The ‘taseles’ mentioned in the poem quoted above were the common ‘teasel’ or ‘tassel,’ a rough prickly plant allied to the thistle, which when dried was used for scratching the cloth, and thus raising a nap thereupon. Thus in Willsford’s ‘Nature’s Secrets’ it is said, ‘Tezils, or Fuller’s Thistle, being gathered or hanged up in the house, where the air may come freely to it, upon the alteration of cold and windy weather will grow smoother, and against rain will close up his prickles.’ (Brand’s ‘Pop. Ant.,’ vol. iii. p. 133.) In an inventory of the property of Edward Kyrkelands, of Kendall, dated 1578, we find the following articles mentioned:—iiii syckles, a pair wyes and iii stafs, tazills, 5s. 8d.—more in tazills, 2s.—iiii tentors, 40s. (‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p. 274.) The occupation itself is referred to in an old statute of Edward IV.—‘Item, that every fuller, from the said feast of St. Peter, in his craft and occupation of fuller, rower, or tayseler of cloth, shall exercise and use taysels and no cards, deceitfully impairing the same cloth’—‘en sa arte et occupacion de fuller et scalpier ou tezeiler de drap, exercise et use teizels, &c.’ (4 Ed. IV. c. 1.) It is probable that our ‘Taylors’ have engrossed this name. We find it lingering in Westmoreland, about Kendal, till the middle of the sixteenth century, in a form which required but little further change to make it the same. In the will of Walter Strykland, dated 1568, there is mentioned among other legatees a certain ‘Edward Taylzer,’ a manifest corruption of ‘Teazeler.’ (‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p. 224.) A century earlier than this, however, such names as ‘Gilbert le Tasseler’ or ‘Matilda le Tasselere’ were entered in our more formal registers.
Our ‘Baters’ and ‘Beaters,’ relics of the old ‘Avery le Batour’ or ‘John Betere,’ were all but invariably cloth-beaters, although, like the fuller ‘wollebeter,’[[326]] they may have been busied at an earlier stage of the manufacture. Capgrave, in his ‘Chronicles,’ under date 30 A.D., says, ‘Jacobus, the son of Joseph first bishop of Jerusalem, was throwe there fro the pinacle of the temple and after smet with a fuller’s bat.’[[327]] With the mention of our ‘Shearers’ (‘Richard le Sherere,’ M.) and endless ‘Shearmans,’ ‘Sharmans,’ or ‘Shermans’ (‘Robert le Sherman,’ ‘John le Shereman,’ M.), who represent the shearing of the manufactured fabric, rather than that of the sheep itself, we have the process complete. The cloth is at length ready to be transmitted into the care of our ‘Drapers’ and ‘Clothiers,’ and from them again through the skilled and nimble fingers of our numberless ‘Tailors.’ From all this we may readily see what an important influence has England’s one great staple of earlier days had upon the nomenclature of our countrymen.
Such a name as ‘Ralph le Flexman,’ with its many descendants, reminds us of the manufacture of linen, which, if not so popular as that of wool, was nevertheless anything but unfamiliar to the early craftsman. Our ‘Spinners’ carry us to the primary task of thread-making, an employment, however, all but entirely in the hands of the women. The distaff and the weaker sex have been ever associated, whether in sacred or profane narrative. Thus it is that ‘spinster’ has become stereotyped even as a legal term. Chaucer, four hundred years ago, somewhat uncourteously said:—
Deceite, weping, spinning, God hath given
To women kindly, while that they may liven.
Our modern ‘linen’ is formed from ‘lin’ or ‘line’—flax—as ‘woolen’ is from ‘wool.’ Hence we still speak of the seed of that plant as ‘linseed.’ That this was the common form of the word we might prove by many quotations.
He drank never cidre nor wyn
Nor never wered cloth of lyn,
says an old poem. Even Spenser speaks of ‘garment of line,’ and in ‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote’ allusion is made to ‘lyne-webbers’ and ‘lyne-drapers.’[[328]] We need not be surprised, therefore, to meet with such names as ‘Elias Lyndraper,’ or ‘Henry le Lindraper,’ or ‘John le Lyner.’ Only this last, however, has survived the changes of intervening centuries, and still holds a precarious existence as ‘Liner.’ ‘Weaver’ was more common. A more Norman equivalent is found in such a sobriquet as ‘John le Teler,’ or ‘Henry le Telere,’ or ‘Ida la Teleress,’ a name which is not necessarily of modern French refugee origin, as Mr. Lower would lead us to suppose. Indeed, a special part of the ladies’ head-dress had early obtained the name of a ‘teler,’ from the fine texture of the linen of which it was composed.[[329]] It is but too probable that this name has become lost, like ‘Taylzer,’ in the more common ‘Taylor.’ This process of absorption we shall find to be not unfrequent. Nor are we without a memorial of the bleaching of linen. ‘Whiter,’ if not ‘Whitster,’ still lives in our directories. It seems strange that our ‘Blackers’ should denote but the same occupation; but so it is—they, like our old ‘Walter le Blakesters’ or ‘Richard le Bleckesters,’ being but the harder and more antique form of our present ‘bleacher.’[[330]] Our term ‘bleak,’ preserving as it does the earlier pronunciation, is but the same word, being formerly used to denote pallor, or wanness, or absence of colour. From this, by a natural change, it came to signify anything cheerless or desolate. With perfect honesty in this case, at any rate, we may ‘swear that black is white.’
With regard to silk, we had but little to do. The manufacture of this important cloth was barely carried on in Western Europe during the period of the establishment of surnames. It was nigh the close of the fifteenth century before it appeared in France. All our silks were imported from the East by Venetian and Genoese merchants. Of the latter an old poem says, they come—