Note: you risk being hanged, not burnt. The English do not burn people for witchcraft; that sort of thing only goes on in Scotland and Continental Europe. In England witchcraft is not regarded as a religion or a heresy: in theory you can be a good Christian and a witch. Witches at this time do not yet congregate as a body, nor do they celebrate the sabbat together – that all comes later, in the next century.64 Nor are witches yet presumed to make a compact with the Devil; that too is a later development. There is even a time in Elizabeth’s reign when, technically speaking, witchcraft is not against the law. In 1542 an Act of Henry VIII makes witchcraft a hanging offence, but it is repealed on the king’s death in 1547; thereafter there is no anti-witchcraft law until the second Witchcraft Act of 1563. This is far more lenient than Henry VIII’s legislation. It does not sanction the execution of all practitioners of the dark arts, nor does it condemn witches to death for the lesser magic arts of finding lost things, destroying cattle and goods, and causing men to fall in love. The 1563 Act only makes it a felony: (1) to invoke evil spirits (regardless of the purpose); and (2) to cause the death of someone by witchcraft. That is all. If an attempt to kill someone through witchcraft is proven, but unsuccessful – if the victim is only maimed, for example, or if only animals are killed – then the punishment is merely a year in prison, albeit with quarterly appearances in the pillory.65 Even when someone is found guilty of murder by witchcraft, the authorities are very cautious about rushing to hang the culprit. In 1565 Matilda Parke and Alice Meade, both of Exeter, are convicted of practising magic upon their fellow citizens, but the magistrates do all they can to avoid hanging them.66
Nevertheless, be careful if you are tempted to dabble in witchcraft. If your neighbour claims you went to her house and said threatening words to her, and then her son or daughter grows sick and dies, you might be arrested, tried and hanged for witchcraft. Witnesses will be examined as to whether you may have dealt with any familiars, especially toads or cats. Your body will be searched for signs of unnatural marks: by these you are supposed to feed blood to your familiars to reward them. If one is found, it will be pricked to see whether it hurts; if someone does this to you in court, scream your head off as it will be presumed otherwise that it is a mark of the Devil. If you are accused of sorcery, witnesses will be asked to testify that you spoke with named infernal spirits, such as Marbas (who can cure all diseases), Furcas (who will give you cunning), Asmodai (who can help you become invisible) or Allocer (who will procure you the love of any woman).67 It is difficult to defend yourself against such accusations: often it will be just your word against your enemy’s.
This brings us to one last point about witchcraft: it is heavily biased against women. The 1563 Act itself is not sexist, but, despite this, 90 per cent of those accused of witchcraft in England are women.68 You may suspect this is a consequence of women being so thoroughly disempowered by society; for many women their only chance to get back at those who have wronged them is by way of spells and curses. Alternatively you may suspect that accusations of witchcraft are entirely made up and just another form of female oppression. Either way, as you ride along the leafy lanes of England and notice an isolated thatched cottage set back from the road, bear in mind that it may very well contain a witch. And if you say that she does not have the power to kill or harm you, the other villagers will think you are the one who is deluded.
A Sense of History
Elizabethan people have a heightened awareness of their place in history, unlike their medieval forebears. If you look at medieval paintings of biblical scenes, the people from the ancient world wear medieval dress, wield medieval weapons and sail medieval ships. The rulers may have changed but, to the medieval mind, life is the same now as it was 1,500 years ago: harvests fail and plagues come and go, kings are toppled and kingdoms invaded. In marked contrast, intelligent Elizabethan people realise that they are fundamentally different from their distant forebears. ‘A long-sleeved gown was despised of the Romans,’ notes William Horman. A carved wooden chimneypiece at Holdenby House depicts centurions in Roman armour, boots and short tunics – very different from any dress in the sixteenth century.
What has brought about this awareness of historical change? Francis Bacon gives a succinct answer in Novum Organum: ‘Printing, gunpowder and the compass: these three have changed the whole face and state of things throughout the world.’ But a sense of technological advancement is only part of the story. Anyone in England can see that the old way of life has gone. The great abbeys are in ruins; farmers now pile their grain in monastic granges and merchants stock their goods in the empty halls of the friaries. Aristocratic families are busy renovating their old castles, building spacious domestic quarters within the old walls, complete with large expanses of glazing, ornate gardens and long galleries. In 1574, in a semi-derelict chapel in Wigmore Castle in Herefordshire, Dr John Dee finds heaps of old documents dumped on the floor, where they have been lying since the last member of the lordly family died in 1425.69 All over the country educated gentlemen are making similar discoveries in old chambers dripping with lost time.
This sense of a world that is irretrievably lost encourages some men to record as much as they can of the past. The biggest impetus comes from John Leland, who travels the length and breadth of England and Wales between 1535 and 1543, describing the old castles, palaces, churches and towns he visits. He consults old documents and searches the remains of monastic libraries for literary evidence that sheds light on the antiquity of these places. The publication of his work, The laboryouse journey and serche of Johan Leylande for Englandes antiquitee (1549), inspires other historians. William Lambarde produces his Perambulation of Kent in 1576; William Harrison’s Description of England appears the following year; and William Camden’s Britannia – arranged county by county – is published in 1586. At the same time, others are sweeping away the remains of the Middle Ages. In the Greyfriars’ Church in London, about seven hundred tombs – including the carved alabaster tombs of several medieval queens – are sold to the city’s mayor, who sells them on for the value of the stone. The historian John Stow is outraged and starts collecting chronicles of the history of London, including a list of all the monumental inscriptions that were once to be found in the Greyfriars’ Church. He publishes the first volume of his Survay of London in 1597; and Richard Carew follows suit with his Survey of Cornwall in 1602. George Owen’s Description of Wales also appears in 1602 and his Description of Pembrokeshire the year after. John Hooker writes his Synopsis Corographical of the county of Devon and Sampson Erdeswicke his Survey of Staffordshire, both of which are circulated in manuscript. Suddenly, from nowhere it seems, every region has acquired a new ‘survey’ of its past. The same goes for the nation as a whole, with the publication of Richard Grafton’s Chronicle at Large and Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles in 1568 and 1577 respectively. The latter is one of the major sources used by William Shakespeare for his history plays.
As a result of this sudden and dramatic upsurge of interest in history, the Society of Antiquaries is formed in 1572, meeting at the heralds’ office in Derby House, London. Members read papers to the society, and share and discuss their research. Among their number are William Camden, Richard Carew, Sampson Erdeswicke, William Lambarde and John Stow, together with several historians, lawyers, heralds and archivists, such as Arthur Agarde, Thomas Talbot and Robert Cotton, who collects the greatest library of English historical manuscripts ever assembled.70 But such is the power of history that very quickly this society becomes controversial. In English law, past precedent can be taken as a legal principle, and historical documents concerning the succession to the throne are highly sensitive. When Robert Cotton lays his hands on Edward VI’s ‘device’ for the succession – in which the king recognises Lady Jane Grey as heir to the throne – he is asked to surrender it to the government so that it can be destroyed.71 That is just one example: he has many other sensitive documents. Later, when the queen is petitioned to incorporate t
he society and make premises available, she demurs. She thinks history is dangerous, as her imprisonment of John Hayward for writing about Henry IV demonstrates. And she is not alone. In the next reign the Antiquaries are shut down altogether, and a few years after that Robert Cotton’s library is closed by royal decree.
Society’s conception of itself develops over the course of Elizabeth’s reign – and its character changes accordingly. At the end it is still violent and charitable, corrupt and courageous, racist and proud. But it has seen that it has broken away from its medieval roots and that there is no going back. And with that sense of being different from the past comes a vision that things will be different in the future. Thomas Norton, a playwright, historian and MP, starts to use history to predict the years to come.72 The poets working at the end of the reign also understand the uniquencess of their position in time, referring to ‘the age’ in which they live as distinct from other ages. That self-consciousness is one of the most striking features of the Elizabethan character, made more so to the time traveller by its absence in earlier generations. It is another of the reasons why you will probably find you have more in common with Elizabethan people than with their medieval forebears. They have discovered the essence of modernity, with all its novelty, excitement and unpredictability. And who can blame them for being excited? After all, who knows what they will discover next?
5
Basic Essentials
In a strange country, even minor everyday concerns can cause difficulties. Which coins do you use to buy something to eat? How do you greet people? How do you behave at table? How do you tell the time? You won’t find the answers to these questions in traditional history books, so this chapter provides some essential information on these little differences.
Languages
From Shakespeare’s plays and poems you are at least passingly familiar with the language: you know it is not quite the same as our modern speech. The patterns and constructions are different. There are signs and signifiers, in the forms of puns and allusions, which may well pass over your head. However, most of the difficulties are simply a matter of vocabulary. The English language, which developed rapidly in the two centuries before Elizabeth’s reign, has more or less reached its modern form and now is changing mainly through the adoption of new words from Latin, Greek and foreign languages. There are many of these – Shakespeare’s vocabulary of 20,000 words is about twice that available to a writer at the start of the reign – and 90 per cent of them will present you with no problem.1 Unfortunately there is no such thing as an English dictionary to help you with the remaining 10 per cent. The earliest – the Table Alphabetical by Robert Cawdrey – is in preparation, but does not appear until 1604. Even then it is not a dictionary as such, but a list of difficult words from Latin and Greek that might confuse people.
Expletives should present you with few problems, as the tone of voice gives away the meaning. You may not be able to define ‘blithering’ (it means ‘senselessly talkative’), but you know that if someone calls you ‘a blithering idiot’, he is not paying you a compliment. Likewise if someone shouts ‘Sirrah!’ at you, you will be shaken out of the misguided modern idea that this is a synonym for ‘Sir’ (a mark of respect); rather it is a derogatory form of address used to talk down to boys, servants and men lower than the speaker in the social hierarchy. When most educated people make an exclamation, they say something like ‘Zounds!’ or (to give it its full form) ‘God’s wounds’. You may also hear people exclaim ‘God’s blood!’ and ‘God’s death’, both of which are used by the queen herself. In fact, Elizabeth is even known to utter the word ‘Jesus!’ as an expletive.2 As you may realise, this is highly inappropriate if you are in the company of Puritans. You will already be familiar with exclamations such as ‘O God’ and ‘Good God’, which you hear in many an Elizabethan home.3 To these you need to add ‘Fie!’ as a common exclamation of amazement, outrage or disgust; and the word ‘Faith!’ is used as an exclamation, when agreeing with someone emphatically.
With regard to more normal speech, there are two problems. The first is that you will come across words that you simply don’t know. If someone says ‘swive’ (fornicate), ‘cupshotten’ (drunk), ‘foison’ (profusion), ‘holpen’ (helped), ‘beldam’ (old woman) and ‘jakes’ (toilet), you either know the word or you don’t, and if you don’t you’ll have to ask. The second problem is a more difficult one: many words that the Elizabethans use, and which we we still use in the modern world, have changed their meaning over the intervening centuries. Think of the whole English language as a vast river into which rivulets of foreign words and people’s witticisms and new experiences constantly flow, the water turning over and altering all the while. Its continual flow and alteration make a living language – it is a river, not a stagnant pool of archaic words – and any markers placed in this flow are bound to be swept aside. Take the word ‘nice’, for example. In Elizabeth’s time it has no connotations of fluffiness – quite the opposite. It means ‘exact’ or ‘accurate’ and is quite a cold word: the phrase ‘they are so nice in measuring their bread’ means they are so precise in weighing it, not that they are generous. The word ‘cute’ changes similarly: it means ‘sharp’ and there’s nothing kittenish about it. Likewise you would be wrong to presume the word ‘mean’ has the same meaning as today. It can refer to something little or humble: a man ‘of mean estate’ has little in the way of financial capital; and if he is ‘of mean parentage’, this does not imply that his father and mother did not love him, but that they did not have much cash. ‘The meanest woman in town’ is not an insult, but a description of poverty, deserving of pity rather than condemnation. The word ‘several’ in particular is bound to trip you up: to an Elizabethan it means ‘separate’ (not ‘a few’), so ‘they went their several ways’ means they went different ways, not to different places together. If a man is said to be ‘romantic’ this means he is ‘heroic’ or like someone in a fable – not that he’s given his true love red roses. ‘Mess’ is not just a chaotic situation, but more commonly the word used to describe a sitting at a dinner table: if you and another person ‘share the same mess’ it means you’re both eating from the same plates. ‘Occupy’ has many meanings, most of which are variations on the word ‘use’ – for instance, ‘he occupied no silver vessel or plate’. A merchant at a fair can be an ‘occupier’,4 and if a man ‘occupies’ a woman it means he has sex with her. ‘House of easement’ is another word for privy or latrine, and so is ‘house of office’ – it has nothing to do with a place of work. Space forbids a long list of words to which you will need to adjust your vocabulary, but in case you come across them, here are a few more:
Misunderstanding these words presumes that you can hear them correctly in the first place. The range of local accents is far greater in the sixteenth century than it is in the modern world, with its relatively homogenised tones after decades of long-distance migration and communications. Sir Walter Raleigh never loses his broad Devon accent, despite being educated and spending much of his time at court or at sea. English-speaking Cornishmen have an equally ‘broad and rude’ accent, according to Carew, complicating their speech with certain local words, among them ‘scrip’ (escape), ‘bezibd’ (fortunate), ‘dule’ (comfort), ‘thew’ (threaten) and ‘skew’ (shun). Move further up the country and you will find different accents and local expressions. And if you visit London you will find all these regional accents coexisting. As you will see from listening to Henry Machyn (originally from north-east Leicestershire), or from reading his phonetic ‘cronacle’, a man might speak with a strong regional accent all his life, even though he moved to the capital as a boy and rarely (if ever) goes home.5
These are just the difficulties you will have with English-speakers. There are many Welsh-speakers still in Wales, despite Henry VIII’s legislation and Edward VI’s Act of Uniformity, which stipulated that English has to be used in all official walks of life. There is little secular Welsh literature. However, the
tireless scholar William Salesbury tries to resuscitate the language through a Welsh translation of the Prayer Book in 1551 and, along with Richard Davies, bishop of St David’s, he petitions parliament to publish a Welsh translation of the Bible. You might think that Elizabeth’s government would pour scorn on such a proposal, but it realises that the native language may be an important instrument in converting the Welsh to Protestantism. When William Morgan’s Welsh Bible is finally printed in 1588, it is as if the language has finally received divine approval. Moreover, the Welsh Bible has much the same effect on the language as its English equivalent has on the English tongue: it standardises many phrases and expressions and, in a manner of speaking, acts as a channel for the wide river of the language. It encourages people to learn to read too. Salesbury, Davies and Morgan save the Welsh language, giving it both spiritual and cultural meaning at precisely the time that the English government is considering eradicating it altogether.
The Time Traveller's Guide to Elizabethan England Page 17
