Chapter VI: ‘nicknames.’ (2)

Let us now turn to the varied characteristics of the human heart. If we wish to know how many good and excellent qualities there are in the world, and at the same time deceive ourselves into a belief that the evils are few, we must look into our directories. Scan their contents, and we might almost persuade ourselves that Utopia was a fact, and that we were consulting its muster-roll. At every turn we meet with virtue in the guise of a ‘Goode,’ or an ‘Upright,’ or a ‘Righteous,’[509] or a ‘Patient,’ or a ‘Best,’ or a ‘Faithful;’ or infallibility in a ‘Perfect’ or ‘Faultless.’ We are ever coming across philosophy in the shape of a ‘Wise’ or a ‘Sage.’ Conscience must surely trouble but little, where ‘Merry’ and ‘Gay,’ ‘Blythe’ and ‘Joyce,’ that is, joyous, are all but interminable; and companionship must be ever sweet with such people to converse with as ‘Makepeace’[510] and ‘Friend,’ ‘Goodhart’ and ‘Truman,’ ‘True’ and ‘Leal,’ ‘Kind’ and ‘Curtis’ or ‘Curteis.’ ‘Fulhardy’ and ‘Giddyhead,’ ‘Cruel’ and ‘Fierce,’ ‘Wilfulle’ and ‘Sullen,’ and ‘Envious’ did indeed find a habitation in its pages, but they have long since disappeared, being quite out of place in the presence of such better folk as ‘Hardy’[511] and ‘Grave,’ and ‘Gentle’ and ‘Sweet;’ or if the cloven foot of pride be still visible in ‘Proud’ and ‘Proudfoot,’ it is nevertheless under constant rebuke by our familiarity with such lowly characters as ‘Humble’ and ‘Meek.’[512] Nevertheless, this was anything but so in the old time. The evil roots of sin may still abide hale and strong and ineradicable in the heart of man, but he has carefully weeded the more apparent traces of this out of his nomenclature. I do not mean to say we are utterly without names of objectionable import, but we shall see that what I have stated once before is true in the main. We shall see that as a rule it is only when the sobriquet word has changed its meaning, or that meaning become obscure and doubtful, or when the name itself has lost the traces of its origin—easy enough in the lapse of so many days of unsettled orthography—that the surname has lingered on. This will make itself apparent as we advance.

Such names as ‘Walter Snel,’ ‘Richard Quicke’ (A.), including the immortal Quickly, ‘Richard le Smert’ (M.), now ‘Smart,’ ‘Thomas Scharp,’ now ‘Sharp,’[513] ‘Gilbert Poygnant’ (A.), ‘Thedric le Witte’ (A.), now ‘Witt’ and ‘Witty,’ ‘Nicholas le Cute’ (A.), and ‘Ralph le Delivre’[514] (M.M.), argue well for the keen perceptions and brisk habits of early days.[515] The slang sense of several of these, strangely enough, is but the original meaning restored. ‘Witty’ arose when the word implied keenness of intellect rather than of humour. Chaucer thus speaks of ‘witty clerkes,’ using the latter word too in a perfectly unofficial sense. Our numberless ‘Clarkes’ and ‘Clerkes,’ sprung from equally numberless ‘Beatrix le Clercs’ or ‘Milo le Clerks,’ may therefore belong either to the professional class or to the one we are considering. ‘William le Frek’ (M.) or ‘Ralph Frike’ (A.), now found as ‘Freak,’ ‘Frick,’ and ‘Freke,’ was a complimentary sobriquet implicative of bravery and daring even to rashness.[516] Minot in his political songs tells us in alliterative verse how the doughty men of Edward the Third’s army were—

Ful frek to fight.

The old ‘William le Orpede,’ or ‘Stephen le Horpede,’ or ‘Peter Orpedeman’ denotes a disposition equally stout-hearted.[517] It is a term found in well-nigh all our mediæval writers, and was evidently in common and familiar use. Trevisa, in his account of the Norman invasion, represents ‘Gurth’ as saying to Harold, ‘Why wilt thou unwary fight with so many orped men?’ The monk of Glastonbury also, speaking of Edward the Third’s expedition to Calais in 1350, relates that he ‘towke with him the nobleis, and the gentelles, and other worthi and orpedde menne of armes.’ Our ‘Keats’ and ‘Ketts’ are the old ‘Walter le Ket’ (G.) or ‘Osbert le Ket’ (J.), that is, the fierce, the bold. Thus the cowherd in ‘William of Pelerne’ directs the child how to conduct himself—

When thou komest to kourt
Among the kete lordes.

With these therefore we may associate ‘William le Prew,’ now ‘Prew,’[518] ‘Nicholas Vigerous,’ now found also as ‘Vigors,’ ‘Helen Gallant,’ ‘John le Stallworth,’[519] ‘Thomas Doughtye,’ and ‘Robert le Bolde,’ all still well-known names. ‘Prest,’ ‘Peter le Prest’ (M.), when not the archaic form of ‘Priest,’ is of kin to the mountebank’s ‘presto,’ and means—quick, ready. It was thus used till the seventeenth century. ‘Kean,’ found as ‘Hugh le Kene’ or ‘Joan le Kene,’ implies impetuosity. All these names speak well for the pluck of our forefathers. They are found with tolerable frequency, and naturally have not been suffered to die out for lack of pride. The Norman element, as we see, is strong in these chivalrous sobriquets. Nor is it less so with many other terms of no unpleasant meaning. Our ‘Purefoys’ or ‘Purfeys’ represent the _pure faith_ of their countrymen.[520] Our ‘Parfitts’ are but the quainter form of ‘Perfect.’[521] Our ‘Bones,’ ‘Boons,’ and ‘Bunns’ are but variously corrupted forms of ‘Duran le Bon,’ or ‘Richard le Bone,’ or ‘Alice le Bonne,’ or ‘William le Boon,’ equivalent therefore to the earlier ‘Goods.’ ‘Bunker’ is similarly but ‘Bon-cœur’ (‘William Bonquer,’ O.),[522] our Saxon ‘Goodhart,’ and ‘Bonner,’ and the longer ‘Debonaire’ (‘Philip le Debeneyre,’ A.),[523] our more naturalized ‘Gentle’ (‘William le Gentil,’ M.), ‘Gentilman’ (‘Robert Gentilman,’ V. 1.),[524] and ‘Curteis’ or ‘Curtis’ (‘Walter le Curteys’ J., ‘Richard le Curteis,’ C.), Chaucer says—

All men holde thee for musarde,
That debonaire have founden thee.

‘Amiable’ (‘Edward Amiable,’ Z., ‘Joan Amiable,’ Z.) once existed, but in our registers, at least, that sweet grace is now wanting. Equivalent to these latter, but more Saxon in character, come our ‘Hendys’ or ‘Hentys’ (‘Thomas le Hendy,’ F.F., ‘John le Hendy,’ F.F.), a term found in all our early writers, and prettily expressive of that which was gentle and courteous combined. In the ‘Canterbury Tales’ the host reproves the friar for lack of civility to one of the company by saying—

Sire, ye should be _hende_,
And curteis as a man of your estate,
In company we will have no debate.

In the Hundred Rolls we find a ‘William Hendiman’ occurring, and a ‘John Hende’ was Lord Mayor of London in 1391. We have just mentioned the word ‘musarde.’ This reminds us of our ‘Musards’ (‘Malcolm le Musard,’ M.), who were originally of a dreamy temperament.[525] With our Saxon ‘Moodys’[526] (‘Richard Mody,’ G.), however, their title has fallen in general estimation, the one now denoting, when used at all, a trifling, the other a morose and gloomy disposition. Our ‘Sadds’ (‘Robert Sad,’ H.), too, from being merely serious, sedate folk, have become sorrowful of heart. Our great early poet speaks in the negative sense of—

People unsad and eke untrue,

that is, unstable and fickle. In a short poem, ascribed to Lydgate, pointing out to children their course of behaviour in company, we are told—

Who spekithe to thee in any maner place,
Rudely cast not thyn eye adowne,
But with a sad cheer look hym in the face.[527]

Here of course sobriety of demeanour, rather than sorrowfulness, is intended.[528] That ‘Henry le Wepere’ (A.), and ‘Peter le Walur’ (A.), and ‘William le Blubere’ (A.), however, must have been of rueful countenance we need not doubt.

Many changes too have passed over the names as well doubtless as over the lives of another section of our nomenclatural community. Our ‘Cunnings,’ we will hope, dated from the time when he who _kenned_ his work well was so entitled without any suspicion of duplicity.[529] Very likely too our ‘Slys’ (‘John Slye,’ H.), and ‘Sleighs’ (‘Simon le Slegh,’ M.), ‘Slees’ (‘Isabella Slee,’ W.G.), and ‘Slemmans’ and Slymans’ were simply remarkable for being honestly dexterous in their several avocations.[530] The ‘mighty hand and outstretched arm’ of modern psalters was once translated ‘a hand that was slegh.’ But as slyness got by degrees but more and more associated with the juggler’s sleight-of-hand tricks, the word fell into disrepute. Such is the invariable effect of keeping bad company. So late, however, as the seventeenth century, one of our commonwealth poets was not misunderstood when he spoke of one whom—

Graver age had made wise and sly.

But the same predisposition to give ‘crafty’ and ‘sly’ and ‘cunning’ and ‘artful’ a dishonest sense has not been therewith content, but must needs throw ridicule upon the unsophisticated and artless natures of our ‘Simples’ (‘Jordan le Simple,’ A.), who would scarcely feel complimented if their surname were to originate in the present day.[531] It is the same with our ‘Seeleys’ (‘Benedict Sely,’ D.) and ‘Selymans’ (‘George Selyman,’ D.), the older forms of ‘Silly’ and ‘Sillyman.’ Perhaps the phrase ‘silly lamb’ is the only one in which we colloquially preserve the former idea of ‘silly,’ that of utter guilelessness. A ‘silly virgin’ with Spenser was no foolish maiden, but one helpless in her innocence, and the ‘silly women’ Shakespeare hints at in his ‘Two Gentlemen of Verona’ were but inoffensive and unprotected females.[532] ‘Sealey,’ ‘Silly,’ ‘Sillyman,’ and ‘Selyman,’[533] are all pleasant memorials of the earlier sense of this word. Our ‘Quaints’ and ‘Cants’ have gone through a changeful career. They are but the descendants of the old ‘Margaret le Coynte’ or ‘Richard le Queynte,’ from the early French ‘coint,’ neat, elegant. A shadow fell over it, however, and a notion of artfulness becoming attached to the word, to be quaint was to be crafty. Thus Wicklyffe, in his translation of St. Mark’s account of Christ’s betrayal, makes Judas say to the servants of the high priest, ‘Whomever I shall touch, he it is, hold ye him, and lead him warily, or queintly.’ Thus, too, Lawrence Minot, in his ‘Political Songs,’ tells us how—

The King of Berne was _cant_ and kene,
But there he lost both play and pride.

Strange to say, the word has well-nigh recovered its original sense, betokening as it does a whimsical and antique prettiness, if not the bare quality itself. Our original ‘Careless’ (‘Antony Careless,’ Z.) was of that happy disposition which the petty worries and anxieties of life do not easily disturb, and, to judge from our nomenclature, he forms but one of a large band of cheery and easy-minded mortals. ‘Joyce,’ that is, ‘Jocose,’ when not a Christian name,[534] and ‘Jolly’ must be set here, not forgetting the older and prettier ‘Jolyffe’ (‘Henry Jolyffe,’ M.). In the ‘Miller’s Tale’ we are told of ‘Absolon,’ how that when at eventide he had taken up his ‘giterne’—

Forth he goth, jolif and amorous,

to the window of his lady-love. ‘Gay’ (‘William le Gay,’ R.), and ‘Blythe’ (‘Richard Blythe,’ Z.),[535] and ‘Merry’ (‘William Merrye,’ Z.), or ‘Merriman’ (‘John Meryman,’ X.), and ‘Gaillard,’ or ‘Gallard,’ or ‘Gayliard,’ or ‘Gaylord’ (‘Nicholas Gaylard,’ T., ‘William Gallard,’ A., ‘Sabina Gaylard,’ H.), must all be placed also in this category.[536] I am not quite sure, however, that the last are without a suspicion of that conviviality which the buxom alewife was but too ready to bestow. Our merry, versatile friend Absolon, whom I have just referred to, among other his unclerkly arts, could play on the ‘giterne’ as well as any ‘galliard tapstere.’ It seems to have been a common epithet, and would readily find a place in our nomenclature, where it is now firmly fixed. Our ‘Merryweathers’ (‘Andrew Meriweder,’ A.) and ‘Fairweathers’ (‘John Fayrweder,’ A.)[537] may seem somewhat difficult of explanation to those who are unaware of the colloquial use of these expressions in former times, ‘Mery-weder’ especially being of the most familiar import. In the ‘Coventry Mysteries’ mention is made of—

Bontyng the Brewster, and Sybyly Slynge,
Megge Mery-wedyr, and Sabyn Sprynge.

A happy sunshiny fellow would easily acquire the sobriquet, and indeed both are found at a very early day as such.[538]

Not a few of those expressive terms of endearment, some of which still flourish in our nurseries, have made their mark upon our directories. We have already alluded to our ‘Chittys.’ Our ‘Leafs’ represent the old ‘Alice le Lef’ or ‘Matilda la Lef,’ beloved or dear. We still use it in the well-nigh solitary expression ‘lief as loth,’ but once it was in familiar request. Robert of Brunne, in one of his stories, says—

Blessed be alle poor men,
For God Almyghty loveth them:
And weyl is them that poor are here,
They are with God bothe lefe and dere.

Akin to this latter is ‘Love,’ which, when not the old ‘Robert le Love’ or wolf, is found in composition in not a few instances. ‘Lovekin’ and ‘Lovecock,’ after the remarks made in our first chapter on these terminations, will be readily explainable; and ‘Truelove,’ ‘Derelove,’ ‘Honeylove,’ and ‘Sweetlove’[539] supply us with expletives of so amorous a nature, we can but conjecture them to have arisen through the too publicly proclaimed feelings of their early possessors. ‘Newlove’ sounds somewhat inconstant, ‘Winlove’ attractive.[540] ‘Goodlove,’ ‘Spendlove,’ and ‘Likelove,’ I believe, are now obsolete—a lot, too, which has befallen the hardened ‘Lacklove,’ while our ‘Fulliloves’[541] still declare the brimming affection which belongs to their nature—or at least did to that of their progenitor. But even they are commonplace beside our ‘Waddeloves’ or ‘Waddelows,’ the early form of which, ‘Wade-in-love,’ would seem to tell of some lovesick ancestor so helplessly involved in the meshes cast about him as to have become the object of the unkind sarcasms of his neighbours. A longer and equally curious sobriquet abides in our ‘Wellbeloveds’ and ‘Wellbiloves.’ It is this latter form in which it is found in the ‘Issues of the Exchequer.’[542] The French form of this was ‘Bienayme’ (‘William Bienayme,’ A.), and to some settler of that name upon our shores I suspect it is we owe our ‘Bonamys’ (‘William Bonamy,’ A.). I have just mentioned ‘Sweetlove.’ Associated with this are our simpler ‘Sweets,’ the nursery ‘Sweetcock,’ and ‘Sweetman,’[543] variously corrupted into ‘Sweatman,’ ‘Swetman,’ and ‘Swatman.’ ‘Bawcock’ and ‘Baucock,’ if not from ‘Baldwin,’ will be the endearing ‘beau-coq,’ once in familiar use. Our ‘Follets,’ ‘Follits,’ and ‘Foliots,’ the last the original form, meant nothing more than ‘my foolish one’ or ‘fond one,’ and were very common. They are but varied in the longer ‘Hugh Folenfaunt,’ but I am afraid ‘Walter Fulhardy’ at the same period is less complimentary. ‘Poppet,’ or puppet, once the doll of English infancy, only remains in the gilded and waxen manikins of the showman. The surname, however, abides with us, as does also ‘Poplett.’ The old ‘fere,’ a companion, has left its mark in our ‘Fairs.’ We all remember Byron’s resuscitation of the word. In ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ mention is made of—

Orpheus and Euridice his fere.

Thus ‘Playfair,’ once written ‘Playfere,’ is simply ‘playfellow,’ while the obsolete ‘Makefere’ (‘Hugh Makefare,’ A.) would seem to be but intensive, ‘make’ being the invariable dress with olden writers of our more familiar ‘mate.’[544]

There is something in obtrusive virtue that instinctively repels us. We always like a man’s face to be the index to the book of his heart, but when he would seem to have carefully turned down each leaf for our inspection, we get a revulsion of feeling—we like to look out the page for ourselves. An elevated sense of self-esteem was decidedly approved of by our forefathers, but its too demonstrative exhibition soon showed itself condemned in our ‘Prouds,’ ‘Prouts,’ ‘Proudmans,’ ‘Proudloves,’ and ‘Proudfoots’ (‘Hugh le Proud,’ A., ‘John le Prute,’ H., ‘George Proudelove,’ Z.Z., ‘Robert Prudefot,’ A.). A very interesting name which has escaped the notice of surname hunters is that of ‘Gerish’ or ‘Gerrish,’ both forms being found in our modern directories. They are but the truer representatives of the word ‘garish’ as used by our later poets. Shakespeare’s Juliet, we may remember, apostrophizes Night, and bids her, when Romeo be dead, cut him into stars, and thus—

All the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

This splendidly describes the term, expressing as it does that which glares ostentatiously and showily upon the eye. Lydgate, far earlier, had used it thus, in the form of ‘gerysshe;’ and such names as ‘Umfrey le Gerische’ or ‘John le Gerisse,’ found yet more remotely, testify to its once familiar and frequent use. We now talk of a prude as one who exaggerates woman’s innate modesty of demeanour. Formerly it denoted the virtue pure and untravestied. The root, the Latin ‘probus,’ excellent, still remains in our ‘Prudhommes’ (‘William Prodhomme,’ R., ‘Peter Prodhomme,’ A.), with their more commonly corrupted ‘Pridhams’ and ‘Prudames’ and ‘Prudens,’[545] a sobriquet which once referred simply to the honest and guileless uprightness of their owners. How truly do such words as these remind us of the poor estimate man, after all, forms of himself. Man often rebels at the declaration of Revelation that he is a fallen being, and yet how strongly does he assert this fact in the changes he himself has made in the meaning of words. Our ‘Bauds’ (‘William le Baud,’ B., ‘Wauter le Baud,’ M.) were once but the Norman equivalent of our ‘Merrys’ already mentioned.[546] Must lightness of heart inevitably end in wanton levity? There was a day when our ‘Parramores’ (‘Roger Paramour,’ M.; ‘Henry Parramore,’ Z.)[547] were but the simple honest lover of either sex, when our ‘Lemons,’ ‘Lemans,’ and ‘Lemmans’ (‘Eldred Leman,’ A., ‘John Leman,’ M.) meant but the beloved one from ‘lief,’ ‘dear.’ Both Chaucer and Piers Plowman employ the term ‘lef-man’ or ‘leef-man’ as an expression of endearment, with no thought of obloquy. Thus, too, in the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ God is represented as bidding Gabriel to go to Nazareth—

And hail that madyn, my lemman,
As heyndly (courteously) as thou can.

Still, so early as the days of Gower, its corrupted _leman_ had become a sobriquet for one of loose, disorderly habits.[548]

(2) _Nicknames from Peculiarities of Disposition—Objectionable._

The mention of such names as ‘Baud,’ ‘Parramore,’ ‘Leman’ or ‘Lemon,’ ‘Proud,’ ‘Proudman,’ and ‘Proudfoot,’ which we have charitably set in the list of complimentary nicknames, as having, perchance, risen at a time when the meaning of the words conveyed a totally different idea from that which they now convey, brings us to the category of those which can scarcely seek any shelter of such a kind. ‘Lorel,’ ‘Lurdan,’ and ‘Lordan,’ together with the once familiar ‘losel’ and ‘losard,’ denoted a waif, or stray, one who preyed upon society, exactly identical, in fact, with the Latin ‘perditus.’ Thus we find Herod, in the ‘Townley Mysteries,’ saying to his officers—

Fie, losels and lyars, lurdans each one,
Tratours and well worse, knaves, but knyghts none.

‘Cocke Lorelle,’ too, speaks of—

Lollers, lordaynes, and fagot berers,
Luskes, slovens, and kechen knaves.

Cotgrave explains a ‘loricard’ to mean a _luske_, _lowt_, or _lorell_. This _luske_, from the old French _lasque_, or _lache_—slothful—though now wholly obsolete, did much duty formerly. The adjective _luskish_ and the substantive _luskishness_ are often found. In law _lache_ still survives as a term for culpable remissness. Our ‘Laches,’ ‘Lashes,’ ‘Laskies,’ and ‘Lusks,’ I am afraid, therefore, come of but an indifferent ancestry. Nor can anything better be said of our ‘Paillards’ or ‘Pallards.’ We still talk of a ‘pallet,’ the old ‘paillet,’ or straw bed, from ‘paille,’ chaff. A paillard was a cant term for a lie-a-bed.

By ‘ribaldry’ we always mean that which is foul-mouthed in expression. This was ever its implication. A ‘ribaud,’ or ‘ribaut’ belonged to the very scum of society. He was a man who hung on to the skirts of the nobility by doing all their more infamous work for them. Chaucer, wishing to comprise in one sentence the highest and the lowest grades of society, speaks in his ‘Romance’ of ‘king, knighte, or ribaude.’ ‘William le Ribote,’ therefore, mentioned in the ‘Chapter House Records of Westminster,’ or ‘William Ribaud’ (W. 15), could not have borne the best of characters, I am afraid. Although not quite so degraded in the world’s esteem as some of these last, we may here include our ‘Gedlings,’ reminiscences of the old ‘Gadling’ or ‘Gedling,’ one who gadded about from door to door to talk the gossip and scandal—the modern tattler, in fact. Our former ‘Gerard le Gaburs’ and ‘Stephen le Gabbers’ were equally talkative, if not such ramblers. As overmuch talking and jesting always beget a suspicion of overstretching the truth, so was it here. Wicklyffe uses ‘gabbing’ in the sense of lying, and an old poem says:—

Alle those false chapmen
The fiend them will habbe,
Bakeres and breowares
For alle men they gabbe.[549]
(_A litel soth Sermun._)

In the North of England, I need scarcely add, this is the ordinary and colloquial sense of the term to the present day. The name of ‘John Totiller’ might well-nigh induce us to believe that teetotalism was not unknown by that name at this period, but it is not so. A ‘totiller’ was a ‘whisperer’ of secrets. In the ‘Legend of Good Women,’ one says to the God of Love—

In ye court is many a losengeour
And many a queinte totoler accusour.

The name of ‘Dera Gibelot’ or ‘John Gibbelote’[550] reminds us of a term now obsolete, but once familiar as denoting a giddy, flighty girl.[551] It is found in various forms, the commonest being that of ‘giglot.’[552] Mr. Halliwell quotes an old proverb by way of adding a further variation—

The smaller pesun (peas), the more to pott,
The fayrer woman the more gylott.

I would, however, suggest this as but the pet form of ‘Gill,’ mentioned in my chapter on Christian names. In either case the meaning is the same. An often met with sobriquet in the fourteenth century is that of ‘Robert le Burgulion,’ or ‘Geoffrey le Burgillon,’ the old term for a braggart. It is now, however, wholly obsolete. ‘Robert le Lewed,’ or ‘William le Lewed,’ is also lost to our directories, and certainly would be an unpleasant appellation in the nineteenth century. Its general meaning four hundred years ago, however, was its more literal one, that of simplicity or ignorance. It is connected with our word ‘lay’ as opposed to ‘cleric,’ and arose at a time when knowledge was all but entirely in the hands of the clergy. Thus in the ‘Pardoner’s Tale’ it is said—

Lewed people loven tales olde,
Such things can they wel report and holde.

Such a name then, we may trust, implied nothing beyond a lack of knowledge in respect of its possessor. ‘William Milksop,’ or ‘Thomas Milkesop,’ or ‘Maurice Ducedame’ were but types of a class of dandified and effeminate beings who have ever existed, but even their names would be more acceptable than those which fell to ‘Robert le Sot,’ or ‘Maurice Druncard,’ or ‘Jakes Drynk-ale,’[553] or ‘Geoffrey Dringkedregges,’[554] or ‘Thomas Sourale.’[555] It is evident that there were those who were disposed to follow the dictate of at least one portion of the old rhyme—

Walke groundly, talke profoundly,
Drinke roundly, sleape soundly.

‘Ralph Sparewater,’ I fear, was a man of dirty habits, while ‘John Klenewater’ was a model of cleanliness.

But we have not yet done with sobriquets of an unpleasant nature. Men of miserly and penurious habits seem to have flourished in plentiful force in olden days as well as the present. ‘Irenpurse’ figures several times in early rolls, and would be a strong, if somewhat rough, sarcasm against the besetting weakness of its first possessor. ‘Lovegold’ is equally explicable. ‘Pennifather,’ however, was the favourite title of such. An old couplet says—

The liberall doth spend his pelfe,
The pennyfather wastes himself.

It is found in the various forms of ‘Penifader,’ ‘Panyfader,’ and ‘Penifadir,’ in the fourteenth century. ‘Pennypurse,’[556] ‘Halfpeny,’ and ‘Turnpeny’[557] are met with at the same time, and somewhat later on ‘Thickpeny.’ ‘Broadpeny,’ ‘Manypenny,’ now corrupted into ‘Moneypeny,’ ‘Winpeny,’ now also found as ‘Wimpenny,’ ‘Pinchpenny,’ with its more directly Norman ‘Pinsemaille,’ and ‘Kachepeny,’ with its equally foreign ‘Cache-maille,’ are all also of the same early date, and with one or two exceptions are to be met with to this very day.[558] It is a true criticism which, as is noticed by Archbishop Trench, has marked the _miserly_ as indeed the emphatically _miserable_ soul. ‘Whirlepeny’ is now extinct, but alone, so far as my researches go, existed formerly to remind men that the spendthrift character is equally subversive of the true basis of human happiness.[559] Several names combined with ‘peck’ and ‘pick,’ as ‘Peckcheese,’ ‘Peckbean,’ ‘Peckweather,’ and ‘Pickbone,’ seem to be expressive of the gluttonous habits of the possessors, but it is possible they may be but the moral antecedents of our modern ‘Pecksniffs’![560]

Our ‘Starks’ and ‘Starkies,’ if not ‘Starkmans,’ represent a word which can hardly be said to exist in our vocabulary, since it now but survives in certain phrases, such as ‘stark-mad,’ or ‘stark-naked.’ We should never say a man was ‘stark’ simply. A forcible word, it once expressed the rude untutored nature of anything. Thus, on account of his unbridled passion, the Bastard King is termed in the Saxon chronicle ‘a stark man, and very savage,’ while just before he is asserted to be ‘stark beyond all bounds to them who withsaid his will.’ Thus it will be akin to such names as ‘Walter le Wyld,’[561] or ‘Warin Cruel,’ or ‘Ralph le Ferce,’ or ‘John le Savage,’ or ‘William le Salvage,’ or ‘Adelmya le Sauvage,’ or ‘William Ramage.’ Chaucer speaks somewhere of a ‘ramage goat.’

III.—MISCELLANEOUS.

(1) _Nicknames from the Animal and Vegetable Kingdom._

Mr. Lower, in his ‘English Surnames,’ gives a long list of names from what he calls vegetable productions, but, although he does not say so, I am confident he would be the first to admit that the great majority of those which he instances should really be set among our local surnames. For example, he includes ‘Cherry,’ ‘Broome,’ ‘Bramble,’ ‘Ferne,’ ‘Holyoak,’ ‘Peach,’ ‘Rowntree,’ in this category. While ‘Cherry’ and ‘Peach’ might possibly be sobriquets of complexion, the manifest course is to look upon them as of local origin. So persuaded am I of this, after a long perusal of mediæval records, that I shall notice but some half-dozen names from the vegetable kingdom, and only those of which I can find memorials in past registers. This is a place which of all others might well tempt me to run riot among our directories, and collect a curious list from our present existing nomenclature; but I would even here persistently adhere to the idea with which I set out, and to which I have mainly been true, viz., to instance names about which I can speak somewhat positively, because I have found them imbedded in the nomenclature of the period in which surnames had their rise. ‘Blanchflower,’ ‘Lilywhite,’ and ‘Boutflower’ I have already dealt with. ‘Robert Daisye’ occurs in the ‘Trial of Dame Alice Kyteler’ (Cam. Soc.), ‘Nicholas Pescodde’ in the ‘Proceedings in Chancery’ (Elizabeth), ‘Godfrey Gingivre’ (Ginger) in the ‘Writs of Parliament,’[562] ‘Geoffrey Peppercorn’ in the Hundred Rolls, ‘Robert Primerose’ and ‘Sara Garlek’ in the ‘History of Norfolk’ (Blomefield), and ‘Roger Pluckerose’ and ‘John Pullrose’ in a Sussex Roll of 1296.[563] I doubt whether more than one or two of these can be said rightly to belong to the nickname class. As sign-names—for I feel assured they thus arose—they will have their place in our second chapter on ‘Local Names.’[564]

But when we come to the Animal Kingdom we are on clearer and more definite ground. The local class must undoubtedly embrace a large number of these names, as such an entry as ‘William atte Roebuck’ (M.), or ‘Richard de la Vache’ (A.), or ‘Thomas atte Ram’ (N.), or ‘John de la Roe’ (O.), or ‘Gilbert de la Hegle’ (A.), or ‘Hugh atte Cokke’ (B.), or ‘Walter de Whitehorse’ (C.), or ‘John atte Gote’ (M.) dearly testifies. But on the other hand we find a class, set by which the last is insignificant—a class which has its own entries—‘William le Got’ (A.), ‘Katerina le Cok’ (B.), ‘Alicia le Ro’ (A.), ‘Philip la Vache’ (C.), or ‘Joachim le Ram’ (T.), corresponding to the former, only differing in that such entries are vastly more numerous and embrace a wider range, taking in, in fact, the whole genus and species that belong alike to ‘the fish of the sea, the fowl of the air, the cattle, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.’ In dealing with this large and varied assortment of sobriquets, I would say then that, where there is no proof positive to the contrary, the course is to survey a name of this class as referable to three distinct origins, and I put them in the following order of probability:—1. A nickname taken from that animal whose generally understood habits seemed to bear affinity to those of the nominee. 2. A local sign-name. 3. An heraldic device. With these preliminary statements, let us proceed.

As we find all the moral qualities seized upon to give individuality to the possessors, so, too, we find the names of animals whose peculiarities gave pretext for the sobriquets pressed into the service of our nomenclature. In our earlier Pagan history it had been the wont of Saxon fathers to style their children by the names of such beasts as from their nobler qualities it was hoped the little one would one day copy. The same fashion still existed, only that the nickname as the exponent of popular feeling was really more or less appropriate to him who was made to bear it. In the latter case, too, it was the ridiculous aspects of character that were most eagerly caught at. Our general vocabulary is not without traces of this custom. We still term a shrewish wife a _vixen_, _i.e._ a she fox. Men of a vile, mean character are rascals, _i.e._ lean deer; and rough boys are _urchins_,[565] a corruption of the old _herison_, or hedgehog. Applying this to surnames, we come first to

(_a_) _Beasts._—Our ‘Bests,’ when not local, are but the ‘Richard le Bestes’ or ‘Henry le Bestes’ of the thirteenth century. Their superlative excellence is therefore imaginary, I fear, but we may be permitted to hope that they are what they appear. ‘Edith Beest,’ in the sixteenth century, is nearer our modern form. Our ‘Oliphants,’ ‘Olivants,’ and ‘Ollivants’ represent but the elephant, and owe their origin, doubtless, to the huge and ungainly proportions of some early ancestor. In the ‘Romance of Alexander’ is a strange description of the fabled monoceros, which would seem to have been a kind of potpourri of all other beasts, for besides a tail like a hog, tusks like a dog, and a head like a hart’s—

Made is his cors
After the forme of a hors,
Fete after _olifant_, certis.[566]

This sobriquet, in a day when size and strength went for much, does not seem to have been thought objectionable, for its owners have left issue enough to prevent its ever falling into abeyance.[567] Thus we see we may meet with elephants every day in our streets without going to the Zoological Gardens for them. Our ‘Lions’ (‘Richard Lion,’ V. 2) and ‘Lyons,’ when not local,[568] speak doubtless for the brave heart of some early progenitor. Our ‘Bears,’ relics of ‘Richard le Bere’ (A.) or ‘Lawrence le Bere’ (M.), as a reflection upon a surly temper, would be less complimentary, or perhaps the original nominee wore his hair shaggy and long. A fierce disposition would meet with rebuke or praise, as the case might be, in such a sobriquet as ‘John Lepard,’ or ‘Tiger,’ now all but obsolete, saving for our striped and liveried youths; or ‘Wolf’ (‘Elena le Wolfe,’ A., ‘Philip le Wolf,’ M.), with its more Norman ‘Lupe’[569] (‘Robert le Lupe,’ B.), or ‘Lovel’[570] or ‘Love’ (‘Robert le Love,’ A.), the latter being in flat contradiction to the usually ascribed instincts of the animal. Timidity or reserve, or perchance fleetness of foot, would soon find itself exalted in ‘Geoffrey le Hare,’ ‘Reginalde le Raye,’ ‘Walter le Buk,’ ‘Hobart le Hart,’ ‘Dorothie le Stagge,’ ‘Henry Rascal,’[571] ‘William le Do,’ or ‘Alicia le Ro,’ the ancestors of our ‘Hares,’ ‘Rays,’ or ‘Wrays,’ ‘Bucks,’[572] ‘Harts,’ ‘Stags,’ ‘Does,’ or ‘Roes,’ of legal notoriety, and ‘Prickets.’ That old spoiler of hen-roosts, the polecat, has left us in ‘Fitch’ and ‘Fitchett’ no very happy relationship of ideas. Craftiness would be very properly stigmatised in ‘Henry le Fox’ or ‘John le Tod,’ and a ‘John le Renaud’ occurring in the Parliamentary Rolls reminds us that some of our ‘Renauds’ and ‘Renards’ may be more closely associated with this wily denizen of our forest fastnesses than they think. The _badger_ has originated ‘Walter le Broc’ or ‘Henry le Brok’ (now Brock); the _beaver_ ‘John le Bever,’ or ‘John le Bevere’ (now Beaver).[573] The _rabbit_ gave us ‘Henry Cony’ and ‘John Conay;’ the _weasel_ ‘Mathew le Martun’ (now Marten); the _mole_ ‘Walter le Want’ (now Want); the nimble haunter of our forest boughs ‘Thomas le Squyrelle’ (now Squirrell), and the _otter_ ‘Alan Otere,’ or ‘Edward Oter’ (now Otter).

Nor must we forget the farmyard and its accessories, which, as we might readily presume, are well represented. ‘Alice le Buie,’ or ‘William le Buie’ (now Bull), is a sobriquet which has now such a firm place as symbolic of our national character that we need not show to what peculiarities of temperament they owed their name. ‘Simon le Steer,’ ‘Peter le Vache,’ with its Saxon ‘Thomas le Cu’ or ‘Ralph le Cou,’ ‘Richard le Calf’[574] ‘Godwin le Bulloc,’ ‘Peter le Stot,’ ‘Roger le Colt,’ are all of common occurrence, and still abide with us. ‘Roger le Mule,’ as representative of obstinacy, we might have suspected, would have become early obsolete, but it still survives.[575] ‘Robert le Veyle,’ or ‘William le Veel,’ now written ‘Veale,’ ‘Philip le Mutton,’ and ‘John le Bœuf,’ or ‘Robert le Bef,’[576] carry us back to the day when these several terms denoted the living animal. Thus, with respect to the last, Burton in his ‘Anatomy,’ translating Plautus, says—

Like other cooks I do not supper dress,
That put whole meadows into a platter,
And make no better of their guests than beeves,
With herbs and grass to feed them fatter.—p. 69.

Alongside our ‘Muttons’ we may place our ‘William le Lambs’ and ‘Richard le Lombs,’[577] and if they were remarkable for their meek disposition, playfulness, I doubt not, was equally characteristic of our ‘Reginald Kidds’ and ‘Cheevers,’ relics of the old ‘Henry le Chivre’ or goat. I am afraid the connexion of ideas that gave rise to such sobriquets as were represented by ‘Alice le Hog,’ ‘John le Bacun,’[578] ‘William le Gryse,’ ‘Gilbert Galt,’ ‘Walter Pigge,’[579] ‘Roger Sugge,’ ‘Richard le Bor’ (Boar), ‘Richard Wildbore,’ ‘John Pork,’ and ‘John Purcell’ (little porker, that is), is not of the pleasantest—terms, too, as they are, all familiar to our directories to this present day. Several of these words are now colloquially obsolete. ‘Grice,’ I fancy, is one such. We still speak of the ‘griskin.’ Locally it comes in such names as ‘Grisdale’ and ‘Griswood.’ As a sobriquet of the animal, it was quite familiar in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Piers Plowman says—

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

‘Sug’ was provincial for ‘sow,’ and comes in the local ‘Sugden’ mentioned in my first chapter. Richard III. was sometimes styled the ‘Boar’ or ‘Hog.’ It was in allusion to this that the rhyme got abroad—

The Rat, the Cat, and Lovel the Dog,
Rule all England under the Hog.

The first two referred of course to _Rat_cliffe and _Cat_esby. But the mention of these reminds us of our household pets and indoor foes. ‘Elias le Cat,’ or ‘Adam le Kat,’ or ‘Milo le Chat’ still boasts descendants, and the same can be said for ‘Nicholas Dogge,’ or ‘Eborard le Kenn,’ or ‘Thomas le Chen.’ The usual forms are Catt, Ken, and Kenn. In our _kennel_ we still preserve a memorial of this Norman-introduced word. Our ‘Hunds’ and ‘Hounds’ are but the old ‘Gilbert le Hund’ or ‘William le Hund,’ and carry us to the forest and the chase. The especial bugbear of cat and dog alike found remembrance in our early ‘Nicholas le Rat’ and ‘Walter le Rat,’ or ‘Ralph Ratun,’[580] and in ‘John le Mous,’ ‘Hugh le Mus,’ or ‘Richard Mowse.’ ‘Ratton,’ ‘Ratt,’ and ‘Mowse’ still exist. With one more name we conclude. Through Spain and the Moors of Barbary monkeys were early introduced for the amusement of the English people. In the ‘Miller’s Tale’ it is said of Alison—

And thus she maketh Absolom her ape,
And all his earnest turneth to a gape.[581]

that is, she was wont to make a fool of him. The sobriquet is found in such an entry as ‘John le Ape,’ registered in the Hundred Rolls, or ‘John Jackanapes,’ in the Parliamentary Writs.

(_b_) _Birds._—The surname that represents the genus is ‘Bird,’ the name being met with as ‘John le Bryd’ or ‘David le Brid,’ a pronunciation still in vogue in many parts of England. Falconry has given us many sobriquets of this class. Accustomed as our fathers were to seeing the fierce and eager instincts of the bird, to nickname a man of rapacious and grasping habits by such a term as ‘John le Kyte,’ or ‘William le Hawk,’ or ‘Richard le Falcon,’ would be the most natural thing in the world. And just as the difference in breed and disposition in these birds themselves gave rise to separate definitions, so an imagined resemblance to these distinct qualities must have originated such different names as ‘Muskett,’ ‘Buzzard,’ ‘Puttock,’[582] ‘Goshawk,’ ‘Tassell,’ ‘Gleed,’ or ‘Glide,’[583] and ‘Sparrowhawk,’ or ‘Spark,’ or ‘Sparke,’ as it is now more generally spelt. So early as Chaucer, however, this last was written ‘Spar-hawk,’[584] and that once gained the further contraction in our nomenclature became inevitable. Thus was it with other birds. Did a man develop such propensities as showiness, then he was nicknamed ‘Jay;’ if pride, ‘Peacock’ or ‘Pocock,’ as it was once pronounced; if guile, ‘Rook;’ if pertness, ‘Pye,’ with its diminutive ‘Pyet’ or ‘Pyett;’ if garrulity, ‘Parrott’ or ‘Parratt;’ if he was a votary of song he was styled ‘Nightingale’ or ‘Lark,’ or in its more antique dress ‘Laverock’ or ‘Woodlark,’ or ‘Finch,’ or ‘Bulfinch,’ or ‘Goldfinch,’ or ‘Chaffinch,’ or ‘Spink,’ or ‘Goldspink,’ or ‘Thrush,’ or ‘Thrussel,’ or ‘Cuckoo.’ If jauntiness displayed itself in his actions he was nicknamed ‘Cock’ or ‘Cockerell’ or ‘Chauntecler;’ if homeliness, ‘Sparrow;’ if tenderness, ‘Pigeon’ or ‘Dove,’ and so on with our ‘Swans,’ ‘Herons,’ ‘Cootes,’ ‘Gulls,’ ‘Storks,’ ‘Ravens,’ ‘Crows,’ ‘Speights,’ ‘Cranes,’ ‘Capons,’ ‘Henns,’ ‘Chickens,’[585] ‘Ducks,’ ‘Duckerells,’ ‘Drakes,’ ‘Sheldrakes’ or ‘Sheldricks,’ ‘Wildgooses,’ ‘Mallards’ (_i.e._ wild duck), ‘Gooses’ or ‘Goss’s,’[586] ‘Greygooses,’ ‘Goslings,’[587] ‘Ganders,’ ‘Woodcocks,’ ‘Partridges,’ ‘Partricks,’ ‘Pheasants,’ or ‘Fesants,’ as once spelt, and ‘Blackbirds.’[588] These are names ornithologically familiar to us. Many a pretty name, however, once on the common tongue but now obsolete, or well-nigh so, still abides in our surnames. Thus our ‘Popjays’ still preserve the remembrance of the once common _popinjay_ or parrot, ‘the popinjay, full of delicasy,’ as Chaucer styles her.[589] In ‘Culver’ or ringdove we are reminded of the pathetic story of Philomine, where the same writer likens her to

the lamb that of the wolf is bitten,
Or as the culver, that of the eagle is smitten.[590]

Our ‘Ruddocks’ or ‘Ruddicks’ (‘Ralph Ruddoc,’ A.), again, are but the old _ruddock_ or robin-redbreast, ‘the tame ruddock,’ as he is termed in the ‘Assembly of Fowls.’ The hedge-sparrow still lives represented by our ‘Pinnocks’ or ‘Pinnicks’ ‘John Pynnock’ (G.), ‘Richard Pinnoc’ (A.)—

Thus in the pinnick’s nest the cuckoo lays,
Then, easy as a Frenchman, takes her flight.

So an old writer says. Our ‘Turtles’ (‘Roger Turtle’ D.) are but pleasant memorials of the bird that has been so long emblematic of constancy, the dove; our ‘Challenders,’ if not a corruption of ‘Callender,’ are representatives of the _chelaunder_ or goldfinch, so often mentioned by early poets; and in our ‘Woodalls,’ ‘Woodales,’ and ‘Woodwalls,’ not to say some of our ‘Woodwells,’ we are but reminded of the _woodwale_, the early woodpecker. Our ‘Rains’ are but the old ‘Robert or William le Rain,’ another term for the same;[591] while our ‘Stars’ and ‘Stares’ (‘Robert Stare,’ A.) carry us back to the day when the starling was so familiarly styled. In the ‘Assembly of Fowls’ the author speaks of—

The false lapwing, full of trecherie,
The _stare_, that the counsaile can beurie.

In the ‘Romance of the Rose’ a list of birds is given embracing many of the above—

For there was many a bird singing,
Throughout the yard all thringing,
In many places were nightingales,
Alpes, finches, and wodewales,
That in their sweet song delighten,
In thilke (such) places as they habiten.
There might men see many flocks
of turtles, and laverocks,
Chelaundres fele (many) saw I there,
That very nigh forsongen were (tired of singing).

Every one of these birds so styled is still to be met with in our directories, for even the _alpe_ or bull-finch is not absent. It is only in the investigation of subjects like this we see how great are the changes that creep over a people’s language. What a list of words is this, which if uttered now would fall dead and meaningless upon the ear of the listener, and yet they were once familiar as household words.

(_c_) _Fish._—‘John le Fysche’ or ‘William Fyske’ have left descendants enough to prove that many a Fish can live out of water, although much has been advanced to the contrary. At a time when the peasants lived daily on the products of the inland streams and sandy sea-banks, and when the supply was infinitely more plentiful than it is now, we can easily perceive the naturalness of the sobriquets that belong to this class. Terms that are all but obsolete to us now, were household words then. Hence it is that we find our directories of to-day abounding with such entries as ‘Whale,’[592] ‘Shark,’ ‘Dolphin,’ Herring,’[593] ‘Codde,’ ‘Codling,’ ‘Salmon,’[594] ‘Trout,’ ‘Mackarel,’ ‘Grayling,’ ‘Smelt,’ ‘Pilchard,’ ‘Whiting,’ ‘Turbot,’[595] ‘Keeling,’ ‘Crabbe,’ ‘Chubb,’[596] ‘Tench,’[597] ‘Pike,’ and ‘Pickerel.’ ‘John Sturgeon’ is mentioned by Foxe in his ‘Martyrology,’ under date 1541, and still remains. The Hundred Rolls contain a ‘William Lampreye.’ ‘Barnacle’ is still common, and ‘Mussell’ and ‘Spratt’[598] are not unknown. But perhaps the most curious of these early nicknames are those belonging to ‘Matilda le Welke’ and ‘William Welkeshorn.’ Probably they were notorious for a weakness towards that mollusk, which is still eaten in large quantities in some parts of England.

(_d_) _Insects and Reptiles._—This is not a large class. The Hundred Rolls furnish us with a ‘Magge Flie’ and an ‘Oda[599] Flie.’ The same records contain a ‘Margaret Gnatte’ and a ‘William Gnatte.’ ‘Baldewin Bugg’ (B.) and ‘Bate Bugge’ (A.) are also found, but although the question has been asked—

If a party had a voice,
What mortal would be a Bugg by choice,

I fancy the cognomen is local, one of the endless forms, like ‘Brough,’ ‘Burgh,’ ‘Burkes,’ of the old ‘Borough.’ ‘Roger le Waps’[600] reminds us of the still existing provincialism for wasp, and ‘William Snake’ or ‘John Frog’ would be as little acceptable.[601] The smallest and most repulsive insect we have, the parasitic louse, is found in ‘Nicholas le Lus’ (J.), but our directories have now got rid of it—an example that might be followed with no small advantage in other quarters.

(2) _Descriptive Compounds affixed as Nicknames._

But in an age like that of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries we cannot imagine that society would be merely required to come under a verbal castigation such as, after all, did nothing more than strike off the names of the animals that entered into Noah’s Ark. To call a man a ‘wolf’ or a ‘bull’ or a ‘grayling’ or a ‘salmon’ or a ‘peacock,’ after all, is not very dreadful. Terms of a more compound form, sobriquets more minutely anatomical, are also met with, the unpleasantness of which is proved by the fact of so few of them having come down to us, while not a small portion, as not fit for ears polite, must be altogether left in their obscurity. There are others, however, of which none need to be ashamed. For instance, the kingly denomination of ‘Quer-de-lyun’ (‘Ralph Querdelyun,’ T., ‘William Querdelion,’ X.),[602] found in several lists, could not but be agreeable, while ‘Dan-de-lyun,’ or ‘lion-toothed’ (‘William Daundelyun,’ B.), would be in thorough harmony with the spirit of the age. ‘Colfox’ (‘Thomas Colfox,’ Z.), still existing, would be less pleasant. The term ‘fox’ is supposed in itself to be synonymous with deceit, but the intensive ‘col-fox’ or ‘deceitful-fox’ must have implied duplicity indeed! Chaucer, in his ‘Nunn’s Story,’ speaks of

A col fox full of sleigh iniquity.

‘Clenehog’ (‘William Clenehog,’ A.) or ‘Clenegrise’ (‘Roger Clenegrise,’ A.) would seem to be a sarcasm upon the dirty habits of its early owner, while ‘Piggesflesh’ (‘Reyner Piggesflesh,’ M.) or Hoggesflesh’ (‘Margery Hoggesflesh,’ Z.)[603] is as obviously intended to be a reflection upon the general appearance. ‘Herring’ (‘Robert Heryng,’ A.), already mentioned, is not objectionable, but ‘Goodherring’ (‘Adam Godharing,’ A.) and ‘Redherring’[604] (‘William Redhering,’ M.) are. ‘Fish’ one would not for a moment find fault with, but few young ladies, I imagine, would be found to face at the matrimonial altar a ‘John Pourfishe’ (M.). Objection, too, if not by the fair inamorata, yet by her parents, would be raised, I suspect, to an alliance with a ‘Roger Feldog,’ or ‘Thomas Catsnose,’ or ‘William Cocksbrain,’ or ‘Robert Calvesmaw,’ or ‘Peter Buckeskyn,’ or ‘Arnulph Dogmaw,’ or ‘Henry Crowfoot,’ or ‘Matthew Goosebeak,’ or ‘John Bullhead.’[605] Talking of the last, however, it is interesting to notice how much the bull has entered into compounds of this kind. Thus we light upon such names as ‘Walter Oyl-de-beof’ or ‘William Oldbeof,’ that is, bull-eyed; ‘Ralph Front-de-bœuf,’ that is, bull-faced; ‘John Cors-de-bœuf’ or ‘Thomas Cordebeofe,’ that is, bull-bodied; ‘John Queer-de-bœf,’ that is, bull-hearted, or ‘Amice le Wildebœf’ or ‘Nicholas Waldebeof,’ seemingly like ‘Wild-bore,’ referring to some wild untutored characteristics of the bearer. In all these the genius of the age is quite apparent, and probably not one was looked upon as otherwise than complimentary. ‘William Scorchebouef’ was evidently some unlucky young kitchener who had mismanaged his duties as spit-turner, but it betrays the process by which the term ‘bœuf’ has come into its present position of verbal usefulness. In this light ‘Cors-de-bœuf’ also is further interesting as reminding us that there was a time when ‘corpse’ did not necessarily imply the inanimate frame. ‘Behold, they were all dead corpses,’ found in our Authorized Version, was no tautology, it would appear, even in the seventeenth century. Thus do changes creep over the lives of words as well as men.

We might fill a book with these descriptive compounds—surnames so whimsical, so absurdly humorous that they manifestly could not live. For instance, we meet in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries with such a sobriquet as ‘William Hondeshakere,’ which no doubt spoke for the hearty goodwill of its easy possessor. ‘Geoffry Chese-and-brede’ seems to refer to the peculiar taste of its owner, while ‘Arnold Scutelmouth’ would be a sarcasm on personal capacity for such things. ‘Alan Swet-in-bedde’ would not be an acceptable cognomen, nor ‘William Badneighbour,’ nor ‘Thomas Two-year-olde,’ nor ‘Geoffrey Dringkedregges,’ nor ‘Anna Hellicate’ (hell-cat).[606] ‘Alice Gude-ale-house’ was evidently a homely landlady, who kept her tavern in good repute by assiduous attention and good-humoured ways. ‘William Kepegest’ would seem to bespeak the kindly cheer of more private hospitality, while ‘John Drybread,’ if not stingy, was doubtless crusty. ‘John Ratelle-bagge,’ or ‘John Leve-to-day,’ or ‘Serle Go-to-Kirk,’ or ‘Thomas Horsenail,’ or ‘John Lightharness,’ or ‘Richard Myldew,’ or ‘John Buckleboots,’ or ‘Edward Tortoise-shell,’[607] or ‘John Hornbuckle,’ while conveying no slight upon the character, would be obnoxious enough as surnames. Our ‘Doolittles,’ ‘Lovejoys,’ ‘Scattergoods,’ ‘Makepeaces,’ and ‘Hatewrongs’ belong to this same category. A large and varied assortment of this class will be found in the notes to this chapter, and to them I refer the reader. They are of a class which were especially popular at the time of which we are writing. Many of them are used as expletives in the railing poets and writers of the period. For instance, the author of ‘Cocke Lorelle’s Bote’ speaks of—

‘Slingthrift Fleshmonger,’
Also ‘Fabian Flatterer,’ and ‘Cicely Claterer,’
With ‘Adam Averus,’ flail-swinger,
And ‘Francis Flaproach,’ ...
With ‘Giles Unreste,’ mayor of Newgate,
And ‘Lewis Unlusty, the leesing-monger.’
Here is ‘Will Wily,’ the mill-pecker (thief),
And ‘Patrick Peevish,’ hairbeater,
With ‘Davy Drawlatch’[608] of Rockingham.
Also ‘Hick Crookneck,’ the rope-maker,
And ‘Steven Measellmouth,’ mussell-taker,
With ‘Gogle-eyed Thompson,’ shepster of Lynn.

The above selection of fancy names will give us a fair idea of the kind of sobriquet which went down with the lower orders during the Angevine and Plantagenet dynasties.

But the largest branch of descriptive compounds is yet to be mentioned. We find not a few instances where names of simple relationship or occupation or office, or even, we may add, of patronymic character, having become compounded with adjectives expressive of the feeling of those with whom the nominee had to deal, naturally place themselves under this same category. These, so far as they have come down to us, are generally of a favourable, or at least harmless, description. Thus, to notice Christian names first, this has especially been the case with ‘John.’ Probably as this sobriquet grew into favour the practice became the means of distinguishing between several of the same title. Thus, as I hinted in my previous chapter, if John were doughty, he became ‘Prujean,’[609] that is, preux-jean; if fat, ‘Grosjean;’ if young, ‘Youngjohn;’[610] if clownish, ‘Hobjohn;’ if big, ‘Micklejohn;’ if small, ‘Littlejohn,’[611] or ‘Petitjean;’[612] if of a sunburnt countenance, ‘Brownjohn;’[613] and if comely or well proportioned, ‘Properjohn;’ thus preserving a once familiar sense of ‘proper,’ which we may meet with in such an olden phrase as a ‘proper knight,’ or in our present Authorized Scripture Version, where our translators make St. Paul speak of Moses in his infancy as a ‘proper child.’[614] Lastly, we have the estimable ‘Bonjohn,’ the origin, I doubt not, of ‘Bunyon’ and ‘Bunyan,’ the familiar bearer of the latter form of which we shall all doubtless admit to be well worthy his name. It is happy chance that when we speak, as we often do, of ‘_good John_ Bunyan,’ we simply give him a reduplication of that very title which none more richly merits than he. In 1310 there was a ‘Jon Bonjon’ in London, and still earlier than this a ‘Durand le Bon Johan’ figures in the Hundred Rolls.[615] Several others we may mention, more Saxon in their character, and all long obsolete, save one. Indeed, I doubt not they died with their original possessors. These are ‘Robert Good-robert’ (P.) and ‘Richard White-richard’ (J.), ‘William Holy-peter’ (A.) ‘William Jolif-will’ (A.) (_i.e._ ‘Jolly-Will’),[616] and ‘William Prout-pierre’ (M.). ‘William Goodhugh’ (M.), however, has contrived to hold his own, unless, as Mr. Lower thinks, it belongs not to this category, but one I have already surveyed, that regarding complexion. Its early form of ‘Godhewe’ would seem perhaps to favour his notion. Names of this class, however, are rare. When we come to occupation the instances are much more common. Thus if we have ‘Husband,’ who doubtless owes his origin to his economical rather than his marital position, we have, besides, ‘Younghusband’—in his day, I dare say, a somewhat precocious youth—the now obsolete ‘Goodhusband;’ if ‘Skinner,’ then ‘Langskinner;’ if ‘Wright,’ then ‘Longwright’ or ‘Longus-Faber,’ as it is Latinized in our rolls; if ‘Smith,’ then ‘Gros-smith,’ that is ‘big-smith,’ or ‘Wild-smith’ or ‘Youngsmith;’ or if ‘Groom,’ then ‘Good-groom’[617] and ‘Old-groom.’ If we have ‘Swain,’ we had also ‘Goodswain,’ or ‘Brownswain,’ or ‘Madswain,’ or ‘Summerswain,’ or ‘Cuteswain,’ or ‘Colswain’ (that is, deceitful swain, or ‘Littleswain;’ if ‘King,’[618] then ‘Littleking,’ ‘Coyking,’ ‘Brownking,’ ‘Whiteking,’ and ‘Redking;’ if ‘Hine,’ or ‘Hyne,’ or ‘Hind,’ a peasant somewhat similar to Swain, then also ‘Goodhyne;’ if ‘Bond,’ then ‘Youngbond;’ if ‘Knave’ or servant, then ‘Smartknave,’ ‘Whiteknave,’ ‘Brownknave,’ and ‘Goodknave,’ the latter a strange compound to modern ears;[619] if ‘Clerk,’ then ‘Bonclerk,’ ‘Beauclerk,’ ‘Goodclerk,’ ‘Mauclerk,’[620] and ‘Redclerk;’[621] if ‘Page,’ then ‘Littlepage’[622] and ‘Smallpage,’ and to put it here for convenience, ‘Lawpage;’ if ‘Wayt,’ a ‘watchman,’ then ‘Smartwayt,’ ‘Stertwait’ (active, on the alert), and ‘Goodwayt;’ if ‘Man’ or ‘Mann,’ a relic of the old ‘le Man’ or menial, then also ‘Goodman,’ a term, however, which became early used of any honest householder.[623] ‘Le Mayster’ or ‘Master’ was common enough, but I am sorry to say I have not lighted upon a ‘Goodmayster’ as yet. Thus ‘Fellowe’ also, or ‘Fellowes,’ as we now have it, is met by ‘Goodfellow’ and ‘Longfellow;’ ‘Child’ by ‘Goodchild’ and the obsolete ‘Evilchild;’ ‘Son’ by ‘Littleson’ and ‘Fairson;’ ‘Sire’ by ‘Littlesire’ and ‘Fairsire;’ ‘Nurse’ by ‘Goodnurse,’ and ‘Fowl’ by ‘Goodfowl.’ Norman equivalents for these, however, were not wanting. ‘Goodfellow’ had its mate in ‘Boncompagnon,’ ‘Goodbody’ in ‘Bonecors,’ ‘Goodwait’ in ‘Bonserjeant,’ ‘Goodclerk’[624] in ‘Bonclerk,’ and ‘Goodman’[625] in ‘Bonhomme’ (our present ‘Bonham’)[626] and ‘Prudhomme’ or ‘Pridham.’ ‘Evilchild’ found itself face to face with ‘Malenfant,’ ‘Littlesire’ with ‘Petitsire,’ ‘Goodchild’ with ‘Bonyfant,’ ‘Bonenfant,’ or ‘Bullivant,’ as we now have it, and ‘Godson’ or ‘Goodson,’ it may be, with ‘Bonfils’ or ‘Boffill.’ We have still ‘Clerk,’ but ‘Bonclerke,’ if not ‘Beauclerk,’ is obsolete; ‘Squier,’ but ‘Bonsquier’ has disappeared; ‘Chevalier’ also thrives, while ‘Bonchevalier’ is extinct. In some cases the simple and the compound forms are both wanting. It is so with our former ‘Vadlets’ and ‘Bonvalets,’ our ‘Vileins,’ ‘Beauvileyns,’ and ‘Mangevileyns’ (scabby), our ‘Queynts’ and ‘Bonqueynts,’ and our ‘Aventures’ and ‘Bonaventures,’ the latter sobriquet evidently given to one who had acquitted himself well in some mediæval joust or tournament. It is found in several records. Piers Plowman uses the term simple, when he speaks of Faith crying—

As dooth an heraud of armes,
When aventrous cometh to justes.