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 Williamson (i.e., Mary, the son of William)! To us, accustomed to these names, there seems nothing absurd in such a title as Matilda Johnson, or Margaret Davidson. 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 Margerison,” rather than “Robert Johnson.” 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 Nelson, 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 Nicholson. 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.