So You Say You Want an Execution...
by Sam Thomas
Writers of historical fiction love executions.
From Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, to Nancy Bilyeau’s The Crown, to my own The Midwife’s Tale, authors cannot resist the lure of the gallows or (even better) the stake. Such moments provide drama and tell the reader something important about the world our characters inhabit.
Unlike today’s executions which usually take place in a private (and bizarrely medical) setting, early modern executions had all the trappings of a civic ritual. Prayers were said, sermons preached, speeches delivered, all with the goal of setting the world right after a terrible murder. The blood of the victim cried out for justice—an eye for an eye—and the executioner provided it.
But the symbolism went further than this. In many cases, a murderer was executed not at the prison, but at the very scene of the crime. In 1668, Thomas Savage murdered his fellow servant, and after his conviction, he was hanged from a gibbet built in front of the house where he’d committed the crime. What better way to close the book on a murder?
Executions thus were morality plays in which the Crown saw justice done and overawed its subjects with the power of life and death. Given this public setting, it was important that everyone played their part. The condemned was supposed to confess to his crime and confirm that the execution was just. The crowd were supposed to bear witness to justice and the power of the government.
If this was the goal of the play, however, in many cases the actors or the audience went off-script and improvised an entirely new drama, with a much more opaque meaning. The first place that the meaning of an execution could go wrong was with the crowd, for many executions had all the dignity of a three-ring circus. Peddlers strolled through the crowd crying their wares, and many in attendance treated the execution as an opportunity for eating, drinking, and socializing.
One pamphlet from 1696 shows a preacher delivering an execution sermon, while behind him one can see not only the condemned offering up his last prayers, but a magician performing on an adjacent stage. (In this case, it seems better to be the opening act than the headliner.) In other cases, government officials explained their decision to publish the condemned prisoner’s final words by saying that the crowd was too loud for anyone to hear him.
If a festive crowd (and magician) could get an execution off on the wrong foot, the condemned could make things worse. In many cases, Catholics condemned for treason proved the most difficult to control. Some Catholics claimed to die as martyrs of the Church (rather than traitors to the Crown—a vital distinction at the time), kissing each step of the ladder as they climbed it, and in one case kissing the executioner himself! Once on the scaffold, they would use their final speeches not to affirm the justice of their execution, but to defend the Catholic Church.
In cases such as these, the crowd or even the presiding officials could get involved, once again robbing the event of its solemnity. In 1591, Judge Richard Topcliffe attacked one prisoner saying, “Dog-bolt Papists! You follow the Pope and his Bulls; believe me, I think some bulls begot you all!” Not to be outdone, the condemned replied, “If we have bulls [for] our fathers, thou hast a cow to thy mother!” Other prisoners taunted the crowd (who naturally gave as good as they got), or even engaged in raucous religious debates.
If executions were meant as awe-inspiring ceremonies that demonstrated the government’s power, many did not get the message, and we can only wonder what those involved made of such events.
Religious Upheaval during 17th Century England
by Katherine Pym
Many centuries plod along with not much happening. But when you come into the 17th century, it is a minefield of tempestuous action—all due to religion.
From the initial fears that James I might harbour Catholic sympathies to the hostility toward Charles I—a Protestant, but too popish—the century jogged at a furious pace toward religious revolt. Churches were gutted of their musical pieces, their gilded altars, and their stained-glass windows as the country descended into three civil wars and a king’s beheading, before settling for a quiet moment into the staid, dark Commonwealth years.
During this decade of Cromwellian rule, color all but disappeared. Men, women, and children wore black with no lace or ribbons. Mayday was no longer sanctioned. Bartholomew’s Fair and bear baiting could not be stopped, but drama, song, and dance were. Theatres were closed and Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre was pulled down.
Under the Commonwealth, the Book of Common Prayer was outlawed as being too popish. Ministers in the Church of England lost their vocations. Many ended up in debtor’s prison.
Religious intolerance sidestepped for a moment when King Charles II returned from exile. He wiped the slate clean with the Declaration of Breda, and people of all faiths breathed a sigh of relief. The king would bring a state of sensibility to England.
They were misguided.
Within months of King Charles II’s coronation, new laws were put into place that switched the tide from Anglican suppression to Presbyterian suppression. A group of restrictive statutes called the Clarendon Code (which Clarendon did not author) took effect during the years of 1661-1665 that intended to strengthen the power of the Church of England. Within these five years, the Cavalier Parliament rejected the Solemn League and Covenant of 1643 and quelled all nonconformist activity. To hold office, you had to prove you supported the Church of England and take Holy Communion.
By mid-1662, the Act of Uniformity installed the Book of Common Prayer back into church services. Those Presbyterian clergy who refused to use it were cast out of their vocations. In an event known as the Great Ejection, two thousand Presbyterian ministers walked away from their pulpits. Many ended up in debtor’s prison as their Anglican counterparts had done before them.
In 1664, the Conventicle Act disallowed more than five Presbyters to meet at one time for unauthorized worship. In 1665, the Five Mile Act forbade nonconformist ministers to come within five miles of any incorporated town, nor were they allowed to teach in schools.
While London burned during a conflagration in September 1666, Frenchmen were accused of being papists and setting the town afire. Several were hanged from lampposts throughout the city. The king and his brother had to ride out amidst people burned out of their homes to reassure them the French did not start the fire. God’s hand did it.
In 1678, Titus Oates set forth an early version of McCarthyism with the Popish Plot where, in a fit of frenzy, innocent men and women accused of being Catholic were imprisoned or executed.
King Charles II did not let slip that he converted to Catholicism, but his successor, King James II, broadcast it the width and breadth of England. After the Glorious Revolution, James was drummed out of the country, and finally, after so much angst and shedding of tears, his daughter and son-in-law—devoted Protestants—were brought to England as joint ruling monarchs.
England finally set a calmer course toward religion.
For more information on Anglican ministers going to debtor’s prison, please see my historical novel, Viola A Woeful Tale of Marriage. For Catholics in London, please see Twins, a 2012 EPIC finalist. And for more on the Act of Uniformity, please see Of Carrion Feathers. All these novels are set in London during the 1660s.
Prophecy and Polemic: The Earliest Quaker Women
by Susanna CalkinS
In 1659, over seven thousand women across England, proclaiming themselves “the handmaids and daughters of the Lord,” signed Mary Foster’s petition to Parliament. “It may seem strange to some that women should appear in so public a manner,” she explained, “but because the blood of our brethren hath been spilt, and also many thousands have had their goods spoiled and taken away, and many of them imprisoned to death…you [must] keep the nation from the plagues and judgments of God.”
The signatories be
longed to the newly formed Religious Society of Friends, a non-conformist sect known for “quaking in the presence of the Lord” that emerged during the tumultuous Civil Wars. The members, embracing the derogatory name “Quakers,” became known for their exuberant religious expression and for respecting the spiritual equality of their female members.
Like many seized by the millennial fever that gripped England in the waning years of the Protectorate (1658-1660), Quakers urged the people and government of England to repent their sins, to embrace the teachings of God, and to take the biblical teachings of justice and retribution to heart.
Emulating the ancient biblical prophets, early Friends openly preached and harangued passers-by, disrupted church services, and shouted out what often seemed to their listeners to be blasphemous declarations and warnings. Dramatically expressing their “Inner Light,” both male and female Quakers shrieked, cried, sang, cast off their clothing and “ran naked as a sign,” and otherwise buoyantly proclaimed the word of God in the streets, taverns, marketplaces, prisons and, most provocatively, in Anglican “steeplehouses.”
Not surprisingly, the earliest Quakers from the mid-1640s through the 1660s elicited controversy, harassment, and popular contempt wherever they traveled. Although Oliver Cromwell initially supported the idea of an all-inclusive state church in the 1650s, in practice both local and state authorities did not welcome the frenetic and disruptive activities of the early Quakers. Most early Friends faced physical and verbal assault by villagers and townspeople (often after being incited by local clergymen).
When Cromwell died in September 1658, the Quakers clamored for the restoration of the monarchy, believing they could convince the Stuart king to establish a broadly tolerant policy concerning religion.
Although King Charles II promised toleration with the Declaration of Breda (1660), thousands of Quakers were imprisoned when they refused to take the Oath of Allegiance to the King. Shortly after, the conservative Cavalier Parliament passed the Act of Uniformity (1662), the Quaker Act of 1664, and the Conventicle Acts, legislation designed to quash religious dissent among the Quakers and other riotous “schizmatics.”
While intermittent periods of toleration in the form of Declarations of Indulgence (1662, 1672, 1687, and 1688) occurred within the years of persecution, these moments were usually short-lived. Even after the Act of Toleration (1689), Friends continued to face imprisonment and loss of property throughout the 1690s for refusal to pay tithes to the Church of England.
While many female Friends shouted their apocalyptic visions on the street corners, others furiously composed their admonitions in hastily prepared tracts addressed to Parliament, Cromwell, the king, local and royal authorities, and “the world.” Although women in the sect could not take the same steps as their male counterparts—most notably, they could not vote in elections or hope to be elected to Parliament—they could petition government, seek to sway public sentiment in their favor, speak their minds publicly, and publish their views in political and religious tracts, despite the repercussions. While female Quakers only wrote 220 tracts of 3855 before 1700, as a group they wrote more than any other English women before the eighteenth century.
In a period when the monarchy and Parliament fought colonial authorities and themselves, Quaker women recognized and positioned themselves within these larger contests of power—physically, spiritually, and intellectually—allowing them to participate in the political community in ways that women usually could not.
Article excerpted from Calkins, S. (2001) Prophecy and Polemic: Quaker Women and English Political Culture, 1650-1700, unpublished dissertation, Purdue University.
Sources
Braithwaite, William C. The Beginnings of Quakerism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955.
Barbour, Hugh. The Quakers in Puritan England. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1964.
Carroll, Kenneth. Quaker History 2 (1978): 69-87 and “Singing in the Spirit in Early Quakerism,” Quaker History 73 (1984): 1-13.
Forster, Mary. These Several Papers was [sic] sent to the Parliament the twentieth day of the Fifth Month, 1659. London, 1659.
Gargill, Anne. A Brief Discovery of That Which is Called the Popish Religion. London, 1656.
________. A Warning to All the World. London, 1656.
Moore, Rosemary. “Leaders of the Primitive Quaker Movement.” Quaker History 85 (1996): 29-44.
Penney, Norman, ed. Extracts from State Papers Relating to Friends. London: Headley Brothers, 1910.
Reay, Barry. The Quakers and Early Restoration Quakerism. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1985.
Russell, Elbert. The History of Quakerism. Richmond, IN: Friends United Press, 1979.
The First Actresses: Nell Gwyn to Sarah Siddons
by Karen Wasylowski
As many know, before the Restoration of the Monarchy in England women’s parts in plays were performed by men. When the first professional actress (no one knows her name) stepped out as Desdemona, the prologue leered:
I saw the Lady dressed!
The woman plays today! Mistake me not;
No man in gown, or page in petticoat;
A woman to my knowledge, yet I can’t
(If I should die) make affidavit on’t.
Do you not twitter, gentlemen?
It was the year of our Lord December 8, 1660, and through an edict by Charles II, women were finally allowed to legally perform, on stage, in public. During his exile in France, the King had seen females on stage, had enjoyed the view, and, he noted, there had been no outcry or panic in the streets because of it. So a new career path was created for British women and a new job title was born: British Actress.
These women became the Dame Judi’s and Dame Helen’s of their day.
In the beginning, there was the teenage bombshell, the orange seller, the one and only Nell Gwyn, or “Pretty Witty Nell” as she was known then, the first recognizable celebrity in British pop culture. She was sexy and funny; she was even the mistress of the king. Simon Verelst’s two portraits of her demonstrate her playfullness, her use of the “wardrobe malfunction” to enhance her notoriety. In one portrait her top exposes just a bit of nipple, another portrait exposes everything. Nell was the original “pin-up” girl and a definite show stopper as seen in a recent exhibition, “The First Actresses,” held at London’s National Portrait Gallery. It is not her obvious charms that surprise people, however—we see more skin that this most evenings on cable television—no, it is her obvious charisma, her calm, regal, shameless stare, her “right back at you, buddy” confidence.
By the mid-eighteenth century, the Theatres Royal at Drury Lane and Covent Garden were thriving, but standing unfortunately amidst other businesses, those of a questionable sort and not quite so inspiring. The brothels of London surrounding the theatre district increased the connection between theater and sex, acting and prostitution, despite the fact that many actresses sought legitimacy.
Further feeding the sexual frenzy was the new popularity of “cross-over” or “breeches” roles for women. The actresses Peg Woffington, Frances Abington, and Dorothy Jordan all gained great popularity, and notoriety, with their comedic turns in a man’s breeches. The line between performer and person began to blur with the women now being associated with the roles they played. For example, in the 1770s the actress, Mary Robinson, was often known as “Perdita” after her role in Shakespeare’s play The Winter’s Tale. Critics became obsessed with actresses’ personal lives, their fashion sense, and their stage outfits.
In 1768, Sir Joshua Reynolds founded The Royal Academy of Art, with its exhibition of portraiture one of the most popular genres. Theatre owners such as David Garrick, among others, sought to bring a greater legitimacy, attain a more reputable status to their theatres, and a bond was formed between the arts. This alliance provided us with many lar
ge scale paintings of, among others, the great Sarah Siddons in her famous pose as Tragic Muse. Full length portraits by famous artists provided a dignity, a positive image of their roles and their acting ability. It was also great advertising.
A refined, gentle, sort of eighteenth century Paparazzi mentality had begun.
Francis Hayman, Johann Zoffany, and James Robert, among other artists, became well known for portraits of the actress in their most famous roles. Paintings of actresses depicted center stage became wildly popular, glamorizing the women and associating them with certain parts in the minds of the populace such as Roberts’ portrait of Abington in the famous library scene in Richard Sheridan’s play The School for Scandal, first performed in 1777. A new enthusiasm began from this—the amateur theatrical.
Certain members of the aristocracy built private theatres in their country homes, rehearsing and giving plays for each other, and having their amateur dramatics immortalised on canvas, such as the famous painting of a production of Macbeth, where the three witches are none other than Elizabeth Lamb, Viscountess Melbourne, the famous beauty Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, and Anne Seymour Damer.
Secret Service, Spies, and Underhanded Dealings during the 17th Century
by Katherine Pym
As historian Violet Barbour wrote in the biography, Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington (published 1914), “The ministers of Charles II were not chosen for their honesty…”
This did not make Charles II a stupid man, but one who had gone through years of hardship. His life had often been in peril. Men conspired against him or tried to rule him. This left its mark. To watch for underhanded dealings during his reign, he sought out men who would meet toe-to-toe those who threatened the king and his court.
Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors Page 34
