Chapter IV: Robin Hood and the London Directory

THE largest class of surnames in the London Directory, we showed in our second chapter, after local names, were those of patronymic origin: baptismal surnames we called them. If Richard has a son called Richard, it is easy to suppose that this child would go by the name of Richard Richard’s son, or Richard Dick’s son. A third generation having appeared in the form of a grandson, called Richard, after father or grandfather, it will be readily supposed that, he being also Richard Richard’s son, or Dick’s son, the surname Richardson would now be sufficiently familiarised to become the _hereditary_ cognomen of the descendants of this stock. Thus Richardson and Dickson have sprung into being. Thus every name of this class has originated. Names like Johnson, Jackson, Timpson, Wilson, Harrison, or Stephenson, simply prove that the bearers of these several titles are descended from some particular John, Tim, Will, Harry, or Stephen, who when he died bequeathed his baptismal name as a piece of property to his immediate descendants—not deliberately, as he would his money and estates, but in the casual and accidental fashion recorded above.

We can understand that at first it would seem strange for a _girl_ to go by a patronymic of this kind. Imagine at this early stage of surname formation some village maid bearing the name of Mary William_son_ (_i.e._, Mary, the son of William)! To us, accustomed to these names, there seems nothing absurd in such a title as Matilda John_son_, or Margaret David_son_. It never occurs to us to take the name to pieces, and see the incongruity of its several elements. That this was a difficulty to our forefathers is evident from the fact that there are many entries like “Joan Willsdaughter,” or “Nan Tomsdaughter,” in the registers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Thus “Isabella Peersdoghter” lived near Durham four hundred years ago—_i.e._, Isabella, the daughter of Peers, _i.e._ Peter. In the same way, “Avice Mattwife”—_i.e._, Avice, the wife of Matt (Matthew)—or “Cecilia Wilkin-wife,” is found at the same period. The reason why surnames ending in _daughter_ are not found now, is that if the girl with such a surname died unmarried, it died with her; if she married, she changed her name. “_Son_,” as a termination having no difficulties of this kind to contend with, has left us a multitude of names. Had it been otherwise, we should have had surnames like Steven-daughter, Dick-daughter, and Hopkin-daughter, contending for a place in our directories with “Stevenson,” “Dickson,” and “Hopkinson.”

It would seem as if the female sex, therefore, had been hardly treated in this matter of baptismal nomenclature. Indeed, some of my readers might be tempted to ask me whether the gentler half of the community are represented at all in our directories. I am happy to respond in the affirmative. John and Margery might have a son, Robert by name. Now, John is a timid, retiring kind of man; his wife being a bustling, active, assertive woman. John sits in the chimney-corner, Margery does all the marketing, all the talking, possibly all the working also. In a word, she rules the roost. Naturally, the neighbours get into a way of calling the child “Robert _Margeri_son,” rather than “Robert _John_son.” Margerison, Margetson, and Margetts are all in the London Directory. Take another instance: Hodge and Nell get married; Hodge dies, and a posthumous child is born. Only the mother is living. As a matter of course, the little one is styled Antony or Sarah _Nel_son, according to its sex. A large number of metronymic surnames must be attributed to an accident of this kind. All our “Ibbs,” “Ibbisons,” “Ibbsons,” “Ibbots,” and “Ibbotsons” are sprung from Isabella, a much more common and familiar name four or five hundred years ago than it is now. Our “Emmetts,” “Emmotts,” “Emmotsons,” “Emms,” and “Empsons” are descendants of some “Emma,” or “Emmot,” as she was then styled. Many people have refused to believe that there are any metronymic surnames, for fear that it would seem to imply illegitimate birth. It is always silly to deny facts, and I have shown there is no reason to dread the charge in the great majority of these instances.

Every nation has its own peculiar way of forming the baptismal surname. We have no less than five representing British as distinct from English nomenclature: Anglo-Norman, Anglo-Saxon, Scotch, Irish, and Welsh. Each had his fashion of framing the patronymic, and all, I need not say, abound in the metropolis. The Norman made _fitz_ (French, _fils_) a prefix, and thus Gilbert, son of Hamon, became Gilbert Fitz-hamon. The Saxon made _son_ a desinence, and thus Ralph, son of Nichol, became Ralph Nichol_son_. The Welshman put _ap_ (_i.e._ son) in the forefront, like the Norman, and thus Owen ap-Richard became Owen Pritchard, or Griffin ap-Harry Griffin Parry, or Hugh ap-Rice Hugh Price. The inhabitant of “Caledonia stern and wild” also set _Mac_ at the beginning rather than the end, so that Andrew, son of Aulay, became Andrew Macaulay. Lastly, our friends of the Emerald Isle prefixed _Mac_ or _O_ to the baptismal name, as their form of descent, and thus Patrick, son of Neale, became Patrick MacNeale, or Patrick O’Neale. As the old rhyme has it:

“By _Mac_ and _O_,
You all may know
True Irishmen, they say;
But if they lack
Both _O_ and _Mac_,
No Irishmen are they.”

Thus within the boundary lines of our own Britannic realm we have “_son_,” “_fitz_,” “_ap_,” “_Mac_,” and “_O_” employed in the formation of one single class of surnames. Sometimes the Welsh “_ap_” became “_ab_,” and thus ap-Evan has become “Bevan,” ap-Owen, Bowen, ap-Ethell, Bethell, and ap-Huggins, Buggins. In the same way, ap-Lloyd is found in the London Directory as Bloyd.

There are about five thousand people in London bearing names of which “Robert” is the root and foundation. I wonder if it has ever struck my reader that the _nominal_ existence of four-fifths of this large population is the result of the life, adventures, and celebrity of that great outlaw Robin Hood. To gather up the links of evidence would fill a volume. I will occupy the remainder of this chapter by a brief _resumé_ of the argument. If I prove my assertion, this will be demonstrating the reality of my title, and show conclusively that the London Directory may be well styled a “romance.”

That Robin Hood was the fictitious name of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, has been proved an idle fable; but although there are serious doubts as to the existence of William Tell, there need be none as to the individuality of Robin Hood. That a noted forester—an outlaw—of this name roved in the neighbourhood of Sherwood during the first four decades of the thirteenth century, is beyond dispute.

“In Locksley town, in merry Nottinghamshire,
In merry sweet Locksley town,
There bold Robin Hood was born and was bred,
Bold Robin of famous renown.”

He and his companions lived by spoil. His popularity was twofold in origin. He was credited with a spirit of liberty chafing against an oppressive and tyrannic rule. He was equally credited, truly or the reverse, with unbounded kindness to the poor. Camden styles him “_prædonem mitissimum_,” the gentlest of thieves. Sir Walter Scott says of the spoil he heaped up, that he “shook the superflux to the poor,” and, in respect of government, “showed the heavens more just.” Dying about the year 1247, it was not very long before he became an “institution”: every country ballad, every chapbook had its story of Robin Hood, his princely spirit, his skill in archery, his wondrous adventures, and his hair-breadth escapes. The impression that he was of noble birth only added to his popularity.

This of course could not but have its effect upon the nomenclature of the time. It is well known that when Thomas à Beckett was murdered, almost every child born immediately afterwards was, if a boy, christened Thomas. To this tragedy myriads of Thompsons and Tomlinsons owe their surnames. The dictionary and the directory are under equal obligations to Robin Hood. There need be little doubt that Gough’s suggestion that his real name was “Robin o’ the Wood” (_i.e._ Sherwood) is true. The corruption “Hood” is perfectly natural.

(1.) Look at some of our _place-names_. In 1730 there was a “Robin Hood’s Well,” about three miles north of Doncaster; and Leland, the great itinerary, visited “Robyn Hudd’s Bay,” under which antique dress we recognise the familiar village and coast “Robin Hood’s Bay,” betwixt Whitby and Scarborough. Everybody has seen a Robin Hood’s oak, or a Robin Hood’s bower. At this moment there are hundreds of country inns in the north, called “Robin Hood,” with a picture of the bold archer in dress proper, or intended to be so, to the period in which he is supposed to have lived. His bow and arrow are of course always depicted, and occasionally a deer in the distance.

(2.) Look at the old English _proverbs_; and we may premise that if a man has created a proverb he has made himself immortal. “Good even, Robin Hood,” quoted by Skelton, poet-laureate to Henry VIII., implied “civility extorted by fear.” Fuller quotes, “Many men talk of Robin Hood that neere shott in his bow.” “To over-shoot Robin Hood,” is another proverbial saying. This is quoted by Sir Philip Sidney. “Tales of Robin Hood are good for fools,” is quoted by Camden. The most familiar, however, was “to sell Robin Hood’s pennyworths.” Fuller refers to this as of things half sold, half given; the great robber parting lightly with what he came by lightly. “Robin’s choice,” this or nothing, would seem almost to have suggested “Hobson’s choice,” for Hobson is a patronymic of Robert, Hob being the old familiar pet name for the same.

(3.) To Robin Hood, again, we doubtless owe the familiarity of several names applied to the _spirit world_. Our forefathers were very superstitious, especially the country peasantry. A belief in “brownies,” “dobbies,” “pixies,” and elves kindly or mischievous, still largely prevails in places removed from the busy towns. Superstitions of this kind die where men are herded together. It is only in dusky woodlands ghostly sights appear, or in the silences of the rural churchyard or forest avenue that voices are heard whose utterance is not from human throat! Certainly Robin Hood must stand sponsor for much of the dread that nurses infused into naughty children’s breasts. The pet names or nurses’ names of Robert were “Robin,” “Hob,” and “Dob.” The _ignis fatuus_, to this day an object of apprehension, was associated early with the bold freebooter:—

“Some call him _Robin Goodfellow_,
_Hob-goblin_, or mad Crisp.
And some againe doe terme him oft,
By name of Will the Wispe.”

So says an old ballad. _Robin_ Goodfellow and _Hob_-goblin, it will be seen, represent the same name. Another title for the same was “Hob-lanthorn” (_i.e._ Robin’s lanthorn). Dr. Halliwell gives the term “Hob-thrush,” adding that it is always used in association with Robin Goodfellow. In the “Two Lancashire Lovers” (1640) it is said, “If he be no hob-thrush, nor no Robin Goodfellow, I could finde with all my heart to sip up a sillybub with him.” Here, then, are four names, “Robin Goodfellow,” “Hob-goblin,” “Hob-lanthorn,” “Hob-thrush;” all used to give personation to that curious light which occasionally may be seen in marshy and woody districts. How natural that these should be associated with that mysterious denizen of the forest, whose name was in everybody’s mouth, and who came and went, who showed himself here, there, and everywhere, and yet could never be caught!

“From elves, _hobs_, and fairies,
Defend us, good Heaven,”

say Beaumont and Fletcher in one of their plays. And every reader of Shakespear will remember how in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” the Fairy addresses Puck as—

“That shrewd and knavish sprite
Called Robin Goodfellow:”

while by-and-by she adds:—

“Those that Hob-goblin call you, and sweet Puck,
You do their worst, and they shall have good luck.”

In the extreme north of England the pet name for Robert was Dob, or “Dobbin.” Curiously enough, to this day the term for Hob-goblin is there “Dobby.” {63} I ask the reader, if this can be an accident? Could it have been possible that five distinct names should be given to the _ignis fatuus_, or to such woodland elves as were supposed to reveal themselves under his frolicsome light, all having Robert as their chief component, had not the thousand and one stories about Robin Hood and his merry men and their nightly escapades been spread over the land by the ballad-mongers of the time that immediately followed his death?

(4.) Once more: look at our _general nomenclature_ of men, birds, beasts, and shrubs. So common had “Hob” become in the northern and midland districts (for every man you might meet ’twixt York and Leicester was sure to be “Hob”), that it became a cant term for a country yokel. Thomas Fuller in his “Lives” speaks of “country-hobs” where we should speak of “country-men.” Thus, too, Coriolanus is made to say—

“Why in this wool-less toge should I stand here,
To beg of Hob and Dick?”

The _jack-ass_ is just as often called “_dobbin_” in the north, and an ewe-lamb a _hob_-lamb. The tame ruddock has become the “_robin_ redbreast”; a chicken, a _roblet_ (robelot, _i.e._, little robin); bindweed goes by the title of “Robin-run in the hedge”; the common club moss is “Robin Hood’s hatband”; while every child is familiar with “ragged robin,” and “herb-robert.”

Surely this is enough to testify to the popularity of Robert! The fact is, that Robin Hood gave a start to his name similar in its effects to that of a snowball. He has grasped all he has touched. He has left his memory upon everything. He has stamped his march upon things animate and inanimate. So long as we have a language and a dictionary, a nomenclature, and a directory, we shall daily be reading and looking upon words and names which, however meaningless on the surface, are teeming with recollections of the bold outlaw, whose thrilling adventures, whose kindly bounties, whose supposed devotion to liberty, made him the idol of his own time, and an object of interest to his countrymen so long as England shall endure.

And now we may ask, what has Robin Hood done for English nomenclature, so far as surnames are concerned? Well, in the first place, he made “Robert” the favourite name at the font for a century at least. We even find Robin Hood itself appearing as a surname. A tradesman bearing the sobriquet of Thomas Robyn-Hod, lived at Winchelsea in 1388. At the very time that Robert was thus popular, baptismal surnames were being established. As a consequence, Robert was no sooner a Christian name than it became a candidate for the place of a surname. Remembering the different pet names in familiar use, it will not be so astonishing that I should be able to collect no fewer than forty-six separately-spelled surnames, all descended from this one single appellation! while London alone could gather into Hyde Park as many as five thousand souls whose individuality is recognised by their associates through the medium of this famous title.

(_a_) _Robert_ has given us Robert, Roberts, Robart, Robarts, Robertson, Roberson, and Roberton.

(_b_) _Robin_ has bequeathed Robin, Robins, Robbins, Roblin, Robinson, and Robison.

(_c_) _Rob_ has left us Robb, Robbs, Robbie, Robson Robkins, Ropkins, and Ropes.

(_d_) _Dob_ has handed down to us Dobb, Dobbs, Dobbie, Dobson, Dobbins, Dobbing, Dobinson, and Dobison.

(_e_) _Hob_ has transmitted Hobb, Hobbs, Hobbes, Hobbiss, Hobson, Hobbins, Hoblyn, Hopkins, Hopkinson, Hopps, and Hopson.

(_f_) Besides these there were once such familiar French diminutives as Robinet, Dobinet, Robelôt, and Robertôt. These did not come directly from France or Normandy. They were forms adopted by the country people from the habit, common then as now, of copying the fashions of the more noble families. Elizabeth Robinett will be found in the London Directory. Hers is the only instance that I can find still existing. The rest were all surnames in the fourteenth century. {66}

(_g_) The Welsh, seizing upon the name, turned ap-Robert and ap-Robyn into Probert and Probyn, respectively.

Can I add anything to prove the popularity of Robin Hood? It is possible that we could not have spoken of Hobbism, or of a Hobbist, for the founder of that system of philosophy might have borne some other name. It is possible that there might have been no “Hobson’s choice,” for that worthy liveryman at Cambridge might, under some other sobriquet, have compelled the young collegian to take the next horse on the list, or none. Certainly our old friend _Punch_ would have been unable to poke fun at Cockneydom under at least one name of the famous company of “Brown, Jones, Smith, and _Robinson_.” It is possible, too, that “before you could say Jack Robinson” would never have become an English commonplace. How the phrase originated I cannot say, but it is a very old one, if the couplet quoted from an old play by Dr. Halliwell be genuine:—

“A warke it ys as easie to be doone,
As tys to saye ‘Jacke Robyson.’”