“The farmers of this kingdom, who are computed to be ten thousand, are able to spend yearly five hundred thousand oaths, which gives £25,000; and it is conjectured that from the bulk of the people twenty or five and twenty thousand pounds may be yearly collected.”
The swearing capacity of the army is no less minutely investigated. In the case of the militia, however, the promoter is disposed to recommend either a partial immunity from the tax or else a scale of fines considerably cheapened. To put the law in full force against militiamen, at least so opines the promoter, would only be to fill the stocks with porters and the pawnshops with accoutrements. So essential is this point with him, that he makes direct appeal to his Protestant countrymen, reminding them of the satisfaction it would afford the Papists to see a most useful body of soldiery actually swear themselves out of their Swords and muskets.
Inclined to a politic leniency towards the military classes, it would seem that this ingenious projector looked mainly for his revenue to the swearing dues that might be collected at wakes and fairings. The oaths of a single Connaught fair, he has calculated, amount to upwards of three thousand. “It is true,” he allows, “that it would be impossible to turn all of them into money, for a shilling is so great a duty on swearing, that if it were carefully exacted, the common people might as well pretend to drink wine as to swear, and an oath would be as rare among them as a clean shirt.” In this way the Reverend Dean rattles on. He is pointing his satire both at the epidemic of financial adventure then so fatally prevalent and at that incomprehensible leaning to the use of “bad language” of which even he was so ready to avail himself when it either suited his purpose or strengthened his style.
The Dean can scarcely be supposed to have known that one of the many proposals put before Lord Burghley in the very early days of political economy, bore a close resemblance to his manner of handling oaths. A Monsieur Rodenberg proposed to show how the revenue could be increased to twenty millions of crowns, and part of his plan consisted in a rigorous levy of fines on swearing. He further recommended that a council of twelve “grave persons” should have the disposal of the fund, which while unexpended should be put out to usury.[36]
A recommendation of this kind urged upon Queen Elizabeth’s ministers was very much in advance of English politics. It so far denotes a turning-point in the history of swearing, that we cannot do better than trace out what the future course of legislation was to be.
Previous to the period we are now entering, a person addicted to intemperate language might have been called to account by his church, or at the bar of his own conscience. He could not have been called to account by the State. The suggestion of State interference, so far as concerns the southern division of this island, seems not to have previously occurred, and we are consequently justified in inferring that the necessity for it had never seriously arisen. There is, indeed, complete cohesion and consistency in what was happening. We believe we have shown elsewhere whence it was, and when it was, that the English people first began to swear, and we are confirmed in our conclusions by finding that this was the precise period at which English law-makers began to legislate upon swearing.
Passing over barbarous and obsolete laws of a more imperfect civilisation, we find that the first essays in State control commenced in Scotland. A full half century before the question came before Elizabeth’s parliament, the sister kingdom had the benefit of a statute inflicting a monetary penalty upon the use of oaths. This enactment, passed by the Scottish parliament of 1551, calls for notice upon other grounds besides those of morality. If a legal document can be said to partake of a poetic character, it was certainly the case with this ordinance of Queen Mary, which seems to have been directly inspired by the metrical labours of William Dunbar, then lately the national poet.
The verses of Dunbar to which this result can be partially attributed are those known as ‘The Sweirers and the Devill.’ It is certainly remarkable that the framers of the Act would seem to have prepared its clauses with Dunbar’s poetry open before them. At all events, the statute literally recites the “ugsome oaths” that are used by the old versifier. There is a severity in the statute at which Dunbar himself would have been surprised had he lived down to Mary’s reign. In particular, it enacts that “a prelate of kirk, earl or lord,” shall for the first offence be fined to the extent of twelve pennies, but for the fourth the delinquent shall be banished or imprisoned for a year.
Dunbar’s treatment of his subject is very similar to that of the nameless author of the ‘Moralité des Blasphémateurs’ which we have previously noticed. He supposes the devil to have assumed human shape, an assumption which in those times would have been thought nothing out of the way, and in that guise to be conversing with the traders in a Lowland market. As is usual in these episodes, he invites them to join him in the use of the most delectable oaths that he can lay before them. The honest market-folk are so taken by his allurements that we have the maltman, the goldsmith, the “sowter,” and the “fleshor” vieing with one another in their choice of ribaldry. In this friendly contest, needless to say, it is the parish priest who carries off the prize. One hopes that his excuse was as valid as that of the monk in Rabelais. “How now,” exclaims Ponocrates, “you swear, Friar John!” “It is only,” replies the friar, “to grace and adorn my speech; it is the colour of a Ciceronian rhetoric.”
The place in literature left vacant by Dunbar was soon occupied by Lindsay, the