Town Life in the Fifteenth Century, Volume 2 (of 2)

by Alice Stopford Green

This practice was no doubt rare, but the theory that the mayor was the elected servant of the whole people, enshrined in the town book of customs, in ordinance and statute, never died out of the common speech and belief of the people. “We must obey our chief bailiff as one presenting the person of the king,” the burghers of Hereford say deferentially, and proceed to make him swear on assuming office “that he shall do all things belonging to his office by the counsel of his faithful citizens”; and to order that if he refused to answer complaints he should be proceeded against as for perjury; that if his accounts were not faithfully rendered all his goods should be seized; and that if “he shall be dishonest or proclaimed or suspected or convicted of any crime, he shall forthwith be put out of his place.”[435] And as the mayor was the people’s servant, so in theory at least his election was supposed to be of their pure free-will. “From this time forth,” say the inhabitants of Wycombe in 1505, “no burgess nor foreigner make no labour, nor desire no man to speak before the day of election of the mayor for no singular desire, but every man to show their voices at their own mind, without trouble or unreasonable doing there in the time of their election.”[436]

The chosen head of the people was thus to the popular sentiment the type and symbol of their freedom, and a Bristol chronicler tells us how, the mayor being accused by an enemy of the king’s household, the townspeople followed after him as he was led to prison, lamenting and weeping “as sons for their natural father.”[437] He was assisted by councillors also chosen to uphold the liberties of the borough; and the frequent use of elected juries in public business served still further to maintain the ancient tradition of rights vested in the people. In the manor courts of the country the jury made its way slowly and with difficulty, but in the town courts it seems to have taken complete hold very early, and to have been worked constantly and elaborately.[438] The system was applied to all manner of local business. Not only did the Leet jury in some towns, as in Nottingham and Andover, occupy itself with a vast range of affairs connected with government and legislation; but it was a universal custom to appoint representatives of the community for any special purpose. Everywhere we have glimpses of bodies of jurors chosen to elect officers, to assess taxes, to make statements as to a broken bridge, to hold discussions about tallages or about disputed boundaries[439]—transient apparitions supposed, when their work is done, to dissolve into their constituent householders, and which appear and vanish again as the centuries pass, till the burghers, recognizing in them an admirable machinery for larger uses, fix or seek to fix them into permanent existence as town councils. To a people inheriting the high and inalienable prerogatives of a chartered borough, with the right of free meeting and free speech in their general assembly, presided over by a “natural father” of their own choosing, the jury system might seem to afford the final safeguard of liberty.

Such was the ideal of a self-governing community in early times—an ideal to which in later ages men looked back wistfully, as summing up the faith and practice of a golden age. Whenever the mayor was summoned to take his oath to the people on “the Black Book” of the city, instead of the Gospels;[440] whenever according to custom the ancient ordinances of the town were yearly read before the people gathered together, the ideal of a noble liberty was proclaimed anew. The boast that the borough’s rights were founded and grounded upon franchises, liberties, and free ancient customs, and not upon common law,[441] remained a living faith; and a tradition of independence sanctioned and enjoined by authority was handed down from generation to generation, by men who believed themselves born into a birthright of freedom for which they need plead neither the law of nature nor the law of Rome,[442] since it was the honest handicraft of English kings and English lawyers, and paid for in hard cash out of their own grandfathers’ pockets.

But behind law and charter there lay always the great appeal to immemorial custom. In that dim time of which no memory is, a power yet more venerable and imposing than law itself had been the keeper of popular liberties; and to the last we may perhaps trace the obscure record of a double origin of rights in the two words by which the borough expressed its corporate existence—the “Citizens” or “Burgesses,” and the “Commonalty” or “Community.” By the common explanation of these terms they are supposed originally to have borne exactly the same meaning, and alike served to express the general body of freemen in the borough; but presently to have diverged in sense as the more important “citizens” gradually absorbed the management of public business, and appropriated to themselves the name of honour, while the lower classes were massed together as “the communitas,” so that this word at last came to be little more than a contemptuous nick-name given to the mob in the later days of oligarchic rule. In the town records, however, we find these two words used from first to last in a precise and formal manner which is most characteristic of the Middle Ages; each one having its own character and meaning, and neither of them invading the place of the other. As far back as the thirteenth century “the Burgesses” already appear as distinct from the commons at large, and use their title with an official and technical significance attached to the phraze which gives it a special value.[443] The use of the word in charters and deeds seems then to denote the corporate body of citizens who had been legally endowed with certain privileges, whose association had been created by charter and was dissolved if the borough lost its franchise; and who in a vast mass of business, and especially in relations of the borough to the crown, were represented by the official body of the town which acted in their name, and especially assumed the title of “the Burgesses.”

But behind this corporate body lies the “communitas”—a term which has a far earlier origin and a far deeper meaning. Whatever may be the base use of the word which has crept into chronicles and common talk, in municipal deeds and ordinances it is a name of dignity and honour—an ancient title of nobility. It carries the mind far back to the primitive society of householders in the ville, bound by mutual ties and protected by customary rights, which had preceded the free borough, and by its discipline had created the advanced type of commonwealth which is discovered to us in Ipswich at the inauguration of its new career as a chartered town. We feel the story of new beginnings such as this to be the consummation of a long history; and even under the corporate life of the citizens recognized by law we may sometimes detect the persistent survival of the ancient community, which still emerges in the half light with its consecrated title, and the remnants of its old functions ever clinging to its shadowy form. For it seems that in municipal records the “community” or “commune” possibly appears as something which existed before the corporation in time,[444] which might have its common seal separate from the mayor’s seal,[445] which held property and exercised certain powers, and independent as it was of all charters, survived all loss of franchises conferred by royal grant alone. We seem to find it asserting its existence when the borough had been dismembered, and there was no longer any place for “the citizens.” It sends its appeals to the King over the heads of the official caste; when an intermunicipal treaty has to be drawn up the “communitas” usually appears as the contracting body, whose members are bound together in mutual responsibility; it claimed to hold common property of the borough under its own name and apparently by some other title than the burgesses; and by its very existence it maintained to the last the tradition of an ancient free community reaching back to a time of which no memory was, and endowed with prerogatives on which neither mayor nor council dared to lay their hands.

The privileges of the early community were no doubt quickly merged in the more liberal rights which were made sure to the borough by its charter; but there was one department, the management of their common lands, in which the existence of a separate power seems to exhibit itself beyond all doubt.[446] Never did the commonalty abandon their right of control over the public estate. The division of strips of arable ground, the apportionment of pastures and closes, the letting of stalls or fields, the gathering in of rents for burgages or common property let on lease, these were things done by the act and in the name of the whole community, without any mention of “council” or “citizens”; and in one borough after another any tampering with the public estate by the governing class drove the whole body of inhabitants into the streets threatening revolution. In their claim to “have knowledge from year to year how the common ground is occupied and by whom, and if that it be not rented the commons to seize it into their hands, to that end that they may be remembered of their right, and to have profit and avail thereof” ... and “to know verily what their rent cometh to,”[447] the freemen of the fifteenth century carried on a tradition known in the boroughs two hundred years before, and in many instances their tenacious grip on the town lands was evidently one of the most important factors in the shaping of town politics.[448]

From the very beginning of municipal records, therefore, we find the town living as it were a double life—the one buttressed on either side by law and charter—the other sending roots deep down into the past, and drawing from primitive custom and tradition a sustenance which “Westminster law”[449] could neither give nor take away; the one regularly expressed in the stately proceedings of “the Citizens”—the other finding a fitful and incoherent, but no less distinctive utterance in the doings of “the commonalty;” and the two, intimately allied and constantly hostile, persisting side by side through centuries of strained but honourable union. With these immemorial traditions of franchises, liberties, and free ancient customs, it followed that when burghers set up any plea for liberties old or new they imported no revolutionary note into their demands. It is hard to tell from what source they drew their faith in a freedom which they confessed to have been lost, which indeed neither they nor their fathers had known; but it seems that the conviction never failed of an ancient type and pattern of liberty which had been proved once for all by remote ancestors of the heroic age. Townsmen professed to claim nothing more than such privileges as were “according to our Red Book as we do think”; or that had been bestowed by a charter of the House of Alfred which had once compassed them about with liberty, though it was now, alas, casualiter amissa; or that dated back to the time when the grace of the Lady Godiva had broken the bonds of slavery. Just as Englishmen under the rule of the foreign kings looked back with desire to the good laws of the Confessor, so the burghers had their fiction, too, of the joy of their first estate as by law established, and turned over the rolls of their treasure chest and bought copies of Magna Charta, to discover anew the light of privilege that had once irradiated the whole commonalty. We have seen in the case of Exeter how this essential faith of the people survived, as it had preceded, their study of historical documents. As the spirit of independence and discussion awoke, the conflict that was presently to be waged in the domain of religion was oddly foreshadowed in the realm of municipal politics; when the common folk demanded that they should be allowed to return to the written law in its primitive and unadulterated purity; while the guardians of established order, aldermen and councillors and great people of “the clothing,”—resting on the theory of a living tradition and its secular “developement,”—appealed with no less confidence and insistence to the majesty of law as it appeared when interpreted by the custom of generations and expounded by the scarlet-robed officials who surrounded the mayor.