Chapter IV: Surnames of Occupation (country) (2)

In the other it was more carefully put together. The trick of its secret spring, known only to the housewife and her lord—sometimes I dare say, only to the latter—it contained all the treasure the family could boast. Here were kept what parchments they possessed; here lay stored up fold on fold of household linen, venerated by the female inmates nearly as much as the grandmothers themselves, whose thrifty fingers had woven it in days long past and gone. We see thus that upon the whole the wright _wrought_ his manufacture out of his own more specific material, seldom, at any rate, poaching upon the preserves of his friend the smith. The smith worked in iron and the metals. This good old Saxon name, with the many quaint changes that have been rung upon it, deserves a whole chapter to itself. How then can we hope to do justice to it in a few sentences? We do not know where to begin, and having once begun, the difficulty at once arises as to where we can end. How few of us reflect upon the close connexion that exists between the anvil and the smith himself, and yet it is because he _smote_ thereupon that he got his name. As old Verstigan has it:—

From whence comes Smith, all be he knight or squire,
But from the smith that forgeth at the fire?

Putting in all the needs which in this agricultural age his occupation would be necessary to supply, still we could scarcely account for the enormous preponderance he has attained over other artisans, did we not remember that his services would also be required in the production of warlike implements. Sword and ploughshare alike would be to his hands. Chaucer speaks of:—

The smith
That forgeth sharpe swords on the stith.

Between and including the years 1838 and 1854 there were registered as born, or married, or dead, no less than 286,307 Smiths. Were we indeed to put into one community the persons who bear this name in our land, we should have a town larger than Leeds, and scarcely inferior in size and importance to that of the capital of the midland counties.

The smith is often spoken of colloquially as the blacksmith, a title which, while it has not itself a place in our nomenclature, reminds us of others that have, and of a peculiar custom of earlier days. The word ‘blacksmith’ dates from the days of ‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote,’ and it is quite evident that at that time it was customary for the smith to have his name compounded with sobriquets according to the colour of the metal upon which he spent his energies. Thus the former ‘Thomas Brownesmythe’ evidently worked in copper and brass, ‘William le Whytesmyth’ in tinplate, ‘John Redesmith’ in gold, a ‘Goldsmith’ in fact; ‘Richard Grensmythe’ in I am not sure what, unless it be lead; and ‘John Blackesmythe’ in iron. The last is the only one I fail to discover as now existing among our surnames—a circumstance, however, easily accounted for from the settled position the simple ‘Smith’ himself had obtained as an artificer of that metal. But these are not the only compounds. Our ‘Smiths’ are surrounded with connexions of not merely every hue, but every type. Thus ‘Arrowsmith,’ already alluded to with its contracted ‘Arsmith,’ tells its own tale of archery service; ‘Billsmith’ and ‘Spearsmith’ remind us of the lances, or rather lance heads, that did such duty in the golden days of Agincourt and Poictiers. Of a more peaceful nature would be the work of our ‘Nasmyths,’ like our ‘Naylors,’ mere relics of the old nailsmith. Closely connected with them, therefore, we may set our ‘Shoosmiths,’[273] but Saxon representatives of the Norman-introduced ‘Farrier.’ The surname still clings chiefly to the north of England, where the Saxon, retaining so much more of its strength and vigour than in the south, preserved it as the occupative term for centuries. Springtide and the approach of sheep-washing would see our ‘Sheersmiths’ busy, while the later autumn would have its due effect upon the trade of our ‘Sixsmiths’ and ‘Sucksmiths,’ pleasant though curiously corrupted memorials of the old sicklesmith, or ‘Sykelsmith,’ as I find the name spelt. The bucklesmith (‘John le Bokelsmythe,’ X.), whose name is referred to in the poem I have but recently quoted, has similarly and as naturally curtailed himself to ‘Bucksmith.’[274] Our ‘Bladesmiths’ fashioned swords, being found generally in fellowship with our ‘Cutlers’ and obsolete ‘Knyfesmythes.’ Our ‘Locksmiths,’ of course, looked to the security of door, and closet, and cupboard;[275] while our ‘Minsmiths’ (‘John le Mynsmuth,’ M.), for I believe they are not as yet quite obsolete, hard at work in the mint smithy, forged the coin for the early community. As, however, I shall have occasion to refer to him again I shall merely cite him, and pass on.[276] But we may see from the little I have said that the smith never need fear obsoletism. Apart from his own immediate circle, he is surrounded by many, if not needy, yet closely attached relatives. We must not forget, however, that the Norman had his smith, too, and though the Saxon, as we have thus seen, has ever maintained his dignity and position, still our early rolls are not without a goodly number of ‘Adam le Fevres,’ ‘Richard le Fevers,’ or ‘Reginald le Feures,’ and their cognate ‘Alan le Ferons’ and ‘Roger le Feruns.’ Representatives of all these, minus the article, may be readily met with to-day in any of the large towns of our country.

We may take this opportunity of saying a word about lead, inasmuch as the uses to which it was put made the manufacturer therein familiar to rural society. The leadbeater, in fact, was all-important to the farmer’s wife and the dairy, for the vessels which held the milk, as it underwent its various processes until it was turned out into butter, were commonly his handiwork. Such names as ‘Gonnilda le Leadbetre,’ or ‘Reginald le Ledbeter,’ we find in every considerable roll, and our modern ‘Leadbeaters,’ ‘Ledbetters,’ ‘Leadbitters,’ ‘Lidbetters,’ and probably ‘Libertys,’ are but their descendants. That mixture of lead with brass or copper which went by the term of ‘latten’ or ‘laton’ has left in our ‘Latoners’ and ‘Latners’ a memorial of the metal of which our old country churchyard tablets were made, not to say some of the household utensils just referred to. We find even more costly and ornamental ware manufactured of this, for among other relics preserved by the pardoner, Chaucer tells us:—

He had a gobbet (piece) of the sail
That seint Peter had, when that he went
Upon the sea, till Jesu Christ him hent.
He had a cross of laton, full of stones,
And in a glass he had pig’s bones.

Such a name then as ‘Thomas le Latoner’ or ‘Richard le Latoner’ would be well understood by our forefathers.

But we must not wander. In nothing does our nomenclature bequeath us a more significant record than in that which relates to the isolation of primitive life. We who live in such remarkable days of locomotive appliance cannot possibly enter into the difficulties our forefathers had to encounter in regard to intercommunication. An all but impassable barrier separated our villages from the larger and distant towns. The roads, or rather, not to dignify them by such a term, the tracks,[277] were sometimes scarce to be recognised, everywhere rough and dangerous. Streams, oftentimes much swollen, must be forded. Where bridges existed our ‘Bridgers’ and ‘Bridgemans’ took the king’s levy; where none were to be found our ‘Ferrimans’ rendered their necessary aid. The consequent difficulties with regard to conveyance were great. The larger of the county towns carried on but an uncertain and irregular communication, while the remoter villages were wholly dependent either on the travelling trader or peddler, or on the great fair, as it came round in its annual course. What a stock of goods would be laid in by the bustling wife, and the farmer himself on this latter occasion! Imagine them starting forth to lay in a supply for a whole year’s wants. No wonder the good, sound cob and the stout wagon it drew are remembered in our surnames. Of the importance of the former such names as ‘Horsman,’ if it be not official, and ‘Palfreyman,’ or ‘Palfriman,’ not to mention ‘Asseman,’ are good witnesses. Such entries as ‘Agnes le Horsman,’ or ‘Roger le Palefreyour,’ or ‘John le Palfreyman’ are familiar to every early register. Our ‘Tranters’ and ‘Traunters’ are but relics of the old ‘Traventer,’ he who let out posthorses. In process of time, however, he got numbered among the many itinerant peddlers or carriers, of whom I shall speak shortly. Bishop Hall, in one of his Satires, says—

And had some traunting chapman to his sire,
That trafficked both by water and by fire,

Our ‘Corsers’[278] or ‘Cossers,’ too, little altered from the former ‘le Corsour,’ represent, as did the obsolete ‘Horsmonger,’ the dealer in horseflesh. Another branch of this occupation is represented by our ‘Runchemans,’ ‘Runcimans,’ or ‘Runchmans.’ They dealt in hackney-horses, ‘rounce’ or ‘rouncie’ being the then general term for such. Chaucer’s ‘Shipman’ was mounted upon one—

For aught I wot, he was of Dertemouth,
He rode upon a rouncie, as he couthe.

It was, however, a term applied in common to all manner of horses, and it is quite possible the names given above must be classed simply with ‘Horseman’ and such like. Brunne, in describing Arthur’s Coronation, mentions among other his gifts—

Good palfreys he gave to clerks
Bows and arrows he gave archers,
Runces good unto squiers.[279]

In such grand-looking entries as ‘William le Charreter,’ or ‘John le Caretter,’ or ‘Andrew le Chareter,’[280] we should now scarce recognise the humble ‘Carter,’ but so is he commonly set down in the thirteenth century, our ‘cart’ itself being nothing more than the old Norman-French ‘charette,’ so familiarized to us by our present Bible version as ‘chariot.’ This in the edition of 1611 even was spelt after the old fashion as ‘charet.’ Our ‘Charters’ are evidently but relics of the fuller form, a ‘John le Charter’ appearing in the Parliamentary Writs.[281] ‘Char,’ the root of ‘charet,’ still remains with us as ‘car.’ In ‘Cursor Mundi’ it is said—

Nay, sir, but ye must to him fare,
He hath sent after thee his chare.

Gower, too, has the word—

With that she looked and was war,
Doun fro’ the sky ther cam a char,
The which dragons aboute drew.

This was used by people of rank as a fashionable vehicle for purposes of pleasure; oftentimes, too, by ladies.[282] Corresponding with the other, the driver of such was ‘John le Charer’ or ‘Richard le Charrer,’ the present existing forms in our directories being ‘Charman’ and ‘Carman.’[283] ‘Cartman,’ I need not add, is also found as well as ‘Carter.’ All these terms, however, are from the Norman vocabulary. The Saxon word in general use was ‘wagon’ or ‘wain,’ the conductor of which now dwells in our midst as ‘Wagoner’ or ‘Wagner,’ and ‘Wainman’ or ‘Wenman.’ ‘Charles Wain’ or the ‘Churls Wain’ is the name that constellation still bears, and which has clung to it, in spite of the Norman, since the day, a thousand years and more, that the Saxon so likened it. As in the case of so many other double words representative of our twofold language, these two separate terms have come now to denote their own specialty of vehicle, and it is even possible that so early as the day in which ‘le Wainwright’ and ‘le Cartwright’ took their rise this distinction had already begun to exist. It is thus our English language has become so rich, this sheep-and-mutton redundancy of which Walter Scott in his ‘Ivanhoe’ has so well reminded us. ‘Richard le Drivere’ or ‘John le Drivere’ of course must be placed here, not to mention an ‘Alice le Driveress,’ who figures in the Hundred Rolls.

Of such consequence was it that the horse-gear should be carefully put together that it occupied the full attention of several different artisans. Such names as ‘Benedict le Sporier,’ or ‘Alan le Lorymer,’ or ‘Nicholas le Lorimer,’ are found in every considerable roll of the period, and they still exist. The one of course looked to the rowel, the other to the bit. ‘John le Sadeler’ needs little explanation, his posterity being still alive to speak in his behalf. The old Norman-introduced word for a saddle was ‘sell,’ and that it lingered on for a considerable period is shown by Spenser’s use of it, where he says—

And turning to that place, in which whyleare
He left his loftie steed with golden sell,
And goodly gorgeous barbes.

Every mediæval roll has its ‘Warin le Seler’ or ‘Thomas le Seller.’[284] The pack-saddle was of such importance that it required a special manufacturer, and this it had in our now somewhat rare ‘Fusters’ or ‘Fewsters.’[285] In his ‘Memorials of London,’ Mr. Riley mentions a ‘Walter Polyt, fuyster’ (p. xxii.). A fuster was, strictly speaking, a joiner employed in the manufacture of the saddle-bow, that is, the wooden framework of the old saddle. It is derived from the French ‘fust,’ wood, and that from the late Latin ‘fustis.’ Our ‘Shoosmiths,’ as I have before hinted, made the horseshoe, while ‘John le Mareshall,’ or ‘Ranulph le Marescal,’ or ‘Osbert le Ferrur,’ or ‘Peter le Ferrour,’ fitted it to the foot. The modern forms are simple ‘Marshall,’ and ‘Ferrier,’ or ‘Ferrer.’ In the ‘Boke of Curtasye’ it is said—

For eche a hors that ferroure schalle scho,
An halpeny on day he takes hym to.

Nothing could be more natural than that the shoeing-forge should become associated with the doctoring of horseflesh, but it is somewhat strange that when we now speak of a farrier we recognise in this old term[286] simply and only the horse-leech. So full of changes are the lives of words, as well as places and people.

A curious insight into mediæval travel is presented to our notice in our ‘Ostlers’ and ‘Oastlers’ and ‘Oslers,’ relics of such old registries as ‘Ralph le Hostiler’ or ‘William le Ostiller.’ This term, once applied, as it rightly should, to the ‘host’ or ‘hosteller’ himself, has now become confined to the stableman, thus incidentally reminding us how important this part of the hostel duties would be at such a time as I am endeavouring to describe. The idea of the hosteller being one whose especial office it was to tend that which was their sole means of locomotion, thus in time resolved itself into a distinct name for that branch of his occupation.[287] The old ‘Herberjour’ gave lodging, whence it is we get our ‘arbour.’ Our kings and barons in their journeys always kept an officer so termed, whose duty it was to go before and prepare and make ready for their coming. Owing to the large number of household attendants for whom lodging was required, this was an important and responsible duty. Thus has arisen our ‘harbinger,’ so often poetically applied to the sun as heralding the approach of day. The older spelling is preserved in the ‘Canterbury Tales,’ where it is said—

The fame anon throughout the town is born,
How Alla King shal come on pilgrimage,
By herbergeours that wenten him beforn.

It is, however, as applied to lodging-house keepers our many enrolled ‘Herbert le Herberjurs,’ ‘Roger le Herberers,’ ‘William le Herbers,’ or ‘Richard le Harebers,’ are met with, and I doubt not our ‘Harbers’ and ‘Harbours’ are their offspring. In this sense the word is used by our mediæval writers in all its forms, whether verb, or adjective, or substantive. Tyndale’s version of Romans xii. 13 is, ‘Be ready to harbour,’ where we now have it ‘given to hospitality.’ Bishop Coverdale, speaking of the grave, says—‘_There_ is the harborough of all flesh; there lie the rich and the poor in one bed’ (_Fruitful Lessons_). He adds also, in another place, that Abraham was ‘liberal, merciful, and harborous’—_i.e._, ready to entertain strangers (_The Old Faith_). Bradford, too, to give but one more quotation, prays God may ‘sweep the houses of our hearts, and make them clean, that they may be a worthy harborough and lodging for the Lord’ (_Bradford’s Works_). Market Harborough still preserves this old word and its true sense from being forgotten. With the bearers, therefore, of the above names we may ally our ‘Inmans’ and ‘Taverners.’ The latter term is frequently found in early writings, and was evidently in ordinary use for the occupation—

Ryght as of a tavernere
The grene busche that hangeth out
Is a sygne, it is no dowte,
Outward folkys for to telle
That within is wyne to selle.

While, however, the tavern has undergone but little change, the inn has. With our present Bible an inn is ever a lodging, and this was once the sole idea the term conveyed. It was not for casual callers by day, but for lodgers by night. Thus Chaucer in his ‘Knight’s Tale’ uses the verb—

This Theseus, this duk, this worthy knight,
When he had brought them into his cite,
And ynned them, everich (each) at his degre
He festeth them.

Until the fair or wake came on, as I have said, the community in the more retired nooks and corners of the country depended entirely on the mounted merchant. He it was who conveyed to them the gossip of the time. He it was, or one of his _confrères_, that brought them everything which in those days went under the category of small luxuries. The more lonely parts of the highway were infested by robbers. Hence the pack-horsemen and other mounted traders generally travelled in company, with jingling bell and belted sword—a warning to evil-minded roadsters. This was all the more necessary as they but seldom kept to the main thoroughfare. A straight line between the adjacent hamlets best describes their course. Such local terms as ‘Pedlar’s Way,’ or ‘Pedder’s Way,’ or ‘Copmansford,’ still found in various parts of the country, are but interesting memorials of the direct and then lonely route these itinerant traders took in passing from one village to another. The number of these roadsters we cannot otherwise speak of than as that of a small army. Many of them, so far as our nomenclature is concerned, are now obsolete, but not a few still survive. Amongst those of a more general character we find ‘Sellman’ or ‘Selman.’[288] From the old verb ‘to pad,’ which is still used colloquially in many districts, for the sober and staid pace the pack-horsemen preserved, we get our ‘Padmans’ and ‘Pedlers,’ or ‘Pedlars,’ once inscribed as ‘William le Pedeleure’ or ‘Thomas le Pedeler.’ It is of kin to ‘path.’ We still talk of a ‘footpad,’ who not more than two centuries ago would also have been spoken of as a ‘padder.’ So late as 1726 Gay, in one of his ballads, says—

Will-a-wisp leads the traveller a-gadding
Through ditch and through quagmire and bog,
No light can e’er set me a-padding
But the eyes of my sweet Molly Mogg.

Perchance of similar origin, but more probably from the old ‘ped,’ the basket they carried, are our ‘Pedders,’ ‘Peddars,’ and ‘Pedmans.’ ‘Martin le Peddere’ or ‘Hugh le Pedder’ or ‘William Pedman’ was a common entry at this time. On many parts of the English coast a fish-basket is still familiarly known as a ‘ped,’ and Mr. Halliwell, I see, quotes from another writer a statement to the effect that in Norwich, up to a recent day, or even now, an assemblage whither women bring their small wares of eggs, chickens, and other farm produce for sale, is called a ‘ped-market.’ It is likely, therefore, that with these we must ally ‘Godewyn le Hodere’ or ‘John le Hottere,’ who derived their sobriquets, I doubt not, from the fact of their carrying their _hods_ or panyers on their backs, just as masons do now those wooden trays for mortar which bear the same name.[289] Their very titles remind us that our ‘Huckers,’ ‘Hawkers,’ and ‘Hucksters,’ relics of the old ‘William le Huckere,’ ‘Simon le Hauckere,’ or ‘Peter le Huckster,’ were from the first good at haggling and chaffering wherever a bargain was concerned. Our ‘Kidders,’ the ‘William le Kyderes’ of the fourteenth century, were of a similar type, whatever their origin, which is doubtful. Probably, however, we must refer them to the ‘kid’ or ‘kit,’ the rush-plaited basket they carried their goods in. We still speak of ‘the whole kit of them,’ meaning thereby the collective mass of any set of articles.[290] This view is strengthened—we might almost say proved—by the fact of a ‘Robert Butrekyde’ being found in the Hundred Rolls of this period. This would be a sobriquet given to some one from the basket he was wont to bear to and from the country market where he carried on his calling. Later on we find it used for a large mug or bowl. In the ‘Farming Book of Henry Best,’ written in 1641, we find it said—‘Some will cutte their cake and putte (it) into the creame, and this feast is called the creame-potte or creame-kitte’ (p. 93). The kidder’s usual _confrère_ was the ‘Badger’—up to the seventeenth century an ordinary term for one who had a special licence to purchase corn from farmers at the provincial markets and fairs, and then dispose of it again elsewhere without the penalties of engrossing. It is generally said the sobriquet arose from the habits of the four-legged animal of that name in stealing and storing up the grain. The more probable solution, however, is that it is but a corruption of ‘baggager,’ from his method of carriage.

But we must not forget in our list of early English strolling merchants that the wandering friars themselves were oftentimes to be met with bearing treasure wherewith to tempt the housewife, and no bad bargainers, if we may accept the statement made against them by an old political song:—

There is no pedler that pak can bere,
That half so dere can selle his gere,
Than a frere can do;
For if he give a wyfe a knyfe
That cost but penys two,
Worthe ten knyves, so may I thrive,
He wyl have ere he go.[291]

Our ‘Tinklers’ and ‘Tinkers,’ like our more northern ‘Cairds,’ seem to have been scarcely removed in degree from the strolling gipsies. They acquired their name from the plan they adopted of heralding their coming by striking a kettle, a plan of attracting attention more euphoniously practised by our bellmen, with whom we are still familiar. Such names as ‘Alice Tynkeller’ in the fourteenth century, or ‘Peter le Teneker’ found in the thirteenth century, show how early had this method been adopted and the sobriquet given.[292] Last, but not least, come our ‘Chapman’ or ‘Copeman’[293] and ‘Packman.’[294] The former is sometimes met with as ‘Walter’ or ‘John le Chepman,’ which at once reminds us of his origin, that of the ‘cheap-man,’ or ‘cheap-jack,’ as we should now style him. The old ‘cheaping,’ or ‘chipping,’ a market-place, still lingers locally in such place-names as ‘Chipping-Norton,’ or ‘Chipping-Camden,’ or the local surname ‘Chippendale;’ and the verb ‘to chop’—_i.e._, to purchase, I believe, is not yet extinct amongst us. The once common phrase for selling and exchanging was ‘chopping and changing.’ Coverdale uses it. Speaking of Christ driving out the money-changers from the Temple, he says, ‘The Temple was ordained for general prayer, thanksgiving, and preaching, and not for chopping and changing, or other such like things’ (_The Old Faith_). Thus the term ‘chapman’ would be no unmeaning one to our forefathers. But we must give him a paragraph to himself.

The chapman, you must know, was a great man. According to more modern usage, he had a fixed residence, but we may still see him at times, after the olden fashion, travelling about in a large booth-like conveyance or rumble. This vehicular mode of transit set him far above the rank of ordinary footpads. He was a sort of pedlar in high life, in fact, and if his position was lofty, his abilities were generally equal to a performance of its duties. O the sensation his arrival caused! The village green was instantly instinct with life. From impossible nooks and crannies surged forth a small army of all ages. Hoarded pennies or twopennies were drawn forth from cherished hiding-places, and flinty maternal pockets were for the nonce assailed with comparative success. To the young folks it was the next best thing to Punchinello, the chapman was so funny. Besides, he had so many things wherewith to tempt their juvenile fancy. What was there he had not? Everything that could under any lax code of fancy possibly or impossibly come under the all-expansive term of hardware was crowded within the magic recesses of that chapman’s van. Dolls and dishes, scissors and hats, cornplasters and cosmetics, lollipops in the shape of soldiers, and lollipops in the shape of windmills issued forth in a succession as insinuating to the purse as it was tempting to the imagination. And what a man was Jack himself; he had a joke for everyone, a frown for none. His face was an ever-changing picture, bluffed by the wind and burnt by the sun; still it was ever cheery withal, now demure, half waggish, half impudent, anon all benevolence as he details the merits of his latest painless corn-suppressing plaster, and assures the gaping swains that his sole object in life, since the happy moment when he first became acquainted with its virtues, has been to carry through the world the blissful tidings to suffering man. All this, he adds, with reckless impudence, has been done at a great personal pecuniary sacrifice; but an approving conscience, and the blessings showered upon his head by the recipients of his generosity, have been his ample reward. Of course they sell like wildfire, and the profits are enormous.[295]

Our ‘Packmans,’ ‘Paxmans,’ and perhaps ‘Packers,’ were, as a rule, the village commissioners.[296] What a simple and homely state of life do their names suggest. No half-hourly omnibus, or still more frequent train, whisked off the bustling housewife to the big town—now some sleepy old place with grass-grown streets, and half a century behind the times, where ‘news much older than the ale goes round’—but then the thrifty emporium of cheese and butter and such like stores, and great in the eyes of country bumpkins. No; if you visited the town in those days you must make a day of it. And the mistress knew better than do this. Leave her dairy, forsooth—what would become of the cream if she left Malkin to forget her work, and talk with Giles the cowboy behind the stable door all morning? She leave, indeed! Of course she could not, so there was the pack-horseman, who for a trifling commission went to and from the market for her and her neighbours. As he returned in the cool of the evening, when the sun was low and work over, you might see him pausing awhile at the door of the farmsteads, long after he has given the mistress her store, and, more slily, Malkin her ribbon. He is in no hurry now, for he is telling the country folk all the news; how the great world is wagging, and how there has been a great battle with the Frenchers some six or eight weeks ago (news, good or bad, did not travel fast in those days). The Frenchmen are looked upon by the simple rustics as the very impersonification of iniquity, they being under a sort of impression that a Frenchman is a being who defies God and man alike, and would think no bones of eating you up. At once the packman is plied for a full, true, and particular account of the battle, and he, there being none to gainsay his description, and with an eye probably to the good wife’s best ale, which, as he well knows from experience, will be brought forth with a freedom of hospitality proportionate to the horror of the details, fills up a bloody tale with sundry touches of a most tragic character, while the country folk gape in wide-mouthed terror, and the old grandmother cries ‘Lord, ha’ mercy on us!’ His face is lost to sight once more in the ale jug, and then he passes on to other steads, where a similar scene and a similar reward await his thirsty soul. Another name in evident use for the packman was that of ‘Sumpter,’ ‘Martin le Someter’ or ‘William le Sumeter’ being common entries at this time. We are still familiar with the term as applied to the mule or horse that carried the baggage, but in a personal sense it has long been extinct,[297] saving in our directories, where as ‘Sumpter’ and ‘Sumter’ it is by no means seldom met with. How large a load these animals were required to bear we may picture to ourselves from a verse found in ‘Percy’s Reliques’—

But, for you have not furniture
Beseeming such a guest,
I bring his owne, and come myselfe,
To see his lodging drest.

With that two sumpters were discharged,
In which were hangings brave,
Silke coverings, curteins, carpets, plate,
And all such turn should have.

But useful as were all these various itinerants, it was at the great yearly wakes or fairs, held in commemoration of the church dedication, that the housekeepers round laid in their greatest store. The term ‘wake’ denotes ‘a watching,’ because of the vigil observed during the night preceding the festival itself. Indeed ‘wake’ and ‘watch’ were for centuries synonymous words.[298] Wicklyffe translates Mark xii. 37—‘Forsooth, that that I say to you, I say to all, Wake ye.’[299] Thus it is that our ‘Wakemans’ are but memorials of the old village guardian or night watchman, while our ‘Wakes’ can boast a title dating so far back as the time when ‘Hereward the Wake,’ or Watchful, was fighting the last battle of the down-trodden and oppressed Saxon.[300] These fairs were by no means for mere pleasure-seekers, as we might imagine from such a term as ‘church-ale,’ or judging by the aspect of such festivals in the present day. They had an end to answer, and an important end, and in early times they fulfilled it. It was here the farmers round brought their produce, ready to sell their wool for good sound money, or to exchange it for commodities of which they stood in need. It was here the foreign trader came to purchase sheep-fells and other skins, soon, by transmission abroad, to be worked up by Flemish hands into good broadcloth, and retransmitted again to London or provincial marts. Edward the Confessor obtained a sum of 70_l._, an immense amount at such a time as this, from the tollage at a fair held in Bedfordshire. Of many celebrated fairs, those of Smithfield on St. Bartholomew’s Day (which still exists as a kind of perpetual one), York, Winchester, and Ely seem to have been the most frequented. That in the Isle of Ely was kept up on and for some days after the feast of St. Awdrey, or Audrey, the corrupted name of St. Etheldreda, which as a surname our ‘Awdreys’ still preserve. This seems to have become specially noted for its sale of trinkets, toys, and cheap and gay laces—so much so that in course of time ‘tawdry,’ or St.-Awdry, ware became the colloquial and general term for such. Drayton we even find using the word substantively when he says:—

Of which the Naiads and blue Nereids make
Them tawdries for their neck.[301]

Of the still greater one held at Winchester, we find Piers the Plowman speaking:—

To Wye and to Winchester
I went to the fair,
With many manner merchandise,
As my master me hight:
But it had been unsold
These seven years,
So God me help,
Had there not gone
The grace of guile
Among my chaffer.

The ‘Wife of Bath,’ too, has a word to say upon this subject. Says she:—

I governed them so wel after my lawe,
That eche of them ful blissful was and fawe
To bringen me gay thinges fro the feyre.

What a picture does all this present to our eye. We can see the circular stand of booths belting the rails of the quaint belfried edifice, sometimes, I am afraid, the sacred precincts within.[302] Behind these we may note how busy are our ‘le Stallers’ and ‘le Stallmans,’ now found also as ‘Stalman;’ not to say our ‘Stallards,’ that is, stall-wards, and obsolete ‘le Vendours.’ No infliction too severe can be made upon their readiness to please. Elbowing and chaffering and good-humoured haggling are the order of the day. Here the stupid, happy swain, with his be-ribboned sweetheart tucked under his arm, is buying their little stock wherewith to start life; here the child is made blissful with a trumpet, and the hoary-headed rustic gets a warmer cap for his crown. Here, too, it is that the chapman and other of his _confrères_, as I have already hinted, are buying in their varied commodities. All alike are well catered for. When we talk of ‘packing up our duds,’ few of us, I imagine, are aware that we are using a word of most familiar import in long generations gone by. A ‘dud’ then was a coarse, patched linen gown, gaudy in colour, made up in fact of variegated pieces of this material. Hence he who sold such cheap, flashy goods at a fair, any old fripperer in truth, was styled a ‘dudder’ up to comparatively recent times, and the booth itself a ‘duddery.’ ‘Duderman’ and ‘Dudder’ (now obsolete), ‘Dudman’ and ‘Dodman,’ are all, I doubt not, but interesting memorials of this once flourishing lower class trade. Such names as ‘Thomas Dudman’ or ‘Ralph Deuderman’ greet us occasionally in the olden rolls. ‘William Fairman,’[303] found in the Parliamentary Writs, would be, I suppose, a more general vendor. He has not a few descendants.

But while bartering and the purchase and sale of these varied household commodities occupied no small amount of attention, such a sober mode of passing the fairtide was very far from being the intention of the younger and gayer portion of the assemblage; nor was there, indeed, any lack of that which could feed or give zest to their relish for amusement, though it was not always of the most innocent nature. Our ‘Champions’ and ‘Campions’ are but relics of the old ‘William le Champion,’[304] or ‘Katerine le Chaumpion,’ a sobriquet which would easily affix itself to some sturdy and swarthy rustic who had thrown his adversary in the wrestling ground. This has ever been a popular sport amid our more rural communities. The Miller, Chaucer says:—

Was a stout carl for the nones,
Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones,
That proved wel, for over all ther he came,
At wrestling he would bear away the ram.

In an old poem I have already quoted, the mother warns her daughter:—

Go not to the wrestling, nor shooting the cock,
As it were a strumpet or a giglot.[305]

Doubtless such a sobriquet as ‘Richard le Fytur,’ that is ‘Fighter,’ would be but representative of the same. The country folks were not slow, too, to copy their masters, and in the friendly joust the former, ‘Thomas le Justere’ or ‘Robert le Justure,’ would brace himself amid the excited ring to unseat his fellow-swain, affording much sport to the on-looking wags.

By the maypole you may see the conjuror, or ‘Wiseman,’ as he was generally termed, battening himself upon the superstitious minds of the assembled hinds. In the Hundred Rolls he figures as ‘Wysman’ and ‘Wyseman.’ A little further on our ‘Players’ would be enacting their mummery. The great crowd there in the corner are watching the showman with his dancing bear, a yearly treat the younger holiday-seekers always appreciated. What a change has come over our English habits with regard to this animal. Dancing was the least cruel of the sports connected with it. Time was when every noble of position had his bears and his bearward, when even royalty could boast a master of the king’s bears, and when as a pastime the bear-baiting took an easy pre-eminence in the eyes of all holiday folk. A skit on the Earl of Warwick, banished to the Isle of Man, written 1399, says:—

A bereward found a rag:
Of this rag he made a bag:
He dude in gode entent.
Thorwe the bag the bereward is taken;
All his beres have hym forsaken.
Thus is the berewarde schent.[306]

In one of our earlier rolls I find several names that bear relation to this familiar sport. Of such are ‘Geoffrey Bearbaste’ and ‘Alexander Bearbait.’ More common to us in the present day, however, are the descendants of the more simple ‘Berward’ (‘Michael le Berward,’ H.R.) and ‘Bearman,’ or ‘Berman’ (‘Ralph Bareman,’ H.R.). In ‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote’ mention is made of—

Jenkyne Berwarde of Barwyche.

Whether ‘Jenkyne’ was a mythic personage, or whether any of our present ‘Berwards’ are his lineal issue, I cannot pretend to say.[307] Any way, however, the name would be common enough then. Bull as well as bear baiting, I need not say, was a popular pastime with our forefathers. We still talk of bulldogs. Probably our ‘Bullards’ could formerly have told us something about this. Fit rival to these latter, you may see the ‘Cockman,’ or, as he was more generally termed, the ‘Cocker,’ matching his birds in the adjacent pit. The author of the ‘Townley Mysteries’ does not give the cocker a good character—at least he places him in very bad company—

These dysars, and these hullars,
These cokkers, and these bullars,
And alle purse cuttars,
Be welle ware of these men.

Among other instances the Hundred Rolls furnish us with ‘Simon le Cockere’ and ‘William le Koker.’

Professional dancers, I need scarcely say, were seldom absent from the mediæval festival. Tripping it lightly to some Moorish round, we may see such folk as ‘Harvey le Danser’ or ‘Geoffrey le Hoppere,’ inciting the younger villagers to follow their example. The latter name, which occurs frequently at this time, reminds us that our modern slang term ‘hop’ has but restored the ancient use of this word. Our Prayer-Book version of the Psalms still employs the verb in the verse, ‘Why hop ye so, ye high hills?’[308]—and Chaucer, in picturing the merry ’prentice, says—

At every bridale would he sing and hoppe;
He loved bet the taverne than the shoppe.

The feminine ‘hoppestere,’ which he also uses, does not sound quite so euphonious. In the ‘Pardoner’s Tale,’ among other of the dissolute folk in Flanders, are mentioned ‘tombesteres’—

And right anon in comen tombesteres
Fetis and smale, and yonge fruitesteres.

These, I doubt not, were female dancers, and performers of such bodily gyrations and flexions as mountebanks are still skilled in. The masculine form is found in such an entry as ‘William le Tumbere,’ whom we should now, so far as his professional tricks were concerned, term a tumbler.

All this time the mirth of music is at its loudest, though it is somewhat hard to separate the tones of the various rival minstrels. There is a trio in one corner by the tavern door there, discoursing sounds which are certainly equal, if not superior, to the Teutonic bands of more modern days. Indeed, with regard to the latter, I am beginning to suspect the conjecture of a friend of mine to be perfectly true—that they are German convicts shipped off, with cracked and second-hand trumpets, by the Commissioners of Police to save their keep. It is, however, right perhaps that the country which sends us the best should also have the option of sending us the worst music in the world. The trio we may see here, at any rate, have one advantage—that of their poetic mediæval costume. The first we may notice is the ‘Fiddler,’ represented by such men as ‘Robert Fyffudlere,’ or ‘John le Fythelere,’ or the Latinized ‘Rulard Vidulator.’ This last reminds us that it is now also written ‘Vidler.’ He of course played on the violin, for I must not say ‘fiddle,’ it is far too Saxon, for modern cultivated days. The Clerk of Oxenforde seems to have been superior to the generality of later university men, for he had—

Liefer have at his beddes head
A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red,
Of Aristotle and his philosophie,
Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie.

Certainly time effects wonderful changes. But I doubt whether even he would have found much profit, not to say pleasure, in the study of Aristotle, or any other philosopher, had he been subjected to the daily practice of a well-scraped viol in an adjacent dormitory,[309] the author of which could boast but one tune in his repertoire, and was determined that every one should know it. After the Fiddler—Saxon or no Saxon, I’ll stick to it for the nonce—comes the ‘Piper’ with his reedy stop, and next to him the ‘Taborer’ beating his drum with such rare effect as to make him the very idol of the youngsters. Spenser calls him the ‘tabrere,’ which form, as well as ‘Tabrar,’ Tabberer,’ ‘Tabor,’ and ‘Taber,’ still exists in our nomenclature.

I saw a shole of shepherds out go,
Before them yode a lusty tabrere,
That to the merry hornpipe plaid,
Whereto they danced.

Such entries as ‘Arnold le Pyper,’ or ‘Robert le Pipere,’ or ‘William le Tabourer,’ or ‘John le Taburer,’ are of frequent occurrence in mediæval rolls.

The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling crowd,

is the order of the gentle author of the ‘Faerie Queen;’ so having disposed of the two former, the ‘Crowder’ with his six-stringed viol duly engages our attention next, though he ought more correctly to have been yoked with the ‘Fiddler.’ ‘Crouth’ was but another form of the same word. An old Saxon Psalter thus renders Psalm cl. 4—

Loves him in crouth and timpane,
Loves him in stringes and organe.

Wicklyffe, too, translates Luke xv. 25 as follows:—‘But his eldre sone was in the feeld, and whaune he cam and neighede to the hous he herde a symfonye and a crowde.’[310] Like our ‘Harpers’ and more northern ‘Bairds,’ the ‘Crowder’ or ‘Crowther’ (for as surnames both forms exist) was oftentimes blind, and thus gained the ear of an audience, if not appreciative, at least sympathetic. Seldom, indeed, did he leave cottage, or hall festival, or fair, without a guerdon, and a kind word to boot; for while customs fade out and die, pity, thank God, knows neither change of season nor chance of time. Mediæval forms of the above may be found in ‘Richard le Cruder’ or ‘Thomas le Crowder.’ But we have yet several more surnames to mention which prove the once great popularity of this latter class of instrument. ‘German le Lutrere’ and ‘John le Leuter’ have left no descendants, I think.[311] The more common term was lutanist, but of this I have found no instance. While the lute had generally ten strings, and was struck by the hand, the viele or viol had six, was of stronger make, and was played with a bow. It seems to have been a favourite instrument in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, for such registrations as ‘Benedict le Viler,’ ‘Nicholas le Vylour,’ ‘Wyot le Vilur,’ or ‘Jacob le Vielur,’ occur with tolerable frequency at that period. Another Norman-introduced word was that of ‘gigue,’ or ‘gig.’ This, however, seems to have differed from the others in being of the very roughest manufacture, and made specially for professional dancers. These ‘giguers’ were extremely popular at rural festivals of any kind. At one and the same instant they would be tripping it round on the ‘light fantastic toe,’ singing some not too select verses, accompanying themselves on their sturdy instrument, and yet would have a hand to spare for a trifle if you should offer it. If you doubted it you had but to try them. It is thus we have got our ‘jig,’ our ‘gigot,’ or leg of mutton, too, being so called from its resemblance thereto. The surnominal form is found in such entries as ‘Walter le Gigur,’ or ‘Alexander le Gygur,’ but I doubt whether either is represented now. The last of this class of instrumentalists we may mention is ‘William le Sautreour,’ he who struck the ‘gay sawtrye,’ as Chaucer terms it. The more correct form of the word was ‘psaltery.’ It was specially used as an accompaniment for the voice, hence it is freely used in this sense in the Authorized Version. I do not doubt myself that some of our ‘Salters’ are but a change rung on the mediæval ‘Sawtrer.’ The ‘Fluter,’ I believe, has left no descendants, but in ‘Nicholas le Floutere’ he was to be met with at this date, and, I need not say, would be as familiar as he would be acceptable on such an occasion as this. The lusty young Squire was so musical that—

Singing he was, or floyting alle the day,
He was as freshe as is the month of May.

There is one name I must mention here, that of ‘Peter le Organer,’[312] perhaps connected with ‘Orger’ of the same date. The owner of this more modern-looking term may either have been organist at some monastery or abbey-church, or he may have played upon the portable regal, in which latter case he too might possibly have been seen here. But ‘organ’ was a very general term. In the old psalters it seems to have been used for nearly every species of instrument. We should scarcely speak now of ‘hanging up our “organs” upon the willows,’ but so an old version of the Psalms has it. Did we not know they were a modern invention we might have been inclined to suspect ‘le Organer’ to have been but a strolling performer upon the ‘hurdy-gurdy.’ That, however, was an infliction mercifully spared to our forefathers. In concluding this brief survey of mediæval music, I cannot, I think, do better than quote, as I have done partially once before, Robert de Brunne’s account of the coronation of King Arthur, wherein we shall find many, if not most, of the professional characters I have been mentioning familiarly spoken of. He says—

Jogelours weren there enow
That their quaintise forthe drew:
Minstrels many with divers glew (glee)
Sounds of bemes (trumps) that men blew,
Harpes, pipes, and tabours,
Fithols (fiddles), citolles (cymbals), sautreours,
Belles, chimès and synfan
Other enow and some I cannot name.
Songsters that merry sung,
Sound of glee over all rung;
Disours enow telled fables:
And some played with dice at tables.

But we are not without traces of the troubadour. The simple vocalist, a strolling professionalist, too, in many instances, remains hale and hearty in our ‘Glemans,’ ‘Gleemans,’ and ‘Glemmans,’ not to mention our ‘Sangsters.’ Amid such lulls as might intervene, we should hear them at the popular festivals bidding for favour with their old-fashioned stories of ‘hawk and hound,’ and ‘my ladyes bower,’ set, no doubt, to airs equally _à la mode_. A contemporary poet tells us their song

Hath been sung at festivals
On ember eves, and holy-ales.

The recitation of these stories seems to have been a peculiarly popular profession. Our ‘Rhymers’ oftentimes showed their skill in the art of rhythmical narration by weaving the exploits they described into extempore verse.[313] The ‘Juggler’ or ‘Joculator,’ originally a minstrel or ‘jester,’ something akin to the clown of later days, became by-and-by more celebrated for his skill in legerdemain than loquacity, and now little else is understood by the word. Almost every baron, and even the king himself, had his favourite jester; but it was an art put to the most corrupt purposes, and ‘Jagge the Jogelour’ is set in very low company by Piers Plowman. Certainly his jokes were of the lewdest description, even for the rough times in which he lived. His voice, too, was sufficiently elevated, if we may trust the account given in the ‘Romance of Alexander,’ for—

No scholde mon have herd the thondur,
For the noise of the taboures,
And the trumpours, and the jangelours.

The ‘Dissour,’ the old Norman ‘diseur,’ similar in character to the rhymer and the juggler, seems to have left no memorial, saving it be in our ‘Dissers;’[314] neither can I trace ‘le Tregetour’ later than the fifteenth century. Every footprint of his professional existence, indeed, is now faded from our view. And yet there was the day when none could be more familiar than he. The Hundred Rolls record not merely ‘Symon le Tregetor,’ but ‘William le Tregetur’ also, while ‘Maister John Rykele’ is spoken of by Lydgate as ‘sometime Tregitour of noble Henrie, King of Engleland.’ Chaucer, too, mentions sciences

By which men maken divers apparences,
Such as these subtil tregetoures play.
For oft at feasts have I wel heard say
That tragetoures, within an halle large
Have made come in a water and a barge
And in the halle rowen up and down:

while in another place he speaks of seeing

Coll Tragetour
Upon a table of sicamour
Play an uncouth thing to tell;
I saw him carry a wind-mill
Under a walnut-shell;

with other equally marvellous feats. Thus we see that the art of legerdemain was not neglected at this time.

I doubt whether any relics we possess so completely convey to our minds the radical changes which have swept across the face of our English Commonwealth as do these lingering surnames. They remind us of the invention of printing, of the spread of literature, and of the slow decay thereby of the professions they represented. They tell us of a changed society, they tell us of a day of rougher cast and looser trammels; they tell us of a life around which the lapse of intervening years has thrown a halo of so quaint aspect that we all but long, in our more sentimental moods, to be thrown back upon it again. Placing these tell-tale names by the life of the present, we see what a change has passed over all. Let us hope this change denotes progress. In some respects it assuredly does: progress in the settlement of our common rights and duties, progress in civilization and order, progress in mental culture, progress in decorum. Still we may yet ask, with all this has there been any true progress? The juggler, ’tis true, with his licentious story, and the dissolute tragetour, both are gone—they would be handcuffed now, and put in gaol. This speaks something for a higher cultivation. But, after all, may not this be a mere outside refinement—a refinement to meet the requirements of an age in which the head is educated more than the heart—a refinement which may be had in our shops—the refinement, in fact, of the lowest of God’s endowed creatures, that of the exquisite? This is, indeed, an artificial age, and it warns us to see to it whether we are hypocrites or no; whether our life is entirely external or the reverse; whether it is all shell and no kernel, all the outside cup and platter, and within naught save extortion and excess. That mortal shall have attained the highest wisdom who, in the light of the world to come, shall have seen to the cleansing of that which is within, and if that, if the heart be cleansed, then the external life will as naturally, as it will of necessity, be pure.

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