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man was innocent, if it still festered he was guilty. In the ordeal by
hot iron, a piece of red-hot metal was carried a distance of nine feet;
it was then dropped and the hand was bandaged as already set
forth. A knight had to thrust his fist into a glowing gauntlet; another
form was a walk with naked feet over a sequence of red-hot
ploughshares. We have a picturesque circumstantial and absolutely
untrustworthy monkish account of how Emma, mother of Edward
the Confessor, being suspected of an all too intimate acquaintance
with Alwyn, Bishop of Winchester, underwent this trial. She took nine
steps for herself and five for the Bishop, fixing her eyes the while on
heaven. "When shall we reach these ploughshares?" queried she.
How agreeable a surprise to find her little promenade already past
and done with! No need to swathe her feet, the red-hot iron had
marked them not at all!
The last mode was the Corsnæd, or Cursed Morsel—a piece of
barley-bread (or cheese), one ounce in weight. This "Creature of
Sanctified Bread" was adjured, in terms terrible enough to make the
sinner quake, to stick in the guilty throat, and cause the guilty jaws
to be clenched and locked up. If in spite of all it went softly down,
who dared to refuse belief in the man's innocence? It was chiefly for
the clergy, and from every point of view must have been the most
agreeable of the three, though a legend as untrustworthy as that of
Emma ascribes to it the death of Earl Godwin, father of Harold. As
he sat at meat with Edward the Confessor, the king brought up an
old scandal about his brother's murder, "May God cause this morsel
to choke me," passionately exclaimed the earl, "if I am guilty of the
crime!" Edward blessed the bread; Godwin made an effort to
swallow, choked and died. "Take away that dog," said the monarch
in what would seem an outburst of savage glee. This was on April
15th, 1053, thirteen years before the Conquest. Godwin in truth died
of a fit. It soon was the policy of the monkish chroniclers to write
down the national party of which he had been the head, a fact which
explains the fable were it worth serious examination. More
interesting to note the survival of the rite in the still current rustic
formula, "May this bit choke me if I lie!" If the ordeal proved a man
guilty, the punishment was fine, death or outlawry, but even if he
escaped, the Assize of Clarendon (1164) ordered that, in certain
cases, he should abjure the realm. By that time compurgation was
gone; in 1215 the Lateran Council issued a solemn decree against
Trial by Ordeal; and soon after it had vanished from English law.
There is a curious reference to it in the State Trials as late as 1679.
John Govan, a Jesuit priest, was indicted in that year at the Old
Bailey for an alleged share in the Popish Plot. With some hesitation
he claimed the right of Trial by Ordeal as an ecclesiastical privilege of
a thousand years' standing, but Scroggs and North peremptorily
refused to listen to his plea. "We have no such law now," said the
latter. Sir James Stephen assures us that the formula, "By God and
by my country," wherein, till 1827, a prisoner must answer the
question how he would be tried, sets forth a memory of it.
Of the customs akin to Trial by Ordeal only one can find mention
here. It was held that if the murderer touched, nay, even
approached, the body of his victim, the wounds gushed forth blood,
thus in Richard the Third, "dead Henry's wounds" are seen "to open
their congealed mouths and bleed afresh" as Gloucester draws near
the bier. And according to one of the picturesque legends of English
history, when Richard the Lion-Heart encountered at Fontevrault his
father's body, the blood gushed from the nostrils of the dead king, a
proceeding which, as Richard's offence was at the worst but
unkindness, showed a somewhat excessive sensibility on the part of
the royal clay. The oddest and latest case of all is from Scotland. In
1688 Philip Stanfield was tried for parricide at Edinburgh; one count
of the indictment stated how his father's body had bled at his
sacrilegious touch. The Lord Advocate, Sir George Mackenzie of
Rosehaugh, the "Bluidy Mackenzie" of covenanting legend and
tradition, conducted the prosecution, and philosophic and cultured
jurist as he was, he yet dwelt with much emphasis on the portentous
sign. There was no lack of more satisfactory if more commonplace
evidence, and young Stanfield assuredly merited the doom in the
end meted out to him.
WAGER OF BATTLE
Judicial combat is a fascinating yet perplexing subject, having many
side-issues whereupon the writer must sternly refrain. The case of
David and Goliath was gravely urged (a.d. 867) as a precedent to
Pope Nicholas I., and by him disdainfully put aside. The thing itself
was unknown in Roman law, though the old legend of the Horatii
and Curatii was part of its lore. But it was of the essence of chivalry,
and the duel and the prize-fight were its legitimate offspring. "Where
the hazel grew," so Mr George Nelson, our chief modern authority,
picturesquely defines its region, but our attention here must be
limited to England. That it was not with us before the Conquest
moves Bishop Stubbs to something of the scholar's mild amazement.
The Normans, it seems clear, brought it with them from their
continental home. A native accused of a serious crime by one of the
invaders was tried by ordeal of battle, but a Norman had choice of
the oath as well, and it was also used to decide which of the
claimants should have a disputed piece of land. After the legal
reforms of Henry II., it became an alternative proceeding in a limited
class of actions. These were the Writ of Right (the most solemn
method of trying title to land), accusations of murder, and treason. It
had place only in appeals, in actions, that is to say, brought not in
the king's name, but by an interested subject here called the
Appellor, against whom the accused or Appellee might offer to prove
his innocence by his body. The Appellor must accept the challenge
unless he were maimed by age or wound. Likewise he could "Oust
the Battle" (i.e. prove this mode of trial improper) if the accused
were caught red-handed. The parties exchanged gloves, and gave
pledges or wads (vadiare bellum); whence came Wager of Battle,
afterwards the technical term for the whole process. In civil cases, if
the litigants came to terms, the judge exacted a fine, called the
Concord, while he who fought and lost must pay the mulct of
Recusancy. In criminal matters he who resisted not till the stars
shone forth was branded as Recreant or Craven and was forthwith
strung up, and all his goods were declared forfeit. The Charters of
Exemption purchased from overlord or king show how hateful the
system was to the old English citizen. Henry I. enacted for a
consideration that no Londoner should do battle, and in due course
the men of Winchester, Lincoln, and Northampton obtained the like
privilege.
The story of Leicester is worth the telling. In the time of Henry I.
Earl Robert of Mellant ruled the town. It chanced that two burghers,
Nicholas and Jeffrey, waged battle on a plea of land. For nine long
hours they mauled each other with varying fortune, when one of
them took to flight, and staggered, all unwitting, on the edge of a
pit. The other saw his danger, and remembered that they twain were
kinsmen. "'Ware o' the pit," he shouted; "turn back, lest thou fall
therein." The spectators so lustily roared their approval, that the Earl
heard it in his castle, and he, after due enquiry, granted that in time
coming twenty-four jurors of Leicester should determine all civic
disputes. One strange product of Trial by Combat was the Approver:
a rascal who turned king's evidence, and fought with his late
companions. Sometimes he accused other malefactors, and if he
came off victor in five combats he was released, and banished the
country. This system fell into gross abuse, for the Approver, greedy
of freedom or hush-money, appealed honest men right and left. In
the chronicle of William Gregory the Skinner (1456) we have an
account of a duel fought by one Thomas Whitehorne, a criminal,
caught in the New Forest, and lodged in prison at Winchester, where
he remained for about three years, fighting ever and anon. "And that
fals and untrewe peler (= Appelar) hadde of the Kynge every day
1d. ob." At last a proposed victim retorted the lie in his throat, and
said that "he wold prove hyt with hys handys and spende hys lyfe
and blode a-pone hys fals body." Then the judge "fulle curtesly
informed this sympylle man" that "he and the peler moste be
clothyed all in whyte schepys leter." Also each must have a stave of
green ash, three feet long, the point thereof "a horne of yryn i-made
lyke unto a rammy's horne;" and if these ash-plants broke, then they
"moste fight with hyr handys, fystys, naylys, tethe, fete, and leggys."
Moreover, they must strive fasting on the "moste sory and wrechyd
greene about the town;" but "Huyt ys to schamfulle to reherse alle
the condycyons of thys foule conflycte." And we must follow
Gregory's precept rather than his example.
The Appellee, asking for inquiry as to his character, was reported "a
fyscher and tayler of crafte," and therewith the "trewyste laborer
and the moste gentellyte." The peler, with brazen insolence, offered
his character for inspection. There was much dubiety as to where
and how he had lived when at large, but "Hange uppe Thome
Whythorne" was the response of every reference he tendered. At
last the day came. The Appellee, as became an innocent man, told
his beads, and prayed long and earnestly, and wept full sore, and all
present prayed for and with him. The "fals peler" scoffed thereat.
"Thou fals trayter," yelled he; "why arte thou soo longe in fals bytter
beleve?" The defendant's sole answer was so lusty a thwack that his
staff flew all to pieces. Thereupon the peler's stave was taken away
from him; "ande thenn they wente togedyr by the neckys," so using
teeth and fist, "that the lethyr of clothing and fleshe was alle to
rente in many placys of hyr bodys." It fared ill at first with the "meke
innocent." His opponent had him down on the ground, and near
choked the life out of him. But presently the meek one got up on his
knees, and (the combat not being under Queensberry rules), "toke
that fals peler by the nose with hys tethe, and put hys thombe in hys
yee, that the peler cryde owte ande prayde hym of marcy, for he
was fals unto God and unto hym." The peler's subsequent record is
of the briefest, but, one is thankful to add, of the most edifying
description. "And thenn he was confessyd and hanggyd, of whose
soule God ha' marcy." Amen. "Victus est et susp," so for epitaph
wrote the official scribe against his name. And the exchequer
parchments knew him and his "1d. ob. per diem" no more.
The Champion, now but the shadow of a name, was a nobler
offshoot of the system. Originally a witness, he was finally
indispensable in civil cases wherein—for a legal reason not here to
be discussed—the parties themselves must not engage. He was the
proper advocate for churchmen, for women, and for the Crown; and
his last appearance for royalty was in 1820, at the coronation of
George IV. The Dymocks have held the manor of Scrivelsby in
Lincolnshire for centuries by this tenure, and possibly their
representative claimed a part in the pageant on the two subsequent
occasions, but to have him ride up Westminster Hall in full armour
and clang his gauntlet on the floor (as he did of old) would have
savoured too much of Drury Lane pantomime for the taste of a
cynical age. The Champion's dress and bearing were minutely
ordered. His head (e.g.) was shaven, but whether this was to give
no hold to his foe, or to fulfil some old superstition, is still in debate
among the learned. In the end he was usually a hireling, which fact
may very well have accentuated the absurdity of the system. At any
rate, towards the close of the thirteenth century it was only kept
alive by the approvers. Then Chivalry came with its Treason Duel,
and by the time of Richard II. the Chivalry Court was in full swing.
Its forms, mainly imported, were after this wise. Upon the
accusation and the exchange of gloves, time and place were
assigned for the duel, and here the lists were set and staked. There
were two gates, and hard by each a pavilion—one eastward for the
appellant, and the other westward for the defendant. To the south
was the judge's seat; and right and left were benches for the high-
born, while the commons were made free of the unenclosed field.
Near the judge an altar was decked with relics; and not far off there
stood a gibbet and a scaffold. Men-at-arms were stationed between
the palisades. There were heralds in gay tabards, a priest in full
canonicals stood at the altar—but it were wearisome to enumerate
all the officials.
The trial was held not less than forty days after the challenge; and
the time being come, the heralds demanded silence; and the
appellant was summoned three times by voice and by sound of
trumpet. As he marched forward he was addressed by the
Constable, "Who art thou, and wherefore comest thou armed to the
door of these lists?" His answer given, he was taken to his pavilion,
and afterwards was made to swear on the altar that his cause was
just. The other did in like fashion. Then the pavilions were replaced
by chairs whereon the combatants might take an occasional rest.
Napkins holding a loaf and a bottle of water were hung on opposite
ends of the lists. The marshal cried three times "Laissez les aller,"
and the pair went at it. Far better death than defeat. If either
yielded, the marshal cried "Hoo," to declare the combat at an end.
Then the wretch was taken to the scaffold on which his shield was
hung reversed, his sword was broken, and his spurs hacked from his
heels. He was now taken to the church where a mass for the dead
was sung over him, and at last he was haled to the gibbet where the
hangman claimed his prey.
This is the form of judicial combat that caught the fancy of our great
writers. In Chaucer's Knight's Tale there is the elaborate set to
between Palamon and Arcite. In Shakespeare's Richard II. there is
the fiasco of Norfolk and Hereford. In Lear we have the fight to the
death between Edmund and Edgar, and "every schoolboy knows"
The Templar's duel in Ivanhoe.
Chivalry passed, yet not the half-forgotten wager of battle. A claim
so to determine a civil dispute was made in 1571, to the great
perplexity of the lawyers. Elaborate preparations were made, but the
case was settled in other fashion. Under James I. bills were
introduced into Parliament to abolish it, but they fell through, and in
1774, at the beginning of the North American troubles, when it was
proposed to punish the New Englanders by depriving them of the
appeal of murder, Dunning, afterwards Lord Ashburton, described it
as that great pillar of the Constitution. Burke concurred, and the
motion was lost. Perhaps they have it yet in the States, at least Dr
Cooper, in editing, in 1857, the statutes at large of South Carolina,
treats Wager of Battle as an existing fact. In England the end came
in dramatic fashion. In May 1817 Mary Ashford—a young woman of
Langley in Warwickshire, was found drowned under suspicious
circumstances. A certain Abram Thornton was suspected of the
murder; he was tried and acquitted, but there was much evidence
against him, and he had played so ill a part in a horrid though vulgar
tragedy that the relatives of the dead girl cast about to carry the
matter further. Now, an old act provided that no acquittal by jury
should bar an appeal of murder, so William Ashford, Mary's brother,
appealed Thornton in the Court of King's Bench. He was attached,
and when called upon pleaded "Not guilty, and am ready to defend
the same by my body." He then threw down his glove on the floor of
the Court. It was a curious turn; for no doubt men thought that he
would put himself upon the country, and stand a second trial by jury.
There was much legal argument (set forth at great length in the
reports of the time), for the prosecuting counsel tried hard to "oust
his battle," but to no purpose, and in the end Thornton was set free.
In 1819, two years after the drowning of Mary Ashford, the Appeal
of Murder Act (59 Geo. III. c. 46) abolished the last remnant of
Wager of Battle.
THE PRESS-GANG
Smollett, Galt, Marryatt, and the other naval novelists, not those
well-nigh forgotten Dry-as-dusts whose works encumber the back
shelves of our law libraries, are the authorities for the press-gang of
popular imagination. The sea-port invaded, the house surrounded at
dead of night by man-o'-war's men with stout cudgels, and by naval
officers with cutlasses; the able-bodied mariner knocked down first
and then bid stand in the king's name; the official shilling thrust into
his reluctant palm before he is hauled off in irons—who has not
devoured with joy this wild romance, with its tang of the sea, its
humour and rough frolic, the daring and exciting prelude to much
more daring and more exciting achievements? But how far can we
trust these entertaining authors? And what was the legal status of
the press-gang?
We are like to get nearest the truth in a law case with its official
documents and sifted evidence and considered decision. The trial of
one Alexander Broadfoot for the murder of one Calahan is the best
available. In the April of 1774 H.M.S. Mortar lay at anchor off Bristol.
The captain held a warrant of impressment, but he could delegate
his authority only to a commissioned officer, whose name must be
inserted in his order; and the only one aboard was the lieutenant.
On the 25th the ship's boat was sent down Channel, with neither
captain nor lieutenant to look for men. She had no luck till evening,
when she came across the Bremen Factor, a homeward bound
merchantman, still some leagues from port, but beating thitherward
up Channel. The man-o'-war's men having boarded her, were
proceeding to search the hold, when they were confronted by
Broadfoot, the boatswain, armed to the teeth. He demanded what
they came for. "For you and your comrades," was the plain and
honest, though no doubt irritating answer. "Keep back, I have a
blunderbuss loaded with swan shot," said Broadfoot, levelling his
piece. The press-gang stopped. "Where is your lieutenant?" he went
on. (Evidently this boatswain knew a little of the law.) "He is not far
off," was the evasive answer, showing that the man's acts and words
had impressed his assailants. Did Broadfoot grasp the fact that they
were trespassers? At any rate, he let fly, killed Calahan on the spot,
and wounded two others. He was tried at Bristol, and acquitted of
the capital charge—for the action of the man-o'-war's men was
plainly irregular; but he was found guilty of manslaughter, for that
he had used more force than was necessary. Another case is that of
Robert Goldswain, a small freeholder at Marlow, in Bucks. In the
March of 1778 he was a bargeman on the Thames, engaged in
carrying timber to the king's yard; with a protection order from the
Navy Board to him by name so long as he should continue in that
service. But these were troubled times, the French had just declared
for the revolted American colonists and our war-ships were frightfully
undermanned; so, on the 16th of March, the Admiralty fixed the next
night for a general press on the Thames, with direction to seize—
despite protection orders—on all sailors and watermen whatsoever,
saving and excepting merchant skippers and men exempted by
special acts. Goldswain was in the net, and was passed from ship to
ship down to the Nore, where his captors were overtaken by an
order from the Court requiring a return to a writ of Habeas Corpus
issued on his behalf. Counsel's argument for the Admiralty—that the
device of first issuing protection orders to lure sea and watering men
from their lurking-places, and then pouncing on them under the
authority of a general press, was excellent—did not commend itself
to the Court, which, in the battle over poor Goldswain's body,
suspected some antagonism between the Admiralty and the Naval
Board. In the end my lords gave way, and Marlow received again her
ravished freeholder.
During the strain and stress of our eighteenth century war-making,
when we had every need of seamen to man our battle-ships, and
could not afford the market price for them, there was much
impressment, and through frequent appeals to the courts the law on
the subject was exactly determined. It was a prerogative of the
Crown, a remnant of larger rights which at one time took in soldiers
and ships, or their equivalent in cash (Hampden's famous trial scarce
needs mention); it could not be justified (it was allowed) by reason,
but only by public necessity. On command of the king all sea and
river-faring men were liable to naval service in time of war. The right
to impress was founded on immemorial usage, for, though given by
no statute, it was recognised by many. It was so held on the
authority of a case in Queen Elizabeth's reign: the sole customary
exception was a ferryman; but merchant captains were in practice
likewise allowed to go free. Only in Charles I.'s reign, when all the
Crown prerogatives were jealously overhauled, was there any
serious questioning of its legality, but it was exercised by the
Commonwealth as well as by the Monarchy. Given up in fact some
fifty years since, it has never been so in law. You find in Horner's
Crown Practice (1844) a form of Habeas Corpus ad subjiciendum for
impressed men, with the comment that it is little needed now.
Of the enormous number of commissions and statutes relating to
impressment, an example taken here and there must suffice. The
acts express amazement and virtuous indignation at mariners
unwilling to serve. One (temp. Henry VII.) sets forth that such as are
chosen, and have received their wages, shall, if they give leg-bail, be
amerced in double, and go to prison for a year—when they are
caught. Another (temp. Philip and Mary) reproves the Thames
watermen who, in pressing time, "do willingly and obstinately
withdraw, hide, and convey themselves into secret places and
outcovers; and, after the said time of pressing is o'erpassed, return
to their employments." After the Revolution an attempt was made to
establish a naval reserve by means of a voluntary register, and so do
away with impressment, but this was a complete failure. Then, to
foster the coal and other trades, certain exceptions were granted;
and still later, sailors in outward bound merchantmen were
exempted because of the hardship inflicted on their employers (the
hardship of the sailor impressed in sight of port after a long voyage
was not considered). When a warship fell in with a merchantman on
the high seas she impressed what men she would. British sailors
found on board American vessels were hauled out forthwith, and this
was one cause of the War of 1812.
Press-gang stories, more or less authentic, are numerous. Here are
samples which serve to show that the searchers did not nicely
discriminate between those who were and were not legally subject
to impressment. A well-dressed man was seized. He protested that
he was a gentleman of position. "The very boy we want," gleefully
replied his captors; "for we've such a set of topping blackguards
aboard the tender, that we wanted a gentleman to teach 'em
manners." Sham press-gangs for the black-mailing of honest citizens
were common. In one case a couple had given all their money to go
free, when the real gang coming up made booty of both parties, and
had them aboard in no time. The quarrymen at Denny Bowl, sixty
strong, were heard to brag in their cups what they would do did the
press-gang dare to molest them, whereupon "three merry girls" got
into breeches, put cockades in their hats, took sword and pistol, and
advanced, when the quarrymen ran like hares. And to conclude,
there is the legend of the gang that raided "The Cock and Rummer"
in Bow Street. They seized the cook. The customers, fearing for their
dinner, or themselves, rushed to the rescue. Long the strife hung
dubious, when the constable (he ought to have been a Bow Street
runner) stalked in. The gang, with a fine sense of humour, let the
cook go, seized him, and away at a great rate, though not fast
enough to get clear.
SUMPTUARY LAWS
"Act of Parliament" is a term apt to mislead. To-day it is enforced by
so powerful a machinery that practice conforms to precept; but in
mediæval England much law was dead letter. Statutes were often
mere admonitions; they expressed but an ideal, a pious intention.
This was specially true of the Sumptuary Laws, whereby the dress
and food of the king's subjects were nicely regulated. If you turn
over a book of costumes you find that man's attire has varied more
than woman's. The sorts and conditions of men were marked by
rigid lines. This fact was shown forth in their dress, and that again
re-acted on their modes of thought and habits of life. "Men's
apparel," says Edmund Spenser, "is commonly marked according to
their condition, and their conditions are often-times governed by
their garment, for the person that is gowned is by his gown put in
mind of gravity, and also restrained from lightness by the very
unaptness of his Tweed." Of old time man's dress was rich and
varied, but how to catch its vanished effect? In Courts of Justice
there is still the splendid, if occasional, bravery of the judge. See the
same man in private, gaze on divinity disrobed, and the
disenchantment measures for you what is lost in the splendid garb
of other days. In mediæval Europe the Church first condemned a too
ornate appearance. Thus, under our early Norman Kings, long hair
was much in vogue. In 1104 Bishop Serlo, preaching before Henry I.
and his Court in Normandy, attacked this fashion roundly, compared
his hearers to "filthy goats," and moved them by his eloquence to
tears of contrition. He saw and seized that softer hour. Descending
from the pulpit he then and there clipped the polls of them that
heard him till he must fain sheath his shears for lack of argument.
This rape of the locks was followed by a royal edict against long hair.
Alas! for this story. Rochester Cathedral still bears the effigies of
Henry and Maud his queen; each is adorned even as Absalom, and
Time, whilst it has mauled their faces in cruel fashion, has with
quaint irony preserved intact those stone tresses.
Two centuries pass ere the Sumptuary Laws proper begin. The 10
Edward III. c. 3 (1336) ordered that no man was to have more than
two courses at dinner, nor more than two kinds of meat, with potage
in each course; but on eighteen holidays in the year the lieges might
stuff at will. Next Parliament common folk were forbidden to wear
furs; but the 37 Edward III. was the great session for such work,
made needful (it was thought) by the sudden increase of luxury from
the plunder of the French wars. Some half-dozen Acts prescribed to
each rank, from peers to ploughmen, its wear; nay, the very price of
the stuff was fixed; whilst all wives were to garb themselves
according to their husbands' means—a pious wish, repeated a
century afterwards, in an Act of the Scots James II. The veils of the
baser sort were not to cost more than 12d. apiece: embroidery or
silk was forbidden to servants, and these were to eat of flesh or fish
but once a day. Cloth merchants were to make stuff enough, and
shopkeepers to have stock enough, to supply the anticipated
demand. Such apparel as infringed the statute was forfeit to the
king. The knight's dress will serve for sample of what was required.
It was to be cloth of silver, with girdles reasonably embellished with
silver, and woollen cloth of the value of six marks the piece. Under
Richard II. monstrous sleeves were much affected. A monkish scribe
inveighs bitterly against these "pokys, like bag-pipes." Some hung
down to the knees; yea, even to the feet. Servants were as bad as
their masters! When potage is brought to table, "the sleeves go into
them and get the first taste." Nay, they are "devil's receptacles,"
since anything stolen is safely lodged therein. And so a statute of the
time prohibited any man below a banneret from wearing large
hanging sleeves, open or closed.
The fashion changed to dagges, a term explained by the 8th of
Henry IV., which forbade "gown or garment cut or slashed into
pieces in the form of letters, rose-leaves, and posies of various
kinds, or any such devices." The fantastic peaked shoes of the
fifteenth century, sometimes only held up by a chain from the girdle,
were fair mark for the lawgiver, and under Edward IV. no less person
than a lord was allowed peaks exceeding two inches. An Act in the
same reign banned the costly head-gear of women. Henry VIII. saw
to men's garb as well as their beliefs. His first Parliament forbade
costly apparel, and there is preserved in the Record Office a letter
from Wolsey enclosing to the King, at his request, the Act of
Apparel, with an abstract, for examination and correction.
Exemptions were not unknown: thus, in 1517, Henry Conway of
Bermondsey obtained license to wear "camlet, velvet, and sarcenet,
satin and damask, of green, black, or russet colour in his clothing."
Under Queen Mary common folk who wore silk on "hat, bonnet,
girdle, scabbard, hose, shoes, or spur-leathers," were grievously
amerced. Under Elizabeth the regulations were numberless: thus
there is an act for "uttering of caps, and for true making of hats and
caps." No one was to engage in this business unless he had been "a
prentice or covenant servant" by the space of seven years. No one
under the degree of knight was to wear a cap of velvet. But these
were not pure sumptuary regulations: they were for protection of
home industries. A statute of the previous reign had declared that no
man was to buy more than twelve hats or caps, be it out of this
realm; and a previous Act of Elizabeth had strangely provided that if
anyone sold foreign apparel on credit for longer than eight days to
persons not having £3000 a year he should be without legal remedy
against his debtor.
On the 15th June 1574, an elaborate proclamation complained of
"the wasting and undoying of a great number of young gentlemen"
who were "allured by the vayne shewe of those thyngs." A schedule
was appended in which the costumes prescribed for all sorts and
conditions of men were set forth. In the Star Chamber on June 12th,
1600, my Lord Keeper gravely admonished the judges to look to all
sorts of abuses—"Solicitors and pettifoggers," "Gentlemen that leave
hospitality and housekeeping and hide in cities and borough towns,"
"Masterless men that live by their sword and their wit, meddlers in
princes' matters and libellers," and last, but not least, "to the vanity
and excess of woman's apparel." All was in vain, if we are to believe
the fierce invective of Stubb's Anatomie of Abuses. "There is now,"
he groans, "such a confused mingle-mangle of apparel, and such
preposterous excess thereof as every one is permitted to flaunt it
out in whatever apparel he listeth himself, or can get by any kind of
means." It was horrible to hear that shirts were sold at £10 a piece,
and "it is a small matter now to bestow twenty nobles, ten pound,
twenty pound, forty pound, yea, a hundred pound, of one pair of
breeches (God be merciful to us!)" After this aught else were anti-
climax, and so for the women he can only say they were worse than
the men. A new order of things came in with the next reign, for the
act Jac. I. c. 25, sec. 45, repealed at one stroke all statutes against
apparel. In Scotland they kept up the game some time longer, but
one need not pursue the subject there, though a curious statute of
the Scots James II. (1457) must have a word. It provided that "na
woman cum to Kirk nor mercat with her face mussled that she may
nocht be kenn'd under the pain of escheit of the curchie" (forfeiture
of the hood). In Ireland there was a law (says Spenser) which
"forbiddeth any to weare theyre beardes on the upper lip and none
under the chinn:" another "which putteth away saffron shirtes and
smockes," and so forth; but these were of English importation.
In the North American colonies sumptuary legislation has a history of
its own. In Massachusetts an edict of September 1639, declaims
against the "much waste of the good creatures (not the tipplers, but
the tipple) by the vain drinking of healths," which practice is
straightway forbidden. Excess or bravery of apparel is condemned,
and no one is to wear a dress "with any lace on it, silver, gold silk, or
thread under the penalty of forfeiture." Again, it is provided that
children or servants are not to have ornamental apparel. Here is an
individual case. Robert Coles, in March 1634, for drunkenness is
disfranchised and condemned for a whole year to "wear about his
neck, and so to hang upon his outward garment a D made of red
cloth and set upon white"—a very unromantic scarlet letter! These
things, too, passed away, but in the Maine Liquor Law of 1851, one
traces the revival of the old idea. In England the thing lived not
again. Under the Commonwealth public opinion enforced a "sober
garb." Charles II. had some idea of a national costume, but he was
too wise or too careless to attempt legislation. In 1747 the wearing
of the Highland dress was forbidden, but that was policy, just as
centuries before the Jews had a special garb ordained for them. Also
a number of laws were passed to promote home manufactures: so
under Charles I. and Charles II. the entry of foreign bone-lace was
prohibited, though the second monarch granted licence for importing
same to John Eaton for the use of the royal family. It would also
serve, he coolly remarked, for patterns. There is one other curious
example. Too much foreign linen was used, and so the 30th of
Charles II. c. 3 ordered the dead (save the plague-stricken) to be
buried in woollen shrouds. The relatives must file an affidavit with
the clergyman as to this, and £5 was the fine for him if he neglected
his part. Did the vision of that unseemly shroud really disturb poor
Nance Oldfield's last moments, as Pope would have us believe?
"Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke!"
Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke.
"No: let a charming chintz and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs and shade my lifeless face!"
"Narcissa" had her wish: the "Brussels lace" of her head-dress, her
"Holland shift," a "pair of new kid gloves on her cold hands," were
the talk of the town; so they tricked her out for Westminster Abbey.
Almost up to Waterloo the Act lingered on the Statute Book, till
some ingenious rascal brought an action against various clergymen
for the £5 penalty, for that they had not certified to churchwardens
the cases of non-compliance. And so, in 1814, the 54th George III.
c. 108 swept away the strange provision.
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