Not too long after Izaak Walton wrote a heartfelt guide to fishing in The Compleat Angler in 1653, George Gascoigne penned The Noble Arte of Venerie or Hunting in 1575. Both books were what today we might call how-to guides. Among the handy pointers Gascoigne dispensed was this: “There is difference betweene the fewmet of the morning & that of the euenyng.”
To figure out what he’s talking about there, imagine for a moment who his audience would have been. In 1575 being literate was nowhere near universal; for the most part only the upper class of “landed gentlemen” could read. For them, a hunt would have been more of a group social event than a matter of survival. In fact, in many parts of England if you were just a common drudge you’d better not be caught hunting, because that was a practice reserved for the owners of the land where the game was to be found — and that might even be the king (or queen), depending on where you happened to live.
When a hunt is organized as a quasi-social event — much like a round of golf might be today — clearly there had to be limitations and rules. And minions to take care of the low-level, boring or unpleasant aspects of the operation, such as finding out whether there were really any animals in the area that might be hunted. What they needed — and had, of course — was a “huntsman” on their staff.
The huntsman, as the word suggests, was a professional hunter who would set up and manage the hunting event to maximize the prospects for a successful outcome. A wedding planner with a musket, so to speak. To determine whether a suitable animal was in the vicinity — and “suitable” generally meant deer — the huntsman would venture into the forest looking for signs that a deer had recently been there. He’d look for spoor — droppings, or what in 1575 they called “fewmets.”
Gascoigne, by the way, explained in much more detail what he was talking about in terms of the difference between the morning and evening fewmets:
“You muste vnderstand that there is difference betweene the fewmet of the morning and that of the euenyng, bicause the fewmishings which an Harte maketh when he goeth to relief at night, are better disgested and moyster, than those which he maketh in the morning, bycause the Harte hath taken his rest all the day, and hath had time and ease to make perfect disgestion and fewmet, whereas contrarily it is seene in the fewmishyng whiche is made in the morning, bycause of the exercise without rest whiche he made in the night to go seeke his feede.”
It reads very much like a detailed how-to book today, although the subject matter is slightly different. “Fewmets,” which in more recent centuries tended to be spelled “fumets,” comes from Anglo-Saxon, and is related to an Old French word “fumees,” which meant the same thing. It dropped out of usage in the mid- to late-1800s, but has returned to occasional use in fantasy novels. Its resurrection is probably due to T.H. White’s The Once and Future King” the first version of which was published in the late 1930s.
Since fantasy authors are often writing for a young audience, some have adopted “fewmets” as a mild (and often inscrutable) curse. Poul Anderson used it in Satan’s World: “Speaking between friends and meaning no offense, you’re full of fewmets.” So did Mercedes Lackey in Exile’s Valour: “Caryo intends to be caught, so she can kick the fewmets out of him.”
There’s another English word that can be confused with “fewmets,” particularly when it’s spelled “fumets.” “Fumet” is concentrated fish broth used for seasoning. The words are probably pretty closely related in another way too; just imagine the aroma of “concentrated fish broth.”
