“Did well his threefold trade explain,
Who shaved, drew teeth, and breathed a vein.”
In the latter decades of last century there was a celebrated surgeon in Manchester of the name of “Killer,” which is a corruption of “Kilner,” just as Miller and Milner are identical. But if this was an unfortunate name for a surgeon, what shall we say of “Kilmister” and “Kilmaster,” which may be found in and about the county of Gloucester! How bloodthirsty they look!—and yet the truer form Kilminster, in the London Directory, strips them, by the addition of but one letter, of their terrors, and shows them to be of local origin. In one of the earliest metropolitan directories appears a Mr. Toothaker! It was not an uncommon name, for in 1635 there embarked in the Hopewell for New England, Roger Toothaker and Margaret Toothaker! I do not think the name to be of German origin, as Mr. Lower supposes, but one of those local English surnames ending in “acre,” like Whittaker or Oldacre. The sobriquet, however, reads oddly enough, and looks as if the services of the barber were much required.
Turning to dress for a moment, we may notice that there are nearly 300 Walkers in the London Directory, almost 100 Tuckers, 80 Fullers, and 20 Tozers. All were concerned once with the combing, fulling, dyeing, and thickening of woollen goods. In Piers Plowman mention is made of “fulling under foot.” This refers to the practice of treading the cloth, before machinery was introduced. He who did this was a walker. Wycliffe, speaking of Christ’s transfiguration, describes Christ’s dress as shining, so as “no fullers or walkers of cloth” could whiten them. The “tozer” or “toser,” or “touser,” toused or teased the fabric, so as to raise a nap on it. We talk of teasing now in the sense of worrying people with attentions. This is the secondary meaning that has grown upon the other. “Tozer” and “Toser” are the favourite spellings of this occupation in the Directory. We are still fond of calling a pugnacious dog “Towser.” Tucker was a Flemish introduced term for a “dyer.” Many of the words connected with the manufacture of cloth came in with the Flemish artisans.
I will only mention one article of dress, and conclude. There is no “Cobler,” or “Cobbler,” in the Directory, but there used to be. As a mere patchwork business it has got into disrepute; so it has been got rid of by its owners. Christopher Shoomaker was burnt at Newbury during the days of persecution, and Foxe tells his story in his customary quaint fashion; but it has ever been a rare name in England, though common enough in Germany as Schumacher, or Schumann. The last form will be familiar to all musicians. Camden, in a list of occupations, inserts “Chaucer,” appending by way of definition, “id est, Hosier.” The chaucer or hosier of those days fitted to the leg from the knee downwards the strong leather legging. This was called a chaussure. Chaucer is obsolete in England, though not in France. Hosier and Hozier still exist. Every Londoner knows of the “Cordwainers’ Hall,” though perhaps he has never seen it. It is not more than forty years ago that you might not uncommonly see “cordwainer” over a shop door instead of the strictly modern “shoemaker”; while in our directories “Cordwainer,” or “Cordiner,” or “Codner,” is a customary name. Sir Thopas is described thus:—
“His hair, his beard was like safroun,
That to his girdle raught (reached) adown,
His shoon of cordewane.”
We have only to turn cordwain into cordovan, to see that this was a specially excellent leather, imported in early times from Cordova, in Spain, to make “kid-boots.” In fact, the cordwainer was the West-end boot-maker. But this is not all. In the Directory for 1871 there appear twelve Suters, three Sowters, six Soutters, seven Souters, one Soutar, and three Soustars. I need not tell any Scotchman what this means, because every shoemaker or cobbler on the other side of the Tweed, except in very fashionable quarters, is still a “souter.” Souster is but one more instance of the feminine (?) termination.
I might prolong this chapter to any extent, but I must refrain. I might have called attention to our many “Glovers” and “Ganters,” who sold gloves, or our Gantletts and Gauntletts, who were in the same business, but were known best by the gauntlet that hung as a sign over the door. I might have pointed to our Girdlers and Bracegirdles, who were busy enough when the modern suspender was unknown; or to our many Pointers, who manufactured the points or tags by which hose and doublet were protected from divorcement. I might have asked the reader to survey with me the rows of Cheesemans, Cheesmans, Cheesewrights, Cheeswrights, and Firmingers, reminiscences of the good old farmers’ produce, which was the first, second and third course of every peasant’s dinner. I might have shown that our Challeners and Challoners manufactured or sold blankets, made at first in Chalons; or that our Helliers, or Hilliers, or Hillyers, were thatchers or tylers; that our Shoosmiths forged shoes for horses; that our Wrights worked chiefly in wood, our Smiths in iron. I might have run through a list of rural occupations, such as Coward for cow-herd, Calvert for calve-herd, Shepherd for sheep-herd, or “Herd” or “Heard” or “Hurd” itself for the tender of cattle in general. From all temptations of this kind I must stay myself. I will only say that if my reader should be interested enough to wish to carry on such investigation, he can do so in my book of “English Surnames,” which I think I can truly say is quite exhaustive of those now forgotten and obsolete titles of mediæval occupation. I have mentioned Wright: let me quote a rhyming pun on his good old title:
“At a tavern one night,
Messrs. More, Strange, and Wright,
Met to drink, and their good thoughts exchange;
Says More, ‘Of us three,’
The whole will agree,
There’s only one Knave, and that’s Strange.’“‘Yes,’ says Strange, rather sore,
‘I’m sure there’s one More,
A most terrible knave, and a fright,
Who cheated his mother,
His sister, and brother.’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied More, ‘that is Wright.’”
On the whole, Mr. More got the best of the argument.