NICKNAMES.
WE have now reached the last class of surnames—that which we have called
_Nicknames_. We have dealt with _local_ names, _baptismal_ names,
_official_ names, and _occupative_ names. With _Nicknames_ we conclude
our list. John At-wood, John Thomson, John Chamberlain, and John Baker,
would respectively represent the classes already discussed. John Fox
might as fitly act as the representative of our nicknames.
If _Nickname_ be but prosthetically put for _an ekename_—that is, an
added name, a, name appended to the Christian name to eke out or complete
a man’s identity—then all surnames are nicknames and all nicknames are
surnames. It is better, therefore, that I should state at the outset
what I mean by a chapter on Nicknames.
I intend to take in only such sobriquets as were affixed upon individuals
by their neighbours to express some physical or mental peculiarity,
complimentary or the reverse, whether given in jest or earnest.
This is a very nondescript class, and is therefore much better
illustrated than explained. If a man developed some grotesque or pitiful
characteristic, either in his bodily shape or his mental attributes, it
was just as easy to nickname him by the English term that most plainly
described it, or to style him by some name of the lower creation that was
supposed to represent that particular characteristic. Thus if Thomas
were of crafty disposition, it would be as easy to nickname him Thomas
Sly as Thomas Fox. Thus both Sly and Fox are nicknames. There is
scarcely a moral attribute that is not found in our directories. In the
same receptacle almost every name of every living creature in earth, sea,
and air, is to be seen. Indeed, with respect to this latter class, we
find in later days a reversal of the statement met with in Genesis ii.
19. There it is said, “And out of the ground the Lord God formed every
beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam
to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living
creature, that was the name thereof. And Adam gave names to all cattle,
and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field.” I say this
statement was reversed four or five hundred years ago by our English
forefathers. They gave the cattle, the fish, and the birds, men’s names,
and gave to men the names of the cattle, the fish, and the birds. There
is not a single domestic animal which was not familiarly known to our
ancestors by a nickname taken from our baptismal nomenclature, while, on
the other hand, there is not a single domestic animal whose proper name
was not affixed as a nickname upon some member of the rational community.
I will give an illustration or two of what I mean. They shall be taken
from the London Directory. Spenser says,—
“The ruddock warbles soft.”
Many of my readers will not know what a ruddock is. It was the old
proper name for the robin-redbreast. Chaucer has the name in “The
Assembly of Fowls.” But our forefathers nicknamed this homely bird
robin. Every family then had a “Robin” in the household. Out of
fondness for the bird that did not desert them when the winter snow
enveloped the trees with a white mantle, but came hopping to the doorstep
for a crumb, they styled it by the familiar term of robin. This nickname
became so popular that it all but pushed out the more orthodox term of
_ruddock_. But there are three Ruddicks and five Ruddocks in the London
Directory! What does this show? Why, that as the man’s name of Robin
was given to the bird, so the bird’s name of ruddock was given to the
man. We find a Ralph Ruddoc registered so early as the Hundred Rolls.
No doubt he got the nickname from some peculiar redness of the chin or
throat, or because of some peculiarity in his habits or demeanour, which
struck his neighbours with a fancied similarity to the bird. A sparrow
was always called “Phip,” from Philip. On the other hand, I find no less
than twenty Sparrows in the London Directory. Thus a pye became a
Mag-pie, from Margaret, and we still chant in nursery song,—
“See-saw,
Margery Daw.”
Having given them Margaret, they have presented us with many of our Daws,
all our Pyes, and the one Pie of the London Directory. How odd that
while, as I have shown, there are so many hundred Cooks in the
metropolis, they can only turn out one Pie! There is a large assortment
of Cockerells, Cockrells, and Cockrills in the Directory. Young cocks
still go by this name in Cumberland. Driving in my dogcart to visit a
sick woman on the hill-side the other day, I went by a barn-door on which
I saw a placard advertising the sale of fine healthy “cockerels.” But I
may not linger. We may see in this same metropolitan record Swans,
Finches, Herons, Cootes, Ducks, Drakes, Woodcocks, Partridges, Goslings,
and Gosses, by the dozen. Gosling is often but a corruption of Joscelyn,
and so is not of the nickname class. Goss is but the old spelling of
“goose.” In our older records we find it registered as Peter le Goos,
Amicia le Gos, or John le Gos. All our Pinnicks and Pinnocks are from
the old pinnock or pinnick, the hedge-sparrow:—
“Thus in the pinnick’s nest the cuckoo lays,
Then, easy as a Frenchman, takes her flight.”
There are eleven Wrens hopping about our London streets, and I daresay
they often stand—not on one leg, of course—to stare at St. Paul’s
Cathedral, and to think with pride on Christopher Wren, and his epitaph,
“Si monumentum quæris, circumspice.” There are fifteen Nightingales,
too, but whether or no they can all sing sweetly I cannot say. One of
the happiest anagrams ever written was that upon “Florence Nightingale,”
which by a transposition of letters makes, “Flit on, cheering angel.” It
is as good as “Horatio Nelson,” which can be turned into “Honor est a
Nilo.”
Many of these nicknames we see for ourselves could not have been intended
to be very complimentary. A single quotation will prove this. We know
that every great personage up to the middle of the sixteenth century had
his or her professional fool, or joker. The “privy expenses” of
Elizabeth of Yorke for March, 1502, have this entry:—“Item: delivered to
John Goose, my Lord of Yorke’s fole (fool), in rewarde for bringing a
carppe (carp) to the Quene, 12_d._” Here is a palpable nickname for the
office, the term itself being taken from that bird which was popularly
supposed to reign supreme over simpletondom. “You goose” is still
commonly applied to a child that has done something silly. That our
“Gosses” should retain a forgotten and obsolete spelling is very natural.
There are three Patches in the Directory. I crave their pardon for
reminding them that their progenitor held the honourable office of “fool”
to some English king or baron. We are all familiar with
“The king of shreds and patches.”
It was through this peculiarity in his dress the official fool got the
sobriquet of “Patch.” Henry the Eighth’s fool bore this name: “Item:
paied to the same Pyne for 2 payr of hosen for Patche—x_s._,” says an old
book of “Privy Purse Expenses” belonging to that king.
Speaking of birds, we may mention the name of Spark, or Sparke. Few of
my readers probably are aware that this is but a corruption of
Sparrowhawk. Sparhawk was the intermediate form, and was once very
common. It was a Mr. Sparrowhawk to whom the great Thomas Fuller
jocularly put the question, “What is the difference between an owl and a
_sparrowhawk_?” His companion at once retorted with the reply, “An owl
is _fuller_ in the head, _fuller_ in the face, and _Fuller_ all over!”
This was but repaying the historian in his own coin, for no one has made
so many puns and plays on names and words as Fuller. He carried it to an
extent which in our day would be considered profane. Many will recall
his prayer in rhyme—
“My soul is stainèd with a dusty colour,—
Let Thy Son be the sope, I’ll be the Fuller.”
Again, in a spirit of devout meekness, he writes, “As for other stains
and spots upon my soul, I hope that He (be it spoken without the least
verbal reflection) who is the Fuller’s sope, will scour them forth with
His merit, that I may appear clean by God’s mercy.” It was but natural,
that when this great religious punster died, a suggestion should have
been made that his epitaph should run thus: “Here lies Fuller’s earth.”
{138} This was not done, and just as well it was not; for if puns are
ever objectionable, it is when they appear in epitaphs. Nevertheless,
one of the finest instances of paranomasia on record is to be found on
the tablet to Foote’s memory in Westminster Abbey:—
“Here lies one Foote, whose death may thousands save;
For now Death hath one Foote within the grave.”
A similar interchange of _nominal_ courtesies is observable in the names
of cattle and wild beasts. Pigg, Hogg, Stott, Colt, Bullock, Duncalf,
Wolf, Lamb, Kidd, Bacon, Grice, and Wildbore all speak for themselves;
while in our North English Oliphants and Olivants we recognize the old
spelling of “elephant.” No doubt the original bearer of the nickname was
of unusually large proportions even for the border country of England and
Scotland. Speaking of Lamb, we are reminded that a brother-in-law of
John Wesley bore the name of Whitelamb, and therefore could scarcely be
called, under any circumstances, a black sheep! There are six Bears and
eighty Bulls in the Directory. The _Gentleman’s Magazine_ for 1807
records the death of “Savage Bear, Esquire,” who was a resident in Kent.
In the same article mention is made of a Mr. Mould, cheesemonger, in
Newgate Street. But we have Bearmans, Bullards (that is, Bullwards),
Bulmans, and Bullpitts in our Directory, too. It was not till 1835
bear-baiting and bull-baiting were forbidden by Act of Parliament. It
had reigned at the head of English pastimes for six centuries. Hence it
was a common inn-sign. The oldest hostel in London was supposed to be
the “Bear,” on the Southwark side of old London Bridge. Hence an old
poem says,—
“We came to the Bear, which we soon understood
Was the first house in Southwark built after the flood.”
Every rich man had his bearward, and the royal houses had their “master
of the king’s bears.” Both Mary and Elizabeth enjoyed a good baiting,
whether of bulls or bears. The Puritans of course were against it, and
so far were in advance of the times, but it is a peculiar feature of
their opposition that they scarcely ever refer to the cruelty of the
sport. Orthodox and somewhat dull Pepys describes in 1666 how he saw
some good sports of the bulls tossing the dogs—one into the very boxes.
A leading Puritan minister not twenty years later is always found, by his
own published diary, to have sent his children to the cock-pit on
Shrove-Tuesday to witness the “throwing-at-the-cock,” and he piously
prays they may be preserved from harm while away (“Newcome’s Diary,”
Cheetham Society’s Publications). Thus it is we find so many “Cockers”
and “Cockmans” in the Directory. As for our “Cocks” or “Coxes,” every
young gallant who showed determined pluck, or strutted in his gait, or
gave himself airs, was nicknamed from the cockpit or barn-door
dictionary. No wonder our Directory teems with them, for it would be
looked upon in bygone days as a pretty compliment. This is the origin of
“cock” in such mediæval pet names as Wilcock, Jeffcock, Batcock and
Badcock (Bartholomew), Simcock, Hancock and Handcock (Hans, _i.e._
Johannes), Bawcock (Baldwin), Pidcock and Peacock (Peter), Philcock, now
Philcox, and Adcock or Atcock (Adam). To give my readers a list of the
views propounded as to the meaning of this desinence would take too much
space. Suffice it to say that nothing has seemed too absurd for those
who love “guesses at truth,” without ever guessing right, to advance.
Every rustic lusty lad was “Cock,” especially if he had a perky cocky way
of his own. And in these names of Philcock or Jeffcock, we simply see
the old-fashioned way of hailing Philip or Jeffery as, “Well, Jeff-cock,
lad, how art thou?” “Pretty well, Phil-cock, thank’ee.” In the old
play, _Gammer Gurton’s Needle_, Gammer’s servant lad is called simply
“Cock,” without the baptismal name being appended at all. It is so in
the mediæval poem entitled “Cocke Lorell’s Bote.”
But we have got among the birds again. We must hark back to our
four-footed friends. There are no “Donkeys” in the London
Directory—probably the only place in the world where they are not to be
found. But this may be accounted for, perhaps, because there are no
Thistles there either. Nevertheless, had there been an English Directory
in the year when Domesday Book was compiled, it would have been
otherwise; for, thistles or no thistles, “Roger the Ass” is among the
list of tenants under the crown. Here we have been liberal: for we have
presented our good thistle-loving friend with no less than three of our
baptismal names. In the north of England, where Cuthbert was the
favourite appellation for three centuries at least, he is called a
_Cuddy_, that being the pet form of the saintly sobriquet. {141} In more
southern regions he is known as _Ned_ or _Neddy_, from Edward. And north
and south alike, _Jack_-ass is familiar to all. It is curious to notice
how a name that has become opprobrious can be dropped. “Rascal” was one
of our commonest surnames while the term only meant a lean, ragged deer;
but when it was passed on to a _herd_ of worthless folk the surname
disappeared. One of the latest was Robert Rascal, who, according to
Foxe, was persecuted for his religion in 1517.
I must not omit the mention of one or two of our household favourites.
There are five Catts in our London Directory, entered in old days as Adam
le Kat, or Milo le Chat. In the reign of Richard the Third, there was a
rhyme to this effect:—
“The Rat, the Cat, and Lovel the Dog,
Rule all England under the Hog.”
The Hog was the king, Rat was Ratcliffe, and Cat, Catesby. It is not
often we hear of cat, dog, and rat, uniting together to worry others, and
not one another! If I recal my history correctly, however, they did fall
out in the end.
There must have been something sleek and smooth, if not stealthy, about
the progenitor of our friends the Catts, I fear. But if our mouse-loving
friends gave us their appellation, we were bountiful in return. For
three hundred years the most familiar term for a cat was “Gib,” from
Gilbert. Hamlet says:—
“For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise,
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,
Such dear concernings hide?”
And in Peele’s “Edward the First,” the Novice says to the Friar:—
“Now, master, as I am true wag,
I will be neither late nor lag,
But go and come with gossip’s cheer
Ere Gib, our cat, can lick her ear.”
That Gib was short for Gilbert, our Gibbs, Gibsons, Gibbins, and Gibbons
can prove. But “Gib” for a cat is obsolete, I fear; and now we speak of
a Tom-cat. A female cat was called a Tib-cat, or Tibert, from Tibb, or
Tibot, pet forms of Theobalda, which at one period as Tibota was our
commonest girl’s name. In “Gammer Gurton’s Needle,” one of our very
earliest dramatic plays, Dicon (Richard) says:—
“To brawle with you about her cocke,
For well I heard Tyb say,
The cocke was roasted in your house,
To breakfast yesterday.”
Tyb was Gammer Gurton’s “mayde.” In the same play the cat is “Gib.” The
maid says of Gammer while stitching with her needle,—
“Gyb, our cat, in the milke-pan,
She spied over head and ears.”
The Kitcat Club took its name from one Christopher Cat, who kept an
eating-house in London, where the club members met. The pet name of
Christopher was Kit (whence our Kitts, and Kitsons, and the island of St.
Kitts, _i.e._ St. Christopher): a conjunction of the Christian and
surname formed the term. I may here add that Bishop Ken represents the
Norman word for the dog, an old form being Eborard le Ken, or Thomas le
Chene. We still employ the term _Kennel_, which is from the same root.
This interchange of civilities has not been so largely cultivated between
mankind and the finny tribe—at least, not in England. Boys talk, ’tis
true, of a Jack-sharp, and fishermen of a Jack-pike or a John Dory; but
there we end our distribution of nominal courtesies. But the denizens of
our streams and becks and estuaries, whether in fresh water or salt, have
turned the tables on us with a vengeance. No doubt, as the penalty of
possessing certain peculiarities in gait, or habit, or complexion, many
of our forefathers got nicknamed _Grayling_, _Tench_, _Pike_, _Herring_,
_Pilchard_, or _Sturgeon_. _Whale_ would be a nickname for a man of huge
bulk. Thomas _Spratt_ was Bishop of Rochester in 1688. We are all
familiar with _Chubb_, on account of his patent locks. A Mr. _Codde_
married a Miss Salt, and their first child bore the name of Salt Codde.
{144a} This is not more remarkable than “Preserved Fish,” which figured
for some years in the New York Directory, and may be there now for what I
know to the contrary. A Mrs. _Salmon_ is said to have presented her
husband with three children at one birth, and to commemorate such an
auspicious event, he had them christened by the names of Pickled, Potted,
and Fresh. I do not vouch for the truth of this story! {144b} I may
observe here that it is somewhat remarkable that quaint Isaac Walton, the
great master, rather than “disciple of the rod,” wrote the life of the
“judicious Hooker.” Most anglers are disposed to think that Walton
himself was the most “judicious hook-er” that England has ever seen. At
least, his success with the fish-basket was so great, and his meditations
while occupied with his favourite pastime were so wise, that cynical
Samuel Johnson could not say of _his_ fishing rod, that there was a worm
at one end and a fool at the other.
Talking about fish, what an odd thing it seems that there should be 181
Fishers and Fischers in the London Directory, only eight Rivers to fish
in, and only sixteen Fish to catch! Nor is this all: they have only
three Rodds amongst them, thirty Lines or Lynes, thirty Hooks and Hookes,
six Worms, nine Grubbs, and not a single “Fly.” Nor do I see what they
can want with three Basketts; surely one would be enough for but sixteen
Fish. Speaking, too, of Fish and Worms, we must not forget the old
epitaph on Mr. Fish:—
“Worm’s bait for fish,
But here’s a sudden change,
Fish’s bait for worms,—
Is not that passing strange?”
The reptile and insect world is not without traces of representation in
the London Directory. There is no Alligator or Crocodile there, ’tis
true; but there might have been, had the following story occurred a few
generations earlier than it did. Not very long ago, in a northern town,
there was a town councillor who delighted in the use of sesquipedalian
English. He would never employ a short word if he could lay hands on a
long one. He was rather of a positive turn, too. One day a fellow
officer made a certain statement before the Council. Up jumps our
friend, and cries out, “That allegation is false, and—and the allegator
knows it.” He has been styled “Alligator” ever since. Fly, Wasp, Bee,
Gnat, and Bugg once existed, but only Bee and Bugg remain. Black-adder
was formerly common, and still lingers in the Metropolitan Directory as
Blackadar. Bugg, however, can claim a local origin, for there can be
little or no doubt that it is but one of the endless forms of Borough,
found as Brough, Bury, Burgh, Burge, and Burke. Nevertheless Thomas Hood
did not seem to like it:—
“A name—if the party had a voice—
What mortal would be a Bugg by choice,
As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice,
Or any such nauseous blazon?
Not to mention many a vulgar name,
That would make a doorplate blush for shame,
If doorplates were not so _brazen_.”
“John Frog” occurs in the Hundred Rolls, but he jumped out of our
Directories several centuries ago: and, possibly because his company did
not please him, has never jumped in again. Tadpole, ’tis true, exists:
but as Tadpoles in our Directories never manifest any further stage of
development, the Frogs have never received any increase from them!
But these are not the only names we owe to the animal creation. Our
forefathers loved descriptive compounds. After all, there is nothing
very terrible in being nicknamed a “wolf,” or a “stott,” or a “peacock,”
or a “buzzard,” or a “salmon,” or a “fly.” Our national nickname is
“John Bull,” and who ever got into a state of virtuous indignation about
that? Yet “bull” is not, taken all round, a very complimentary
sobriquet. He’s a stubborn, bellicose, lumbersome kind of creature; and
it’s wonderful what a little matter, such as a red rag, will set him into
a fury! How frequently we term a man a pig-headed fellow. That was a
favourite kind of nickname in old days, and our registers are not without
traces of this. We have still Colfox, that is, sly fox. Herring is
common; but once we had Freshherring, Goodherring, Badherring, and
Rottenherring in our Directories. Pigg, Grice, and Hogg are still to the
fore; but Cleanhog, Cleangrice, and Pigsflesh are all gone. Hogsflesh,
as stated before, still exists in the South of England; and a rhyme says
that—
“Worthing is a pretty place,
And if I’m not mistaken,
If you can’t get any butchers’ meat,
There’s Hogsflesh and Bacon.”
Other compound nicknames of the same class are Poorfish, Catsnose,
Cocksbrain, Buckskin, Goosebeak, Bullhead, and Calvesmaw; but they have
all been shuffled out of our Directories, to give place to sobriquets
more pleasant of origin, and more euphonious in sound.
In my next chapter I shall proceed with this subject, and, if I can
retain my readers’ attention, we shall discuss Nicknames taken from moral
and mental and physical characteristics—not affixed through the agency of
typical animal names, but by the ordinary and more direct phraseology.