Because the practice of adding an -s to a personal name that then became a surname first arose in England and within English-speaking communities, one might assume that non-English speakers were slower to adopt it. It didn’t stop them eventually doing so, of course. Quite the contrary, as the number of Williamses or Evanses in Wales in the 1600s and 1700s attest. That came as Welsh-speakers were transforming their traditional naming system into hereditary surnames on the general European pattern.
Here are two maps, one for Richard/Richards and the other for Robert/Roberts.
Hmmm. Richard/s may support my model, although numbers are low in the east. But Robert/s doesn’t appear to do so. What do you think? Perhaps the presence of an -s was merely the result of the preference or whim of the local literate elite.
Some of our most common surnames in Cornwall were very uncommon 500 years ago. Take the names Williams and Richards for example. Nowadays these are the the most frequent surnames found among the native Cornish. In the 1540s there were hardly any examples of people named Williams or Richards. But of course there were scores called just William or Richard, without the -s.
When was the final possessive -s added? This practice had first appeared in some English regions in the later 1200s and became particularly common in the west midlands in the 1300s and 1400s. That geography helps to explain why later, in the 1600s and 1700s, when Welsh speakers adopted hereditary surnames they looked for examples to their neighbours across Offa’s Dyke and favoured names such as Williams, Jones or Evans.
As the table below shows, in Cornwall in the 1540s the practice had yet to appear, with the sole exceptions of Harries or Harris for Harry and Hicks for Hick (a short form of Richard).
Philip (including Philp)
Names with -s as a % of all examples of patronym
By the 1640s the transition was well underway. By the 1740s, the process was complete for most names and William, Richard and Robert had become Williams, Richards and Roberts.
There were a few exceptions. Martin (and Allen) did not experience the addition and it only partially occurred for Bennett. Moroever, the development of the separate surname Philp in the the later 1500s meant that Philips did not become universal.
Today at Mousehole people celebrate Tom Bawcock’s Eve. Children parade, paper lanterns aloft. Traditional songs such as ‘Tom Bawcock’s Eve’ are sung, starry-gazy pie will be eaten. This age-old festival has its roots extending deep into the past. But how deep?
The event is said to commemorate the actions of Tom Bawcock, a fisherman who set out during a severe storm just before Christmas. This storm was the latest in a series so bad that Mousehole’s fishing fleet had not ventured to sea for weeks. In consequence the folk of Mousehole faced starvation.
But Tom was their saviour. Braving the gale and, in the latest iteration of the tale (The Mousehole Cat of 1990) with the help of his cat who soothed the tempest, Tom brought home a boatload of ‘seven sorts of fish’. These were promptly baked into a giant starry-gazy pie and the community saved from a hungry Christmas.
As Alan Kent points out in the most comprehensive account of this festival (The Festivals of Cornwall, 2018, pp.323-325), Tom Bawcock’s Eve underwent several revivals or revisions during the twentieth century. The first reference to it was from Robert Morton Nance, the Cornish Celtic revivalist, in 1927. Nance wrote that ‘at Mousehole this is the eve before Christmas Eve, which was formerly kept as a feast among the fisher-folk there’. This has been widely taken to mean that the festivity was still being kept up in the early 1900s. But the word ‘formerly’ would seem to add some ambiguity to that conclusion.
It’s not clear whether Nance observed such a festivity or not. He was not averse to reconstructing or re-inventing aspects of Cornish culture, as he did with the Cornish language. It was in fact Nance who wrote the song ‘Tom Bawcock’s Eve’ around 1910, a song he himself described as a ‘conjectural description’ of what might have been sung in possible earlier feasts.
Various theories swirl around the origins of the tale. Some assert that it was a product of the staunch Methodism of Mousehole, with Tom Bawcock acting as the shining exemplar of selfless commitment to community values. This would date it to the later 1700s or 1800s. Others, including Nance, suggest an older origin in pre-Christian times.
Anyone seeking an actual person called Tom Bawcock will be disappointed. Bawcock is not a local surname. The word was used by Shakespeare, in Twelfth Night, The Winter’s Tale and Henry V, and was a generic term for a fine fellow, an anglicised version of the French beau coq. Tom Bawcock was the perfect moniker for this local hero. Based on the Shakespearian provenance of bawcock some claim that the tale therefore dates from the 1600s. However, as the word was used by another playwright as late as the 1850s, it could imply a date anywhere between 1600 and the late 1800s.
While the precise origins of the tale, one that no doubt shifted in its telling, remains obscure, it’s likely that Tom Bawcock’s Eve emerged as a local variant of widespread pre-modern mid-winter celebrations, of which Christmas is of course one. In mid-Cornwall there was Picrous day, held by the tinners of the Blackmore Stannary on the second Thursday before Christmas. Other miners took a holiday on Chiwidden Thursday, the last Thursday before Christmas.
It may also be significant, certainly interesting, to read that there’s a traditional Christmas eve feast among Italian-American households called the Feast of the Seven Fishes. Were there seven sorts of fish traditionally, or did Nance, aware of the significance of the number seven in the Bible as a sign of completion or fulfilment, add this element as well as the song?
But at the end of the day who cares? As Alan Kent writes, ‘origins do not matter, only the event matters.’
Do languages have a life after death? The answer from Stuart Dunmore is a resounding yes. Stuart has an article forthcoming with the rather forbidding title of ‘A Cornish revival? The nascent iconization of a post-obsolescent language’.
The Cornish language as a traditional, vernacular means of communication died somewhere around 1800, possibly living out its last days at sea on board fishing boats, or hidden away in out of the way farms or cottages deep inland in West Penwith or the Lizard peninsula. Not long after its demise however, efforts were being made to revive it, eventually producing the revived Cornish of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, one based on the written Cornish of the late medieval period.
Stuart’s argument in his article is that the importance of this
lies not in the language as a means of communication but as a symbol for
something else. The ‘something else’ in this instance is the Cornish identity.
Apparently dead languages can still fulfil a role in shoring up feelings of
difference and identity. In this respect the precise nature of the revived
language is less important than its presence as a reference point for those who
wish to claim and proclaim their Cornish identity.