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 xiid.,’ 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 ixd., 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.