Your old-world lawyer was an ardent, if uncritical, antiquary. He began at the beginning, and where facts ran short his fancy filled up the blank. In discussing Sanctuary he started with the biblical cities of refuge. He had something to say of Romulus and the foundation of Rome. Geoffrey of Monmouth supplied him with the name of a sovereign—Dunwallo Molmutius to wit—who flourished in Druidical Britain (B.C. 500 it was said), under whom cities and even ploughs were arks of refuge for the despairing fugitive. It might have been objected that the ancient Britons had neither ploughs nor cities; but such criticism was not yet in the land. We touch firmer ground in the centuries immediately preceding the Conquest. In early English legislation churches safeguarded the criminal from hasty vengeance, and so allowed time to settle the money compensation payable for his offence. Sanctuary was among the privileges that the Conqueror conferred upon his foundation of Battle Abbey—one of many cases wherefrom the Norman lawyers built up a system for mediÆval England.

That system was not always consistent or clear, but its main outlines were as follows:—sanctuaries were of two kinds—general, as all churches and churchyards; special, as St Martin's Le Grand and Westminster. No doubt these last had originally also a religious sanction. Such places were twice consecrate: Pope and King, the Canon and the Common Law united in their favour. They protected felons, but not those guilty of sacrilege or (some held) of treason. They were not properly for debtors, whose reception was nevertheless justified by an ingenious quibble. Imprisonment might endanger life, and therefore (so the learned argued) the runaway debtor must be received. A man took sanctuary thus—Having stricken (let us say) his fellow, he fled to the cathedral and knocked (with how trembling a hand!) at the door of the galilee. Over the north porch were two chambers where watchers abode night and day. On the instant the door swung open, and had scarce closed behind the fugitive when the galilee bell proclaimed to the town that another life was safe from them that hunted. Then the prior assigned him a gown of black cloth marked on the left shoulder with the yellow cross of St Cuthbert, and therewith a narrow space where he might lie secure of life, though ill at ease. So it was at Durham. At Westminster the sanctuary man bore the cross keys for a badge, and walked in doleful state before the abbot at procession times; and there were, no doubt, countless variations. A phrase of the time reveals how close the watch was now and again. Under Edward II. it was complained that the sanctuary man might not remove so much as a step beyond the precincts, caus superflui deponendi, without being seized and haled to prison. He was fed and lodged in some rough sort for forty days, within which time he must confess his crime before the coroner at the churchyard gate, and so constitute himself the king's felon. Then he swore to abjure the realm. The coroner assigned him a port of embarcation (chosen by himself), whither he must hasten with bare head, carrying in his hand a cross, not departing, save in direst need, from the King's highway. He might tarry on the shore but a single ebb and flow of the tide, unless it were impossible to come by a ship, in which case he must wade up to his knees in the sea every day. He was thus protected for another forty days, when, if he could not find passage, he returned whence he came, to try his luck elsewhere.

He who refused to confess and abjure was not driven forth, but if, after much spiritual admonition, he still refused to conform, he had neither meat nor drink given him, and so was ended, if not mended. A man unjustly deprived of sanctuary could plead the right before his judges. It was a declinatory plea, and must be urged before he answered as to his guilt or innocence; it availed him nothing to do so after, for he was strung up forthwith. This system, however harsh, had two very plain advantages. It was a short and easy method with a rascal, and it powerfully made for scientific accuracy in pleading. If a fugitive were caught and condemned ere he "took Westminster," as the town phrase ran, it was no advantage for him to escape on the way to execution, inasmuch as he was promptly haled forth to the gallows. A curious case in the eighth of Edward II. perplexed the ancient student. A woman was condemned to death, but a jury of matrons had no doubt as to her condition, and she was reprieved. She escaped to sanctuary before the arrival of the hangman's cart, and when the gaoler dragged her out, the judges bade him put her back again, whereat the learned shook their heads, opining that hard cases make bad law, and the jade should have swung like other folk.

On the whole the privilege was strictly respected. For instance, the King's justices were wont to hold session in St Martin's Gate. They sat on the very border. The accused were placed on the other side of the street; a channel ran between them and their judges, and if they once got across that they claimed sanctuary, and all proceedings against them were annulled. And one sees the reason why Perkin Warbeck took such care "to squint one eye upon the crown and the other on the Sanctuary" (as Bacon curiously phrases it); yet the great case of Beckett is there to show that nothing was absolutely sacred in these violent years. Nor does it stand alone. In 1191, Jeffrey, Archbishop of York, and son of Henry II., was seized at the altar of St Martin's Priory, Dover; and dragged, episcopal robes and all, through dirty streets to the Castle: this, too, by order of William Longchamp, Bishop of Ely, and Papal Legate. In 1378, Archbishop Sudbury complained in Parliament that one Robert Hawley had been slain at the high altar even while the priest was saying a mass. It was rumoured indeed that one Thurstian, a Knight, chasing a sanctuary man with drawn sword, was of a sudden stricken with grievous ailments. But this and other like stories did not deter the citizens of London (circa 1349) from assembling at supper time in a great crowd, and dragging forth a soldier who had escaped on the way from Newgate to Guildhall, where he was being taken for trial. In another case (temp. Henry VI.), where a youth had taken sanctuary after having foully slain a kind mistress, the good women about St Martin's broke in and despatched him with their distaffs. Of those who took sanctuary to good purpose the most famous was Elizabeth, widow of Edward IV., who, in 1471, registered herself a sanctuary woman in Westminster, and there sat, in Sir Thomas More's phrase, "Alow in the rushes." But you have read the tragic story in Shakespeare. And in a later age "beastly Skelton" (as Pope will have him), from that same Westminster safely lampooned the mighty Wolsey, though for that he needs must live and die there.

To catalogue the evils of the sanctuary system were to show lack of historical sympathy, nay, even of humour. The former days were not as these; it had its place with the shrine and the pilgrimage, the knight errant, and the trial by ordeal in the strange economy of a vanished world. As the times grew modern its practical inconvenience was felt for the first time. Yet the occasion of the first assault on the privilege of sanctuary was one where the benefits were conspicuous, and the assailant had the worst of motives. It was the case just noted of Edward IV.'s widow; she had the young Duke of York as yet safe with her. Her enemies were at a loss for the moment, and Buckingham, then the sworn ally of Richard of Gloucester, took occasion in the Privy Council to attack her place of refuge. "There were two chief plague-spots in London," he snarled: "one at the elbows of the city (Westminster), the other in the very bowels thereof (St Martin's le Grand). These places were the refuge of theeves, murtherers, and malitious, heynous traytors! nay," he added, "men's wives ran hither with their husbands' plate, and say they dare not abide their husbands for beating," with more to the same effect. Had not Elizabeth yielded, Westminster might have witnessed a violation as affecting as that of Canterbury.

Under Henry VIII. the old order was broken up, and sanctuary law, like much else, was changed and amended again and again. First, all special places save Wells, Westminster, and six others, lost the privilege. Divers classes of criminals —as traitors, and pirates (and afterwards) Egyptians—were formally rendered incapable of its enjoyment. Before the sanctuary man abjured the realm he was burned on the crown of the thumb "with the signe of an A," and if he did not depart on the instant, he had no further protection. But it occurred to over-anxious legislators that such a fugitive might carry beyond seas precious hints of the mysteries of trade or politics, or that, making as if for the nearest port, he might but proceed to infest another place. So he was ordered to abjure the liberty of the realm, but not the realm itself; and being branded, was confined under a governor in one or other of the sanctuaries. Whenever he ventured forth—as he might in the daytime—he must wear the prescribed badge of the refuge. He dare carry no weapon save a meat-knife, and that but at meal-times. He must likewise answer to the daily roll-call. If he committed another felony—and crimes done sub spe redeundi had been a sore grievance of late—he was to lose his rights. The governor was empowered to hold courts for debt and minor offences within his bounds. And so "the sanctuary person abjured," as the Tudor lawyers phrased him, spent the last days of his evil life. I need not dwell on minor tinkerings of the system under Henry's children. In 1623 the Statute 21 James I., c. 28, s. 7 made a legal end of the right of sanctuary.

The last of our story is not yet. Certain places still assumed the right of giving shelter against civil process. When the bailiffs invaded the liberty, the whole population forthwith set on, and pommelled them so lustily that they were fortunate if they escaped sound in limb. The precincts of Whitefriars and the Savoy were the worst places in London. The first, renowned in slang, nay, in literature, as Alsatia, because (some explained) it neighboured the Temple on the East, as Alsace did France, was a base and villainous Bohemia. Ram Alley (now Mitre Court), a local Lombard Street, Salisbury Court (now Salisbury Square) were its chief ways, though probably all between Fleet Street and the river, which was not the Temple, held of this lawless republic. A bully or bravo, or squire of Alsatia was a cant name for a penniless and violent fellow of the time. He is pictured by Otway in his Soldier's Fortune with flopping hat pinned up on one side, with a tawdry weather-beaten peruke, dirty linen, and a long scandalous iron sword jangling at his heels. The sheriff with the posse comitatus did on occasion raid Alsatia, but his prey, if too weak to fight, had ever timely warning to escape by land or water to some other like burrow. The Fortunes of Nigel tells as much of the place as the general cares to know, and there is much curious matter mined out by the zealous antiquary as to other like places of refuge in the capital. Thus Fullwood's, sometime Fuller's Rents, was related to Gray's Inn as Alsatia to the Temple. In 1673 the gentlemen of that ancient house so far forgot themselves as to engage in "pumping" some bailiffs who attempted to take goods from out the Rents upon an execution. "They were charged with a body of thirty lusty bailiffs," and a "strong ryot" ensued. Possibly they recollected that their most illustrious fellow-member, "broad-browed Verulam," had taken refuge there some sixty years before, a circumstance which gave my Lord Coke occasion to "gall the kibe"—as indeed he never lost any chance to do—of his great contemporary. Then there was the mint in Southwark, whereto an ex-poet laureate, "poor Nahum Tate," as Dr. Johnson calls him, was driven by extreme poverty. Pope's cruel satire pictures it half Grub Street half Bedlam, the last refuge of the hack and the poetaster. The Clink and Deadman's place are now forgotten, whilst Baldwin's Gardens and the Minories have a more commonplace reputation.

About a century after James's Act, Parliament again interfered, and professed to strip the "pretended privileged places" of every shred of exemption, but it required two other statutes, the 9 Geo. I. c. 28, 1722, and the 11 Geo. I. c. 22, 1724, to make the law's process as effectual there as elsewhere.