CHAPTER IX.NICKNAMES.

Wehave now reached the last class of surnames—that which we have calledNicknames. We have dealt withlocalnames,baptismalnames,officialnames, andoccupativenames. WithNicknameswe conclude our list. John At-wood, John Thomson, John Chamberlain, and John Baker, would respectively represent the classes already discussed. John Fox might as fitly act as the representative of our nicknames.

IfNicknamebe but prosthetically put foran ekename—that is, an added name, a, name appended to the Christian name to eke out or complete a man’s identity—then all surnames are nicknames and all nicknames are surnames. It is better, therefore, that I should state at the outset what I mean by a chapter on Nicknames.

I intend to take in only such sobriquets as were affixed upon individuals by their neighbours to expresssome physical or mental peculiarity, complimentary or the reverse, whether given in jest or earnest.

This is a very nondescript class, and is therefore much better illustrated than explained. If a man developed some grotesque or pitiful characteristic, either in his bodily shape or his mental attributes, it was just as easy to nickname him by the English term that most plainly described it, or to style him by some name of the lower creation that was supposed to represent that particular characteristic. Thus if Thomas were of crafty disposition, it would be as easy to nickname him Thomas Sly as Thomas Fox. Thus both Sly and Fox are nicknames. There is scarcely a moral attribute that is not found in our directories. In the same receptacle almost every name of every living creature in earth, sea, and air, is to be seen. Indeed, with respect to this latter class, we find in later days a reversal of the statement met with in Genesis ii. 19. There it is said, “And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof. And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field.” I say this statement was reversed four or five hundred years ago by our English forefathers. They gave the cattle, the fish, and the birds, men’s names, and gave to men the names of the cattle, the fish, and the birds. There is not a single domestic animal which was not familiarly known toour ancestors by a nickname taken from our baptismal nomenclature, while, on the other hand, there is not a single domestic animal whose proper name was not affixed as a nickname upon some member of the rational community.

I will give an illustration or two of what I mean. They shall be taken from the London Directory. Spenser says,—

“The ruddock warbles soft.”

Many of my readers will not know what a ruddock is. It was the old proper name for the robin-redbreast. Chaucer has the name in “The Assembly of Fowls.” But our forefathers nicknamed this homely bird robin. Every family then had a “Robin” in the household. Out of fondness for the bird that did not desert them when the winter snow enveloped the trees with a white mantle, but came hopping to the doorstep for a crumb, they styled it by the familiar term of robin. This nickname became so popular that it all but pushed out the more orthodox term ofruddock. But there are three Ruddicks and five Ruddocks in the London Directory! What does this show? Why, that as the man’s name of Robin was given to the bird, so the bird’s name of ruddock was given to the man. We find a Ralph Ruddoc registered so early as the Hundred Rolls. No doubt he got the nickname from some peculiar redness of the chin or throat, or because of some peculiarity in his habits or demeanour, which struck his neighbours with a fancied similarity to the bird. A sparrow was always called “Phip,” from Philip. On the otherhand, I find no less than twenty Sparrows in the London Directory. Thus a pye became a Mag-pie, from Margaret, and we still chant in nursery song,—

“See-saw,Margery Daw.”

Having given them Margaret, they have presented us with many of our Daws, all our Pyes, and the one Pie of the London Directory. How odd that while, as I have shown, there are so many hundred Cooks in the metropolis, they can only turn out one Pie! There is a large assortment of Cockerells, Cockrells, and Cockrills in the Directory. Young cocks still go by this name in Cumberland. Driving in my dogcart to visit a sick woman on the hill-side the other day, I went by a barn-door on which I saw a placard advertising the sale of fine healthy “cockerels.” But I may not linger. We may see in this same metropolitan record Swans, Finches, Herons, Cootes, Ducks, Drakes, Woodcocks, Partridges, Goslings, and Gosses, by the dozen. Gosling is often but a corruption of Joscelyn, and so is not of the nickname class. Goss is but the old spelling of “goose.” In our older records we find it registered as Peter le Goos, Amicia le Gos, or John le Gos. All our Pinnicks and Pinnocks are from the old pinnock or pinnick, the hedge-sparrow:—

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

There are eleven Wrens hopping about our London streets, and I daresay they often stand—not on one leg, of course—to stare at St. Paul’s Cathedral, andto think with pride on Christopher Wren, and his epitaph, “Si monumentum quæris, circumspice.” There are fifteen Nightingales, too, but whether or no they can all sing sweetly I cannot say. One of the happiest anagrams ever written was that upon “Florence Nightingale,” which by a transposition of letters makes, “Flit on, cheering angel.” It is as good as “Horatio Nelson,” which can be turned into “Honor est a Nilo.”

Many of these nicknames we see for ourselves could not have been intended to be very complimentary. A single quotation will prove this. We know that every great personage up to the middle of the sixteenth century had his or her professional fool, or joker. The “privy expenses” of Elizabeth of Yorke for March, 1502, have this entry:—“Item: delivered to John Goose, my Lord of Yorke’s fole (fool), in rewarde for bringing a carppe (carp) to the Quene, 12d.” Here is a palpable nickname for the office, the term itself being taken from that bird which was popularly supposed to reign supreme over simpletondom. “You goose” is still commonly applied to a child that has done something silly. That our “Gosses” should retain a forgotten and obsolete spelling is very natural. There are three Patches in the Directory. I crave their pardon for reminding them that their progenitor held the honourable office of “fool” to some English king or baron. We are all familiar with

“The king of shreds and patches.”

It was through this peculiarity in his dress the officialfool got the sobriquet of “Patch.” Henry the Eighth’s fool bore this name: “Item: paied to the same Pyne for 2 payr of hosen for Patche—xs.,” says an old book of “Privy Purse Expenses” belonging to that king.

Speaking of birds, we may mention the name of Spark, or Sparke. Few of my readers probably are aware that this is but a corruption of Sparrowhawk. Sparhawk was the intermediate form, and was once very common. It was a Mr. Sparrowhawk to whom the great Thomas Fuller jocularly put the question, “What is the difference between an owl and asparrowhawk?” His companion at once retorted with the reply, “An owl isfullerin the head,fullerin the face, andFullerall over!” This was but repaying the historian in his own coin, for no one has made so many puns and plays on names and words as Fuller. He carried it to an extent which in our day would be considered profane. Many will recall his prayer in rhyme—

“My soul is stainèd with a dusty colour,—Let Thy Son be the sope, I’ll be the Fuller.”

Again, in a spirit of devout meekness, he writes, “As for other stains and spots upon my soul, I hope that He (be it spoken without the least verbal reflection) who is the Fuller’s sope, will scour them forth with His merit, that I may appear clean by God’s mercy.” It was but natural, that when this great religious punster died, a suggestion should have been made that his epitaph should run thus: “Herelies Fuller’s earth.”[138]This was not done, and just as well it was not; for if puns are ever objectionable, it is when they appear in epitaphs. Nevertheless, one of the finest instances of paranomasia on record is to be found on the tablet to Foote’s memory in Westminster Abbey:—

“Here lies one Foote, whose death may thousands save;For now Death hath one Foote within the grave.”

A similar interchange ofnominalcourtesies is observable in the names of cattle and wild beasts. Pigg, Hogg, Stott, Colt, Bullock, Duncalf, Wolf, Lamb, Kidd, Bacon, Grice, and Wildbore all speak for themselves; while in our North English Oliphants and Olivants we recognize the old spelling of “elephant.” No doubt the original bearer of the nickname was of unusually large proportions even for the border country of England and Scotland. Speaking of Lamb, we are reminded that a brother-in-law of John Wesley bore the name of Whitelamb, and therefore could scarcely be called, under any circumstances, a black sheep! There are six Bears and eighty Bulls in the Directory. TheGentleman’s Magazinefor 1807 records the death of “Savage Bear, Esquire,” who was a resident in Kent. In the same article mention is made of a Mr. Mould, cheesemonger, in Newgate Street. But we have Bearmans, Bullards (that is, Bullwards), Bulmans, andBullpitts in our Directory, too. It was not till 1835 bear-baiting and bull-baiting were forbidden by Act of Parliament. It had reigned at the head of English pastimes for six centuries. Hence it was a common inn-sign. The oldest hostel in London was supposed to be the “Bear,” on the Southwark side of old London Bridge. Hence an old poem says,—

“We came to the Bear, which we soon understoodWas the first house in Southwark built after the flood.”

Every rich man had his bearward, and the royal houses had their “master of the king’s bears.” Both Mary and Elizabeth enjoyed a good baiting, whether of bulls or bears. The Puritans of course were against it, and so far were in advance of the times, but it is a peculiar feature of their opposition that they scarcely ever refer to the cruelty of the sport. Orthodox and somewhat dull Pepys describes in 1666 how he saw some good sports of the bulls tossing the dogs—one into the very boxes. A leading Puritan minister not twenty years later is always found, by his own published diary, to have sent his children to the cock-pit on Shrove-Tuesday to witness the “throwing-at-the-cock,” and he piously prays they may be preserved from harm while away (“Newcome’s Diary,” Cheetham Society’s Publications). Thus it is we find so many “Cockers” and “Cockmans” in the Directory. As for our “Cocks” or “Coxes,” every young gallant who showed determined pluck, or strutted in his gait, or gave himself airs, was nicknamed from the cockpit or barn-door dictionary. No wonder our Directory teems with them, for itwould be looked upon in bygone days as a pretty compliment. This is the origin of “cock” in such mediæval pet names as Wilcock, Jeffcock, Batcock and Badcock (Bartholomew), Simcock, Hancock and Handcock (Hans,i.e.Johannes), Bawcock (Baldwin), Pidcock and Peacock (Peter), Philcock, now Philcox, and Adcock or Atcock (Adam). To give my readers a list of the views propounded as to the meaning of this desinence would take too much space. Suffice it to say that nothing has seemed too absurd for those who love “guesses at truth,” without ever guessing right, to advance. Every rustic lusty lad was “Cock,” especially if he had a perky cocky way of his own. And in these names of Philcock or Jeffcock, we simply see the old-fashioned way of hailing Philip or Jeffery as, “Well, Jeff-cock, lad, how art thou?” “Pretty well, Phil-cock, thank’ee.” In the old play,Gammer Gurton’s Needle, Gammer’s servant lad is called simply “Cock,” without the baptismal name being appended at all. It is so in the mediæval poem entitled “Cocke Lorell’s Bote.”

But we have got among the birds again. We must hark back to our four-footed friends. There are no “Donkeys” in the London Directory—probably the only place in the world where they are not to be found. But this may be accounted for, perhaps, because there are no Thistles there either. Nevertheless, had there been an English Directory in the year when Domesday Book was compiled, it would have been otherwise; for, thistles or no thistles, “Roger the Ass” is among the list of tenants under the crown. Here we have been liberal: for we havepresented our good thistle-loving friend with no less than three of our baptismal names. In the north of England, where Cuthbert was the favourite appellation for three centuries at least, he is called aCuddy, that being the pet form of the saintly sobriquet.[141]In more southern regions he is known asNedorNeddy, from Edward. And north and south alike,Jack-ass is familiar to all. It is curious to notice how a name that has become opprobrious can be dropped. “Rascal” was one of our commonest surnames while the term only meant a lean, ragged deer; but when it was passed on to aherdof worthless folk the surname disappeared. One of the latest was Robert Rascal, who, according to Foxe, was persecuted for his religion in 1517.

I must not omit the mention of one or two of our household favourites. There are five Catts in our London Directory, entered in old days as Adam le Kat, or Milo le Chat. In the reign of Richard the Third, there was a rhyme to this effect:—

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

The Hog was the king, Rat was Ratcliffe, and Cat, Catesby. It is not often we hear of cat, dog, and rat, uniting together to worry others, and not one another!If I recal my history correctly, however, they did fall out in the end.

There must have been something sleek and smooth, if not stealthy, about the progenitor of our friends the Catts, I fear. But if our mouse-loving friends gave us their appellation, we were bountiful in return. For three hundred years the most familiar term for a cat was “Gib,” from Gilbert. Hamlet says:—

“For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise,Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,Such dear concernings hide?”

And in Peele’s “Edward the First,” the Novice says to the Friar:—

“Now, master, as I am true wag,I will be neither late nor lag,But go and come with gossip’s cheerEre Gib, our cat, can lick her ear.”

That Gib was short for Gilbert, our Gibbs, Gibsons, Gibbins, and Gibbons can prove. But “Gib” for a cat is obsolete, I fear; and now we speak of a Tom-cat. A female cat was called a Tib-cat, or Tibert, from Tibb, or Tibot, pet forms of Theobalda, which at one period as Tibota was our commonest girl’s name. In “Gammer Gurton’s Needle,” one of our very earliest dramatic plays, Dicon (Richard) says:—

“To brawle with you about her cocke,For well I heard Tyb say,The cocke was roasted in your house,To breakfast yesterday.”

Tyb was Gammer Gurton’s “mayde.” In the same play the cat is “Gib.” The maid says of Gammer while stitching with her needle,—

“Gyb, our cat, in the milke-pan,She spied over head and ears.”

The Kitcat Club took its name from one Christopher Cat, who kept an eating-house in London, where the club members met. The pet name of Christopher was Kit (whence our Kitts, and Kitsons, and the island of St. Kitts,i.e.St. Christopher): a conjunction of the Christian and surname formed the term. I may here add that Bishop Ken represents the Norman word for the dog, an old form being Eborard le Ken, or Thomas le Chene. We still employ the termKennel, which is from the same root.

This interchange of civilities has not been so largely cultivated between mankind and the finny tribe—at least, not in England. Boys talk, ’tis true, of a Jack-sharp, and fishermen of a Jack-pike or a John Dory; but there we end our distribution of nominal courtesies. But the denizens of our streams and becks and estuaries, whether in fresh water or salt, have turned the tables on us with a vengeance. No doubt, as the penalty of possessing certain peculiarities in gait, or habit, or complexion, many of our forefathers got nicknamedGrayling,Tench,Pike,Herring,Pilchard, orSturgeon.Whalewould be a nickname for a man of huge bulk. ThomasSprattwas Bishop of Rochester in 1688. We are all familiar withChubb, on account of his patent locks. A Mr.Coddemarried a Miss Salt, and their first childbore the name of Salt Codde.[144a]This is not more remarkable than “Preserved Fish,” which figured for some years in the New York Directory, and may be there now for what I know to the contrary. A Mrs.Salmonis said to have presented her husband with three children at one birth, and to commemorate such an auspicious event, he had them christened by the names of Pickled, Potted, and Fresh. I do not vouch for the truth of this story![144b]I may observe here that it is somewhat remarkable that quaint Isaac Walton, the great master, rather than “disciple of the rod,” wrote the life of the “judicious Hooker.” Most anglers are disposed to think that Walton himself was the most “judicious hook-er” that England has ever seen. At least, his success with the fish-basket was so great, and his meditations while occupied with his favourite pastime were so wise, that cynical Samuel Johnson could not say ofhisfishing rod, that there was a worm at one end and a fool at the other.

Talking about fish, what an odd thing it seems thatthere should be 181 Fishers and Fischers in the London Directory, only eight Rivers to fish in, and only sixteen Fish to catch! Nor is this all: they have only three Rodds amongst them, thirty Lines or Lynes, thirty Hooks and Hookes, six Worms, nine Grubbs, and not a single “Fly.” Nor do I see what they can want with three Basketts; surely one would be enough for but sixteen Fish. Speaking, too, of Fish and Worms, we must not forget the old epitaph on Mr. Fish:—

“Worm’s bait for fish,But here’s a sudden change,Fish’s bait for worms,—Is not that passing strange?”

The reptile and insect world is not without traces of representation in the London Directory. There is no Alligator or Crocodile there, ’tis true; but there might have been, had the following story occurred a few generations earlier than it did. Not very long ago, in a northern town, there was a town councillor who delighted in the use of sesquipedalian English. He would never employ a short word if he could lay hands on a long one. He was rather of a positive turn, too. One day a fellow officer made a certain statement before the Council. Up jumps our friend, and cries out, “That allegation is false, and—and the allegator knows it.” He has been styled “Alligator” ever since. Fly, Wasp, Bee, Gnat, and Bugg once existed, but only Bee and Bugg remain. Black-adder was formerly common, and still lingers in the Metropolitan Directory as Blackadar. Bugg, however, can claim a local origin, for therecan be little or no doubt that it is but one of the endless forms of Borough, found as Brough, Bury, Burgh, Burge, and Burke. Nevertheless Thomas Hood did not seem to like it:—

“A name—if the party had a voice—What mortal would be a Bugg by choice,As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice,Or any such nauseous blazon?Not to mention many a vulgar name,That would make a doorplate blush for shame,If doorplates were not sobrazen.”

“John Frog” occurs in the Hundred Rolls, but he jumped out of our Directories several centuries ago: and, possibly because his company did not please him, has never jumped in again. Tadpole, ’tis true, exists: but as Tadpoles in our Directories never manifest any further stage of development, the Frogs have never received any increase from them!

But these are not the only names we owe to the animal creation. Our forefathers loved descriptive compounds. After all, there is nothing very terrible in being nicknamed a “wolf,” or a “stott,” or a “peacock,” or a “buzzard,” or a “salmon,” or a “fly.” Our national nickname is “John Bull,” and who ever got into a state of virtuous indignation about that? Yet “bull” is not, taken all round, a very complimentary sobriquet. He’s a stubborn, bellicose, lumbersome kind of creature; and it’s wonderful what a little matter, such as a red rag, will set him into a fury! How frequently we term a man a pig-headed fellow. That was a favourite kind of nickname in old days, and our registers are not without tracesof this. We have still Colfox, that is, sly fox. Herring is common; but once we had Freshherring, Goodherring, Badherring, and Rottenherring in our Directories. Pigg, Grice, and Hogg are still to the fore; but Cleanhog, Cleangrice, and Pigsflesh are all gone. Hogsflesh, as stated before, still exists in the South of England; and a rhyme says that—

“Worthing is a pretty place,And if I’m not mistaken,If you can’t get any butchers’ meat,There’s Hogsflesh and Bacon.”

Other compound nicknames of the same class are Poorfish, Catsnose, Cocksbrain, Buckskin, Goosebeak, Bullhead, and Calvesmaw; but they have all been shuffled out of our Directories, to give place to sobriquets more pleasant of origin, and more euphonious in sound.

In my next chapter I shall proceed with this subject, and, if I can retain my readers’ attention, we shall discuss Nicknames taken from moral and mental and physical characteristics—not affixed through the agency of typical animal names, but by the ordinary and more direct phraseology.

Ourlast chapter was devoted to the consideration of nicknames of a particular class—viz., animal names. We said that, to all intents and purposes, Sly and Fox were the same—one representing a term for cunning, the other a type. But while re-asserting this statement, we are met by a difficulty. Many generations have elapsed since such a nickname as Sly was fixed upon its original bearer. Did the word “sly” then mean what it now means? Was the name “Sly” given as a disparaging sobriquet, or a compliment? Most probably the latter. Sly, or Sleigh, implied honest dexterity long before the juggler with his sleight-of-hand tricks ruined its verbal reputation. Even two hundred years ago only, when a well-known poet spoke of a good man as one whom—

“Graver age had made wise and sly,”

he was not misunderstood.

It is so with many other nicknames; and this explains the fact of their existence. Had Sly or Sleigh or Slee been confined to its present meaning three hundred years ago, we should not have found it in our directories in 1878. Our Seeleys and Selymans, our Sillys and Sillymans would probably have become nominally defunct, if silly had conveyed its modern meaning to the ears of our forefathers. “Silly,” in former days, impliedguilelessness; we still use it in this sense in the phrase “silly lamb.” An old proverb says:—

“Whylst grasse doth growe,Oft starves the seely steede.”

The best instance, however, I know of this use of the word is in Foxe’s Martyrology, where, describing the martyrdom of a young child not seven years old, he says: “The captain, perceiving the child invincible, and himself vanquished, committed the silly soul, the blessed babe, the child uncherished, to the stinking prison.” Here, of course,sillyis the equivalent of innocent, or inoffensive. Our Sillymans and Sillys and Seeleys may fairly claim that theirs was a complimentary nickname. I mention these as instances only of a large class.

When we come tobonâ-fidecases, we shall discover, not with any surprise, that almost all our nicknames are complimentary! Our forefathers must have been a most highly respectable set of fellows, judging by this famous Directory. They never got drunk, for who can find a man who but rarely transgressed the limit of sobriety in our directories? There is not atrace of meanness or cowardice about them. ’Tis true Coward is a common name, but then, as already shown, it is not a nickname at all, but an occupation, being none other than our old friend the cow-herd. On the other hand, see what a large number of Doughtys there are, and Bolds, and Gallants, and Prews, all backed up by Hardy, who worthily sits in the Cabinet. We meet with courtesy in our Curtis’s and Curteis’s; with nobility in our Goodharts and Trumans; with humility in our Humbles and Meeks; with kindliness in our Gentles and Sweets; with firmness in our Steadys and Graves; and with liveliness in our Sharps, Quicks, and Wittys. Nor are more abstract charms wanting. It can be truly said that there are plenty of Graces, for at least twelve appear. Faith and Hope are there,—only Charity is wanting. Honour, Virtue, and Wisdom, however, make up in some degree for the absence of that gentle quality. Some people are “Good,” but to be “Goodenough” and “Thorowgood” or “Thoroughgood,” let alone “Toogood,” seems only possible in our nomenclature. Many people, too, are “Perfect” in it, and “Sin” is not there, though “Want” is. Some cynic may say that Truth is conspicuous by its absence, but how can that be in the presence of five “Veritys”? Not merely are we in the atmosphere of constant Spring, and Blossoms, and Budds, but twenty-five Summers appear in the same year, and Rosinbloom blows the twelve months round! The “Tabernacle,” the “Temple,” and endless Churches for Churchfolk, Kirks for Scotch people, and Chapells for Nonconformists, are to be descried on every hand.Service is carried on from year to year, to suit all tastes; there are seven Creeds; Heaven and Paradise, with their attendant Bliss, complete the picture. Oh, what a wonderful community we seem to be in this directory of ours! Human nature would appear to have overridden and crushed all its weaker infirmities, and issued forth into something like what its poets have loved to depicture it. The London Directory is the great parish register of Utopia.

That some sad infirmities did once really exist our olden records show, if our directories of to-day do not. Who could conceive, after this last picture, that Bustler and Meddler once loved to make their objectionable presence felt; that Foolhardy and Giddyhead won for themselves a vain notoriety; that Cruel and Fierce delighted to display their unbridled passions; that Wilful and Sullen fed their hidden and unconsumed fires; and that Milksop and Sparewater had the impudence to show their faces in polite society? Yet such was the case! If there had been a directory of London published by authority under the reign of Henry the Seventh, all these names, and a hundred others of a similar kind, would have found habitation in its pages.

We may here notice that two modern instances of nicknames occupied public attention a few months ago. They are of advantage as showing how easily and even naturally sobriquets of this class fix themselves upon the bearers, and how readily they are accepted by the same. They are the more worthy of attention because they are borne by men of high estate. It was less than a year ago that theEnglish papers announced the death of a well-known native Indian merchant who had been knighted by Her Majesty. What was his surname? Nothing more nor less than Readymoney! The worthy merchant commonly signed himself as such. He was notorious for his princely generosity, and one of his peculiarities was to pay down at once whatever sums he devoted to the different charities he patronised. So well-known was he for this practice, that he acquired the nickname of Readymoney. The other instance is that of the King of Bonny. He was brought up in England, and is one of the first African potentates who has embraced and been trained, in the religion of Jesus Christ. A large amount of pepper has come to England every year from his dominions, so the traders got into the way of styling him King Pepper. The natives being more accustomed to liquid letters, turned it into Pepple. What is the consequence? The king has taken it for his surname; and when he appeared two years ago at St. Paul’s Cathedral, in the service held by the Pan-Anglican Synod, the newspapers did not fail to note the fact, and without any thought of depreciation of his high position as an African potentate, gravely announced that in the vast congregation that swelled the limits of the metropolitan cathedral, was to be seen, joining reverently in the service, His Majesty King Pepple! What can more vividly demonstrate to us in the nineteenth century the ease with which these nicknames—some sober, some ludicrous, some complimentary, some the reverse—would be affixed to certain of our forefathers four or five hundred yearsago, and cling to them and to their posterity to all time?

Every old list of names had its large proportion of nicknames. Take the members of the York Corpus Christi Guild of the fifteenth century. We find such associates as Henry Langbane (Longbone), John Ambuler (from his gait), Thomas Chaste, William Fellowship (from his social habits), Agnes Blakmantyll (Black-mantle, from some favoured garment she wore), Margaret Amorous, Thomas Brownlace, William Fairbarne (pretty child), Agnes Fatty, William Goodbarne (good child), William Goodlad, John Godherd (if not Goddard, then Good-herd), Richard Gayswain, Richard Preitouse, John Young, Robert Pepirkorne, John Makblyth (Make-blithe, a very pretty name), Isabella Maw, William Wyldest, Peter Trussebutt, John Handelesse, John Corderoy, John Bentbow, Robert Sparrow, and William Nutbrown. These are all trades members of the same guild in the then small city of York. Their origins are as simple as they are various. In Makeblithe, Fellowship, and Gayswain, we see a joyous disposition; in Peppercorn and Truss-butt, the owners’ business; in Amorous, Chaste, or Goodbairn, moral characteristics; in Blackmantle and Brownlace, peculiarities of habit; in Longbone, Handless, and Nutbrown, bodily idiosyncracies. And so on with the rest. What a mine of surnames is here opened out to view! How largely representative is the London Directory, we have already seen in the case of animal names, to which class belongs Robert Sparrow in the above list.

In continuing the subject, it is at once manifestthat we can but generalize. We have had to do so with all the other classes; especially are we compelled in the division we have styled “Nicknames.”

Look at bodily peculiarities. There is not a shape man can assume, but is described in the Directory. There is not an accident that can befall him but it is there recorded, just as if it were the entry book of cases for a London hospital. There is not a peculiarity in his style of dress, or management of his limbs, or complexion of his skin, or colour of his hair, that is not set down with as great a care as if he were a suspected character in a detective’s notebook. Nevertheless, let us be careful not to fall into a trap. A hundred local names look very like nicknames. Tallboy occurs twice in our Directory. These gentlemen represent the Norman Talboys frequently found in Domesday Book. Longness, Thickness, and Redness, may not mean Longnose, Thicknose, and Rednose, although nose was “ness” in the days when these surnames arose. Thickness is known to be local. Any sharp promontory on the coast is a Naze or Ness (i.e.a Nose). Hence such a name as Dengeness in Kent. A Miss Charlotte Ness inquired the meaning of the logical terms abstract and concrete. The answer was given in verse:

“Say what is abstract, what concrete?Their difference define.”“They both in one fair person meet,And that, dear maid, is thine.”“How so? The riddle pray undo.”“I thus your wish express:For when I lovely Charlotte view,I then view loveli-Ness.”

“Say what is abstract, what concrete?Their difference define.”“They both in one fair person meet,And that, dear maid, is thine.”

“How so? The riddle pray undo.”“I thus your wish express:For when I lovely Charlotte view,I then view loveli-Ness.”

Still we may safely assume of the great majority that they are what they seem to be. We will at once proceed to inspect some of them.

Let us begin with the head, keeping our eye meantime on the pages of the Directory for evidence.

We have Heads (often local) and Tates many; indeed, they are trulytête-à-têtein the Directory, for of the latter no less than eleven are in immediate proximity. We have Silverlock, Whitelock, or Whitlock, Blacklock, and the remains of an old fashion common to mediæval beaux in Lovelock. Redhead, and Whitehead, and Hoar or Hoare, and White and Brown, and Rouse, and Sangwine, and Black, and Blund or Blunt, are an innumerable force. Beard and Blackbeard are to the fore still, though Brownbeard is gone, and probably Bluebeard never was there. The Directory can show its Cheek, like any other fellow of forward disposition, and Joule is not far off. And although it has no Mouth, it possesses at least one Gumm, one Tooth, and two Tongues. “Tooth,” by the way, has been refusing some ecclesiastic dentistry lately; but it will need a good deal of tugging to get him out of the Directory. There is no Gumboil, I am glad to say, at present, but he may make his appearance any day, as he is known in other parts of England. There are eleven Notts to be seen, and two Notmans, whose progenitors were remarkable for their shorn heads. A man was said to have a not-head who presented this appearance, and in the old rolls was set down as Peter le Not, or William le Not. So althoughMust, andCant, andShall, andWill, lookas if the Directory (they are all in it) had a strong will of its own, we must not argue the matter so far asNottis concerned.

Looking at man’s extremities the feet, we again find that it is hard to decide whether the termination “foot” is of local or nickname origin. The Directory has all manner of feet: a Brownfoot, a Whitefoot, a Crowfoot, a Barefoot, a Proudfoot, a Lightfoot, and a Harefoot. Lightfoot has just footed it all the way to the episcopal palace of Durham. We may all, in congratulating the learned Professor, pray that by God’s aid he may be alightunto thefeetof his clergy, and guide them in true and safe paths. Remembering too, his predecessor, the firm, yet “kindly Baring,” we might concoct an epigram of our own, and say, with many apologies to the coachman for the liberty we take,—

Come, Lightfoot, mount, the ribbons take,When roads are downward on the brakeSet not thyfoottoolightly,And though the reign of Baring’s o’er,Holdbearing-reinas tightly.

Or we might put another play on the name:—

Lightfoothas gone to Durham’s see:If name and mind in him agree,Of foes he’ll have not any;For then a lantern he will beTolightthefeetof many.

Bishop Baring was so staunch a churchman as to put his foot on Ritualism. Hence a young curate in his diocese said, with more wit than warrant, that thedifference betwixt him and his bishop was that he was under Baring, while the other was over-bearing. Speaking of Lightfoot, however, I have heard my father tell of a minister appointed many years ago somewhere in the neighbourhood of Ashton-under-Lyne, whose name was Light. Coming unexpectedly into a room where a prayer-meeting was being held that a good pastor might be sent to them, he heard them singing the two lines well known to most of my readers,—

“Sometimes a Light surprisesThe Christian while he sings.”

It is said he was inclined to look upon it as an augury that he had done rightly in accepting the post.Footwe have already said is very common, but there is only one Toe, and, as is but proper, only one Nail. An old epigram says:

“’Twixt Footman Sam and Doctor ToeA controversy fell,Which should prevail against his foeAnd bear away the belle;The lady chose the footman’s heart:Say, who can wonder? No man:The whole prevailed above the part—’Twas FootmanversusToe, man.

Rawbones is not a pleasant name, and would be by no means suggestive of agreeable associations to its possessor. Some will recall Praise God Barebones, as he has been wrongly styled, for his name was Barebone, and it was never otherwise called till about a hundred years ago. There is all thedifference in the world between Barebone and Barebones, and a good deal of point is lost, therefore, in the elder Disraeli’s remark, “There are some names which are very injurious to the cause in which they are engaged; for instance, the long parliament in Cromwell’s time, called by derision the Rump, was headed by one Barebones, a leather-seller.” The reason of the change is simple enough. That assembly went by the style of Barebone’s parliament, and thus people forgot that the “s” did not belong to the name. The name is found in James’ reign as Barbon, and stripped of the two “e’s” ceases to be ludicrous in any sense whatever.

One of the earliest ways of forming a surname of the nickname class was to compound with the baptismal name an adjective of size, age, relationship, or condition. We are all familiar with such a name as Little-john, which may well stand as a typical illustration, for I see in my London Directory nine instances occur. The father of the original bearer was doubtless John, and the son being baptized by the same agnomen, the neighbours would readily get into the way of styling him Little John. The grandson would accept this as his surname, and thus the sobriquet would become a permanency. These compounds of John are not uncommon, for that was the commonest baptismal name in those days, save William. Thus we have Mickle-john,i.e.big John; Brown-john; Hob-john,i.e.clownish John; and Young-john, an instance of which I saw in Kidderminster not long ago. By means of French importation,or through our Norman forefathers, we have also Pru-jean, Gros-jean, and Petit-jean. Proper-john, though not in the London Directory, is very common in some parts of the country, and implied that the original bearer was a well-formed, shapely youth. This old use of the term is preserved in our Authorized Version, where St. Paul is made to speak of Moses as “a proper child.” Our Properjohns need not be ashamed of their designation. Speaking of Youngjohn, I may state that in one of our Yorkshire local directories may be seenJohn Berry, and immediately belowYoung John Berry. Doubtless the son was baptized “Young John,” to distinguish him from his father; and thus an old custom was but restored in a more formal manner at the font. As Young John Berry has now grown to man’s estate, as is proved by the fact that he occupies a place of his own in the aforementioned directory, we may, perhaps, some day see in a future issue of that same public register, “Still Younger John Berry” as the title of the representative of the third generation! The most interesting name in its associations, however, is that of Bon-jean or Bon-john,i.e.Good John, corrupted into Bunyan. So early as the year 1310 there dwelt in London a householder of the name of Jon Bonjon. My readers will deem it, I doubt not, a happy coincidence that when we speak of the author of the immortal “Pilgrim’s Progress” as “Good John Bunyan,” we are simply saying twice over “Good John”: once in English, and once in French. Probably the ancestor of the dreamer of Bedford wasa Norman tradesman, who had come over to London to better himself.

Speaking of these Norman-French names ending in Jean, such as Gros-Jean, Petit-Jean, or Bon-Jean, we are reminded that this mode of forming surnames was much more common in France than in England. A single glance at the Paris Directory will amply demonstrate this. We find Grand-jean (Big-John), Grand-perret and Grand-pierre (Big-Peter), Grand-collet (Big-Nicholas), and Grand-Guillot (Big-William). Of an opposite character we light upon Petit-collin (Little Nicholas), Petit-guillaume (Little-William), Petit-perrin and Petit-pierre (Little-Peter), and Petit-jeannin, corresponding to our English Little-john already alluded to. These instances, which might be amplified to any extent, will suffice to prove that nicknames of this class are far more prevalent with our French neighbours than ourselves.

But while such qualificatory terms as “good,” “long,” “young,” and “proper,” were freely applied to baptismal names, they were not limited to such. Long-skinner used to exist as a surname, also Young-smith and Good-groom. One of our most aristocratic names is Beau-clerk; and its opposite, Mau-clerk, once familiar enough to our ears, still exists in the corrupted form of Manclerk. Talking, however, of ears, the name that sounds most curious upon the modern tympanum is that of Good-Knave. This is no corruption, and meant exactly what it seems to mean—that the original bearer was a good honest knave! But then, as many of my readers are aware, there was a time when a knave was nothing morethan a servant or page. Shakespear speaks of one who is but

“Fortune’s knave,A minister of her will.”

Young-husband, of which there are four representatives in our London Directory, is a very familiar instance of this class, althoughhusbandhad no doubt a much wider significance in the day that the surname arose. Goodfellow is also well known; and, above all, one of our American cousins has made Longfellow famous to all time. If you come to analyse the name of the author of “Evangeline,” it has not a very attractive origin. The earliest instances I can find are in our Yorkshire records, and there it is set down Long-fellay. Even now in Lancashire and Yorkshire a fellow is always a “felley.” I wonder if Henry Longfellow ever heard of Thomas Longfellow, landlord of the Golden Lion Inn at Brecon, who must have made a somewhatlongface when he saw the following lines inscribed upon a panel of his coffee-room:—

“Tom Longfellow’s name is most justly his due:Long his neck, long his bill, which isverylong, too;Long the time ere your horse to the stable is led;Long before he’s rubbed down, and much longer till fed;Long indeed may you sit in a comfortless roomTill from kitchen long dirty your dinner shall come;Long the oft-told tale that your host will relate;Long his face while complaining how long people eat;Long may Longfellow long ere he see me again:Long ’twill be ere I long for Tom Longfellow’s Inn.”

The well-known publishers, Messrs. Longman, represent,of course, but another form of the same name. Indeed, as will be seen at a glance, this class could be extended indefinitely; so indefinitely that, were I to set all the instances down one by one, I should have to write a big book instead of a small one. This is exactly what the Editor does not desire; for which reason—not to hint that the reader might be weary—I withhold my hand: and indeed it is time.

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