—the

now obsolete ‘Goodhusband;’ if ‘Skinner,’ then ‘Langskinner;’ if

‘Wright,’ then ‘Longwright’ or ‘Longus-Faber,’ as it is Latinized in our

rolls; if ‘Smith,’ then ‘Gros-smith,’ that is ‘big-smith,’ or

‘Wild-smith’ or ‘Youngsmith;’ or if ‘Groom,’ then ‘Good-groom’[617] and

‘Old-groom.’ If we have ‘Swain,’ we had also ‘Goodswain,’ or

‘Brownswain,’ or ‘Madswain,’ or ‘Summerswain,’ or ‘Cuteswain,’ or

‘Colswain’ (that is, deceitful swain, or ‘Littleswain;’ if ‘King,’[618]

then ‘Littleking,’ ‘Coyking,’ ‘Brownking,’ ‘Whiteking,’ and ‘Redking;’

if ‘Hine,’ or ‘Hyne,’ or ‘Hind,’ a peasant somewhat similar to Swain,

then also ‘Goodhyne;’ if ‘Bond,’ then ‘Youngbond;’ if ‘Knave’ or

servant, then ‘Smartknave,’ ‘Whiteknave,’ ‘Brownknave,’ and ‘Goodknave,’

the latter a strange compound to modern ears;[619] if ‘Clerk,’ then

‘Bonclerk,’ ‘Beauclerk,’ ‘Goodclerk,’ ‘Mauclerk,’[620] and

‘Redclerk;’[621] if ‘Page,’ then ‘Littlepage’[622] and ‘Smallpage,’ and

to put it here for convenience, ‘Lawpage;’ if ‘Wayt,’ a ‘watchman,’ then

‘Smartwayt,’ ‘Stertwait’ (active, on the alert), and ‘Goodwayt;’ if

‘Man’ or ‘Mann,’ a relic of the old ‘le Man’ or menial, then also

‘Goodman,’ a term, however, which became early used of any honest

householder.[623] ‘Le Mayster’ or ‘Master’ was common enough, but I am

sorry to say I have not lighted upon a ‘Goodmayster’ as yet. Thus

‘Fellowe’ also, or ‘Fellowes,’ as we now have it, is met by ‘Goodfellow’

and ‘Longfellow;’ ‘Child’ by ‘Goodchild’ and the obsolete ‘Evilchild;’

‘Son’ by ‘Littleson’ and ‘Fairson;’ ‘Sire’ by ‘Littlesire’ and

‘Fairsire;’ ‘Nurse’ by ‘Goodnurse,’ and ‘Fowl’ by ‘Goodfowl.’ Norman

equivalents for these, however, were not wanting. ‘Goodfellow’ had its

mate in ‘Boncompagnon,’ ‘Goodbody’ in ‘Bonecors,’ ‘Goodwait’ in

‘Bonserjeant,’ ‘Goodclerk’[624] in ‘Bonclerk,’ and ‘Goodman’[625] in

‘Bonhomme’ (our present ‘Bonham’)[626] and ‘Prudhomme’ or ‘Pridham.’

‘Evilchild’ found itself face to face with ‘Malenfant,’ ‘Littlesire’

with ‘Petitsire,’ ‘Goodchild’ with ‘Bonyfant,’ ‘Bonenfant,’ or

‘Bullivant,’ as we now have it, and ‘Godson’ or ‘Goodson,’ it may be,

with ‘Bonfils’ or ‘Boffill.’ We have still ‘Clerk,’ but ‘Bonclerke,’ if

not ‘Beauclerk,’ is obsolete; ‘Squier,’ but ‘Bonsquier’ has disappeared;

‘Chevalier’ also thrives, while ‘Bonchevalier’ is extinct. In some cases

the simple and the compound forms are both wanting. It is so with our

former ‘Vadlets’ and ‘Bonvalets,’ our ‘Vileins,’ ‘Beauvileyns,’ and

‘Mangevileyns’ (scabby), our ‘Queynts’ and ‘Bonqueynts,’ and our

‘Aventures’ and ‘Bonaventures,’ the latter sobriquet evidently given to

one who had acquitted himself well in some mediæval joust or tournament.

It is found in several records. Piers Plowman uses the term simple, when

he speaks of Faith crying—

As dooth an heraud of armes,

When aventrous cometh to justes.

‘Christian,’ which may be but the proper name, still lives, though

‘Bonchristien’ is gone; and ‘Count,’ too, lingers, ‘Boncount’ being

obsolete. Sometimes, strangely enough, the French idiomatic compounds

got literally translated into Saxon, resulting in terms of utterly

different meaning. Thus, as I have already shown, ‘Beaupere’ met face to

face with ‘Fairsire,’ ‘Beaufiz’[627] with ‘Fairchild,’ and ‘Beaufrere’

with ‘Fairbrother.’ But this bare and naked translation into the

vernacular seems to have been a general practice. The Norman

‘Petyclerk,’ for instance, was speedily met by ‘Smalwritere,’

‘Blauncpayne’ by ‘Whitbred,’ and ‘Handsomebody,’ over which much

obscurity has lingered, is, I have no hesitation in asserting, a

directly Saxonised form of ‘Gentilcors,’ a name not unfrequently met

with at this date.

Many of the names I have mentioned above, however, are, strange to say,

being reproduced in the present day after a curious fashion. The

multiplication of forenames has been the primary cause of this.[628] In

many cases these, by becoming as it were adjectives to the surname, form

sobriquets no less ludicrous and striking than those which for that very

reason so soon became obsolete. Thus such a combination as ‘Choice

Pickrell’ is exactly equivalent to ‘Goodherring’ just alluded to. ‘Arch

Bishop’ restores the archiepiscopal name which fell into abeyance in the

twelfth century; while such other names as ‘Perfect Sparrow,’ ‘Savage

Bear,’[629] ‘Royal King,’ ‘Sing Song,’ ‘Ivory Mallet,’[630] ‘More

Fortune,’[631] ‘Christmas Day,’ ‘Paschal Lamb,’ ‘River Jordan,’[632] or

‘Pine Coffin,’[633] may be met by designations equally absurd, if less

travestied. These, of course, must be attributed to mere eccentricity on

the part of parents, rather than to accident. Combinations of this kind,

however, have arisen of late years through another circumstance. It not

unfrequently occurs that through certain circumstances two family names

are united. Thus we have such conjunctions as ‘Burdett-Coutts’ or

‘Sclater-Booth.’ Speaking of these reminds me of a story I have heard

anent a combination of this kind. A certain gentleman, it is said, of

the name of Colley, in bequeathing in his will a considerable estate to

a friend of the name of ‘Mellon,’ made it the condition of his

acceptance that the legatee added his benefactor’s name to his own. His

friend had no objection to the property, but when he found that his

acquiescence in the terms imposed would make him ‘Mellon-Colley’ to the

end of his days, he considered the matter afresh and declined the offer.

(3) _Nicknames from Oaths, Exclamations, Street-cries, and Mottoes._

(_a_) _Oaths._—A remarkable, though not a very large, batch of surnames

is to be referred to perhaps the most peculiar characteristic of

all—that of the use of profane, or at least idle oaths. The prevalence

of imprecations in mediæval times was simply extraordinary.[634] If the

writings of that period bear but the faintest comparison to the talk of

men, their conversation must have been strangely seasoned. For instance,

in the ‘Canterbury Tales’ we find introduced without the slightest

ceremony such oaths as ‘for Cristes passion,’ ‘by Goddes saule,’ ‘for

Cristes saule,’ ‘by Goddes dignitee,’ ‘Goddes banes,’[635] ‘Cristes

pein,’ ‘Goddes love,’ ‘Goddes hate,’ ‘Cristes foot,’ ‘God me save,’ and

the more simple ‘By-God,’ or ‘Parde’ or ‘Pardieu.’ That they are mostly

meaningless is their chief characteristic. ‘John Pardieu’ in the Rolls

of Parliament will represent our many ‘Pardews,’ ‘Pardows,’ ‘Pardoes,’

and ‘Pardies;’ and although I have given a different origin in my second

chapter,[636] I may mention ‘Alina le Bigod’ (J.), or ‘John le Bygot’

(M.). ‘Barbara Godselve’[637] (F.F.), ‘Richard Godesname’ (X.), ‘Richard

Godbeare’ (Z.), (now ‘Godbeer,’ ‘Godbehere,’ and ‘Goodbeer’), ‘Roger

Godblod’ (E.) (God’s blood), ‘Alicia Godbodi’ (A.) (God’s body), seem

all to be representative of familiar imprecations.

(_b_) _Mottoes._—In many cases we can scarcely doubt that ensigncy has

had something to do with the origin of our surnames. Edward III. at a

tournament had his trappings embroidered with the couplet—

Hay, hay, the white swan,

By God’s soule I am thy man.

‘Godsol’ and ‘Godsoule’ formerly existed, and may have so risen. Among

other names of this class may be mentioned ‘Janett God-send-us’[638] (W.

13), ‘Roger Deus-salvet-dominas,’[639] ‘John God-me-fetch,’ ‘John

Dieu-te-ayde,’ ‘John Flourdieu,’ ‘Henry Grace-dieu,’[640] ‘Henry

Warde-dieu,’ ‘John Depart-dieu,’ and ‘John Angel-dieu.’[641] From the

escutcheons of their wearers these would easily pass on to the men

themselves who first bore them as surnames.

(_c_) _Exclamations._—‘Peter Damegod’ (M.) and ‘John Domegode’ (O.),

meaning literally ‘Lord God,’ represent a once favourite expletive.[642]

We are here reminded that there was a time when ‘Dame,’ from _dominus_

and _domina_ alike, was applied to either sex. One or two exclamations

of less objectionable import are also to be met with. ‘William

Godthanke’ (A.) seems but a reversal of our ‘Thank God,’ while ‘Ralph

Godisped’ (A.), fossilised in our ‘Goodspeeds,’ may represent

‘God-speed-thee.’[643] ‘Richard Farewel’ (A.), ‘Simon Welfare’ (A.),

‘John Welcome’ (Z.Z.), ‘William Adieu’ (M.), would possess affixes

readily given for their kindly and oft utterance. Our ‘Rummelows,’

‘Rummileys,’ and ‘Rumbelows,’ without dispute, represent but the old

well-known cry of ‘Rombylow’ or ‘Rummylow,’ the sailor’s ‘Heave-ho’ of

later days. In the ‘Squire of Low Degree’ it is said—

Your mariners shall synge arow,

Hey how, and rumbylow.

The ancestor of those who bear the name was doubtless a sailor at some

period of his career.[644]

(_d_) _Street-cries._—The calls of hawkers could not of course escape

the good-humoured raillery of our forefathers. We find ‘Robert

Freshfissh’ (X.) to have been a fishmonger, and ‘John Freshfisch’ is set

down in the Rolls of Parliament. About the same time ‘Margaret

Fressheharyng’ dwelt in the Metropolis. ‘Agnes Godefouele’ (A.) and

‘Basilia Godfowele’ (A.) were manifestly poultry-women, for even the

most respectable occupations were then, as I have already shown,

itinerant. But perhaps the most curious thing of all is to notice the

price-calls that have found themselves inscribed in our registers. The

larger sums will have a different origin, but I place them here for

convenience sake. The Writs of Parliament give us a ‘Robert Peny;’ the

‘Wills and Inventories’ (Surt. Soc.), a ‘Thomas Fourpeni;’ the Hundred

Rolls, a ‘John Fivepeni;’ the ‘Cal. Rot. Originalium,’ a ‘Thomas

Sexpenne;’ the ‘Yorkshire Wills and Inventories’ (Surt. Soc.), a ‘John

Ninepennies;’ and the Hundred Rolls, a ‘Fulco Twelpenes.’[645] ‘James

Fyppound’ (Fivepound) is mentioned in ‘Materials for History of Henry

VII.’ So early as 1342 we find ‘John Twenti-mark’ to have been Rector of

Risingham (Norfolk, 1, 64); while ‘William Hunderpound’ was Mayor of

Lynn Regis in 1417 (do. viii. 532). This latter may be a translation of

a Norman sobriquet, for ‘Grace Centlivre’ and ‘Joseph Centlivre’ are set

down in a Surrey register of the same date. (‘Hist. and Ant. Survey,’

Index.) In both cases, I doubt not, the nickname was acquired from the

peculiarity of the source whence the income was derived. ‘Centlivre’

existed in the eighteenth century at least, for it was Mrs. Centlivre

who wrote the ‘Platonic Lady,’ which was issued in 1707. ‘Thomas

Thousandpound,’ the last of this class, appears in the ‘Wardrobe

Accounts’ (Edward I.), and concludes a list as strange as the most

ardent ‘lover of the curious’ could desire.[646]

Looking back, however, upon these earlier names, how many varied and

conflicting qualities of the human heart do they all reflect, some

honourable, some harmlessly innocent, the greater part, I fear,

discreditable. Of all how much might be said, but I refrain, lest I be

liable to a charge of acting contrary to the spirit of the kindly old

adage, ‘de mortuis nil nisi bonum’—‘speak no evil of the dead.’ Thus

telltale, however, are our surnames, and if it be no pleasant task to

expose the weaknesses and the frailties of them whose bones have so long

ere this crumbled into decay, still we may comfort ourselves with the

remembrance that their names, with many others I could have adduced had

space permitted, offer no kind of reflection upon their present

possessors. It is not unseldom we see the bearer of a worthy name

dragging the same through the dust and mire of an ignoble life. It is

amongst these names of somewhat unsavoury origin we oftentimes meet with

the best, and the truest, and the noblest of our fellows.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_The Alphabetical Letters appended to the Names furnished in the Index

refer to the Documents in the List here cited._

Hundred Rolls. _A._

Calendarium Inquisitionum Post Mortem. _B._

Calendarium Rotulorum Patentium in Turri Londinensi. _C._

Calendarium Rotulorum Chartarum. _D._

Rotuli Litterarum Clausarum in Turri Londonensi. _E._

Valor Ecclesiasticus. _F._

Calendarium Rotulorum Originalium. _G._

Rolls of Parliament. _H._

Placitorum in Dom. Cap. Westminster. _J._

Testa de Neville, sive Liber Feodorum. _K._

Calendarium Genealogicum. _L._

Writs of Parliament. _M._

Munimenta Gildhallæ Londoniensis. _N._

Issues of the Exchequer. _O._

Issue Roll. _P._

History and Antiquities of York (Pub. 1785). _Q._

Placita de Quo Warranto. _R._

Guild of St. George, Norwich. _S._

Excerpta e Rotulis Finium in Turri Londinensi. _T._

V. Camden Society Publications.

_V._ 1. Bury St. Edmunds Wills.

_V._ 2. Dingley’s History from Marble.

_V._ 3. Trevelyan Papers.

_V._ 4. Camden Miscellany.

_V._ 5. Smith’s Obituary.

_V._ 6. Diary of John Rous.

_V._ 7. Liber Famelicus—Sir James Whitelock.

_V._ 8. Chronicon Petroburgense.

_V._ 9. Proceedings against Dame Alice Kyteler.

_V._ 10. Autobiography of Sir John Bramston.

_V._ 11. Doomsday Book of St. Paul’s.

_V._ 12. Ricart’s Kalendar.

_V._ 13. Proceedings in Kent.

_V._ 14. Rutland Papers.

W. Surtees’ Society Publications.

_W._ 1. Coldingham Priory.

_W._ 2. Testamenta Ebor.

_W._ 3. Durham Household Book.

_W._ 4. Kirkby Inquest.

_W._ 5. Knight’s Fees.

_W._ 6. Nom. Villarum.

_W._ 7. Illustrative Documents.

_W._ 8. Priory of Finchdale.

_W._ 9. Fabric Rolls of York Minister, _and_ Wills and

Inventories.

_W._ 10. Hexham Priory.

_W._ 11. Corpus Christi Guild.

_W._ 12. Hist. Dunelm.

_W._ 13. Barnes’ Eccles. Proceedings.

_W._ 14. Visitation of Yorkshire.

_W._ 15. Feodarum Prior. Dunelm.

_W._ 16. Depositions from York Castle.

_W._ 17. Memorials of Fountains Abbey.

_W._ 18. Depositions and Eccles. Proceedings.

_W._ 19. Liber Vitæ.

_W._ 20. Remains of Dean Granville.

Memorials of London (Riley). _X._

Proceedings and Ordinances: Privy Council. _Y._

Calendar of Proceedings in Chancery (Elizabeth). _Z._

The Publications of the Chetham Society. _A A._

Wills and Inventories (Lancashire). _A A. 1._

Three Lancashire Documents. _A A._ 2.

Lancashire Chauntries. _A A._ 3.

Birch Chapel. _A A._ 4.

Rotuli Normanniæ in Turri Londinensi. _B B._

Documents Illustrative of English History. _D D._

Index to ‘Originalia et Memoranda.’ _E E._

History of Norfolk (Blomefield). _F F._

Fines (Richard I.). _G G._

History of Hertfordshire (Clutterbuck). _H H._

Rotuli Curiæ Regis. _M M._

Calendar and Inventories of the Treasury. _N N._

History of Leicestershire (Nicholl’s). _P P._

Register—St. James, Piccadilly. _Q Q._

State Paper office. _R R._

Patent Rolls. _R R._ 1.

Compoti. _R R._ 2.

Issue Rolls. _R R._ 3.

History of Durham (Surtees). _S S._

State Papers (Domestic). _T T._

Materials for History of Reign of Henry VII. _X X._ 1.

Registrum Abbatiæ Johannis Whethamstede. _X X._ 2.

Letters from Northern Registers. _X X._ 3.

Calendar to Pleadings (Elizabeth). _Z Z._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

INDEX OF INSTANCES.

Aaron, 83.

Aaron le Blund, _T_.

Aron Judde, _A_.

A’Becket (_v._ Beckett) 85.

Abbe, 191.

Radulf le Abbe, _C_.

Abbott, 191.

Juliana Abbot, _A_.

Ric. Abbot, _M_.

Abel, 82.

Abel le Orfeure, _T_.

Thomas Abel, _A_.

Abigail, 100.

Abigail Cordell, _Z_.

Abigail Tayler, _W_ 16.

Ablett, Ablott, 82. Abalotta de Forde, _A_.

William Abelot, _M_.

Ric. Abelote, _V_ 11.

Abner, 77.

Above-brook, 108.

John Abovebrok, _A_.

Above-town, 108.

Adelina Abovetoun, _A_.

William Abovetoun, _M_.

Abraham.

Gerard Abbraham, _A_.

Robert Abraam, _A_.

Absolom, 83.

Absolon in le Dyche, _A_.

Absolon fil. Simon, _C_.

Abstinence, 103.

Abstinence Pougher, 104, _n_.

Acatour, 210.

Bernard le Acatour, _M_.

John le Acatour, _M_.

Accepted, 104.

Accepted Frewen, 104, _n_.

Achatour, 210.

Jocius le Achatur, _A_.

Henry le Achator, _H_.

Acherman (_v._ Acreman), 259.

Alex. Acherman, _A_.

Acland, 120.

John Acklande, _Z_.

Acreman, 259.

Roger le Acreman, _A_.

Acroyd, 120.

Henry Aykeroid, _Z_.

Ric. de Akerode, _W_ 2.

Acton, 120.

Reiner de Acton, _M_.

Engelard de Actone, _A_.

Adam, 3, 81.

Adam fil. Warin, _M_.

Adam le Flecher, _T_.

Adams, 81.

Juliana Adams, _A_.

Richard Addames, _Z Z_.

Adamson, 81.

Hugh fil. Adam, _A_.

Hoel fil. Adam, _A_.

Adcock, Adcocks, 81.

William Adcock, _W_ 9.

Stephen Adcock, _Z_.

Hamme, son of Adecok, _A A_ 2.

Addison, 81.

Gilbert fil. Adæ, _C_.

Thomas Adesone, _R_.

Adela (_v._ Adelina), 19.

Adela uxor Roberti, _C_.

Adelaid (_v._ Alard), 21.

Adam Adelaad, _A_.

Adelina, 19.

Adelina le Heyr, _A_.

Henry fil. Adelyne, _A_.

Adieu, 512.

William Adieu, _M_.

Adkins, 81.

Adekin le Fuller, _A_.

William Adekyns, _E E_.

Adkinson, 81.

William Adkinson (London: Maitland).

Adlard (_v._ Adelard).

Agate, 111.

Richard Atte-gate, _A_.

Leonard Agate, _Z_.

Agatha, 19.

Agatha le Kareter, _A_.

Agatha de Dene, _B_.

Agnes, 19.

Thomas fil. Agneta, _J_.

Agnes le Brune, _A_.

Agrippina, 100.

Agrippina Bingley, _T T_.

Aguiler, 342.

Thomas le Aguiler, _M_.

William le Aguiler, _Q_.

Lucas le Aguler, _A_.

Aikman (_v._ Acreman), 259.

Ainsworth, 134.

Margaret Aynesworthe, _Z_.

Akerman (_v._ Acreman), 259.

Peter le Akerman, _A_.

John le Akurman, _B_.

Alabaster, 225.

Richard le Alblaster, _B_.

Henry le Alblaster, _M_.

Reginald le Arbelestre, _A_.

Alan (_v._ Allen).

Alan fil. Warin, _M_.

Alan le Chapelein, _L_.

Alanson (_v._ Allinson).

Brien fil. Alan, _C_.

William Alynson, _W_ 2.

Thomas Allason, _Z_.

Alard, 21.

Alard le Fleminge, _B_.

Alard le Burser, _H_.

Robert Alard, _M_.

Alaric.

Robert Alrych, _A_.

Agnes Alrich, _A_.

Albert, 29.

John Albert, _A_.

Robert Alberd, _A_.

Alcock, 55.

John Alcoc, _A_.

John Alkok, _H_.

Alder, 154.

Alderman, 186.

Thomas Alderman, _V_ 8.

Robert le Alderman, _A_.

Benjamin Aldermannus, _A_.

Alderson, 21.

John fil. Aldrech, _C_.

Christopher Alderson, _W_ 8.

Aldershot, 116.

Robert de Alreshawe, _M_.

Thomas Allshawe, _X X_.

Aldred, 21.

Aldred fil. Roger, J.

Aldred Andre, _A_.

Aldrech, Aldrich, 21.

John Alrich, _M_.

John Aldrich, _A_.

Alecot (_v._ Alicot), 87.

Alefounder, 392, _n_.

William Alefounder, _F F_.

Mary Alfounder, _P P_.

Richard Alefounder, _Z_.

Aleman, 165.

Custance de Alemania, _A_.

William Alemannus, _C_.

John le Aleman, _W_ 7.

Alexander, 98 (_v._ Saunder).

William Alexandre, _M_.

Nicholas Alesandre, _A_.

Alexander fil. Seman, _J_.

Aleyn (_v._ Allen).

Aleyn Forman, _H_.

Aleyn, _M_.

Alfred, 21.

Alured fil. Ivo, _J_.

Alfred Dionysius Langsomer, _A_.

Robert fil. Alfridi, _A_.

Alianora, 19, 72.

Alianora Bushe, _E E_.

Alicia Alianor, _R_.

Alice, Alicia, 19, 87, _n_.

Nicholas fil. Alicia, _A_.

Richard fil. Alice, _R_.

Alicot, 87.

Alecot fil. Almar, _C_.

William Alicot, _A_.

Alina (_v._ Alinot), 72.

Alina Atte-broc, _A_.

Alinot, Alinet, 19, 72.

William Alinot, _A_.

Alnot Red, _A_.

Havisia Alinet, _A_.

Aliot, 19, 72, 87.

Robert Aliot, _A_.

Walter Aliot, _A_.

Alyott de Symondston, _A A_ 2.

Alison

(1), 87, _n_.

Ric. fil. Alise, _A_.

Goselin fil. Alice, _A_.

John Alicesone, _R R_ 1.

(2), 87, _n_.

Alisceon de Tuxforth, _W_ 2.

Alison Gelyot, _H_.

Alison Wrangwish, _W_ 11.

Alkins, 87.

John Alkyn, _M_.

Allbright, 29.

Aylbreda de Cheny, _A_.

Aylbricht le Turner, _A_.

Albred de la Haye, _J_.

Allcock, 87.

William Allcocke, _Z Z_.

John Allcock, _Z Z_.

Allen.

Thomas fil. Alani, _M_.

Will. fil. Alani, _R_.

Allinson (_v._ Alanson).

John Alleynsone, _S_.

William Aleynsonne, _B B_.

George Alonsonne, _Z Z_.

Allison (_v._ Alison), 16, 87.

Allkins (_v._ Alkins), 87.

Allman (_v._ Aleman), 165.

Allott, 87.

Alote le Messer, _A_.

Alot Chapman, _F F_.

Thomas fil. Alote, _M_.

Allured (_v._ Alfred), 21.

Alured Ape, _A_.

William Alured, _M_.

Almaine (_v._ Aleman), 165.

Almaric, Almeric, 18, 29.

Almaric Breton, _M_.

Almaricus le Botiller, _B_.

Almoner, 193. Robert le Almoner, _H_.

Alured (_v._ Allured), 21.

Alwright, 278.

Richard Alwright, _Z_.

Amabilla, 19, 70.

Amabilla le Blund, _B_.

Amabil fil. Emme, _J_.

Amand (_v._ Samand), 125.

Aymer de St. Amand, _M_.

Amary, 29.

Rob. Amary, _A_.

Roger Ammary, _A_.

Amberson, 29.

Richard Amberson, 29, _n_.

Robert Amberson, 29, _n_.

Ambler, 440.

Thomas le Amblur, _A_.

William Ambler, _W_ 9.

Ame (_v._ Eame), 429.

Amelia (_v._ Emilia), 19, 87, _n_.

Amelot (_v._ Amelia), 87, _n_.

Nic. Amelot, _A_.

Ric. fil. Amelot, _A_.

Americ, 29.

Americus Balistarius, _E_.

Americ Wylson, _W_ 3.

Amery (_v._ Emery), 29.

Hugh Amery, _H_.

Amiable, 468.

Edward Amiable, _Z_.

Joan Amiable, _Z_.

Thomas Amable, _A_.

Amice, 17.

Geoff. fil. Amice, _R_.

Amice le Noble, _A_.

Robert fil. Amicie, _M_.

Amiger (_v._ Armiger), 199.

Robert Amiger, _Z_.

Amiot (_v._ Amy).

Amiot de Pontefracto, _DD_.

Walter fil. Amiot, _G G_.

William Amiot, _A_.

Amner (_v._ Almoner), 193.

Amor, Amor, 111.

Agnes atte-More, _B_.

Amy (_v._ Amelia).

Thomas Amye, _E E_.

Amy le Strange, _F F_.

Ananias, 100.

Ananias Dyce, _T T_.

Ancell (_v._ Ansell).

William Auncell, _M_.

Anchor, 196.

Sarra Ancorita, _A_.

Anderson, 94.

Alice fil. Andre, _A_.

Colyn Andresonne, _B B_.

John Andrewson, _Z Z_.

Andrew, Andrews, 94.

Nic. fil. Andree, _A_.

Emma Andreu, _A_.

Andreas le Orfeure, _L_.

Angel-Dei, 511.

Henry Angel-Dei, _A_.

Anger, 158.

Isabella Anger, _H_.

Hugh de Angiers, _J_.

Robert Angier, _X X_.

Angwin, 158.

Geoffrey le Aungevyn, _L_.

Maurice le Anjevin, _A_.

Simon le Angevin, _E_.

Anker (_v._ Anchor), 196.

Anketell, 22.

Anketil le Mercer, _A_.

Peter fil. Anketill, _C_.

Anketill fil. Thomas, _K_.

Annabel, 19.

Anabilla de Harpham, _W_ 2.

Peter fil. Annabel, _M_.

Annot, Annotson, (_v._ Alianora), 72.

John Annotson, _F F_.

Enota Coley, _A_.

William Annotyson, _F F_.

Anota Canun, _A_.

Anora (_v._ Alianora), 72.

Annora Vidua, _A_.

Annora le Aencurt, _K_.

Annore Beine, _A_.

Ansell, Anselm, 11.

William Ansel, _A_.

Anselm de Bamburgh, _A_.

John fil. Anselmi, _R_.

Anser, 403.

Ansketil (_v._ Asketil), 24.

Robert fil. Anskitiel, _W_ 12.

Anson, 72.

Elisha Annyson, _F F_.

Richard Anyson, _F F_.

Anthony (_v._ Antony).

Antioch, 169.

Nicholas Antioch, _M_.

Robert de Antiochia, _E_.

Antonison, 54.

Agnes Antonison, _Z_.

Antony.

John fil. Antony, _A_.

Antony Stilman, _H_.

Anvers, 170.

Richard de Anvers, _A_.

Thomas de Anvers, _R_.

Ape, 492.

John le Ape, _A_.

Alured Ape, _A_.

Apollonia, 100.

Apollonia Cotton, _T T_.

Applegarth, 133.

Robert del Apelgargh, _A_.

Geoffrey de Appelgarth, _K_.

Appletree, 129.

Thomas Appletree, _Z_.

Apple-john, 504.

Appleyard, 261, 133.

Nicholas de Apelyerd, _A_.

Thomas Appleyeard, _Z Z_.

Arblast, Arblaster 225.

John le Arblaster, _A_.

Reginald le Arblaster, _B_.

Urric le Arbelastre, _J_.

Archbishop (_v._ Archevesk), 186, 508.

Hugh Archiepiscopus, _C_.

Archdeacon, 187.

Richard l’Ercedekne, _V_ 9.

Thomas le Arsdekene, _A_.

Adam Ercedekne, _A_.

Archer, 225.

William le Archer, _B_.

Pagan le Archier, _E_.

Archevesk, 186.

Hugo le Archevesk, _C_.

William le Arceveske, _E_.

Archpriest, 187.

Roger le Archeprest, _J_.

Argent, 168.

Reginald de Argente, _A_.

John de Argenteyn, _R_.

Arkell, Arkettle, 25, _n_.

William Arkell, _W_ 2.

Simon fil. Arkill, _E_.

Roger Arketel, _A_.

Arkwright, 279.

Hugh Arkewright, _Z Z_.

Lawrence Arkewrighte, _Z Z_.

Arme, 436.

Armer, Armerer, 222.

Gwydo le Armerer, _A_.

Simon le Armurer, _G_.

Adam le Armerer, _M_.

Marion Armourer, _W_ 18.

Armiger, 199.

Thomas Armiger, _C_.

Nicholas Armiger, _E_.

Arminger (_v._ Armiger), 199.

Jeffry Arminger, _Z_.

Armitage, 196.

John Harmaytayge, _W_ 3.

Gregory Armitage, _Z_.

Armour (_v._ Armer), 222.

Amstrang, Armstrong, 436.

Adam le Armstrang, _G_.

William le Armestrang, _G_.

Guy le Armerecte, _A_.

Arnison, 28.

Arnald, 28.

Walter fil. Arnald, _A_.

Arnald atte Brok, _A_.

Arnet, 28.

Hugh Arnyet, _M_.

Milisent Arnet, _A_.

Arnold (_v._ Ernald), 28.

Arnoldus Bassett, _E_.

Arnold Lym, _H_.

Arnold Lupus, _H_.

Arnott (_v._ Arnett), 28.

Ernot Stead, _W_ 14.

Arnulph.

Arnulph Dogmaw, _A_.

Arnulfus de Derham, _C_.

Arras, 169.

Ralph de Arras, _A_.

Robert de Arraz, _N_.

Arrowsmith, 227, 281.

William Arowesmythe, _Z Z_.

John Arrowsmyth, _F_.

Arsmith (_v._ Arrowsmith), 227, 281.

Richard Arsmith, _Z_.

Arter, 158.

Robert de Artoys, _H_.

Arthur, 19, 20.

William fil. Arthuri, _A_.

Harthurus Bosewyll, _W_ 2.

Aquila, 100.

Aquila Wykes, _T T_.

Ash (_v._ Ashe), 154.

Ashburner 264.

Peter Ashburner, _Z Z_.

Thomas Ashburner, _Z Z_.

Ashe 154.

Paganel del Ash, _M_.

Roger atte Ashe, _F F_.

Asher, 113.

Ashes, 129.

Ashford, 146.

Walter de Ashford, _M_.

Roger Ashford, _Z_.

Ashley, 119.

John de Ashlegh, _K_.

Oliva de Esseligh, _E_.

Ashman, 113.

Walter Ascheman, _A_.

Thom. Asheman, _B_.

Ashover, 128.

Walter de Ashovere, _X X_ 4.

Ashurst, 116.

Adam de Ashurst, _M_.

John Asshenhyrst, _Z_.

Asketil, Askell, 24, 25.

Jordan Asketil, _A_.

William Asketil, _Q_.

Askill le Fisherman, _V_ 8.

Assman, 285.

Richard Asseman. _A_.

Roger Asman, _A_.

Astrier, 241.

William le Astrier, _E_.

Atcliffe, 110.

Atfield, 110.

Linota Ate-felde, _A_.

John Atefelde, _A_.

Athill, 110.

Bateman Ate-hil, _A_.

Gregory Attehill, _F F_.

Atkins, 81.

William Atkyns, _F_.

Thomas Atkyns, _H_.

Atkinson, 81.

John Attechenson, _X X_. 1.

Raufe Atkinson, _Z_.

Mariona Atkynsone, _W_ 19.

Atlay, Atlee, 119, 110.

Lawrence Atlee, _Z_.

Hugh Atlee, _Z_.

Attenborough, Atterbury, 110.

Walter Atteburg, _A_.

John Atte-bury, _M_.

Atton, 110.

William Atton, _B_.

Attridge, 110.

Jacob Atteriche, _A_.

Attree, 110.

Attwell, Atwell, 110.

Agnes Atte-well, _B_.

Wil. Atte Welle, _M_.

John Atwelle, _M_.

Atwater, 110.

Elias Atwatere, _A_.

William Atte-Water. (Lower’s _English Surnames._)

Atwood, 110, 154.

Richard Ate-wode, _A_.

Adam Atte-wood, _C_.

Atworth, 110.

Auberkin (_v._ Aubrey), 29.

Walter Auberkin, _A_.

Aubrey, 28.

Albericus Balister, _C_.

Albricus le Child, _T_.

Aubrey Bunt, _A_.

Audrey (_v._ Awdrey), 302.

Aumeric (_v._ Almaric), 17, 26.

Robert fil. Aumeric, _C_.

Aumoner (_v._ Almoner), 106.

Michael le Aumoner, _B_.

Walter le Aumoner, _M_.

Adam le Aumener, _G_.

Aunay, 154.

Aunger (_v._ Anger), 158.

Charles de Angers, _H_.

John de Aungiers, _M_.

Robert Aungier, _X X_. 1.

Aunsermaker, 403.

Thomas le Aunseremaker, _X_.

Aurifaber.

Adam le Aurifaber, _M_.

Andrew Aurifaber, _R_.

Austen, Austin.

Awsteyne Mayne, _Z_.

Astin de Bennington, _A_.

Wilekin fil. Austin, _C_.

Avelina, Aveline, 19, 87, _n_.

Avelina Batayl, _F F_.

Wydo Aveline, _A_.

Avelina le Gros, _J_.

Avener, 219.

Walter le Avenur, _A_.

William le Avenare, _G_.

Ralph le Avener, _M_.

Aventure, 507.

William Aventur, _A_.

Andrew Aventur, _A_.

Avery (_v._ Every), 27.

Avery le Batur, _A_.

Avere de Dayce, _A_.

Avice, 19.

Avice le Aubergere, _H_.

Avicia de Breaute, _E_.

Hawisia le Gros, _J_.

Avis, Avison, (_v._ Avice), 19.

Avis Tailor, _V_ 2.

Richard fil. Avice, _A_.

William Avison, _Z Z_.

Await (_v._ Wait), 184.

Thomas le Await, _M M_.

Awdrey, Awdry, 302.

Etheldreda Plote, _A_.

Audrey Bendish, _F F_.

Awdrie Butts, _Z_.

Aylmar, 29.

Aylmar Child, _A_.

Elyas fil. Ailmar, _C_.

Pleysaunt Aylmair, _H_.

Aylward, 21.

Simon fil. Aylwardi, _R_.

Alan Alward, _A_.

Ranulph Aluard, _M_.

Aylwin, 21.

Richard Alwine, _A_.

Thomas Ailwyne, _M_.

Aymon, 35.

Babbe (_v._ Barbara), 75, _n_.

Bertol Babbe, _A_.

Bacchus, 131.

Edmund atte Bakhus, _M_.

Henry del Bakehouse, _M_.

Thomas Bacchus, _Z Z_.

Bacheldor (_v._ Bachelor), 166.

Bachelor, Backler 199

Jordan le Bacheler, _L_.

Gilbert le Bacholer, _E_.

Backhouse (_v._ Bacchus).

Robert Backhouse, _V_ 5.

Backster, 364.

Giliana le Bacstere, _A_.

Geoffrey le Bakestere, _M_.

Bacon, 491.

John le Bacun, _T_.

Roger Bacon, _R_.

Badcock (_v._ Batcock), 92.

Roger Badecok, _M_.

Richard Badcok, _H_.

Badger, 295.

Nicholas Badger, _Z Z_.

Thomas Badgger, _Z Z_.

Badkins (_v._ Batkins), 92.

Badman, 194.

Simon Bademan, _A_.

Badneighbour, 501.

William Badneighbour, _P P_.

Bagger (_v._ Badger), 295.

Thomas le Baggere, _A_.

John Bagger, _X X_ 1.

Bagot (_v._ Bigot) 160.

Margery la Bagode, _K_.

Harvey Bagod, _E_.

Bagshaw, 117.

Nicholas Bagshawe, _Z_.

Humphrey Bagshawe, _Z Z_.

Bagshot, 116, John Bagshot, _H H_.

Bagster (_v._ Baxter), 364

Bailey, Bailif, Baillie, Baillif, 232.

Seman le Baylif, _J_.

Henry le Baillie, _M_.

John le Baillif, _B_.

Baird, 310.

Baker, 363.

Robert le Baker, _B_.

Walter le Bakare, _M_.

Balancer, Balauncer, 403.

Rauf le Balancer, _M_.

John Balauncer, _G_.

Radulf le Balauncer, _N_.

Balcock, 52.

Bald, 452.

Custance Balde, _A_.

Richard Bald, _A_.

Balderson, 52.

Ric. fil. Baldewin, _A_.

John fil. Baldewini, _R_.

Allaine Bawdyson, _V_ 3.

Baldwin, 18, 52.

Baudewin de Bitton, _A_.

Baldwin Boton, _C_.

Bawden Maynard (English Gilds, 320).

Ball (_v._ Bald), 452.

Roesia Balle, _A_.

Ballinger (_v._ Bullinger), 364.

Balmer, 263.

Christiana de (le?) Balmere, _P P_.

Balster, 225.

Thomas Balistarius, _Q_.

Bancroft, 132.

Banker, 414.

John le Bancker, _M_.

Banknott, 513.

Robert Banknott. _B_.

Bannerman, 200.

Barbar (_v._ Barber), 384, 205.

Richard le Barbar, _A_.

Barbara, 75, _n_.

Barbara Bickerdyke, _W_ 16.

Barbara Claxtone, _W_ 19.

Barbelot, 75, _n_.

Nicholas Barbelot, _A_.

Barbot 75, _n_.

John Barbot, _A_.

Barberess, 384.

Matilda la Barbaresse, _A_.

Isabel le Barbaresse, _A_.

Barber, 205, 384.

Bela le Barber, _A_.

Luke le Barber, _M_.

Barbitonsor, 384.

Thomas le Barbitonsor, _J_.

William le Barbitonsor. _H_.

Barbour, 205, 384.

Richard le Barbour, _M_.

Robert le Barbour, _M_.

Bardsley.

William de Bardesley, _H_.

Robert de Bardesle, _A_.

Barefoot, 440.

Norman Barefoot, _A_.

Roger Barefoot, _Z_.

Barge, 409.

Gerard de la Barge, _C_.

Barker, 331.

William le Barcur, _A_.

Osbert le Barker, _M_.

Robert Barcarius, _A_.

Barkmaker, 290.

Edmund Barkmaker, _Z Z_.

Barkman (_v._ Barker).

John Barkman, _W_ 18.

Barleybread, 367.

Toser Barlibred, _M_.

Barleycorn, 367.

Richard Barlecorn, _A_.

Barnabas, Barnaby 96, 97.

Barnabe le Teyl, _A_.

Burnaybe Brooke, _Z_.

Barnaby Benison, _Z_.

Barnacle, 497.

Barne, 202.

William le Barne, _A_.

Thomas le Barne, _T_.

Barnes, 135.

Warin de la Barne, _A_.

Baron, 175.

Robert le Baron, _A_.

Walter le Baron, _M_.

Barrell, 144, 395.

John Baryl, _A_.

Ralph Barel, _A_.

Gilbert Barrell, _V_ 5.

Barreller, 395.

Stephen le Bariller, _E_.

Barter.

Hugh le Bartur, _A_.

Bartholomew, 91.

John Bartylmewe, _Z Z_.

Lawrence fil. Bartholemew, _A_.

Bartle, 92.

John fil. Bertol, _A_.

Bartel Frobisher, _W_ 9.

Bartly Bradforth, _W_ 9.

Bartlett, 92.

Bartelot Govi, _A_.

Thomas Bartholot, _A_.

Edward Barthlette, _F F_.

Thomas Berthelett, _V_ 3.

Baskerville, 151.

Sibilla de Baskerville, _M_.

Isolda Baskerville, _E_.

Baskett, 144.

Bass, 432.

Alice la Basse, _A_.

Robert le Bas, _B B_.

Bastard, 378.

Peter le Bastard, _B_.

Robert le Bastard, _E_.

Nicholas le Bastard, _A_.

Batcock, 92.

Robert Batecoc, _A_.

John Batekoc, _M_.

Bateman, 22.

Bateman Gille, _A_.

Bateman Taye, _A_.

Bateman de Capele, _A_.

Batemanson, 22.

Thomas Batemanson, _F_.

Geoffrey Batmanson, _W_ 3.

Richard Batmonson, _W_ 12.

Bater, 327.

Avery le Batour, _A_.

Adam le Batur, _A_.

William le Batur, _B_.

Bates, 92.

Bate Bugge, _A_.

Bate le Tackman, _A_.

Bate fil. Robert, _A_.

Batkins, 92.

Batekyn le Clerk, _A_.

Batekin Lahan, _A_.

Batson, 92.

John Bateson, _F_.

Gilbert Batessone, _M_.

Batt, 439.

Geoffrey le Batt, _B_.

Walter le Bat, _G_.

Battenson (_v._ Betonson), 68.

John Battenson, _Z_.

Batty, 92.

William fil. Battay, _W_ 5.

Ralph Baty. _K_.

Baucock, 475.

Baud, 477.

William le Baud, _B_.

Wauter le Baud, _M_.

Bawcock, 475.

Baxter, 364.

Elias le Baxtere, _M_.

Barth le Bakesture, _B_.

Andrew le Bakester, _G_.

Bay, 445.

Walter le Bay, _A_.

Robert le Bey, _B_.

Bayard, 445.

Thebald le Bayard, _A_.

Thomas Bayard, _A_.

Bayley (_v._ Bailey), 197.

Beaddall, Beadell, Beadle, (_v_. Bedell), 181.

Beaman (_v._ Beeman), 262.

Beanover (_v._ Over).

Richard Beanover, _B_.

Bear, 488.

Richard le Bere, _A_.

Lawrence le Bere, _M_.

Bearbait, 306.

Thomas Barebat, _A_.

Alex. Barebat, _A_.

Bearbaste, 306.

Geoffrey Barebast, _A_.

John Barbast, _A_.

Beard, 449.

Peter Wi-the-Berd, _D_.

Hugo cum-Barba, _A_.

Bearman, 306.

Ralph Bareman, _A_.

Bearward, 306.

Michael le Bereward, _A_.

Beater, 326.

John le Betere, _A_.

Beaton (_v._ Beton), 68.

Beatrice, Beatrix, 19, 67,

Beatrix Cokayn, _B_.

Beatrice de Knol, _J_.

Beatson, 68.

Walter fil. Betricie, _A_.

Richard fil. Beatrice, _R_.

Beau.

Richard le Beau, _M_.

Beauchamp, 151.

William de Beauchamp, _K_.

Isolda de Bello-Campo, _E_.

Beauclerke, 505.

Charles Beauclerke, _P P_.

Beaufils, 430.

Henry Beaufitz, _M_.

Hugh Beaufiz, _A_.

John Beaufitz, _X X_ 1.

Beauflour, 503.

Thomas Beauflour, _M_.

Jacobus Beauflour, _G_.

Beaufrere, 430.

Roger Beaufrere, _M_.

Walter Beaufrere, _M_.

Beaumont, 151.

Alice de Beaumont, _M_.

Robert de Beaumond, _M_.

Beaupere, 430.

Beauvileyn, 507.

William Beauvilayn, _R_.

William Belvilein, _E_.

Beauvoir, 489.

Roger de Belvoir, _M_.

Beaver, 489.

John le Bever, _G_.

Ino le Bevere, _N_.

Beck, 113.

William en le Bec, _A_.

William atte Beck, _M_.

Becker, 113.

Beckett

(1), 111.

John de Beckote, _A_.

Wydo del Beck’t, _R_.

(2),

Becket fil. Emeric, _E_.

Beckman, 113.

Bedell, 151.

Reginald le Bedel, _B_.

Roger le Bedel, _M_.

Bedson (_v._ Betson), 92.

Bedweaver, 358.

Geoffrey Bedwevere, _S_.

Bee (_v._ Wasp),

Nicholas le Be, _J_.

Cuthbert Bee, _W_ 9.

Beech, 128.

Eufemia de la Beche, _B_.

Robert de la Beche, _K_.

Beecher, 113.

John Becher, _A_.

Henry le Beechur, _A_.

Beechman, 113.

Beef, 490.

Robert le Bef, _A_.

Richard le Bœf, _A_.

John le Beuf, _M_.

Mary Beefe, _Q Q_.

Beeman, 262.

Beerbrewer, 379.

Lawrence Berbrewer, _F F_.

Lambert Beerbruer, _W_ 11.

Beere, 138.

Thomas de la Beere, _B_.

Behind-the-brook, 108.

Reginald Behundebroke, _A_.

Behind-the-water, 108.

Thomas Behundewattre, _A_.

Belham, 443.

William Belhom, _A_.

William Belhomme, _M_.

Bell

(1), 443.

Peter le Bel, _A_.

Walter le Bel, _G_.

Robert le Bel, _B_.

(2), 80.

Richard fil. Bell, _A_.

Bele le Felawe, _A_.

Beyll Horsle, _W_ 9.

(3), 142.

John atte Belle, _V_.

Richard atte Bell, _M_.

John atte Belle, _X_.

Bellejambe, 438.

Peter Belljambe, _A_.

Richard Beljaumbe, _M_.

Alex. Belejambe, _A_.

Bellet, 80.

Robert Belet, _A_.

Belet le Pestour, _H_.

Bellewether, 472.

John Bellewether, _M_.

Stephen de (le?) Belwether, _M M_.

Bellhouse, 131.

Thomas de la Belhous, _A_.

Walter atte Belhous, _M_.

Bellman, 183, 296.

John Belman, _Z Z_.

Christopher Bellman, _Z Z_.

Bellot (_v._ Bellet), 80.

Adam Belot, _A_.

Bellows (_v._ Bellhouse), 131.

John Belhows, _W_ 2.

Isabel Bellows, _W_ 2.

Bellringer, 183, _n_.

Sarah Bellringer, 183 _n_.

Bellson, 80.

John Bellesone, _M_.

Ann Bellson, _W_ 9.

Belteste, 435.

John Beleteste, _A_.

Belzeter, 402.

Robert le Belzetere, _B_.

William le Belzetere, _B_.

Beman (_v._ Beeman), 262.

Benbow, 462.

Roger Benbow, _F_.

William Bendebow, _X_.

Bencher, 414.

Roger le Bencher, _A_.

Bendbow (_v._ Benbow), 462.

Beneath-the-town, 108.

Alyva Benetheton, _A_.

Roger Benethenton, _A_.

Benedict (_v._ Bennet).

Benison (_v._ Bennet).

Barnaby Benyson, _Z_.

Simon Benesson, _F_.

Benn (_v._ Bennet).

Eborard Benne, _A_.

Benne fil. Ive, _M_.

Antony Ben, _V_ 7.

Bennet, 189.

Reginald fil. Beneyt, _A_.

Benet Lorkyn, _N_.

Bennetson (_v._ Bennet).

Roger Bennetson, _F_.

William Bennetson, _H_.

William Benetson, _W_ 17.

Benson (_v._ Bennet).

Alison Benson, _W_ 17.

Ann Bensone, _W_ 9.

Bercher, 271.

Thomas le Bercher, _R_.

Dorken le Bercher, _A_.

Berecroft, 132.

William Barecrofte, _Z Z_.

Berger (_v._ Bercher), 271.

Berkley, 119, 129.

Robert de Berchelay, _E_.

Maurice de Berkelay, _A_.

Berman, 306.

Alan Berman, _M_.

William Berman, _A_.

Bernard.

William fil. Bernard, _A_.

Bernard Coronator, _A_.

Berner, 236.

Reginald le Birner, _A_.

Richard le Berner, _R_.

Berners, 236.

John de Berners, _E_.

Matilda de Berners, _E_.

Berriman, 138.

John Buryman, _F_.

Jane Berryman, _Z_.

Berry, 138.

Alex. de Bery, _B_.

Nicholas de la Bere, _B_.

Bertie.

Alexander fil. Berte, _A_.

Berward (_v._ Bearward).

Bessie, 52, _n_.

Best, 463, 487.

Richard le Beste, _A_.

Henry le Beste, _X_.

Edith Beest, _Z_.

Be-steadfast, 103.

Be-steadfast Elyarde.

Bethell, 13.

Evan ap Ithell, _Z_.

Jevan ap Ithell, _Z_.

Beton, 68.

Betin de Friscobald, _O_.

John Betyn, _H H_.

Betonson, 16, 68.

Robert Betonson, _W_ 11.

John Bettenson, _P P_.

Thomas Betanson, _H H_.

Betson, 68, 92.

William Beteson, _W_ 2.

Thomas Betisson, _F F_.

Betsy, 52, _n_.

Betton (_v._ Beton), 68.

James Betton, _H H_.

Betts, 92.

Margery Bettes, _W_ 2.

Thomas Betts, _Z_.

Betty, 92.

Bevan, 45.

Eygnenn ap Yevan, _D_.

Howel ap Evan, _M_.

Bidder, 314, _n_.

Ernald le Bider, _J_.

Biddle (_v._ Bedell), 181.

John Biddle, _V_ 5.

Bidman, 194.

Bigg, 431.

Agatha Bigge, _A_.

Elias Bigge, _A_.

Bigod, Bigot, 159, 510.

Roger le Bygod, _A_.

Alina le Bigod, _J_.

William le Bygot, _A_.

John le Bygot, _M_.

Bill, 44, 459.

Billingster, 380, _n_.

Henry Billingster, _E E_.

Billiter (_v._ Belzetere), 402.

Margaret Billyetter, _F F_.

Edmund Belletere, _F F_.

Billman, 222.

Richardus Billman, _W_ 19.

Stephen Bylman, _F F_.

Bills, 44.

Billsmith, 281.

Bilson, 44.

Henry Bilson, _Z_.

Edmund Bilsone, _F F_.

Thomas Bilson, _V_ 7.

Birch, 129.

Hugh de la Byrche, _A_.

John atte Birche, _M_.

Bird, 493.

John le Bird, _A_.

David le Bird, _A_.

Ralph le Brydde, _V_ 12.

Birkenshaw, 129, 117.

William Burchingshawe, _Z_.

Robert Beckinshaw, _Z_.

Birks (_v._ Birch), 129.

Bartholomew Birks, _F F_.

Birmingham, 147.

John de Burmyngham, _M_.

William de Bermingham, _A_.

Bishop, 186.

John le Bissup, _A_.

Robert le Biscop, _C_.

Bithewater (_v._ Bywater).

Black, 444.

Ederick le Blacke, _A_.

Stephen le Blak, _G_.

Blackamoor, 161.

Simon Blakamour, _R R_ 1.

Beatrix Blakamour, _X_.

Richard Blackamore, _F F_.

Blackbeard, 449.

Richard Blacberd, _A_.

Thomas Blackberd, _W_ 18.

Peter Blackbeard, _W_ 20.

Blackbird, 494.

Priscilla Blackbird, 494, _n_.

Blackdam, 500.

Joan Blackdam, _F F_.

Blacker, 328.

Roger le Blackere, _M_.

Geoff. le Blakere, _M_.

Blackester, 328.

William le Bleckestere, _A_.

Richard le Bleckstere, _M_.

Robert Blaxter, _Z_.

Blackeye, 434.

Roger Niger-oculus, _L_.

Blackhat.

Henry Blakhat, _R R_ 1.

Blackhead, 435.

William Blackhead, 435, _n_.

John Blackhead, _F F_.

Blackinthemouth, 424.

William Blackinthemouth, _X_.

Blackleach (_v._ Leach).

John Blakeleach, _A A_ 3.

Thomas Blakelache, _A A_ 3.

Blacklock, 447.

Peter Blacklocke, _A_.

Dame Blaikelocke, _W_ 9.

Blackman, 446.

Elias le Blakeman, _B_.

Henry Blacman, _A_.

Blackmantle, 457.

Agnes Blackmantyll, _W_ 11.

Blacksmith, 281.

Nicholas the Blacksmith, _F F_.

John Blacksmythe, _Z Z_.

Bladesmith, 282.

John Bladesmyth, _S S_.

John Bladsmith, _F F_.

Thomas Bladesmith, _S_.

John Bladesmithe, _W_ 13.

Blake, 445.

Seman le Blake, _A_.

Warin le Blake, _R_.

Blakeman (_v._ Blackman), 446.

Thomas Blakman, _W_ 17.

Blamester.

Robert le Blaimester, _A_.

Blanche

(1), 19, 446.

Warin Blanche, _A_.

(2),

Blanche Chalons, _B_.

Blanchet, 446, 454.

Blanchflower, 442.

Faith Blanchflower, _Z_.

Blanchfront, 446, 437.

Philip Blanchfront, _F F_.

Joan Blaunkfront, _X X_ 4.

Amabil Blancfront, _G G_.

Blanchmains, 437.

Robert Blanchmains, _F F_.

Humbert Blanchmains, _P P_.

Blanchpain, 367, 508.

Roger Blancpain, _A_.

Edmund Blankpayn, _D_.

Blank, 446.

Riolle le Blanc, _C_.

John le Blank, _M_.

Blanket, 446, 454.

Robert Blanket, _B_.

John Blanket, _X_.

Blaxter (_v._ Blackester), 328.

Blind, 434.

Ralph le Blinde, _A_.

Wille Blynd, _J_.

Bliss, 452.

John Blisse, _A_.

Blisswench, 472.

Alicia Blissewenche, _A_.

Blocker, 264.

Deodatus le Blokkere, _A_.

Richard le Blockhewere, _E_.

Blond, 446.

Reginald le Blond, _A_.

Gilbert Blond, _F F_.

Blondel, 446.

Amicia Blondelle, _F F_.

Olive Blondell, _F F_.

Blood, 510.

William Blood, _X_.

Thomas Blood, _F F_.

Bloodletter, 383.

Thomas Blodletere, _A_.

William Bloodletter, _X_.

John Bloodlatter, _W_ 12.

Blount, 446.

David le Blound, _B_.

Hugh le Blount, _M_.

Blower, 236.

Mabil le Blouer, _A_.

Robert le Blowere, _T_.

Blowhorn (_v._ Hornblow), 236.

Gilbert Blouhorn, _A_.

Blubber, 469.

William le Blubere, _A_.

Nicholas Bluber, _A_.

Blue, 447.

Walter le Bleu, _E_.

Blund, 446.

Herbert le Blund, _A_.

Amabella le Blund, _B_.

Blundell, 446.

Jordan Blundel, _N_.

Petronilla Blundel, _T_.

Blunt, 446.

Alicia le Blunt, _B_.

Sibil le Blunt, _G_.

Blythe, 463, 472.

Antony Blythe, _Z_.

Richard Blythe, _Z_.

Blythman, 463.

William Blythman, _W_ 3.

Jasper Blithman, _Z_.

Boar, 491.

Richard le Bor, _A_.

Robert le Bor, _E_.

Boarder, 252.

Boardman, 252.

Hugh Boardman, _Z Z_.

Peter Boordman, _Z Z_.

Boatman, 409.

Peter Boatman, _F F_.

Jacob Boatman, _F F_.

Boatswain, 409.

Richard le Botsweyn, _M_.

Edward Botswine, _Z_.

Boatwright (_v._ Botwright), 277.

Bodkin, 51.

Robert Bodekin, _A_.

Andrew Bawdkyn, _W_ 9.

Body, 455.

William Body, _A_.

Robert Body, _F F_.

Boffill (_v._ Beaufils), 430, 507.

Bold

(1), 467,

William le Bold, _M_.

Robert le Bolde, _R_.

(2), 136,

John de la Bold, _A_.

Elias de la Bolde, _A_.

Bolderson (_v._ Balderson), 52.

Boleyn, Bollen, 168.

Simon de Boleyn, _F F_.

Richard de Boloygne, _A_.

John de Boloyne, _A_.

Bollinger, 364.

Richard le Bollinger, _E_.

Boloneis, 168.

Stacius le Boloneis, _A_.

Bolter, 275.

John le Boltere, _A_.

Geoffrey le Boltere, _A_.

Bon, 467.

John le Bon, _O_.

Duran le Bon, _M_.

Bonamy, 474.

William Bienayme, _A_.

William Bonamy, _A_.

Bonaventure, 507.

John Bonaventure, _H_.

Giot Bonaventure, _J_.

Bonchivaler, 507.

John Bonchivaler, _B_.

William Bonchevaler, _K_.

Bonclerk, 505.

Emma Bonclerk, _H_.

John Boneclerk, _H_.

Boncount, 507.

Guido Boncunte, _O_.

Boncristien, 507.

Andrew Boncristien, _O_.

Boncompagnon, 506.

Bond, 254.

Ivo le Bonde, _A_.

Robert le Bond, _B_.

Richard le Bonde, _M_.

Bondame, 507.

Alan Bondame, _P P_.

Bondman, 254.

William Bondman, _X X_ 1.

Bone (_v._ Bon), 467.

Thom. le Bone, _A_.

Richard le Bone, _H_.

Bonecors, 506.

Manellus Bonecors, _E_.

Bonenfant, 507.

Nicholas Bonenfaunt, _M_.

John Bonefaunt, _A_.

Walter Bonenfaunt, _A_.

Bones, 455.

Bonfils, 507.

Bonham, Bonhomne, 507.

William Bonhome, _A_.

Agnes Bonhomme, _A_.

Bonjohn, 46, 504.

Durand le Bonjohan, _A_.

John Bon-John, _X_.

Bonner, 467.

William le Bonere, _A_.

Alice le Bonere, _A_.

Bonnivant, 507.

John Bonnyvaunt, _Z_.

John Bonyfant, _Z_.

Bonqueynt, 507.

Andrew le Bonqueynt, _J_.

Bonserjeant, 506.

John Bonserjeant, _A_.

Richard Bonsergaunt, _G_.

Bonsquier, 507.

Wiliam Bonsquier, _A_.

Walter le Bonesquier, _M M_.

Bontemps, 467.

Thomas Bontemps, _F F_.

Bonvalet, 507.

John Bonvalet, _J_.

Richard Bonvallet, _A_.

Bonyfant (_v._ Bonenfant), 507.

Henry Bonyfant, _A_.

Bookbinder, 405.

John Bokbyndere, _X_.

Dionisia le Bokebyndere, _X_.

Robert Bukebynder, _W_ 9.

Boon (_v._ Bon), 467.

Alice le Bonne, _A_.

William Boon, _B_.

Boor, Robert le Boor, _B_.

Robert le Boor, _G_.

Booth, 135.

Nicholas de la Bothe, _A_.

Odo de la Booth, _F F_.

Boothman, 135.

Roger Bothman, _A_.

Henry Bootheman, _Z Z_.

Borden, 118.

John de Borden, _C_.

Mathew de Borden, _E_.

Border (_v._ Boarder), 252.

Bordman (_v._ Boardman), 252.

Ralph Bordman, _Z Z_.

James Bordman, _F F_.

Borehunt, 238.

Henry Borehunte, _D_.

Borroughs, 138.

Borrows, 138.

Bosher, 264.

Boswell.

Henry de Bosevil, _A_.

John de Boseville, _A_.

Botcher (_v._ Butcher), 374.

Elias le Bocher, _M_.

John le Bocher, _M_.

Boteler (_v._ Butler), 211.

Ralph le Boteler, _B_.

Walter le Boteler, _M_.

Botiler (_v._ Butler), 117.

Teobald le Botiler, _A_.

Richer le Botiller, _A_.

Botwright, 277.

John Botewright, _F F_.

Bartholomew Botwright, _Z_.

Boulter (_v._ Bolter), 275.

Bourdon (_v._ Burdon) 461.

Boutflower (_v._ Beauflour), 442.

Margaret Butflower, _F F_.

William Beauflour, _B_.

Boville, 151.

Warin de Boville, _A_.

William de Bovile, _A_.

Bowcher, 374.

John Bowcher, _Z Z_.

William Bowcher, _Z Z_.

Bowen, 12.

Griffin ap Oweyn, _R_.

Jane Abowen, _Z_.

James Aphowen, _X X_ 2.

Bower,

(1), 226,

John le Bower, _A_.

(2), 135

Richard atte Bowre, _M_.

Bowerman, 135.

William Bourman, _F_.

Bowler, 388.

John le Bolur, _A_.

Robert le Boller, _M_.

Adam le Bolour, _M_.

Bowmaker, 226.

George Bowmaker, _S S_.

Robert Boumaker, _W_ 1.

John Bowmaykere, _W_ 3.

Bowman, 225.

Robert Bowman, _Z_.

John Bowman, _Z Z_.

Bowshank, 438.

Gerald Bushanke, _A_.

Bowsher, 374.

Katerin Bowghshere, _F_.

George Beawsher, _F_.

Bowyer, 226.

William le Boghyere, _A_.

Adam le Boghiere, _M_.

William le Bowyer, _H_.

Boyce (_v._ Boys) 154.

Boyer (_v._ Bowyer) 226.

Geoffry le Boyer _T_.

Adam le Boiere, _E_.

Boys, 154.

Ralph del Boyes, _A_.

Henry du Boys, _M_.

Braban, 164.

Saher de Braban, _E_.

Arnald de Braban, _M_.

Brabaner (_v._ Braban), 164.

Isabel Brabaner, _Z Z_.

Robert Brabaner, _Z Z_.

Brabant (_v._ Braban), 164.

Margaret Brabant, _Z_.

John Brabant, _Z Z_.

Brabazon, 164.

Roger le Brabanzon, _M_.

Reginald le Brebanzon, _H_.

Roger le Brabanson, _H_.

Bracegirdle, 349.

Justinian Bracegirdle, _Z_.

Bracegirdler (_v._ Bregirdler), 349.

Bracer, 379.

Robert le Bracer, _A_.

William le Bracur, _T_.

Reginald Bracciator, _A_.

Braceress, 379.

Clarice le Braceresse, _A_.

Letitia Braciatrix, _A_.

Emma le Braceresse, _T_.

Bradshaw, 117.

Mabel de Bradschaghe, _A A_ 2.

Brailer, 349.

Roger le Braeler, _A_.

Stephen le Brayeler, _X_.

Braithwaite, 121.

Roger de Bratwayt, _A_.

Richard Braythwait, _X X_ 1.

Branson (_v._ Brainson).

John fil. Briani, _A_.

Edward Bransonne, _Z_.

Brasher (_v._ Brazier), 392.

Brass, 436.

Simon Braz, _A_.

John Brass, _M_.

Brazdifer, 436.

Walter Brasdefer, _E_.

Simon Brazdefer, _E_.

Michael Brasdefer, _B B_.

Brazier, 392.

Robert le Brazur, _G_.

William le Brasour, _N_.

Breadmongster, 364.

Sara la Bredemongestere, _X_.

Breadwright, 278.

Breakspeare, 462.

Adrian Brakspere, _H H_.

Alexander Brekspere, _M M_.

Bregirdler, 349.

John le Bregerdelere, _X_.

Brelson (_v._ Burletson).

Henry Brelson, _Z_.

Bret, Brett, 158.

Hamo le Brett, _A_.

Milo le Bret, _M_.

Bretter (_v._ Breviter), 217.

William Bretter, _Z Z_.

Breviter, 217.

Peter le Brevetour, _M_.

Ely le Breveter, _O_.

Richard Brevyter, _Z_.

Brewer, 379.

Walter le Browere, _B_.

William le Brewere, _J_.

Brewery, 379, 382.

John de la Bruere, _A_.

Walter de la Bruario, _M_.

Brewster, 379.

Emma le Breustere, _A_.

Brianson

(1), Giles de Brianzon, _M_.

William de Brianzon, _DD_.

(2), Thomas fil. Brian, _A_.

William fil. Brian, _A_.

Bricot (_v._ Brice), 30.

Bricot de Brainton, _M M_.

Brice, 30.

Brice fil. William, _A_.

Brice de Bradelegh, _A_.

Bricius le Daneys, _R_.

Brice Persona, _A_.

Bridge-end, 114.

John ate Bruge-ende, _A_.

Stephen atte Brigende, _B_.

William atte Brigende, _M_.

Bridgeman (_v._ Bridgman), 113.

John Bridgeman, _V_ 7.

Bridger, 113, 285.

John Bridger, _Z_.

Bridgman, 113, 285.

Jasper Bridgeman, _Z_.

Giles Bridgman, _F F_.

Briggs (_i.e._, Bridge).

Roger del Brigge, _M_.

Sarra atte Brigge, _B_.

Briton, 158.

Wygan le Bretun, _A_.

Robert le Breton, _B_.

Ivo le Breton, _E_.

Britt, 158.

Thomas le Brit, _B_.

Wydo le Brit, _A_.

Nicholas Britte, _X X_ 1.

Brittain (_v._ Briton), 158.

Britten (_v._ Briton), 158.

Britton (_v._ Briton), 158.

Broad, 381.

John le Brode, _B_.

Richard le Brod, _M_.

Broadbelt, 431.

Joan Broydbelt, _W_ 11.

Robert Brodebelte, _W_ 17.

Broadcombe, 125.

Robert de Brudecombe, _M_.

Broadgirdle, 431.

William Brodgirdel, _A_.

Broadhay, 133.

Robert de Broadheye, _A_.

Broadhead, 435.

Walter Brodheved, _A_.

Edmund Broadheade, _Z Z_.

Broadpenny, 482.

William Brodepeny, _M_.

Brock

(1), 489.

Walter le Broc, _T_.

Henry le Brok, _A_.

(2), (_v._ Brook), 108.

Edeline de Broc, _E_.

Elias del Broc, _T_.

Brocklehurst, 116.

Brockman, 238.

John Brockeman, _H_.

Robert le Borckman, _A_.

Brogden, 118.

Alice Brockden, _Z Z_.

James Brocden, _F F_.

Brogger, 414.

Broiderer, 347.

John Brauderer, _O_.

Broker, 414.

Robert the Brochere, _B_.

Thomas le Brokur, _M_.

Simon le Brokour, _G_.

Brook, Brooke, 108.

Alice de la Broke, _A_.

Ada ate Brok, _B_.

Laurence del Broc, _A_.

Brooker, 113.

Brookman, 113.

John Brokeman, _C_.

Brother, 430.

William le Brother, _A_.

Wymond Brother, _M_.

Brotherhood, 191.

Nicholas Brotherhood, _P P_.

John Brotherhood, _W_ 20.

Brotherson, 430.

Brough, 138.

Brown, 445.

Wymarc Brown, _A_.

Simon le Brown, _M_.

John le Broune, _G_.

Brownbeard, 449.

John Brownberd, _X X_ 4.

Janet Brownebeard, _W_ 11.

Brownbill, 459.

Brownjohn, 46, 503.

Brownking, 505.

Simon Brun-king, _E_.

Brownknave, 505.

Richard Brownknave, _Z_.

Brownman, 445.

Richard Broneman, _A_.

Brownsmith, 281.

Thomas Brownesmythe, _Z Z_.

Hester Brownsmith, _F F_.

Brownson.

Roger fil Broun, _A_.

Reginald fil. Brun, _M M_.

Brownswain, 505.

John Brounsweyn, _P_.

Brownsword, 462.

Richard Brownsworde, _A A_ 3.

Thomas Brownesworde, _Z Z_.

Cicely Brownsword, _A A_ 4.

Bruges.

Saher de Bruges, _E_.

Oliva de Bruges, _E_.

Brun, 445.

Hugh le Brun, _B_.

Nigel le Brun, _C_.

Brune, 445.

Alicia le Brune, _B_.

Robert le Brune, _M_.

Brunell, 445.

Brunellus Carpenter, _E_.

Brunman, 445.

Henry Brunman, _A_.

Robert Brunman, _O_.

Brunne, 445.

William le Brunne, _G_.

Bruselance, 462.

Robert Bruselance, _A_.

Bryson (_v._ Brice), 30.

Henry fil. Brice, _V_ 8.

Barnabe Brisson, _V_ 4.

Buck, 488.

Walter le Buk, _C_.

Roger le Buck, _M_.

Buckden, 118.

Sarra de Bokeden, _A_.

Richard Buckden, _Q_.

Buckleboots, 501.

John Bukelboots, _A A_ 1.

Buckler, 282, 459.

John le Bockeler, _A_.

Richard Bokeler, _Z_.

Bucklermaker, 224.

Mathew Bucklermaker (Ludlow. Cam. Soc.).

Buckley, 119.

Michael de Bokele, _A_.

William de Bucley, _S S_.

Buckman, 235.

Alan Bokeman, _A_.

Buckmaster, 235.

William Buckmaster, _F_.

Thomas Buckmaster, _Z_.

Elias Buckmaster, _V_ 5.

Buckrell, 489.

Peter Bokerel, _A_.

Mathew Bokerel, _A_.

Buckskin, 500.

Peter Buckeskyn, _B_.

Nicholas Buxskyn, _M_.

Bucksmith, 282.

John le Bokelsmyth, _X_.

Buckthorp, 137.

Hamalin de Bugtorp, _A_.

Thomas Bugthorppe, _W_ 11.

Buddicom, 125.

Buffler (_v._ Boutflower), 442.

James Beauflur, _X_.

Bugden (_v._ Buckden), 118.

William de Bugenden, _A_.

Bugge, 138, 498.

Bate Bugge, _A_.

Baldewin Bug, _B_.

Bulfinch, 494.

Edward Bolfynch, _X_.

Bull, 489.

Alice le Bule, _A_.

William le Bule, _B_.

Bullard, 306.

Bullen (_v._ Boleyn), 168.

William Bullen, _F F_.

Robert Buleyn, _Z_.

Bullhead, 500.

Richard Boleheved, _A_.

John Boleheved, _M_.

Bullinger, 364.

Richard le Bulenger, _E_.

Bullivant (_v._ Bonenfant), 507.

Robert Ballyfaunt, _Z_.

Bullock, 490.

Godwin Bulloc, _A_.

Edmund Bullok, _B_.

Bulman, 271.

William Bulman, _D_.

Walter Bulleman, _F F_.

Bulness, 168.

Stacius le Boloneis, _A_.

Bulter (_v._ Bolter), 275.

Bunker, 467.

John le Boncer, _B_.

William Bonquer, _O_.

Bunn (_v._ Bonn), 467.

Rocelin le Bun, _A_.

Bunyan (_v._ Bonjohn), 504.

Bunyon (_v._ Bonjohn), 504.

Burder, 239.

Thomas Burder, _F_.

Burdett-Coutts, 509.

Burdon, 461.

Richard Burdun, _E_.

Maria Burdun, _R_.

Burelman, 454.

John Burelman, _X_.

Burend, 114.

John atte Bur-ende, _R_.

Burgess, 184.

John le Burges, _A_.

Richard le Burgeis, _E_.

Burgh, 138.

Walter atte Bergh, _B_.

William atte Burgh, _R_.

Burghman, 138.

William Burgman, _B_.

Burgon, Burgoyne, 158.

John Burgoyne, _A_.

Thomas Burgoyn, _B_.

Burguillun, 481.

Geoff. le Burgillon, _T_.

Robert le Burgulion, _M_.

Burke, 138.

Hubert de Burk, _A_.

John de Burk, _A_.

Burle, 442.

Henry le Burle, _A_.

Burletson (_v._ Bartlett) 92, _n_.

William Byrtletson, _W_ 17.

William Burletson, _S S_.

Bryan Burletson, _S S_.

Burman (_v._ Burghman).

Isabel Bureman, _A_.

John Burman, _B_.

Burnell, 445.

Pagan Burnel, _J_.

Burnellus Carpenter, _E_.

Burnett, 454.

Thomas Burnet, _Z_.

Burrell, 340.

Roger Burell, _J_.

Robert Burell, _R_.

Burroughs, 138.

Robert de la Berwe, _B_.

Henry Burroughe, _Z_.

Burser (_v._ Purser), 398, 348.

Adam le Burser, _E_.

Alard le Burser, _H_.

Burtheyn, 175, _n_.

William Burtheyn, _G_.

Bury, 138.

Geoffrey de la Bure, _A_.

John atte-Bury, _M_.

Bush (_v._ Busk), 154.

Busheler, 395, _n_.

John Busheler, _F_.

Busher, 264.

Reginald le Buscher, _J_.

John le Busscher, _M_.

Busk, 154.

Hamo de Bosco, _A_.

John ad Bosc, _A_.

Buss, 154.

Alicia Busse, _A_.

Bustard.

Richard Bustard, _W_ 2.

Bustler, 465.

Thomas le Busteler, _F F_.

Robert le Bustler, _T_.

But, 378.

Roger le But, _E_.

John le But, _J_.

Butcher, 374.

Michael le Bucher, _T_.

Butler, 211, 397.

Robert le Butiler, _A_.

William le Butiller, _B_.

Hugh le Butellier, _E_.

John le Butteller, _M_.

Butmonger, 378.

Hugh Butmonger, _A_.

Butrekyde, 294.

Robert Butrekyde, _A_.

Butt, 228.

Butter, 378.

William le Butor, _P_.

Butterman, 327.

William Buttyrman, _P_.

George Butman, _Z_.

Lancelot Butiman, _W_ 18.

Buttoner, 343.

Henry le Botoner, _A_.

Richard le Botyner, _H_.

Lawrence le Botaner, _N_.

Buzzard, 493.

Eustace Busard, _A_.

Peter Buzard, _A_.

Byatt (_v._ Bygate), 129, 113.

Byford, 113.

Abalotta de la Forde, _A_.

Stephen de la Forde, _A_.

Bygate, 113, 129.

Philip de la Gate, _A_.

Walter de la Gate, _A_.

Bythesea, 113.

Roger Bythesea, _Z_.

Pagan de la Mare, _A_.

Bytheway, 113.

Richard Bytheway, _Z_.

Bythewood, 113.

Edward Bythewode, _A_.

William Bythewood, _M_.

Bywater, 112.

Elyas Bithewater, _A_.

Robert Bithewater, _M_.

Bywood (_v._ Bythewood), 112.

Cachemaille, 483.

Cacherell, 152.

Grig le Cacherel, _A_.

Adam le Cacherel, _M_.

Cade, 144.

Margery Cade, _A_.

Walter Cade, _A_.

Cadman, 395.

Walter Kademan, _A_.

Robert Cademan, _J_.

Cæsar (_v._ Kaiser), 174.

Susan Cæsar, _Z_.

Caffin, 452.

Richard Chauffin, _A_.

Caird, 296.

Caitiff.

Richard Caytyf, _DD_.

Caleb, 100.

Caleb Morley, _T T_.

Calf, 490.

Nicholas Calfe, _A_.

Richard Calf, _M_.

Calisher, 393.

Elena Calicer, _B_.

Callender, 495.

Caller, 336.

Elias le Callere, _M_.

Robert le Callere, _N_.

Robert le Callerere, _N_.

Callow, 451.

Richard Calewe, _M_.

Richard le Calue, _F F_.

Calman, 336.

Calthrop, Caltrop, 137.

William de Calthorpe, _M_.

Ralph de Kalthorp, _R_.

Calve (_v._ Calf), 444.

Henry le Calve, _M_.

Idonia le Calwe, _T_.

Calverd, Calvert, 266.

Henry Calvehird, _M_.

John le Calvehird, _H_.

Warin le Calvehird, _W_ 4.

Calvesmawe, 434.

Robert Calvesmaghe, _M_.

Cam, 441.

William le Cam, _A_.

William le Cam, _R_.

Camamilla.

Camamilla Helewys, _R R_ 1.

Camden, 389.

John de Campeden, _A_.

Maurice de Campeden, _F F_.

Camel, 487.

George Camel, _W_ 20.

Richard Camill, _V_ 5.

William Cammille, _V_ 4.

Cameron, 441.

Camiser, 344.

Bartholomew le Camisur, _X_.

Camoys, 441.

John le Camoys, _A_.

Campbell, 441.

Thomas Cambell, _Z_.

Campion

(1), 304.

Walter le Campion, _A_.

John le Campion, _T_.

(2), 159. (_v._ Champion, 2.)

Camuse (_v._ Camoys), 441.

Candeler (_v._ Candler), 386.

Candleman, 386.

Adam Candeleman, _M_.

Candlemaker, 386.

John le Candlemakere, _M_.

Candler, 386.

Mathew le Candeler, _A_.

John le Candeler, _E_.

Cane.

Hugh de Caen, _C_.

Richard de Cane, _H_.

Cannon, 191.

John le Cannon, _A_.

Richard Cannon, _Z_.

Canon, 191.

William le Canon, _A_.

Thomas le Canun, _E_.

Cant (_v._ Quaint), 471.

Canter (_v._ Chanter), 188.

Canute, 20.

Canvaser, 319, 359.

Henry le Canevacer, _M_.

Richard le Canvaser, _M_.

Caperon, 458.

Alicia Caperun, _A_.

Thomas Chaperoun, _J_.

Capet, 456.

Capmaker, 337.

Thomas Capmaker, _H_.

Capman, 337.

John Capman, _M_.

James Kapman, _Z_.