Chapter V: Surnames of Occupation. (town) (1)

We have already said enough to show that our early English pursuits were mainly pastoral. Even to this day, as we are whisked across the midland counties or driven across the Yorkshire wolds, we see what advantages we must have enjoyed in this respect. Our one chief staple was wool, and to export this in a raw unmanufactured state was the early practice. So general was this occupation that even subsidies to the crown were given in wool. In 1340, 30,000 sacks of wool were granted to Edward III. while engaged in the French War. This would be a most valuable contribution, for at this time it was held in the highest repute by foreign buyers. ‘The ribs of all nations throughout the world,’ wrote Matthew Paris, ‘are kept warm by the fleeces of English wool’ (Smiles). So early as 1056 we find the Count of Cleves obtaining a certain jurisdiction over the burghers of Nimeguen upon condition of presenting to the Emperor every year ‘three pieces of scarlet cloth of English wool’ (Macullum). With the incoming of the Flemish refugees and other settlers already mentioned this state of things was changed. The Conqueror himself had settled one band near Carlisle, but his son Henry soon after coming into possession removed them into Herefordshire, and the Southern Marches of the Principality. Doubtless the object of both was that of setting up a barrier against hostile encroachments on the part of the Scotch and Welsh; but the result was the spread of a peaceful and useful industry in two widely separated districts. Two other settlements, in Norfolk and Suffolk, one by Henry I., the other under the direction of Edward III., made East Anglia for centuries the Yorkshire of England. When we talk so familiarly of ‘worsted,’ or ‘lindsey-wolsey,’ or ‘kerseymere,’ or ‘bocking,’ we are but insensibly upholding a reputation which centuries ago the several villages that went by these names had obtained through Flemish aid. Thus was it then that at length our country was enabled to produce a cloth which could afford a comparison with that of the Flemish cities themselves. Of this incoming many surnames of this date remind us, the most important of which I have already mentioned in my chapter upon local names, ‘Fleming,’ as a general name for all these settlers, being the commonest.

When, however, we turn to the occupations themselves connected with the industry, we cannot but be struck by the wonderful impress it has made upon our nomenclature. The child’s ancient rhyme—

Black sheep, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, sir; yes, sir;
Three bags full—

carries us to the first stage, and to the first dealer. In our ‘Woolers’ and ‘Woolmans,’ in our obsolete ‘Woolmongers’ and ‘Woolbuyers,’[315] in our ‘Packers’[316] and once flourishing ‘Woolpackers,’ and in our ‘Lanyers’ and ‘Laners,’ relics of the old and more Norman ‘Bartholomew le Laner’ or ‘John le Lanier,’ we can see once more the train of laden mules bearing their fleecy treasure to the larger towns or distant coast. No wonder that Piers Plowman and others should make familiar mention of the ‘pack-needle,’ when we reflect upon the enormous number of sacks that would be in constant use for this purpose; and no wonder ‘Adam le Sakkere’ (_i.e._ ‘Sacker’), and ‘Henry le Canevaser’ are to be met with as busied in their provision.[317] Another proof of the engrossing importance of this one English article of commerce is left us in our ‘Staplers.’ The ‘stapleware’ of a town was, and is still, that which is the chief commodity dealt in by that particular market. A ‘stapler,’ however, has for centuries been a generally accepted title for a woolmerchant, and has therefore absorbed the more general meaning the word ought to have conveyed.

The first stage towards manufacture would be the process of carding the raw and tangled material, and numberless are the ‘Carders,’ ‘Combers,’ and ‘Kempsters,’[318] or ‘Kemsters,’ who remind us of this. In these latter sobriquets we have but varied forms of the same root ‘cemb,’ to comb. We still talk poetically of ‘unkempt locks,’ and we are told of Emelie in the ‘Knight’s Tale’ that—

Her bright hair kembed was, untressed all.

The Norman corresponding name is found in ‘Robert le Peinnur’ or ‘William le Puigneur,’ but unless in our ‘Pinners’ (a supposition not unnatural) it has left no descendants. But even these are not all. It is with them we must associate our ‘Towzers’ and ‘Tozers,’ from the old ‘touse’ allied to ‘tease’—they who cleared the fibre from all entanglements. Spenser talks of curs ‘tousing’ the poor bear at the baiting, and I need not remind the reader that in our somewhat limited canine nomenclature, ‘Towzer,’ as a name for a dog of more pugnacious propensities, occupies a by no means mean place. As applicable to the trade in question, Gower uses the word when he says, in his ‘Confessio Amantis’:—

What schepe that is full of wulle
Upon his backe they tose and pulle.[319]

It is here, therefore, we must place our one or two solitary relics of the rough machinery then in use. In ‘Cardmaker’ we have the manufacturer of the ‘comb’ or ‘card’ thus usefully employed; in ‘Spindler’ the maker of the pin round which the thread was wound; while our ‘Slaymakers,’[320] ‘Slaymans,’ and obsolete ‘Slaywrights’[321] preserve the once so familiar ‘slay’—that moveable part of the loom which the webbe with his fingers plied nimbly and deftly along the threads. A petition to Parliament in 1467 from the worsted manufacturers complains that in the county of Norfolk there are ‘divers persones that make untrue ware of all manner of worstedes, not being of the assises in length nor brede, nor of good, true stuffe and makyng, and the _slayes_ and yern thereto belonging untruly made and wrought, etc.’ (Rot. Parl. Ed. IV.) I believe the word is not yet obsolete as a term of the craft.

I have mentioned ‘Webbe.’

My wife was a webbe
And woolen cloth made,

says Piers in his ‘Vision.’ This appears, judging at least from our directories, to have been the more general term, and after it its longer forms, the masculine ‘Webber’ and the originally feminine ‘Webster.’ A poem written in the beginning of the sixteenth century refers to

Curriers, cordwayners, and cobelers,
Gyrdelers, forborers, and webbers.

Such entries as ‘Elyas le Webbe,’ or ‘Clarice le Webbere,’ or ‘John le Webestre,’ are of common occurrence in our mediæval and still earlier records. But the processes are anything but at an end. The cloth must be dyed and fulled. Of the first our ‘Listers,’ once enrolled as ‘Hugh le Litster’ or ‘Henry le Littester,’[322] speak, and ‘Dyer’ or ‘Dister,’ still harder of recognition in such a guise as ‘Geoffrey le Deghere’ or ‘Robert le Dighestere,’ forms found at the period we are writing about. It was John Littester, a dyer, who in 1381 headed the rebellion in Norwich. Here the surname was evidently taken from the occupation followed. Halliwell gives the obsolete verb ‘to lit’ or dye, and quotes an old manuscript in which the following sentence occurs: ‘We use na clathis that are littede of dyverse coloures.’ Such names as ‘Gilbert le Teinturer,’ or ‘Richard le Teynterer,’ or ‘Philip le Tentier,’ which I have come across in three separate records, represent the old French title for the same occupation, but I believe they have failed to come down to us—at least I have not met with any after instance. The old English forms of ‘tincture’ and ‘tint’ are generally found to be ‘teinture’ and ‘teint.’ The teinturer is not without relics. We still speak when harassed of ‘being on the _stretch_,’ or when in a state of suspense of ‘being upon _tenter_-hooks,’ both of which proverbial expressions must have arisen in the common converse of cloth-workers. The tenter itself was the stretcher upon which the cloth was laid while in the dyer’s hands. On account of various deceits that had become notorious in the craft, such, for instance, as the over-stretching of the material, a law was passed in the first year of Richard III. that ‘tentering’ or ‘teyntering’ should only be done in an open place, and for this purpose public tenters were to be set up. (‘Stat. Realm,’ Rich. III.) We find many references to this important instrument in old testaments. Thus an inventory of goods, dated 1562, belonging to a man resident in the parish of Kendall, speaks of ‘Tenture posts and woodde, 6_d._—ii tentures 20_s._’ (‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p. 156.) The dyes themselves used in the process of colouring are not without existing memorials. In the York Pageant, already referred to, we find, walking in procession with the woolpackers, the ‘Wadmen,’ that is, the sellers of woad, unless indeed, they were the dyers themselves. The more common spelling was ‘wode,’ and when not local, ‘Thomas le Wodere’ or ‘Alan le Wodeman,’ with their modern ‘Wooder’ and ‘Woodman,’ will be found, I doubt not, to be the representative of this calling. ‘John Maderman,’ and ‘Lawrence Maderer’ remind us of the more reddish and popular hues. Great quantities of this were yearly imported from Holland, especially Middleburgh. The old ‘Libel on English Policy’ speaks of—

The marchaundy of Braban and Selande,

as being

The madre and woode (woad) that dyers take on hande.

The thickening mill, however, has left us several words of much more familiar import than these—viz., ‘Tucker,’ ‘Fuller,’ (or ‘Fulman’[323]) and ‘Walker.’[324] Among other older forms we find ‘Roger le Tukere,’ ‘Percival le Toukare,’ ‘Walter le Fullere,’ ‘Ralph le Walkere,’ and ‘Peter le Walkar.’ Of the first Piers in his ‘Vision’ makes mention, where he speaks of

Wollene websteris,
And weveris of lynen,
Taillours, tanneris,
And Tokkeris bothe.

‘Cocke Lorelle’ also refers to—

Multiplyers and clothe thyckers,
Called fullers everychone.

‘Walker,’ claiming as it does an almost unrivalled position in the rolls of our nomenclature, reminds us of the early fashion of treading out the cloth before the adaptations of machinery were brought to bear on this phase of the craft. In Wicklyffe’s version of the story of Christ’s transfiguration he speaks of his clothes shining so as no ‘fullere or walkere of cloth’ may make white upon earth.[325] Reference is made to the same practice by Langland also when, using this whole process of cloth-making as an illustration, he says:—

Cloth that cometh fro the wevyng
Is nought comely to wear
Til it be fulled _under foot_,
Or in fullying stokkes,
Washen wel with water,
And with taseles cracched
Y-touked, and y-teynted,
And under taillours hande.

We are here not merely furnished with the entire process itself, but the terms themselves employed harmonize well with the names I have mentioned. ‘Walker’ and ‘Tucker’ or ‘Towkare’ or ‘Toker,’ as it was variously spelt, together with ‘Tuckerman,’ have, however, disappeared as terms of this trade; and it is in our directories alone we can find them declaring these forgotten mysteries of a more uncouth manufacture.

The ‘taseles’ mentioned in the poem quoted above were the common ‘teasel’ or ‘tassel,’ a rough prickly plant allied to the thistle, which when dried was used for scratching the cloth, and thus raising a nap thereupon. Thus in Willsford’s ‘Nature’s Secrets’ it is said, ‘Tezils, or Fuller’s Thistle, being gathered or hanged up in the house, where the air may come freely to it, upon the alteration of cold and windy weather will grow smoother, and against rain will close up his prickles.’ (Brand’s ‘Pop. Ant.,’ vol. iii. p. 133.) In an inventory of the property of Edward Kyrkelands, of Kendall, dated 1578, we find the following articles mentioned:—iiii syckles, a pair wyes and iii stafs, tazills, 5_s._ 8_d._—more in tazills, 2_s._—iiii tentors, 40_s._ (‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p. 274.) The occupation itself is referred to in an old statute of Edward IV.—‘Item, that every fuller, from the said feast of St. Peter, in his craft and occupation of fuller, rower, or _tayseler_ of cloth, shall exercise and use _taysels_ and no cards, deceitfully impairing the same cloth’—‘en sa arte et occupacion de fuller et scalpier ou tezeiler de drap, exercise et use teizels, &c.’ (4 Ed. IV. c. 1.) It is probable that our ‘Taylors’ have engrossed this name. We find it lingering in Westmoreland, about Kendal, till the middle of the sixteenth century, in a form which required but little further change to make it the same. In the will of Walter Strykland, dated 1568, there is mentioned among other legatees a certain ‘Edward Taylzer,’ a manifest corruption of ‘Teazeler.’ (‘Richmondshire Wills,’ p. 224.) A century earlier than this, however, such names as ‘Gilbert le Tasseler’ or ‘Matilda le Tasselere’ were entered in our more formal registers.

Our ‘Baters’ and ‘Beaters,’ relics of the old ‘Avery le Batour’ or ‘John Betere,’ were all but invariably cloth-beaters, although, like the fuller ‘wollebeter,’[326] they may have been busied at an earlier stage of the manufacture. Capgrave, in his ‘Chronicles,’ under date 30 A.D., says, ‘Jacobus, the son of Joseph first bishop of Jerusalem, was throwe there fro the pinacle of the temple and after smet with a fuller’s bat.’[327] With the mention of our ‘Shearers’ (‘Richard le Sherere,’ M.) and endless ‘Shearmans,’ ‘Sharmans,’ or ‘Shermans’ (‘Robert le Sherman,’ ‘John le Shereman,’ M.), who represent the shearing of the manufactured fabric, rather than that of the sheep itself, we have the process complete. The cloth is at length ready to be transmitted into the care of our ‘Drapers’ and ‘Clothiers,’ and from them again through the skilled and nimble fingers of our numberless ‘Tailors.’ From all this we may readily see what an important influence has England’s one great staple of earlier days had upon the nomenclature of our countrymen.

Such a name as ‘Ralph le Flexman,’ with its many descendants, reminds us of the manufacture of linen, which, if not so popular as that of wool, was nevertheless anything but unfamiliar to the early craftsman. Our ‘Spinners’ carry us to the primary task of thread-making, an employment, however, all but entirely in the hands of the women. The distaff and the weaker sex have been ever associated, whether in sacred or profane narrative. Thus it is that ‘spinster’ has become stereotyped even as a legal term. Chaucer, four hundred years ago, somewhat uncourteously said:—

Deceite, weping, spinning, God hath given
To women kindly, while that they may liven.

Our modern ‘linen’ is formed from ‘lin’ or ‘line’—flax—as ‘woolen’ is from ‘wool.’ Hence we still speak of the seed of that plant as ‘linseed.’ That this was the common form of the word we might prove by many quotations.

He drank never cidre nor wyn
Nor never wered cloth of lyn,

says an old poem. Even Spenser speaks of ‘garment of line,’ and in ‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote’ allusion is made to ‘lyne-webbers’ and ‘lyne-drapers.’[328] We need not be surprised, therefore, to meet with such names as ‘Elias Lyndraper,’ or ‘Henry le Lindraper,’ or ‘John le Lyner.’ Only this last, however, has survived the changes of intervening centuries, and still holds a precarious existence as ‘Liner.’ ‘Weaver’ was more common. A more Norman equivalent is found in such a sobriquet as ‘John le Teler,’ or ‘Henry le Telere,’ or ‘Ida la Teleress,’ a name which is not necessarily of modern French refugee origin, as Mr. Lower would lead us to suppose. Indeed, a special part of the ladies’ head-dress had early obtained the name of a ‘teler,’ from the fine texture of the linen of which it was composed.[329] It is but too probable that this name has become lost, like ‘Taylzer,’ in the more common ‘Taylor.’ This process of absorption we shall find to be not unfrequent. Nor are we without a memorial of the bleaching of linen. ‘Whiter,’ if not ‘Whitster,’ still lives in our directories. It seems strange that our ‘Blackers’ should denote but the same occupation; but so it is—they, like our old ‘Walter le Blakesters’ or ‘Richard le Bleckesters,’ being but the harder and more antique form of our present ‘bleacher.’[330] Our term ‘bleak,’ preserving as it does the earlier pronunciation, is but the same word, being formerly used to denote pallor, or wanness, or absence of colour. From this, by a natural change, it came to signify anything cheerless or desolate. With perfect honesty in this case, at any rate, we may ‘swear that black is white.’

With regard to silk, we had but little to do. The manufacture of this important cloth was barely carried on in Western Europe during the period of the establishment of surnames. It was nigh the close of the fifteenth century before it appeared in France. All our silks were imported from the East by Venetian and Genoese merchants. Of the latter an old poem says, they come—

Into this londe wyth dyverse merchaundysses,
In grete karrekis arrayde wythouten lack,
Wyth clothes of golde, silke, and pepir black.

Still we find a company of silkwomen settled in London at an early period. In the records of this city occur such names as ‘Johanna Taylour, Silkwyfe,’ in 1348, and ‘Agatha Fowere, Silkewoman,’ in 1417.[331] In 1455 a complaint was raised by ‘the women of the mystery and trade of silk and threadworkers in London, that divers Lombards and other foreigners enriched themselves by ruining the said mystery.’ I think, however, we shall find that all these were engaged less in the manufacture of fabrics than of threads for the embroiderers to use. Thus, as connected with the throwing or winding of these silken tissues, we come across such names as ‘Thrower’ and ‘Throwster,’ the former having been further corrupted into ‘Trower.’[332]

Next to wool, perhaps leather formed the most important item of early manufacture. We can hardly now conceive the infinite use to which it was put at this period. In military dress it had an especial place, and in the ordinary costume it was far from being confined to the extremities, as we have it now. Jerkins, chausses, girdles, pouches, gipsire—all came under the leather-dresser’s hands. In 1378 we find a jury, called together to decide upon a case of alleged bad tanning, to have been composed of ‘saddlers, pouchmakes, girdlers, botel-makers, tanners, curriers, and cordwainers.’ Of the more general manufacture of hides we have numerous relics; indeed, we are at once introduced into the midst of a throng of tradesmen, the very list of which proves the then important character of the article on which they spent their energies. Such names as ‘Jordan le Tannur,’ or ‘Loretta le Tannur,’ ‘Richard le Skynnere,’ or ‘Hamo le Skynnere,’ are still numerous both in the tanyard and the directory, and need little explanation. Our ‘Curriers’ are also self-evident; but I have not met with any instance as yet in mediæval times. Our more rare ‘Fellmongers’ were once occupied more directly with the larger hides, or _fells_, as they were called, of the farmyard stock. Less connected with them, therefore, than with the others, we may mention such men as ‘William le Barcur,’ or ‘Nicholas le Barkere,’ or ‘Robert Barcarius,’ the ancestors of our modern ‘Barkers,’[333] who, by the very frequency with which they are met, show how important was the preparation of bark in the tanners’ yard. In the conversation between Edward the Fourth and the Tanner of Tamworth, as given by Percy, it is said—

‘What craftsman art thou?’ said the king;
‘I pray thee telle me trowe,’
‘I am a Barker, Sir, by my trade;
Now tell me, what art thou?’

Such names as ‘John le Tawyere’ or ‘Geoffrey le Whitetawier’ (now found as ‘Whittear,’ ‘Whittier,’ and ‘Whityer’), not to mention such an entry as that of ‘Richard le Megucer,’ throw us back upon the time when the terms these men severally bore as surnames would be of the most familiar import. Their owners spent their energies in preparing the lighter goat and kid skins, which they whitened, and made ready for the glovers’ use.[334] The verb ‘to taw,’ however, was also used of dressing flax, and we may have to place ‘Tawyer’ in some instances in this category.

And whilst that they did nimbly spin
The hemp he needs must taw,

we are told in ‘Robin Goodfellow.’ Our ‘Towers,’ while apparently local, may be in some instances but a corruption of this same term. So early as the 14th century we find a certain ‘Eustace le Wittowere’ occurring in the Hundred Rolls, and that the simpler form should similarly be corrupted would be natural enough.[335] Thus we see that leather, too, is not without its memorials. The more furry skins, as used in a somewhat more specific form as articles of dress, or to attach thereto, we will allude to by-and-by. As we traverse in some semblance of order the more definite wants and requirements of early social life, the importance of these several crafts will be more clearly brought out. We must not forget that there were the same needs then as now, though of a different mould. Man in all time has had to be fed, and clothed, and housed; and if in all these respects he has in these modern days become more civilized and polished, it has been the result of a gradual process by which he has slowly, and not without many a struggle, thrown off, one by one, this custom and that, which belonged to a ruder era and a rougher cast of society. Our surnames of occupation are a wonderful guide in this respect. A tolerable picture of early life may be easily set before us by their aid; for in them are preserved its more definite lineaments, and all we need is to fill up the shading for ourselves. Forgotten wants, needs now no longer felt, requirements of which a progressive civilization slowly slipped the tether, necessities of dress, of habit, of routine, all, while the reality has long faded from view, have left their abiding memorial in the nomenclature of those who directly supplied them. Let us, however, observe, as in our other chapters, some kind of order—clothing, food, and general needs, this seems the proper course of procedure. And yet one more observation ere we do so. We have already spoken of the early system of signs as advertising the character of the articles to be sold. The early shop was far more prominent as a rule than the modern one. The counter, instead of being within the walls of the house, projected forward upon the pathway, so much so that we can only compare them to those tables we may often see at night, where under the lee of the walls costermongers offer shellfish, or tripe, or coffee to the passers-by. This was objectionable enough; but it was not all. Each dealer loudly proclaimed to the wayfarer the merits of his goods, vying with his neighbour in his endeavours to attract attention to himself or distract it from the other, especially if, as was often the case, a number of traders trafficked in the same class of merchandise. Others, and their name was legion, had no shop at all, not even the street table or counter, but passing up and down with wooden platters or deep baskets, made the very air discordant with their loudly reiterated cries of ‘Hot sheep’s feet,’ or ‘Mackerel,’ or ‘Fresh-herring,’[336] or ‘Hot peascods,’ or ‘Coloppes.’ It is in reference to this we find Langland saying—

Cokes and their knaves,
Cryden, ‘Hote pies, hote!
Goode gees and grys!
Gowe, dyne, gowe!’

Lydgate has a still fuller and more detailed description of this in his ‘London Lackpenny,’ and as it is tolerably humorous I will quote it somewhat largely, using Mr. Bowen’s modernization of it—

Within this hall neither rich nor yet poor
Would do for me aught, although I should die:
Which seeing, I got me out of the door,
When Flemings began on me for to cry:
‘Master, what will you copen or buy?
Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read?
Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.’

Then into London I did me hie—
Of all the land it beareth the prize.
‘Hot peascods!’ one began to cry;
‘Strawberries ripe, and cherries in the rise!’
One bade me come near and buy some spice:
Pepper and saffron they gan me bede,
But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then to the Chepe I gan me drawen,
Where much people I saw for to stand.
One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn:
Another he taketh me by the hand:
‘Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!’
I never was used to such things indeed,
And, wanting money, I might not speed.

Then went I forth by London Stone,
And throughout all Candlewick Street:
Drapers much cloth me offered anon;
Then comes me one crying, ‘Hot sheep’s feet!’
One cried ‘Mackerel!’ ‘Ryster green!’ another gan me greet.
One bade me buy a hood to cover my head:
But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then into Cornhill anon I rode,
Where there was much stolen gear among.
I saw where hong mine owne hood
That I had lost among the throng—
To buy my own hood, I thought it wrong—
I knew it as I did my Creed,
But, for lack of money, I could not speed.

If we pass on from shop to shop in a more quiet and undisturbed fashion than poor ‘London Lackpenny,’ we must not forget that we are, at least so far, enjoying that which our forefathers could not.

With regard to the head-dress, and to begin with this, we have many memorials. ‘Tire,’ once a familiar word enough, is still preserved from decay by our Authorized Version of the Scriptures. Thus, for example, it is said in Ezekiel, ‘make no mourning for the dead, bind the tire of thine head upon thee.’[337] I do not know how comprehensive are the duties belonging to our present ‘tirewoman’ or lady’s-maid, but in the day when the tragic story of Jezebel was first translated, the sense of the word was entirely confined to the arrangement of her mistress’s ‘tiara,’ which is but another form of the same term. In the ‘Paradise Lost’ it is found as ‘tiar’—

Of beaming sunny rays, a golden tiar circled his head.

When we remember their former size, their horned and peaked character, and the variety of the material used, arguing as they do the then importance of the fact, we need not be surprised at meeting with comparative frequency such a surname as ‘Tyrer,’ ‘Tyerman,’ or ‘Tireman.’ It is somewhat hard to say whether our ‘Coffers’ are relics of the old ‘Coffrer’ or ‘Coifer,’ but as the latter business was all but entirely in the hands of females, perhaps it will be safer to refer them to the other. Such names, however, as ‘Emma la Coyfere’ or ‘Dionysia la Coyfere,’ found in the thirteenth century, may serve to remind us of the peculiar style of the head-gear which the ladies affected in these earlier times. The more special occupation of preparing feathers or plumes has left its mark in our ‘Plumer’ and ‘Plummer,’ memorials of the old ‘Mariot le Plumer’ or ‘Peter le Plomer.’ The old ‘caul’ or ‘call’ still lives in our ‘Calmans’ and ‘Callers.’ ‘Elias le Callere’ occurs in the Parliamentary Writs, and ‘Robert le Callerere’ in the ‘Munimenta Gildhallæ.’ Judging from the ‘Wife of Bath’s Tale,’ we should imagine this also to have been a female head-dress. There the old witch appeals to the Queen and her court of lady attendants as to them who wear ‘kercheif or calle’—

Let see, which is the proudest of them alle,
That weareth on a kercheif or a calle.

Another form of the surname is found in ‘Alicia la Kellere,’ now simple ‘Keller,’ the article itself being also met with in a similar dress. In the ‘Townley Mysteries’ a fallen angel is represented as saying that a girl—

If she be never so foul a dowde
With her kelles and her pynnes,
The shrew herself can shroud
Both her chekys, and her chynnes.

In its several more general uses it has always maintained its strict meaning of a covering.[338] Hoshea, we may recollect, speaks figuratively of God’s ‘rending the caul of Israel’s heart.’ Probably the word is connected with the ‘cowl’ of other monkish days, and thus may be associated with our ‘Coulmans’ and ‘Cowlers.’ ‘Richard le Couhelere,’ an entry of the fifteenth century, may belong to the same group.[339] A once familiar sobriquet for a hood was that of ‘chapelle,’[340] whence our edifice of that name and the diminutive ‘chaplet.’ The Parliamentary Writs give us an ‘Edmund le Chapeler;’ the Hundred Rolls furnish us, among other instances, with a ‘Robert le Chapeler.’ ‘Theobald le Hatter,’ ‘Robert le Hattare,’ ‘Thomas le Capiere,’ ‘Symon le Cappere,’ or ‘John Capman’ need no explanation. The articles they sold, whether of beaver, or felt, or mere woollen cloth, were largely imported from Flanders. Thus it is that Lydgate, as I have but recently shown, picturing the streets of London, mentions spots in his progress therethrough where—

Flemings began on me for to cry,
‘Master, what will you copen or buy?
Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read?’

That many of these wares, however, were of home manufacture is equally undoubted, and of this we are reminded by our ‘Blockers,’ representatives of the old ‘Deodatus le Blokkere.’ The ‘block’ was the wooden mould upon which the hat was shaped and crowned. In ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ Beatrice is made to say: ‘He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.’ The ‘blocker,’ I doubt not, was but a hat-maker; we still call a stupid man a _blockhead_. Our ‘Hurrers’ (‘Alan le Hurer,’ H.R., ‘Geoffrey le Hurwere,’ H.R.), once so important as to form a special company with articles and overseers, as representative of an old general term, are not so familiar as we might have expected them. Bonnets, caps, hoods, hats, all came under their hands. Strictly speaking, however, a ‘hure’ or ‘howre,’ as Chaucer spells it, was a shaggy cap of fur, or coarse jagged cloth. In an old political song of Edward the First’s time it is said—

Furst there sit an old cherle in a blake hure,
Of all that there sitteth seemeth best sure.

That the word itself should have dropped from our vocabulary is to me a mystery.[341] Even in our nomenclature the rarity of our ‘Hurers’ and ‘Hurrers’ is to me inexplicable, bearing as it does no possible proportion to the former importance of the occupation. But this, as I have said before, is one of the peculiarities of personal nomenclature, depending entirely as it does on the uncertainties of descent. The head, we see, was not neglected.

The sale of woollen cloth by our ‘clothiers’ and ‘drapers’ we have already mentioned. The tailor then, as now, made it up into the garments which the age required. Few names went through so many metamorphoses as this. ‘Mainwaring,’ it is said, can be found in over a hundred and thirty different spellings. The exact number with regard to ‘Taylor’ I cannot state, as I have not dared hitherto to encounter the task of collecting them. The forms recorded in one register alone give us such varieties as ‘le Tayllur,’ ‘le Tayllour,’ ‘le Tayller,’ ‘le Taylir,’ ‘le Taylour,’ ‘le Taylur,’ ‘le Taillur,’ and ‘le Talur.’ We have also the feminine ‘la Taylurese’ in the same roll.[342] A name obsolete now in a colloquial sense, but common enough in our directories, is ‘Parminter,’ ‘Parmenter,’ or ‘Parmitar,’ a relic of the old Norman-French ‘Parmentier,’ a term a few hundred years ago familiarly used also for the snip. Among other mediæval forms are ‘Geoffrey le Parmunter,’ ‘Saher le Parmentier,’ ‘William le Parmeter,’ and ‘Richard le Parmuter.’ The Hundred Rolls give us the same sobriquet in a Latin dress as ‘William Parmuntarius.’[343] As associated with the tailor, we may here set down our ‘Sempsters,’ that is, ‘Seamster,’ the once feminine of ‘Seamer,’ one who seamed or sewed. Mr. Lower hints that our ‘Seymours’ may in some instances be a corruption of this latter form, but I must confess I discover no traces of it.

The sobriquet of ‘William le Burreller’ introduces us to a cloth of a cheap mixture, brown in colour, of well-nigh everlasting wear, and worn by all the poorer classes of society at this period. So universal was it that they came to be known by the general term of ‘borel-folk,’ a phrase familiar enough to deeper students of antiquarian lore. The Franklin premises his story by saying—

But, sires, because I am a borel man,
At my beginning first I you beseech
Have me excused of my rude speech.

Our ‘Burrells’ are still sufficiently common to preserve a remembrance of this now decayed branch of trade. They may derive their name either from the term ‘borel’ or ‘burel’ pure and simple, or from ‘Burreller,’ and thus represent the trade from which the other, as a sobriquet, owed its rise. The manufacturer is referred to by ‘Cocke Lorelle,’ in the line—

Borlers, tapestry-work-makers, dyers.

Special articles of costume now wholly disused, or confined or altered in sense, crop out abundantly in this class of surnames. At this period a common outdoor covering for the neck was the wimple, or folded vail, worn by women. To this day, I need not say, it is part of the conventual dress. The author I have just quoted beautifully describes Shame as—

Humble of her port, and made it simple
Wearing a vaile, instede of wimple,
As nuns done in their abbey.

Of this princess, too, whose careful dress he so particularly describes, he says—

Full seemly her wimple pinched was.

The maker of such was, of course, our ‘Wympler.’[344] Among other ornaments belonging to the princess, also, is mentioned ‘a pair of beads,’ that is, bracelets of small coral, worn upon the arm, and in this case ‘gauded with green.’ A ‘Simon Wyld, Bedemaker,’ is found in the London records of this time, and no doubt ‘Thomas le Perler’ could have told us something about the same. Beside these, therefore, we may set our still existing ‘Paternosters,’ relics of the old ‘Paternostrer,’ who strung the chaplet of beads for pattering aves. ‘Paternoster Row,’ literally the ‘Paternostrer’s Row’ was some centuries ago the abode of a group of these, doubtless then busy artisans. Mr. Riley, in his interesting ‘Memorials of London,’ records a ‘William le Paternostrer’ as dwelling thereby.[345] It is among such valuables we must undoubtedly set pins at this period. Judging by those which have descended to us, we should best describe them as ‘skewers.’ So anxious was Absolom the clerk to please Alison that, according to Chaucer, he sent her—

Pinnes, methe (mead), and spiced ale.

Whatever her appetite for the latter, there can be little doubt that the first would be acceptable enough in a day when these were so valued and costly as to be oftentimes made objects of bequeathment. Such entries as ‘Andrew le Pynner’ or ‘Walter le Pinner’ are, of course, common at this time, and their descendants still flourish in our midst. Our more rare ‘Needlers’ are but relics of such folk as ‘Richard le Nedlere’ or ‘John le Nedlemakyere.’[346] Piers, in his Vision, speaks of—

Tymme the tynkere
And tweyne of his ’prentices:
Hikke the hakeney-man,
And Hugh the nedlere.

‘Cocke Lorelle’ also mentions—

Pavyers, belle-makers, and brasyers,
Pynners, nedelers, and glasyers.

The Norman form ‘le Agguiler,’ or ‘Auguiler,’ still lives in our ‘Aguilers’ if not ‘Aguilars.’ A ‘Thomas le Agguiler’ represented York in the Parliament of 1305. Chaucer uses ‘aguiler’ in the sense of a needlecase—

A silver needle forth I drew,
Out of an aguiler quaint ’ynow.

But if pins and needles were valued more highly then than they are now, none the less did ‘buttons’ fulfil their own peculiar and important use. ‘Henry le Botoners’ or ‘Richard le Botyners’[347] may be found in most of our records. I do not see, however, that their descendants have preserved the sobriquet, unless, after the fashion of several other words in our vocabulary, they are flourishing secretly among our ‘Butlers,’ and thus helping to swell the already strong phalanx that surname has mustered. While, however, all these representatives of so many though kindred occupations seem to have flourished in their separate capacities, I do not doubt but that ‘Richard le Haberdasher’ would have been able to supply most of the wares they dealt in. His was a common and lucrative employment in a day when, to judge by the contents of a shop of this kind as set down in the London Rolls, he could offer for purchase such a wide assortment as spurs and shirts, chains and nightcaps, spectacles and woollen threads, beads and pen-cases, combs and ink-horns, parchments and whipcords, gaming-tables and coffins (Riley’s ‘London Memorials,’ p. 422). There seems to be little doubt, however, that in the first place he dealt simply in the ‘hapertas,’ a kind of coarse, thick cloth much in vogue at this time, and that it was from this he acquired the name he bore.[348]

The now, I fear, obsolete ‘Camiser’ made the ‘camis’ or chemise, or linen underdress—he was the shirtmaker, in fact. The former spelling lingered on to Spenser’s time, who writes of a

Camis light of purple silk.

It is with him we must properly associate our ‘Smockers,’ ‘Smookers,’ and anachronistic ‘Smokers,’ who, though their chief memorial remains in the rustic smockfrock still familiar in our country districts, were nevertheless chiefly busied with the ‘smok,’ such as the patient Griselda wore. Of one of his characters Chaucer says—

Through her smocke wroughte with silke
The flesh was seene as white as milke.

Such phrases as ‘smock-treason,’ ‘smock-loyalty,’ and ‘smock-race,’ and the flower ‘Lady-smock,’[349] still remind us that the word was once generally understood of female attire. Of the flower Shakespeare makes beautiful mention when he says—

And ladysmocks all silver white,
Do paint the meadows with delight.

The word slop is now well-nigh confined to the nether garments of our youngsters, but though, in this pluralized sense, it can date back to the time when the bard of Avon said of one of his personages that he was—

From the waist downwards all slops,

still, singularly used, it was in vogue far earlier. A ‘slop’ in Chaucer’s day, and even up to the fifteenth century, was a kind of frock or overmantle.[350] In the ‘Chanon Yemannes’s Tale,’ the host expresses his surprise that the Chanon, a ‘lord of so high degree,’ should make so light of his worship and dignity as to wear garments well-nigh worn out. He says—

His overest sloppe is not worth a mite.

Our ‘Slopers’ still remind us of this. Our ‘Pilchers,’ relics of ‘Hugh le Pilecher’ or ‘Nicholas le Pilchere,’ are equally interesting. In his proverbs on covetousness and negligence, the writer I have just instanced thus speaks—

After great heat cometh cold,
No man cast his pylche away.

A ‘pilch’ was a large outer tippet made of fur, and worn in winter. The modern ladies’ ‘pelisse’ is but another form of the same root. Speaking of furs, however, we must not forget our ‘Furriers,’ and once common ‘Pelters’ and ‘Pellipers.’ They were engaged in the preparation of the more furry coats of the wilder animals. In the Hundred and other Rolls mention is frequently made of such names as ‘Geoffrey le Pelter’ or ‘Reyner le Peleter.’ A ‘pell’ or ‘pelt’ was any undressed skin. The ‘clerk of the Pells’ used to be the guardian of the rolls of the Exchequer, which were written upon a coarse parchment of this kind. As a general term of dress it was once of the most familiar import. Wicklyffe, in his complaint to the king, speaks of the poor being compelled to provide gluttonous priests with ‘fair hors, and jolly and gay saddles and bridles, ringing by the way, and himself in costly cloth and pelure.’ An old song written against the mendicant friars, too, says—

Some friars beren pelure aboute,
For grete ladys and wenches stoute,
To reverce with their clothes withoute,
All after that they are.

Among the many ordinances passed to curtail the subject’s liberty in regard to his attire, much is written on the fashion of wearing furs. It seems to have been the great mark between the higher and lower classes. In 1337 it was enacted by Edward III. that no one of those whom we now term the operative class should wear any fur on his or her dress, the fur to be forfeited if discovered. The names I have mentioned above still remain in fair numbers as a memorial of this period.

Such a name from the ‘Rolls of Parliament’ as that of ‘John Orfroiser,’ although now obsolete, reminds us of an art for which English craftsmen obtained a well-nigh European reputation in mediæval times, that of embroidery. ‘Aurifrigium’ was the Latin word applied to it, and this more clearly betrays the golden tissues of which its workmanship mainly consisted. In the ‘Romance of the Rose,’ it is said of the fair maid ‘Idlenesse’—

And of fine orfrais had she eke
A chapelet, so seemly on,
Ne wered never maide upon.[351]

The term ‘Broiderer,’[352] however, was the more common, and with him all textures and all colours and all threads came alike. The Hebrew word in our Bible, variously rendered as ‘broidered work,’ ‘needlework,’ and ‘raiment of needlework,’ was translated in a day when this would be of the most familiar import. Our ‘Pointers’ and ‘Poynters’ manufactured the tagged lace which fastened the hose and doublet together. In Shakespeare’s ‘1 Henry IV.’ there is a playful allusion to this where Falstaff, in the act of saying—

Their points being broken,

is interrupted by the response—

Down fell their hose.

It has been asserted that the presence of this name in our modern directories is entirely the result of later French refugee immigration; but such registered forms as ‘John le Poyntour,’ ‘Robert le Poynter,’ or ‘William Poyntmakere’ are found in the records of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries with sufficient frequency to justify the belief that it was a much earlier denizen than many suppose.[353] In the former ‘Henry le Lacer’ or ‘Richard le Lacer’ we have, too, but a fellow-manufacturer. Lace, it is true, is now rather a delicate fabric of interwoven threads; once, however, it was but the braided string for fastening the different articles of dress together. Thus, the ‘shoes-_latchet_’ mentioned in Scripture is a mere diminutive of the word as thus used. The hose and doublet were invariably so attached. The verb ‘to lace,’ I need not add, is still entirely employed in this its literal sense. There were other means, however, of holding the several garments together, and not a few of which are still brought to our remembrance in our nomenclature. ‘Adam le Gurdlere’ or ‘Robert le Girdlere’ speaks for himself. It was for the girdle our former ‘Agnes Pouchemakers,’ ‘Henry Pouchers,’ ‘Robert le Purseres,’ and ‘Alard le Bursers’ (when not official) made the leathern pouch carried thus at her side for greater readiness by the careful housewife. Chaucer, whose sharply-cut descriptions of the dress of his company are invaluable to those who would study more closely the habits of the time, tells us of the Carpenter’s wife that—

By her girdle hung a purse of leather,
Tasseled with silk and pearled with laton.

The Norman equivalent of Girdler was ‘le Ceynturer’ (‘Nicholas le Ceynturer,’ A.) or ‘le Ceinter,’ but I have failed to find any traces of it beyond the fourteenth century.[354] Our decayed ‘Brailers’[355] and ‘Bregirdlers’ represent but the same occupation in more definite terms. The old English ‘brayle’ (from the Norman ‘braie’ or ‘braye,’ meaning ‘breeches’) was a waistband merely, a kind of strap, oftentimes attached to and part of the trousers themselves. The nautical phrase of ‘brailing up sails’ is, I fear, the only relic we possess conversationally of this once useful term. A ‘brailer’ (‘Roger le Braeler,’ A., ‘Stephen le Brayeler,’ X.) or ‘bregirdler’ (‘John le Bregerdelere,’ X.) was, of course, a manufacturer of these. Maundeville, in his ‘Travels,’ speaks of a ‘breek-girdille’ (p. 50). The now almost universal suspender was a later introduction, the names of ‘Bracegirdler’ and ‘Bracegirdle,’ which are not yet extinct, denoting, seemingly, the process of change by which the one gradually made way for the other. A ‘brace,’ from the Latin ‘brachium,’ the arm, encircles the shoulder as a ‘bracelet’ does the wrist. It is quite possible, however, they may be but a form of ‘breek-girdle.’ ‘Ivo le Glover’ or ‘Christiana la Glovere’ have left descendants in plenty, but they had to fight a hard battle with such naturalized foreigners as ‘Geoffery le Ganter’ or ‘Philip le Gaunter.’ At one time these latter had firmly established themselves as the nominees of the manufacture, and the only wonder to me is how we managed to prevent ‘gants’ from superseding ‘gloves’ in our common parlance. The connexion of the ‘gauntlet’ with military dress, however, has preserved that form of the term from decay. Both ‘Ganter’ and ‘Gaunter,’ I need scarcely say, are firmly set in our midst.

And now we must descend once more till we come to the lower extremities, and in a day of so much tramping it on foot we need not feel surprised if we find many memorials of this branch of the personal outfit. The once common expression for a shoemaker or cobbler was that of _souter_.[356] It is of constant occurrence in our olden writers. Thus the Malvern Dreamer speaks of—

Plowmen and pastours,
And othere commune laborers,
Sowters and shepherdes.

Elsewhere, too, he uses the feminine form when he makes mention of—

Cesse the souteresse.

The masculine term, I need not remind Scotchmen, is still in colloquial use across the Border, and that it was once so in England our many ‘Souters,’ ‘Sowters,’ and ‘Suters,’ and ‘Suitors,’ misleading as these latter are, are sufficient evidence. Such entries as ‘Andrew le Soutere,’ ‘Robert le Souter,’ or ‘Richard le Sutor’ are common to old registers. In the ‘Promptorium Parvulorum’ ‘sowtare’ is defined as a ‘cordewaner’ or ‘cordynare,’ and this at once brings us to our ‘Cordwaners,’ ‘Cordiners,’ and ‘Codners.’ They were so termed because the goatskin leather they used came, or was supposed to have come, from Cordova in Spain. In the ‘Rime of Sire Thopas,’ that personage is thus described:—

His hair, his beard was like safroun,
That to his girdle raught adown,
His shoon of cordewane;
Of Brugges were his hosen brown,
His robe was of ciclatoun,
That cost many a jane.

In the ‘Libel on English Policy,’ too, we find it said of Portugal—

Their londe hath oyle, wyne, osey, wex, and grain,
Fygues, reysyns, honey and cordwayne.

In the Hundred Rolls it is represented by such a name as ‘Hugh le Cordwaner’ or ‘Ranulph le Cordewaner.’[357] ‘William le Corviser,’ from the same records, or ‘Durand le Corveser,’ held a name which struggled for some time for a place, but had finally to collapse.[358] ‘Cobbler’ (‘Richard le Cobeler,’ A.), though it has existed as a name of occupation fully as long as any of the above, has, I believe, never been able so far to overcome the dislike to the fact of its being a mere mending or patchwork trade as to obtain for itself an hereditary place in our nomenclature. ‘Cosier’ has fared better, as have ‘Clouter’ and ‘Cloutman,’ relics of the old ‘John’ or ‘Stephen le Clutere,’ why I do not know. We all remember how the inhabitants of Gibeon ‘did work wilily, and went and made as if they had been ambassadors, and took old sacks upon their asses, and wine bottles, old and rent, and bound up, and old shoes and clouted upon their feet, and old garments upon them.’ Another name we may notice here is that of ‘Patten-maker,’ a ‘James Patyn-makere’ being found enrolled in a Norwich guild of 1385. Cocke Lorelle mentions among others:—

Alys Easy a gay tale-teller,
Also Peter Patynmaker.[359]

A patten seems in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries to have been very similar to our clog, only that the former was more easily put on and off. It was of a wooden sole, rimmed with iron. We find in 1464 the Patynmakers of London presenting a grievance in that the fletchers alone were allowed to use aspen-wood, whereas it was the ‘lightest tymbre to make of patyns or clogges.’ (Rot. Parl. iv. 567.) Mr. Way, in his Notes to the ‘Promptorium Parvulorum,’ says they were worn much by ecclesiastics to protect the feet from chill when treading the cold bare pavements of the churches, and he quotes a Harleian MS. dated 1390 regarding an archiepiscopal visitation at York: ‘Item, omnes ministri ecclesie pro majore parte utuntur in ecclesiâ et in processione _patens_ et _clogges_ contra honestatem ecclesie, et antiquam consuetudenem capituli.’ The patten-maker was evidently of some importance at this time.[360]

Perhaps fashion never went to such an absurd extreme as it did in the fourteenth century with respect to wearing peaked shoes. An old poem entitled the ‘Complaint of the Ploughman,’ says of the friars, and alluding to their inconsistencies, that they wear—

Cutted clothes to shewe their hewe,
With long pikes on their shoon:
Our Goddes Gospell is not trewe
Either they serve the devill or none.

Piers Plowman, too, speaks of a knight coming to be dubbed—

To geten him gilte spurs
Or galoches y-couped.

This last reminds us that they were commonly styled ‘copped shoon.’ Such a sobriquet as ‘Hugh le Coppede’ or ‘John le Copede’ would seem to refer to this. Probably the owner had carried on the practice to an even more extravagant length than his neighbours, and very likely he was one of those who caused a law to be passed in 1463 forbidding any knight, or any one beneath that rank, to wear any shoes or boots having pikes passing the length of two inches! Even this curtailment, I imagine, would astonish the weak minds of pedestrians in the nineteenth century. Of a similar craft with the shoemaker came ‘the hosier’ or ‘chaucer,’ the latter of which has become, surnominally, so famous in English literature. Though now obsolete, such a name as ‘Robert le Chaucer’ or ‘William le Chaucier’ was anything but uncommon at this time. Like ‘Suter,’ above-mentioned, it has a Latin source, its root being ‘calcearius.’ Chausses, however, were not so much boots as a kind of leathern breeches worn over mail armour. There is probably, therefore, but little distinction to be made between them and the ‘hose’ of former days, though it is somewhat odd that leather, which once undoubtedly was the chief object of the hosier’s attention, should now in his shop be conspicuous by its absence. While ‘Chaucer’ has long ago become extinct, ‘Hosier’ or ‘Hozier’ is firmly established in our nomenclature. Thus we see that clothing is not without its mementoes.

A curious surname is presented for our notice in our ‘Dubbers,’ not to be confounded with our ‘Daubers’ already mentioned. To ‘dub’ was to dress, or trim, or decorate. Thus, with regard to military equipment, Minot says in one of his political songs—

Knightes were there well two score
That were new dubbed to that dance.

It is thus we have acquired our phrase ‘to dub a knight.’ The term, however, became very general in the sense of embellishing, rather than mere dressing, and it is to this use of the word we owe the surname. Thus, in the ‘Liber Albus’ we find a ‘Peter le Dubbour’ recorded, whose trade was to furbish up old clothes; he was a fripperer in fact. In the York Pageant, already referred to more than once, we see the ‘Dubbers’ walking in procession between the ‘Bookbinders’ and ‘Limners,’ and here they were evidently mere trimmers or decorators externally of books. In another register we find a ‘dubbour,’ so called because as a hawker of fish he was in the habit of putting all the fine ones at the top of his basket, a trick still in vogue in that profession, I fear.[361] In all these cases we see that ‘adornment’ or ‘embellishment’ is the main idea. I need not remind my more North-country readers how every gardener still speaks of ‘dubbing’ when he heaps up afresh the soil about his flowers and plants. The old forms of the name were ‘Jordan le Dubber,’ ‘Payen le Dubbour,’ and ‘Ralph le Douber,’ which last most nearly approaches its root, the old Norman-French ‘adouber,’ to arrange.

A curious occupation is preserved from oblivion in our somewhat rare ‘Raffmans.’ We have the root meaning of the word in our ‘reft’ and ‘bereft,’ implicative of that which is snatched away or swept off. Thus we still use ‘riff-raff’ in regard to the off-scouring of the people. A raff-merchant was a dealer in lumber of any kind. In the Guild of Saint George, Norwich, 1385, we find not merely the name of ‘John Raffman,’ but such entries as ‘Robert Smith, raffman,’ or ‘John Smith, rafman.’ The term ‘raff’ for a low fellow is not yet obsolete, and Tennyson, when he says

Let raffs be rife in prose or rhyme,

is only using a sobriquet which, until recently, was a very familiar one in the mouths of our peasantry. I have placed the surname here because I doubt not the occupation whence it sprung was chiefly in respect of trimmings, and the shearings of cloth, wool, and such like articles of merchandise.