ROBIN HOOD AND THE LONDON DIRECTORY.
THE largest class of surnames in the London Directory, we showed in our
second chapter, after local names, were those of patronymic origin:
baptismal surnames we called them. If Richard has a son called Richard,
it is easy to suppose that this child would go by the name of Richard
Richard’s son, or Richard Dick’s son. A third generation having appeared
in the form of a grandson, called Richard, after father or grandfather,
it will be readily supposed that, he being also Richard Richard’s son, or
Dick’s son, the surname Richardson would now be sufficiently familiarised
to become the _hereditary_ cognomen of the descendants of this stock.
Thus Richardson and Dickson have sprung into being. Thus every name of
this class has originated. Names like Johnson, Jackson, Timpson, Wilson,
Harrison, or Stephenson, simply prove that the bearers of these several
titles are descended from some particular John, Tim, Will, Harry, or
Stephen, who when he died bequeathed his baptismal name as a piece of
property to his immediate descendants—not deliberately, as he would his
money and estates, but in the casual and accidental fashion recorded
above.
We can understand that at first it would seem strange for a _girl_ to go
by a patronymic of this kind. Imagine at this early stage of surname
formation some village maid bearing the name of Mary William_son_
(_i.e._, Mary, the son of William)! To us, accustomed to these names,
there seems nothing absurd in such a title as Matilda John_son_, or
Margaret David_son_. It never occurs to us to take the name to pieces,
and see the incongruity of its several elements. That this was a
difficulty to our forefathers is evident from the fact that there are
many entries like “Joan Willsdaughter,” or “Nan Tomsdaughter,” in the
registers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Thus “Isabella
Peersdoghter” lived near Durham four hundred years ago—_i.e._, Isabella,
the daughter of Peers, _i.e._ Peter. In the same way, “Avice
Mattwife”—_i.e._, Avice, the wife of Matt (Matthew)—or “Cecilia
Wilkin-wife,” is found at the same period. The reason why surnames
ending in _daughter_ are not found now, is that if the girl with such a
surname died unmarried, it died with her; if she married, she changed her
name. “_Son_,” as a termination having no difficulties of this kind to
contend with, has left us a multitude of names. Had it been otherwise,
we should have had surnames like Steven-daughter, Dick-daughter, and
Hopkin-daughter, contending for a place in our directories with
“Stevenson,” “Dickson,” and “Hopkinson.”
It would seem as if the female sex, therefore, had been hardly treated in
this matter of baptismal nomenclature. Indeed, some of my readers might
be tempted to ask me whether the gentler half of the community are
represented at all in our directories. I am happy to respond in the
affirmative. John and Margery might have a son, Robert by name. Now,
John is a timid, retiring kind of man; his wife being a bustling, active,
assertive woman. John sits in the chimney-corner, Margery does all the
marketing, all the talking, possibly all the working also. In a word,
she rules the roost. Naturally, the neighbours get into a way of calling
the child “Robert _Margeri_son,” rather than “Robert _John_son.”
Margerison, Margetson, and Margetts are all in the London Directory.
Take another instance: Hodge and Nell get married; Hodge dies, and a
posthumous child is born. Only the mother is living. As a matter of
course, the little one is styled Antony or Sarah _Nel_son, according to
its sex. A large number of metronymic surnames must be attributed to an
accident of this kind. All our “Ibbs,” “Ibbisons,” “Ibbsons,” “Ibbots,”
and “Ibbotsons” are sprung from Isabella, a much more common and familiar
name four or five hundred years ago than it is now. Our “Emmetts,”
“Emmotts,” “Emmotsons,” “Emms,” and “Empsons” are descendants of some
“Emma,” or “Emmot,” as she was then styled. Many people have refused to
believe that there are any metronymic surnames, for fear that it would
seem to imply illegitimate birth. It is always silly to deny facts, and
I have shown there is no reason to dread the charge in the great majority
of these instances.
Every nation has its own peculiar way of forming the baptismal surname.
We have no less than five representing British as distinct from English
nomenclature: Anglo-Norman, Anglo-Saxon, Scotch, Irish, and Welsh. Each
had his fashion of framing the patronymic, and all, I need not say,
abound in the metropolis. The Norman made _fitz_ (French, _fils_) a
prefix, and thus Gilbert, son of Hamon, became Gilbert Fitz-hamon. The
Saxon made _son_ a desinence, and thus Ralph, son of Nichol, became Ralph
Nichol_son_. The Welshman put _ap_ (_i.e._ son) in the forefront, like
the Norman, and thus Owen ap-Richard became Owen Pritchard, or Griffin
ap-Harry Griffin Parry, or Hugh ap-Rice Hugh Price. The inhabitant of
“Caledonia stern and wild” also set _Mac_ at the beginning rather than
the end, so that Andrew, son of Aulay, became Andrew Macaulay. Lastly,
our friends of the Emerald Isle prefixed _Mac_ or _O_ to the baptismal
name, as their form of descent, and thus Patrick, son of Neale, became
Patrick MacNeale, or Patrick O’Neale. As the old rhyme has it:
“By _Mac_ and _O_,
You all may know
True Irishmen, they say;
But if they lack
Both _O_ and _Mac_,
No Irishmen are they.”
Thus within the boundary lines of our own Britannic realm we have
“_son_,” “_fitz_,” “_ap_,” “_Mac_,” and “_O_” employed in the formation
of one single class of surnames. Sometimes the Welsh “_ap_” became
“_ab_,” and thus ap-Evan has become “Bevan,” ap-Owen, Bowen, ap-Ethell,
Bethell, and ap-Huggins, Buggins. In the same way, ap-Lloyd is found in
the London Directory as Bloyd.
There are about five thousand people in London bearing names of which
“Robert” is the root and foundation. I wonder if it has ever struck my
reader that the _nominal_ existence of four-fifths of this large
population is the result of the life, adventures, and celebrity of that
great outlaw Robin Hood. To gather up the links of evidence would fill a
volume. I will occupy the remainder of this chapter by a brief _resumé_
of the argument. If I prove my assertion, this will be demonstrating the
reality of my title, and show conclusively that the London Directory may
be well styled a “romance.”
That Robin Hood was the fictitious name of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon,
has been proved an idle fable; but although there are serious doubts as
to the existence of William Tell, there need be none as to the
individuality of Robin Hood. That a noted forester—an outlaw—of this
name roved in the neighbourhood of Sherwood during the first four decades
of the thirteenth century, is beyond dispute.
“In Locksley town, in merry Nottinghamshire,
In merry sweet Locksley town,
There bold Robin Hood was born and was bred,
Bold Robin of famous renown.”
He and his companions lived by spoil. His popularity was twofold in
origin. He was credited with a spirit of liberty chafing against an
oppressive and tyrannic rule. He was equally credited, truly or the
reverse, with unbounded kindness to the poor. Camden styles him
“_prædonem mitissimum_,” the gentlest of thieves. Sir Walter Scott says
of the spoil he heaped up, that he “shook the superflux to the poor,”
and, in respect of government, “showed the heavens more just.” Dying
about the year 1247, it was not very long before he became an
“institution”: every country ballad, every chapbook had its story of
Robin Hood, his princely spirit, his skill in archery, his wondrous
adventures, and his hair-breadth escapes. The impression that he was of
noble birth only added to his popularity.
This of course could not but have its effect upon the nomenclature of the
time. It is well known that when Thomas à Beckett was murdered, almost
every child born immediately afterwards was, if a boy, christened Thomas.
To this tragedy myriads of Thompsons and Tomlinsons owe their surnames.
The dictionary and the directory are under equal obligations to Robin
Hood. There need be little doubt that Gough’s suggestion that his real
name was “Robin o’ the Wood” (_i.e._ Sherwood) is true. The corruption
“Hood” is perfectly natural.
(1.) Look at some of our _place-names_. In 1730 there was a “Robin
Hood’s Well,” about three miles north of Doncaster; and Leland, the great
itinerary, visited “Robyn Hudd’s Bay,” under which antique dress we
recognise the familiar village and coast “Robin Hood’s Bay,” betwixt
Whitby and Scarborough. Everybody has seen a Robin Hood’s oak, or a
Robin Hood’s bower. At this moment there are hundreds of country inns in
the north, called “Robin Hood,” with a picture of the bold archer in
dress proper, or intended to be so, to the period in which he is supposed
to have lived. His bow and arrow are of course always depicted, and
occasionally a deer in the distance.
(2.) Look at the old English _proverbs_; and we may premise that if a
man has created a proverb he has made himself immortal. “Good even,
Robin Hood,” quoted by Skelton, poet-laureate to Henry VIII., implied
“civility extorted by fear.” Fuller quotes, “Many men talk of Robin Hood
that neere shott in his bow.” “To over-shoot Robin Hood,” is another
proverbial saying. This is quoted by Sir Philip Sidney. “Tales of Robin
Hood are good for fools,” is quoted by Camden. The most familiar,
however, was “to sell Robin Hood’s pennyworths.” Fuller refers to this
as of things half sold, half given; the great robber parting lightly with
what he came by lightly. “Robin’s choice,” this or nothing, would seem
almost to have suggested “Hobson’s choice,” for Hobson is a patronymic of
Robert, Hob being the old familiar pet name for the same.
(3.) To Robin Hood, again, we doubtless owe the familiarity of several
names applied to the _spirit world_. Our forefathers were very
superstitious, especially the country peasantry. A belief in “brownies,”
“dobbies,” “pixies,” and elves kindly or mischievous, still largely
prevails in places removed from the busy towns. Superstitions of this
kind die where men are herded together. It is only in dusky woodlands
ghostly sights appear, or in the silences of the rural churchyard or
forest avenue that voices are heard whose utterance is not from human
throat! Certainly Robin Hood must stand sponsor for much of the dread
that nurses infused into naughty children’s breasts. The pet names or
nurses’ names of Robert were “Robin,” “Hob,” and “Dob.” The _ignis
fatuus_, to this day an object of apprehension, was associated early with
the bold freebooter:—
“Some call him _Robin Goodfellow_,
_Hob-goblin_, or mad Crisp.
And some againe doe terme him oft,
By name of Will the Wispe.”
So says an old ballad. _Robin_ Goodfellow and _Hob_-goblin, it will be
seen, represent the same name. Another title for the same was
“Hob-lanthorn” (_i.e._ Robin’s lanthorn). Dr. Halliwell gives the term
“Hob-thrush,” adding that it is always used in association with Robin
Goodfellow. In the “Two Lancashire Lovers” (1640) it is said, “If he be
no hob-thrush, nor no Robin Goodfellow, I could finde with all my heart
to sip up a sillybub with him.” Here, then, are four names, “Robin
Goodfellow,” “Hob-goblin,” “Hob-lanthorn,” “Hob-thrush;” all used to give
personation to that curious light which occasionally may be seen in
marshy and woody districts. How natural that these should be associated
with that mysterious denizen of the forest, whose name was in everybody’s
mouth, and who came and went, who showed himself here, there, and
everywhere, and yet could never be caught!
“From elves, _hobs_, and fairies,
Defend us, good Heaven,”
say Beaumont and Fletcher in one of their plays. And every reader of
Shakespear will remember how in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” the Fairy
addresses Puck as—
“That shrewd and knavish sprite
Called Robin Goodfellow:”
while by-and-by she adds:—
“Those that Hob-goblin call you, and sweet Puck,
You do their worst, and they shall have good luck.”
In the extreme north of England the pet name for Robert was Dob, or
“Dobbin.” Curiously enough, to this day the term for Hob-goblin is there
“Dobby.” {63} I ask the reader, if this can be an accident? Could it
have been possible that five distinct names should be given to the _ignis
fatuus_, or to such woodland elves as were supposed to reveal themselves
under his frolicsome light, all having Robert as their chief component,
had not the thousand and one stories about Robin Hood and his merry men
and their nightly escapades been spread over the land by the
ballad-mongers of the time that immediately followed his death?
(4.) Once more: look at our _general nomenclature_ of men, birds,
beasts, and shrubs. So common had “Hob” become in the northern and
midland districts (for every man you might meet ’twixt York and Leicester
was sure to be “Hob”), that it became a cant term for a country yokel.
Thomas Fuller in his “Lives” speaks of “country-hobs” where we should
speak of “country-men.” Thus, too, Coriolanus is made to say—
“Why in this wool-less toge should I stand here,
To beg of Hob and Dick?”
The _jack-ass_ is just as often called “_dobbin_” in the north, and an
ewe-lamb a _hob_-lamb. The tame ruddock has become the “_robin_
redbreast”; a chicken, a _roblet_ (robelot, _i.e._, little robin);
bindweed goes by the title of “Robin-run in the hedge”; the common club
moss is “Robin Hood’s hatband”; while every child is familiar with
“ragged robin,” and “herb-robert.”
Surely this is enough to testify to the popularity of Robert! The fact
is, that Robin Hood gave a start to his name similar in its effects to
that of a snowball. He has grasped all he has touched. He has left his
memory upon everything. He has stamped his march upon things animate and
inanimate. So long as we have a language and a dictionary, a
nomenclature, and a directory, we shall daily be reading and looking upon
words and names which, however meaningless on the surface, are teeming
with recollections of the bold outlaw, whose thrilling adventures, whose
kindly bounties, whose supposed devotion to liberty, made him the idol of
his own time, and an object of interest to his countrymen so long as
England shall endure.
And now we may ask, what has Robin Hood done for English nomenclature, so
far as surnames are concerned? Well, in the first place, he made
“Robert” the favourite name at the font for a century at least. We even
find Robin Hood itself appearing as a surname. A tradesman bearing the
sobriquet of Thomas Robyn-Hod, lived at Winchelsea in 1388. At the very
time that Robert was thus popular, baptismal surnames were being
established. As a consequence, Robert was no sooner a Christian name
than it became a candidate for the place of a surname. Remembering the
different pet names in familiar use, it will not be so astonishing that I
should be able to collect no fewer than forty-six separately-spelled
surnames, all descended from this one single appellation! while London
alone could gather into Hyde Park as many as five thousand souls whose
individuality is recognised by their associates through the medium of
this famous title.
(_a_) _Robert_ has given us Robert, Roberts, Robart, Robarts, Robertson,
Roberson, and Roberton.
(_b_) _Robin_ has bequeathed Robin, Robins, Robbins, Roblin, Robinson,
and Robison.
(_c_) _Rob_ has left us Robb, Robbs, Robbie, Robson Robkins, Ropkins,
and Ropes.
(_d_) _Dob_ has handed down to us Dobb, Dobbs, Dobbie, Dobson, Dobbins,
Dobbing, Dobinson, and Dobison.
(_e_) _Hob_ has transmitted Hobb, Hobbs, Hobbes, Hobbiss, Hobson,
Hobbins, Hoblyn, Hopkins, Hopkinson, Hopps, and Hopson.
(_f_) Besides these there were once such familiar French diminutives as
Robinet, Dobinet, Robelôt, and Robertôt. These did not come directly
from France or Normandy. They were forms adopted by the country people
from the habit, common then as now, of copying the fashions of the more
noble families. Elizabeth Robinett will be found in the London
Directory. Hers is the only instance that I can find still existing.
The rest were all surnames in the fourteenth century. {66}
(_g_) The Welsh, seizing upon the name, turned ap-Robert and ap-Robyn
into Probert and Probyn, respectively.
Can I add anything to prove the popularity of Robin Hood? It is possible
that we could not have spoken of Hobbism, or of a Hobbist, for the
founder of that system of philosophy might have borne some other name.
It is possible that there might have been no “Hobson’s choice,” for that
worthy liveryman at Cambridge might, under some other sobriquet, have
compelled the young collegian to take the next horse on the list, or
none. Certainly our old friend _Punch_ would have been unable to poke
fun at Cockneydom under at least one name of the famous company of
“Brown, Jones, Smith, and _Robinson_.” It is possible, too, that “before
you could say Jack Robinson” would never have become an English
commonplace. How the phrase originated I cannot say, but it is a very
old one, if the couplet quoted from an old play by Dr. Halliwell be
genuine:—
“A warke it ys as easie to be doone,
As tys to saye ‘Jacke Robyson.’”