In woodes and forestes dwell.[[40]]
It must have been this connexion which made ‘Tony’ the common sobriquet for a simpleton or a country clown. It lived in this sense till Dryden’s day, and certainly had become such so early as the thirteenth century, if we may judge by the occurrence of such names as ‘Ida le Tony,’ or ‘Roger le Tony,’ found in the Rolls of that period.[[41]] If, however, St. Anthony was thus doomed to be an example, how great may be the drawbacks to saintly distinction: ‘St. Cuthbert,’ who, in the odour of sanctity, dwelt at Lindisfarne, may even be more pitied, for, owing to the familiarity of his name in every rustic household of Northumbria and Durham, he became as ‘Cuddie,’ a sobriquet for the donkey, and is thus known and associated to the present moment. Our ‘Cuthberts,’ ‘Cuthbertsons,’ and ‘Cutbeards,’ however, need trouble themselves little, I imagine, on the question of their connection with the animal to whom we usually ascribe the honours in regard to obstinacy and stubbornness. Our ‘Cuddies,’ perhaps, are not quite so free from suspicion. Our ‘Cobbets’ undoubtedly spring from ‘Cuthbert.’ A ‘Nicholas Cowbeytson’ occurs in a Yorkshire register of the fourteenth century (Fabric Rolls of York Minster: Sur. Soc.). From ‘Cowbeyt’ to ‘Cobbet’ is a natural—I might say an inevitable—change. This name, however, owes nothing to the Normans. Not so ‘Giles.’ Everyone knows the story of St. Giles, how he dwelt as an anchorite in the forest near Nismes, and was discovered by the King because the hind, which daily gave him milk, pushed in the chase, fled to his feet. The name is entered in our rolls alike as ‘Giles,’ ‘Gile,’ and ‘Egedius’ (Gile Deacon. A. Jordan fil. Egidius, A). St. Lawrence, put on a gridiron over a slow fire in the third century, made his name popular in Spain. An archbishop of Canterbury, raised to a saintship in the seventh century, made the same familiar in England. Besides ‘Lawson,’ we have ‘Larkins’ and ‘Larson.’ In the lines already quoted relative to Wat Tyler’s insurrection, it is said—
Larkin et in medio, non minor esse putat.
The French diminutive occurs also. An ‘Andrew Larrett’ is mentioned by Nicholls in his history of Leicestershire, and the surname may still be seen in our directories. ‘Lambert’ received a large accession in England through the Flemings, who thus preserved a memorial of the patron of Liege, St. Lambert, who was martyred early in the eighth century. Succumbing to the fashion so prevalent among the Flemings, it is generally found as ‘Lambkin,’ such entries as ‘Lambekyn fil. Eli’ or ‘Lambekin Taborer’ being common. The present surnominal forms are ‘Lambert,’ ‘Lampson,’[[42]] ‘Lambkin,’ and ‘Lampkin.’ Thus our ‘Lambkins’ cannot boast of the Moses-like disposition of their ancestor on philological grounds. With the mention of three other saints we conclude this list. The legend of St. Christopher had its due effect on the popular taste, and it is early found in the various guises of ‘Cristophre,’ ‘Cristofer,’ and ‘Christofer.’ ‘Christophers’ and ‘Christopherson’ represent the surnames of the fuller form. To the pet form we owe our ‘Kitts’ and ‘Kitsons.’ St. Christopher’s Isle in the West Indies is now familiarly St. Kitts. It was of the indignity offered to Christopher Marlowe’s genius in calling him so generally by this brief sobriquet that Heywood spoke when he said—
Marlowe, renowned for his rare art and wit,
Could ne’er attain beyond the name of Kit.[[43]]
The same writer has it also in one of his epigrams—
Nothing is lighter than a feather, Kytte,
Yes, Climme: what light thing is that? thy light wytte.
We have already mentioned one abbot of Fontenelle who influenced our nomenclature. Another who exerted a similar power was ‘St. Gilbert,’ a contemporary and friend of the Conqueror. A few generations afterwards brought the English St. Gilbert to the fore, and then the name began to grow common, so common that as ‘Gib’ it became the favourite sobriquet of the feline species.[[44]] In several of our earliest writers it is found in familiar use, and in the Bard of Avon’s day it was not forgotten. Falstaff complains of being as melancholy as a ‘gib-cat’—that is, an old worn-out cat. Hamlet also says—