Chapter III: Surnames of Office (2)

Our ‘Gateschales,’ a name now altogether obsolete, were the more simple porter, while our ‘Gottschalks,’ a surname more frequently hailing from Germany, but once common with ourselves as a Christian name, denote simply ‘God’s servant.’ But we are wandering. Let us come back to the dinner-table. Such sobriquets as ‘Ralph le Suur’[205] or ‘John le Sewer’ remind us of the _sewer_—he who brought in the viands.[206] A _sewe_, from the old French sevre, to follow, was any cooked dish, and thus is simply equivalent to our _course_. Chaucer, in describing the rich feasts of Cambuscan, King of Tartary, says the time would fail him to tell—

Of their strange sewes.

I believe the Queen’s household still boasts its four gentlemen sewers. As a surname, too, the word is still common. A curious custom presents itself to our remembrance in our ‘Says,’ who, when not of the ‘de Says’ (‘Hugh de Say,’ A.), are but descendants of the ‘le Says’ (‘John le Say,’ M.) of the Hundred Rolls. An ‘assay’ or ‘say’ was he who assayed or tasted the messes as they were set one by one before the baron, to guard against his being accidentally or purposely poisoned. An old poem uses the fuller form, where it says—

Thine assayer schalle be an hownde,
To assaye thy mete before thee.

In the ‘Boke of Curtasye,’ too, we are told to what ranks this privilege belonged—

No mete for man schalle sayed be,
But for kynge, or prynce, or duke so fre.[207]

Another term for the same made its mark upon our nomenclature as ‘Gustur’ (‘Robert le Gustur,’ T.) To _gust_ was thus used till Shakespeare’s day, and we still speak of ‘_gusto_’ as equivalent to _relish_.

We are reminded by the fact of the existence of ‘Knifesmith’ and ‘Spooner’ only among our early occupative surnames that there were no forks in those days.[208] There is no ‘Forker’ to be found. Even the ‘Carver’ (‘Adam le Kerver,’ A., ‘Richard le Karver,’ A.) had to use his fingers. In the ‘Boke of Kervynge,’ a manual of the then strictest etiquette in such matters, we find the following direction:—‘Set never on fyshe, flesche, beest, ne fowle, more than two fyngers and a thombe.’ Seldom, too, did they use plates as we now understand them. Before each guest was set a round slice of bread called a trencher, and the meat being placed upon this, he consumed the whole, or as much as he pleased. Under these circumstances we can easily understand how necessary would be the office of ‘Ewer,’ a name found in every early roll as ‘Brian le Ewer,’ or ‘Richard le Ewere,’ or ‘Adam de la Euerie.’ As he supplied water for each to cleanse his hands he was close followed by the ‘napper’ or ‘napier,’ who proffered the towel or napkin. The word, I need scarcely say, is but a diminutive of the old _nape_, which was applied in general to the tablecloths and other linen used in setting forth the dinner. An old book, which I have already quoted, in directing the attendant how to lay the cloth, says—

The over nape schall double be layde.

The Hundred Rolls and other records furnish us with such names as ‘Jordan le Nappere,’ or ‘John le Napere,’ or ‘Walter de la Naperye.’ Behind the lord of the board, nigh to his elbow, stood the ‘page,’ holding his cup. This seems to have been an office much sought after by the sons of the lower nobility, and it is to the honourable place in which it was held we no doubt owe the fact that not merely are our ‘Pages’ decidedly numerous in the present day, but that we also find such further particular compounds as ‘Small-page,’[209] ‘Little-page,’ or ‘Cup-page’ holding anything but a precarious existence in our midst. There seems to have been but little difference between this office and that of the ‘henchman,’ only that the latter, as his name, more strictly written ‘haunchman,’ shows, attended his master’s behests out of doors. He, too, lives on hale and hearty in our ‘Henchmans,’ ‘Hinxmans,’ ‘Hincksmans,’ and ‘Hensmans.’[210]

In several of our early records of names we find ‘Peter le Folle,’ ‘Alexander le Fol,’ and ‘Johannes Stultus’ appearing in apparently honest and decent company. The old fool or jester was an important entity in the retinue of the mediæval noble. He could at least say, if he might not do, what he liked, and I am afraid the more ribald his buffoonery the greater claim he possessed to be an adept in his profession in the eyes of those who heard him. His dress was always in character with his duties, being as uncouth as fashion reversed could make it. In his hand he bore a mock rod of state, his head was surmounted by a huge cap peaked at the summit and surrounded with little jingling bells, his dress was in colour as conflicting as possible, and the _tout ensemble_ I need not dwell upon. We still talk of a ‘foolscap,’ and even our paper has preserved the term from the fact that one of the earliest watermarks we have was that of a fool’s cap with bells. ‘Fools,’ I need not say, wherever else to be met with, are now obsolete so far as our directories are concerned.

I have just mentioned the henchman. This at once carries us without the baronial walls, and in whatever scene we are wont to regard the early suzeraine as engaging, it is remarkable how fully marked is our nomenclature with its surroundings. Several useful servitorships, however, claim our first attention. In such days as these, when the telegraph wire was an undreamt-of mystery, and highways traversed by steam-engines would have been looked upon as something supernatural indeed, we can readily understand the importance of the official ‘Roger le Messager,’ or ‘John le Messager,’ nor need we be surprised by the frequency with which he is met. In the ‘Man of Lawes Tale’ it is said—

This messager to don his avantage
Unto the Kinges mother rideth swift.

Though generally found as ‘Messinger’ or ‘Massinger,’ the truer and more ancient form is not wholly obsolete.[211] But if there were no telegraphs, neither was there any regular system of postage. The name of ‘Ely le Breviter’ or ‘Peter le Brevitour’ seems to remind us of this. I do not doubt myself the ‘breviter’ was kept by his lord for the writing or conveyance of letters or brevets.[212] Piers Plowman uses the word where, of the Pardoner’s preaching, it is said—

Lewed men loved it wel,
And liked his wordes,
Comen up knelynge
To kissen his bulles.
He bouched them with his brevet
And blered their eighen.[213]

The signet of his lord was in the hands of the ‘Spigurnell’ or ‘Spigurell,’ both of which forms still exist, I believe, in our general nomenclature. As the sealer of all the royal writs, the king’s spigurell would have an office at once important and careful. The term itself is Saxon, its root implying that which is shut up or sealed. Our ‘Coffers,’ relics of the old ‘Ralph le Cofferer,’ or ‘John le Cofferer,’ though something occupative, were nevertheless official also, and are to be found as such in the thirteenth century. They remind us of the day when there were no such things as cheque-books, nor banks, nor a paper-money currency. Then on every expedition, be it warlike or peaceful, solid gold or silver had to be borne for the baron’s expenditure and that of his retinue; therefore none would be more important than he who superintended the transit from place to place of the chest of solid coinage set under his immediate care. Our early ‘Passavants,’ or ‘Pursevaunts,’ or more literally pursuivants, were under the direction of the ‘Herald,’or ‘Heraud,’ as Chaucer styles him, and usually preceded the royal or baronial retinue to announce its approach, and attend to such other duties of lesser importance as his superior delegated to him. In this respect he occupied a position much akin to that of the ‘Harbinger’ or ‘Herberger,’ who prepared the _harborage_ or lodging, and all other entertainment required ere the cavalcade arrived. When we reflect upon the large number of retainers, the ceremonious list of attendants, the greater impediments to early travel, and the difficulties of forwarding information, we shall see that these officerships were by no means so formal as we might be apt to imagine. To give illustrations of all the above-mentioned surnames were easy, were it not that the number is so large that it becomes a difficulty which to select. Such entries, however, as ‘Jacob le Messager,’ ‘Godfrey le Coffrer,’ ‘Roger Passavant,’ ‘Main le Heralt,’ ‘Herbert le Herberjur,’ ‘Nicholas le Spigurnell,’ ‘Peter le Folle,’ or the Latinized ‘Johannes Stultus,’ may be recorded as among the more familiar. A reference to the Index will furnish examples of the rest, as well as additional ones of the above.

In a day when horses were of more consequence than now, we need not be surprised to find the baronial manger under special supervision. This officer figures in our mediæval archives in such entries as ‘Walter le Avenur’ or ‘William le Avenare.’[214] As his very name suggests, it was the avenar’s care to provide for the regular and sufficient feeding of the animals placed under his charge.[215] The ‘Boke of Curtayse’ tells us his duties—

The aveyner shall ordeyn provande good won
For the lordys horsis everychon,
They schyn have two cast of hay,
A peck of provande on a day.

Elsewhere, too, the same writer says—

A maystur of horsys a squyer ther is,
Aveyner and ferour under him i-wys.

Our ‘Palfreymans’ (‘John le Palfreyman,’ M.), though not always official, I do not doubt had duties also of a similar character in looking after the well-being of their mistress’s palfrey, and attending the lady herself when she rode to the cover, or took an airing on the more open and breezy hillside.

The two great amusements of the period we are considering were the hunt and the tournament. Of the former we have many relics, nor is the latter barren or unfruitful of terms connected therewith that still linger on in the surnames of to-day. The exciting encounters which took place in these chivalric meetings or jousts had a charm alike for the Saxon and the Norman; alike, too, for spectator as well as for him who engaged in the fierce mêlée. Training for this was by no means left to the discretion of amateur intelligence. In three several records of the thirteenth century I find such names as ‘Peter le Eskurmesur,’ ‘Henry le Eskyrmessur,’ and ‘Roger le Skirmisour.’ The root of these terms is, of course, the old French verb ‘eskirmir,’ to fence. It is thence we get our _skirmish_ and _scrimmage_, the latter form, though looked upon now as of a somewhat slang character, being found in the best of society in our earlier writers. Originally it denoted a hand-to-hand encounter between two horsemen. We still imply by a skirmish a short and sharp conflict between the advanced posts of two contending armies. As a teacher of ‘the noble art of self-defence,’[216] we can easily understand how important was the skirmisher. The name has become much corrupted by lapse of time, scarcely recognisable, in fact, in such a garb as ‘Scrimmenger,’ ‘Skrymsher,’ ‘Skrimshire,’ and perchance ‘Scrimshaw,’ forms which I find in our present London and provincial directories. Of those who were wont to engage we have already mentioned the majority. All the different grades of nobility were present, and with them were their esquires, with shield and buckler, ready to supply a fresh unsplintered lance, or a new shield, with its proudly emblazoned crest. I need scarce remind the reader of what consequence in such a day as this would be the costume of him who thus engaged in such deadly conflict. The invention of gunpowder has changed the early tactics of fight. Battles are lost and won now long ere the real mêlée has taken place. Then everything, whether in war or tournament, was settled face to face. To pierce his opponent where an inlet could admit his spear, or to unhorse him by the shock of meeting, was the knight’s one aim. The bloodiness of such an affray can be better imagined than described. We still hear of distorted features in the after inspection of the scene of battle, but we can have no conception of the mangling that the bodies of horse and rider underwent, the inevitable result of the earlier manner of warfare. Death is mercifully quick now upon the battle-field. We have still three or four professional surnames that remind us of this. We have still our ‘Jackmans,’ or ‘Jakemans,’ as representatives of the former cavalry; so called from the ‘jack’ or coat of mail they wore. It is this latter article which has bequeathed to our youngsters of the nineteenth century their more peaceful and diminutive _jacket_. Thus mailed and horsed, they had to encounter the cruel onslaught of our ‘Spearmans,’ and ‘Pikemans,’ and ‘Billmans,’ names that themselves suggest how bloody would be the strife when hatchet blade, and sharp pike, and keen sword clashed together. To cover and shield the body, then, was the one thought of these early days of military tactics, and at the same time to give the fullest play to every limb and sinew. This was a work of a most careful nature, and no wonder it demanded the combined skill of several craftsmen. Such occupative sobriquets as ‘Adam le Armerer’ or ‘Simon le Armurer’ are now represented by the curter ‘Armer’ or ‘Armour.’ In the ‘Knight’s Tale’ it is said—

There were also of Martes division
Th’ armerer, and the bowyer, and the smith,
That forgeth sharpe swerdes on his stith.

Our ‘Frobishers,’ ‘Furbishers,’ and ‘Furbers,’ once found as ‘Richard le Fourbishour’ or ‘Alan le Fourbour,’ scoured and prepared the habergeon, or jack just referred to, while ‘Gilbert le Hauberger’ or ‘John le Haubergeour’ was more immediately engaged in constructing it. Our present Authorized Version, I need hardly say, still retains the word. In ‘Sire Thopas,’ too, it is used where it is said—

And next his schert an aketoun,
And over that an habergoun.

Our classical-looking ‘Homers’ are the naturally corrupted form of the once familiar ‘le Heaumer,’ he who fashioned the warrior’s helmet.[217] Our ‘Sworders,’ I imagine, forged him his trusty blade,[218] while our ‘Sheathers’ furnished forth its slip. Our ‘Platers’ I would suggest as makers of his cuirass, while our ‘Kissers’—far less demonstrative than they look—are but relics of such a name as ‘Richard le Kissere,’ he who manufactured his _cuishes_ or thigh armour, one of the most careful parts of the entire dress.[219] Lastly, our ‘Spurriers’ were there ready to supply him with his rowel, and thus in warlike guise he was prepared either for adventurous combat in behalf of the distressed damsel, or to seek favour in the eyes of her he loved in the more deadly lists.[220]

I must not forget to mention our ‘Kemps’ while upon military affairs, a general term as it was for a soldier in the days of which we are speaking. I believe the phrase ‘to go a kemping’ is still in use in the north. In the old rhyme of ‘Guy and Colbrand’ the minstrel says—

When meat and drink is great plentye,
Then lords and ladys still will be,
And sit and solace lythe:
Then it is time for mee to speake,
Of kern knightes and kempes greate,
Such carping for to kythe.

How familiar a term it must have been in the common mouth the frequency with which the name is met fully shows.

Our ‘Slingers’ represent an all but forgotten profession, but they seem to have been useful enough in their day and generation. The sling was always attached to a stick, whence the old term ‘staffsling.’ Lydgate describes David as armed

With a staffe slynge, voyde of plate and mayle;

while in ‘Richard Cœur de Lion’ we are told—

Foremost he sette hys arweblasteres,
And aftyr that hys good archeres,
And aftyr hys staff-slyngeres,
And other with scheeldes and speres.

But we must not forget old England’s one boast, her archers, and our last quotation fitly brings them to our notice. They, too, in the battle-field and in the rural list, maintained alike their supremacy. If we would be proud of our early victories, we must ever look with veneration on the bow. ‘Bowman’ and ‘Archer’ still represent the more military professional, but not alone. Even more interesting, as speaking for the more specific crossbow or ‘arbalist,’ are our ‘Alabasters,’ ‘Arblasters,’ ‘Arblasts,’ and ‘Balsters.’ In Robert of Gloucester’s description of the reign of the Conqueror, it is said—

So great power of this land and of France he nom (took)
With him into England, of knights and squires,
Spearmen anote, and bowemen, and also arblasters.

Chaucer, too, describing a battlement, says—

And eke within the castle were
Springoldes, gonnes, bowes, and archers,
And eke about at corners
Men seine over the wall stand
Grete engines, who were nere hand,
And in the kernels, here and there,
Of arblasters great plentie were.

In the Hundred Rolls he is Latinized as ‘John Alblastarius,’ and in the York Records as ‘Thomas Balistarius.’ The Inquisitiones style him ‘Richard le Alblaster,’ while the Parliamentary Writs register him as ‘Reginald le Arblaster.’ It was to this class of armour our word ‘artillery’ was first applied, a fact which our Bible translators have preserved, where, in describing the meeting between David and Jonathan, they speak of the latter as giving his ‘artillery to the lad.’ Cotgrave, too, in his dictionary, printed at the beginning of the seventeenth century, has the following:—‘Artellier, a bowyer or bow-maker, also a fletcher, or one that makes both bows and arrows.’ The mention of the fletcher brings us to the more general weapon. Such an entry as the following would seem strange to the eyes of the nineteenth century:—‘To Nicolas Frost, bowman, Stephen Sedar, fletcher,[221] Ralph, the stringer, and divers others of the said mysteries, in money, paid to them, viz.:—to the aforesaid Nicholas, for 500 bows, 31_l._ 8_s._; to the aforesaid Stephen, for 1,700 sheaves of arrows, 148_l._ 15_s._; and to the aforesaid Ralph, for forty gross of bowstrings, 12_l._’ (Exchequer Issues, 14 Henry IV.) This short extract in itself shows us the origin of at least three distinct surnames, viz.:—‘Bowyer,’ ‘Fletcher,’ and ‘Stringer.’ We should hardly recognise the first, however, in such entries as ‘Adam le Boghiere,’ or ‘William le Boghyere.’ ‘John le Bower’ reminds us that some of our ‘Bowers’ are similarly sprung, while ‘George le Boyer’ answers for our ‘Boyers.’ Besides these, we have ‘Robert Bowmaker’ or ‘John Bowmaykere’ to represent the fuller sobriquet. So much for the bow. Next comes the arrow. This was a very careful piece of workmanship. Four distinct classes of artizans were engaged in its structure, and, as we might expect, all are familiar names of to-day. ‘John le Arowsmyth’ we may set first. He confined himself to the manufacture of the arrow-head. Thus we find the following statement made in an Act passed in 1405:—‘Item, because the Arrowsmyths do make many faulty heads for arrows and quarels, it is ordained and established that all heads for arrows and quarels, after this time to be made, shall be well boiled or braised, and hardened at the points with steel.’ (Stat. Realm.)[222] ‘Clement le Settere’ or ‘Alexander le Settere’[223] was busied in affixing these to the shaft, and ‘John le Tippere’ or ‘William le Tippere’ in pointing them off. Nor is this all—there is yet the feather. Of the origin of such mediæval folk as ‘Robert le Fleccher’ or ‘Ada le Fletcher,’ we are reminded by Milton, where, in describing an angel, he says—

His locks behind,
Illustrious on his shoulders, _fledge_ with wings,
Lay waving round.

The fletcher, or fledger as I had well-nigh called him, spent his time, in fact, in feathering arrows.

Skelton in ‘The Maner of the World’ says:—

So proude and so gaye,
So riche in arraye,
And so skant of mon-ey
Saw I never:
So many bowyers,
So many fletchers,
And so few good archers
Saw I never.

While all these names, however, speak for specific workmanship, our ‘Flowers’ represent a more general term. We are told of Phœbus in the ‘Manciples Tale,’ that

His bowe he bent, and set therein a flo.

‘Flo,’ was a once familiar term for an arrow. ‘John le Floer,’ or ‘Nicholas le Flouer,’ therefore, would seem to be but synonymous with ‘Arrowsmith’ or ‘Fletcher.’ ‘Stringer’ and ‘Stringfellow’ are self-explanatory, and are common surnames still. What a list of sobriquets is here! What a change in English social life do they declare. Time was when to be a sure marksman was the object of every English boy’s ambition. The bow was his chosen companion. Evening saw him on the village green, beneath the shade of the old yew tree, and as he practised his accustomed sport, his breath would come thick and fast, as he bethought him of the coming wake, and his chance of bringing down the popinjay, and presenting the ribbon to his chosen queen of the May. Yes, times are altered. Teeming cities cover the once rustic sward, broadcloth has eclipsed the Lincoln green, the clothyard, the arrow; but still amid the crowd that rushes to and fro in our streets the name of an ‘Archer,’ or a ‘Bowman,’ or a ‘Butts,’ or a ‘Popgay’ spoken in our ears will hush the hubbub of the city, and, forgotten for a brief moment the greed for money, will carry us, like a pleasant dream recalled, into the fresher and purer atmosphere of England’s past.

In the poem from which I have but recently quoted we have the record of ‘gonnes,’ or ‘guns,’ as we should now term them. It would be quite possible for our nomenclature to be represented by memorials of the powder magazine, and I should be far from asserting that such is not the case.[224] In the household of Edward III. there are enumerated, among others, ‘Ingyners lvij; Artellers vj; Gonners vj.’ Here there is a clear distinction between the ‘gun’ and the ‘engine;’ between missiles hurled by powder and those by the catapult. Fifty years even earlier than this Chaucer had used the following sentence:—‘They dradde no assaut of gynne, gonne, nor skaffaut.’ In his ‘Romance,’ too, as I have just shown, he places in juxtaposition ‘grete engines’ and ‘gonnes.’ Of one, if not both of these, we have undoubted memorials in our nomenclature. The Hundred Rolls furnish us with a ‘William le Engynur’ and a ‘Walter le Ginnur;’ the Inquisitiones with a ‘Richard le Enginer,’ and the Writs with a ‘William le Genour.’ The descendants of such as these are, of course, our ‘Gunners,’ ‘Ginners,’ ‘Jenour,’ and ‘Jenners,’[225] the last of which are now represented by one who is as renowned for recovering as his ancestor in days gone by would be for destroying life. Our ‘Gunns’ and ‘Ginns’ also must be referred to the same source. In one of the records just alluded to a ‘Warin Engaine’ is to be met with. If we elide the first syllable, as in the previous instances, the modern form at once appears.

But if in the deadly tournament the baron and his retainers found an ample pastime, nevertheless the chase was of all diversions the most popular. In this the prince and the peasant alike found recreation, while with regard to the latter, as we shall see, it was also combined with service. The woody wastelands, so extended in these earlier days of a sparse population, afforded sport enough for the most ardent huntsman. According to the extent of privilege or the divisions into which they were separated, these tracts were styled by the various terms of ‘forest,’ ‘chase,’ ‘park,’ and ‘warren.’ To any one at all conversant with old English law these several words will be familiar enough. To keep the wilder beasts within their prescribed limits, to prevent them injuring the tilled lands, and in general to guard the common interests of lord and tenant, keepers were appointed. The names of these officers, the chief of whom are entitled by appellations whose root is of a local character, are well-nigh all found to this day in our directories. Indeed there is no class of names more firmly imbedded there. In the order of division I have just alluded to, we have ‘Forester,’ with its corrupted ‘Forster’ and ‘Foster,’ relics of such registered folk as ‘Ivo le Forester,’ ‘Henry le Forster,’ or ‘Walter le Foster;’ ‘Chaser,’ now obsolete, I believe, but lingering on for a considerable period as the offspring of ‘William’ or ‘Simon le Chasur;’ ‘Parker,’ or ‘Parkman,’ or ‘Park,’ descended from ‘Adam le Parkere,’ or ‘Hamo le Parkere,’ or ‘Roger atte Parke,’ or ‘John del Parc,’ and ‘Warener’ or ‘Warner,’ or ‘Warren,’ lineally sprung from men of the stamp of ‘Thomas le Warrener,’ ‘Jacke le Warner,’ or ‘Richard de Waren.’ The curtailed forms of these several terms seem to have been all but consequent with the rise of the officership itself. ‘Love’ in the ‘Romance’ says:—

Now am I knight, now chastelaine,
Now prelate, and now chaplaine,
Now priest, now clerke, now forstere.

In his description of the Yoman, too, Chaucer adds—

An horne he bere, the baudrick was of grene,
A fostere was he sothely as I guesse.

Thus, again, Langland, in setting forth Glutton’s encounter with the frequenters of the tavern, speaks familiarly of—

Watte the Warner.

But these are not all. It is with them we must associate our ancestral ‘Woodwards’ or ‘Woodards,’ and still more common ‘Woodreefs,’ ‘Woodrows,’ ‘Woodroffs,’ and ‘Woodruffs,’ all more or less perverted forms of the original wood-reeve.[226] A song representing the husbandmen as complaining of the burdens in Edward II.’s reign says—

The hayward heteth us harm to habben of his
The bailif beckneth us bale, and weneth wel do;
The wodeward waiteth us wo.

All these officers were more or less of legal capacity, men whose duty it was, bill in hand, to guard the vert and venison under their charge,[227] to act as agents for their lord in regard to the pannage of hogs, to look carefully to the lawing of dogs, and in case of offences to present them to the verderer at the forest assize. The ‘Moorward,’ found in our early records as ‘German le Morward’ or ‘Henry le Morward,’ guarded the wilder and bleaker districts. ‘The Rider,’ commonly found as ‘Roger le Rydere’ or ‘Ralph le Ryder,’ in virtue of having a larger extent of jurisdiction, was mounted, though his office was essentially the same. Mr. Lower, remarking upon this word, has a quotation from the ballad of ‘William of Cloudesley,’ where the king, rewarding the brave archer, says:—

I give thee eightene pence a day,
And my bowe thou shalt bere,
And over all the north countrè
I make thee chyfe rydere.

With him we must associate our ‘Rangers’ and ‘Keepers,’ who, acting doubtless under him, assisted also in the work of patrolling the woodland and recovering strayed beasts, and presenting trespassers to the swainmote just referred to.

The bailiff, shortened as a surname into ‘Bailey,’ ‘Baillie’ (‘German le Bailif,’ J., ‘Henry le Baillie,’ M.), like the reve, seems to have been both of legal and private capacity; in either case acting as deputy.[228] This word ‘reve’ did a large amount of duty formerly, but seems now to be fast getting into its dotage. In composition, however, it is far from being obsolete. The ‘Reeve’ (‘John le Reve,’ M., ‘Sager le Reve,’ H.), who figured so conspicuously among the Canterbury Pilgrims, would be the best representative of the term in his day, I imagine—

His lordes shepe, his nete, and his deirie,
His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie,
Were wholly in this reves governing.

Our ‘Grieves’ (‘Thomas le Greyve,’ A.), who are but the fuller ‘Gerefa,’ fulfilled, and I believe in some parts of Scotland still fulfil, the capacity here described, being but manorial bailiffs, in fact. ‘The Boke of Curtasye’ says—

Grayvis, and baylys, and parker
Shall come to accountes every yere
Byfore the auditours of the lorde.

Thus, too, our ‘Portreeves’ (‘William le Portreve,’ A., ‘Augustin le Portreve,’ A.), who in our coast towns fulfilled the capacity of our more general mayor, are oftentimes in our earlier records enrolled as Portgreve.’ ‘Hythereve’ (‘John le Huthereve,’ O.), from hithe, a haven, would seem to denote the same office, while our obsolete ‘Fenreves’ (‘Adam le Fenreve,’ A.), like the ‘Moorward’ mentioned above, had charge, I doubt not, of the wilder and more sparsely populated tracts of land. Many other compounds of this word we have already recorded; some we shall refer to by-and-by, and with them and these the reeve, after all, is not likely to be soon forgotten.

But the poorer villeins were not without those who should guard their interests also. In a day of fewer landmarks and scantier barriers trespasses would be inevitable. An interesting relic of primitive precaution against the straying of animals is found in the officership of the ‘Hayward’ (or ‘Adam le Heyward,’ as the Hundred Rolls have it), whose duty it was to guard the cattle that grazed on the village common. He was so styled from the Saxon ‘hay’ or ‘hedge,’ already spoken of in our previous chapter. An old poem has it—

In tyme of hervest mery it is ynough;
Peres and apples hongeth on bough,
The hayward bloweth mery his horne;
In every felde ripe is corne.

In ‘Piers Plowman,’ too, we have the word—

I have an horne, and be a hayward,
And liggen out a nyghtes
And kepe my corne and my croft
From pykers and theves.

It will be seen from these two references that the officership was of a somewhat general character. The cattle might be his chief care, but the common village interests were also under his supervision. The term has left many surnames to maintain its now decayed and primitive character; ‘Hayward’ and ‘Haward’ are, however, the most familiar. ‘Hayman,’ doubtless, is of similar origin. If, in spite of the hayward’s care, it came to pass that any trespass occurred, the village ‘pounder’ was ready at hand to impound the animal till its owner claimed it, and paid the customary fine—

In Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder,
In Wakefield, all on a green.

So we are told in ‘Robin Hood.’ I need not add that our many ‘Pounders,’ ‘Pinders,’ and still more classic ‘Pindars,’ are but the descendants of him or one of his _confrères_. I do not doubt myself, too, that our ‘Penders’ (‘William le Pendere’ in the Parliamentary Writs) will be found to be of a similar origin.

While, however, these especial officers superintended the general interests of lord and tenant, there were those also whose peculiar function it was to guard the particular quarry his master loved to chase; to see them unmolested and undisturbed during such time as the hunt itself was in abeyance, and then, when the chase came on, to overlook and conduct its course. These, too, are not without descendants. Such names as ‘Stagman’ and ‘Buckmaster,’[229] ‘Hindman’ and ‘Hartman,’ ‘Deerman’ and its more amatory ‘Dearman,’ by their comparative frequency, remind us how important would be their office in the eye of their lord.

Nor are those who assisted in the lordly hunt itself left unrepresented in our nomenclature. The old ‘Elyas le Hunderd,’ or ‘hund-herd,’ has left in our ‘Hunnards’ an abiding memorial of the ‘houndsman.’ Similarly the ‘vaultrier’ was he who unleashed them. It has been a matter of doubt whether or no the more modern ‘feuterer’ owes his origin to this term, but the gradations found in such registrations as ‘John le Veutrer,’ ‘Geoffrey le Veuterer,’ and ‘Walter le Feuterer,’ to be met with in the rolls of this period, set all question, I should imagine, at rest. An old poem, describing the various duties of these officers and their charges, says—

A halpeny the hunte takes on the day
For every hounde the sothe to say;
The vewtrer, two cast of brede he tase,
Two lesshe of greyhounds if that he has.

‘Fewter’ and ‘Futter,’[230] however, seem to be the only relics we now possess of this once important care. Such names as ‘John le Berner’ or ‘Thomas le Berner,’ common enough in old rolls, must be distinguished from our more aristocratic ‘Berners.’ The _berner_ was a special houndsman who stood with fresh relays of dogs ready to unleash them if the chase grew heated and long. In the Parliamentary Rolls he is termed a ‘yeoman-berner.’ Our ‘Hornblows,’ curtailed from ‘Hornblower,’ and simpler ‘Blowers,’ would seem to be closely related to the last, for the horn figured as no mean addition by its jubilant sounds to the excitement of the chase. He who used it held an office that required all the attention he could bring to bear upon it. The dogs were not unleashed until he had sounded the blast, and if at any time from his elevated station he caught sight of the quarry, he was by the manner of winding his instrument to certify to the huntsman the peculiar class to which it belonged. In the Hundred Rolls we find him inscribed as ‘Blowhorn,’ a mere reversal of syllables. Of a more general and professional character probably would be our ‘Hunters,’ ‘Huntsmans,’ and ‘Hunts,’ not to mention the more Norman ‘John le Venner’ or ‘Richard Fenner.’ It may not be known to all our ‘Hunts’ that theirs, the shorter form, was the most familiar term in use at that time; hence the number that at present exist. We are told in the ‘Knight’s Tale’ of the—

Hunte and horne, and houndes him beside;

while but a little further on he speaks of—

The hunte ystrangled with the wilde beres.

Forms like ‘Walter le Hunte’ or ‘Nicholas le Hunte’ are very common to the old records. As another proof of the general use of this word we may cite its compounds. ‘Borehunte’ carries us back to the day when the wild boar ranged the forest’s deeper gloom. ‘Wolfhunt,’ represented in the Inquisitiones by such a sobriquet as ‘Walter le Wolfhunte,’ reminds us that Edgar did not utterly exterminate that savage beast of prey, as is oftentimes asserted. A family of this name held lands in the Peak of Derbyshire at this period by the service of keeping the forest clear of wolves. In the forty-third year of Edward III. one Thomas Engeine held lands in Pitchley, in the county of Northampton, by service of finding at his own cost certain dogs for the destruction of wolves, foxes, &c., in the counties of Northampton, Rutland, Oxford, Essex, and Buckingham; nay, as late as the eleventh year of Henry VI. Sir Robert Plumpton held one borate of land in Nottinghamshire, by service of winding a horn, and chasing or frightening the wolves in Sherwood Forest.[231] Doubtless, however, as in these recorded instances, it would be in the more hilly and bleaker districts, or in the deeper forests, he found his safest and last retreat. It seems well-nigh literally to be coming down from a mountain to a mole-hill to speak of our ‘Mole-hunts,’ the other compound of this word. But small as he was in comparison with the other, he was scarcely less obnoxious on account of his burrowing propensities, for which the husbandman gave him the longer name of mouldwarp. His numbers, too, made him formidable, and it is no wonder that people found occupation enough in his destruction, or that the name of ‘Molehunt’ should have found its way into our early rolls. So late, indeed, as 1641, we find in a farming book the statement that 12_d._ was the usual price paid by the farmer for every dozen old moles secured, and 6_d._ for the same number of young ones. This speaks at least for their plentifulness. An old provincialism for mole, and one not yet extinct, was ‘wont’ or ‘want.’ This explains the name of ‘Henry le Wantur,’ which may be met with in the Hundred Rolls. In the Sloane MS. is a method given ‘for to take wontes.’ It would be in the deeper underwood our ‘Todmans’ and ‘Todhunters,’ the chasers of the fox, or ‘tod,’ as he was popularly called, found diversion enough. It would be here our ‘Brockmans’ secured the badger. I doubt not these were both also of professional character—aids and helps to the farmer. Indeed, he had many upon whose services he could rely for a trifle of reward in the shape of a silver penny, or a warm mess of potage on the kitchen settle. Our ‘Burders’ and ‘Fowlers,’ by their craft, whether of falconry or netting, or in the use of the cross-bow bolt, aided to clear the air of the more savage birds of prey, or of the lesser ones that would molest the bursting seed. I need scarcely remark that the distinction between ‘bird’ and ‘fowl’ is modern. The ‘fowls of the air’ with our Saxon Bible, and up to very recent days, embraced every winged creature, large and small. In our very expression ‘barndoor-fowl’ we are only using a phrase which served to mark the distinction between the wilder and the more domesticated bird. The training and sale of bullfinches seem to have given special employment then, as now, to such as would undertake the care thereof. A ‘Robert le Fincher’ occurs at an early period, and I see his descendants are yet in being. As we shall see in a later chapter, this bird has set his mark deeply upon our sobriquet nomenclature. Our ‘Trappers,’ whether for bird or beast, confined their operations to the soil, capturing their spoil by net or gin.

We owe several names, or rather several forms of the same name, to the once favourite pursuit of falconry. Of all sports in the open air this was the one most entirely aristocratic. In it the lord and his lady alike found pleasure. It had become popular so early as the ninth century, and, as Mr. Lower says, in such estimation was the office of State falconer held in Norman times that Domesday shows us, apart from others, four different tenants-in-chief, who are described each as ‘accipitrarius,’ or falconer. Until John’s reign it was not lawful for any but those of the highest rank to keep hawks, but in the ‘Forest Charter’ a special clause was introduced which gave power to every free man to have an aerie. So valuable was a good falcon that it even stood chief among royal gifts, and up to the beginning of the seventeenth century it brought as much as 100 marks in the market.[232] Royal edicts were even passed for the preservation of their eggs. From all this, and much more that might be adduced, it is easy to understand how important was the office of falconer, nor need we wonder that it is one of the most familiar names to be found in early rolls. Of many forms those of ‘Falconer,’ ‘Falconar,’ ‘Faulkner,’ ‘Falkner,’[233] ‘Faulconer,’ and ‘Faukener,’ seem to be the commonest. The last form is found in the ‘Boke of Curtasye’—

The chaunceler answeres for their clothyng,
For yomen, faukeners, and their horsyng,
For their wardrop and wages also.

In our former ‘Idonea or Walter le Oyseler’ we recognise but another French term for the same. A special keeper of the goshawk, or ‘oster,’ got into mediæval records in the shape of ‘William le Astrier,’ or ‘Robert le Ostricer,’ or ‘Richard le Hostriciere,’ or ‘Godfrey Ostriciarius.’ The Latin ‘accipiter’ is believed to be the root of the term, which with such other perverted forms as ‘Ostregier,’ ‘Ostringer,’ ‘Astringer,’ and ‘Austringer,’ lingered on the common tongue till so late as the seventeenth century.[234] A curious proof of the prevailing passion is found in the name of ‘Robert le Jessmaker,’ set down in the Hundred Rolls. The ‘jess’ was the leathern or silken strap fastened closely round the foot of the hawk, from which the line depended and was held by the falconer. That the demand for these should be so great as to cause a man to give himself up entirely to their manufacture, will be the best evidence of the ardour with which our forefathers entered into this pastime. The end of falconry was, however, sudden as it was complete. The introduction of the musket at one fell swoop did away with office, pursuit, with, in fact, the whole paraphernalia of the amusement, and now it is without a relic, save in so far as these names abide with us.

In concluding this part of our subject it is pleasant to remind ourselves that, however strong might be the antagonism which this chapter displays between Norman and Saxon, the pride of the one, the oppression of the other, that antagonism is now overpast and gone. We well know that a revolution was at work, sometimes showing itself violently, but generally silent in its progress, by which happier circumstances arrived, happier at any rate for the country at large. We well know how this consummation came, how these several races became afterwards one by the suppression of that power the more independent of these barons had wielded, by confusion of blood, by the acquisition of more general liberty, by mutuality of interests, by the contagious influences of commerce, and, above all, by the kindly and prejudice-weakening force of lapsing time. All this we know, and, as it is in a sense foreign to our present purpose, I pass over it now. I trust that I have already shown that there is something, after all, in a name; at any rate in a surname, for that in it is supplied a link between the past and the present, for that in the utterance of one of these may be recalled not merely the lineaments of some face of to-day, but the dimmer outline of an age which is past beyond recall for ever. Viewed in a light so broad as this, the country churchyard, with each mossy stone, is, apart from the diviner lessons it teaches, a living page of history; and even the parish register, instead of being a mere record of dry and uninteresting facts, becomes instinct with the lives and surroundings of our English forefathers.

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