Chapter IV: Surnames of Occupation (country) (1)

I now come to the consideration of occupations generally, and to this I think it will be advisable to devote two chapters. One reason for so doing, the main one in fact, is that they seem naturally to divide themselves into two classes—those of a rural character, very numerous at that time on account of agricultural pursuits being so general, and those of a more diverse and I may say civilized kind, bearing upon the community’s life—literature and art, dress, with all its varied paraphernalia, the boudoir and the kitchen. In considering the former, the character of our surnames will give us, I imagine, by no means a bad or ineffective picture of the simplicity of our early rural life, its retirement, and even calm. In shadowing forth the latter, we shall be enabled to see what were the available means of that age, and by the very absence of certain names to realise how numberless have been the resources that discovery has added at a more recent period. It will be well, too, to give two entire chapters to these surnames, as being worthy of somewhat further particularity than the others. They betray much more of our English life that has become obsolete. Local names, as I have said already, while they must ever denote much of change, denote the changes more especially of Nature herself, which are slow in general, and require more than the test of four or five centuries to make their transitions apparent. Personal or Christian names vary almost less than these. The Western European system is set upon the same foundation, and whatever has been peculiar to separate countries has long since, by the intermingling of nations, whether peaceful or revolutionary, been added to the one common stock. Some indeed have fallen into disuse through crises of various kinds. A certain number, too, of a fanciful kind, as we have already seen, have been added within the last two centuries, but these latter have not of course affected our surnames. Nicknames, which form so large a proportion of our nomenclature, remain much the same; for a nation’s tongue, while receiving a constant deposit and throwing off ever a redundant phraseology, still, as a rule, does not touch these; they are taken from the deeper channel of a people’s speech. But the fashion and custom of living is ever changing. New wants spring up, and old requirements become unneeded; fresh resources come to hand, and the more antique are at once despised and thrown aside. In a word, invention and discovery cast their shafts at the very heart of usage. Thus it is that we shall have such a large number of obsolete occupations to recount—occupations which but for our rolls even the oldest and most reliable of our less formal writings would have failed to preserve to us.

It is quite possible for the eye to light upon hamlets in the more retired nooks and crannies of England that have undergone but little change during even the last six centuries, hamlets of which we could say with Goldsmith:—

How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made.

I have seen, or I at least imagined I have seen, such a picture as this; but if there be, this of all times is that in which we must be prepared for a revolution. Our railways are every day but connecting us with the more inaccessible districts, following as they do the curves of our valleys, winding alongside our streams, like nature and art in parallel. As they thus increase they bear with them equally increased facilities for carrying the modernized surroundings and accessories of life on this, on that, and on every hand. Thus usage is everywhere fast giving way before utility, and thus in proportion as art and invention get elbow-room, so does the primitive poetry of our existence fade from view. We can remember villages—there are still such—around which time had flung a halo of so simple aspect, villages whose steads were grouped with so exquisite a quaintness, so utterly and beautifully irregular, so full of unexpected joints and curves, and all so thatched, and embrowned, and trellised, that with the loss of them we have lost a pastoral. There may be indeed a certain poetry in model villas of undeviating line and exact altitude; there may be a beauty in an erection which reminds you in perpetuity of the great Euclidian truth that a straight line is that which lies evenly between its extreme points, but at times it puts one in sober mood to think all the touches of a past time are to fade away, and these be in their stead. How different the tale nomenclature tells us of former rusticity and simpler tastes.

The early husbandman required but little decorative refinement for his homestead. To keep out the cold blast and the driving rain, to have a niche by the fireside comfortable and warm, this was all he asked or wished for. His roof was all but invariably composed of thack or thatch, and every village had its ‘thatcher.’ Busy indeed would he be as the late autumn drew nigh, and stack and stead must be shielded from the keen and chilling winter. The Hundred Roll forms of the surname are ‘Joan le Thaccher’ and ‘Thomas le Thechare;’ the Parliamentary Writs ‘John le Thacher;’ while the more modern directory furnishes us with such changes rung upon the same as ‘Thatcher,’ ‘Thacker’[235] (still a common provincialism for the occupation), and ‘Thackery,’ or ‘Thackeray,’ or Thackwray.’[236] These latter are of course but akin to the old ‘John le Fermery,’ or ‘Richard le Vicary,’ the termination added being the result of popular whim or caprice. Our ‘Readers’ had less to do with book lore than we might have supposed, being but descendants of the mediæval ‘William le Redere,’[237] another term for the same kind of labour. The old ‘Hellier,’ or ‘Helier,’ carries us back to a once well-known root. To ‘hill,’ or ‘hele,’ was to cover, and a ‘hilyer’ was a roofer.[238] Sir John Maundville says with regard to the Tartars, ‘the helynge of their houses, and ... the dores ben alle of woode;’ and John of Trevisa speaks of the English ‘whyt cley and red’ as useful ‘for to make crokkes and other vessels, and barned tyyl to _hele_ with houses and churches.’ Gower, too, uses the word prettily, but perfectly naturally, when he says—

She took up turves (turfs) of the lond,
Withouten help of mannes hond,
All heled with the grene grass.[239]

Amongst other of the many forms that still survive surnominally we have ‘Hillyer,’ ‘Hillier,’ ‘Hellier,’ ‘Hellyer,’ and the somewhat unpleasant ‘Helman’ and ‘Hellman.’ Earlier instances may be found in the Hundred Rolls in such entries as ‘Robert le Heliere’ or ‘Will. Heleman.’ Our ‘Tylers’ are well and quaintly represented in the early rolls. One mediæval spelling of this good old-fashioned name is ‘Tyghelere’ (Adam le Tyghelere, P.W.), while such forms as ‘le Tuglur,’ ‘le Tuler,’ or ‘le Tewler,’ as representatives of the Norman-French vocabulary, meet us on every hand. Whether any of their descendants have had the courage to reproduce any of these renderings I cannot say. I do not find any in our directories. Our ‘Smiths’ have not been quite so qualmish. With the tylers we may fitly introduce our ‘Shinglers,’ they who used the stout oaken wood in the place of burnt clay. Churches were oftentimes so covered. Mr. Halliwell quotes the following somewhat sarcastic couplet:—

Flouren cakes beth the schingles alle
Of cherche, cloister, boure, and halle.

Piers Plowman, too, speaks similarly of Noah’s Ark as the ‘shyngled ship.’[240] All these names have, occupatively speaking, now become obsolete, or nearly so; our ‘Slaters,’ or ‘Sclaters,’ or ‘Slatters,’ having usurped the entire position they were formerly content to share with their humbler brethren.[241]

In the majority of the above names we shall find the Saxon to be in all but whole possession of the field. The fact is, the roof and its appurtenances were little regarded for a long period by our early architects, if we may give such a grand term to those who set up the ordinary homestead of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. There were no chimneys even in the residences of the rich and noble. A hole in the roof, or the window, or the door, one of these, whether in the homes of the peer or the peasant, was the outlet for all obnoxious vapours. With the Normans, however, came a great increase of refinement in the masonry and wooden framework of which our houses are composed. Such names as ‘Adam le Quarreur,’ or ‘Hugh le Quareur,’ ‘Walter le Marbiler,’ or ‘Geoffrey le Merberer,’ ‘Gotte le Mazoun,’ or ‘Walter le Masun,’ or ‘Osbert le Machun’ represent a cultivation of which the earlier settled race, if they knew something, did not avail themselves in their merely domestic architecture. Two of these occupations are referred to by ‘Cocke Lorelle,’ when he speaks of—

Masones, male-makers, and merbelers.[242]

‘Henry le Wallere,’ whose sobriquet was ennobled later on by one of our poets, is the only entry I can set by these as belonging to the Saxon tongue.[243] It is the same with the Norman ‘Amice le Charpenter’ and ‘Alan le Joygnour.’ While the former framed the more solid essentials, the very name of the latter infers a careful supervision of minutiæ, of which only a more refined taste would take cognizance. The descendants of such settlers as these still hold the place they then obtained, and are unchanged otherwise than in the fashion of spelling their name.

Of the plaster work we have a goodly array of memorials, the majority of which, of course, are connected with a higher class work than the mere cottager required. The ordinary term in use at present for a maker of lime is ‘limeburner.’ It is quite possible that in our ‘Limebears’ or ‘Limebeers’ we have but a corruption of this. Such sobriquets as ‘Hugh le Limwryte’ and ‘John le Limer’ give us, however, the more general mediæval forms. The latter is still to be met with among our surnames. But these are not all. We have in our ‘Dawbers’ the descendants of the old ‘Thomas le Daubour,’ or ‘Roger le Daubere,’ of the thirteenth century. ‘Cocke Lorelle,’ whom I have but just quoted, mentions among other workmen—

Tylers, bryckeleyers, hardehewers;
Parys-plasterers, daubers, and lymeborners.

Our ‘Authorised Version’ when it speaks of ‘the wall daubed with untempered mortar,’ still preserves their memorial, and our ‘Plasters’ and ‘Plaisters’ are but sturdy scions of many an early registered ‘Adam le Plastier,’ ‘Joanna le Plaisterer,’ or ‘John le Cementarius.’ The last of this class I would mention is ‘Robert Pargeter’ or ‘William Pergiter,’ a name inherited by our ‘Pargiters’ and ‘Pargeters.’ This was an artisan of a higher order. He laboured, in fact, at the more ornamental plaster work. In the accounts of Sir John Howard, A.D. 1467, is the following entry:—‘Item, the vj day of Aprylle my master made a covenaunt with Saunsam the tylere, that he schalle pergete, and whighte and bemefelle all the new byldynge, and he schalle have for his labore xiijs. ivd.’[244] It is used metaphorically, but I cannot add very happily, in an old translation of Ovid—

Thus having where they stood in vaine complained of their wo,
When night drew neare they bad adue, and eche gave kisses sweete
Unto the parget on their side, the which did never meete.

‘Roger le Peynture’ or ‘Henry le Peintur,’ ‘Ralph le Gilder’ and ‘Robert le Stainer,’ were engaged, I imagine, in the equally careful work of decorating passage and hall within, and all have left offspring enough to keep up their perpetual memorial. Thus, within and without, the house itself has afforded room for little change in our nomenclature, though the artisans themselves have now a very different work to perform to that of their mediæval prototypes. The increase of wealth and a progressive culture have not merely taught but demanded a more careful and refined workmanship in the details of ordinary housebuilding. We may readily imagine, however, even in this early day, how little the simple bondsman, or freer husbandman, had to do with such artisans as even then existed. I do not find, at least the exceptions are of the rarest, that these workmen dwelt in the more rural districts at all. Their names are to be met with in the towns, where the richer tradespeople and burgesses were already beginning to copy the fashions and habits of life of the higher aristocracy.

We have already noticed the ‘town’—how it originally denoted but the simple farmstead with its immediate surroundings, then its gradual enlargement of sense as other steads increased and multiplied around it. We have also seen how the old ‘ham’ or home gathered about it such accessions of human abodes as converted it in time into one of those village communities, so many of which we still find in the outer districts, almost, as I have said, unaltered from their early foundation. It was in these various homesteads dwelt the peasantry. There might be seen our ‘Cotmans’ and ‘Cotters’ (‘Richard Coteman,’ A., ‘Simon le Cotere,’ F.F.), the descendants, doubtless, of the ‘cotmanni’ of Domesday Book. Similar in origin and as humble in degree would be our now numerous ‘Cotterels’ or ‘Cottrels’ (‘William Coterel,’ M., ‘Joice Cotterill,’ Z.), till a comparatively recent period an ordinary sobriquet of that class of our country population. A curious memorial of a past state of life abides with us in our ‘Boardmans,’ ‘Boarders,’ ‘Bordmans,’ and ‘Borders.’ They were the tenants of lands which their lord kept expressly for the maintenance of his table, the rental being paid in kind. Hence our old English law-books speak familiarly of bord-service, or bord-load, or bord-land. The term board in this same sense still lingers on the common tongue, for we are yet wont to use such phrases as bed and board, or a frugal board, or a board plentifully spread. A determinate, as distinct from an unfixed service, has left its mark in our ‘Sockermans,’ ‘Suckermans,’ and ‘Sockmans,’ they who held by socage, or socmanry, as the old law-books have it. Under this tenure, as a condition of the meagre rental, the stout-hearted, thick-limbed rustic was to be ready, as his lord’s adherent, to stand by him in every assault, either as archer, or arbalister, or pikeman—that is, fealty was to eke out the remaining sum which would otherwise have been due. But there were of these Saxon husbandmen some under no such thraldom, however honourable, as this, and of these freeholders we must set as the highest our ‘Yomans’ and ‘Yeomans.’ This term, however, became an official one, and it is doubtful to which aspect of the word we are to refer the present owners of the name. It is possible both features may have had something to do with its origination. How anxious they who had been redeemed, or who had been born free, though of humble circumstances, were to preserve themselves from a doubtful or suspected position such names as ‘Walter le Free’ or ‘John le Freman’ will fully show. We find even such appellatives as ‘Matilda Frewoman’ or ‘Agnes Frewyfe,’ in the latter case the husband possibly being yet in bondage. In our ‘Frys,’ a sobriquet that has acquired much honour of late years and represented in mediæval rolls by such entries as ‘Thomas le Frye’ or ‘Walter le Frie,’ we have but an obsolete rendering of ‘free.’[245] These, as we see, are all Saxon—but Norman equivalents are not wanting. Our ‘Francoms’ or ‘Francombs’ and ‘Frankhams,’ names by no means uncommon in our existing registers, are but Anglicised dresses worn by the posterity of such registered folk as ‘Henry le Franchome,’ or ‘Reginald le Fraunchome,’ or ‘Hugh le Fraunch-humme.’ ‘William le Fraunk,’ too, or ‘Fulco le Franc,’ can boast many a hale descendant in our ‘Franks;’ and ‘Roger le Franklyn’ or ‘John le Fraunkelyn’ in our ‘Franklins,’ a name from henceforth endeared to Englishmen as that of our gallant but lost Arctic hero. From Chaucer’s description of one such we should deem the ‘franklin’ to have been of decidedly comfortable position, a well-to-do householder, in fact.

Withouten bake mete never was his house,
Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous,
It snowed in his hous of mete and drinke
Of all deintees that men coud of thinke:
After the sondry sesons of the yere,
So changed he his mete and soupere.

But we are not without vestiges of the baser servitudes of the time, and in this category we must set the great bulk of the agricultural classes of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The descendants of the old ‘Ivo le Bondes’ and ‘Richard le Bondes’ are still in our midst, and to judge merely from their number then and now enrolled, we see what a familiar position must that of personal bondage have been.

Of alle men in londe
Most toileth the bonde,

says an old rhyme.[246] Still more general terms for those who lay under this miserable serfdom were those of ‘Knave’ or ‘Villein.’ ‘Walter le Knave’ or ‘Lambert le Vilein’ or ‘Philip le Vylayn’ are names registered at the time of which we are speaking. The odium, however, that has gradually gathered around these sobriquets has caused them to be thrown off by the posterity of those who first acquired them as simple bondmen. Indeed, there was the time when, as I shall have occasion to show in a succeeding chapter, our forefathers could speak of ‘Goodknaves’ and ‘Goodvilleins.’ Feudal disdain of all that lay beneath chivalric service, however, has done its work, and we all now speak, not merely as if these terms implied that which was mean and despicable in outward condition, but that which also was morally depraved and vile. ‘Geoffrey le Sweyn’ or ‘Hugh le Sweyn,’ however, by becoming the exponent of honest rusticity, has rescued his sobriquet from such an ill-merited destiny, and has left in many of our ‘Swains’ a token of his mediæval gallantry. ‘John le Hyne’ or ‘William le Hyne’ (found also as Hind), as representative of the country labourer, is equally sure of perpetuity, as the most cursory survey of our directories will prove.[247] Of the ‘Reve’ in the ‘Canterbury Tales,’ we are told:—

There was no bailif, nor herd, nor other hine
That he nor knew his sleight, and his covine.

In the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ too, the word occurs. In the account of the reconciliation betwixt Jacob and Esau the former is made to say:—

God yeld you, brother, that it so is,
That thou thy hyne so would kiss.

In the rural habitations we have mentioned, then dwelt these various members of the lower class community.

The sobriquets we have just briefly surveyed, however, are of a more general character. We must now, and as briefly, scan some of those which in themselves imply the particular service which as rustic labourers their first owners performed, and by which the titles were got. This class is well represented by such a name as ‘Plowman.’ Langland, when he would take from a peasant point of view a sarcastic survey of the low morality of his time, as exemplified in the English Church ere yet she was reformed, could fix upon no better sobriquet than that of ‘Piers Plowman,’ and has thus given a prominence to the name it can never lose. What visions of homely and frugal content we discern in the utterance of such a surname as this; what thoughts of healthy life, such as are becoming rarer with each returning year—

For times are altered—trade’s unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain.

It was with him at early dawn would issue forth our ‘Tillyers’ or ‘Tillmans,’ to help him cleave the furrow. A little later on we might have seen our ‘Mowers’ and ‘Croppers’[248] hanging up their scythes and sickles, as the autumn, in richly clad garb, passed slowly by. Then again in due season busy enough would be the ‘Dyker,’ now spelt ‘Dicker,’[249] and the ‘Dykeman’ or ‘Dickman.’ With what an enviable appetite would these eat up to the last relic their rasher of bacon and black bread, and quaff their home-brewed ale, a princely feast after the hard toil of draining the field. To dike was merely to dig, the root being the same. Of the kindly plowman Chaucer says—

He would thresh, and thereto dike and delve,
For Christ’s sake, for every poor wight,
Withouten hire, if it lay in his might.

The Malvern dreamer, too, speaks in the same fashion of ‘dikeres and delvers,’ and among other characters introduces to our notice ‘Daw the Dykere,’ ‘Daw’ being, as I have already shown, but the shorter David. Our ‘Drayners,’ I need not add, were but his compeers in the same labour. Perhaps one of the most beautiful features that help to make up a truly English rural landscape is the hedgerows, following the windings of our lanes, and mazy bypaths skirting our meadows. England is eminently a land of enclosures. Still all this has been the result of progressing time. If our pinder be now an obsolete officership it is because the lines of appropriation have become more clearly marked. It is only thus we can understand the importance of his position in every rural community four or five hundred years ago. No wonder, then, our ‘Hedgers’ and ‘Hedgmans’ are to be found whose ancestors were once occupied in setting up these pretty barriers. An old song of James I.’s day says:—

Come all you farmers out of the country,
Carters, ploughmen, _hedgers_, and all;
Tom, Dick, and Will, Ralph, Roger, and Humphrey,
Leave off your gestures rusticall.[250]

If stakes or pales were used, it is to our ‘Pallisers’ and obsolete ‘Herdleres’ our forefathers looked to set them up. The former term I have but come across once as an absolute surname, but such entries as ‘Robert Redman, palayser,’ or ‘James Foster, palycer,’ are to be met with occasionally, and at once testify to the origin of the term as found in our existing registers. ‘Pallister,’ too, is not obsolete; strictly speaking, the feminine form of the above. I find it written ‘Pallyster’ and ‘Palyster’ in an old Yorkshire inventory. But there is one more term belonging to this group which I am afraid has disappeared from our family nomenclature—that of ‘Tiner,’ he who tined or mended hedges. A ‘John le Tynere’ occurs in the Parliamentary Writs. We are reminded by Verstigan’s book on ‘Decayed Intelligence’ that ‘hedging and tining’ was a phrase in vogue not more than 200 years ago. Mr. Taylor, in his ‘Words and Places,’ connects our ‘tine’ in the ‘tines of a stag’s horns’ or ‘the tines of a fork,’ with the same root implying a ‘twig.’ In our old English forest law a ‘tineman’ was an officer very similar to the ‘hayward,’ the only apparent difference being that he served by night. The two terms are exactly similar in sense. We are not without relics, too, of our former means and methods of enriching the glebe. Even here several interesting memorials are preserved to us. ‘Marler,’[251] ‘Clayer,’ and ‘Chalker’ (‘Alice le Marlere,’ A., ‘Thomas le Chalker,’ A., ‘Simon le Clayere,’ A.), still existing, remind us how commonly the land was manured with marl and other substances of a calcareous nature. Trevisa, writing upon this very subject, says—‘Also in this land (England), under the turf of the land, is good marl found. The thrift of the fatness drieth himself (itself) therein, so that even the thicker the field is marled, the better corn will it bear.’[252] An old rhyme says:—

He that marles sand may buy land;
He that marles moss shall suffer no loss;
But he that marles clay throws all away.

An interesting surname of this class is that of ‘Acreman,’ or, as it is now generally spelt, ‘Acherman,’ ‘Akerman,’ or ‘Aikman,’ for it is far from being of modern German introduction, as some have supposed. In the Hundred Rolls and elsewhere it appears in such entries as ‘Alexander le Acherman,’ ‘Roger le Acreman,’ ‘Peter le Akerman,’ and ‘John le Akurman.’ His was indeed a common and familiar sobriquet, and we are but once more reminded by it of the day when the _acre_ was what it really denoted—the ager, or land open to tillage, without thought of definite or statute measure. Indeed, it is quite possible the term was at first strictly applied thus, for a contemporaneous poem has the following couplet:—

The foules up, and song on bough,
And acremen yede to the plough.

If this be the case the surname is but synonymous with ‘Plowman’ and ‘Tillman,’ already referred to.

A curious name is found in the writs of this period, and one well worthy of mention, that of ‘Adam le Imper.’ An ‘imp,’ I need scarcely remind the reader, was originally a ‘scion’ or ‘offshoot,’ whether of plants or animals, the former seemingly most common, to judge from instances. That nothing more than this was intended by it we may prove by Archbishop Trench’s quotation from Bacon, where he speaks of ‘those most virtuous and goodly young imps, the Duke of Suffolk and his brother.’[253] Chaucer says that of

feble trees their comen wretched imps—

and ‘Piers Plowman’ uses the word still more explicitly—

I was some tyme a frere
And the conventes gardyner
For to graffen impes,

he says. This latter quotation explains the surname. ‘Imper,’ doubtless, simply differed from ‘Gardiner’ or ‘Gardner’ in that he was more particularly engaged in the grafting of young shoots.

From the consideration of the last we may fitly turn to the subject of fruits. There can be no doubt that in early days, so far at least as the south, and more particularly the south-west of England was concerned, the vine was very generally cultivated by the peasantry, and the wine made therefrom, however poor it might be, used by them. So early as Domesday Survey a ‘Walter Vinitor’ lived in Surrey, and a century or two later such names as ‘Symon le Vynur,’ or ‘William le Viner,’ or ‘Roger le Vynour,’ the ancestry of our ‘Viners,’ show that the vine-dresser’s occupation was not yet extinct. We have long left the production of this beverage, however, to the sunnier champaign lands of the Continent, and are content by paying a higher price to get a richer and fuller juice. Our ‘Dressers’ may either belong to this or the curriers’ fraternity. An old poem, which I have already had occasion to quote, says—

In tyme of harvest merry it is enough,
Pears and apples hangeth on bough,
The hayward bloweth merry his horne,
In every felde ripe is corne,
The grapes hongen on the vyne,
Swete is trewe love and fyne.

We have here the mention of pears and apples. The cultivation of these by our ‘Orcharders,’ or ‘de la Orchards,’ or ‘de la Apelyards,’ was a familiar occupation, and ‘le Cyderer,’[254] and ‘le Perriman,’ or ‘Pearman,’ and ‘le Perrer,’ testify readily as to the use to which they were put. The home-made drinks of these early days were almost all sweet. Such decoctions as mead, piment, or hippocras, in the absence of sugar, were mingled with honey. We can at once understand, therefore, what an important pursuit would that be of the bee-keeper.[255] Not merely did the occasional husbandman possess his two or three hives, but there were those who gave themselves up wholly to the tendence of bees, and who made for themselves a comfortable livelihood in the sale of their produce. Many of our surnames still bear testimony to this. ‘Beman,’ or ‘Beeman,’ or ‘Beaman,’ will be familiar to all, and ‘Honeyman’ is scarcely less common. In an old roll of 1183 we have the name Latinised in such an entry as ‘Ralph Custosapium.’ But not merely honey, but spices of all kinds were also infused into these various drinks, whether of wine or ale. We have a well-drawn picture of this in Piers Plowman’s vision where ‘Glutton’ comes across Beton the Brewstere, and the latter bidding him good-morrow, says—

‘I have good ale, gossib,’ quoth she,
‘Glutton, wilt thou assaye?’
‘Hast thou aught in thy purse,’ quoth he;
‘Any hote spices?’
‘I have pepir, and peonies,’ quoth she,
‘And a pound of garleck,
And a farthing-worth of fenel-seed
For fastyng dayes.’

Such an array of hot ingredients as this poor Glutton could not resist, and instead of going to Mass he turned into the tavern, and having supped

A galon and a gille,

of course got uproariously drunk. Thus we see how natural it is we should come across such names as ‘Balmer,’ or ‘le Oyncterer,’ or ‘le Hoincter,’ as it is also registered, or ‘le Garlyckmonger,’ in our early records. The first still exists. The second does not, but the cumbersome and ungainly appearance of the last affords sufficient excuse for its absence. It is quite possible, however, that our ‘Garlicks’ are but a curtailment of it, and this is the more likely, as such forms as ‘Henry le Garleckmonger,’ or ‘Thomas le Garlykmonger,’ are commonly found, and evidently represented an important occupation. The Normans, like the Saxons, loved a highly stimulative dish, and garlic sauce went to everything; bird, beast, fish, all alike found their seasoning in a concoction of which this acrid and pungent herb was the chief ingredient. ‘Roger le Gaderer,’ or as we should now say ‘Gatherer,’ has left no descendant, but he may be mentioned as representing a more general term for many of the above.

In the woodlands and its open glades and devious windings, where several of these herbalists I have mentioned would be often found, we shall see, too, other frequenters. It would be here, subject to the condition of agistment and pannage, our ‘Swinnarts,’ or swineherds, tended their hogs. It would be here by the hazel bank and deeper forest pathways our ‘Nutters’ and ‘Nutmans’ would be found, as the autumn began to set in, and browner and more golden tints to fleck the trees and hedgerows. It would be here, as the chills of early winter drew on, and the fallen leaves lay strewn around, our ‘Bushers’ or ‘Boshers’ (relics of the old ‘John le Busscher’ or ‘Reginald le Buscher’), and our more Saxon ‘Thomas le Woderes,’ ‘Robert Wudemongers,’ and ‘Alan le Wodemans’ (now ‘Woodyers’ and ‘Woodmans’), would be occupied in gathering the refuse branches for firing purposes—here our ‘Hewers’ (once found as ‘Ralph le Heuer’) and more specific ‘Robert le Wodehewers,’[256] our ‘Hackers’ and ‘Hackmans,’ would be engaged in chopping timber, perchance for building purposes, perchance for our ‘Ashburners,’[257] to procure their potash from. Oftentimes, no doubt, would these various frequenters of the woodland boscage be roused from their rude labours to watch as the hornblower (now ‘Hornblow’) awoke the shrill echoes, the lordly chase sweep through the glade till it was hidden by the embrasures of the forest, or the darkening twilight, or the bending hill.

One single glance backward over the names we have so far recorded in this chapter, and one thing will be obvious—their all but entirely Saxon character. Our agriculture terms, whether with regard to the work itself or the labourer, belong to the earlier tongue. There is nothing surprising in this. While in the nomenclature of trade we find the superior force and energy of the Norman temperament struggling with and oftentimes overcoming the more sober humour of the conquered race, in the country and all the pursuits of the country the latter was far ahead of its rival. It was better versed in agricultural pursuits, and ever retained them in its own hands. At the same time, as we well know, this very detention was but the mark of its defeat and the badge of its slavery. It was a victory where, nevertheless, all is lost. Wamba the jester, in ‘Ivanhoe,’ if I may be excused such a trite illustration, reminds us that our cattle, while in the field, and under the guardianship of the enslaved Saxon, were called by the Saxon terms of ‘ox,’ ‘sheep,’ and ‘calf,’ but served upon the tables of their lords became Norman ‘beef,’ ‘mutton,’ and ‘veal’—that is, while the former _fed them_, the latter it was that _fed on them_. Thus in the same way, if those homely pursuits which attached to the tilling of the soil, the breeding of cattle, the gathering in and the storing of the harvest—if these maintained the terms which belonged to them ere the Conquest, they are so many marks of serfdom. Provided the supply on his board was only profuse enough, the proud baron troubled himself little as to the supplier, or how or under what names it was procured. See how true this is from our nomenclature. There is a little word which has dropped from our lips which once played an important part in our vocabulary—I mean that of ‘herd’—not as applied to the flock, but the keeper. We still use it familiarly in compounds, such as _swineherd_ or _shepherd_, but that it once had a separate existence of its own is proved by the many ‘Heards,’ or ‘Herds,’ or ‘Hurds,’ that still abound surnominally in our midst; relics as they are of the ‘John le Hirdes,’ or ‘Alice la Herdes,’ or ‘Robert le Hyrdes,’ of our olden records. Chaucer so uses it. We now speak of our Lord as the ‘Good Shepherd.’ He, however, gives us the simpler form where St. Urban is made to say—

‘Almighty Lord, O Jesu Christ,’ quoth he,
‘Sower of chaste counsel, herd of us all.’

Thus again, in the ‘Townley Mysteries’ the angel who visited the shepherds as they kept their flocks by night is represented as arousing them by saying—

Herkyn, hyrdes, awake!

See now the many compounds of which this purely Saxon word is the root. Are we in the low-lying pastures. In our ‘Stotherds’ and ‘Stothards,’ our ‘Stoddarts’ and ‘Stoddards,’ still clings the remembrance of the old _stot_ or bullock-herd; in our ‘Yeatherds’ (as in our ‘Yeatmans’), the heifer herd; and in our ‘Cowards,’ far from being so pusillanimous as they look, the homely ‘cowherd.’ In ‘William and the Werfolf’ we are told—

It bifel in that forest
There fast byside,
There woned (dwelt) a wel old churl
That was a couherde.

Nor are these all. In our ‘Calverts’ and ‘Calverds’ we are reminded of the once well-known ‘Warin le Calveherd,’ or ‘William le Calverd,’ as I find him recorded; in our ‘Nuttards’ the more general but now faded ‘neteherd’ or ‘noutherd,’[258] and in our obsolete ‘John Oxenhyrds’ and ‘Peter Oxherds,’ the familiar ox. Are we in the grazing paddock. In our ‘Coultherds,’ ‘Coulthards,’ and ‘Coultards’ (‘John Colthird,’ W. 9), not to mention our ‘Coultmans’ and ‘Coltmans,’ we have ample trace of their presence. Are we again on the bleak hill-side. The sheep have given us our ‘Shepherds,’ the rams our ‘Wetherherds’ (now generally written ‘Weatherheads’), the kids our ‘Gottards,’ not to say some of our ‘Goddards,’ memorials of the once common goatherd. Are we under the woodland pathways where the beech-nuts abound. There, too, the herd was to be found, for in our ‘Swinnarts,’ ‘Hoggarts,’ and ‘Sowards’ we are not without a further token of his usefulness. In three instances I have found ‘herd’ connected with the winged creation. In the _Parliamentary Writs_ occurs ‘William le Swonherde,’ in the _Corpus Christi Guild_ (Surt. Soc.), ‘Agnes Gusehyrd’ and ‘Joan Gusehyrd,’ and in the _Hundred Rolls_ ‘Henry le Rocherde,’ _i.e._, rook-herd.[259] ‘Swanherd’ reminds us that swans were an important article of diet in early times. In 1482 an Act was passed forbidding any but freeholders (and they only if they had lands of the annual value of five marks) to have marks or games of swans. (‘Stat. Realm,’ vol. ii. p. 447.)

It will have already become clear to the reader that this term ‘herd’ played no unimportant part in the vocabulary of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. But even now we have not done. For instance, our ‘Stobbarts’ and ‘Stubbards’ are manifestly descendants of such a name as ‘Alice Stobhyrd’ or ‘Thomas Stobart,’ the owners of both of which are set down in the Black Book of Hexham Priory in company with ‘John Stodard,’ ‘William Oxhyrd,’ and ‘Thomas Schipherde.’[260] I should have been in some difficulty in regard to the meaning of this ‘stob’ or ‘stub’ had not Mr. Halliwell in his dictionary of archaic words given it as an old rural term for a bull. This surname, therefore, is satisfactorily accounted for. I cannot be quite so positive with regard to our ‘Geldards’ and ‘Geldarts,’ but I strongly suspect their early ancestor was but a _confrère_ of the swineherd or hogherd, ‘gelt,’ or ‘geld,’ as a porcine title, being a familiar word to our forefathers of that date. Our ‘Gattards’ and ‘Gathards,’ too, may be mentioned as but mediævalisms for the goatherd, ‘Gateard’ and ‘Gatherd’ being met with in North English records contemporaneously with the above. Such a sobriquet as ‘Adam le Gayt,’ while it may be but a form of the old ‘wayt’ or watchman, is, I imagine, but representative of this northern provincialism. It occurs locally in ‘William de Gatesden’ or ‘John de Gatesden,’ both found in the Parliamentary Writs. With two more instances I will conclude. In our ‘Hunnards’ still lives the memory of ‘Helyas le Hunderd,’ the old houndsman, while in ‘Richard le Wodehirde’ or ‘William le Wodehirde’ we have but another, though more general, sobriquet of one of those many denizens of the forest I have already hinted at. How purely Saxon are all these names! What a freshness seems to breathe about them! What a fragrance as of the wild heather and thyme, and all that is sweet and fresh and free! And yet they are but so many marks of serfdom.

I have just incidentally referred to the swineherd. It is difficult for us, in this nineteenth century of ours, to conceive the vast importance of this occupation in the days of which we are writing. Few avocations have so much changed as this. Hog-tending as a distinct livelihood is well-nigh extinct. Time was, however, when the rustic community lived upon bacon, when the surveillance of swine was a lazy, maybe, but nevertheless an all-important care. We still speak of a ‘flitch of bacon,’ a term which, while etymologically the same as ‘flesh,’ shows how to the early popular mind that article represented the sum total of _carnal_ luxuries. Our use of the word ‘brawn’ is of an equally tell-tale character. Every one knows what we mean by brawn. Originally, however, it was the flesh of any animal. Chaucer says—

The Miller was a stout carl for the nones,
Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones.

When, however, the wild boar had been brought down, and salted, and put aside for winter use, how natural that to the housewife it should engross this general sense. It is to the importance this unsavoury-looking animal held in the eyes of early rustics we must attribute the fact of so many names coming down to us connected with its keep. As I have just hinted, such sobriquets as ‘John le Swineherd’ or ‘Nicholas le Hogherd’ were common enough in the country parts, our ‘Swinnarts’ and ‘Hoggarts’ being witnesses. The sowherd remains in our ‘Sowards,’ and is as Saxon as the others. The same tongue is strong again in our ‘Pigmans’ ‘Sowmans,’ ‘Hogmans,’ and still more secluded ‘Denyers’ and ‘Denmans.’ The Norman, however, is to be accredited with our many ‘Gilbert le Porchers’ and ‘Thomas le Porkeres,’ by which we may see that when daintily served up under the name of ‘pork’ it was not disdained on the baron’s table. Lastly, we may mention our early ‘Philip le Lardiners’ and ‘Hugh le Lardiners,’ names that in themselves suggest to us the one purpose of the herdsman, the fattening of his charge. They would be found generally, therefore, neath the fastnesses of the forest, where the

Oak with his nuts larded many a swine,

and where the mast and beech-nuts abounded, the chief pannage, it would seem, of that day.[261] Higher up, as far indeed as the bleak and barren wolds, the shepherd cared for and tended his flock. His was a common occupation, too, as our nomenclature shows. Evidently he was as prone in those days to the oaten reed as the poets of all ages have loved to depict him, for it is to his Norman-introduced name of ‘Berger’ we owe the ‘bergeret,’ or pastoral ode. The song indeed, so called, has died away from our ears, but ‘Berger,’ or ‘Bercher,’ as it was often written, still lives, and may carry us back for a moment to these wholesomer times.

Nor, if we approach more closely to the farmyard enclosure, are we without memorials. The _farm_ of old, as applied to the soil, was of course that piece of land which was rented for agricultural purposes, and I doubt not the chief of the old ‘Robert le Fermers’ and ‘Matilda le Fermeres’ represent this more confined sense. ‘Farmer,’ whether colloquially or in our registers, is the modern form. Udal, however, maintains the more antique dress, when he says, ‘And that the thyng should so be, Chryst Hymself had signyfied to fore by the parable of the husbandmen or fermers.’

While ‘herd,’ as a root-word, implied the tendance of cattle in the meadows and woods and on the hillsides, ‘man,’ I suspect, was equally significative of their guardianship in the stable and the yard. Thus if the ‘_cowherd_’ was in the field, the ‘_cowman_’ would be in the stall. We may here, therefore, set our familiar ‘Cowmans,’ ‘Bullmans,’ ‘Heiffermans,’ and ‘Steermans,’ or ‘Stiermans.’[262] One or two provincialisms, I imagine, have added also to this stock. Mr. Lower thinks our ‘Twentymans’ to be derived from ‘Vintenarius,’ a captain of twenty. This may be so, but I suspect the more correct origin will be found in ‘twenterman’ or ‘twinterman,’ he who tended the ‘_twenters_’ or ‘_twinters_,’ the old and once familiar ‘two-winter,’ or, as we now generally say, ‘two-year-old.’ If the ‘steer,’ the ‘heifer,’ the ‘cow,’ and the ‘bull’ gave a sobriquet to the farm labourer, why not this? As a farmyard term it occurs in every provincial record of the fifteenth and even sixteenth century. Thus, to quote but one instance, I find in a will dated 1556 mention made of ‘6 oxen, item, 18 sterres (steers), item, 11 heifers, item, 21 twenters, item, 23 stirks.’ (Richmondshire Wills, p. 93.) An inventory of the same date includes ‘3 kye, item, one whye.’ This latter term was equally commonly used at this period for a ‘heifer.’ Our ‘Whymans’ and ‘Wymans’ will, we may fairly surmise, be their present memorial. ‘Cowman,’ mentioned above, was met by the Norman ‘Vacher,’ such entries as ‘John le Vacher’ or ‘Walter le Vacher’ being common, and as ‘Vacher,’ or more corruptly ‘Vatcher,’ it still abides in our midst. ‘Thomas le Stabeler,’ or ‘William le Stabler,’ too, are yet with us; but descendants for ‘Thomas le Milkar’ or ‘William le Melker’ are, I fear, wanting. A Norman representative for these latter is found in the Parliamentary Writs in the case of ‘John le Lacter.’ There is the smack of a kindred labour in the registered ‘Thomas le Charner,’ for I doubt not his must have been but an antique dress of ‘Churner.’ Another form is found in an old Richmondshire will dated 1592, where mention is made of ‘Robert Chirner’ and his sister ‘Jane Chirner.’ As an additional proof that his occupation was such as I have surmised, I may add that in the same record in the valuation of household property the _churn_ is spelt _chirne_. (Richmondshire Wills, p. 235, note.) The most interesting sobriquet of this class, and the one which has left the most memorials, is found in such mediæval names as ‘Cecilia le Day,’ or ‘Christiana la Daye,’ or ‘Stephen le Dagh.’ A ‘day’ was a dairyman, of which word it is but another form. Chaucer, in one of the most charming of his descriptions, tells us of a poor widow, how that she—

Since that day that she was last a wife
In patience led a ful simple life,
For litel was her cattle, and her rent:
By husbandry of such as God her sent
She found herself and eke her doughtren two.
————
Her board was served most with white and black,
Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack,
Singed bacon, and sometimes an egg or twey,
For she was as it were a maner _dey_.[263]

The present representatives of this name are met with in the several forms of ‘Deye,’ ‘Daye,’ ‘Day,’ ‘Dayman,’ and the more unpleasantly corrupted ‘Deman.’

It is quite evident, judging from the places of abode in which we find our early ‘Fishers’ and ‘Fishermans,’ that it is to followers, though professional, of the quaint and gentle-minded Izaac Walton we owe our many possessors of these names, rather than to the dwellers upon the coast, although both, doubtless, are represented. Such entries as ‘Margaret le Fischere,’ or ‘Henry le Fissere,’ or ‘Robert le Fiscere’ are very common. This latter seems a sort of medium between the others and such a more hard form as ‘Laurence le Fisker.’ The finny species themselves gave us such sobriquets as ‘John le Fysche’ or ‘William Fyske,’ and both ‘Fish’ and ‘Fisk’ still exist amongst us. The Norman angler is seen in ‘Godard le Pescher’ or ‘Walter le Pecheur,’ while ‘Agnes le Pecheresse’ bespeaks the fact that even women did not disdain the gentle art.

But the moment we hint of the village streamlet we are thrown upon a subject vast indeed—the mill and the miller. He was emphatically, you see, _the_ miller. Even now, in these busy grasping days, when we have cotton mills and saw mills, silk mills and powder mills, mills for this and mills for that, still it never occurs to us, when we talk of the miller, that any one could possibly mistake our meaning. And well may it be so, for it is with him we entwine pleasant remembrances of the country, the wheel, the stream, the lusty dimpled trout; with him we associate all of comfortable, peaceful content. A white jacket and a white cap, with a black coat for Sundays—how black it would look to be sure—a bluff, good-humoured face, a friendly nod, and a blithe good-morrow, up early and to bed betimes, and his memoir is written, and a very pleasant memoir, too, with a moral to boot for discontented folk, would they but see it. The old word for mill was ‘milne,’ hence we still have the earlier form, ‘Milnes’ and ‘Milner’ being nearly as familiar to us in that respect as ‘Mills’ and ‘Miller.’ Besides these we have ‘Milman’ and ‘Milward,’ who once, no doubt, acted as custodian, the modern ‘man on the premises,’ in fact.[264] The ancestry of all these is proved by such registered forms as ‘John le Mellere,’ ‘William le Melner,’ ‘Robert le Milleward,’[265] ‘John del Mill,’ or ‘Thomas atte Milne,’ all of which are found scattered over our earlier rolls.[266] Our ‘Threshers’ and ‘Taskers’ (Benedict le Tasker,’ H.R.) busied themselves in urging the flail. I have only lit upon the latter term once as in ordinary colloquial use. Burton in the preface to his ‘Anatomy’ says—‘many poor country-vicars, for want of other means, are driven to their shifts,’ and ‘as Paul did, at last turn taskers, maltsters, costermongers, graziers, etc.’[267] Our ‘Winners,’ shortened from ‘Winnower,’ winnowed the grain with the fan; our ‘Boulters’ or ‘Bulters,’[268] ‘Siviers’ and ‘Riddlers,’ (‘Geoffrey le Boltere,’ A., ‘William Rydler,’ Z., ‘Ralph le Siviere,’ A.), still more carefully separated the flour from the bran. How beautifully Shakespeare presses this into his imagery many will remember, where Florizel speaks of—

The fanned snow that’s bolted
By the northern blasts twice o’er.

Our Bible translators, too, must have yet been familiar with the simpler process of this earlier time when they rendered one of the prophet’s happier foretellings into the beautiful Saxon we still possess:—‘The oxen likewise, and the young asses that ear the ground shall eat clean provender, which hath been winnowed with the shovel and with the fan.’ The manufacture or use of the fan wherewith to purge the flour made our ‘Walter le Vanners,’ ‘Simon le Fanneres,’ ‘Richard atte Vannes,’ or ‘William atte Fannes,’ familiar names at this time. In Cocke Lorelle’s Bote, we find among other craftsmen—

Barbers, bokebynders, and lymners;
Repers, _faners_, and horners.

We must not forget, too, our ‘Shovellers’ and more common ‘Showlers,’ ‘showl’ being ever the vulgar form. It was for no purpose of rhyme, only the word is so used where we are asked—

‘Who’ll dig his grave?’
‘I,’ said the owl; ‘with my spade and showl
I’ll dig his grave.’

With these many reminders, it is not likely that either the miller or his men are likely to become soon forgotten.

The smithy, of course, was an inseparable adjunct to the small community. The smith, unlike the wright, was engaged upon the harder metals, the latter being incidentally described to us by Chaucer when he says of one of his personages in the Reeves Story, that—

He was a well good wright, a carpenter.

Looking at the many compounds formed from these two roots, we find that in the main this distinction is maintained. Let us take the wright first. We have but just mentioned ‘Ralph le Siviere,’ or ‘Peter le Syvyere.’ For him our ‘Sivewrights’ were manifestly occupied, to say nothing of the farmer’s wife. The farmer himself would need the services of our ‘Plowwrights’ (‘William le Plowritte,’ A., ‘William le Ploughwryte,’ M.), and would he carry his produce safely to the distant market or fair he must needs have a good stout wain, for the track athwart the hillside was rough and uneven, and here therefore he must call into requisition the skill of our many ‘Wheelwrights,’ or ‘Wheelers,’ ‘Cartwrights’ and their synonymous ‘Wainwrights.’[269] Adding to these ‘Boatwright,’ or ‘Botwright,’ ‘Shipwright,’ and the obsolete ‘Slaywright,’ the old loom manufacturer, we see wood to have been the chief object at least of the wright’s attention. But we have other names of a different character. ‘Limewright’ or ‘Limer’ (‘Hugh le Limwryte,’ A., ‘John le Limer,’ A.) ceases to maintain this distinction, so do our ‘Glasswrights,’ equivalent to our ‘Glaziers’ or ‘Glaishers’ (‘Thomas le Glaswryghte,’ X., ‘Walter Glasenwryht,’ W. ii., ‘William Glaseer,’ Z.).[270] ‘Le Cheesewright,’ or ‘Chesswright,’ like ‘Firminger’ and ‘Casier,’ brings us once more into the scullery, and ‘Breadwright’ into the kitchen. ‘Alwright’ is doubtless but the old ‘alewright,’ and ‘Goodwright,’ which Mr. Lower deems to be a maker of goads, I cannot but imagine to be simply complimentary, after the fashion of many others which I shall mention in another chapter. Our ‘Tellwrights’ or ‘Telwrights’ have given me much trouble, and though at first I did not like it, I think Mr. Lower’s suggestion that they have arisen from the Pauline occupation of tent-making is a natural one. ‘Teld’ was the old English word for a tent. In the metrical Anglo-Saxon Psalter the fourteenth psalm thus commences—

Lord, in thi teld wha sal wone (dwell)?
In thi hali hille or wha reste mone (shall)?

We still speak of a ‘tilt’ when referring to the cover of a cart or wagon, or to any small awning of a boat. It is quite possible, therefore, that the name has originated in the manufacture of such canopies as these. Admitting this, I would merely suggest ‘Tilewright’ as requiring but little corruptive influence to bring it into the forms in which we at present find the word.[271] Should this be the case, we must place it with ‘le Tyler,’ of whom we have but recently spoken. ‘Arkwright’ I mention last as being worthy of more extended notice. In this is preserved the memory of a once familiar and all-important piece of cabinet furniture—that of the old-fashioned ark. Much store was set by this long years ago by the north-country folk, as is shown by the position it occupies in antique wills, often being found as the first legacy bequeathed.[272] Shaped exactly like the child’s Noah’s ark, it seems to have had a twofold character. In one it was simply a meal-bin. Thus in the ‘Tale of a Usurer’ we are told:—

When this corn to the kniht was sold,
He did it in an arc to hold,
And opened this arc the third day.