Crime and punishment

2:58pm Friday 21st July 2006

D oes the punishment fit the crime? Controversy and doubt have always surrounded the issue athough today we wonder if punishments are stiff enough, but by current standards historically punishments may seem a little over the top.

Certainly, at one point, a crime valued at 12d or more was considered a capital one; in fact this included treason, murder, robbery, rape and arson.

Hanging was initially a public spectacle, but after centuries of tried and tested use it finally moved behind closed doors, allowing the condemned at least a little dignity.

Taking out an eye, disabling a tongue, or slitting someone's nose were added later, to be joined by burglary, witchcraft, damaging forests, sacrilege, letter-stealing and the theft of animals. The list of offences topped 200, although it was eventually rationalised to just a handful. In Britain a death sentence generally meant hanging and that was the execution of choice from about the fifth century.

Other methods, such as burning at the stake, beheading, firing squad, drowning, boiling alive and hurling from cliffs, have been used at one time or another. Over the centuries hanging was conducted from trees, the back of carts and later from purpose-built gallows.

Hanging was initially a public spectacle, but after centuries of tried and tested use it finally moved behind closed doors, allowing the condemned at least a little dignity. A case from 1753 shows just how punishments have changed.

John Billingsgate was sentenced for several offences including scandal, abuse and swearing. His fate was to have his tongue cut out, and a scaffold was duly erected in front of Oxford Town Hall for that purpose.

As Billingsgate ascended the scaffold he was attended by a large crowd of women from the London fish markets, greatly concerned for their friend. He behaved decently, as according to Jackson's Oxford Journal he did not swear above a dozen times from his house to the foot of the scaffold'.

Billingsgate announced to the assembled crowd that he would make final use of his tongue to confess his many sins. He told the gathering that he was born of honest parents, and that he would have never met this end had he stayed in school, rather than spending his time gambling in the cockpits. He had moved on to bullying debtors in the hope of spiriting up clients in the form of the unfortunate people's creditors.

He confessed to having killed a famous antiquarian and from that day forward had continued on a spree of slaughter until he had finally satiated his desire for abuse. He turned to the sheriff and whispered something, but only the ending could be heard as he concluded, Theodocia was a good girl, but God damn Sarah Walker.' At which point he began to rant and rave.

The executioner told him that his time had come and immediately carried out his business.

The horrific event was reported in Jackson's Oxford Journal thus: Upon taking out the tongue it blistered the hand that held it, and at several yards distance toasted cheese like a salamander: great quantities of water were then thrown upon it, but it was so much inflamed that it was impossible to quench it. Some dogs that came within its influence were seized with a sudden fit of barking and snarling; but what was odd was at the same time they lost the power of biting.' Criminals, suspect or otherwise, were lodged in one institution or another. These included the Bocardo prison, the Bridewell, St George's Tower, the debtors' prison and the castle gaol. The Bocardo flanked the original North Gate by St Michael's, at the end of the Cornmarket. The county gaol was, of course, on the Oxford Castle site.

Prisoners were also confined in St George's Tower, which was Norman in origin, and the round-house on the same site, which was used as a debtors' prison. The houses of correction contained a treadwheel and were located towards the back of the castle site, close to the Norman tower. Oxford also had a city prison, since gone, located at Gloucester Green.

Prison might now been seen as a soft touch but not everybody would agree. In June 1775 Thomas Hilborne was serving a six-month sentence in the Castle gaol for assault and had been indicted to stand trial for aiding a fellow prisoner in her escape from the Bridewell.

Hilborne was a man obsessed with escaping and whose exploits were again faithfully reported in Jackson's Oxford Journal.

At one time he had cut his way nearly through the walls when confined in the dungeon before being caught. On other occasions Hilborne had forced a window frame on the north side of the prison and had knocked through the wall in a gatehouse room in order to fix a rope and climb down the outer wall.

This time he was confined in St George's Tower, a tall building. In order to escape, Hilborne needed to know how far down it was from the cell. So he bet his other cellmates as to their height from the ground and 75ft was fixed upon. Hilborne managed to buy pieces to construct a 60ft-long rope and figured this would be enough.

With the rope fixed in place, he broke out and began his descent of the tower's outer wall. In broad daylight Hilborne climbed down, watched by several locals, but the rope snapped and Hilborne plummeted into a neighbouring garden.

Onlookers rushed into the garden to find him conscious, his limbs were a tangled mess. Having sustained major internal injuries Hilborne did not see the day out Although most townspeople were subject the usual courts, the Assize and Quarter Sessions in the main, University members and the privilegiati were not answering to the Chancellor and his court which was often no bad thing for them as punishments were often lenient. The privilegiati normally came from trades that were useful to the University, such as bookbinders, hairdressers and tailors.

An example of what university members could get away with is Adam Squire, elected as Master of Balliol in 1571. Despite being a mathematician, he was a colourful character, described as quarrelsome, lewd, lecherous, hypocritical, fantastical and a spendthrift. He nearly shot himself in the foot and risked his job when he convinced some gamblers to pay for magical assistance' that very year. He made himself appear even more ridiculous when he performed the ceremony at his own wedding; perhaps he hoped to save some money. Squire's father in-law, the Bishop of London, made him Archdeacon of London, but while an inspection was made of his district, Squire was caught in bed with somebody else's wife. The errant husband hit on a plan: he gambled and forged a love letter to his wife from a knight and handed it to his father-in-law as an excuse for lapsing in his duty to his wife. The Bishop was very upset, but looked on Squire more favourably because of the letter. When he discovered it was a forgery, the Bishop flew into a rage and, locating a butcher's cudgel, went around and gave Squire a tremendous thrashing. Squire continued as Warden until 1580.