Chapter III: Surnames of Office (1)

A class of surnames which occupies no mean place in our lists is that which has been bequeathed to us by the dignitaries and officers of mediæval times. Of these sobriquets, while some hold but a precarious existence, a goodly number are firmly established in our midst. On the other hand, as with each other class of our surnames, many that once figured in every register of the period are now extinct. Of these latter not a few have lapsed through the decay of the very systems which brought them into being. While the feudal constitution remained encircled as it was with a complete scheme of service, while the ecclesiastic system of Church government reigned supreme and without a rival, there were numberless offices which in after days fell into desuetude with the principle that held them together. Still, in the great majority of cases the names of these have remained to remind us of their former heyday glory, and to give us an insight into the reality of those now decayed customs to which they owed their rise.

We must be careful, however, at the outset to remark that a certain number of these names ought, strictly speaking, to be set down in our chapter upon sobriquets. They are either vestiges of the many outdoor pageantries and mock ceremonies so popular in that day, or of the numberless nicknames our forefathers loved to affix one upon the other, and in which practice all, high and low alike, joined. For instance, no one could suspect such a sobriquet as ‘Alan le Pope,’ or ‘Hugh le Pape,’ the source of one of our commonest and most familiar names, to be derived from the possessor of that loftiest of ecclesiastic offices.[155] It could be but a nickname, and was doubtless given to some unlucky individual whose overweening and pretentious bearing had brought upon him the affix. So, again, would it be with such a title as ‘Robert le Keser,’ that is, Cæsar, corresponding to the French ‘L’empriere’ and the obsolete Norman ‘le Emperer.’ This is a word of frequent occurrence in our earlier poets. Langland says of our Lord, there was

No man so worthie
To be kaiser or king
Of the kyngdom of Juda.

Again, he finely says—

Death cam dryvynge after,
And al to duste passed
Kynges and knyghtes,
Kaysers and popes,
Lered and lewed.[156]

This surname, too, is now all but equally common with the other, being met with in the several shapes of ‘Cæsar,’ ‘Cayser,’ ‘Cayzer,’ ‘Kaiser,’ and ‘Keyser.’[157] The name of ‘Julius Cæsar,’ as that of one of our most esteemed professional cricketers, has only just disappeared from the annals of that noble game. The posterity of such enrolled burgesses as ‘William le Kyng’ or ‘Thomas le Kyng’ still flourish and abound in our midst. An imperious temperament would thus readily meet with good-humoured censure. ‘Matilda le Quen’ or ‘Simon Quene’ has not quite failed of issue; but had it been otherwise, it could not have been matter for any astonishment, as the sobriquet was doubtless anything but a complimentary affix. We must remember that, somewhat curiously, the old ‘quen,’ or, as the Scotch still term it, ‘quean,’ at once represents the highest rank to which a woman can reach and the lowest depth to which she can fall. So would it be once more with our endless ‘Princes,’ and ‘Comtes’ or ‘Counts,’ ‘Viscuntes,’ the heads of provincial government.[158] There is no reason, however, why our ‘Dukes,’ ‘Dooks,’ or ‘Ducs,’ as they are more generally found in our rolls (‘Roger le Duc,’ E., ‘Adam le Duk.’ M.),[159] should not be what they represent, or rather then represented. A ‘duke’ was of course anything but what we now understand by the term, being then, as it more literally signifies, a leader, or chieftain, or head. It is thus used in Scripture. Langland, to quote him again, says of Justice—

A-drad was he nevere
Neither of duc ne of deeth.

Elsewhere, too, he describes ‘Rex Gloriæ’ as addressing Lucifer upon the brink of Hades, and saying—

Dukes of this dymme place,
Anoon undo these yates,
That Crist may come in,
The kynges sone of hevene.

It is in this same category we must set, I doubt not, such old registrations as ‘Robert le Baron’ or ‘Walter le Baron,’ ‘John le Lorde’ or ‘Walter le Loverd,’ and ‘Walter le Theyn’ or ‘Nicholas le Then,’ names now found as ‘Baron,’ ‘Lord,’ and ‘Thain,’ ‘Thaine,’ or ‘Thane.’[160] Even in the case of names of a more ecclesiastic character, we shall have to apply the same remark. We have still in our midst descendants of the ‘le Cardinals’ and ‘le Bishops’ of the thirteenth century, and there can be little doubt that these were, in the majority of cases, but nicknames given to particular individuals by way of ridiculing certain characteristics which seemed to tend in the direction the name suggested.

As I have already hinted, however, there is another and equally probable origin for many of the names I have mentioned. Pageantries and mock ceremonies were at this time at the very height of their popularity. The Romish Church fed this desire. Thus, for instance, take Epiphany. In well-nigh every parish the visit of the Magi, always accounted to have been royal personages, was regularly celebrated. Though the manner varied in different places, the custom was more or less the same. There was a great feast, and one of the company was always elected king, the rest being, according to the lots they drew, either ministers of state or maids of honour. Thus Herrick says—

For sports, for pageantrie, and playes,
Thou hast thy eves and holidayes:
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy Maypoles, too, with garlandes graced:
Thy mummeries, thy twelfe-tide _kings_
And _queens_, thy Christmas revellings.[161]

I need scarcely say that as popular nicknames these titles would be sure to cling to the persons upon whom they had fallen, and that they should even pass on to their descendants is no more unnatural than in the case of a hundred other sobriquets we shall have occasion to recount.

Of the rest, however, and, as I have said, maybe in some of the cases I have mentioned, the surname was but truly indicative of the office or dignity held. The Saxon has suffered here. And yet to some this may seem somewhat strange when we remember how little change really took place in the institutions of the Kingdom by the Conquest. The Normans and Saxons, after all, were but propagations from the same original stock, and however distant the period of their separation, however affected by difference of clime and association, still their customs bore a sufficient affinity to make coalescence by no means a difficult task. William was not given to great changes. He was vindictive, but not destructive. His most cruel acts were retributive, done by way of reprisal after sudden disaffection. If a conqueror must establish his power, deeds of this kind are inevitable. And even these are exaggerated. The story of the depopulation of the New Forest, it is now pretty generally agreed, is impossible—its present condition forbids of any such act to have been practicable—and the notion frequently conveyed in our smaller books of English history, that the curfew was a badge and token of servitude, is simply absurd, the fact being that the same custom prevailed over the whole of Western Europe, as a mere precaution against fire at a time when our towns were mainly constructed of wood. A crushed people will always misinterpret such ordinances. Prejudice of this kind is perfectly pardonable. William then, I say, was not inclined to uproot Saxon institutions. The national council still remained. The ancient tribunals with their various motes, the whole system of law which guided the administration of justice, all was well-nigh as it had been heretofore. But the language which was the medium of all this was generally changed. The old laws were indeed used, but in a translated form—old officerships still existed, but in a new dialect—the old policy was mainly upheld, but new terms of police were introduced. It was not till Edward III.’s reign that pleadings in the various courts were again carried on in the English tongue—it was not till Henry VI.’s reign the proceedings in Parliament were recorded in the people’s dialect—not till Richard III.’s day its statutes and ordinances ceased to be indited in Norman-French. This at once shows the difficulty of any officership, however Saxon, retaining its original title. The office was maintained, but the name was changed. This was the more certain to ensue, so far as the Church was concerned, from the fact that for a considerable period all ecclesiastic vacancies were filled up from abroad. Bishops and abbots were removed on pretexts of one sort or another, and their places supplied from the Conqueror’s chaplains. The monasteries were hived with Normans; the clergy generally were of foreign descent. It was the same, or nearly the same, with regard to civil government. The lesser courts of judicature were ruled by foreigners and the foreign tongue. The Barons, as they retired into the provinces and to the estates allotted them, naturally bore with them a Norman retinue. All their surroundings became quickly the same. Thus the French language was used not merely in their common conversation—that of course—but so far as their power, undoubtedly large, existed, in the provincial courts also.

Such entries as ‘Thomas le Shirreve’ and ‘Lena le Shireve’ remind us not merely of our present existing ‘Sheriffs,’ ‘Sherrifs,’ and ‘Shreeves,’ but how firmly this Saxon word has maintained its hold through the many fluctuations of English government. The Norman ‘Judge,’ though it is firmly established in our courts of law, has not made any very great impress upon our nomenclature. ‘Justice,’ a relic of ‘William’ or ‘Eva le Justice,’[162] is more commonly met with. Our ‘Corners,’ when not descendants of the local ‘de la Corners’ of the thirteenth century, are but corruptions of many a ‘John le Coroner’ or ‘Henry le Corouner’ of the same period. It is even found in the abbreviated form of ‘Corner,’ in ‘John le Corner’ and ‘Walter le Cornur.’ Thus we see that so early as this our forefathers discerned in the death of a subject a matter that concerned not merely the well-being of the crown, but that of which the crown as the true parent of a nation’s interests was to take cognizance. More directly opposed to the Norman ‘Judge’ and ‘Justice,’ and in the end displaced by them, were our Saxon ‘Demer’ and ‘Dempster’ (the older forms being ‘le Demere’ and ‘le Demester’), they who pronounced the doom. An old English Psalter thus translates Psalm cxlviii. 11:—

Kinges of earth, and alle folk living,
Princes and all _demers_ of land.

An antique poem, too, has it in its other form in the following couplet:—

Ayoth was then _demester_
Of Israel foure score yeer.

We still employ the term ‘doom’ for judgment. Chaucer speaks familiarly of one of the Canterbury company as a ‘Serjeant of the Lawe.’ It is, in the majority of cases, to the term ‘sergeant’ as used in this capacity we owe our much-varied ‘Sargants,’ ‘Sargeants,’ ‘Sargeaunts,’ ‘Sargents,’ ‘Sergents,’ ‘Sergeants,’ ‘Sarjants,’ and ‘Sarjeants.’ The same poet says of him:—

Justice he was full often in assize,
By patent and by pleine commission.

‘Alured le Pledur,’ or ‘Henry le Pleidour,’ and ‘Peter le Escuzer,’ all obsolete as surnames, need little or no explanation. Speaking of assizes, we are reminded of our ‘Sisers’ and ‘Sizers,’ representatives of the old ‘Assizer’—he who was commissioned to hold the court. Piers Plowman frequently mentions him:—

To marien this mayde
Were many men assembled,
As of knyghts, and of clerkes,
And other commune people,
As sisours, and somenours,
Sherreves, and baillifs.

We are here reminded of ‘Hugh le Somenur,’ or ‘Henry le Sumenour,’ now spelt ‘Sumner,’ the sheriff’s messenger, he by whom the delinquent was brought up to the court. He was the modern apparitor in fact. In the ‘Coventry Mysteries’ it is said:—

Sim Somnor, in haste wend thou thi way,
Byd Joseph, and his wyff by name,
At the coorte to apper this day,
Him to purge of her defame.

A ‘Godwin Bedellus’ occurs so early as Domesday record, and as ‘Roger le Bedel,’ or ‘Martin le Bedel,’ the name is by no means rare somewhat later on. He was, whether in the forest or any other court, the servitor, he who executed processes or attended to proclamations. The modern forms of the name comprise, among others, ‘Beadell,’ ‘Beadle,’ ‘Beaddall,’ and ‘Biddle.’ Such names as ‘Richard le Gayeler’ or ‘Ada le Gaoler,’ are very commonly met with in our mediæval rolls. The term itself is of Norman origin, reminding us that, however menial the duty, the Saxon could not be entrusted with such an office as this. We cannot, however, speak of the gaoler and his _confrères_ without referring to a curious sobriquet of this period, a sobriquet to which we owe in the present day our ‘Catchpoles’ and ‘Catchpooles.’[163] The catchpole was a kind of under-bailiff or petty sergeant who distrained for debt, or otherwise did the more unpleasant part of his superior’s work, and was so called from his habit of seizing his luckless victim by the hair, or _poll_, as was the familiar term then. So general was this nickname that we find it occupying an all but official place. It is Latinized in our records into ‘cachepollus,’ a word unknown to Cicero, I am afraid. In the ‘Plowman’s Vision’ we are told of the two thieves crucified with the Saviour that:—

A cachepol cam forth
And cracked both their legges.

Another name for the catchpole was that of ‘Cacherel’ or ‘Cacher,’ both of which forms occur at this same period as surnames. An old political song says, murmuringly:—

Nedes I must spend that I spared of yore
Ageyn this cacherele cometh.

This sobriquet also abides with us still.[164] ‘Le Cacher,’ I fear, has been obsolete for centuries.[165]

Of such as were accountable for duties in the public streets, we may mention first our ‘Cryers,’ registered at the time we are speaking of as ‘Philip le Criour,’ or ‘Wat le Creyer.’ He, like the still existing ‘Bellman,’[166] performed a fixed round, announcing in full and sententious tones the mandates of bench and council, whenever it was necessary to advertise to the public such news as concerned their common well-being. Our _policeman_ may be modern in his name and in his attire, but as the guardian of the peace, by night as well as by day, he is but the descendant of a long line of servants who have in turn fulfilled this important public trust. His early title was borne by ‘Ralph le Weyte,’ or ‘Robert le Wayte,’ or ‘Hugh le Geyt,’ or ‘Robert le Gait.’ All these forms are of the commonest occurrence in our olden registries. By night he carried a trump, with which to sound the watches or give the alarm, and thus it was he acquired also the name of ‘Trumper,’ such forms as ‘Adam le Trompour’ or ‘William le Trompour’ being frequently met with at this time. To the former title of this official duty it is we owe the fact of our still terming any company of night serenaders ‘waits,’ and especially those bands of strolling minstrels who keep up the good old custom of watching in Christmas morn. A good old custom, I say, even though it may cost us a few pence and rouse us somewhat rudely, maybe, from our slumbers. ‘Wait,’ ‘Waite,’[167] ‘Wayt,’ and ‘Whaite,’ with ‘le Geyt,’ are the forms that still exist among us. ‘Trumper,’ too, has its place equally assured in our nomenclature.

Such names as we have just dwelt upon, however, remind us of other municipal authorities, higher in position than these, to whom, indeed, these were but servitors. A sobriquet like ‘Richard le Burgess’ or ‘John le Burges’ reminds us of the freemen of the borough towns, while ‘le Mayor,’ or ‘Mayer,’ or ‘Maire,’ or ‘Mair,’ or ‘Meyre,’[168] or ‘Mire,’ for all these different spellings are found, is equally suggestive of the chief magistracy of such. Piers, to quote him once more, speaks of:—

The maistres,
Meirs and Jugges,
That have the welthe of this world.

The feminine form of this sobriquet appears in the early but obsolete ‘Margaret la Miresse.’ Speaking of mayors, some lines written some years ago on the proposed elevation of a certain Alderman Wood as Lord Mayor are not without humour, nor out of place, perhaps, here:—

In choice of Mayors ’twill be confest,
Our citizens are prone to jest:
Of late a gentle ‘Flower’ they tried—
November came and checked its pride.
A ‘Hunter’ next, on palfrey grey,
Proudly pranced his year away.
The next, good order’s foes to scare,
Placed ‘Birch’ upon the civic chair.
Alas! this year, ’tis understood,
They mean to make a mayor of ‘Wood!’

As a fellow to ‘Meir’ we may cite ‘Provost,’ or ‘Prevost,’ or ‘Provis,’ a term still used of the mayoralty in Scotland. ‘Councellor’ and ‘Councilman’ are still familiar terms in our midst. ‘Clavenger,’ ‘Claver,’ and ‘Cleaver’ we will mention last as filling up a list of civic offices entirely, so far as the language is concerned, the property of the dominant power. A ‘Robert Clavynger’ occurs in the Parliamentary Rolls. Its root is ‘claviger,’ the key-bearer,’ one whose office it was at this time to protect the deposits, whether of money or parchments, belonging to the civic authorities. The more common term was that of ‘Clavier,’ such entries as ‘Henry le Claver,’ or ‘John le Clavour,’ or ‘John le Clavier,’[169] being of familiar occurrence at this time. Thus in a treaty agreed upon between the Mayor, sheriffs, and commonalty of Norwich in 1414, it was declared that ‘the mayor and twenty-four (of the council) shall choose a common clerk, a coroner, two clavers, and eight constables, and the sixty common council shall choose a common speaker, one coroner, two clavers, and eight constables.’ (‘Hist. Norf.,’ Blomefield.) In a day when there were no patent safes we can readily understand the importance of appointing men whose one care it was to guard the chests wherein were stored up the various parchments, moneys, and seals belonging to the civic council. This comprises our list of Norman civil officers. One name, and one only, of this class is Saxon, that of ‘Alderman,’ but I have found it occurring as a surname in only one or two instances, and I believe it has now become obsolete.

Turning from municipal to ecclesiastical affairs, we find the Church of mediæval times surrounded with memorials. Some of these I have already hinted at as being mere sobriquets;[170] none the less, however, do we owe them to the existing institutions. Such names as ‘Hugo le Archevesk’ or ‘William le Arceveske’ can be only thus viewed. In ‘Morte Arthure’ the hero holds festival at Caerleon,

Wyth dukez, and dusperes of dyvers rewmes,
Erles and erchevesques, and other ynowe,
Byschopes and bachelers and banerettes nobille.

While this has long vanished from our directories, the descendants of ‘John le Bissup’ or ‘Robert le Biscop’ are firmly established therein. The more Norman ‘Robert le Vecke’ and ‘Nicholas le Vesk’ still live also in our ‘Vicks’ and ‘Vecks.’ It was only the other day I saw ‘Archdeacon’ over a hatter’s shop—and that it is no corruption of some other word, we may cite the early ‘Thomas le Arcedekne’ as a proof.[171] Whether ‘Archpriest,’ a sobriquet occurring at the same date, was but another designation of the same, or performed more episcopal functions, I cannot say.[172] The name, however, is obsolete in every sense. The old vicar has bequeathed us our ‘Vicars,’ ‘Vicarys,’ and ‘Vickermans.’ Chaucer says in the ‘Persons Prologue’—

Sire preest, quod he, art thou a vicary?
Or art thou a Person? say soth by thy fay.

Our ‘Parsons,’ as Mr. Lowther thinks, are but a form of ‘Piers’ son,’ that is, ‘Peters’ son.’ It is, however, quite possible for them to be what they more nearly resemble; indeed, I find the name occurring as such in the case of ‘Walter le Persone,’ found in the Parliamentary Rolls. Well would it be if we could say of each village cure now what our great early poet said of one he pictured forth—

A good man there was of religioun,
That was a poure Persone of a town,
But riche he was of holy thought and werk,
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche.

Our ‘Priests’ and ‘Priestmans’[173] answer for themselves. ‘Thomas le Prestre’ and ‘Peter le Prest,’ I do not doubt myself, were but other changes rung upon the same, but I shall have occasion hereafter to propose, at least, a different origin for the latter. The lower ministerial office is suggested to us in ‘Philip le Dekene’ and ‘Thomas le Deken,’ but we must be careful not to confound them with ‘Deakin,’ which is often but another form of ‘Dakin,’ that is, ‘Dawkin,’ or ‘little David.’[174] Our ‘Chaplains’ or ‘Chaplins,’ once written more fully as ‘Reginald le Chapeleine,’ represent less one who officiated in any public sanctuary than him who was attached to some private oratory belonging to one of the higher nobility. Our ‘Chanters’ or ‘Canters’ (‘Xtiana le Chauntour,’ A., ‘William le Chantour,’ M.) still maintain the dignity of the old precentors who led the collegiate or cathedral choir—but the once existing ‘Chanster’ (‘Stephen le Chanster,’ J.), strictly speaking the feminine of the other, is now obsolete.[175] In our ‘Chancellors’ we may recognise the ancient ‘John le Chanceler’ or ‘Geoffry le Chaunceler,’ he to whose care was committed the chapter, books, scrolls, records, and what other literature belonged to the establishment with which he stood connected. ‘Clerk’ as connected with the Church has come down in the world, for as ‘clericus,’ or ‘clergyman,’ it once belonged entirely to the ordained ministry.[176] The introduction of lay-clerks, appointed to lead the responses of the congregation, has, however, connected them all but wholly with this later office. Nor have our ‘Secretans,’ or ‘Sextons,’ or ‘Saxtons’ preserved their early dignity. The sacristan was he who had charge of the church-edifice, especially the robes and vestments, and such things as appertained to the actual service.[177] The present usually accepted meaning of the term, that understood by our great humorist poet when he said—

He went and _told_ the sexton,
And the sexton _tolled_ the bell,

is quite of later growth. In our ‘Colets’ and ‘Collets’ (sometimes the diminutives of ‘Colin’) we are reminded of the colet, or acolyte, who waited upon the priest and assisted in carrying the bread and wine, in lighting the candles, and performing all subordinate duties. Our ‘Bennets,’ when not belonging to the class of baptismal names (as a corruption of ‘Benedict’), once performed the functions of exorcists, and by the imposition of hands and the aspersion of holy water expelled evil spirits from those said to be thus possessed. Last of this group we may mention our ‘Croziers’ and ‘Crosiers,’ they who at this time bore the pastoral staff. Mediæval forms of these are met with in ‘Simon le Croyzer’ or ‘Mabel la Croiser.’ I doubt not that he was a kind of chaplain to his superior, whose official staff it was his duty to bear. In the Book of Common Prayer of the 2nd year of Edward VI. it is directed: ‘Whensoever the bishop shall celebrate the holy communion, or execute any other public office, he shall have upon him, besides his rochet, an alb and cope, or vestment, and also his pastoral staff in his hand, or else borne by his chaplain.’

When we turn our eyes for a moment to the old monastic institutions, we see that they, too, are far from being without their relics. In them we have more distinctly the echo of a departed time. Many of my readers will be familiar with the distinction recorded in such names as ‘Alexander le Seculer’ and ‘Walter le Religieuse,’ or ‘man of religion,’ as Chaucer would have termed the latter. To be ‘_religious_’ in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was to be one of a monastic order bound by vows. Thus our great mediæval poet says in his Romance—

Religious folk ben full covert,
Secular folke ben more apert,
But natheless, I will not blame
Religious folke, ne them defame
In what habite that ever they go;
Religion humble, and true also,
Will I not blame, ne despise.

The ‘religieuse’ has apparently stuck to his vows, for I have never found the term in an hereditary form, while ‘Secular,’ as descended from such enrolled folk as ‘Walter le Secular,’ or ‘Joan, uxor Nicholas le Secular,’ still exists. I am afraid, however, the Secularist of that time could and would have told us a different tale. Of these bound orders too, while the general term, as I say, does not now exist surnominally, all the more particular titles which it embraced do. As we catch the cadence of their names a shadow falls athwart our memories, and in its wake a crowd of dim and unsubstantial figures pass before us. Once more we behold the fiery ‘Abbot’ (Juliana Abbot, A., Ralph le Abbe, C.), and the portly ‘Prior’ or ‘Pryor’ (Roger le Priour, B., William le Priur, E.). We see afresh the ‘Friar,’ or ‘Freere,’ or ‘Frere’ (Syward le Frere, A., Geoffrey le Frere, A.), so ‘pleasant of absolution’ and ‘easy of penance.’ Again our eye falls mistily upon the ‘Canon,’ or ‘Cannon’ (William le Cannon, A., Thomas le Canun, E.), with his well-trimmed beard and capped brow, and the ‘Moyne’ (now ‘Munn’) or ‘Monk’ (Beatrix le Munk, A., Thomas le Mun, A., Ivo le Moyne, A.), all closely shaved and cloaked, and cowled, that knew his way to the cellar better than to the chapel, who loved the song more than the chaunt.[178] And now in quick succession flit by us a train of personages all beshrouded in garbs of multitudinous and quaint aspect, in cloaks and hoods, and tippets and girdles, and white and dark apparel. There is the wimpled, grey-eyed ‘Nunn’ (Alice la Nonne, A.), and the Dorturer, represented in olden registers by such a name as ‘Robert le Dorturer,’ he who looked to the arrangements of the dourtour, or dormitory—

His death saw I by revelation,
Sayde this frere, at home in our dortour.[179]

The word still existed in the sixteenth century, as is evidenced by Heywood’s use of it. He says—

The tongue is assigned of wordes to be sorter;
The mouth is assigned to be the tongue’s _dorter_;
The teeth are assigned to be the tongue’s porter;
But wisdom is ’signed to tye the tongue shorter.

The figure is somewhat forced, but it has its beauty. The ‘Fermerer,’ now found as ‘Fermor’ and ‘Firmer,’ was he who superintended the infirmary. Only a few lines further on, in the earlier of the two poems from which I last quoted, we find Chaucer making mention of—

Our sexton, and our fermerere,
That have been trewe freres fifty year.

The ‘Tale of a Monk,’ too, begins—

A black munk of an abbaye
Was enfermer of alle I herd say—
He was halden an hali man
Imange his felaus.

The fermery was the hospital or ‘spital’[180] attached to each religious house, and was under the immediate control of the above-mentioned officer. It is with him, therefore, we may fitly ally ‘Robert le Almoner,’ or ‘Michael le Aumoner,’ a name still abiding with us, and representative of him who dispensed the alms to the lazars and the poor. It is in allusion to this his office that Robert Brunne in one of his tales says:—

Seynt Jone, the aumenere,[181]
Saith Pers, was an okerere
And was very coveytous
And a niggard and avarus.

Of the same officer in more lordly society the ‘Boke of Curtasye’ thus speaks—

The Aumonere a rod schalle have in honde,
An office for almes, I understonde;
Alle the broken mete he kepys in wait
To dele to pore men at the gate.

Many of those who were supported at this time and in this manner were lepers. We can take up no record, large or small, of the period without coming across a ‘Nicholas’ or ‘Walter le Leper.’ Leprosy was introduced into Western Europe with the return of the Crusaders. To such a degree had it spread in England, that in 1346 Edward III. was compelled to issue a royal mandate enjoining those ‘smitten with the blemish of leprosy’ to ‘betake themselves to places in the country, solitary, and notably distant’ from the dwellings of men. Such a distinctive designation as this would readily cling to a man, even after he had been cured of the disorder,[182] and no wonder that in our ‘Lepers’ and ‘Leppers’ the name still remains as but one more memorial of that noble madness which set Christendom ablaze some six centuries ago. A term used synonymously at this time with leper is found in such an entry as ‘Richard le Masele’ or ‘Richard le Masle,’ that is, ‘Measle.’ Wicklyffe has the word in the case of Naaman, and also of the Samaritan leper.[183] Langland speaks of those who are afflicted with various ailments, and adds that they, if they

Take these myschiefs meeklike,
As mesels, and others,
Han as pleyn pardon
As the plowman hymselve.

Capgrave, too, to quote but one more instance, speaking of Deodatus, a Pope of the seventh century, says ‘He kissed a mysel and sodeynly the mysel was whole.’ Strange to say, this name also is not extinct. Our ‘Badmans’ are not so bad as they might seem. They, and our ‘Bidmans,’ are doubtless but corrupted forms of the old ‘bedeman,’ or ‘beadman,’ he who professionally invoked Heaven in behalf of his patron. It is hence we get our word ‘bead,’ our forefathers having been accustomed to score off the number of aves and paternosters they said by means of these small balls strung on a thread. This practice, I need not say, is still familiar to the Romish Church.

But we have not yet done with the traces of these more distant practices. The various religious wanderers or solitary recluses, though belonging to a system long faded from our English life, find a perpetual epitaph in the directories of to-day. Thus we have still our ‘Pilgrims,’ or ‘Pelerins’ (‘John Pelegrim,’ A., ‘William le Pelerin,’ E.), as the Normans termed them. We may meet with ‘Palmers’ (‘Hervey le Palmer,’ A., ‘John le Paumer,’ M.) any day in the streets of our large towns, names distinctly relating the manner in which their owners have derived their title. The pilgrim may have but visited the shrine of St. Thomas of Canterbury; the latter, as his sobriquet proves, had, forlorn and weary, battled against all difficulties, and trod the path that led to the Holy Sepulchre—

The faded palm-branch in his hand
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.[184]

The ‘Pardoner,’ with his pouch choked to the full (‘Walter le Pardoner,’ M.) with saleable indulgences, had but come from Rome. He was an itinerant retailer of ecclesiastic forgivenesses, and was as much a quack as those who still impose upon the credulity of the bucolic mind by selling cheap medicines. As Chaucer says of him—

With feigned flattering and japes,
He made the parson and the peple his apes.

‘Hermit’ I have failed to find as at present existing, though ‘Hermitage’ or ‘Armitage’ (‘John Harmaytayge,’ W. 3), as local names expressive of his abode, are by no means unfamiliar. Our ‘Anchors’ and ‘Ankers,’ however, still live to commemorate the old ancre or anchorite; he who, as his sobriquet implied, was wont to separate himself from the world’s vain pleasures and dwell in seclusion and solitude. In the ‘Romance of the Rose’ it is said—

Sometime I am religious,
Now like an anker in an house.

Piers in his ‘Vision,’ too, speaks of—

Ancres and heremites
That holden them in their celles.

‘Hugh le Eremite’ or ‘Silvester le Hermite’ are early forms of the one, while in the other case we find the aspirate added in ‘John le Haneker.’ The modern dress of this latter, however, presents the usual early and more correct spelling.[185] What a vision is presented for our notice in these various sobriquets. It is the vision of a day that has faded, a day with many gleams of redeeming light, but a day of ignorance and lethargy; a day which, after all, thank God, was but the precursor of the brighter day of the Reformation, when the Church, true to herself and true to her destiny, threw off the shackles and the fetters that bound her, and began a work which her greatest foes have been compelled to admit she carried through amid opposition of the deadliest and most crushing kind.

Before passing on to a survey of our feudal aristocracy, I may mention our ‘Latimers,’ or ‘le Latymer,’ as I find it recorded in early lists. A latinier, or latimer, was literally a speaker or writer of Latin, that language being then the vehicle of all record or transcript. Latin, indeed, for centuries was the common ground on which all European ecclesiastics met. Thus it became looked upon as the language of interpretation. The term I am speaking of, however, seems to have become general at an early stage. An old lyric says—

Lyare was mi latymer,
Sloth and sleep mi bedyner.

Sir John Maundeville, describing an eastern route, says (I am quoting Mr. Lower)—‘And men alleweys fynden Latyneres to go with them in the contrees and furthere beyonde in to tyme that men conne the language.’ Teachers of the Latin tongue itself were not wanting. ‘Le Scholemayster’ existed so early as the twelfth century to show that there were those who professed to initiate our English youth in the rudiments of that which was a polite and liberal education in the eyes of that period. Such sobriquets as ‘le Gramayre,’ or ‘Gramary,’ or ‘Grammer,’ represented the same avocation, being nothing more than the old Norman ‘Gramaire,’ or ‘Grammarian’ as we should now call him, only we now apply the term to a philologist rather than a professional teacher. As ‘Grammar’ the surname is far from being obsolete in our midst. A ‘Nicholas le Lessoner’ is met with in the Hundred Rolls. He was evidently but a schoolmaster also. The verb ‘to lesson,’ _i.e._ to teach, is still in use in various parts of the country, and we find even Shakespeare using it. Clarence says to his murderer—

Bid Gloster think of this, and he will weep;

to which the murderer replies—

Ay, millstones; as he lessoned us to weep.
(_Richard III._, act. i. sc. iii.)

In looking over the pages of our early Anglo-Norman history we are at once struck by the fact of the absence of any middle class; that important branch of our community which in after and more civilised ages has done so much for English liberty and English strength. The whole genius of the feudal constitution was opposed to this. There was indeed a graduating scale of feudal tenure which bound together and connected each community; but there was of equal surety in the chain of these independent links of society a certain ring where all alliance ceased save that of service, and which separated each provincial society into two widely-sundered classes. On the one side were the baron and his nearer feudatories and retainers; and below this, on the other, came under one common standard the villein, the peasant, and the boor, looked upon by their superiors with contemptuous indifference, and barely endured as necessary to the administration of their luxury and pleasure. We have already mentioned many of those who gave the baron support. Of other his vassals we may cite ‘le Vavasour,’ or ‘Valvasor,’ a kind of middle-class landowner. The lower orders of chivalry have left us in our many ‘Knights’[186] and ‘Bachelors’ or ‘Backlers’ a plentiful token of former importance. Our ‘Squiers,’ ‘Squires,’ ‘Swiers,’ or ‘Swires’[187] carry us, as does the now meaningless Esquire, to the time when the sons of those ‘Knights’ bore, as the name implies, their shields. By the time of Henry VI., however, it had become adopted by the heirs of the higher gentry, and now it is used indiscriminately enough. Those who are so surnamed may comfort themselves at any rate with the reflection that they are lineally descended from those who bore the name when it was an honourable and distinctive title. ‘Armiger,’ the form in which the word was oftentimes recorded in our Latin rolls, still survives, though barely, in our ‘Armingers,’ this corrupted form being in perfect harmony with all similar instances, as we shall see almost immediately. One of our mediæval rhymes speaks of—

Ten thousand knights stout and fers,
Withouten hobelers and squyers.

These hobelers are far from being uninteresting. When we talk of riding a hobby, we little think what a history is concealed beneath the term. A hobiler[188] in the days we are speaking of, was one who held by tenure of maintaining a hobbie—a kind of small horse, then familiarly so known. A song on the times, written in the fourteenth century, and complaining of the manner in which the upper classes plundered the poor, says:—

And those hoblurs, namelich,
That husband benimeth eri of ground,
Men ne should them bury in none chirch,
But cast them out as a hound.

Later on, by its fictitious representation in the Morris dances of the May-day sports, the hobby came to denote the mere dummy, and now as such affords much scope for equestrian skill in the Rotten Row of our nurseries. What tricks time plays with these words, to be sure, and what a connexion for our ‘Hoblers’ and ‘Hobblers’ to meditate upon. Our ‘Bannermans’ are Scotch, but they represent an office, whether in England or the North, whose importance it would be hard to estimate at this period. Nor are we without traces in our nomenclature of its existence in more southern districts. Our not unfamiliar ‘Pennigers’ and ‘Pennigars’ are but the former official _pennager_, he who bore the ensign or standard of his lord. They figure even in more general and festive pageants. In the York Procession we find walking alone and between the different craftsmen the ‘Pennagers.’ Probably they bore the ensigns of that then important corporate city. I have but recently referred to ‘Robert Clavynger’ (H.) and the probability of his having carried the club or mace or key of his superiors in office. All or well-nigh all the above names find themselves well represented in the registers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Our eye falls at once on an ‘Andrew le Gramary,’ a ‘Richard le Gramayre,’ a ‘Thomas le Skolmayster,’ a ‘Warin le Latimer,’ a ‘William le Latiner,’ a ‘Jordan le Vavasur,’ a ‘Simon le Knyt,’ a ‘Gilbert le Bacholer,’ a ‘Walter le Squier,’ or a ‘Nicholas Armiger.’

A curious relic of the military tactics of mediæval times is presented to our notice in our ‘Reuters,’ ‘Ritters,’ and ‘Rutters.’ The old English forms are found in such entries as ‘Thomas le Reuter,’ or ‘Ranulph le Ruter.’ The root of the term is probably the German ritter, or rider, a name given at this period to certain mercenary soldiers oftentimes hired by our English sovereigns out of Brabant and the surrounding country. Thus we find William of Newburgh, under the date 1173, saying that Henry II. ‘stipendarias Bribantionum copias, quas Rutas vocant, accersivit.’ (Lib. ii. cap. 27.) Trivet, relating the same fact, says (p. 73), ‘Conduxit Brabanzones et Rutarios.’[189] An old song begins—

Rutterkyn is come into owre towne,
In a cloke withoute cote or gowne,
Save a raggid hood to kover his crowne
Like a rutter hoyda.
Rutterkyn can speke no Englyssh,
His tonge runneth all on buttyrd fyssh,
Besmeared with grece abowte his disshe,
Like a rutter hoyda.

The nickname ‘rutterkin’ proves the Flemish origin of these troopers. Their capacity for stowing away food and drink, from all accounts, is not exaggerated in the poem from which the above is an extract. We have just mentioned our ‘Bachelors,’ and this reminds us of our ‘Childs,’ and of the days of chivalry. The term ‘child’ was a distinctly honourable title in the olden times. It was borne by the sons of all the higher nobility; if by the eldest son, then in right of his title to his father’s honours and possessions; if more generally by others, then until by some deed of prowess they had been raised to the ranks of knighthood. In either case ‘child’ was the term in use during this probationary state. Thus Byron in his ‘Childe Harold’ has but revived the ‘Childe Waters,’ ‘Childe Rolands,’ and ‘Childe Thopas’s’ of earlier times.[190] We owe many existing and several obsolete surnames to this custom. Our ‘Childs’ are but descendants of such a sobriquet as ‘Ralph le Child;’ our ‘Eyres’ of such an entry as ‘William le Eyre;’ some of our ‘Barnes’ may be but the offspring of such a personage as ‘Thomas le Barne’ (now ‘bairn,’ that is, the born one); while ‘Stephen le Enfant’ or ‘Walter le Enfaunt’ represents an appellation that is now obsolete in England.[191] I need scarcely add that this last, in the form of Infante and Infanta, still bears the same meaning in the royal families of Spain that Child did in our own land in more chivalric days.

The details of early feudal life are wonderfully depicted by our nomenclature. Owing to the boundless and forced ceremony which arose out of the prevailing spirit of feudal pride, our official memorials are well-nigh overwhelming. Feudal tenure itself became associated with office, and none seemed too servile for acceptance. As has been said of Charlemagne’s Court, so might it be said of those of others—‘they were crowded with officers of every rank, some of the most eminent of whom exercised functions about the royal person which would have been thought fit only for slaves in the palace of Augustus or Antonine’—‘to carry his banner or his lance, to lead his array, to be his marshall, or constable, or sewer, or carver, to do in fact such services, trivial or otherwise, as his lord might have done himself, in proper person, had it so pleased him—this was the position coveted by youths of birth and distinction at such a period as this.’ Many of these officerships, or the bare titles, still linger round the court of our sovereign. The higher feudatories, of course, followed the example thus set them by their suzerain, and the lesser barons these, and thus household officers sprang up on every side. See how this has left its mark upon our surnames. ‘John le Conestable,’ or ‘Robert le Constable,’ I need not say, is still well represented. In the ‘Man of Lawes Tale’ the poet says:—

The constable of the castel doun is fare
To see this wreck.

With him we may ally our not unfamiliar ‘Castlemans,’ ‘Castelans,’ and ‘Chatelains,’ representatives of the old ‘John le Chastilioun,’ or ‘Joscelin le Castelan,’ or ‘Ralph le Chatelaine.’ The poet whom I have just quoted says elsewhere:—

Now am I king, now chastelaine.

Doubtless this latter was but a synonym of the constable, and his duties as governor but the same. Of decidedly lower position, but not dissimilar in character, we have also ‘Wybert le Portere,’ or ‘Portarius,’ as he is Latinized in our rolls. An old book of etiquette says:—

When thou comes to a lordis gate
The porter thou shalle fynde therate.

He at the postern would as carefully look against hostile, as our former ‘Peter le Ussher,’ or ‘Alan le Usser,’ within would against informal approach.[192] The Saxon form, however, was evidently not wanting, for we have still ‘Doorward’ and ‘Doorman’ (‘Geoffrey le Doreward,’ A., ‘Nicholas le Doreman,’ O.) in our directories, not to mention their corrupted, ‘Durwards,’ immortalized by Walter Scott, and ‘Dormans’ and ‘Domans.’ The term ‘doorward’ is found in many of our early writers. Thus in an old metrical account of the bringing of Christ before Caiaphas, it is said of John when he returned to fetch in Peter:—

He bid the dureward
Let in his fere.

Our ‘Chamberlaynes’ and ‘Chambers,’[193] (‘Simon le Chamberlain,’ M., ‘Henry le Chaumberleyne,’ B., ‘William de la Chaumbre,’ B.) had access to their lord’s inner privacy, and from their intimacy with his monetary affairs occupied a position at times similar to that of our more collegiate bursar. We have only to look at mediæval costume, its grandeur, its colours, and its varied array, to understand how necessary there should be a special officer to superintend his lord’s wardrobe. Our ‘Wardrops’ are but the former ‘de la Wardrobe,’ or ‘de la Garderoba,’ while ‘le Wardrober,’ or ‘le Garderober,’ has bequeathed us our ‘Wardropers.’ Thus the ‘Book of Curtasye’ says:—

The usshere shalle bydde the wardropere
Make redy for alle, night before they fere.

Equally important as an attendant was the ‘Barbour.’ He especially was on familiar terms with his master—when was he not? I need scarcely say that among his other duties that of acting as surgeon in the household was none of the lightest. Still his tonsorial capacity was his first one. No one then thought of shaving himself, least of all the baron. Even so late as the sixteenth century a writer defending the use of the beard against Andrew Boorde employs this argument:—

But, syre, I praye you, if you tell can,
Declare to me, when God made man
(I meane by our forefather Adam),
Whether that he had a berde then;
And if he had, who did hym shave,
Since that a barber he could not have.

I have no doubt it is here we must set our ‘Simisters,’ relics, as they probably are, of such a name as ‘John Somayster,’ or ‘William Summister.’ The summaster seems from its orthography to have represented one who acted as a clerk or comptroller, something akin to the chamberlain or breviter, whom I shall mention almost immediately; one, in fact, who cast up and certified accounts. Holinshed used the word as if in his day it were of familiar import. Dwelling upon a certain event, he says—‘Over this, if the historian be long, he is accompted a trifler; if he be short, he is taken for a summister.’[194]

In such days as those, what with the number of personal retainers and the excess of hospitality expected of the feudal chief, the culinary department occupied far from an insignificant position in regard to the general accessories of the baronial establishment. Our ‘Cooks,’ or ‘Cokes,’ or ‘Cookmans,’ relics of the old ‘Roger le Coke,’ or ‘Joan le Cook,’ or ‘William Cokeman,’ even then ruled supreme over that most absolute of all monarchies, the kitchen; our ‘Kitchenmans’ (now found also as ‘Kitchingham’), ‘Kitcheners,’ and ‘Kitchens,’ or ‘de la Kitchens,’ as they were once written, reminding us who it was that aided them to turn the spit or handle the posnet. Our ‘Pottingers’ represent the once common ‘Robert le Potager,’ or ‘Walter le Potager,’ the soup-maker. _Potage_ was the ordinary term for soup, thickened well with vegetables and meat.[195] Thus in the ‘Boke of Curtasye’ the guest is bid—

Suppe not with grete sowndynge,
Neither potage ne other thynge—

a rule which still holds good in society. We are well aware of the ingredients of the dish which our Bible translators have still bequeathed to us as ‘a mess of potage.’ In its present corrupted form of ‘porridge’ this notion of a _mess_ rather than of a _soup_ is still preserved. Another interesting servitorship of this class has well-nigh escaped our notice—that of the hastiler: he who turned the _haste_ or spit. In the Close Rolls we find a ‘Thurstan le Hastler’ recorded, and in the Parliamentary Writs such names as ‘Henry Hastiler’ and ‘William Hastiler.’ In the will of Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Essex, among other household servants, such as potager, ferour, barber, ewer, is mentioned ‘William de Barton, hastiler.’ I need not remind Lancashire people that a _haister_, or _haster_, is still the term used for the tin screen employed for roasting purposes. The memorials of this interesting servitorship still linger on in our ‘Hastlers,’ ‘Haslers,’ and ‘Haselers.’ If, however, the supervision of the roasting and basting required an attendant, none the less was it so with the washing-up department. How familiarly does such a term as ‘scullery’ fall from our lips, and how little do many of us know of its history. An _escuelle_[196] was a porringer or dish, and a _scullery_ was a place where such vessels were stored after being washed.[197] Hence a ‘squiller’ or ‘squyler’ was he who looked to this; our modern ‘scullion,’ in fact, which is but a corrupted form of the same word. In one of Robert of Brunne’s poems, we find him saying—

And the squyler of the kechyn,
Piers, that hath woned (dwelt) here yn.[198]

In a book of ‘Ordinances and Regulations’ we find mention made even of a ‘sergeant-squylloure.’ Doubtless his duty was to look after the carriage of utensils at such times as his lord made any extended journey, or to superintend the washing of cup and platter after the open-board festivities which were the custom of early baronial establishments. To provide for every retainer who chanced to come in would be, indeed, a care. The occurrence of a ‘Roger de Norhamtone, Squyler,’ however, in the London City rolls, seems to imply that occasionally the sale of such vessels gave the title. I cannot say the name is obsolete, as I have met with one ‘Squiller;’ and ‘Skiller,’ which would seem to be a natural corruption, is not uncommon. Our ‘Spencers,’ abbreviated from ‘despencer,’ had an important charge—that of the ‘buttery,’ or ‘spence,’ the place where the household store was kept. The term is still in use, I believe, in our country farm-houses. In the ‘Sumner’s Tale’ the glutton is well described as—

All vinolent as botel in the spence;

and Mr. Halliwell, I see, with his wonted research, has lighted on the following lines:—

Yet I had lever she and I
Were both togyther secretly
In some corner in the spence.[199]

‘De la Spence,’ as well as ‘le Spencer,’ has impressed itself upon our living nomenclature. Our ‘Panters,’ ‘Pantlers,’ and ferocious-seeming ‘Panthers,’ descendants of such folk as ‘Richard le Panter,’ or ‘Robert le Paneter,’ or ‘Henry de le Paneterie,’ are but relics of a similar office. They had the superintendence of the ‘paneterie,’ or pantry; literally, of course, the bread closet. It seems, however, early to have become used in a wider and more general sense. In the Household Ordinances of Edward IV. one of the sergeants is styled ‘the chief Pantrer of the King’s mouth.’ John Russel in his ‘Boke of Nurture’ thus directs his student—

The furst yere, my son, thou shalt be pantere or buttilare,
Thou must have three knyffes kene in pantry, I sey thee, evermare,
One knyfe the loaves to choppe, another them for to pare,
The third, sharp and kene, to smothe the trenchers and square.[200]

Of the old ‘Achatour’ (found as ‘Henry le Catour’ or ‘Bernard le Acatour’), the purveyor for the establishment, we have many memorials, those of ‘Cater,’ ‘Cator,’ and ‘Caterer’ being the commonest. Chaucer quaintly remarks of the ‘Manciple,’[201] who was so

Wise in buying of victuals,

that of him

Achatours mighten take ensample.

The provisions thus purchased were called ‘cates,’ a favourite word with some of our later poets. Equivalent to the more monastic ‘le Cellarer,’[202] which is now obsolete, are our numberless ‘Butlers,’ the most accepted form of the endless ‘Teobald le Botilers,’ ‘Richer le Botillers,’ ‘Ralph le Botelers,’ ‘William le Botellers,’ ‘Walter le Butillers,’ or ‘Hugh le Buteilliers,’ of this time. As we shall observe by-and-by, however, this was also an occupative name.[203]

With so many officers to look after the preparations, we should expect the dinner itself to be somewhat ceremonious. And so it was—far more ceremonious, however, than elegant in the light of the nineteenth century. Our ‘Senechals’ and ‘Senecals’ (‘Alexander le Seneschal,’ B., ‘Ivo Seneschallus,’ T.), relics of the ancient ‘seneschal,’ Latinized in our records as ‘Dapifer’ (‘Henry Dapifer,’ A.), arranged the table. The root of this word is the Saxon ‘schalk,’ a servant which, though now wholly obsolete, seems to have been in familiar use in early times.[204] An old poem tells us—

Then the schalkes sharply shift their horses,
To show them seemly in their sheen weeds.

In ‘Sir Gawayne,’ too, the attendant is thus described—

Clene spurs under
Of bright golde, upon silk bordes, barred full rich,
And scholes (depending) under shanks, there the schalk rides.

We are not without traces of its existence in other compounds. Thus our ‘Marshalls’ were originally ‘marechals;’ that is, ‘mare-schalks,’ the early name for a horse-groom or blacksmith. The Marshall, however, was early turned into an indoor office, and seems to have been busied enough in ordering the position of guests in the hall, a very punctilious affair in those days. The ‘Boke of Curtasye’ says:—

In halle marshalle alle men schalle sett,
After their degre, withouten lett.