had succeeded in making their degrees the only steps that led
to practice in the king’s courts. At the end of the middle ages
(c. 1470) Sir John Fortescue rehearsed the praises of the laws
of England in a book which is one of the earliest efforts of comparative
politics. Contrasting England with France, he rightly
connects limited monarchy, public and oral debate in the law
courts, trial by jury, and the teaching of national law in schools
that are thronged by wealthy and well-born youths. But nearly
a century earlier, the assertion that English law affords as subtle
and civilizing a discipline as any that is to be had from Roman
law was made by a man no less famous than John Wycliffe.
The heresiarch naturally loathed the Canon law; but he also
spoke with reprobation of the “paynims’ law,” the “heathen
men’s law,” the study of which in the two universities was being
fostered by some of the bishops. That study, after inspiring
Bracton, had come to little in England, though the canonist was
compelled to learn something of Justinian, and there was a
small demand for learned civilians in the court of admiralty,
and in what we might call the king’s diplomatic service. No
medieval Englishman did anything considerable for Roman
law. Even the canonists were content to read the books of
French and Italian masters, though John Acton (c. 1340)
and William Lyndwood (1430) wrote meritorious glosses. The
Angevin kings, by appropriating to the temporal forum the whole
province of ecclesiastical patronage, had robbed the decretists
of an inexhaustible source of learning and of lucre. The work
that was done by the legal faculties at Oxford and Cambridge
is slight when compared with the inestimable services rendered
to the cause of national continuity by the schools of English
law which grew within the Inns of Court.
A danger threatened: the danger that a prematurely osseous system of common law would be overwhelmed by summary justice and royal equity. Even when courts for all ordinary causes had been established, a reserve of residuary justice remained with the king. Whatever lawyers Chancery. and even parliaments might say, it was seen to be desirable that the king in council should with little regard for form punish offenders who could break through the meshes of a tardy procedure and should redress wrongs which corrupt and timid juries would leave unrighted. Papal edicts against heretics had made familiar to all men the notion that a judge should at times proceed summarie et de plano et sine strepitu et figura justitiae. And so extraordinary justice of a penal kind was done by the king’s council upon misdemeanants, and extraordinary justice of a civil kind was ministered by the king’s chancellor (who was the specially learned member of the council) to those who “for the love of God and in the way of charity,” craved his powerful assistance. It is now well established that the chancellors started upon this course, not with any desire to introduce rules of “equity” which should supplement, or perhaps supplant, the rules of law, but for the purpose of driving the law through those accidental impediments which sometimes unfortunately beset its due course. The wrongs that the chancellor redressed were often wrongs of the simplest and most brutal kind: assaults, batteries and forcible dispossessions. However, he was warned off this field of activity by parliament; the danger to law, to lawyers, to trial by jury, was evident. But just when this was happening, a new field was being opened for him by the growing practice of conveying land to trustees. The English trust of land had ancient Germanic roots, and of late we have been learning how in far-off centuries our Lombard cousins were in effect giving themselves a power of testation by putting their lands in trust. In England, when the forms of action were crystallizing, this practice had not been common enough to obtain the protection of a writ; but many causes conspired to make it common in the 14th century; and so, with the general approval of lawyers and laity, the chancellors began to enforce by summary process against the trustee the duty that lay upon his conscience. In the next century it was clear that England had come by a new civil tribunal. Negatively, its competence was defined by the rule that when the common law offered a remedy, the chancellor was not to intervene. Positively, his power was conceived as that of doing what “good conscience” required, more especially in cases of “fraud, accident or breach of confidence.” His procedure was the summary, the heresy-suppressing (not the ordinary and solemn) procedure of an ecclesiastical court; but there are few signs that he borrowed any substantive rules from legist or decretist, and many proofs that within the new field of trust he pursued the ideas of the common law. It was long, however, before lawyers made a habit of reporting his decisions. He was not supposed to be tightly bound by precedent. Adaptability was of the essence of the justice that he did.
A time of strain and trial came with the Tudor kings. It was questionable whether the strong “governance” for which the weary nation yearned could work within the limits of a parliamentary system, or would be compatible with the preservation of the common law. We see The Tudor Age. new courts appropriating large fields of justice and proceeding summarie et de plano; the star chamber, the chancery, the courts of requests, of wards, of augmentations, the councils of the North and Wales; a little later we see the high commission. We see also that judicial torture which Fortescue had called the road to hell. The stream of law reports became intermittent under Henry VIII.; few judges of his or his son’s reign left names that are to be remembered. In an age of humanism, alphabetically arranged “abridgments” of medieval cases were the best work of English lawyers: one comes to us from Anthony Fitzherbert (d. 1538), and another from Robert Broke (d. 1558). This was the time when Roman law swept like a flood over Germany. The modern historian of Germany will speak of “the Reception” (that is, the reception of Roman law), as no less important than the Renaissance and Reformation with which it is intimately connected. Very probably he will bestow hard words on a movement which disintegrated the nation and consolidated the tyranny of the princelings. Now a project that Roman law should be “received” in England occurred to Reginald Pole (d. 1558), a humanist, and at one time a reformer, who with good fortune might have been either king of England or pope of Rome. English law, said the future cardinal and archbishop, was barbarous; Roman law was the very voice of nature pleading for “civility” and good princely governance. Pole’s words were brought to the ears of his majestic cousin, and, had the course of events been somewhat other than it was, King Henry might well have decreed a reception. The rôle of English Justinian would have perfectly suited him, and there are distinct traces of the civilian’s Byzantinism in the doings of the Church of England’s supreme head. The academic study of the Canon law was prohibited; regius professorships of the civil law were founded; civilians were to sit as judges in the ecclesiastical courts. A little later, the Protector Somerset was deeply interested in the establishment of a great school for civilians at Cambridge. Scottish law was the own sister of English law, and yet in Scotland we may see a reception of Roman jurisprudence which might have been more whole-hearted than it was, but for the drift of two British and Protestant kingdoms towards union. As it fell out, however, Henry could get what he wanted in church and state without any decisive supersession of English by foreign law. The omnicompetence of an act of parliament stands out the more clearly if it settles the succession to the throne, annuls royal marriages, forgives royal debts, defines religious creeds, attaints guilty or innocent nobles, or prospectively lends the force of statute to the king’s proclamations. The courts of common law were suffered to work in obscurity, for jurors feared fines, and matter of state was reserved for council or star chamber. The Inns of Court were spared; their moots and readings did no perceptible harm, if little perceptible good.
Yet it is no reception of alien jurisprudence that must be chronicled, but a marvellous resuscitation of English medieval law. We may see it already in the Commentaries of Edward Plowden (d. 1585) who reported cases at length and lovingly. Bracton’s great book was put in print, and was a key to much that had been forgotten or misunderstood. Under Parker’s patronage, even the Anglo-Saxon dooms were brought to light; they seemed to tell of a Church of England that had not yet been
