Question and Answers in The English Courtroom (1640-1760)

Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Pragmatics & Beyond New Series
Editor
Andreas H. Jucker
University of Zurich, English Department
Plattenstrasse 47, CH-8032 Zurich, Switzerland
e-mail: ahjucker@es.unizh.ch
Associate Editors
Jacob L. Mey
University of Southern Denmark
Herman Parret
Belgian National Science Foundation, Universities of Louvain and Antwerp
Jef Verschueren
Belgian National Science Foundation, University of Antwerp
Editorial Board
Shoshana Blum-Kulka Catherine Kerbrat-Orecchioni
Hebrew University of Jerusalem University of Lyon 2
Jean Caron Claudia de Lemos
Université de Poitiers University of Campinas, Brazil
Robyn Carston Marina Sbisà
University College London University of Trieste
Bruce Fraser Emanuel Schegloff
Boston University University of California at Los Angeles
Thorstein Fretheim Deborah Schiffrin
University of Trondheim Georgetown University
John Heritage Paul O. Takahara
University of California at Los Angeles Sandra Thompson
Susan Herring University of California at Santa Barbara
University of Texas at Arlington Teun A. Van Dijk
Masako K. Hiraga Pompeu Fabra, Barcelona
St.Paul’s (Rikkyo) University Richard J. Watts
David Holdcroft University of Berne
University of Leeds
Sachiko Ide
Japan Women’s University
Volume 135
Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760):
A sociopragmatic analysis
by Dawn Archer
Questions and Answers
in the English Courtroom
(1640–1760)
A sociopragmatic analysis
Dawn Archer
University of Central Lancashire
John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Dawn Archer
Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760) : A
sociopragmatic analysis / Dawn Archer.
p. cm. (Pragmatics & Beyond, New Series, issn 0922-842X ; v. 135)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Examination of witnesses--England--History--18th century. 2.
Examination of witnesses--England--History--17th century. I. Title. II.
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Table of contents
Preface ix
List of tables and figures xi
Chapter 1
Investigating the English historical courtroom 1
1.1 A brief outline of the book’s focus and the approach taken 1
1.2 Pragmatics, historical pragmatics and sociopragmatics:
Some definitions 4
1.3 The data and methodological problems facing historical
pragmaticians 10
1.4 Availability of historical courtroom data 12
1.5 Primary objectives of this study 16
1.6 How I intend to proceed 19
Chapter 2
The characteristics of questions and answers 23
2.1 Defining questions and answers 23
2.2 What constitutes a ‘question’? 23
2.3 What constitutes an ‘answer’? 53
2.4 Questions and answers in an historical context 60
2.5 Insights gained 70
Chapter 3
Questioning procedures in courtrooms 73
3.1 Courtroom talk as ‘activity type’ 73
3.2 The courtroom today 74
3.3 Questioning strategies in the courtroom 76
3.4 The Early Modern English courtroom 85
3.5 Review of the linguistic literature relating to historical
courtroom discourse 95
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)

3.7 Final comment 104
Chapter 4
A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 105
4.1 Rationale behind methodology 105
4.2 Description of the sociopragmatic corpus (SPC) 107
4.3 The sociopragmatic annotation scheme 107
4.4 Annotation scheme for questions and answers 120
4.5 Some final comments 131
Chapter 5
Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 135
5.1 A sociopragmatic account of courtroom questions 135
5.2 The form of questions in the SPC 136
5.3 Indirect interrogatives 146
5.4 Questions as a means of control 150
5.5 Questions as part of a questioning sequence 156
5.6 Examinations-in-chief and cross-examinations 158
5.7 A sociopragmatic approach to questions: Investigating user
as well as use 162
Chapter 6
Interactional intent of participants’ utterances 165
6.1 Investigating questions from the perspective of the user 165
6.2 Participant roles evidenced in the SPC 166
6.3 The five main questioners in the EmodE courtroom
(1640–1760): The courts, the prosecution counsels, the judges,
the defence counsels and the defendants 172
Chapter 7
Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 175
7.1 Examiners’ questions – a manifestation of power? 175
7.2 The judge 176
7.3 The Court and the recorder 178
7.4 The judges’ interaction with witnesses (1640–1760) 180
7.5 Jeffreys’ interaction with witnesses 185
7.6 The Courts’ interaction with witnesses (1720–1760) 189
Table of contents 
7.7 The judges’ interaction with defendants (1640–1760) 192

Chapter 8
Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 199
8.1 The emergence of counsel as major players? 199
8.2 Strategies of the prosecution counsels 200
8.3 Strategies of the defence counsels (1680–1760) 203
8.4 The prosecution counsels’ interaction with witnesses
(1640–1760) 205
8.5 The defence counsels’ interaction with the witnesses 213
8.6 Questioning the questioners 218
Chapter 9
Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 223
9.1 The multiple discourse goals of defendants 223
9.2 The defendants’ strategies 224
9.3 Eliciting devices utilised by defendants when interacting
with judges and witnesses 229
9.4 The defendants’ use of questions with witnesses and judges 230
9.5 Defendants’ ‘answering’ strategies 240
Chapter 10
Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 245
10.1 The witnesses’ role as ‘answerer’ 245
10.2 The strategies of the witnesses 245
10.3 Witnesses’ interaction with the judges (1640–1719) 247
10.4 Witnesses’ interaction with the lawyers (1680–1719) 253
10.5 The witnesses’ interaction with the Court and defendants
(1720–1760) 262
Chapter 11
Courtroom interaction in the historical period: More than
‘questions’ and ‘answers’ 267
11.1 Participants’ use of ‘requests’, ‘requires’ and ‘counsels’ 267
11.2 The judges’ interaction with defendants (1640–1679) 268
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
11.3 The judges’ use of ‘requires’ 270

11.4 The defendants’ use of ‘requests’ 273
11.5 The prosecution counsels’ use of ‘requests’ 276
11.6 The defendants’ use of ‘requires’ and ‘counsels’ 277
Chapter 12
Concluding comments 281
12.1 Approach adopted in this work 281
12.2 1640–1760: A period of emerging and changing roles 282
12.3 The efficacy of using contemporary approaches to examine
historical data 285
12.4 Questions: Not just the preserve of the primary examiners 286
12.5 The need to go beyond a study of questions and answers 287
12.6 Implications for questions generally 288
12.7 Implications for answers 289
12.8 A corpus-based approach to pragmatic phenomena:
How successful? 290
12.9 Plans to expand the trial texts in the Sociopragmatic Corpus 291
Notes 295
Appendix 1
Details of the SPC trials 309
Biographical details for participants 327
Appendix 2
Sub-categories for ‘force’ field 339
Bibliography 347
Author index 365
Subject index 367
Preface
As a man thinketh, so is he
(Proverbs 23:7)
This book started its life as a thesis. However, it would never have been started
at all without the support of my friends, colleagues and family.
My thesis examiners, Andreas Jucker, Katie Wales and Geoffrey Leech, and
my Lancaster University employers, Jonathan Culpeper, Mick Short and Tony
McEnery deserve a special mention, for their encouragement and guidance.
Jonathan Culpeper, who was also my thesis supervisor, has shown particular
dedication to my work and to me over the years. I am particularly indebted
to him for allowing me to draw from Archer and Culpeper (2003) in Chapter
4. To help the reader, I use ‘we’ to indicate those sections of the paper that
were collaborative. I am also extremely grateful to Isja Conen and the John
Benjamins team for all their help during the “production” stage, and to the
two anonymous reviewers who provided me with useful feedback after reading
my initial draft. Needless to say, remaining errors and infelicities are mine.
In terms of family, my parents have been a source of inspiration, as they
have faced their own difficulties ‘head on’ – and come through smiling. And
words cannot express what my husband, Eddie, my children, Paul, Peter,
Jonathan and Jessica, and my future daughter-in-law Becky mean to me, or
how indebted to them I feel. They are ‘simply the best’.
I am also indebted to my heavenly Father, for His love and inspiration,
and for the security I have in Him, and to all my wonderful friends, for their
continuing love and support.
List of tables and figures
Tables
Table 1. The various question-types utilised in the SPC data
(by sub-period), and their frequency
Table 2. The various interrogative-forms utilised in the SPC,
and their frequency
Table 3. Frequency of utterances, according to participant role
and ranking order
Table 4. The main SPC trial participants, and the interactional intent
of their utterances
Table 5. (Re)initiations according to role type (including an indication
of ranking)
Table 6. Interactional intent of judges’ utterances in Period 3 (1640–1679)
Table 9. Interactional intent of the courts’ utterances in Period 3
Table 10. Interactional intent of the courts’ utterances in Period 5
Table 11. Breakdown by force of judges’ interaction with witnesses
Table 12. Interrogative-types that judges addressed to witnesses
Table 13. Interrogative-types that the court addressed to witnesses
in Period 5
Table 14. Breakdown by force of judges’ interaction with defendants
Table 15. Interactional intent of prosecution counsels’ utterances in Period 3
Table 16. Interactional intent of prosecution counsels’ utterances in Period 4
Table 17. Interactional intent of the defence counsels’ utterances in Period 4
Table 18. Interactional intent of the defence counsels’ utterances in Period 5
Table 19. Breakdown by force of prosecution counsels’ interaction
with main addressees in the SPC
Table 20. Interrogative-types addressed by prosecution counsels to witnesses
in the SPC
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 21. Interrogative-types addressed by defence counsels to witnesses in

Periods 4 and 5
Table 22. Interactional intent of defendants’ utterances in Period 3
Table 25. Eliciting devices utilised by defendants
Table 26. Breakdown by force of defendants’ interaction with witnesses
Table 27. Breakdown by force of defendants’ interaction with judges
Table 28. Interrogative-types utilised by defendants when interacting with
witnesses and judges
Table 29. Function of answers addressed by defendants to judges
(1640–1760)
Table 30. Witnesses’ ‘answers’ in the SPC, and the participants to whom
they were addressed
Table 31. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to judges (1680–1719)
Table 32. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to prosecution lawyers
(1680–1719)
Table 33. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to defence lawyers
(1680–1719)
Table 34. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to the court
(1720–1760)
Table 35. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to the defendants
(1720–1760)
Figures
Figure 1. The three broad areas of pragmatics (adapted from Leech
1983: 11)
Figure 2. Grammatical q-types, arranged according to their primary
‘seeking’ function
Figure 3. Characteristics of primary Q acts, taken from Stenström
(1984: 149)
Figure 4. Relation form/Q function, adapted from Stenström (1984: 152)
Figure 5. Degree of R expectation and elicitative force in relation to Q,
taken from Stenström (1984: 56)
Figure 6. Classification of ‘answers’ utilising Grice’s Maxims
Figure 7. Woodbury’s (1984: 205) ‘continuum of control’
Figure 8. Revised continuum of control (adapted from Woodbury
1984: 204f.; Harris 1984: 14)
List of tables and figures 
Figure 9. Questions and answers as narrative (taken from Doty &

Hiltunen 2002: 319)
Figure 10. Distribution of words in the SPC
Figure 11. The trial section of the SPC
Figure 12. Tag fields and values
Figure 13. Roles and their values (trial section of the SPC)
Figure 14. Representation of “interactional intent” and “force” fields
Figure 15. A comparison of five classifications of illocutionary types
(from Allan 2000: 10)
Figure 16. Possible values for the ‘qform’ field
Figure 17. Classification of question-types (including an illustrative
example or brief definition)
Chapter 1
Investigating the English

historical courtroom
. A brief outline of the book’s focus and the approach taken
This is a book about the English courtroom of the late Early Modern En-
glish period (specifically 1640–1760), and, in particular, the discursive strate-
gies utilised by its most active participant groups: the judges, the lawyers, the
witnesses and the defendants. My main reason for writing it is to provide a
more representative picture of the Early Modern English (henceforth EmodE1 )
courtroom in linguistic terms, as the small number of linguistic studies that
have been undertaken tend to focus on the EmodE judges’ use of questions
and/or relate to a few trials only (see 3.5.1). Consequently, anyone interested in
the discursive practices of the examiners in a more general sense – or, indeed,
the counter strategies utilized by their respondents – has been reliant on the
work of historians prior to this work (e.g. Beattie 1986, 1991; Langbein 1978,
1999; Landsman 1990). This is not meant to imply that historical studies have
nothing to offer linguists interested in the English historical courtroom, for the
reverse is true. By way of illustration, studies undertaken by Beattie, Langbein
and Landsman reveal that judges were the primary examiners at the beginning
of our period and that defendants were responsible for their own defence – and,
as such, were allowed to ask questions of witnesses (cf. Beattie 1986: 345). The
above studies also describe how defendants were severely hampered in their
cause by the Court’s assumption that any defendant who was innocent ought to
be able to demonstrate it to the jury (cf. Beattie 1986: 341; Langbein 1999: 315).
In simple terms, there was no presumption of innocence in the English histor-
ical courtroom, as there is in today’s courtroom (but see the work of Harris
1984). In addition, several of the studies highlight what has been described as
the ‘flowering of the art of interrogation’ after the introduction of the lawyers
in the 1730–1740s (cf. Langbein 1978: 312). What these and similar histori-
cal studies do not explain, however, is what the newly emerging interrogation
strategies (or counter-strategies) actually entailed in linguistic terms.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Although a lack of linguistic information in history-oriented accounts of

the late EmodE courtroom may be understandable, it is worth remembering
that the law courts were as reliant upon language then as they are today (cf.
Tiersma 2001; Mellinkoff 1963: vi). Given this reliance on language, it is my
contention that linguistic-oriented research can greatly enhance our under-
standing of the historical courtroom providing attention is paid to the discur-
sive strategies of both examiners and their respondents in different types of
trial and across different time periods. The aim of this book is to provide such
analyses for the judges, lawyers, witnesses and defendants during the period
1640–1760. As my title reveals, my primary focus relates to their use of ques-
tions and answers, as existing research and the question-and-answer format
of many EmodE trial texts suggest that questions and answers were used fre-
quently (see 1.3 and 1.4). However, I will also be highlighting those occasions
when the various participant groups utilized additional (non-)eliciting devices,
as a means of demonstrating (dis)similarities between them and their modern
counterparts (in terms of discourse roles and strategies). In addition, I will
reveal how their roles were undergoing change in the late EmodE period. By
way of illustration, in respect of the defendants, I will show that, although they
had a ‘legitimate’ right to request a response, they lacked the ‘coercive power’
to shape responses in the courtroom (cf. Spencer-Oatey 1992). Consequently,
they often struggled/failed to procure the relevant information/clarification/
confirmation/action to secure their freedom. I will also show that, although
the introduction of defence counsel helped to eleviate some of the (discursive)
problems faced by defendants, their plight remained a difficult one.
In respect of the lawyers, and the flowering of the ‘art of cross-examination’,
I will draw upon a number of sources, including Treason trials, Sessions of
Oyer and Terminer, and Old Bailey sessions, to show that defence and pros-
ecution lawyers were active prior to the 1730s and 1740s (cf. Beattie’s 1986
studies of the Surrey Assizes and Langbein’s 1978 study of the Old Bailey Ses-
sions), and that they appeared to impact the courtroom in significant ways.
For example, witnesses appear to have been questioned more thoroughly by
the lawyers than they had been by the judges. Moreover, they were increasingly
facing strategies that were similar to strategies used by lawyers today, including
having their evidence contradicted and/or undermined. Not surprisingly, they
began to display ‘self-protective’ strategies when interacting with the lawyers
(e.g. resolute denials and/or emphasising the accuracy of their account). Some
witnesses also looked to the judges to intervene on their behalf, thereby provid-
ing evidence to suggest that judges were being seen as ‘referees’ as early as the
mid-eighteenth century. That said, the ‘guilt bias’ adopted by the judges meant
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
that they were not the impartial referees that we assume them to be today. The
EmodE trial was also different than the modern trial in other respects. The
judicial examiners remained actively involved in the questioning of witnesses
and defendants throughout our period, for example, and largely determined
the extent to which defence counsels, in particular, were actively involved.
It may help the reader to know that I consider my work to be part of
the emerging field of ‘historical sociopragmatics’, a sub-branch of English his-
torical pragmatics. A main characteristic of existing historical sociopragmatic
studies is that they seek to account for the sociological context/the local context
of language use within particular historical settings (see, for example, Archer
2002; Culpeper & Semino 2000; Nevalainen & Raumolin-Brunberg 1996). I
intend to take that approach further in this study, by pioneering a discourse
analytic approach that blends sociopragmatic analysis and corpus method-
ology, thereby enabling the quantitative analysis of functional phenomena. I
also intend to identify generalisations across the local contexts. In this sense,
then, my work pushes the boundaries of corpus linguistics whilst seeking to
combine the ‘micro’ with the ‘macro’, or sociopragmatics with aspects of prag-
malinguistics (see Leech’s 1983: 11 three-level classification of pragmatics). I
do not see this as problematic, as the above labels are artificial constructions,
which, at best, capture the essence – or primary focus – of a particular ap-
proach. And I am of the belief that we should always be seeking to push the
boundaries that such terms create to determine the extent of overlap between
the approaches they typify (cf. Jacobs & Jucker 1995). Of course, we have to
know where the boundaries of a particular approach are if we are to push
them convincingly. With this in mind, I begin this introductory chapter by
providing various definitions for ‘pragmatics’, ‘historical pragmatics’ and ‘his-
torical sociopragmatics’ (see 1.2–1.2.2). I then go on to outline the data and
methodological problems facing historical pragmaticians (1.3), before assess-
ing the quality of available historical courtroom data (1.4) and explaining my
reasons for utilising a corpus-based approach when investigating the English
historical courtroom (1.4.1). The chapter then concludes with a description
of my research objectives, including my aim of bringing together corpus lin-
guistics and historical sociopragmatics (1.5–1.5.1), and a description of how I
intend to proceed (1.6).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. Pragmatics, historical pragmatics and sociopragmatics:

Some definitions
There are various definitions of pragmatics (e.g. Leech 1983; Levinson 1983;
Thomas 1995; Verschueren 1999; Mey 2001). Leech (1983: 6), for example,
makes explicit reference to the speaker of the language, and defines pragmatics
as ‘the study of meaning in relation to speech situations’. In contrast, Sperber
and Wilson (1986: 161) concentrate on utterance interpretation, and thus ar-
gue that pragmatics is best understood in terms of a cognitively defined notion
of relevance.
Thomas (1995), in particular, is critical of definitions that characterise
pragmatics as the study of either ‘speaker meaning’ (what speakers intend by
an utterance) or ‘utterance interpretation’ (what hearers make of an utterance),
and argues that pragmatics is best understood as the study of ‘meaning in
interaction’:
Meaning is not something which is inherent in the words alone, nor is it pro-
duced by the speaker alone, nor the by the hearer alone. Making meaning
is a dynamic process, involving the negotiation of meaning between speaker
and hearer, the context of uttterance (physical, social and linguistic) and the
meaning potential of an utterance. (Thomas 1995: 22)
By claiming that ‘meaning is not something which is inherent in the words

alone’, Thomas is also suggesting that pragmatics should not be limited to
‘the study of those relations between language and context that are gram-
maticalized, or encoded in the structure of a language’, as Levinson (1983: 9)
advocates (emboldening in original). Mey (2001) concurs. Indeed, he believes
that ‘so-called “extralinguistic” factors can only be excluded from a pragmatic
evaluation on the penalty of neglecting the user’. In other words,
A truly pragmatic consideration has to deal with the users in their social con-
text; it cannot limit itself to the grammatically encoded aspects of contexts, as
the ‘grammaticalization requirement’ seems to imply.
(Mey 2001: 6, italics in original)
Consequently, Mey (2001: 6) adopts a definition of pragmatics which is built on

the concept of appropriateness, that is to say, the study of ‘the use of language
in human communication as determined by the conditions of society’.
Leech (1983: 10) is aware that ‘specific pragmatic descriptions ultimately
have to be relative to specific social conditions’. However, rather than redefining
his general definition (see above), he seeks to divide the field of pragmatics into
three broad areas in a way that reflects their particular focus. Thus, as Figure 1
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
PRAGMATICS
(… which is made up of … )
GENERAL PRAGMATICS
PRAGMALINGUISTICS SOCIOPRAGMATICS
related related
to grammar Focus = Particular Focus = Local to sociology
resources of a given conditions
language of language use
Figure 1. The three broad areas of pragmatics (adapted from Leech 1983: 11)
reveals, general pragmatics is said to concentrate on the general conditions of

the communicative use of language, sociopragmatics, on the local conditions of
language use, and pragmalinguistics, on the more formal end of pragmatics –
‘where we consider the particular resources which a given language provides
for conveying particular illocutions’ (Leech 1983: 11). As Figure 1 also reveals,
sociopragmatics effectively becomes ‘the socio-logical interface of pragmatics’
(Leech 1983: 10) or the point at which pragmatics interacts with sociology.
Verschueren (1999: 6) also highlights the interdisciplinarity of pragmatics,
but suggests that pragmatics – and not merely sociopragmatics – is ‘the link
between linguistics and the rest of the humanities and social sciences’ (italics
in original):
Pragmatics is concerned with the full complexity of linguistic behaviour. From
that perspective, there is no way of addressing, for instance, issues of cognition
without taking society and culture into account, nor are there ways of ad-
dressing issues of culture abstracted from their cognitive underpinnings and
implications.
Verschueren (1999: 7) goes on to suggest that pragmatics should therefore be

seen as ‘a general cognitive, social, and cultural perspective on linguistic phenom-
ena in relation to their usage in forms of behaviour (where the string ‘cognitive,
social, and cultural’ does not suggest the separability of what the terms refer
to)’ (italics in original).2
Although Verschueren’s comments provide a useful reminder of the scope
of pragmatics, Leech’s (1983) three-way distinction between general pragmat-
ics, socio-pragmatics and pragmalinguistics should not be discarded, not least
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
because it helps us to categorise the extremely diverse range of research efforts

within pragmatics in a succinct way. As will become clear, this is especially rel-
evant in an historical context, where some pragmatic frameworks seem to be
more suitable than others (cf. Jacobs & Jucker 1995: 10).
.. Historical pragmatics
English historical pragmatics developed out of early attempts to make prag-

matic linguistics more historical, and thus represents a marriage of pragmatics,
a field typically (but not exhaustively) concerned with spoken language, and
historical linguistics, a field concerned with the investigation of earlier stages
of particular languages and their diachronic development (Arnovick 1999: 10).
The primary focus of historical pragmatics is not necessarily language change
(cf. pragma-historical linguistics), but investigating language use through time
or at particular points in time (Jacobs & Jucker 1995: 5–6). The aims of a
historically conceived pragmatics tend to be:
1. The description and the understanding of conventions of language use in
communities that once existed and that are no longer accessible for direct
observation.
2. The description and the explanation of the development of speech conven-
tions in the course of time (Jacobs & Jucker 1995: 6).
Such aims have led to the identification of two (albeit overlapping) approaches
within historical pragmatics, ‘pragmaphilology’ and ‘diachronic pragmatics’
(Jacobs & Jucker 1995). The pragmaphilological approach seeks to incorporate
sociohistorical and pragmatic linguistic aspects in an analysis, by describing
‘the contextual aspects of historical texts, including the addressers and ad-
dressees, their social and personal relationship, the physical and social setting of
text production and text reception, and the goal(s) of the text’ (Jacobs & Jucker
1995: 11). Since such research often depends on written records, the similarities
and dissimilarities of written and spoken language is often a major focus (see,
for example, Ronberg 1995; see also 1.4 for a discussion of the availability of
historical natural language data).
In contrast to the pragmaphilological approach, ‘diachronic pragmatics’
focuses on the linguistic inventory and its communicative use across different
historical stages of the same language. Jacobs and Jucker (1995) distinguish two
subtypes within the diachronic approach: diachronic form-to-function map-
ping and diachronic function-to-form mapping (see Jacobs & Jucker 1995 for a
detailed historiography). However, they are careful to point out that the differ-
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
ence between them is one of perspective rather than methodology, explaining

that a particular form or, indeed, speech function may change in the course
of time. This can be particularly problematic for a diachronic investigation, of
course, for ‘any comparison relies on an element that remains fixed’ (Jacobs &
Jucker 1995: 13). Consequently, diachronic pragmatics has to constantly refer
to the concept of pragmatic equivalence: the idea that there is sufficient similar-
ity between linguistic phenomena from different periods to argue that they (i)
have the same (or similar) impact or trigger an ‘equivalent effect’, and thus (ii)
warrant the same term being applied to them (cf. Nida & Taber’s (1982: 200)
translation principle of ‘dynamic equivalence’). Although this seems to amount
to the ‘fixing’ of perlocutionary effect, it is worth noting that researchers have
not yet fully defined the concept.
.. A definition of historical sociopragmatics
As previously pointed out, the general approach of this book will be to account
for those aspects that characterise sociopragmatics (cf. Leech 1983). As such,
my approach is closer to – but not the same as – the pragmaphilological ap-
proach (as I will also be commenting upon any diachronic shifts within the
period covered by my corpus). An historical analysis within a socio-pragmatic
approach, then, seeks to investigate examples of local language use from a
specific time in the past in a way that takes account of the cognitive, social
and cultural contexts influencing the interaction (Archer 2002: 3). By which I
mean, those contexts affecting or ‘created by the dynamics of interaction be-
tween utterers and interpreters in relation to what [was] (or [was] thought to
be) “out there”’ (Verschueren 1999: 109). It also seeks to appreciate (the effect
of) the socio-historical/cultural/linguistic background to which the data re-
lates (cf. Raumolin-Brunberg 1996: 11). Birnbaum (1985: 171–172) likens this
to ‘transport[ing] oneself, as it were, into the very milieu in which [the texts]
were produced, reproduced and read’ (cited in Collins 2000: 18).
It is worth noting that Schwenter and Traugott (1995: 244) claim that
pragmaphililogists and diachronic pragmaticians ‘cannot tap linguistic intu-
itions of speakers several hundred years ago’, and therefore should ‘look to
competence for use’. As some may view the claim as an implicit rejection of
a sociopragmatic approach, I will make two observations. Firstly, Schwenter
and Traugott’s (1995) view can be explained, in part, by the fact that they are
working within the North American approach to historical pragmatics. By this
I mean, historical pragmatics in North America is centrally associated with two
closely related lines of research: diachronic grammaticalization and cognitive
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
linguistics.3 Consequently, their concern is ‘with linguistic contexts and not

with sociopragmatics’ (Schwenter & Traugott 1995: 244). Secondly, the ‘prob-
lem’ of ‘get[ing] into people’s heads’ should not be seen as being peculiar to
historical studies. Indeed, as Grimshaw (1990: 281) highlights, it is an issue for
any linguist analysing ‘talk’, and, to some extent, the interlocutors themselves.
I raise this issue in order to point out that analysts of modern ‘talk’ generally
accept that:
The availability of ethnographic context and of an optimally complete be-
haviour record permits analysts to make such inferences and attributions
which are ‘for-the-most-practical-purposes’ [. . . ] no less plausible than those
of actual participants. (Grimshaw 1990: 281)
Indeed, Grimshaw (1990: 281) suggests that ‘the disambiguation process’ that
analysts of modern ‘talk’ use is similar to ‘that which we ourselves employ in
interaction – where, it must be conceded, we sometimes err’. I would argue,
then, that although the distance in (historical) time may exacerbate the poten-
tial to ‘err’, it is nevertheless possible to reconstruct ‘plausible’ intentions, given
adequate evidence (I pick up on the need for adequate evidence in 1.3 and 1.4).
As support for my view, I draw the reader’s attention to the growing num-
ber of researchers who are adopting a sociopragmatic framework to study
historical texts (see Archer 2002; Culpeper & Semino 2000; Nevalainen &
Raumolin-Brunberg 1996). The primary difference between these studies and
similar pragmaphilogical analyses is the prominence given to the non-linguistic
context. Let me elucidate with a short extract from one of the Salem Witchcraft
Trials that I examine in Archer (2002). The extract is taken from Richard
Carrier’s second examination:4
Q. have you been in the devils snare A: yes. Q. is yo’r bro: Andrew
ensnared by the devils snare: A yes [Q.] how long has yo’r brother bin a
witch:
A: not long: Q. have you joined in aflicting the aflicted persons: A: Yes:
[Salem Witchcraft Papers 1977: 197–198]
There are several ‘obvious’ contexts that we need to keep in mind, the first of
which is the place and time period where the discourse was realised: a meeting-
house in Salem, New England, in 1692. The second is the task to be performed:
according to Boyer and Nissenbaum (1977: 8), the purpose of the initial trials
was to determine whether the accused should be held for possible indictment
on charges of witchcraft. The third context we might subsequently note is how
the institutionalised setting imposed the role of examined upon Carrier, effec-
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
tively constraining him to answering the questions put to him (as is signalled
by the capitalised letter ‘A’), and the seeming willingness on Carrier’s part to ac-
cept this subservient role, for he made no attempt to thwart the examiner’s line
of argument, giving minimal responses to 19 of the 21 questions asked of him,
which tended to confirm rather than deny the examiner’s proposition. There
are also a number of additional contextually-relevant features that, although
not immediately identifiable from the text itself, nevertheless require some
consideration when undertaking sociopragmatic analyses within an historical
context (cf. Jacobs & Jucker 1995). They include the fact that:
1. Carrier admitted his involvement in witchcraft activities in this examina-
tion, but previously professed his innocence.
2. This examination was one of several undertaken in and around Salem in
an attempt to explain supernatural happenings/uncover a witchcraft plot.
3. New England did not have a charter when the Salem affair began. Subse-
quently, some have concluded that, as jurisdiction in the colony was limited
to witchcraft cases alone, many simmering tensions might have been (de-
liberately) cast in supernatural terms in order to be dealt with by the courts
(Konig 1979).
Let’s briefly examine the first point. Depending on our interpretation of events,
Carrier’s change of approach reveals that he was now violating or, alternatively,
had previously violated the Maxim of Quality (Grice 1975). If we are to under-
stand what motivated the violation, we must glean evidence of the ‘social and
psychological world’, or the mental/social ‘realities’ in which he was operating
(Levinson 1983: 22; Verschueren 1999: 87). As the above interaction reveals, a
common belief at this time was that people could be ‘ensnared by the devil’.
We might want to conclude, then, that Carrier and his examiner shared this
belief. However, the socio-historical context may provide an alternative rea-
son for Carrier’s apparent admission of guilt. For those who had stuck to their
confessions had escaped death, while those who had explicitly demonstrated
that their mental worlds were in conflict (by keeping to their denials) had paid
with their lives. Indeed, no one who held to his or her confession at Salem was
put to death. In fact, of the fifty-five that admitted the practice of witchcraft,
only five were condemned – and, of these, only Samuel Wardwell hanged, after
renouncing his confession. Our second explanation for Carrier’s ‘admission’
also brings the second and third points into play (see above), for the Salem
Witchcraft Trials happened at a time when America was experiencing inter-
nal and external difficulties. In Salem village, that ‘tension’ manifested itself in
charges of witchcraft that began with one family, but spread to the whole com-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
munity and beyond as the judiciary’s claims of a broad conspiracy of witches

were confirmed by an unprecedented number of confessions (for a detailed
socio-historical account of the Salem affair, see Rosenthal 1995).
A brief description of the Salem data and other courtroom material fol-
lows my exploration of the data and methodological problems facing historical
pragmaticians (see 1.3 following).
. The data and methodological problems facing

historical pragmaticians
Historical pragmatics has been likened to contrastive pragmatics ‘across time’

(Jucker 1995, 2000). However, the methodological techniques used by con-
trastive pragmaticians are largely non-transferable. For example, if we want
to investigate the spoken language of the present/very immediate past (e.g. the
mid-20th century onwards), we draw on electronic recordings and/or tran-
scriptions, native speaker intuitions, introspection, participant observation,
questionnaires and the like (Jacobs & Jucker 1995: 6; Jucker 2000: 18). In con-
trast, the pragmatician who wants to investigate the spoken language of the
more distant past has to rely on written records as approximate evidence for
his/her claims on spoken language (Culpeper & Kytö 2000; Jucker 2000). This
reliance on written data was originally seen as problematic for a number of
interrelated reasons, including:
1. The belief, borne out by the supposed dichotomy between spoken and
written language, that the only legitimate data source for pragmatics was
spoken data
2. The scarcity of appropriate data (e.g. spoken data)
However, as written texts of the past (e.g. data in the graphic code) are now
recognised as capturing a cluster of communicative practices ranging from the
‘language of distance’ to the ‘language of immediacy’, reliance on written data
is no longer seen as detrimental to serious pragmatic investigations of language
use (for a useful description of conceptualisation and its interrelationship with
the phonic/graphic code, see Jucker 2000: 20–24; Koch 1999).
Some written texts are closer to spoken language than others, of course,
the closest being those that sought to mimic (or represent) speech in some way
or, alternatively, originated in speech and were then permanently preserved
in writing:
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
These [‘speech-based genres’] include various kinds of transcribed speech,

such as courtroom proceedings, political debates, town meetings, and some
public speeches and sermons, as well as various literary representations of
speech (Biber & Finegan 1992: 689)
In reality, however, even speech-based genres such as courtroom records are

complex mixtures of ‘immediate’ and ‘distant’ language.
The original interaction in the courtroom is characterised by a certain amount
of formality because of the formal and institutionalised situation, but it is
also a situation in which some features of the language of communicative
immediacy are prevalent. The interactants share a physical surrounding and
thus [a] spatial and temporal deictic orientation. The communication may
to some extent be embedded in the context; it is dialogic and partly spon-
taneous. During this interaction, the participants may talk about an earlier
communicative event, which may indeed be the cause of the interaction in the
courtroom, if, for instance, the defendant is accused of having insulted the
plaintiff. In that case, the court record will contain embedded in its account
of the conversation an account of a conversation outside the courtroom. This
original conversation will typically be characterised by communicative imme-
diacy. [. . . ] A court clerk, who is a witness [. . . ] of this second interaction,
composes a written document. He becomes the author [. . . ] of a third inter-
action and addresses a future reader [. . . ]. The court record, which basically is
an example of the language of communicative distance [. . . ], thus contains a
report of a spoken interaction in the courtroom. (Jucker 2000: 24–25)
A related methodological issue – gleaning information regarding the situa-

tional and/or socio-historical context from internal and/or secondary evidence
(cf. Sitta 1980: 32 cited in Jacobs & Jucker 1995: 7) – throws up the difficulties
of retrieving context in an historical setting, and the subsequent advantages of
choosing data that is of a good quality, and for which additional information
is available (the next section, 1.4, assesses the quality of available courtroom
data in an historical setting). Other methodological issues worthy of mention
include the difficulties occasioned by diachronic variation, including making
use of intuitions based on structural similarities between different periods –
even when, as in my case, the data is representative of a period in which, super-
ficially at least, the structural similarities with present-day English (henceforth
PresDE) appear to be much more numerous than the differences (cf. Kytö &
Voutilainen 1995). Also, we need to be constantly alert to the problems as-
sociated with synchronic variation, i.e. the probability that the function of
questions and answers will differ according the genre in which they occur.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
These and related methodological issues will be considered at various points

in this book (see, for example, 4.1.2.2).
. Availability of historical courtroom data
Data that makes possible the study of courtroom interaction in an histori-

cal perspective is rare, but it nevertheless exists (Hiltunen 1996). The biggest
source of data is the many extant court records in library archives throughout
the country and, in particular, in the Public Record Office. Of course, there
are some practical issues that tend to complicate their utilisation, not least the
accessibility issue. Length constraints prevent an in-depth analysis of all these
sources here. The following should therefore be regarded as a summary of the
most accessible.
The State Trials (1163–1858). The best example of historical trial texts in
quantitative terms is the State Trials. First published in 1719, Salmon’s edition
was later revised and expanded in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries by
various editors, including Hargrave (1730) and Howell (London 1809–1826)
(for a discussion of the various editions, see Muddiman 1930). The various
State Trials contain accounts of criminal proceedings from Norman down
through Stuart and, in later editions, Georgian times. However, in important
respects they are unreliable:
1. They have been retrospectively compiled – the compilers patching together
their accounts of trials in former centuries from a variety of sources, many
now suspect (primarily because they are the work of non-professional
scribes), including manuscripts of doubtful provenance, lay chronicles,
pamphlets and tracts (Langbein 1978: 265).
2. During the Tudor-Stuart period especially, there is evidence to suggest that
compilers gave preference to sources with a Puritan and Whig bias (see
Clark 1967: 92–114). According to Langbein (1978: 265), however, the reli-
ability of the trial reports reprinted in the State Trials improves towards the
end of the seventeenth century, as a result of the increasing use of short-
hand and/or professional scribes, and the speed at which the scribes’ work
was written up and published in pamphlet editions.5
3. The State Trials are not representative of the ordinary criminal trial, as in
most cases the documented court cases involved high politics, although
they do contain the odd case of witchcraft, bigamy, homicide, etc., from
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
the mid-seventeenth century onwards. These cases were probably chron-

icled because of the sensational nature of the crime or the notable status
of the defendant. However, there are no cases of ‘ordinary’ crimes such as
sheep stealing. Although this last point might not seem overly problematic,
it is indicative of the political bent of the editors (Whigs) and their ‘gentile,
predominantly non-lawyer readership’, according to Langbein (1978: 266).
I will return to the differences between the State Trials and ordinary crimi-
nal cases during my discussion of the Early Modern English courtroom in
Chapter 3.
Salem Witchcraft Papers (1692). Boyer and Nissenbaum’s (1977) three-

volume Salem Witchcraft Papers contains many of the primary documents
relating to what is the most documented speech event of the EmodE period.
Moreover, much of the primary data contained within the collection: (i) adopts
a direct question-and-answer format resembling modern stenographic trial
transcripts, and (ii) is supplemented by a wealth of historical commentary de-
tailing how a seemingly insignificant village “witchcraft” outbreak led to the
largest witch trial in America. Like the State Trials, however, it cannot be taken
to be representative of the EmodE courtroom as a whole, as it relates to a spe-
cific crime – witchcraft – at a specific time. Its setting – America – also has to be
taken into consideration.6 An additional ‘problem’ for some historians and his-
torical linguists is the accuracy and arrangement of the Salem Witchcraft Papers.
A new project headed by Professor Rosenthal is therefore underway to produce
a chronologically (as opposed to alphabetically) organised edition that includes
Salem-related material that has come to light over the past twenty years.
The Pendle Witch Trials (1613). Thomas Potts’s The Wonderfyll Discoverie of
Witches in the Covntie of Lancaster offers a similar, although less documented
example of a single speech event. However, like the Salem Witchcraft Papers, this
account is also problematic, not least because, although the title page claims
that the accounts of trials and depositions within are ‘truly reported’, it was
commissioned by the Judges of the trials and, ultimately, by James I himself,
who was a strong believer in witchcraft. Moreover, the Wonderfyll Discoverie
contains evidence to suggest that Potts may have constructed the work – and,
indeed, the judges may have conducted their trials – to reinforce the king’s own
writings on the subject (e.g. his Daemonologie, published in 1597).7
The Old Bailey Sessions Papers (1674–1834). The earliest Old Bailey Sessions
Papers resemble an earlier genre of literature, the ‘crime’ chapbook. They are,
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
therefore, little more than ‘sensation-mongering pamphlets written by non-

lawyers, usually anonymously, for sale to the general public’, according to
Langbein (1978: 267). And, even when their format and function changes over
the next 250-year period (initially to newspaper and then to true law report),
they remain problematic, as they tend to tell us very little about individual tri-
als (Langbein 1978: 267, 269). In other words, they are summaries rather than
detailed trial transcripts with a question-and-answer format (although some
dating from the 1730s do adopt the latter form). Even so, the Old Bailey Ses-
sions Papers are regarded by some as ‘probably the best accounts we shall ever
have of what transpired in ordinary English criminal courts before the later
eighteenth century’ (Langbein 1978: 271), which may help to explain why a
project is underway to make digital images of the Old Bailey trials available
online.8
The Corpus of English Dialogues (1560–1760). Compiled by Merja Kytö and

Jonathan Culpeper of the universities of Uppsala (Sweden) and Lancaster (Eng-
land) respectively, the Corpus of English Dialogues (henceforth CED) covers a
two-hundred year time span divided into forty-year intervals, and consists of
more than 1 million words of ‘authentic’ and constructed imaginary speech
drawn from five text-types (prose fiction, comedy drama, courtroom proceed-
ings, witness depositions and handbooks in dialogue form). The trial section
of the CED consists of 302,027 words and, like the State Trials, brings together
some of the many extant texts lying in libraries and record offices. However,
although there is some overlap with the State Trials in regard to the trials
represented, the CED is very different in other respects. Firstly, it adopts an
electronic format, and thus, in conjunction with the computer, potentially pro-
vides a much more systematic approach to the analysis of language (Leech
1992). Secondly, only trial texts with publication dates within 40 years (typ-
ically, within a few years) of the speech event they represent are used to ensure
that they reflect contemporary usage (cf. the State Trials, which draws on later
imprints that are susceptible to the influence of usage current at the time of
their production). Thirdly, the trial texts resemble modern stenographic trial
transcripts (in other words, obvious scribal interference – including tense shifts
to the third person – has been kept to a minimum). Fourthly, the texts have
been rigorously checked against related data (i.e. manuscripts, alternative con-
temporary accounts, etc.). By way of illustration, the different imprints of the
trial of Charles I (i.e. A Perfect Narrative and the first and second editions of
King Charls His Tryal) were compared (see Kytö & Walker 2003: 231–235 for a
detailed description of the process adopted).
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
.. Investigating the historical courtroom using a corpus-based approach
This work draws from the last data source mentioned, the CED (a breakdown
of the trial texts utilised is given in 4.2). My reasons for drawing from this
source include the direct format of the texts, and the CED’s coverage of the
EmodE period. My main motivation, however, relates to being able to use the
computer to carry out processes such as data retrieval, sorting and assessment,
for computers tend to perform such processes quickly and accurately. That
said, an electronic corpus is only useful if the computer can carry out partic-
ular (i.e. relevant) searches. Consequently, myself and a colleague (see Archer
& Culpeper 2003) have designed and implemented an annotation scheme to
a sub-section (i.e. the trial and drama sections) of the CED that makes pos-
sible the retrieval of appropriate contextual information. These include ‘role’,
‘status’, ‘gender’ and ‘age’. A detailed explanation of the annotation scheme is
provided in Chapter 4.
Given my interest in the ‘exchange-in-context’ (cf. Stubbs 1983: 104), some
may find my adoption of a corpus-based approach a little surprising. I can of-
fer two (inter-related) reasons by way of explanation. Firstly, I want to ascertain
the extent to which a corpus-based approach successfully deals with pragmatic
phenomena. Corpus linguistics is an established methodology in many areas of
linguistic study. In stylistic analysis, for example, the use of corpus methods has
been so successful that ‘certain forms of literary knowledge might never have
been apprehended were it not for the use of computers and corpora’ (Louw
1997: 250). But the use of (annotated) corpora is not well established in prag-
matics (see 4.3), in spite of the increasing availability and capacity of computers
and corpus software (McEnery & Wilson 2001). There are several reasons for
this, notably (i) the valuable but time-consuming practice of preparing or an-
notating the corpus, and (ii) the lack of appropriate taxonomies on which to
base annotation schemes (see 4.3). This study seeks, in part, to redress this ap-
parent methodological imbalance, by providing a taxonomy for questions and
answers (see 4.4–4.4.4). Secondly, corpus-based study is inevitable as soon as
one wants to quantitatively investigate the past stages of a language. That said,
I do not regard quantitative investigation to be a goal in itself, but a means to
an end, namely to help us construct – so that we can (in)validate – generalisa-
tions. Indeed, I envisage that this study will (i) increase our understanding of
historical courtroom discourse, and, in so doing, (ii) enable future researchers
to assess the extent to which historical and modern courtroom discourse are
similar to or differ from one another. I will take the first few tentative steps to-
ward such research during this study by contrasting the findings of the modern
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
courtroom literature I discuss in Chapter 3 with my own findings (see Chapters

5–11).
. Primary objectives of this study
It is generally accepted that powerful participants control and constrain the

contributions of non-powerful participants in today’s courtrooms through
their use of questions (see, for example, Harris 1984; Riley 1986; Woodbury
1984). Fairclough (1986, 1989, 1999) argues further that the norms of inter-
action arising from the power and status differentials existing between the
speakers effectively become ideological representations of the social relation-
ships involved. Given existing research suggests that EmodE trial talk was also
made up of questions and answers in the main, and that questions and answers
were typically used by identifiable participants, i.e. examiners in the case of
questions, and witnesses and defendants in the case of answers (see Chapter 3),
a major focus of this study will be the questions that examiners asked witnesses
and defendants, and the responses that those questions received. In particu-
lar, I will be seeking to determine the extent to which examiner-witness and
examiner-defendant question-and-answer sequences were affected/shaped by
(and, indeed, shaped) the institutional context. I will also determine the extent
to which the unequal power relationship between examiners and their respon-
dents is made manifest through/by question and answer sequences. This will
necessitate:
1. Making explicit the constraints on questions and responses in the historical
courtroom (for example, the specific rights of the examiners to ask ques-
tions and the specific obligations of the defendants/witnesses to respond),
and the differences in outcome when those constraints were adhered to
and violated.
2. Drawing inferences about the nature of the participants’ relations from
their interaction (for example, whether language was being used strategi-
cally by examiners in order to maintain tight control over defendants/
witnesses and, if so, whether defendants/witnesses adopted counter-
strategies).
3. Identifying the discursive norms of interaction in operation.
As defendants were also allowed to ask questions of witnesses at this time (see
p1), a second objective of this study is to compare the examiners’ and defen-
dants’ use of questions as a means of determining the effect of (institutionally
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
sanctioned) power/powerlessness upon the “potency” of QA sequences in the

EmodE courtroom, and, in particular, the extent to which the ability of ‘inter-
rogative syntax [to] place unusually powerful constraints on what can follow’
was constrained by the social role/power of the participants themselves (cf.
Stubbs 1983: 104). Both investigations will draw upon French and Raven’s ‘co-
ercive’, ‘legitimate’ and ‘expert’ categorizations of power, which they define as
follows:9
‘coercive’ e.g. A is in control of negative outcomes (‘in other words, in a
position to administer things that B dislikes, and to remove or
decrease the things that B desires’ (Spencer-Oatey 1992: 108)),
‘expert’ e.g. A has special knowledge or expertise that B wants or needs,
‘legitimate’ e.g. A has the legitimate right to prescribe or request certain
things of B
(Reported in Spencer-Oatey 1992: 107–108)
I would argue that the historical context, in turn, necessitates a further cat-
egory, that of ‘supernatural power’. ‘Supernatural power’ is the ability to use
energy/forces from the spiritual world to influence the material world (see
pp. 8, 99–103). I would suggest that ‘supernatural power’ can be sub-classified,
in turn, into (i) the malevolent use of supernatural power, a suitable definition
for which might be ‘A has the power to harm B by means of witchcraft’ (cf.
Culpeper & Semino 2000: 98–100), and (ii) ‘divinely sanctioned power’, which,
for present purposes, I will describe as ‘A has the power to control B because
of a divine right to rule’. Inherent in the second type of power is the belief
that monarchs (like Charles I) were appointed by and thus accountable to God
alone, that is to say, they were above all human laws – even the laws of the
Court (see Somerville 1989 for a summary of ‘The Divine Right of Kings’). As
will become clear, this type of power is especially relevant to this study, and will
therefore be considered in some detail (see, in particular, Chapter 11).
As the annotated sub-section of the CED data covers a reasonably broad
period (1640–1760), a third objective of this study is to look for evidence that
participants’ use of questions or, indeed, the questions themselves, changed
over time. Moreover, as I am seeking to improve our knowledge/understanding
of historical courtroom discourse in general, I will highlight any evidence link-
ing the emergence of any ‘new’ discourse practices to changes to (the discursive
norms of) the historical courtroom itself (see, in particular, Chapters 3, 7
and 8).
My sociopragmatic analysis of 12 transcripts taken from the Salem
Witchcraft Papers reveals that questions and answers were not the only linguis-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
tic devices to have been used in the historical courtroom (see Archer 2002).
Indeed, the Salem magistrates used (an albeit small) number of commands,
the majority of which compelled respondents to begin or continue speaking
on a specific topic, and also paralleled the need to confess with the need to tell
the truth: ‘. . . tell us w’t you know of this matter . . . answer me this truly . . .
Give glory to God & confess then’ (SWP: 248, 249, 250) (see Archer 2002: 17).
A fourth objective of this study, therefore, is to determine whether additional
eliciting devices, such as commands and requests, were also utilised by the
CED participants. Moreover, I will be looking to determine whether a simi-
lar relationship exists between these eliciting devices and the role of specific
participant groups as it does between questions and answers and examiners
and witnesses, for example.
I will be making extensive use of a number of pragmatic approaches to help
me address the above research questions, including insights gained within the
fields of speech act theory, conversation analysis and discourse analysis, and
from ‘inference’ and presupposition theories. However, the reader should note
that none of the specific applications of pragmatic theory will constitute an end
in itself. Rather, they will be a means of elucidating ‘meaning in interaction’ (cf.
Thomas 1995). That said, I will feedback into the theory, when it seems relevant
to do so.
.. Bringing together corpus linguistics and historical sociopragmatics
A fifth objective of this study is to bring together corpus linguistics and histor-
ical sociopragmatics so that I can ascertain the extent to which a corpus-based
approach successfully deals with pragmatic phenomena (pp. 108).
To a lesser or greater degree, corpus linguistics, historical pragmatics and
pragmatics are all concerned with language use and with naturally occurring
data. Yet, not all of their ‘proto-typical’ characteristics are shared ones for, as
Archer and Culpeper (2003: 40) point out, the majority of corpus-based studies
tend to be large-scale quantitative analyses of written texts (a consequence, per-
haps, of there being more corpora of written texts), whilst the reverse is true for
pragmatics. Indeed, most pragmatic studies are relatively small-scale qualita-
tive analyses that concentrate upon spoken language data, whether that data be
elicited (e.g. through discourse completion tasks) or naturally occurring (e.g.
recorded classroom interaction).10
Another marked difference relates to context, for a particular feature of
pragmatics research is its concern with language use in context (all the ma-
jor theories in pragmatics capturing some aspect of the latter). But the bias
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
of computer searches towards form, that is to say, a letter or string of letters

(cf. Leech 2000: 679) seems to have resulted in a tendency within corpus lin-
guistics to concentrate on the relationships between those forms (e.g. text and
co-text) at the expense of the (situational, sociological and cultural) dynam-
ics of context (particularly at the local and micro level). Yet, corpus linguistics
is not alone in its failure to properly address the sociological context or the
local contexts of language use (e.g. the primary domain of sociopragmatics),
for English historical pragmatics has also largely ignored these characteristi-
cally sociopragmatic aspects (cf. Leech 1983) – one notable exception being
Nevalainen and Raumolin-Brunberg’s (1996) sociopragmatic analysis of terms
of address in EmodE correspondence data.
As previously explained, I intend to adopt a sociopragmatic framework
to analyse my historical data. My decision is motivated by a firmly-held con-
viction that we should look at all language use (especially historical language
use) in its context. Retrieving context in an historical setting is beset with dif-
ficulties, of course (see 4.3.2 and 4.3.5). Applying an empirical methodology
whereby one can quantify context in some way is thus a major challenge for a
corpus-based approach, especially when my concern is not with the relatively
static characteristics of speakers, but with the interactions between speak-
ers and hearers. Indeed, the ‘face-to-face’ nature of the data and the rapid
turn-taking will necessitate a dynamic approach to context (cf. Nevalainen
& Raumolin-Brunberg’s 1996 data, which is not spoken or face-to-face, and
thus does not require rapid-turn-taking or on-line processing. See also 4.3 and
4.3.4). Even so, I believe the challenge to be worth pursuing – and necessary if
we are to move away from ‘ad hoc’ approaches to (historical) analysis that rely
on discourse ‘fragments’ (cf. Brown & Yule 1983: 50).
. How I intend to proceed
Before we can study (the strategic use of) questions and answers in their con-
texts, historical or otherwise, we need to be clear about what we mean by
‘question’ and ‘answer’ – not least because:
1. My corpus-based approach necessitates a systematic basis for ‘question’
and ‘answer’ identification.
2. Rather confusingly, the same term, ‘question’, is used to refer to a form of
language that invites a reply and a syntactic category, interrogative, whose
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
subject-verb inversion typically distinguishes it from the other major sen-

tence types, declarative and imperative.
3. Questions are often explained in terms of the answer they expect.
The ambiguity surrounding the ‘question’ can be explained, in part, by

the fact that interrogative sentences are characteristically used to ask ques-
tions (Bolinger 1957). But there is far from a one-to-one mapping between
grammatical form and discourse function, something which prompts Leech
(1983: 4) to suggest that we have to study the abstract formal system (grammar)
of a language, its principles of language use (pragmatics) and the interaction
between them if we are to understand a language. An important aim of this
book, then, is to investigate ‘what constitutes a question’ and ‘what constitutes
an answer’ in the context of the courtroom of the EmodE period, and how
they interact. Accordingly, I will be chronicling some of the different theories
that have been put forward to date (see Chapter 2: The characteristics of ques-
tions and answers), and examining the extent to which these theories relate
to and successfully account for speakers’ actual uses of questions/questioning
sequences/responses in the context of the courtroom (see Chapters 2 and 3:
Question procedures in courtrooms). These chapters, in turn, provide the the-
oretical underpinning for an annotation scheme for questions and answers
which identifies their interactional intent, force and, where applicable, form. By
interactional intent, I mean the position an utterance occupies in the discourse,
and what the speaker intends to achieve by it; for example, initiating a new ex-
change and responding to the direct elicitation of another (see Chapter 4: The
SocioPragmatic Corpus: A Systematic Approach To Context Identification and
Analysis). Chapter 4 also introduces the general annotation scheme applied to
the drama and trial sections of the CED (see Archer & Culpeper 2003). Chap-
ters 5–11 then report the findings I retrieved from implementing the annota-
tion scheme on the trial texts from the CED, and discuss them in relation to the
research questions highlighted above (see p. 16). By way of illustration, Chap-
ter 5: Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760), examines the trial
data as a whole to determine the various forms and functions of questions, and
also the relationship between them, whilst also highlighting the importance of
considering user. In other words, how different participants utilised question-
types in different ways, depending on the role that they adopted. Chapter 6:
The Interactional intent of participants’ utterances, then provides a general
overview of the questioner in the 1640–1760 courtroom, by initially provid-
ing a breakdown of the participants according to the role that they adopted,
and then discussing the interactional intent of the six main participants’ ut-
Chapter 1. Investigating the English historical courtroom 
terances and, in particular, the frequency with which they utilised questions
compared to other speech acts/eliciting devices (see above for a definition
of what I mean by ‘interactional intent’). Chapter 7: The Judicial Examiners’
Questioning Strategies (1640–1760), and Chapter 8: The Lawyers’ Questioning
Strategies (1640–1760), then look at the strategic use that the primary examin-
ers made of questions in the EmodE courtroom, whilst highlighting that/how
their changing roles during the period covered by the data resulted in ‘new’
discursive practices. This is followed, in Chapter 9: The Defendants’ strate-
gies in the EmodE courtroom (1640–1760), by an examination of the special
role of the defendant in the EmodE courtroom, and, in Chapter 10: Witnesses’
‘answering’ strategies in the EmodE courtroom (1640–1760), by an examina-
tion of the witnesses’ use of ‘answers’. As questions were not the only eliciting
device used in the EmodE courtroom, I devote my penultimate chapter, Histor-
ical courtroom interaction – more than questions and answers, to a discussion
of the judges and defendants during the period 1640–1679, and, in particu-
lar, their use of commands and requests to seek verbal as well as non-verbal
actions. Finally, my concluding chapter considers the efficacy of using contem-
porary approaches to examine historical data, by reflecting upon the extent to
which this study has: (i) improved our understanding of historical courtroom
discourse, and its development over time, (ii) provided empirical results that
can be compared with contemporary courtroom research, and (iii) provided
a better understanding of the effect of ‘context’ on questions. At which point,
ideas for further research will be briefly discussed.
Chapter 2
The characteristics of questions and answers
. Defining questions and answers
This chapter draws on existing research to answer the following, in general

terms: ‘what constitutes a question?’ and ‘what constitutes an answer?’. As such,
it should be considered as a first step towards the development of a classi-
fication scheme (see also Chapter 3). In terms of questions, I investigate the
importance of form (what the speaker says), force (what the speaker intends by
what s/he says), and position (how they relate to the rest of the discourse); that
is, the lexical, grammatical and prosodic aspect, the speech act aspect and the
discoursal aspect. I also assess the extent to which the characteristics of ques-
tions are ‘inherent’ or ‘context’ dependent (i.e. are affected by the role of the
user, their addressee and the context in which the interaction is taking place,
etc.). In terms of answers, I draw upon the insights of a number of existing
taxonomies (see Philips 1984; Riley 1986; Stenström 1984; Archer 2002), be-
fore summarising the prototypical characteristics of answers. As my study is
historical in nature, I also examine existing research relating to (the form and
function of) questions and answers in EmodE texts.
. What constitutes a ‘question’?
Although ‘questions have been investigated at every level of linguistic analy-

sis for decades’, there is still ‘considerable disagreement about how questions
should be defined and analysed’ (Freed 1994: 621, 622). Consequently, I will
not be attempting to provide an ‘all there is to know’ review. Rather, my em-
phasis will be on attempting to uncover characteristics that I can use as a basis
for (systematic) question identification.
There is a commonly held assumption that needs to be made clear from the
outset, as it seems to shape the way in which questions are dealt with and thus
may impact upon my eventual classification scheme. This is that ‘grammar’ is
an abstract formal system that is distinct from (and yet interacts with) the do-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
main of pragmatics (Leech 1983: 4).11 The assumption is so pervasive that most
grammars (descriptive and theoretical) deal primarily with the study of the
structure of expressive possibilities and ignore (patterns of) actual language use
(but cf. Biber et al. 1999). Consequently, their starting point when discussing
questions tends to be the formal representation of interrogative sentences, fol-
lowed by the distinction between ‘information’ types and ‘polar’ types (Brazil
1995: 195).
.. The characteristic syntactic properties of questions
If we accept, for the moment, that the best way to identify questions is via
their syntactic form (regardless of whether they are part of speech or part
of writing), our question category would include those interrogatives which
share characteristic verb-subject inversion, that is, polar (or yes/no) inter-
rogatives, disjunctive (or alternative) interrogatives, tagged declaratives, and
wh-interrogatives.
Polar interrogatives realise yes-no questions such as ‘Am I too late?’, where
all the elements are taken to be already specified, and the addressee is expected
to supply a truth value, by either answering ‘yes’ or ‘no’ (Biber et al. 1999: 206)
or by providing another pragmatically appropriate answer (such as ‘I don’t
know’, cf. Quirk et al. 1985: 806). Generally formed by placing the operator
(i.e. be, have or do, or a modal verb such as can, may, must, will, etc.) before the
subject, they are characteristically described as having rising intonation (Quirk
et al. 1972; Halliday 1970: 22–23).
In contrast, disjunctive interrogatives are said to realise alternative ques-
tions of two types. One type (e.g. ‘Would you like chocolate, vanilla, or straw-
berry ice cream?’) resembles a polar interrogative, and the other (e.g. ‘Which
ice cream would you like? Chocolate, vanilla or strawberry?’) functions like
a wh-question. Consequently, Quirk et al. (1985: 823) define the latter as ‘a
compound of two separate questions: a wh-question followed by an ellipti-
cal alternative question’ (‘Which ice cream would you like? [Would you like]
chocolate, vanilla or strawberry?’).
Tagged declaratives are made up of an elliptical interrogative structure
attached to a declarative form. The operator (auxiliary verb) and subject (per-
sonal pronoun) of the tag tend to be identical to the operator and subject of the
clause to which the tag is appended (but if the clause has no operator a form of
do is inserted, as with yes-no questions). Since their primary function is not to
elicit information from the addressee but, rather, agreement or confirmation
(Biber et al. 1999: 208), they realise two types of tag questions – ‘checking’ and
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
Figure 2. Grammatical q-types, arranged according to their primary ‘seeking’ function
‘copy’. Although both types can be both positive and negative in construction,12
they differ in respect of their polarity to the declarative clause to which they are
attached. Checking tags are opposite in polarity, whilst copy tags (so named
because of their tendency to echo a previous statement or draw a conclusion
from something the previous speaker has said) are identical in polarity. Com-
pare ‘She’s so generous, isn’t she?’ and ‘It’s your ball is it?’ (taken from Biber et
al. 1999: 209).
Wh-interrogatives realise wh-questions. As their name suggests, they are
formed with an interrogative word beginning with the letters ‘wh’, e.g. who
(ever13 ), whom, whose, what (ever), which, when, where (ver), why (ever) (the
exception being how). This ‘Q’ element is usually sentence/utterance initial
(but see below), and indicates an element to be specified by the addressee. It
could be a subject, object, predicate, complement or part of a phrase (Biber et
al. 1999: 204). Like yes/no questions, wh-questions usually involve inversion
(unless the wh-element is the subject, in which case the statement order is
maintained: Quirk et al. 1985: 81). An operator may also be introduced to form
the question if there is no operator in the equivalent statement (in most in-
stances, do, but occasionally be and have). When ordinary questions have more
than one wh-element, there is a choice as to which wh-element to front, unless
one of the wh-elements is subject (in which case it takes initial position). Com-
pare ‘Who said what to whom?’, ‘What have you hidden where?’ and ‘Where
have you hidden what?’. Remaining wh-elements can be coordinated or ap-
pended. Compare ‘When and where did they meet?’ and ‘When did they meet,
and where?’. The usual intonation pattern of wh-questions is a falling tone on
and after the tonic syllable.
As Figure 2 reveals, polars and tagged declaratives primarily seek confir-
mation/denial, and wh-interrogatives primarily seek information. However,
disjunctive interrogatives can seek either confirmation-denial or information,
depending on the context, and are therefore placed between the two poles
(Stubbs 1983: 105; Quirk et al. 1985: 806–824; cf. also Brazil 1995: 195).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Figure 2 also contains negatively oriented interrogatives. Negative orienta-

tion is usually signalled by the presence of negative form(s) such as the enclitic
n’t, negative particle, not, and/or degree adverbs (e.g. never). The position of
the negative form varies according to which is used, but, as a general ‘rule’, n’t
precedes the subject, and not and degree adverbs such as never follow it.
According to Quirk et al. (1985: 809), negative questions are always con-
ducive, i.e. they indicate the speaker’s expectation of and preference for a given
answer (see also Stenström 1984: 47). For example, depending on their surface
structure, negatively orientated yes/no questions can express surprise – ‘Hasn’t
the boat left yet?’, disbelief – ‘Hasn’t he told you what to do?’, annoyance –
‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ (examples from Quirk et al. 1985: 809) or
disappointment – ‘Can’t you meet me now?’ – (own example). Such conducive
questions are generally seen as controlling and powerful, because they ask
the respondent to ‘conform to the underlying presupposition of the question’
(Shuy 1995: 208). However, it is important to remember that conduciveness
is a context-based rather than absolute notion (Piazza 2002: 511). Indeed, al-
though grammatical features such as negation predispose some forms towards
conducivity, question-forms that are usually regarded as non-conducive can
become conducive in certain contexts (cf. Harris 1984; Woodbury 1984). The
conducivity issue is further discussed in Sections 2.2.2.2, 2.3.2 and 3.2–3.2.2,
and at various points throughout Chapters 5–9.
... Indirect interrogatives

My examples thus far suggest that interrogatives only utilize a direct structure.
However, polar, wh- and disjunctive interrogatives can be realised directly and
indirectly. Compare, for example, ‘Is Y coming?’ and ‘X asked Y whether Z was
coming’, ‘When will Z be 65?’ and ‘X asked Y when Z would be 65’, ‘Is Z here
or not?’ and ‘X asked Y whether or not Z was here’ (my examples). Notice that
indirect interrogatives, as I will refer to them, differ from their direct equiva-
lents in several ways. Firstly, there is no subject-verb inversion. Secondly, the
interrogative element becomes a reported clause, and a reporting clause is in-
troduced if one is not already present. Thirdly, the subordinated clause has to
begin with whether or if in indirect polar and disjunctive-interrogatives (indi-
rect wh-interrogatives make use of the same interrogative words as their direct
equivalents, e.g. what, when, where, etc.). Fourthly, if the time of reporting is
expressed as later than the time of the utterance, there is generally a change
(or backshift) of verb forms. But backshifting is optional when what was said
applies equally at the time of reporting (cf. ‘When will the plane leave?’, ‘I
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
wondered when the plane would leave?’ and ‘I was wondering when the plane
will leave?’).
Although indirect interrogatives can be used to elicit information or a
truth/polarity decision, their ‘reported’ format makes them a particularly com-
mon feature of certain kinds of activities or text-types such as colloquial re-
porting and storytelling (as will become clear in 5.3, they were also a feature
of witnesses’ ‘answers’ in the EmodE courtroom, according to my data). Once
again, backshifting is often absent (e.g. ‘Then he asks if he’s coming and she
says that he could come or not for all she cared’). Several linguists refer to in-
terrogatives with an indirect format as ‘indirect questions’. Like Quirk et al.
(1985: 369), I prefer the term ‘indirect interrogative’ as it helps us to distin-
guish grammatical indirectness from illocutionary indirectness, that is, those
interrogatives which utilize an indirect grammatical structure from eliciting
devices which have the force of a question but not an interrogative form. In
the following section (2.2.1.3), I examine one such question-type, the declar-
ative question, in detail. Indirect illocution in the sense of ‘one illocutionary
act [being] performed indirectly by way of performing another’ (Searle 1979
[1975b]: 56–57) will be examined later in this chapter (2.2.3.1).
... Moving beyond the surface properties of questions: The case

of declarative and rhetorical questions
Although form is a very helpful criteria for question identification – and one
that I will be drawing on for this study (see 4.4.4) – an account based on in-
terrogative syntax alone results in some questions being unaccounted for, and
other ‘non-question’ structures being included (i.e. declarative questions and
rhetorical questions respectively). By way of illustration, the rhetorical ques-
tion is interrogative in structure, but has the force of an assertion rather than a
question, that is to say, the speaker does not expect an answer (as the ‘answer’
is apparently self-evident).
Rhetorical questions can take the form of positive and negative polar
and wh-interrogatives. The positive rhetorical yes/no question is like a strong
negative assertion, according to Greenbaum and Quirk (1990: 240), and the
negative rhetorical yes/no question, a strong positive assertion (cf. ‘Is that a
reason for despair?’ and ‘Isn’t the answer obvious?’). Similarly, the positive
wh-question is said to be equivalent to a statement in which the wh-element
is replaced by a negative element, and the negative wh-question, a statement
in which the wh-element is replaced by a positive element (cf. ‘How should
I know?’ and ‘Who doesn’t know?’ (Greenbaum & Quirk 1990: 240)). Yet, as
Frank (1990: 723, 727) has shown, rhetorical questions can be difficult to define
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
in ‘spontaneous discourse’, not least because they appear to be multifunctional,

i.e. they have the capacity to both strengthen assertions and soften criticisms.
Brown and Levinson (1978: 228), for example, suggest that they enable speak-
ers to do face-threatening acts (i.e. excuses, criticisms, irony) indirectly, and
therefore see rhetorical questions as a kind of politeness strategy. In contrast,
Anzilotti (1982: 290–291) suggests that their real value is as a persuasive de-
vice. In simple terms, rhetorical questions ‘enable speakers to make stronger
statements, with greater implications, than would be possible if they had made
straightforward assertions’ (quoted in Frank 1990: 726). As my data will re-
veal, although a speaker may intend that the hearer interprets their question
as ‘rhetorical’ (i.e. as not requiring an answer), the hearer may have cause to
want to provide an answer, and thereby treat a supposedly ‘rhetorical’ question
as an information-seeking question (see, in particular, 3.5.2). For this reason,
I intend to include rhetorical questions in my question classification scheme
(see 4.4.4).
In contrast to rhetorical questions, declarative questions lack the sub-
ject/verb (auxiliary or modal) inversion usually associated with interrogatives.
Consequently, their rising intonation is usually taken as a signal of their ‘ques-
tion’ status. Compare:
/ \
“He didn’t finish the race?” “He didn’t finish the race.”
It is worth noting, however, that Crystal (1969: 283) and Stenström (1984: 28)
claim that it is misleading to think in terms of typical interrogative intonation
patterns when classifying questions (cf. Halliday 1970: 22–23, who suggests that
each sentence has a ‘most likely’ intonation, which is used ‘except for good
reason’ and, moreover, that a change of intonation from the ‘most likely’ pat-
tern will result in a change of meaning). Although this downplaying of the
importance of intonation is reassuring in the sense that (for obvious reasons)
intonation patterns are not retrievable in my research, it also necessitates that
we have another means of identifying declarative questions. Labov and Fanshel
(1977: 73) may offer us a useful way forward. Declarative questions are said
to typically invite the hearer’s verification (Quirk et al. 1985: 814). This is be-
cause they generally contain what Labov and Fanshel (1977: 73) have termed
B-event information (social facts known to B [= the addressee] but not to A [=
the speaker]). The above distinction is one of several subsumed within Labov
and Fanshel’s (1977) principle of ‘shared knowledge’ (i.e. the assumptions that
participants make about each other’s knowledge and which they utilise when
inferring meaning), the others being:
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
A-event information (facts known to A, but not to B)

AB-event information (facts known to both A and B)
O-event information (facts known to everyone present)
As Stenström (1984: 27) highlights, such distinctions are not only helpful in
distinguishing declarative questions. They can help to explain how a simple
utterance such as ‘how do I do it?’ can function as a request for information
in one context (B-event) and a rhetorical question with a meaning similar to ‘I
can’t possibly do it’ in another (AB-event).
As inferring what particular questions mean in a specific context is an im-
portant focus of this study, the following sections will examine some of the
theories which engage not only with the surface properties of the different
question types, but also their semantic/pragmatic meanings. I begin with an
examination of three (formal) semantic-based approaches to question iden-
tification.
.. Towards a theory of questions: Semantic approaches to questions

and answers
There are three main approaches to the theory of questions (and answers)
within formal semantics – the categorial approach, the propositional approach
and the imperative-epistemic approach.14 These, in turn, are characterised (in
varying degrees) by three general assumptions: the equivalence thesis, the in-
dependent meaning thesis and the answerhood thesis (Groenendijk & Stokhof
1984). Put simply, the equivalence thesis requires that direct questions and
indirect questions be treated equivalently,15 the independent meaning thesis re-
quires that interrogatives and wh-complements be assigned a meaning of their
own, and the answerhood thesis requires that ‘the semantic representation of
a question, whether direct or indirect, [. . . ] give[s] us enough information
so as to determine which propositions count as possible answers to it’ (see
Belnap 1981).
Proponents of the categorial view (e.g. Hausser & Zeafferer 1979; Tichy
1978; Scha 1983) argue that the main semantic property of an interrogative
is that it is in some sense an incomplete object, and that it needs to be aug-
mented, by something else being added to it. This ‘something else’ is an answer
(Groenendijk & Stokhof 1986: 40). As I will be examining answers later in this
chapter (see 2.3–2.3.4), I do not want to go into much detail here. Suffice it
to say, adherents point out that different types of interrogatives call for differ-
ent types of answers, a ‘fact’ which (they say) explains why different types of
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
questions belong to different syntactic categories, and hence stand for seman-
tic objects of different types as well. The approach is empirically rather than
theoretically based.
In contrast, the propositional view (proponents of which include Hamblin
1976; Karttunen 1977; Belnap 1982) advocates that we analyse interrogatives
(and answers) in terms of propositions. This idea can be developed in various
ways, but the main motivation for the propositional view seems to be two-
fold: (i) answers to interrogatives convey information, and (ii) interrogatives
may be used to express requests for information. This, proponents argue, nat-
urally leads to the notion of a proposition, the formal semanticist’s main tool
for dealing with the informational content of linguistic expressions. Why? One
reason (or so the argument goes) has to do with the content of interrogatives
and answers, while another has to do with the simplicity of the resulting se-
mantic theory (which allows interrogatives to form a uniform class, in spite of
their surface syntactical differences).
Our third approach, the imperative-epistemic view, once again concentrates
on the purpose for which interrogatives are used. However, proponents such as
Aqvist (1965) and Hintikka (1976) believe that, under normal circumstances,
an interrogative is meant as a request for information or, put another way, as
an exhortation of the addressee to bring about a certain epistemic state in the
one who asks the question. From this, they conclude that interrogatives ought
to be analysed as such (imperatives), and accordingly state their (semantic) in-
terpretations in terms of imperative-epistemic paraphrases (however, it should
be noted that their conclusions are based on empirical observations rather than
on theoretical grounds). Aqvist (1965), for example, posits the following im-
perative operator within the logical structure of questions, ‘Bring it about that
I know such and such’.16 Yet, Groenendijk and Stokhof (1984: 58) are criti-
cal of imperative-epistemic paraphrases like Aqvist’s, arguing that they do not
provide us with a proper semantic interpretation of the interrogative at all:
Rather, it must be viewed as a theory of [the] pragmatics of interrogatives
and, moreover, as a theory of pragmatic answer-hood relations. It is a theory
not of what an interrogative means, but of how an interrogative with a cer-
tain meaning can be used. So, in fact, it presupposes a semantics rather than
providing one.
The issue of whether the semantic representation of an utterance may be dis-

tinct from its pragmatic interpretation (see Leech 1983: 19) will be discussed at
various times in this chapter, beginning with the following section.
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
... Paraphrased meanings: Inherent or context dependent?

Aqvist’s (1965) approach shares some similarities with Katz and Postal’s (1964)
transformational approach to question identification. Both explain questions
in terms of a paraphrase that obliges the respondent to speak while restrict-
ing the propositional content of his/her answer. Both approaches also posit a
‘control’ meaning in the underlying structure (Riley 1986). However, whereas
Aqvist (1965) attempts to describe questions in terms of imperatives, Katz and
Postal (1964) attempt to account for the differences between questions and
imperatives. Indeed, Katz and Postal (1964) postulate special question (Q)
morphemes in the underlying phrase structures of questions in order to make
different phrase markers possible which can account for the meaning differ-
ences between questions, imperatives and declaratives.17 They also give their Q
morpheme a syntactic and semantic function, the latter necessitating that we
accept that questions are a special kind of request, which we can paraphrase as
‘I request that you answer X’.
The additional meanings incorporated within the linguistic structure of a
question by such paraphrases include ‘the speaker wants an answer to his/her
question’ and, by implication, that ‘s/he believes the addressee knows the an-
swer’. The former are not the same as ‘questions require (verbal) answers’,
of course – a meaning which Katz and Postal rightly point out should not
be regarded as part of the underlying structure (see also Hudson 1975: 16;
Kearsley 1979: 359; Lyons 1977: 745–756; Kiefer 1980: 97–98, 1981: 161; Sadock
& Zwicky 1985: 160). Nevertheless, the presence of additional meanings creates
a potential problem. That is, whether any of the above are truly inherent, that
is to say, a feature of all questions, regardless of the context? The question is
an important one, not least because it draws our attention to the essential dif-
ference between semantic meaning and pragmatic meaning. In simple terms,
the difference between inherent meanings, which remain stable/constant across
different contexts, and those meanings that are context-dependent and thus
contextually defeasible (see Leech 1983: 6). Take rhetorical questions, for ex-
ample, which (as previously explained) tend to function as statements, and
therefore do not expect answers. How do we account for the apparent deletion
of the semantic element ‘the speaker wants an answer’ in such instances? More-
over, how do we recognise rhetorical function at all, if ‘there is never anything
in their form that tells the hearer whether or not [s/]he is supposed to offer
an answer’ (Hudson 1975: 16)? I have already suggested one way forward, i.e.
utilising Labov and Fanshel’s (1977) distinction between B-event and AB-event
information (see pp. 28–29, above). Another way forward is to see the above
meanings as pragmatic as opposed to semantic phenomena, so that we could
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
use contextual clues like ‘the speaker leav[ing] no time for answers’ to deter-
mine whether we are dealing with rhetorical questions (cf. Hudson 1975: 16).
... The representation of questions in terms of their logical properties

Several proposals of the semantic analysis of interrogatives take presupposi-
tional phenomena to be an integral part of their empirical domain (‘presup-
positions’ being ‘aspects of meaning that must be pre-supposed, understood,
taken for granted for an utterance to make sense’ (Verschueren 1999: 27)).
Length constraints prevent an in-depth analysis. Consequently, I provide a
brief sketch of the way in which Wilson (1981) and others have sought to
represent the different underlying logical structures of the various question-
types rather than describe the theoretical ideas that underpin the approach,
so that I can highlight some criticisms of/problems associated with the truth-
relations approach. Suffice it to say, we are basically interested in the truth or
falsehood of the uses to which sentences are put (e.g. ‘statements’, ‘questions’,
etc.). This necessitates our recognising an important linguistic distinction be-
tween propositions, which as McCawley (1981) points out ‘can be said to be
true or false’, and sentences, which cannot (see Levinson 1983: 172). However,
this notion of proposition must be distinguished from the pragmatic notion of
‘assertion’, which belongs to speech act theory (see Van der Sandt 1988).
Wilson (1981: 94) defines the presupposition of a question as ‘those con-
ditions necessary for defining an utterance as a question’. In other words, the
incomplete semantic structure of the utterance, ‘which is what by definition
makes it a question’. For example, a yes/no question can be seen as a disjunc-
tion of a positive/negative proposition, so that ‘did you do it?’ presupposes
‘? (you did/did not do it)’ (Wilson 1981: 99; see also Levinson 1983: 184 and
Leech 1983: 116).18 In uttering such a question, a speaker is admitting the pos-
sibility that either p or ∼p is true and, in normal circumstances, looking to
his/her addressee to assign a truth-value to p by accepting or rejecting it. If
yes/no questions are given a disjunctive presuppositional analysis, how might
we explain the structure of alternative questions? The answer seems to depend
on the analyst and/or the context. For example, Levinson (1983: 184) describes
alternative questions as having a restrictive wh-question structure (as they ‘pre-
suppose the disjunction of their answers, but in this case non-vacuously’). In
contrast, Lyons (1977: 762) argues that alternative questions can either be re-
stricted wh-questions (Lyons prefers the term ‘x-questions’19 ) or open ‘yes/no’
questions. Which they are depends upon ‘the context and the nature of the
propositions that are put forward in the disjunction’ (notice that this analysis
is similar to Quirk et al.’s 1987 given in 2.2.1). Thus,
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
If Are you British or American? is taken as a restricted x-question, it presup-

poses the truth of one, and only one, of the propositions that are put forward
by the speaker: i.e. ‘You are British’ and ‘You are American’. If it is construed
as a yes-no question, on the other hand, it presupposes the disjunction of the
two contradictory disjunctive propositions ‘You are British or American’ and
‘You are not British or American’.
And wh-questions? The wh-question, according to Lyons (1977: 757–758), is a

many-valued function, ‘which presupposes the disjunction of a set of proposi-
tions (positive or negative according to the form of the question), each member
of the set differing from the other in that it supplies a different value for the
variable’. Thus, who left the door open? presupposes the proposition expressed
by Someone left the door open, where someone subsumes a range of possible
values, depending upon the universe-of-discourse (e.g. John, That little boy,
Uncle Harry):
If the addressee responds to [the question] by making the statement No-one
left the door open he is denying [Someone left the door open] and thereby refus-
ing to accept one of the presuppositions of [the question]; he is not answering
the question, but rejecting it. If, on the other hand, he replies to [the question]
by uttering [Someone left the door open] – that is to say, by asserting what [the
question] presupposes – he is evading, rather than answering, the question.
(Lyons 1977: 758)
Although the reader would be forgiven for concluding that questions can be
explained in terms of their truth values at this stage, the following examples
from Saeed (1997: 99) succinctly demonstrate that presuppositional function
does not always survive unchanged:20
She cried before she finished her thesis. She died before she finished her thesis.
She finished her thesis. She finished her thesis.
It is worth noting that Saeed (1997: 99) draws his initial example from Levinson
(1983), but, in changing the verb (from ‘cried’ to ‘died’) shows how the pre-
supposition in the amended example is blocked or cancelled by our general
knowledge of the world (i.e. dead people do not complete unfinished theses!).
The conduciveness of negative yes/no questions (i.e. their tendency to
favour one possible answer over another) also raises problems for a theory that
attempts to restrict presupposition to certain kinds of logical or behaviourally
demonstrable factors. Interestingly, Wilson (1981) attempts to provide an ex-
planation for this conduciveness based on their underlying logical structure,
by arguing that negative yes/no questions involve movement of the negative
presupposition underlying a yes/no question to the surface structure of the
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
question. But Piazza (2002: 511) goes further, suggesting that ‘when consider-
ing conduciveness [. . . ] one cannot regard presupposition as a purely semantic
matter’ in spite of its close relationship to the linguistic form of an utterance, ‘as
too much of the inference is context-bound’. Indeed, quoting Caffi (1994: 3321)
who defines pragmatic presuppositions as a ‘ménage à trios’ between a speaker,
the framework of his/her utterance, and an addressee, Piazza (2002) concludes
that presuppositions should not be ‘directly linked to the lexicon, to the syntax,
or to the prosodic facts [. . . ], but to the utterance act’. In other words:
An analysis of the conduciveness of questions [should] look at the form and
semantics of the utterances and also at a series of contextual factors which are
indispensable to an understanding of the implications of the speech acts under
observation. (Piazza 2002: 511)
The ‘problem’ occasioned by contextual factors (especially presuppositional

defeasibility) has been debated for some time, of course, and with some inter-
esting consequences. Saeed (1997: 93) suggests that the debate greatly advanced
the development of pragmatics as a discipline, for example, and gave birth to
opposing theories such as Speech Act theory (the usefulness of Speech Act The-
ory to question identification is reviewed in 2.2.3.3). In terms of approaches to
presupposition, it has led to two distinct positions, the first of which is essen-
tially semantic (i.e. amenable to truth-relations), and the second, pragmatic
(i.e. requires an interactional description):21
In the first approach, [. . . ] sentences are viewed as external objects: we don’t
worry too much about the process of producing them, or the individuality of
the speaker or writer and their audience. Meaning is seen as an attribute of
sentences rather than something constructed by the participants [. . . In con-
trast,] the second approach views sentences as the utterances of individuals
engaged in a communication act. The aim here is about modelling the strate-
gies that speakers and hearers use to communicate with one another. So we
might look at communication from the speaker’s viewpoint and talk about
presupposition as part of the task of packaging an utterance; or adopt the lis-
tener’s viewpoint and see presupposition as one of a number of inferences that
the listener might make on the basis of what the speaker has just said.
(Saeed 1997: 94)
Not all linguists believe the approaches to be diametrically opposed, of course.

Indeed, like Piazza (2002), several linguists advocate a hybrid semantic/prag-
matic account of presupposition (cf. Gazdar 1979; Leech 1980; Levinson 1981;
Riley 1986), i.e. an approach that handles ‘pragmatic presuppositions as prag-
matic inferences but show[s] that they are also part of the semantic represen-
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
tation of the sentence’ (Riley 1986: 101). Gazdar (1979), for example, makes a
distinction between potential presuppositions, which belong to sentences, and
actual presuppositions, which belong to utterances. In this way, he is able to
treat the propositions underlying interrogative sentences as potential presup-
positions that may be actualised – or cancelled – in context. In other words, all
the potential presuppositions of a sentence are generated when it is expressed,
and, at the same time, a ‘cancelling’ mechanism is activated to dispose of any
presuppositions of sentences that are inconsistent with what is already there,
thereby culling from the ‘total set of potential presuppositions all those that
will survive to become actual presuppositions of a sentence uttered in a partic-
ular context’ (Levinson 1983: 22).22 Hence, if it was mutual knowledge that the
presupposition of the question Who tidied this house? did not obtain it would
simply not acquire the status of an actual presupposition (Riley 1986: 104).
... Question characteristics activated by the context?

Like the competence models assessed previously, the truth-relations approach
to presupposition is prone to offering grammatical explanations for pragmatic
phenomena. This is not surprising, given that the discipline of semantics is
primarily concerned with the meanings that can be expressed as opposed to
meaning as it is expressed in actual language use. Indeed, it is a feature of most
(all?) semantic-based accounts. Ross (1970), for example, attempts to incorpo-
rate illocutionary forces into semantics, the basic premise of his ‘performative
hypothesis’ being that all factors relevant to the meaning of sentences can be
included within their deep structure by means of a (deletable) performative
verb, which leads to interrogative sentences being given a deep structure repre-
sentation of ‘I ask you whether. . . ?’. Such accounts are incomplete at best (see
Leech 1983; Levinson 1983 and Stubbs 1983 for useful critiques of Ross).23
In contrast, the hybrids approach to presupposition points to a useful
way forward in our quest for working definitions for questions. That is, com-
bining the best of semantics and pragmatics, so that we have a means of
coping with/accounting for the ways in which the context influences the oper-
ation/function of questions (and their respective answers). By way of illustra-
tion, it is very likely that most questions are intended to elicit verbal responses
in the courtroom (the effect of the courtroom on the function of questions
will be addressed in Chapter 3). But the requirement of a verbal response may
not be operating in other situations (e.g. nurse/patient interactions – see espe-
cially the work of Riley 1986). This suggests that the conventional association
between the utterance of a question and the expectation of an answer from
the addressee is (i) independent of the illocutionary force of questions (Lyons
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
1977: 755), and (ii) activated/rendered inactive by contextual factors. Conse-

quently, I examine various pragmatic approaches to question identification in
2.2.3–2.2.5, before describing various studies that have sought to account for
the effect of different social contexts on the function of questions (2.2.7–2.3). I
begin with Speech Act Theory.
.. Speech Act Theory: Speech as action
Speech Act Theory (henceforth SAT) is a philosophically rooted approach to

pragmatics and a conceptual analysis of meaning that tends to draw upon
introspective data.24 The theory initially developed as a reaction against the
philosophical doctrine of logical positivism (i.e. the idea that truth conditions
were integral to the specification of sentence meaning; in simple terms, unless
a sentence can, in principle at least, be tested for its truth or falsity, it is mean-
ingless). The problem with such a theory, of course, is that some utterances,
questions in particular, do not assert propositions (cf. Lyons 1977: 727). In-
deed, the original observation of John Austin, the founding father of SAT, was
that some utterances not only describe or evaluate things, but also qualify as
actions. In simple terms, words ‘do things’. The strength of the ‘new’ approach,
according to Kempson (1977: 43), was that, in contrast to truth conditional se-
mantics, SAT was not restricting itself to explaining (a sub-set of) declarative
sentences. Consequently, it was also able to specify a meaning for interrogative,
moodless and imperative sentences. In 2.2.3.3, I determine the extent to which
SAT successfully accounts for interrogatives. Before doing so, however, I pro-
vide a brief sketch of the development of SAT under Austin and Searle, paying
particular attention to their use of taxonomies (2.2.3.1–2.2.3.3).
... Austin and Searle and the development of speech act theory
Today, our interest in speech acts stems directly from the work of Austin and
Searle, both of whom (like Geach, Ryle, Strawson and Grice) came from the
Oxford school of ‘ordinary language philosophers’.25
Austin was originally captivated by the explicit nature of certain types of
performatives, i.e. those performatives where the act performed by the ut-
terance matches the verb it contains (“I order you to. . . ” refers explicitly to
the act of making an order), and which can be characterised by the follow-
ing special features (Saaed 1997: 208; see Allan 2000 for a more comprehensive
description):
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
1. They tend to begin with a first person verb in a form we could describe as
simple present: I bet, I warn, etc.
2. This verb belongs to a special class describing verbal activities, for example:
promise, warn, sentence, name, bet, pronounce.
3. Generally their performative nature can be emphasised by inserting the
adverb hereby [. . . ], thus I hereby sentence you to . . .
But his recognition of the dispensability of these special characteristics in cer-

tain circumstances led to an interest in implicit performatives and, later, to a
perceived need to classify the performative verbs of a language (see 2.2.3.3).26
As Austin’s theory developed, he also collapsed his earlier distinction between
performatives and constatives (utterances which convey or state information),
stressing that the making of statements be viewed as another type of speech act
(see Austin 1975: 133–147). In effect, Austin was suggesting that all utterances
constitute speech acts of one type or another (henceforth SAs), but that, to be
successful, certain felicity conditions would need to be met.27 For example, in
order for the act of naming a ship to be successful, someone with a particular
social status/role should be appointed as namer, etc. (Davies 2001). Austin be-
lieved each SA to be made up of three elements: the speaker says U to hearer
H in context C (the locutionary act), the speaker does something in uttering U
(the illocutionary act), the speech act causes an effect on H (the perlocutionary
effect). Thus, if I say ‘I promise to finish my chapter by next week’, my words
form the locution of the utterance and the illocution is that of promising. No-
tice that my addressee will need to make use of the context-of-utterance to help
him/her disambiguate both that meaning of ‘my chapter’ and the time scale of
‘next week’. Moreover, on the basis of the promise I have made, s/he will prob-
ably assume that s/he will shortly be in receipt of the said chapter. Indeed, a
possible perlocutionary effect might be that my addressee arranges a meeting
for us to discuss it!
Unfortunately, Austin’s premature death in 1960 meant that he had no op-
portunity to refine his ideas. Consequently, it was left to others to develop the
theory. The most influential is probably John Searle (who, like H. P. Grice, had
studied under Austin at Oxford). Length constraints mean that I can only offer
a thumb-nail sketch of Searle’s approach here, and a brief discussion of Searle’s
taxonomy in 2.3.3.3 following (for useful summaries, see Allan 2000; Levinson
1983; Mey 2001; Saeed 1997; Thomas 1995).
Searle’s primary interests included indirect SAs (i.e. the idea that, in some
instances, the conventional matching of form and function is superseded by an
extra, more immediate interpretation), and the extent to which SAs can be cat-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
egorised in relation to the function/action they serve. Implicit within Searle’s

(and, indeed, Austin’s) approach, however, is an assumption that illocutionary
force (utterance meaning) is built into sentence structure. In other words, that
there are illocutionary force indicating devices (henceforth IFIDs) which show
‘how the proposition is to be taken, or to put it another way what illocution-
ary force the utterance is to have’ (Searle 1969: 16). This, in turn, led Searle
to suggest that the three major sentence types of interrogative, imperative and
declarative sentences contain grammaticalized conventional indicators of illo-
cutionary force (or force markers), and (in most circumstances) reduce to the
three basic speech acts of questions, commands, and statements. By way of il-
lustration, we will usually match the (English) interrogative sentence type to
the act of questioning unless, that is, the conventionally expected function (the
direct speech act) is superseded by an extra function (the indirect speech act),
as occurs when S asks H ‘Can you pass the salt?’.
The problem, of course, is explaining why it is that H understands this in-
terrogative as a ‘request’ as opposed to a ‘question’. Searle (1975: 70) attempted
to overcome this conundrum by developing Austin’s notion of felicity condi-
tions into a rule-based classification of conditions that he stressed must hold for
a successful SA to have taken place. Indeed, he argued that H will be conscious
of both the ‘literal’ (i.e. ‘questioning’) sense and ‘non-literal’ (‘requesting’)
sense of ‘Can you pass the salt?’, but will background the literal sense when ‘the
sentence is uttered with the primary illocutionary point of a directive’ or, to
put it another way, when the preparatory condition that ‘H is able to perform
A’ and the essential condition that ‘U counts as an attempt by S to get H to do
A’ (Searle 1975: 71) are met. Moeschler (2001: 253) summarises the ‘potential’
procedure as follows:
Literal meaning: request for information [please note, this is the SA theorists’
definition of Q]
Propositional content of the request for information: ability of the hearer to
pass the salt
Condition of success of directives: as a preparatory condition, the hearer is
able to accomplish the requested action
Generalisation on indirect directives: to ask for a preparatory condition of a
directive is a way to realise an indirect directive (as a primary illocutionary
act)
Inference: the speaker accomplishes as primary illocutionary act a request via
a secondary illocutionary act of request for information
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
There are some obvious problems with Searle’s approach, not least its failure
to take account of the idiomatic quality of many indirect acts (cf. Are you able
to pass me the salt? which, although concerned about H’s ability to perform A
may not necessarily be understood as an attempt by S to get H to do A; see
Saeed 1997: 216–217 for a detailed account of this argument). As 2.2.3.3 will
reveal, Searle’s (1969) explicit attempt to ‘formulate the underlying rules’ for
questions has also drawn intense criticism.
... The use of taxonomies

Austin’s (1962) and Searle’s (1969, 1975a) taxonomies exemplify the two main
approaches to SA classification (length constraints do not permit my high-
lighting other taxonomies here, but see 4.4.2 for a brief sketch of the systems
proposed by Ballmer and Brennenstuhl (1981), Wierzbicka (1987) and Bach
and Harnish (1979)). Austin’s classification is built around the performative
verbs, and consists of five categories (Searle 1976: 7–8):
Verdicatives the giving of a verdict: e.g. acquit, hold, calculate, describe,
analyse, estimate, date, rank, assess, characterise
Exercitives exercising of powers, rights, influence: e.g. order, command,
direct, plead, beg, recommend, entreat, advise, appoint,
dismiss, nominate, veto, declare closed, declare open,
announce, warn, proclaim, give
Commissives committing the speaker to do something: e.g. promise, vow,
pledge, covenant, contract, guarantee, embrace, swear
Behabitives attitudes to another’s conduct or imminent conduct: e.g.
apologise, thank, deplore, commiserate, congratulate,
felicitate, welcome, applaud, criticise, bless, curse, toast, drink
Expositives expounding of views, arguments, and clarifying
usage/reference: e.g. affirm, deny, emphasise, illustrate, answer,
report, accept, object to, concede, describe, class, identify, call
The emphasis on verbs is not surprising in view of Austin’s initial interest in
performative verbs, but his approach has been heavily criticised for (i) assum-
ing that ‘a classification of verbs is eo ipso a classification of different kinds of
illocutionary acts’, when ‘there is no reason to suppose that this is the case’
(Searle 1976: 8; see also Leech 1983: 198), and (ii) not having a ‘clear or consis-
tent principle or set of principles’:
Expositives. . . seem to be defined in terms of discourse relations. . . Exerci-
tives seem to be at least partly defined in terms of the exercise of authority. . .
Behabatives do not seem to me at all well defined . . . Only [. . . ] Commi-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
sives [. . . are] clearly and unambiguously defined [because Austin has] used
illocutionary point as the basis of the definition. . . (Searle 1976: 8)
Searle (1976: 9) also highlights a number of additional difficulties, including

that (i) “not all of the verbs listed within the classes really satisfy the definitions
given”, and (ii) there is “too much overlap from one category to the next”, before
proposing his own taxonomy, which he supposedly bases on SAs rather than
verbs (Searle 1976: 10–15):
Representatives committing the speaker to the truth of the expressed
proposition (e.g. asserting, concluding)
Directives attempts by the speaker to get the addressee to do something
(e.g. reporting, requesting)
Commissives committing the speaker to a future course of action (e.g.
promising, threatening, offering)
Expressives expressing a psychological state (e.g. thanking, apologising,
welcoming)
Declaratives effecting immediate changes in an institutional state of
affairs, with extra-linguistic qualities (e.g. declaring war,
christening)
Yet, Searle’s (1976) approach is also problematic. For example, he lists twelve
distinctions between illocutionary acts including ‘illocutionary point’, that is to
say, the purpose or aim of the act; its ‘fit’ with the world, i.e. the (direction of
the) relationship between language and the world; the ‘psychological state’ of
the speaker, i.e. the speaker’s state of mind; and the ‘content’ of the act, i.e. the
propositional content. However, as Riley (1986: 124) points out, he then ‘essen-
tially ignores these in assigning force to utterances and focuses on illocutionary
point [. . . ] as the ‘best basis for a taxonomy” (cf. Saeed 1997: 212).28 This leads
Thomas (1995: 99) to conclude that “although Searle claims to be setting out
rules for speech acts, all he is really doing is describing the semantics of speech
act verbs”. Leech (1983: 177) concurs, stating that Searle soon “hark[s] back
to the performative” as the canonical form of each illocution/the basis for his
classification.
Leech (1983: 23) is especially critical of Searle’s tendency to assume tax-
onomic decisions which ‘represent an unrealistic and unsubtle view of what
communication by means of language is like’, not least because conversational
utterances are occasionally indeterminate. Indeed, Leech makes the point that
it is absurd to think that all human communication boils down to performing
certain action-categories. Rather, utterances can – and often do – have multiple
and/or ambiguous intents/forces: If I were you, I’d leave town straight away ‘can
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
be interpreted according to context as a piece of advice, a warning or a threat’

(Leech 1983: 24). Such indeterminacy can be advantageous, of course:
By leaving force unclear, s may leave h the opportunity to choose between one
force and another, and thus leave part of the responsibility of the meaning to
h . . . [And] s will always be able to claim that [he meant h to infer the less
face-threatening of the three] (Leech 1983: 24)
In spite of Leech’s criticism that taxonomies such as Searle’s give the false im-
pression that language can be compartmentalised, a (revised) taxonomy may
nevertheless offer a viable way forward for a classification of questions in the
CED data, if (i) we give some thought to the possibility that ‘single sentences
can be used to perform two or more speech acts in different clauses, and each
clause. . . may perform more than one speech act’ (Levinson 1983: 290) when
designing the taxonomy, and (ii) have a means of ensuring that the latter is not
over-relied upon when it is used (see 2.2.6 and 4.4.2). However, before mak-
ing a final decision, we need to assess the accuracy of SAT-based definitions of
questions.
... Questions: An SAT-based definition

Searle (1976: 22) classifies questions under the ‘directive class of SAs, ‘since they
are attempts by S to get H to answer, i.e. to perform a speech act’ (cf. Bach &
Harnish 1979: 48). This is problematic for a number of reasons. Firstly, ques-
tions are classified with (and thus not distinguished from) other speech acts
such as ‘greetings’, ‘invitations’ and ‘offers’, which also act as attempts by the
speaker to get the hearer to respond. Secondly, information-seeking questions,
in particular, seem to lack the ‘world-to-words direction of fit’ that characterise
directives. Indeed, the interrogatives that tend to function as directives have the
force of a ‘request’ rather than a question (i.e. ‘Can you pass the salt?).
Riley (1986: 125) suggests that ‘such a discrepancy in the direction of fit
for questions and directives provides some evidence that Searle’s typology
lacks a principled basis’. Thomas (1995) and Leech (1986) go further. Thomas
(1995: 99), for example, maintains that his rules are unable to ‘capture the nu-
ances of even the commonest speech acts’. Leech (1986: 206) suggests that a
further category, ‘rogatives’, is needed if were are to adequately account for acts
like ask, enquire, query and question. Interestingly, Schrott (2000) appears to
disagree. She maintains that assertions and interrogative acts can be charac-
terised by the same degree of speaker commitment, if we conceive of them
as ‘a continuum of speaker commitment stretching out between the poles of
interrogation and assertion’ (Schrott 2000: 268):
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
The acts of questioning or asserting are not necessarily located at the poles of
the continuum, but may also take intermediate positions (Kerbrat-Orecchioni
1991b: 91–92, 95–108). Thus, an interrogative act may have stronger or weaker
interrogative power . . . [That said,] the described continuum of question and
assertion is not sufficient to describe the whole pragmatic profile of interrog-
ative acts. For this, we must integrate more parameters and consider more
pragmatic values as listed in the various classifications of illocutionary acts
(cf. Searle 1979: 12–20; Meibauer 1986: 9–18; Lang 1993: 44–47).
However, an examination of Searle’s (1969: 66) felicity conditions for the illo-
cutionary act of questioning (see below) highlights further problems:
1. Propositional content rule – any proposition or propositional function.
2. Preparatory rule 1: S [= speaker] does not know ‘the answer’, i.e., does not
know if the proposition is true, or, in the case of the propositional function,
does not know the information needed to complete the proposition truly.
Preparatory rule 2: It is not obvious to both S and H [= hearer] that H will
provide the information at that time without being asked.
3. Sincerity rule – S wants this information.
4. Essential rule – counts as an attempt to elicit this information from H.
Firstly, preparatory rule 1 and the sincerity rule appear to be based on unob-
servable psychological states, as the hearer cannot ‘know’ whether the speaker
knows the answer or not, or whether the speaker wants this information (Riley
1986: 119). Interestingly, Leech (1983: 42) raises similar concerns in connection
with Searle’s conditions for asserting, before coming to the conclusion that his
felicity conditions must be seen as the most likely inferences that a hearer can
draw ‘in default of any evidence to the contrary’, rather than ‘necessary and
sufficient conditions’ (my italics). In his defence, Searle might suggest that the
different conditions (i.e. preparatory, propositional, sincerity and essential) are
not on the same level. But Mey (2001: 104) maintains that, as ‘the illocutionary
devices that Searle recognises as carrying the ‘force’ of the speech act are exclu-
sively speaker-oriented and tie in with an abstract content’ or, to put it another
way, as it is only the ‘(propositional) content of the speaker’s act that is subject
to the constitutive and regulative rules’, Searle’s IFIDs are still, at best, ‘purely
abstract devices or “very general rules”, not proper to any type of speech act, or
to any concrete act of promising, requesting, and so on’.29
Verschueren (1999: 130) is also sceptical of Searle’s approach. Nevertheless,
he suggests that SAT offers much if we reject Searle’s necessary and sufficient
conditions and reinterpret Searlean speech act analyses as ‘reasonably accurate
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
approximations of the prototypical instances of verbal behaviour describable

by means of the English verbs used as labels’.
One way forward, then, is to use the above felicity conditions as a pos-
sible definition for the prototypical question, and amend or add additional
conditions when more refined distinctions are required. This, after all, is what
Searle (1969: 391) did when distinguishing between real questions and exam
questions (cf. real questions, where S wants to know (find out) the answer, and
exam questions, where S wants to know if H knows the answer). In this way, we
can minimise the undoubted conflict between Searle’s intuitions about ques-
tions and speakers’ uses of them, and, by so doing, include questions that would
otherwise be omitted (because of not matching Searle’s criteria). Some perti-
nent examples include (i) preparatory questions in the courtroom to which
both the defendant and clerk know the answers (cf. Searle’s ‘real question’,
where the assumption is that S does not know the answer but wants to), (ii)
police interrogations, during which the police ask questions in an attempt to
invalidate suspects’ accounts, as opposed to testing their ability (cf. Searle’s
‘exam question’), and (iii) nurse/patient interactions, during which nurses ask
their patients questions as a means of showing interest in what they are saying
and/or keeping the conversation going (e.g. phatic communication). For fur-
ther examples of questioning that infringes Searle’s ‘necessary conditions’, see
Levinson (1983) and Riley (1986).
Another possible way forward is to see verbs such as ‘ask’ and ‘request’ as
descriptive labels for ‘reasonably accurate approximations of the prototypical
instances of verbal behaviour’, as Verschueren (1999: 30) advocates. A use-
ful starting point in this regard is Wierzbicka’s (1987) analysis of speech act
verbs, in spite of its explicitly ‘semantic’ orientation. As I discuss Wierzbicka’s
(1987) approach in 4.4.2, I will not mention it in detail here. Suffice it to
say, Wierzbicka (1987: 17) offers useful definitions to distinguish the different
senses of ‘ask’ (cf. ‘asking a question’ and ‘asking someone to do something’),
before grouping different verbs underneath these senses (i.e. inquire/enquire,
interrogate, question and query under ‘asking a question’, and request, beg, be-
seech, implore, appeal, plead, intercede, apply and urge under ‘asking someone
to do something’).
We will still need to give consideration to those occasions when a single
utterance has more than one function/performs two or more different illocu-
tionary acts for the same addressee, of course.30 We should also be aware of
the way in which the force of questions can vary according to their contextual
usage, as when information/confirmation questions function as accusations in
the context of the courtroom (see 3.3–3.3.2). Finally, we will need to be aware
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
of a potential over-reliance on syntactic form (and the power of inference) in

the identification of utterance meaning – a criticism often levelled at SAT-based
approaches (see, for example, Schegloff 1978).
One possible safeguard is to accept that propositions can be used to per-
form actions without demanding a one-to-one correspondence between sen-
tence type and the action(s) being performed. A good example of such an
approach is that of Freed (1994). Freed developed a taxonomy of question
functions from twelve same-sex conversations. Interestingly, the taxonomy is
represented by a linear continuum in order to ‘capture the notion that ques-
tions serve multiple purposes which vary by degree of informational content’
(Freed 1994: 625). The 16 question-functions range from those that ‘seek fac-
tual public information from the hearer’ to question-functions that ‘convey
information from the speaker to the hearer’, and are conflated into four broader
classes (i.e. questions which seek factual information ‘external’ to the con-
versation, questions which seek information about the ‘talk’ or conversation
itself, questions which seek open-ended information about the verbal and so-
cial relationships between the speaker and hearer (defined as ‘relational’), and
questions which are a reflection of the speaker’s ‘expressive style’ and contain
information already known to the speaker or pertaining to unavailable infor-
mation). Freed (1994: 635) nevertheless draws on syntactic form as a useful
indicator of function, arguing:
[Although] it has been suggested that the physical shape of questions, i.e.
their syntactic and intonational form, is not only separate from their prag-
matic function but unrelated to their functional purpose . . . when the forms
and functions of questions are examined together, it becomes evident that a
relationship exists between the two.31
Freed (1994) therefore identifies the form and the primary function of each
question utterance separately, before classifying each according to its form and
function together, in order to ensure a correct mapping of form and function.
Notice that Freed’s (1994) ability to identify the different ways in which a
particular question-type functions (depending on its purpose within the in-
teraction) was heavily reliant upon her adopting an empirical approach. Some
readers may therefore be surprised to learn that fellow empiricists, namely con-
versation analysts, have rejected the ‘action determining power’ of linguistic
form altogether (for interesting discussions relating to the viability of map-
ping form to function, see Kearsley 1976; Sinclair & Van Gessel 1990). Given
my view of the importance of ‘form’ to question identification, I am intrigued
by the conversation analysts’ absolute dismissal of it. Consequently, I exam-
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
ine the theory of Conversation Analysis (henceforth CA) in the next section to
determine what, if anything, it can offer to question identification.
.. Conversation Analysis
Schegloff (1978, 1984), one of the leading advocates of CA, suggests that both
interrogative form and the related ‘action-based’ technical senses put forward
within SAT are unreliable indicators of utterance function in conversation:
[Although] it might appear that linguistic resources will allow the construc-
tion and recognition of utterances as questions, and thus as actions of a certain
type [. . . ] it is misleading to start to account for such categories of actions as
‘question’ [. . . as it is a] common-sense, not technical category and should be
treated accordingly . . . Even where an utterance is in the linguistic form of a
question, and seems to be doing questioning, the latter will not be adequately
accounted for by the former [or, indeed, vice versa]. For the question form
can be used for actions other than questioning, and questioning can be ac-
complished by linguistic forms other than questions.
(Schegloff 1978: 82, 1984: 34–45)
Schegloff (1978) does not comment on the frequency with which ‘question
forms can be used for actions other than questioning, and questioning can be
accomplished by linguistic forms other than questions’, preferring, instead, to
point out that ‘much of what is so about questions is so by the virtue of the ad-
jacency pair format’ (see also Sacks et al. 1978: 85). His purpose for doing so, of
course, is to highlight that questions should be subsumed under the category
of the ‘question-answer’ adjacency pair (see also Sacks et al. 1974). However,
it means that his description of questions and answers becomes circular: ques-
tions are said to lay ‘constraints on the next slot in the conversation of a sort
special to the Q/A pair type of adjacency pairs’,32 but be distinguishable from
the first pair part of other adjacency pairs (e.g. greeting-greeting) by the type
of response it receives!
The reader will be aware that the above ‘definitions’ do not help us to dis-
tinguish questions and answers from other first and second pair parts at all. A
distinction relating to second pair parts that Schegloff is careful to highlight,
however, is that between preferred and dispreferred responses, the preferred
response for a question being an ‘answer’. In a superficial way, such a dis-
tinction is helpful, of course, as it allows for the possibility that a range of
possible responses other than the preferred one may follow the first pair part
of a question, and still ‘count as acceptable seconds . . . including protestations
of ignorance, re-routes, refusals, and challenges to presuppositions or sincerity
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
of questions’ (Levinson 1983: 307). Yet, according to Cameron (2001: 97), the
‘preferred’/‘dispreferred’ distinction is made purely on the basis of prompt-
ness versus hesitancy and/or brevity versus elaboration patterns. By this she
means that there seems to be no recognition that the appropriateness or oth-
erwise of responses depends on the context (this is further exacerbated by an
apparent emphasis on cooperative conversation). Riley (1986: 140) provides a
useful example:
Police officer What did you hit her for
Detainee I didn’t hit her
Because of a lack of characteristic dispreferred features (i.e. hesitancy/elabora-
tion), the detainee’s ‘answer’ cannot be recognised as a dispreferred response
according to the CA approach. Yet, in practice, the detainee disputes the pre-
supposition of the question! Riley (1986: 40) also provides the following exam-
ple of a ‘preferred’ second in order to highlight that ‘the amount of material
required in [a] response [will be] contingent on the syntactic form of the
question and its propositional content’:
Q What is your full name please
A Graham R Dee
However, as she rightly points out, Schegloff ’s rejection of grammatical form

as a characteristic feature of questions means that the preferred/dispreferred
distinction does not consider the extent to which different types of questions
may require different types of answers.
As question framing would appear to influence the type of responses pro-
duced by witness and defendants in the courtroom (see Chapter 3), and con-
textual features such as status and power also assume crucial importance, I can-
not rely upon an approach that ignores both (cf. Atkinson & Drew 1979, who
adopt the approach to examine courtroom discourse, and Riley 1986: 141–145
for a critique of their approach).
.. The Birmingham School: Questions as eliciting devices
A related approach worth considering at this point is that of discourse analysis

(henceforth DA). Like CA, DA stresses the importance of the sequential order-
ing of discourse. However, whereas CA is macro-oriented and inductive, DA is
micro-oriented and deductive:
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
A specific (part of a) corpus is analysed in great detail, with all the data ac-
counted for within a finite descriptive system. For that purpose, discourse
analysts use a model based on theoretical principles and on previous exam-
ination of a large amount of authentic data. Their aim is to establish the
coherence between utterances in a particular (piece of) discourse and identify
the function and meaning of utterances in context. The function of utterances
in a specific contextual situation is based mainly on two criteria, agreement
with certain interpretative rules and, ultimately, position in a sequence of
utterances. (Stenström 1988: 305)
As my own approach is corpus-based, DA sounds promising thus far. So how

does it account for questions? The answer will depend on the type of DA ap-
proach one wants to adopt (Cameron 2001). One of the better known is that of
Sinclair and Coulthard (1975), who identified a rank dialogue structure for the
school lesson composed of ‘Acts’, ‘Moves’, ‘Exchanges’ and ‘Transactions’. Inter-
estingly, the exchange is roughly defined as the minimal interactive unit involv-
ing two parties, and is therefore similar to – but not the same as – the concept
of the adjacency pair. Indeed, Sinclair and Coulthard (1975: 28) believe that the
rule-bound nature of questioning exchanges in the classroom is such that they
characteristically occur in a three part format, i.e. question–response-follow
up, which they refer to as IRF.33 As Stenström (1988: 312) explains:
Just as in the courtroom, Qs in the classroom are pseudo-Qs in that they are
not primarily intended to elicit new information, their main purpose being to
check the pupils’ knowledge. [. . . ] the F move is [thus] obligatory in that the
pupil who answers Q as well as the other pupils in the class must know if R
is correct, adequate, and sufficient, and since the teacher is in charge of the
questioning [s/]he is also responsible for evaluating R. (my emphasis)
The question, then, is regarded as a functionally-defined ‘elicitation’ act, i.e. an

utterance which seeks a linguistic response appropriate to the situation. How-
ever, the ‘appropriacy’ rules whereby one decides whether the interrogative
form is an elicitation or not are inspired by speech act theory, which suggests
that the approach may be prone to some of the same problems. That said, Sin-
clair and Coulthard (1975: 28–29) are aware of one problem – the potential lack
of agreement between grammatical form and discourse function:
To handle the potential lack of agreement [. . . ] Sinclair & Coulthard take ac-
count of the ‘situation’, which includes ‘all relevant factors in the environment,
social conventions, and the shared experience of the participants’, and ‘tactics’,
which determine the function of moves and acts in relation to their position
in the discourse. (Stenström 1988: 312)
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Although several remain critical of an approach that engages in a strict formal-

isation and categorisation of speech acts or interactional moves, arguing that
it obscures the richness and complexity of language meaning (Riley 1986: 152),
a number of researchers have developed the Birmingham approach, with pos-
itive results (Berry 1981; Coulthard & Montgomery 1981; Stenström 1984).
In the following section, I examine the work of Stenström (1984), who uses a
Birmingham-inspired discourse model to study face-to-face question/response
exchanges in 25 conversations taken from the London-Lund Corpus of Spoken
English (LLC).
... Stenström’s (1984) ‘Q’ move

Stenström (1984: 3, 4) blends principles from CA with the Birmingham ap-
proach to DA. However, in contrast to CA analysts, Stenström is careful to
identify what it is about a question that makes it a question, and, for that mat-
ter, what it is about a response that makes it a response (the response category is
discussed in detail in 2.3.2; see also Stenström 1984: 75–80, 149–247). By way of
illustration, she initially makes a distinction between primary acts which func-
tion as elicitations and (re-)elicit a response and secondary acts which serve as
complements. Stenström (1984: 149) then classifies primary ‘Q’ acts into four
groups, according to ‘what A wants B to do’ (see Figure 3, below).
Thus, if A wants B to ‘provide an adequate R in terms laid down in the
question’, A will utilise one (or more of) the following ‘Q-acts’: ‘Q: identify’
(typically realised by wh- and disjunctive interrogatives), ‘Q: polar’ (typically
realised by polar and disjunctive interrogatives), ‘Q: confirm’ (typically realised
by polar interrogatives), and ‘Q: acknowledge’ (typically realised by tagged-
declaratives and declarative questions).
Group A wants B to: Type of Q act Move Exchange

category category
1 Provide an adequate R in <Q: identify>
terms laid down in Q <Q: polar> [Elicit]
<Q: confirm>
<Q: acknowledge> & Superordinate
2 Make a decision for or <Q: action>
against <Q: offer> [Re-elicit]
<Q: permit>
3 Supplement details lacking <Q: clarify> [Check]
in the [(Re-)elicit] <Q: repeat> Subordinate
4 Confirm the adequacy of R <Q: react> [Re-open]
Figure 3. Characteristics of primary Q acts, taken from Stenström (1984: 149)

Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
Form Function (Desired R) most Q-like
WH <Q: identify> (identification of the referent of

the wh-word)
ALT <Q: polar> (a polarity decision)
Yes/no
DECL <Q: confirm> (confirmation of what is

proposed in Q)
DECL+tag <Q: acknowledge> (acknowledgement of

the information proffered)
DECL+prompter least Q-like
Figure 4. Relation form/Q function, adapted from Stenström (1984: 152)
Whilst Stenström (1984: 151–152) is careful to point out that ‘syntactic

form, lexical features, and intonation’ are of themselves ‘unreliable criteria of Q
function’, she concedes that ‘a certain lexico-grammatical form predisposes an
utterance for a particular Q function’ (cf. Freed 1994). Stenström’s (1984: 152)
representation of the form/function relationship is shown in Figure 4. Notice,
in particular, that Stenström’s (1984: 152) function category reflects the ‘type
of R [which] is required’. The observant reader will be aware of the similarity
with Quirk et al. (1972: 387), who also categorise questions according to what
type of response is expected, i.e. yes/no questions, which typically expect yes
or no responses, wh-questions, which expect a response that supplies the miss-
ing information expressed by the wh-word, and alternative questions, which
expect a response consisting of one of the alternatives mentioned in the ques-
tion (see 2.2.1). As Figures 3 and 4 highlight, however, Stenström (1984: 151)
has an additional category, ‘request for acknowledgement’ <Q: acknowledge>,
‘which represents the borderline between Q and statement’ (cf. Coulthard,
Montgomery & Brazil 1981: 21ff., who only identify two major types of ques-
tion moves, that is to say, ‘inquiring moves’ such as wh-questions (which ask
for information), and ‘proposing moves’ such as yes/no questions (which ask
for a polarity decision)).
When taken literally, <Q: identify>, <Q: polar> and <Q: confirm> are
typically answered by an <identify>, an <affirm/deny> or a <confirm/discon-
firm>. However, it is worth noting that Stenström’s (1984) taxonomy is also
able to account for those instances when wh-questions, yes/no questions and
tag-questions are interpreted indirectly as <Q: action> (e.g. request for action),
<Q: offer>, or <Q: permit> (e.g. request for permission) respectively. In these
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
instances, Stenström (1984) suggests that they are more likely to receive other
contextually appropriate responses not given in Figure 4 (i.e. <R: comply>, <R:
accept>, etc.).
Stenström’s (1984) approach is not without its critics. For example,
Moeschler (1986) is critical of Stenström’s suggestion that questions and re-
sponses are distinguishable because of their ‘elicit’/‘elicited’ characteristic. In
contrast, Moeschler (1986: 240) suggests that:
The main difference between Q and R is not linked to the opposition elicit-
ing/elicited, but is in the fact that Q imposes constraints on R (illocutionary
and discursive) and thus gives indications about what is a possible appropri-
ate R and a possible inappropriate R, whereas R indicates only that certain
conditions are satisfied relative to Q.
Moeschler (1986: 243) also believes that ‘a certain redundancy exists between
the functional categories’ that Stenström adopts. For example, ‘[Elicit], [Re-
elicit], [Check], and [Re-open] correspond respectively to the ELICITING, RE-
ELICITING, CHECKING and RE-OPENING exchanges’.
Moeschler’s (1986) criticisms need to be viewed in light of the fact that
he ‘sketches a rather similar conversational model’ to Stenström’s (Moeschler
1986: 247; cf. Roulet et al. 1985; Moeschler 1985). At the very least, it suggests
that he recognises the potential of a taxonomy that seeks to identify simultane-
ously (i) what the speaker says (i.e. form), (ii) what the speaker intends by what
s/he says (i.e. force), and (iii) how the utterance(s) relate(s) to the rest of the
discourse (i.e. discourse structure). Length constraints prevent my including
that model here. Suffice it to say, Moeschler (1986: 247) develops a ‘functional
compositional principle’ to explain the relationship between exchange and
move structures that seems particularly relevant, not least because it highlights
an important distinction between the interactional and interpretive elements
of any conversation:
Exchanges are composed of constituents which have illocutionary relations
(i.e. moves) and moves are composed of constituents which have interactive
relations (i.e. exchanges, moves, or acts).
As will become clear, such a distinction is especially important when attempt-

ing to account for answers, as an ‘answer’ is not a speech act type as such, but
‘a functional discursive qualification’ (Moeschler 2001: 241). However, before
turning my attention to ‘answers’, I want to summarize the insights we have
gained thus far, and give an indication of the theories/methodologies from
which I will be drawing to identify/ classify questions in this study.34
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
.. The need to account for form, force and interactional intent
As the reviews of CA and SAT reveal, whilst both approaches provide some use-
ful insights, the problem of understanding how questions work in conversation
is not resolved by disregarding their form or by attempting to assign a prima
facie function to different question types outside their conversational context
(Freed 1994: 642). Consequently, I will be classifying questions according to
both their function and, where applicable, syntactic form, whilst paying partic-
ular attention to the influence that context may be having on those questions
(cf. Freed 1994: 624; Stenström 1984: 150). As:
Qs introducing a new topic, for instance, are not realised in the same way as
checking Qs; goal-directed Qs require a specific strategy; Qs addressing equal
and intimate parties do not have to be as explicit and well-formed as Qs asked
in an unfamiliar or formal environment, and so on. (Stenström 1984: 150)
I will also be paying attention to where the question occurs in the discourse,
who utters it, and to whom. Stenström (1984), in particular, is acutely aware of
the importance of discursive function in conversation, casual or otherwise:
The fact that conversation abounds in hesitations, false starts, reformulations,
anacolutha, ellipses and other ‘irregularities’ does not prevent it from be-
ing structured and rule-bound. As Atkinson (1981: 98) points out ‘we don’t
hear conversation as disordered but as orderly, smooth and coherent’. And
Owen (1984: 1), a follower of Goffman, states that ‘everyday conversation is
not disordered, rambling, and ‘casual’ (and therefore not amenable to system-
atic investigation) . . . but ordered, coherent and well-suited for the achieving
of interactional goals’. Stubbs (1983: 102) argues in this connection that ‘the
concept of well-formedness does apply, and that ‘it makes sense to talk of
discourse as having structure’. (Stenström 1988: 306)
Such ‘structuring’ is more overt in the courtroom, of course. Indeed, according

to Atkinson and Drew (1979):
Both the type of turns and the order of turns are fixed: whatever is done is
done in terms of Q and R, and since only the examiner is entitled to ask Qs,
the examined party’s contribution is heard as an R due to its placement after
Q. The constraints on the pre-allocation system are not even violated in case a
third part self-selects, which occurs for instance when a non-examining coun-
sel objects to a Q and when a judge takes over the counsel’s role as examiner,
since such interventions are designed as Qs. (Stenström 1988: 310)
It will be interesting to ascertain the extent to which Atkinson and Drew’s

(1979) description of the modern courtroom, and, in particular, their assess-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ment that ‘whatever is done’ is either ‘done in terms of ’ or heard as ‘Q and

R’ is actually true of the historical courtroom. However, even if this is not
the case, a framework like that proposed by Stenström (1984) should allow
us to capture instances when turns are ‘not always realised by Q and R’ (see
Stenström 1984: 257–259 for specific examples taken from a civil case).35 A
second major strength of approaches such as Stenström’s (1984) is their iden-
tification of – and ability to deal with – different types of exchange patterns,
including ‘chaining’ (Q1-R1-Q2-R2), ‘embedding’ (Q1-Q2-R2-R1), ‘coupling’
(Q1-R1/Q2-R2) and ‘elliptical coupling’ (Q1-(R1)/Q2-R2). Length constraints
prevent a detailed analysis of these exchange patterns here, but the interested
reader is directed to Goffman (1976) and Merritt (1976).
The reader should not infer by this that I will be adopting Stenström’s
(1984) model wholesale. Rather, I will make use of the three levels that form
the basis of her approach when identifying my own questions. That is to say,
(i) the lexical, grammatical and prosodic aspect (i.e. form), (ii) the speech act
aspect (i.e. force), and (iii) the discoursal aspect (i.e. discourse structure) (see
4.4–4.4.4 for a detailed description). In regard to the discoursal aspect, I will be
attempting to identify the speakers’ interactional intent, by which I mean not
only the position an utterance occupies in the discourse, but what the speaker
intends to achieve by it (cf. initiating a new exchange and responding to the
direct elicitation of another). As Chapter 3 and Section 5.5 will make clear, this
is crucial when examining courtroom discourse (historical or modern), for the
primary examiners, in particular, use[d] eliciting devices such as questions and
commands strategically, over a number of turns. In regard to the speech act
aspect, I will draw on Wierzbicka’s (1987) verbal labels, when they seem par-
ticularly appropriate to the courtroom context and/or the EmodE period (see
4.4.2). That said, my definitions of each verbal label will be data-driven (i.e.
based on my examination of the uses to which questions and other ‘speech
acts’ were commonly put in the late EmodE courtroom). I should also point
out that, as particular question(-type)s can be used in different ways and for
different purposes, particular attention will be paid to the role of the user, their
addressee, and the context of their interaction.
Riley (1986) is also aware of the need to study questions in their context.
Indeed, her exploration of questions as the ‘linguistic means through which
participants construct the reality of their social relations’ (1986: 1) and, in cer-
tain (asymmetrical) contexts, dominate their fellow participants has led her to
conclude that:
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
Before drawing firm conclusions about the control meaning of questions

asked by the dominant participants at the syntactic and discoursal levels, it
is clearly important to examine the discourse consequences of these questions
for it is intuitively obvious that there may be little or no relation between the
syntactic and semantic form of the question and the response given.
(1986: 260)
In simple terms, the role of questions in the courtroom cannot be fully appre-
ciated unless we also consider the type of answers that those questions receive
(cf. Section 1.2). This, in turn, necessitates an appreciation of the different con-
straints that may be operating upon the latter, namely, the local constraints at
the exchange level (‘that the response should be of conditional relevance’ (Sacks
et al. 1974)) and the situational or appropriateness constraints (that responses
should observe/not conflict with the pragmatic parameters of relative power,
status and social distance). Moreover, we also need to recognize that these con-
straints may be operating in conflicting ways, for speakers sometimes produce
behaviour that is inappropriate to their subject positions (cf. Hymes 1972: 285;
Fairclough 1986: 34). Riley (1986: 258) provides the example of police/suspect
interrogations, where the goal of the police is to get the suspect to confess and
the goal of the suspect, to avoid confession.36 In 2.3.–2.3.2, then, I concen-
trate on identifying ‘what it is’ about answers that helps us to recognize them
as such in the context of the courtroom, before concluding this chapter with a
description of the question in the EmodE period (see 2.4.1).
. What constitutes an ‘answer’?
CA probably supplies us with the simplest explanation of an ‘answer’, arguing

that it is the second pair part of the Q-A adjacency pair (Schegloff 1984: 35).
Inherent within such an explanation is the assumption that, although ‘in one
sense, every action is a response to something that has occurred before . . . se-
quencing rules must indicate that some responses are more tightly constrained
than others’ (Labov & Fanshel 1977: 65). One way of identifying an answer,
then, is to first identify ‘Q’. As we have seen, however, reliance on positioning
alone may not be adequate, as questions are sometimes followed by another
question. So what, then, is an answer? Groenendijk and Stokhof (1984: 26) see
it as an ‘information’ filler:
Questions signal gaps in one’s information, and are used to get these gaps
filled. Answers are attempts to fill in such gaps. The relationship between
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
questions and answers cannot be viewed properly without taking this infor-
mational perspective into account’. (Groenendijk & Stokhof 1984: 26)
As Riley (1986: 257) points out, however, the filling of the information gap is
not always verbal in nature. Moreover, the answer may be complete or par-
tial, leading Groenendijk and Stokhof (1984: 28) to conclude that, although
the principle of answerhood thesis states that:
The semantic interpretation of interrogatives should tell us what the answers

are that can be given to the questions expressed by these interrogatives, it is not
sufficient that the semantic object associated with an interrogative determines
some notion of answer.
In simple terms, ‘pragmatics is involved in an essential way’ (Groenendijk &

Stokhof 1986: 28). Indeed, Groenendijk and Stokhof (1984: 243ff.) believe that,
as ‘not all propositions give equally good answers to a question’, certain ‘condi-
tions of relation, quality and quantity . . . may be expected to form the core of
an explication of the notion of a correct answer’. They formulate their notion
of ‘correctness’ as follows:
If x has a question Q, then y gives a correct answer to Q for x in expressing

P iff y believes that P gives a good answer to Q for x and that there is no P’
available such that P’ gives a better answer to Q for x than P.
(Groenendijk & Stokhof 1984: 246)
The above is based upon the ‘notion of a proposition giving a good answer
to a question in an information set, and upon that of one proposition giving
a better answer than another’, and therefore reflects ‘the subjective, speaker-
oriented, nature of the Gricean maxims’ (the usefulness of the Gricean maxims
to response classification is discussed in 2.3.3).
The notion of a good or better answer draws attention back to the issue
of appropriacy (see 2.2.3 above), whilst highlighting a related issue, namely,
whether certain question-types have the capacity to constrain and structure
the addressee’s response. Both issues are of central relevance to this work, of
course, as (in the contemporary courtroom, at least) the right to ask questions
is typically restricted to the dominant party (see Harris 1984: 5, where a defen-
dant responds to the magistrate’s questions with questions of his own, and is
reprimanded; cf. 3.4.2–3.6). In the following section, I will therefore review a
number of taxonomies that have been specifically devised to examine responses
to questions in asymmetrical contexts.
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
.. Taxonomies of responses
Philips (1984: 225) and Riley (1986: 260) both suggest that, in asymmetrical
contexts such as the courtroom, the control function of questions at the syntac-
tic/discoursal level is likely to manifest itself in the degree to which responses
obey the syntactic and semantic constraints of the questions. Consequently,
they devise classificatory schemas for responses to questions based on the
following criteria:
1. Responses that involve syntactic copy.
2. Responses that involve copy and elaboration.
3. Responses that do not observe the syntactic and semantic constraints of
the question.
The above criteria enable distinctions to be made between ‘direct answers’ (i.e.
answers where the missing variable is provided explicitly), ‘direct and qual-
ifies’ (as above, but additional information is also provided), and ‘indirect
answers’ (answers in which the missing value is not provided explicitly, but
can be inferred). However, whereas Philips (1984) codes all utterances follow-
ing questions as answers, Riley (1986: 262) only codes those ‘respondent turns
which provide a value for the free variable of the question’.
Interestingly, Riley’s (1986) approach shares several similarities with
Stenström (1984), in spite of their different research goals (Riley is interested
in the extent to which the use of questions is affected by various asymmetrical
contexts whereas Stenström studies the use of questions and responses in ‘ordi-
nary’ conversation). For example, both express an interest in – and attempt to
code – response moves (Riley’s use of ‘respondent turn’ is meant to emphasise
that a response may be composed of a number of moves). However, Stenström’s
‘R’ categories (see below) are based on ‘continuation options’:
The elicitative force of Q varies according to Q-type so that the demand on
B to respond is felt to be stronger in some cases than in others; R is [. . . ]
felt to be obligatory after requests for information but optional after requests
for acknowledgement [for example]. A’s preference for a specific kind of R
can be made more or less obvious, and this is a matter both of Q-type and
conduciveness. (Stenström 1984: 57)
Yet, as Stenström (1984: 57) explains, it is not ‘really possible to predict, in the
strict sense of the word, that R will follow and what that R will be’. Rather, ‘what
B will do in the next utterance [is] a matter of anticipation – what B can be
expected to do considering the effect of a certain Q’. She represents the degree
of R expectation and elicitative force in relation to Q, in the following way:
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Figure 5. Degree of R expectation and elicitative force in relation to Q, taken from

Stenström (1984: 56)
The various Rs (e.g. <R: acknowledge>, <R: clarify>, <R: confirm/discon-

firm>, <R: evade>, <R: identify>, <R: imply>, <R: polar>, <R: repeat>, <R:
supply>) are then explained in detail (length constraints prevent a detailed
summary here, but the interested reader is directed to Stenström 1984: 76–79,
179–236). In particular, they are sub-classified according to whether they are
an ‘answer’ (i.e. refer to the questioned element/complement) or a ‘reply’ (i.e.
relate to the act of questioning). By way of illustration an answer to ‘Did John
Kiss Mary?’ is ‘yes, he did’, whereas a reply would be ‘Don’t ask me’.
A major difference between the approaches, however, is that Stenström
(1984: 179) assumes that ‘speakers are both honest and cooperative unless there
are obvious signs to the contrary’. In contrast, Riley (1986: 276) must accept
that, as different activity types have different interactional norms, participants
will have differing obligations to respond to questions. Moreover, their role
may be such (i.e. suspect in a police interrogation) that they feel compelled
to breach pragmatic norms (see 2.3). Given the apparent potential for ‘un-
cooperativeness’, some readers may be surprised to learn that Riley’s (1986)
system is nevertheless reliant upon the Gricean (1975) maxims and Leech’s
(1983) politeness principle in addition to her classificatory schema of ‘re-
spondent turns’ (see p. 55, above). But Riley (1986: 278–279) contends that
the Grice/Leech combination provides the best means of accounting for (the
underlying constraints on) responses according to the degree of cooperation
maintained by the participants, ‘such cooperation being intuitively related to
the particular activity type, the forms and functions of questions, and the
relative participant status and social roles’.
It is worth noting that another linguist, Walker (1987: 59–60), suggests
that ‘a responsive answer for both linguist and lawyer is one which meets’
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
Grice’s (1975) four maxims: Quantity, Quality, Relevance, and Manner: ‘it is as
informative (and only so) as is necessary, spoken in truth, relevant to the imme-
diately preceding offering, clear, brief and orderly’. In other words, ‘a responsive
answer . . . is one which responds directly and precisely to . . . the epistemic com-
mand function of the questions’ (by epistemic command function, Walker means
‘their capacity, in a legal setting, . . . to compel the respondent to display his/her
knowledge in an appropriate form’). Yet, like Riley (1986), I believe that Grice’s
(1975) Cooperative Principle can be put to better use than merely identifying
an unconditionally ‘responsive’ answer. Indeed, it can help us to identify those
occasions when respondents adopt a less-than-direct approach as a means of
thwarting the examiner’s line of argument. In other words, when they do not
produce the type[s] of response that the examiner’s questions typically expect
(yes or no to a yes/no question, for example). In the following section, I docu-
ment the classificatory scheme I utilised in Archer (2002), which I based upon
the Gricean maxims.
.. A classification of responses based upon the Gricean maxims
As highlighted above, Grice (1975) identified four maxims (Quality, Quantity,

Relation, Manner) that, taken together, specify what participants have to do
in order to converse in a maximally efficient, rational, co-operative way (i.e.
speak sincerely, relevantly and clearly, while providing sufficient information).
Although these can be seen as guidelines rather than rules, we rarely fail to
observe the maxims casually, for no reason, but we do fail to observe them
intentionally for a variety of reasons. We can thus use the maxims to help us
capture a given response’s meaning-in-context, if we are sensitive to the impact
that the activity itself may have upon how they operate. In other words, we need
to make Grice’s (1975) cooperative principle ‘contextually sensitive’ so that it
can be applied to non-cooperative contexts (cf. Riley 1986: 278). By way of il-
lustration, the basic level of cooperation, on which Grice’s (1975) theory relies,
may amount to little more than ‘some minimum essential to talk’ in the court-
room (Levinson 1983: 121; cf. Walker 1987: 59–60). Consequently, the maxims
may not be observed in the same way. Indeed, Levinson (1983) suggests that
the maxim of Quantity, and to a lesser degree, Manner, will be suspended, thus
necessitating a corresponding adjustment of their potential implicatures. By
way of illustration, Riley (1986: 278) provides a fictitious example of a suspect,
with the following maxims: 1. Make your contribution as informative as you
require; 2. Avoid telling the truth if this conflicts with your interactional goal;
3. Be as relevant as you need be to suit your purposes.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Code Maxim Description of response

[coop] None surface level cooperation
[qual] Quality insincere
[quant-M] Quantity too much information
[quant-L] Quantity too little information
[relat] Relation not relevant/‘off the topic’
[man] Manner over-loquacious, obscure or confusing
[ambig] Ambiguous genuine uncertainty respecting maxim flouted
Figure 6. Classification of ‘answers’ utilising Grice’s maxims
Notice that Gricean cooperativeness is not equivalent to social cooperative-

ness. In other words, ‘conversational cooperation’, as Grice defined it, does not
equate to ‘telling your interlocutor everything s/he wants to know’ (Thomas
1986: 47), or to both interlocutors striving after the same goal (Kiefer 1979: 60
in Thomas 1986). Rather, it is concerned with the relationship between what
is said and what is implied. In simple terms, with using ‘language in such a
way that your interlocutor can understand what you are saying and implying’
(Thomas 1986: 47).37 As will become clear, this means that defendants who do
not attend to the magistrate’s goal in a way that satisfies that magistrate can still
exhibit Gricean cooperativeness (see, in particular, 3.5.2).
In Archer (2002), I devised the following coding system (see Figure 6) to
distinguish those instances when respondents exhibited a surface level cooper-
ation (i.e. they did not intend to generate an implicature) from those instances
when they flouted the maxims for a particular purpose.
As Figure 6 highlights, I also included an ‘opt out’ category for cases when
a respondent opted out of observing the Cooperative Principle or a maxim,
and an ‘ambiguity’ category for cases when identifying which maxim had been
flouted was not feasible.
I gained some valuable results when adopting the above scheme to exam-
ine 12 examination transcripts from the Salem Witchcraft Trials (see Archer
2002). Indeed, I noticed that the different assumptions participants brought
to the discourse exchange led to the adoption of different ‘reality paradigms’
that, in turn, impacted on the operation of the maxims by impeding the infer-
encing capacity of the addressee. By ‘reality paradigm’ I mean the ‘perspectives
of reality’ through which interlocutors operate/filter information about their
world[s] (see Archer 2002: 20 and also Section 3.5.2). Even so, I will not be
adopting the scheme for this study. My reasons are two-fold. Firstly, the ways
in which speakers orientate towards the Gricean maxims is always a matter of
interpretation. For example, I argue in Archer (2002: 24) that Tituba, one of the
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
defendants accused of witchcraft at Salem, manipulated the termination of her

examination when pressed to give more detailed information by performing
an opt out. Yet, one could just as easily view the manipulation as a violation of
the Quality maxim or both the latter and an opt out (see Archer 2002: 22–24
for a detailed explanation of Tituba’s examination):
(H) doe you see who it is that torments these children now
(T) yes it is goode good she hurts them in her own shape
(H) & who is it that hurts them now
(T) I am blind noe I cannot see [SWP: 749]
This leads to my second reason, namely, that, although the Gricean sys-
tem can provide adequate quantitative analyses, it is better equipped for
qualitative analyses.
.. The characteristics of answers: A summary
Existing research seems to suggest that an answer prototypically fills an ‘in-

formation gap’ of some description (Groenendijk & Stockhof 1986). Conse-
quently, it usually follows (Schegloff 1984: 35) and, in some way, ‘completes’ a
‘question’ in a way that is deemed to be ‘appropriate’ (Groenendijk & Stokhof
1986: 28; Stenström 1984). Indeed, Moeschler (1987: 248) suggests that ques-
tions impose a ‘set of satisfaction conditions’ on responses (i.e. a thematic
condition, condition of propositional content, illocutionary condition, and
condition of argumentative orientation),38 which, in turn, determine whether
the latter is understood as an ‘answer’ or a ‘reply’:
In any sequence Ui -Uj , utterance Ui can be interpreted as a question (illocu-
tionary function) if it imposes sequencing constraints (or satisfaction condi-
tions, SC) on Uj ; utterance Uj is interpretable as a[n answer] (illocutionary
function) if it satisfies the SC . . . . If an utterance Uj does not satisfy any
conditions, it will be qualified as a REPLY.
As Moeschler (1987: 249) admits that the different conditions of the ‘SC’ are
only valid for yes/no questions, I will not pursue his argument any further,
except to say that the distinction between an ‘answer’ and ‘response’ or ‘reply’
is an important one. Consequently, I have chosen to classify as an ‘answer’ any
utterance that responds (i) (usually verbally) to a question – that is, a ‘speech
act’ requiring and/or expecting a (verbal) response, and (ii) usually in a way
that (part) fills a perceived knowledge/information gap. Following Wierzbicka
(1987: 374), this is meant to suggest that S uses an ‘answer’ when s/he wants
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
to provide (or wants H to believe that s/he is willing to provide) part or all of
the knowledge/information that H is seeking, but uses a ‘response’ when s/he
wants to say something in (or as a) response to something previously said but
where, unlike ’answer’, there is not an inbuilt expectation to say something.
Notice, also, that I seem to be backgrounding the importance of ‘sequencing’
(i.e. that an ‘answer’ immediately follows a ‘question) and ‘appropriacy’ (see
Chapter 12). Although I am aware that question-types are thought to constrain
the structure of the addressee’s response in the courtroom (cf. Harris 1984), it
is worth remembering that:
1. Answers may not be given to questions immediately.
2. Some ‘answers’ may not provide/address the requested information explic-
itly, preferring to provide/address that information indirectly, or, alterna-
tively, avoid giving it in some way.
Chapter 4 provides a detailed description of the ‘answer’ categories used in this

study. Suffice it to say, they are heavily influenced by Stenström (1984) and
Philips (1984) in particular (see 4.4.3). The remainder of this chapter will now
focus on questions (and answers) in their historical context.
. Questions and answers in an historical context
Although question-and-answer sequences have been used for rhetorical pur-

poses since the medieval period (examples include sermons, plays, and
language-teaching books to name a few), comparatively little is known about
sequences dating from the EmodE period (Wikberg 1975: 12–13). Some of
what we do know has been gleaned from grammar books; Wikberg (1975: 19),
for example, highlights Bullokar’s (1586) definition of ‘A’ in his Bref Grammar
for English as something which ‘is ruled by the question’ and, as such, ‘must
agree in case, and tense with question: Except the case and tense be such, that
rules give plain exception’. However, as Wikberg goes on to point out:
Apart from such and similar scattered remarks on various grammatical phe-
nomena, such as word order, the use of do, and the formation of the tenses,
16th- and 17th century grammars admittedly have very little to contribute to
our understanding of Qs and Rs. (Wikberg 1975: 19)
There is a similar lack of detailed coverage of questions and answers in stan-

dard ‘History of English’ books (e.g. Baugh & Cable 1993; Pyles & Algeo 1992),
and, surprisingly, the more specialised reviews of the Early Modern English
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
period (e.g. Görlach 1991). Mostly, we are told about certain characteristics
of question-formation, the most researched being the establishment and reg-
ulation of the use of do (cf. Ellergård 1953: Henderson 1993; Garret 1998).39 I
examine the importance of do to question-formation in the EmodE period in
2.4.1 (following).
Another frequently cited phenomenon is the increasing restriction of in-
version to interrogative structures (Jacobsson 1951). This is because the order
Aux-S-V normal in present day English questions was also common in declar-
ative sentences at the opening of the EmodE period, particularly occurring
where the sentence began with an adverb or adverbial phrase, or the object
of the sentence was given initial-positioning (Barber 1976). That said, it was in
rapid decline. Indeed, by the end of the early modern period, Aux-S-V word
order in declaratives had all but been replaced by S-V-O word order.40
Additional research relating to the EmodE question includes an investi-
gation of the position of the negative particle not. Rissanen (1994, 1999), for
example, points out that the position of not is determined by the properties of
the subject. Thus, not normally follows a personal pronoun subject or the exis-
tential there (e.g. ‘Why was it not as lawful for me to confer with Wyat, as with
you’ (Helsinki Corpus [henceforth HC] Throckmorton 66 Ci)), and precedes
a noun subject or the demonstrative pronoun this, that (e.g. ‘do not this truly
appere to be a thynge moste ioyfull’ ([HC] Boethius Colville 69)) (examples
from Rissanen 1999: 274; cf. Salmon 1966: 128–189).41
However, there is a distinct lack of research seeking to determine how
various question-types were actually utilised in a variety of text-types. Some
noticeable exceptions include Salmon (1965, 1987) and Wikberg (1975). Their
work will be summarised in 2.4.2.
.. The importance of do to EmodE Q-formation
One of the most intriguing questions in the history of English syntax is

the emergence and development of the auxiliary do, according to Rissanen
(1999: 239):
By the end of the eighteenth century, do had become an obligatory element
in the grammatical structure of English. (cf. the so-called NICE properties:
the use of do in negative sentences, in sentences with subject/verb inversion,
as a substitute verb (‘code’) and for the sake of emphasis) . . . The roots of do-
periphrasis may go back to Old English, although the earliest instances in writ-
ing date from Early Middle English. At the earliest stages of development, up
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
to the fifteenth century, it was mainly used in affirmative statements; [. . . ] in

questions and negations, it becomes common as late as the sixteenth century.
In relation to the question, Rissanen (1992: 244) goes on to point out that the
earliest recorded instance of do-periphrasis in interrogative clauses occurs in
Chaucer’s verse (cf. Mustanoja 1960: 607). However, do does not become com-
mon until the sixteenth century. And, even then, it tends to be more popular
with certain constructions. For example, the majority of yes-no questions are
formed with do by the second half of the sixteenth century:
[But] non-periphrastic inversion continues longer in wh-questions; the pe-
riphrasis is first used to avoid awkward consonant clusters [e.g. ‘What didst
thou loose Iacke?’], or when an unstressed object pronoun follows the verb,
[e.g. ‘What doe you call him?].
(Rissanen 1992: 244. See also Salmon 1966; Stein 1985a, 1990: 179–194)42
It is worth noting that high-frequency verbs such as know, think, say, write,
speak, come and go also proved resistant to do-periphrasis. Indeed, in a study
based on prose dialogue dating from the 16th and 17th centuries, Henderson
(1993: 144–145) found that come, go and say rarely take do:
Taking together all the texts examined [e.g. Gascoigne, Marlowe, Shakespeare,
Jonson, Marston, Beaumont and Fletcher, Middleton, Webster and Ford], I
found five times as many inversion questions as do-questions with come . . .
For go, the distribution is very similar: in all I found 23 inversion forms and
only four with do . . . These two verbs still retain traces of their resistance to do
in colloquial forms such as ‘How come the lift isn’t working?’ and ‘How goes
it’. The case of say is much the same. The modern ‘What say you?’ shows that
this verb has not entirely surrendered to the do-periphrasis, and the practice
of most late 16th- and early 17th century writers favours inversion questions
with this verb . . . the total figures are 19 do-questions as against 125 inversion
forms with say.
Even so, the majority of verbs seem to have adopted do very readily (this is es-
pecially true of verbs like see and hear, and also Latin-based polysyllabic verbs
such as counterfeit, educate, and remember, according to Henderson 1993: 146),
which may help to explain why the use of the non-periphrastic structure
quickly became a marker of archaic style very early in the period (Salmon
1965: 118). That said, its use in texts such as the 1611 King James Bible probably
helped to extend its lifespan (grammarians were pointing out that do could be
omitted in questions as late as the eighteenth century (Tieken-Boon 1987: 207–
208)). Nevertheless, the use of do in questions was very close to PresDE by the
end of the EmodE period.
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
There are a number of additional factors that contributed to the establish-

ment of do, of course, including word order and phonotatic factors. However,
as the establishment of do is not central to my study, I will not be analysing
these factors here. The interested reader is therefore directed to (i) Stein (1985a,
1990), who maps the development of do-periphrasis from questions with the
second person singular pronoun as subject, to questions with the second-
person plural pronoun as subject and, finally, other interrogative structures,
and (ii) Salmon (1966: 122), who suggests that the tendency to avoid inversion
of the subject and the main verb explains why periphrasis was initially more
frequent with transitive verbs with a following object (for ‘non-periphrastic
inversion would mean placing both the subject and the object after the verb
and, consequently, separating the verb from its object’ (Rissanen 1999: 245)).
A factor that is central to my work, however, is establishing what types
of interrogative forms were common in the EmodE period, in addition to the
do-form, and how they were used. This is the focus of the rest of this chap-
ter, beginning with a review of the findings of Wikberg (1975) and, to a lesser
extent, Salmon (1965, 1987).
.. The form and functions of EmodE questions (in drama)
Wikberg’s (1975) monograph of ‘Yes-no questions and answers in Shake-

speare’s plays’ is probably the most extensive treatment of the formation of
questions in Early Modern English. In this final section, I will summarize the
main observations made about the main question-types by Wikberg (1975),
and another researcher, Salmon (1965, 1987), who has also studied the form
and function of questions in Shakespearean English. I begin, however, with a
question-type not studied by Wikberg (1975), wh-questions.
The pronouns and adverbs introducing wh-questions are roughly the same
in EmodE as they are in PresDE, with two exceptions. Firstly, what had not yet
been fully replaced by who in referential use. They were therefore interchange-
able in a way that is not possible today, as the following example illustrates:
‘Tell me, I prey the,’ quoth I, ‘who was the father of thy childe?’ She stodyd a
whyle, and sayde that it hadde a father. ‘But what was hee?’ quoth I. ‘Nowe, by
my trouth, I knowe not,’ quoth shee.
([HC] Harman 69, example taken from Rissanen 1999: 277)
Secondly, whether could be used in the sense of ‘which of the two’ at the begin-
ning of the EmodE period, e.g. ‘Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue
or a foole? (All’s Well that Ends Well IV.v). As this use seems to have been ob-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
solescent by about 1600 (cf. Jesperson MEGII 7.741), this should not present
an issue for this study. A use of whether that may be of relevance to us, how-
ever, is as a subordinator, introducing coordinated subordinated questions, e.g.
‘iudge, (great lords) if I haue done amisse: Or whether that such Cowards ought
to weare This Ornament of Knighthood’ (Shakespeare I Henry VIIV.i). As our
example highlights, the subordinator may be changed, or stay the same (cf.
Rissanen 1999: 276).
The EmodE yes/no-question also shares many similarities with its present-
day counterpart. Although most commonly information-seeking, they were
also used to seek confirmation or advice, or ask for an opinion or permis-
sion, etc. (Wikberg 1975: 15). The form of EmodE interrogatives was different,
of course, as questions without do do not occur in Standard English today,
but non-periphrastic questions are relatively easy to find in the EmodE period.
That said, as we have seen, the majority of yes/no-questions were formed with
do by the second half of the sixteenth century (see 2.4.1 above).
Modals were also frequently utilised to form yes/no-questions. Indeed,
they were used much as they are today, although some of the modals had dif-
ferent senses.43 For example, Wikberg (1975: 112) found may being used ‘in its
possibility sense’ in Shakespeare:
Tra. You will be schoole-master,
And vndertake the teaching of the maid:
That’s your deuice.
Luc. It is: May it be done?
Tra. Not possible: for who shall beare your part, . . .
[Taming of the Shrew I.1.197 212a]
As Leech (1971: 85) observes, this sense of may does not occur at all in ques-
tions in PresDE.
Two other similarities between EmodE and PresDE highlighted by Wikberg
(1975) are (i) the behaviour of some-any forms, e.g. ‘Gentlemen, can any of you
tel me where I may find the young Romeo? (Romeo and Juliet II.4.127 660b),
and (ii) the perfect in EmodE, which conforms to PresDE with one exception,
‘the use of BE + EN with intransitive verbs of movement and change rather
than HAVE + EN’ (Wikberg 1975: 115). Hence, ‘How now, sir Protheus, are
you crept before vs?’ (Two Gentlemen of Verona IV.2.18 33a).
Wikberg (1975: 118) also highlights a feature that was much more common
in the EmodE period than it is today, that of multiple negation (its main func-
tion seems to have been one of emphasis). Interestingly, single negation had
essentially the same manifestations in EmodE usage as it does in PresDE usage.
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
It was usually realised by the adverb not, although it may or may not require do-
transformation (see 2.4, above, for a brief discussion of the positioning of not
in PresDE, and Rissanen 1994; Salmon 1965: 115 for more detailed discussions
of not positioning in EmodE). It is worth noting that negative yes/no-questions
were primarily used for confirmation, according to Wikberg (1975: 126; cf. pos-
itive yes/no-questions, which – as today – were primarily information-seeking,
and normally neutral as to the expected reply). However, they could also ex-
press the speaker’s surprise, disappointment or, indeed, annoyance:
Sir John . . . I haue suffer’d more for their sakes; . . .
Mistris Quickly O Lord sir, . . . and haue not they suffer’d?
[Merry Wives of Windsor IV.v]
Negative-questions are not the only question-type to reflect the speaker’s be-
liefs, expectations or emotional reactions to the previous discourse. Indeed,
Wikberg (1975) describes negative-questions, tag-questions and assertive-
questions as ‘special Qs’, as they seem to have a particular function in drama:
. . . one might envisage a play as consisting of several levels. First, there is
the plot as conveyed to the audience. Secondly, there are the lines as inter-
preted by the individual characters. A positive yes-no Q or a WH-Q mostly
reveals ignorance (genuine or pretended), and is therefore aimed at adding
to the speaker’s (character’s) knowledge. Simultaneously, it helps to develop
the plot and to contribute to characterization. Finally, there is the emotional
level where the speaker may be prejudiced, where there may be a clash be-
tween his own assumption and recent events or where a reply is truly effective
only if it contradicts the interrogator’s beliefs. This is where special Q-types
are favoured. (Wikberg 1975: 124)
Although tag-questions are relatively common throughout the EmodE period

(Salmon 1966, 1967), Shakespeare utilises them less frequently than assertive
questions (Wikberg 1975: 209). There are two main varieties: the direct tag and
the reversed tag. Wikberg (1975: 127) provides the following examples of both
varieties. I include two examples of the reversed tag, as it can be subdivided
into (a) positive/negative (+–), and (b) negative/positive (–+):44
Direct: You see him there, do you? [T & C II.1.62 576b]
Reversed: (a) I think I haue done my selfe wrong, haue I not?
[MM 1.2.43 6a]
(b) Why but he is not in this tune, is
he?’
[T & C III.3.304 586a]
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Shakespeare seemed to favour the affirmative statement + negative tag, that is,
reverse tag (type a). As Wikberg (1975: 128) explains, this type of tag has been
labelled a ‘confirmative appended question’ because of its function:
Like assertive Qs, reversed tags are regarded as conducive to a particular type
of answer. Thus tags of the pos/neg type are thought to expect the answer ‘yes’
and those of the neg/pos type the answer ‘no’. Reversed tags, then, presuppose
agreement with the statement on which they are modelled.
Of course, intonation also plays an important role in tag-questions. For ex-

ample, ‘if the intonation rises on the tag, this implies that the question is
semantically different, indicating that the questioner is in doubt’ (Wikberg
1975: 130). As such information is not retrievable in an historical context, the
type of responses such constructions receive must become a primary focus. Ac-
cording to Wikberg (1975: 128), there is only one instance in Shakespeare’s play
of a negative response to a positive/negative reverse tag:
5. Sold. It signes well, do’s it not?
6. Sold. No. [Anthony and Cleopatra IV. Iiii]
As Rissanen (1999: 275) highlights, such a response will have had great stylistic-
pragmatic significance. But the tags themselves also had stylistic-pragmatic
significance, according to Salmon (1966). The affirmative statement + affir-
mative tag often indicated irony, annoyance or impatience, for example: ‘You
use me well, Master Ford, do you? (Merry Wives of Windsor, Act 3, example
taken from Rissanen 1999: 275. Cf. Salmon 1966: 133, 1967: 55). In contrast,
the affirmative statement + negative tag often denoted the speaker’s desire for
an opinion or approval, much as tags do today, e.g. ‘He is at Oxford still, is he
not?’ (2 Henry IV, Act 2).
Like positive/negative reverse tags, declarative questions, or ‘assertive ques-
tions’ as Wikberg (1975) prefers to call them, also typically expected an affirma-
tive answer. As Wikberg (1975: 131) explains, assertive questions are utterances
that can be interpreted as questions even though they are expressed by an asser-
tion. According to Quirk et al. (1972) assertive questions have ‘a rather casual
tone, which suggests that the speaker takes the answer yes (or no) as a foregone
conclusion’. Interestingly, Wikberg (1975: 131) found that assertive questions
often contained epistemic qualifiers such as belike and perchance, e.g. ‘Per-
chance you think too much of so much pains?’ (Two Gentlemen of Verona II.i).
Rissanen (1999: 275) also provides an example of an assertive question which
contains a parenthetical remark, e.g. Wid. You came I thinke from France? (All’s
Well that Ends Well III.v).
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
The rhetorical question is another type of ‘interrogative’ that seeks to in-

fluence the listener’s conduct in some way (Benjamin 1970: 29). As previously
explained, rhetorical questions have an exclamatory function, and therefore
tend not to expect a response (see 2.2.1.2). However, Wikberg (1975: 45) found
several examples of rhetorical questions to which a response was given:
Talb. Ha, ha, ha,
Count. Laughest thou Wretch?
Thy mirth shall turne to moane.
Talb. I laugh to see your Ladyship so fond,
To thinke, that you haue ought but Talbots shadow,
Whereon to practise your seueritie.
[Henry VI, Part 1 II.3.44 439a]
The above example is an instance of ‘asking to express indignation’, according

to Wikberg (1975: 45).45
As well as providing some useful insights into the form and functions of
the EmodE question, Wikberg (1975: 68) also discusses the way in which ‘the
structure of a question may be determined by its relation to other questions
within the same scene’. In particular, he highlights how a ‘series of questions
have special stylistic importance since they can be used for various purposes’:
They can emphasise the urgency of the interrogation through repetition or

stylistic variation, they can make explicit different aspects of the theme and
its development, and in a play they can be necessary if the listener does not
respond immediately. (Wikberg 1975: 68)
There are several types of series, according to Wikberg (1975) – (i) simple rep-
etition (see example (1), below), (ii) repetition with syntactic and/or lexical
variation (see example (2)), (iii) hyponymic relationships between questions,
i.e. a superordinated question followed by one or more subordinated questions
(see example (3)), and (iv) series of questions answered by one single R (see
example (4)):
(1) Laun. Talke you of yong Master Launcelot, marke
Me now, now will I raise the waters; talke you of young
Maister Launcelot?
Gob. No Maister sir, but a pore mans sonne . . .
[Merchant of Venice II.2.52 168a]
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
(2) Cou. Do you loue my Sonne?

Hel. Your pardon noble Mistris.
Cou. Loue you me Sonne’? [All’s Well That Ends Well III.1.110 173b]
(3) Pol. . . . .. : Pray you once more
Is not your Father growne incapable
Of reasonable affayres? Is he not stupid
With Age, and altring Rheumes? Can he speake? Heare?
Know man, from man? Dispute his owne estate?
Lies he not bed-rid? And againe, do’s nothing
But what he did, being childish?
Flo. No good Sir:
He has his health, and ampler strength indeede
Then most haue of his age. [Winter’s Tale IV.3.409 294b]
(4) Bard. My Lord, doe you see these Meteors? Doe
You behold these Exhalations?
Prin. I doe. [Henry IV, Part I II.4.355 360a]
.. Wikberg’s (1975) ‘reply’ categories
Wikberg (1975) also comments upon the answers that (yes/no) questions typ-
ically receive in Shakespearean drama. Indeed, he suggests that answers to
yes/no questions can be accounted for by four major categories, namely, ‘Ad-
verbials’, ‘Expansives’, ‘Repetitives’, and ‘Implications’ (1975: 178). As length
constraints prevent an in-depth analysis of each category here, I provide an
outline of each, drawing on Wikberg’s (1975) own examples.
As the following examples illustrate, then, adverbial replies contain a
confirming/denying element and, typically, a vocative, interjection, and/or
strengthening device:
Sam. Is the Law of our side, if I say I?
Gre. No. [Romeo and Juliet I.1.53 651a]
To. Dost thou thinke because thou art vertuous, there shall
be no more Cakes and Ale?
Clo. Yes by S. Anne, and Giner shall be hotte y’th mouth too.
[Twelfth Night II.3.124 261b]
In contrast to adverbial replies, expansive replies ‘are not dependent on a

sentence adverbial’. The reason? ‘Their yes-no-ness is apparent’, according to
Wikberg (1975: 155), by which he means their affirmation/denial can be in-
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
ferred. Wikberg (1975) provides the following examples from Hamlet to illus-
trate his point:
Ham. Did’st perceiue?
Hora. Verie well my Lord. [Hamlet III.2.303 758b]
Ham. Will the King heare this peece of Worke?
Pol. And the Queene too, and that presently. [Hamlet III.2.51 756b]
As the name of the third category implies, the distinctive characteristic of the
repetitive category is ‘repetition’ (Wikberg 1975: 155), which can be partial (see
example (1) following), complete (see example (2)) direct (see example (3)) or
indirect, i.e. lexical elements are replaced by pro-forms (see example (4)):
(1) Mira. Had I not
Fowre, or fiue women once, that tended me?
Pros. Thou hadst; and more Miranda:. . . [The Tempest I.2.46 2a]
(2) Octa. Your Brother too must dye: consent you Lepidus?
Lep. I do consent. [Julius Caesar IV.1.2 713b]
(3) Lear. How now are the Horses ready?
Gent. Ready my Lord. [King Lear I.5.53 780a]
(4) Iohn. Is thy Name Colleuile?
Col. It is (my Lord.) [Henry IV, Part 2 IV.3.67 394a]
Wikberg’s (1975) implication replies are based on Leech’s (1969: 9) definition of

‘implication’, that is to say, ‘one assertion X implies another assertion Y within
a given language L if the speakers of L are agreed that if X is true, Y cannot
be false’. Moreover, as the following examples highlight, Wikberg (1975: 162)
adheres to Leech’s distinction between ‘factual’ and ‘logical’ implication (cf.
examples (5) and (6) below):46
(5) Factual implication (‘rests upon knowledge of the world rather than upon
meaning alone’ (Leech 1969: 251))
Duk. You know him well?
Val. I know him as my selfe: for from our Infancie
We haue conuerts, and spent our howres together,
[Two Gentlemen II.4.62]
To explain the above reply, Wikberg (1975: 162) initially includes an additional
‘I know’ (I know him as [I know] myself ), and then assigns a ‘q’ label to the
first proposition (‘I know him’), and a ‘p’ label to the second proposition (‘as [I
know] my self ’), before asserting that ‘if p is true, q is also true’. He then ‘proves’
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
that ‘P is true by virtue of the fact that self-knowledge ranks higher than other
knowledge’ (Wikberg 1975: 162).
(6) Logical implication (‘rests purely upon meaning relations between two
assertions’ (Leech 1969: 251))
Lys. Did you go to’t so young? Were you a gamester at
Five or at seven?
Mar. Earlier too, sir, if now I be one.
Wikberg (1975: 163–164) explains that the above reply is an example of logical
implication via its potential meanings, namely:
[Yes (I was a gamester at five) and] earlier too
[No (I was not a gamester at five) and] earlier too
Which Rpos is appropriate will depend on the truth of the if -clause, of course.
It is worth noting that Wikberg (1975) found that most question-answer
patterns are structurally identical in Shakespeare and PresDE. Indeed, differ-
ences tended to be one of degree rather than one of form (possible exceptions
included linearization issues,47 and the choice of vocatives: see Wikberg 1975
for further details). Wikberg’s (1975) most illuminating comments relating to
questions and their responses do not relate to the categories he utilises, the
‘form’ that they take, or their sequencing, however, but to the stylistic effects
achieved by questions and answers. By way of illustration, Wikberg (1975: 198–
199) found that question-answer sequences that appear in the opening scenes
of Shakespeare’s plays tend to have a special dramatic importance. Put simply,
they ‘are rarely used as such for exposition only, i.e. to elicit facts and back-
ground information’. Rather, they tell us something about ‘the behaviour of the
characters towards each other, which is often a much subtler way of conveying
expository detail than direct reporting’ (see 2.5 following).
. Insights gained
This chapter has considered ‘what it is’ about questions and answers that helps
us to recognise them as such in general terms. My main finding in respect of
questions is that (i) form (i.e. the lexical, grammatical and prosodic aspect), (ii)
force (i.e. the speech act aspect), and (iii) discourse structure (i.e. the discoursal
aspect) are all important (but not necessarily essential) features (see Chapter
12). As answers are ‘a functional discursive qualification’ rather than a speech
act (see Moeschler 2001: 241), discourse structure and, to a lesser extent, form,
Chapter 2. The characteristics of questions and answers 
are also useful when identifying ‘answers’. This is not meant to imply that force
is unimportant. Rather, it is meant to highlight that an ‘answer’ may carry a
variety of forces, and still function as an answer (for example, a typical answer
to a yes/no question is a ‘confirm’ or ‘denial’: see Appendix 2 for definitions
of each).
My awareness of the importance of context motivated the last sections of
this chapter, that is to say, the examination of questions and answers in an his-
torical context (in particular, the extent to which their form(s) and function(s)
were similar to or different from questions today). However, it is worth noting
that Wikberg’s (1975) findings, in particular, relate to questions and answers
in Elizabethan and Shakespearean drama, and thus may not be applicable in a
courtroom context. For that reason, I will undertake a review of the linguistic
literature relating to courtroom discourse (historical and modern) in the next
chapter, and introduce my classification scheme in Chapter 4.
Chapter 3
Questioning procedures in courtrooms
. Courtroom talk as ‘activity type’
Like any other communicative event, courtroom talk can only be properly un-
derstood in terms of the event that it constitutes. For example, a question in
a courtroom setting will have a very different value compared with the same
question asked at a dinner party. One way of approaching this issue is to use
the notion of ‘activity type’ (cf. Levinson 1992; Thomas 1986, 1995). Activ-
ity types are goal-defined social events which have constraints upon would-be
participants, the setting, and the speech acts allowed (prototypical examples
include teaching, a job interview, a football game, and a dinner party). As the
following chapter will highlight, this has obvious applicability to the court-
room, where: (1) the well-defined institutional roles, (2) the clear task to be
performed (i.e. deciding on the guilt or innocence of the accused), and (3) the
competitive nature of the event (i.e. barristers pursuing/constructing a credible
‘story’48 ) give rise to a highly complex activity type made up of specific verbal
practices – some of which are monologic in nature (i.e. judge’s instructions to
the jury), and some dialogic (i.e. witness interrogations).
In 3.2–3.2.1, I provide an outline of the contemporary trial hearing and
its participants, and then go on to demonstrate how the courtroom context
impacts differently on the language of these participants, by constraining what
counts as an ‘allowable contribution’. However, as my main interest is in the
potentially distorting effects of questioning procedure made manifest in the
way in which a question is answered, I pay particular attention to barristers’
questioning strategies and their impact on the examined (see 3.3–3.3.2).49 I
then compare the courtroom of today with the courtroom of the Early Modern
English period (3.4–3.4.3.2), before outlining some of the linguistic research
relevant to the historical courtroom (3.5–3.5.2).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. The courtroom today
In England and Wales, serious criminal cases are handled by the Crown Pros-
ecution Service. They begin with the defendant being indicted on criminal
charges. A prima facie case or committal then follows. If the magistrate de-
cides there is a case to answer (a decision s/he bases on evidence provided by
the prosecutor), a trial date is set in the Crown Court. Such trial hearings are
before a judge and jury, the latter being specifically selected for each particular
case, with lawyers acting on behalf of the prosecution and defence (cf. less seri-
ous criminal cases, which are heard in magistrates’ courts, usually before three
magistrates with no jury present, and civil cases which, in the vast majority of
cases, are heard by a judge alone).50 As the burden of proof lies with the prose-
cution, it is they rather than the defence counsel who must prove the facts of the
‘story’ alleged in the indictment (or complaint in a civil case). Moreover, guilt
must be proven beyond reasonable doubt (cf. civil cases, where the plaintiff has
only to prove the liability of the defendant ‘on the balance of probabilities’).
.. An outline of the trial hearing and its participants
After jury selection and some other preliminaries, counsel for the respective
parties begin by making an opening statement, in which they outline the evi-
dence and how it will prove their respective ‘stories’. Each side then presents its
case, beginning with the Crown (or plaintiff).
The initial stage of questioning, examination-in-chief, involves the barris-
ter questioning non-hostile witnesses. Interestingly, questions employed dur-
ing what is effectively ‘direct’ examination tend to be quite open-ended at the
outset, thus allowing the barrister to procure narrative answers that establish
‘facts’ for the jury to weigh. Consequently, they often function like imperatives
of the ‘Please tell the jury what you saw’ variety (Tiersma 2000: 160). However,
the question-and-answer format usually ensures that witnesses do not continue
testifying in narrative form (i.e. choose for themselves how they tell their (part
of the) ‘story’). Indeed, such opening questions are often accompanied by a
series of (increasingly coercive or controlling) follow-up questions which are
skilfully designed to portray the evidence in a particular light (see 3.3). There
are probably various reasons why lawyers would want to maintain such rigid
control over their non-hostile witnesses. Several trial practice manuals suggest
‘overly talkative witnesses are not persuasive’, for example (Morrill 1971: 34–
39; Keeton 1973: 36, 38. Cited in O’Barr 1982: 32). But all reasons can probably
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
be subsumed under one macro-reason: ‘to advance the client’s case’ (Tiersma
2000: 161).
Examination-in-chief is followed by cross-examination of the same wit-
nesses by the opposing barrister. Although barristers will occasionally solicit
information from the witness which bolsters their own case, a more com-
mon strategy during cross-examination is to undermine what the witness has
previously communicated during examination-in-chief, thereby creating rea-
sonable doubt in the minds of the jurors. This has led to suggestions that,
rather than adopting a ‘truth bias’ as participants might in the vast major-
ity of their (non-confrontational) communicative experiences (see Grice 1975;
McCormack & Parks 1986), cross-examining barristers adopt a ‘guilt bias’, i.e.
assume that the witness is guilty of lying/misleading. They do so, according to
Lakoff (1989: 123), because ‘truth is assumed to emerge from direct confronta-
tion’ – in spite of the instruction to witnesses to tell ‘the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth’ before giving evidence. Nevertheless, witnesses are
generally aware that their questioners really want them to confirm the version
of the truth they are constructing for the jury, which may help to explain why
witnesses’ answers can be defensive, evasive and ambiguous (Danet et al. 1980).
Defendants also answer questions in defensive/evasive ways. However, given
they come to court expecting to have their behaviour questioned, this is not
overly surprising. Of course, they may not be questioned directly at all, but,
when they are, there is evidence to suggest that they frequently anticipate accu-
sations before they are made, offering defences to apparently neutral questions
(Atkinson & Drew 1979).
Luchjenbroers (1997: 478) and Lakoff (1990: 91) maintain that the hostile
‘accusation [and] then defence’ procedure typical of the adversarial encounters
between cross-examining barrister and defendant is counter-balanced by two
factors: the ‘presumption’ of innocence, and the presence of a judge, who helps
to ‘keep the fight clean and make sure no one’s rights are interfered with’. As
Beattie (1986: 341) highlights, this ‘presiding’ role involves judges in a number
of duties, including:
1. Considering and deciding upon legal issues, such as whether a piece of
evidence is admissible (i.e. should be put before the jury),
2. instructing the jury as to the correct view of the law relevant to the case,
3. summing up, for the jury, after the prosecution and defence counsel have
submitted all their evidence, usually after the prosecution and defence bar-
risters have made their own closing arguments (please note, however, that
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
they should not pass comment on the evidence that has been submitted,
save where directed to do so by law),
4. instructing the jury to retire and deliberate over the evidence, only bringing
in a plea of guilty if they are persuaded of the prisoner’s guilt ‘beyond a
reasonable doubt’, and
5. determining the sentence if the defendant is found guilty.
Yet, the presence of a judge does not necessarily ensure protection against a
‘guilt bias’. Indeed, Harris (1984: 8) studied five sessions of the Maintenance
and Arrears Court, in which magistrates adopted the role of examiner as op-
posed to that of ‘neutral referee’ (Harris 1984: 8). As these magistrates were
dealing with issues such as the non-payment of fines or maintenance arrears,
she found that a presumption of innocence was not in operation. In fact, mag-
istrates and their clerks tended to adopt an unwilling paradigm, assuming that
defendants were ‘unwilling’ rather than ‘unable’ to pay. Defendants (not sur-
prisingly) assumed the reverse – that they were unable rather than unwilling
(Harris 1984: 19). Interestingly, one consequence of this unwilling paradigm
was that the function of questions was affected, to such a degree that most
came to function both as requests for information and as the means of making
an accusation (see 3.3 below).
In serious criminal trials, however, the judge is able to remain impartial
(theoretically, at least), for it is the jury who must decide the facts – or, more
appropriately, which version of the ‘story’ is the most believable – and apply
the law to those ‘facts’, reaching a verdict on the guilt or innocence of the de-
fendant. The jury, then, is the intended addressee of the interaction between
barristers and witnesses (Tiersma 2000) – a role that leaves them verbally pas-
sive for most of the trial, until they become collective utterers when giving their
verdict (Verschueren 1999). Sections 3.3–3.3.1 explore some of the strategies
that jurors typically encounter, as they attempt to determine a defendant’s guilt
(or innocence) ‘beyond reasonable doubt’.
. Questioning strategies in the courtroom
The very act of questioning reflects authority relationships across a variety of

activity types (Mishler 1975b). But this power imbalance is especially acute
in the courtroom, as the primary questioner is usually a barrister or magis-
trate (i.e. someone with a legally-sanctioned right to ask questions). Indeed,
Harris (1984) suggests that an emphasis on the preservation of status differ-
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
entials effectively blurs the report and command functions of questions in the
courtroom (Goody 1978), to the extent that:
It [becomes] difficult for any person with higher status and in a clearly defined
authority role . . . to ask a question which is perceived by the defendant or
witness as simply an information question and not about fixing responsibility
or ascribing blame. (Harris 1984: 7)
In simple terms, questions effectively take on additional ‘controlling’ and ‘ac-

cusing’ functions (Harris 1984: 6, 22). Moreover, the potential mistrust be-
tween examiners and examined can lead the former to adopt ambiguous lan-
guage strategies whereby questions have more than one possible interpretation
(Lakoff 1989: 113). In such instances, even the subtlest differences in vocabu-
lary can alter the impact of what is said in response.
Although not directly related to the courtroom itself, the consequences
of word choice/power of words have been demonstrated by experiments un-
dertaken by Loftus and Palmer (1974). Subjects were asked to view films of
automobile accidents and then answer questions about events occurring in the
films. Loftus and Palmer (1974: 118) found that questions using different verbs
to describe the actions elicited different answers. One question – ‘About how
fast were the cars going when they smashed into each other?’ – elicited higher
estimates of speed than questions that used the verbs collided, bumped, con-
tacted, or hit in place of smashed, while questions of the form ‘Did you see the
broken headlight?’ as opposed to ‘Did you see a broken headlight?’ encouraged
experimental subjects to say “yes” more frequently (cited in O’Barr 1982: 29).
Contemporary lawyers are all too aware of the importance of designing
their questions in such a way as to restrict what a witness does in an an-
swer – not least because, opening and closing statements to the jury apart,
they must communicate their views indirectly, through testimony they elicit;
officially, they may not assert, claim, or attempt to persuade during question-
ing – they may only ask (Atkinson & Drew 1979: 66; Danet et al. 1980: 223).
Consequently, patterns of use emerge in the courtroom: yes/no questions tend
to be used when lawyers wish to word evidence in a particular way or control
the number of possible responses, for example, and checking tags, when they
wish to coerce a witness (Woodbury 1984; Luchjenbroers 1997). Many trial
manuals recommend asking open-ended questions (of the ‘wh’ variety) dur-
ing the initial stages of direct examination (or examination-in-chief), in order
to elicit ‘narrative’ responses that avoid the impression of putting words into
witnesses’ mouths. But wh-questions are also frequently put to adversarial uses
in the courtroom. Examiners may utilise them, for example, when they wish
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
a (non-hostile) witness to confirm previous testimony or, alternatively, under-

mine details of the events to which a (hostile) witness may have previously
testified (Woodbury 1984: 212; Luchjenbroers 1997: 482). This has led many to
sub-classify wh-questions into broad, narrow and reduced, depending upon the
‘degree of [situation-bound] specificity required of the addressee’ (Woodbury
1984: 202).
It is important to note, therefore, that the coercive potential of question-
types is not limited to grammatical form alone.51 Indeed, the degree of ‘control’
each question-type exhibits seems to be pragmatically determined to some ex-
tent, in contemporary English, by their modal and interpersonal properties
(Woodbury 1984). Nevertheless, Woodbury (1984: 205) suggests that they can
be organised hierarchically, as the following ‘continuum of control’ illustrates
(see Figure 7).
Yet, the continuum is somewhat limited. While it helps us to highlight the
amount of control an examiner may be attempting to exercise over the discourse
(through the frequency rate of particular question-types), it does not encour-
age us to consider the extent to which that same examiner actually obtains the
type of response his/her questions typically expect. I have therefore adapted the
continuum so as to additionally account for this (see Figure 8. See also Archer
2002). The ‘typical’ responses were derived by Harris (1984: 6, 14). Moreover, I
have also included a conducivity column as a means of gauging the questioner’s
expectation of a ‘designated’ answer.
As the adapted continuum reveals, the amount of control exhibited by par-
ticular question-types – and thus the level of restriction they impose upon the
respondent’s options – seems to correlate with the strength of the questioner’s
expectation of an answer. Consequently, question-types that exhibit a greater
attempt at control on the part of the questioner (e.g. the tagged declarative, the
declarative and the negative yes/no question) also exhibit a greater expectation
Figure 7. Woodbury’s (1984: 205) ‘continuum of control’

Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
Figure 8. Revised continuum of control (adapted from Woodbury 1984: 204f.; Harris
1984: 14)
of an answer. However, it is worth reiterating that both Continuums (sic) are

assuming that the questioner is the examiner, and that the various question-
types are less likely to exhibit the same amount of control when asked by less
powerful participants (see 5.4.1–5.4.2, and Chapter 9).
.. Leading questions
Trial manuals commonly refer to the most coercive question-types as ‘lead-

ing questions’, because of their characteristic of presupposing and/or trying
to ‘lead’ the respondent to a particular answer. The law of evidence states
that leading questions are not allowed during direct examination, where
testimony has been rehearsed, but they are positively encouraged during
cross-examination (Danet et al. 1980: 224). Moreover, they are used in a
variety of ways, from making an explicit accusation to distorting the wit-
ness’s recollection of the events in dispute. Barristers also commonly utilise
leading questions when attempting to undermine the accuracy or precision
of a witness/defendant’s testimony, as the following extract from the O.J.
Simpson trial illustrates (the questioner is F. Lee Bailey and the addressee,
Detective Fuhrman):
Q: Are you therefore saying that you have not used that word in the past
ten years, Detective Fuhrman?
A: Yes, that is what I’m saying.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Q: And you say under oath that you have not addressed any black person
as a nigger or spoken about black people as niggers in the past ten
years, Detective Fuhrman?
A: That’s what I’m saying, sir.
Q: So that anyone who comes to this court and quotes you as using that
word in dealing with African Americans would be a liar, would they
not, Detective Fuhrman?
A: Yes, they would.
Q: All of them, correct?
A: All of them.
(Simpson Transcript, vol. 106 – Mar. 15, 1995. Cited in Tiersma 2000: 166)
Bailey asks an initial yes/no question which invites Fuhrman to clarify some-
thing he has said previously, and then goes on to get him to confirm that
same evidence on three successive occasions via negative yes/no and declara-
tive questions. By so doing, he manages to obtain a clear and precise statement
from Fuhrman under oath (‘I never used nigger during the past ten years’) that
he later showed to be false (see Tiersma 2000 and Cotterill 2003 for detailed
analyses of the Simpson Trial).
We must not assume that leading questions are directly tied to these partic-
ular linguistic forms, however, for leading questions can theoretically take any
form, ‘the whole issue [not being form, but] whether an ordinary man would
get the impression that the questioner desired one answer rather than another’
(Cleary 1984: 11 cited in Tiersma 2000: 164). Indeed, training practice manuals
often cite the yes/no question and alternative question as further examples of a
leading question.52 Lowndes (2002: 157) offers us interesting examples of both:
Were you inside or outside the building? although appearing to offer the witness
choices, presented a false dichotomy in reality for one witness who, because of
not being present at all, could not truthfully answer with either of these op-
tions. However, the rules of evidence are such that the witness’s answer had to
comply with the form of the question (i.e. s/he was compelled to give one of
the choices presented). Is that why you made it up? was the closing question of
the following turn:
. . . did you put in that conversation or did you suggest that that conversation
happened because you wanted to get across to the judge that this person was
agreeing he had knocked you down . . . Is that why you made it up?
Importantly, the barrister’s final query presupposes that the conversation be-
tween the claimant and his defendant was fabricated in order to enhance the
former’s case. As Lowndes (2002: 157–158) points out, this accusation is clev-
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
erly designed so that irrespective of how the witness responds, she appears to
be buying into the presupposition contained in the utterance that preceded
it. And, as the witness is given no opportunity to rebut the accusation, the
damaging presupposition is left intact. As Lowndes (2002) goes on to show,
wh-questions can also function as leading questions in context. For example, a
barrister can plant a seed of doubt in both the minds of the jurors and (poten-
tially) the witness s/he is questioning by asking how sure they are of a previous
statement they have made.
.. The relationship between coerciveness of question form

and the response
The relationship between question form and response is hugely important

when considering the potential coerciveness of the former. It is therefore sur-
prising to find that most courtroom-based research concentrates on questions
to the detriment of answers. That said, research is increasing, and produc-
ing evidence to suggest that coercive question forms are utilised frequently
in the courtroom and, moreover, that they tend to control formal aspects of
responses better than non-coercive ones (Danet et al. 1980; Woodbury 1984;
Luchjenbroers 1997). In other words, they seem to have a greater impact on
the form that the accompanying answer takes. In one analysis of two trials
by Danet et al. (1980: 227), for example, declarative questions accounted for
53 percent of all questions during cross-examination, as opposed to nine per-
cent in direct examination (see also Woodbury 1984: 210–212). Importantly,
however, the situational constraints upon witnesses during cross-examination
seemed to impact on the effectiveness of these coercive forms, making them less
effective in practice. Indeed, Danet et al. (1980: 228) found that one respon-
dent (Edelin) was reportedly ‘20 percent less responsive in his replies during
cross-examination, regardless of the form in which the questions were cast’.
Not surprisingly, witnesses tended to be less resistant to barristers’ attempts to
shape their responses during direct examination, with 72 percent of coercive
questions receiving a short response, and 15 percent of non-coercive questions
receiving the same. This appears to suggest that leading questions may not be as
powerful a weapon in the tactical arsenal of cross-examining barristers as pre-
viously believed. Indeed, the adversarial situation seems to motivate witnesses
to resist barristers’ attempts to control them.
Evidence that not all witnesses play the role of hapless victim is also put
forward by Lowndes (2002). Indeed, she found that some witnesses manage to
manipulate the barrister’s resources to their own advantage:
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Barrister: but I think you recognize that it sometimes might happen that you
started the bouldering activity and the children don’t like it and
you’ve got to come off the river isn’t that right
Witness: Yes uhuh occasionally not often
Barrister: Yes but that is always a possibility isn’t that right
Witness: Yes it always is a possibility
Barrister: Yes so therefore you may end up in fact being more out of the
river than on the river isn’t that right
Witness: Yes that’s a chance
As Lowndes (2002: 158) explains, barristers often utilise modality in order to
plant a seed of doubt in the decision-maker and confuse the witness. However,
such usage can backfire. In the above extract, for example, the barrister begins
by expressing a judgement about the likelihood of something happening, yet it
is framed in a way that makes it appear to be not only his but also the witness’s
viewpoint (see italicised section). Nevertheless, although the witness provides
direct agreement to each question put to him, the barrister’s abundant use of
epistemic modals means that the witness is able to qualify that agreement (see
underlined sections) and, by so doing, indicate that the barrister’s proposition
is possible but unlikely.
Of course, the presence of modality in witnesses’ responses is not without
its problems. Rather than signalling the witness’s judgements about proba-
bility and certainty, for example, it may actually signal their recognition of
the asymmetrical power relationship between themselves and their questioner
(see Lowndes 2002 for an in depth discussion of modality in the courtroom).
Indeed, there is plentiful evidence to suggest that the language and style of
questioning when coupled with the unequal distribution of power actually re-
sults in witnesses presenting their testimonies in ways that alter the credence
of what they are saying. Luchjenbroers (1997: 500), for example, found that, in
practice, a typical question-answer examination sequence (consisting of barris-
ter statement(s) + question-answer) frequently results in witnesses providing
little of the informational input to the jury. Moreover, an extensive study of the
language of witnesses undertaken by the Language and Law Project at Duke
University during the 1970s found that when a witness was allowed to give
informational input, the language s/he was ‘encouraged’ to use tended to in-
fluence hearers’ perceptions of whether s/he was telling the truth – a clear
indication that a jury’s assessment of the value of witness testimony might be
effected in similar ways (Tiersma 2000: 173). Any expressions of uncertainty
such as hedges or hesitation forms, for example, could potentially reduce the
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
impact of the answer by making it appear more like an opinion than a fact.
Answers given with a rising intonation or containing intensifiers might also
be interpreted negatively, according to the Language and Law Project. Indeed,
when they asked observers to rate audio tapes of the same speakers giving
the same testimony but utilising two distinct styles – one that incorporated
the above features and one that did not – the observers generally rated the
former, less powerful style as being less convincing, less truthful, less com-
petent, less intelligent, and less trustworthy. The Project also confirmed re-
search undertaken by Conley et al. (1978: 1385, 1390), namely, that the use
of standard English heightened credibility, suggesting, in turn, that speakers
of regional/non-standard varieties might be judged as being less competent,
less intelligent, and/or less truthful simply because of how they speak (see also
Tiersma 2000: 175).
... ‘Answers’ as narrative?

The extent to which witnesses provide the informational input for the jury is
now a research interest in its own right (see, for example, Bennet & Feldman
1981; O’Barr 1982; Stygall 1994; Harris 2001). As one might expect, the ap-
proaches are multifarious. By way of illustration, Bennet and Feldman (1981: 4)
emphasise the ‘storytelling’ element of criminal trials, and liken the jury’s role
to that of readers of a detective novel or watchers of a ‘mystery movie’ who
must sort out multiple points of view, various subplots, and the chronology
of events whilst interpreting a series of ambiguous clues. However, there is no
real attempt to classify who actually tells the story in any systematic way. O’Barr
(1982: 76), in contrast, distinguishes between witness testimony made up of
‘more loquacious’ responses (narrative), and witness testimony which is ‘frag-
mented’ (i.e. made up of ‘brief, incisive and non-elaborate responses’). How-
ever, as Harris (2001: 55) points out, given the fact that ‘courtroom testimony is
necessarily fragmented by virtue of being conducted through question/answer
sequences’, a better approach might be to concentrate on ‘the degree of frag-
mentation in witness testimony’, that is to say, to see O’Barr’s (1972) ‘narrative’
and ‘fragmented’ as two points on a ‘testimony cline’.
Harris (2001: 55) also points to the crucial relationship between the ques-
tion and answer, arguing that it is the control strategies of the lawyers which
ultimately determines both the content and form of witness testimony: ‘in fact
much witness evidence, whether narrative or not, is put before the jury in the
form of lawyer propositions which witnesses are invited only to confirm or
deny’. Harris’s (2001) observation is too categorical, of course, for it does not
allow for the possibility that the examined will attempt to thwart the implicit
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
argument that the examiner is attempting to convey in ways other than mere
‘denials’ (see Archer 2002: 9). Yet, it does highlight a crucial distinction be-
tween ‘knower’ and ‘teller’ in the courtroom, as well as the presence of ‘multiple
tellers’ (cf. Bennet & Feldman 1981).
Another researcher to highlight the importance of ‘multiple tellers’ is
Stygall (1994). Indeed, Stygall (1994) argues that the court trial involves a mul-
tiplicity of (often) competing/conflicting narratives, told by multiple tellers.
Yet, as Harris (2001) shows, ‘narrative’ is being used in a specific way here.
Indeed, she suggests that
A considerable amount of what occurs in witness and defendant accounts in
the evidential portions of trials cannot be identified explicitly as narrative
on the basis of . . . Labov’s formal criteria [with its emphasis on first person
monologue accounts] (Harris 2001: 72)
‘Narrative’ accounts given in the courtroom, then, are typically highly frag-
mented, and involve shifts between ‘teller’ and ‘knower’. Moreover, the ‘core
narrative’ (‘the account itself, i.e. what happened, including often what was
said and seen as well as what was done’) and ‘point’ (‘significance of the nar-
rative account for the larger trial narrative, i.e. usually the guilt or innocence
of the defendant’) have more specialized and contextualized purposes (Harris
2001: 60; cf. Labov 1972: 363), not least because:
Lawyers seek to elicit from witnesses coherent and credible core narratives
whose significance must be evaluated and made manifest to the jury by means
of point, either explicitly or by means of an implicature. (Harris 2001: 72)
The reader will not be surprised to learn, then, that research suggests narra-
tive accounts are at their most fragmented during cross-examination (i.e. those
occasions when lawyers are attempting to undermine/establish an alternative
‘story’ to/than the one initially proposed by the witness/defendant).
.. A summary of the impact of questioning strategies on the examined
Questions appear to be multi-functional in the contemporary courtroom, serv-

ing as requests for information, clarification or confirmation, and as the means
of making an accusation/controlling the ‘conversation’ simultaneously. As per-
suasion is central to the adversarial process, questions can also carry a degree
of speaker judgement, especially when preceded by ‘facts’ that are presented
as being true (even though they may not be true in the literal sense) and/or
containing presuppositions (see p. 81). Indeed, the types of courtroom strat-
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
egy adopted by barristers often result in a situation where, although witnesses

may want to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, ‘they are
prevented from doing so by the very process that demands it’ (Shuy 1993: 136).
In simple terms, witnesses find it difficult to say what they mean to say. This
is primarily because the question-answer format places severe constraints on
how a ‘conversation’ between a barrister and witness can proceed. As we’ve
seen, barristers want to elicit information that is strategically valuable, and so
frame their questions in a way that might influence the response. Witnesses and
defendants, on the other hand, can only answer the question that is posed, and
they must do so directly. Moreover, they cannot usually pose their own ques-
tions – unless they are unsure of a question put to them, in which case they can
seek clarification of that question (Tiersma 2000: 168). Consequently, the bar-
rister’s question can manipulate the form and content of the witness’s answer
to a certain extent. Moreover, when an answer does not comply with the ex-
pectations set up within a particular question (see p. 77–82), the barrister has
the power and authority to pursue his goal by utilising follow-up questions.
In the remainder of this chapter, I will preview how EmodE courtrooms
differed from their contemporary equivalents before drawing attention to any
important developments within the 120 year period covered by the annotated
section of the CED (3.4–3.4.3.2). I will then summarize the research relating to
historical courtroom discourse (3.5–3.5.2).
. The Early Modern English courtroom
Early Modern English (henceforth EmodE) trials differed in some fundamen-

tal ways from their modern equivalent. For example, today’s courts generally
presume that defendants are ‘innocent until proven guilty’ (but see the work of
Harris 1984). This assumption was missing from the EModE court, only arising
as an active principle by the end of the eighteenth century. So, too, was the cor-
responding idea that the onus of proof of guilt lies with the accuser. Indeed, the
assumption the EModE court made about the prisoner was that any defendant
who was innocent ought to be able to demonstrate it to the jury by the quality
and character of his/her reply to the prosecutor’s evidence (Beattie 1986: 341;
Langbein 1999: 315). This need to prove the prosecutor was mistaken meant
that defendants tended to be much more actively involved in their defence than
they are today. Moreover, in most cases, they could not rely on lawyers answer-
ing, on their behalf, the charges put to them, although this was changing during
the EModE period, as first prosecution counsel and later defence counsel were
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
introduced (see 3.4.3 below). The jury, too, was also more actively involved,
extant trial records revealing that they often intervened to make comments or
ask questions of the judge and/or the witnesses as they gave their testimony
(see Langbein 1978 for a useful summary of the EModE jury).53
According to Beattie (1986: 345), virtually every Early Modern jury trial
began with the prosecutor telling his story to the jury. Note, here, that, by ‘pros-
ecutor’, Beattie (1986) meant the victim of the offence (Langbein 1999: 325
uses the term ‘citizen prosecutor’ to distinguish the victim from a ‘profes-
sional’ prosecutor).54 He was followed by the witnesses for the Crown,55 often
including a constable who might testify about the circumstances of the pris-
oner’s apprehension – what he said, what was found, and so on – when this
provided strong evidence for the prosecution. These witnesses gave their evi-
dence under oath, and risked a prosecution for perjury if they were found to
have lied (cf. witnesses for the defence, who did not testify on oath until 1702,
and defendants who, according to Langbein 1999: 315, did not testify on oath
until 1898).
Although extant trial records reveal that some prosecutors and witnesses
simply made a statement about the matters at issue, the common practice was
for the judge to take them through their testimony section by section, acting
as both ‘examiner’ and ‘cross-examiner’, until he was satisfied that the fullest
possible case had been presented. Thus, the judge’s role was also different than
it is today for, rather than presiding over the court while others ‘unfold’ the
case before him, he was actively involved in the trial’s production. In the next
section, I examine the judge’s role in more detail.
.. The role of the judge
Officially, the EModE judge was rarely alone during a trial. At a typical Old
Bailey session, for example, it was customary for two royal court judges and the
recorder (a type of judge) to preside (Langbein 1978: 263n84).56 Nevertheless,
the question and answer format of the printed ‘verbatim’ trial accounts reveals
that the leading judge was very much in charge – even when significant changes
slowly began to transform his role.
For most of the period we are concerned with, the ordinary trial was con-
ducted without the involvement of prosecution or defence lawyers (see Beattie
1986: 342). Consequently, it was the judge who was fully engaged in getting first
the prosecutor and then the witnesses to tell their respective stories, and thus
keep the trial moving.57 It is worth noting, however, that the Crown was invari-
ably represented by prosecution counsel in State trials from as early as Tudor
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
times (usually the attorney general and the solicitor general), whilst the right to
defence counsel was granted in treason cases from 1696 (Langbein 1978: 267),
and was allowed in ‘misdemeanour’ cases throughout our period, that is to say,
those cases involving matters of a largely civil or regulatory character – ‘for
example, the liability of property owners and parishioners for the upkeep of
roads’ (Langbein 1999: 316). Even so, the judge often remained the dominant
figure, and might still ask most of the questions.
As the majority of prisoners did not have the help of lawyers until the mid-
dle decades of the 18th century for most trials (ordinary trials accounted for
the vast majority of cases during the EmodE period), the judge was thought
to have a special responsibility to see that prisoners were given every opportu-
nity to prove their innocence. Consequently, the prisoner was allowed to ask
questions of the witnesses as they gave their evidence – while the point at issue
was in their mind and the opportunity at hand – although their observations
on this evidence and their responses to it were meant to come when the pros-
ecution case had been completed. This led many contemporaries to claim that
the English courts were exceptionally humane and tender with regard to the
prisoner’s rights. Sir Thomas de Veil (1748: 81), for example, believed that En-
glish judges treated even the worst prisoners ‘gently’. Moreover, the view was
a common theme of the contemporary press, among law writers, and in most
Early Modern commentaries on the legal system (quoted in Beattie 1986: 345).
But, in practice, judicial benevolence was rare.58 Indeed, the most defendants
could expect was that the judges ‘would protect [them] against illegal pro-
cedure, faulty indictments and the like . . . Judges [did not usually] ‘help the
accused to formulate a defence or act as their advocates’ (Beattie 1991: 223).
.. The Early Modern English defendant
Although it’s quite likely that in most cases the judge displayed no marked atti-
tude toward the accused or the ‘citizen’ prosecutor, he had ample opportunity –
if he saw fit – to not only comment upon the testimony as it was being given,
but also shape it and, by so doing, influence how the jurors received/interpreted
it. Moreover, he did not need to be concerned that he might be criticised on ap-
peal for browbeating prisoners or witnesses, for there were no appeals (Beattie
1986: 345).
Some trials were more hazardous for defendants than others. In treason
trials, for example, there are several instances of prisoners being taunted and
insulted by the judges, and only a few examples of acquittals. The extent to
which these trials are typical, i.e. reflect the attitudes and behaviour of judges
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
towards defendants in general, is difficult to tell, although public records sug-

gest that there were significantly more acquittals in ordinary crime prosecu-
tions than in treason trials (Langbein 1978: 267). What is more certain is that
the Act of Settlement of 1701, in freeing judges from their immediate ties to
the monarch, slowly fostered a more detached/less hostile attitude on the part
of judges (Beattie 1986: 246).
The EmodE prisoner still found himself at a gross disadvantage, never-
theless – not least because: (i) the prosecution was organised by the state (i.e.
witnesses were bound in recognizance59 to ensure their presence in the court-
room), (ii) the burden of proof actually lay with the prisoner in practice, in
stark contrast to today’s court,60 and (iii) most prisoners were without counsel
for the majority of our period, and thus had to ‘cross-examine’ prosecution
witnesses themselves and to speak in their own defence. Moreover, as pre-
viously pointed out, the defendant’s main defence had to be given once the
prosecution case was completed, and they had been asked to provide an expla-
nation of the evidence adduced against them. The court’s assumption was thus
very clear – if the case against the prisoner was false, s/he ought to say so and
suggest why. There was no thought that prisoners had a right to remain silent
on the grounds that they would otherwise be liable to incriminate themselves.
On the contrary, if s/he did not speak the Court was liable to conclude that it
was because s/he was unable to deny the truth of the evidence.
Interestingly, the rule prohibiting defence counsel was based on the belief
that a prisoner’s best defence was their own natural and unprepared response
to the charges as they were asserted by the prosecution in court:
[I]t requires no manner of Skill to make a plain and honest Defence, which
in Cases of this Kind is always the best; the Simplicity and Innocence, artless
and ingenuous Behaviour of one whose Conscience acquits him, having some-
thing in it more moving and convincing than the highest Eloquence of Person
speaking in a Cause not their own. [On the other hand,] the very Speech,
Gesture and Countenance, and Manner of Defence of those who are Guilty,
when they speak for themselves, may often help to disclose the Truth, which
probably would not so well be discovered from the artificial Defence of others
speaking for them. (Hawkins 1721: 400)
Consequently, prisoners’ own testimony was given great weight. Yet, in prac-
tice, the extent to which prisoners were able to respond to the judge’s invitation
to address the jury and to ‘cross-examine’ the prosecution witnesses depended
on a number of factors, including whether: (i) they had objections of substance
to offer, (ii) they had been able to prepare for the trial, (iii) their actual physical
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
and emotional state, as most were brought to trial from their prison cell in a
dishevelled and hungry state, and (iv) their ability to talk effectively in this pub-
lic setting. The past experience of re-offenders probably meant that they knew
what was expected from them. Others perhaps learned something about what
to expect in the courtroom while they were in jail. Most, however, fared very
badly, according to Beattie (1986: 350). Indeed, a number of scribal comments
(e.g. ‘little to say in defence’, ‘frivolous defence’, ‘trifling defence’, etc.) from the
printed accounts of trials at the Surrey assizes suggest that a large number of
prisoners seemed to say very little. And the printed accounts themselves sug-
gest that, when they did speak, they tended to rely on simple denials of having
anything to do with whatever was alleged against them or ineffective comments
that seemed to hamper rather than benefit their cause. Some defendants also
struggled because of having previously confessed to the alleged crime and that
confession being introduced during the trial and certified as authentic by the
magistrate or his clerk.
On occasions, a witness’s testimony that the prisoner had acknowledged
their guilt to them was enough to hamper the defendant’s cause (the evidence
of an accomplice turned king’s evidence could prove equally damaging and
as difficult to contend with). In today’s courts, reports of what has been said
out of court are kept from the jury on account of the hearsay rule. So, too, is
evidence of past convictions. But this was not the case during the EmodE pe-
riod, although there is some evidence that some judges disapproved of the use
of ‘hearsay’ evidence (for a useful summary of hearsay evidence, see Langbein
1978: 301–302; Landsman 1990: 564–571; Wigmore 1904).
Even when defendants (i.e. those with friends on the outside) were able
to arrange counter-evidence from their prisons and organise witnesses for the
defence, their efforts were often seriously hampered, not least because they did
not know the precise evidence that would be introduced against them. It is
worth noting that evidence given by defence witnesses centred round evidence
of fact and of character. However, it was not always highly regarded – outside
as well as inside the courtroom. Henry Fielding (1751: 116), in his Increase of
Robbers for example, complained that ‘the usual defence of a Thief . . . is an
alibi’ before going on to explain ‘to prove this by Perjury is a common Act
of Newgate Friendship; and there seldom is any Difficulty in procuring such
Witnesses’.
Thus, it seems to have been an exceptional prisoner indeed who asked
probing questions or who spoke effectively to the jury on his/her own behalf.
Moreover, as we will see when examining the trial texts from the SPC, skill did
not always equate to acquittal. For example, two defendants – King Charles I
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
and Edward Coleman – equipped themselves well and were still convicted. In-
deed, skill/eloquence may well have contributed to their conviction, for Charles
insisted so strongly that he should be allowed to address the Court that he was
told that he ‘appeare[d] as a Delinquent’ (Trial of Charles I 1649). Similarly,
Coleman articulated his fear that, in spite of his innocence, ‘the violent preju-
dices that seem to be against every man in England, that is confess’d to be a Roman
Catholick’ would mean that ‘Justice will hardly stand upright’, to be curtly in-
formed ‘. . . you shall find we will not do to you as you do to us, blow up at
adventure, kill people because they are not of your perswasion; our Religion
teacheth us another Doctrine. . . ’. Both defendants were executed.
The fact that the prisoner was required to provide his own defence meant
that the advantages that derive from the presumption of innocence were largely
absent in practice. Indeed, the judges’ explicit role was to present defendants
with evidence that they would have to counter to maintain their innocence (see
Beattie 1991: 222). This was not seen as overly problematic when the criminal
trial could be described as an ‘altercation’ between ‘citizen accuser’ and ‘citizen
accused’ (cf. Smith 1583). However, the introduction of prosecution lawyers
seriously undermined any sense of ‘balance’ in the courtroom and led, in turn,
to calls for the introduction of defence counsel (Beattie 1991). The next section
catalogues the introduction – and growing involvement – of the prosecution
and defence lawyers throughout the EmodE period, and 3.4.3.1 highlights the
impact that defence counsel, in particular, had upon trial procedure.
.. Introduction of lawyers
As previously pointed out, the case for the Crown was commonly put by the at-
torney general assisted by other counsel in important State trials from as early
as the Tudor period. But few prosecuting counsel were engaged in ordinary
cases before 1714. Indeed, according to Beattie (1986: 355), the more com-
mon appearance of prosecuting counsel in the criminal courts should be dated
from the 1720s–1730s, which tallies with Langbein’s (1978: 311–312) findings
of lawyers acting for the prosecution in a handful of cases at the Old Bailey in
the 1720s and then in more substantial numbers in the following decade.
The Whig governments seem to have played an important part in the emer-
gence of prosecution lawyers during the Georgian period. The period after
1714 – and especially in the 1720s – witnessed popular disaffection, Jacobite
plots, and a variety of disturbances. The governments’ response was to vigor-
ously pursue a wide range of suspected enemies by bringing them before the
secretaries and privy council for examination and by carrying on prosecutions
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
in the courts, some of which they apparently paid for (see Beattie 1986: 354
for examples). The Walpole administration also seems to have encouraged the
prosecution of men and women overheard uttering ‘treasonable’ sentiments,
and of printers and sellers of ‘seditious’ pamphlets and ballads. At the same
time, private prosecutors – with the financial wherewithal – were showing an
increasing willingness to pay for lawyers in order to secure a more coherent pre-
sentation of their case. Nevertheless, the impact of prosecuting counsel on the
way trials were conducted was not as dramatic as the introduction of defence
counsel, according to Beattie (1986: 354), for the former mainly did what the
judge had always done, but, because of their single allegiance, did it more ef-
fectively. In contrast, the defence counsel seemed to want to do things that had
not been done before, leading to some fundamental changes in the conduct of
trials towards the end of our period, as the following section reveals.
... The impact of defence counsel on court procedure

Judges began to allow defendants to engage counsel in ordinary criminal cases
soon after prosecution counsels became a more regular feature of the court
systems (i.e. the 1730s).61 Interestingly, Beattie (1986: 357) believes that, while
the engagement of prosecution counsel developed gradually, the rule prohibit-
ing the defendant to have counsel seems to have given way suddenly. Yet, the
cry for defence counsel in all trials has its origins in the late 1670s–1680s, a
period characterised by the highly political use of charges of treason, some seri-
ous miscarriages of justice, and the subsequent decline in the reputation of the
judges and the courts. One such trial – that of Edward Coleman – is included
in the annotated section of the CED. Coleman was secretary to the Duchess of
York at the time of his arrest for ‘conspiring the death of the king, and the sub-
version of the Govt. of England and the protestant religion’. Unfortunately for
Coleman, Titus Oates named him in his fictitious ‘popish plot’. The plot was
designed to ruin the Duke of York, but it quickly became a catholic witch-hunt.
As we have seen, Coleman adamantly denied that he had committed treason –
in spite of being a catholic (see p. 90). But the plot was believed, leading to the
execution of a number of Roman Catholic peers and commoners (see Kenyon
1972).62
Features of the treason trials that caused particular disquiet included: (i)
the rule that deprived the prisoner of help in preparing for trial or in conduct-
ing the defence in the courtroom, and (ii) the use of hours of oral testimony
in court to support an accusation that the prisoner was expected to respond to
immediately but for which s/he did not know specific details until coming to
court. Although some aspects of these prohibitions were crumbling in practice
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
even in the 1680s, the central rule against defence counsel remained intact. And
as the decade continued, the call for its abolition grew in momentum, not least
because supporters were often part of the legal establishment, as the comments
of Sir Robert Atkyns (1689) reveal:
[It is] a severity in our Law, that a Prisoner for his Life is not allowed the
assistance of a grave and prudent Lawyer, or some other friend, to make his
defence for him, even as to matter of fact, as well as to Law.
Resistance to defence counsel was motivated not so much by hostility to prison-

ers as out of regard for a form of trial that put great stock in both the defendant
speaking for him or herself and the court acting for him/her. Indeed, the as-
sumption was that, as defendants knew most about the alleged incidents, they
were in the best position to state ‘what happened’ and, moreover, if they were
innocent, ought to be able to demonstrate it by the quality/sincerity of their
answers! But Atkyns, who was appointed chief baron in 1689, and another
contemporary, Sir John Hawles (1689) were particularly scathing of both argu-
ments. Indeed, Hawles (1689: 22–23) thought that, in treason trials especially,
the judges inevitably supported the interests of ‘their better client, the king’, and
described the notion that a man needed no defence other than his own simple
declaration of the truth as ‘foolish’: ‘Very often’, he argued, the truth will not
be immediately apparent and will thus require demonstration; ‘keeping a man
in prison before trial and then denying him the help of a lawyer in court was
downright tying a man’s hands behind him, and baiting him to death’ (Hawles
1689: 22–23). Hawles (1689) wrote a number of commentaries on some of the
notorious trials of the decade. Moreover, he seems to have believed that the
Revolution itself – or, at least, ‘the growing disaffection of the nation to the
late government’ – largely stemmed from the ‘undue prosecutions’ of political
prisoners like Colledge, Russell and Stephens (1689: 1).
Although the above commentaries post-date the Treason Act of 1696, they
document the kinds of sentiment that led to its introduction. Yet, the act itself
was a compromise for both sides. Initially resisted by the king and his (largely
Whig) advisers, it only granted the right to defence counsel in cases of high
treason, and thus ‘did not risk impairing the routine administration of criminal
justice’ (Langbein 1999: 317). Nevertheless, it produced a crack that, forty years
later, gave way (Beattie 1986; Langbein 1999).
The geographical origin of the first defence counsel is unclear, the most
likely explanation being that the practice began in the Old Bailey, where the
largest number of serious cases were tried and where lawyers were more read-
ily available, and that it spread from there to the provincial assizes (Langbein
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
1978). But evidence suggests that, treason trials apart, defence counsel were
admitted to court on the sufferance of the judges (i.e. more as a favour than
a right). Because of this, the help defence counsel were actually able to give
their clients often depended on the leeway allowed them by the bench. By way
of illustration, the ‘official’ view in the 1730s was that judges should allow the
criminal defendant to have the assistance of counsel ‘for the limited purpose of
probing the prosecution evidence presented at trial’ (Langbein 1999: 321). Yet,
as one barrister lamented in 1751, whilst:
Some have gone so far as to give leave for counsel to examine and cross-
examine witnesses; others have bid the counsel propose their questions to the
Court; and others again have directed that the prisoner should put his own
questions: the method of practice in this point is very variable and uncertain.
(State Trials, vol. 17, p. 1022)
It is worth noting that the printed reports of cases at the Surrey assizes (Beattie
1986: 361) and trials included in the SPC suggest that some judges were very
amenable to defence lawyers. Indeed, I found examples of counsel making
statements to the court about the evidence submitted by the prosecution or
outlining the defence the accused would offer, both of which were apparently
not possible until the Prisoner’s Counsel Act of 1836 (see Beattie 1991: 231 and
also Cairns 1998: 3–6).
Even when the above constraints were implemented, defence counsels were
still able to do a great deal for their clients. A lawyer was much more likely
than the prisoner to spot errors in indictments, for example. He was also more
likely than the judge to point them out, and better equipped to move the court
for dismissal of charges on technical grounds or to exploit other avenues of
defence. The area in which defence counsel had the greatest influence and the
greatest freedom, however, was the area in which a prisoner on their own was
likely to be at their weakest – the cross-examination of prosecution witnesses.
Thus, although:
Counsel were not free to address the jury directly, they could at least cast doubt
on a prosecutor’s or witness’s evidence as to the identity of the prisoner or the
goods stolen; they could soften the effect of a prior confession by questioning
the circumstances under which it had been obtained; they could question the
prosecutor’s motives when he stood to benefit from a large reward. In general,
counsel could force the prosecution onto the defensive – and with particular
effectiveness in cases in which blood money would be paid for the conviction
of men who were on trial for their lives. Every witness in such cases was open
to a searching examination of his motives in giving evidence, and examination
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
of a kind that few prisoners could have mounted on their own and that went
beyond the kind of questioning a judge would likely have thought appropriate.
(Beattie 1986: 361–362)
Indeed, a new questioning strategy – one which Wigmore (1904) poetically de-
scribes as the ‘art of interrogation’ – was emerging. Moreover, its impact was to
be far reaching, for defence counsels’ objections and precedents, accompanied
by a growing belief that juries needed to be protected from evidence that might
be in some way prejudicial to the defendant, led to more controls over the ev-
idence a criminal jury could hear (i.e. exclusionary rules) and, in turn, to the
appearance of literature dealing with the subject of evidence in criminal trials
(i.e. a law of evidence).63
... A note of caution

The reader should note that recent scholarly studies (Langbein, Beattie, Lands-
man) have been criticized for having an ‘adversarial bias’, and for simplifying
the emergence of the modern trial, by giving the impression that it was ‘an in-
evitable development rushing to completion’ (Cairns 1998: 36). Indeed, Cairns
(1998: 4) maintains that the criminal trial only achieved its modern adversar-
ial form after the Prisoner’s Counsel Act of 1836 removed what he calls ‘the
felony counsel restriction’, and after the ‘capital felony process’ was slackened.
The former prevented defence counsels from making an opening address to the
jury, and the latter advocated capital punishment for serious and minor crimes
alike and, by so doing:
Distracted prosecutors, witnesses, counsel, judges and jurors from a strict in-
vestigation of the facts . . . [thereby] hinder[ing] the rational development of
criminal law and procedure’. (Cairns 1998: 12)
Cairns (1998: 32) is also critical (rightly, in my view) of the over-reliance on

two primary sources when explaining the EmodE trial, resulting in ‘too many
conclusions’ being ‘drawn from events at the Old Bailey’ and the Surrey As-
sizes. I mention this particular criticism so that I might emphasize a strength
of my data, namely, that it is drawn from a number of sources and, as such,
provides a useful tool with which to test some of the historians’ claims. I am
particularly interested in the appearance of the lawyers (which historians tend
to date from the 1720s onwards), and their supposed impact on courtroom
procedure, not least because this is an under-researched area within linguistics
(even amongst those interested in historical trial data; see 3.5–3.5.2 following
for an indication of the types of study previously undertaken by historical lin-
guists). Consequently, we have to rely on the findings of historians, the majority
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
of whom are happy to highlight the ‘flowering of the art of cross-examination’,

without explaining what it actually entailed (see, for example, Wigmore 1904).
I also see my work as providing a useful ‘tool’ with which to address a
third criticism highlighted by Cairns (1998), namely, the danger of introduc-
ing ‘present concerns’ into our analysis. Langbein (1978, 1983), for example,
is said to use ‘the adversarial criminal procedure of today’s Anglo-American
systems, and to a lesser extent modern Continental procedure, to character-
ize the development of the eighteenth century criminal trial’. Moreover, he
assumes that ‘eighteenth century procedure’ is inferior, because of ‘falling short
of the standards of the late twentieth century’ and, by so doing, ‘compounds
presentism with moralism’ (Cairns 1998: 36). Cairns (1998) is right to express
concerns regarding the use of ‘modern models’ and ‘modern rights language’
to explain EmodE courtroom practices, when they lead to an adversarial bias in
the scholarship. However, I will be seeking to demonstrate that contemporary
(linguistic) techniques can nevertheless account for historical data – if, that
is, we (i) are sensitive to the socio-historical context (Jacobs & Jucker 1995: 19)
and, importantly, (ii) understand that scholarly ‘objectivity’ is often a ‘façade’
that needs to be recognized if it is to be countered (Arnovick 1999: 7). By this
I mean, we need to become aware of – and be prepared to highlight – any
twenty-first century ‘biases’ that might cause us to view data in a certain light
(see Chapter 12).
. Review of the linguistic literature relating to historical

courtroom discourse
The questioning procedures of the EModE courtroom are a relatively under-

researched area within linguistics. Five studies worthy of mention are Culpeper
and Kytö (2000a), Kryk-Kastovsky (2000), Hiltunen (1996), Archer (2002) and
Doty and Hiltunen (2002). The work of Culpeper and Kytö (2000a) and Kryk-
Kastovsky (2000) concern English trials from the Early Modern period, and
are reviewed in 3.5.1 (following). The work of Hiltunen (1996), Archer (2002)
and Doty and Hiltunen (2002) relate to the Salem Trials of 1692, and are
reviewed in 3.5.2.
.. Linguistic research relating to English trials
Culpeper and Kytö (2000a: 59) examined the following trial texts from the CED
(see 1.4 for description), in order to better understand the dynamics of the
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
discourse and possible implications for gender (please note that the first date
relates to the actual trial event, and the second, to the printed trial text):
The Tryals of Robert Green, Henry Berry & Lawrence Hill (1679/1679)
The Tryal of the Lady Alice Lisle (1685/1730)
The Tryal of Charles Lord Mohun (1692/1693)
The Trial of Haagen Swendson (1702/1742)
As they found questioning to be as central to courtroom discourse in that pe-

riod as it is today – ‘not only in terms of frequency, but also as a way of control-
ling the discourse’ (2000a: 62), they categorised questions into four ‘elicitation’
types as a means of determining how: (i) the witnesses’ discourse was con-
trolled by the judges and, (ii) the judges elicited information. The four types –
prompters, relatively open questions, relatively closed questions and challeng-
ing statements/rhetorical questions – were then briefly described. Prompters
were said to consist of commands to start or continue speaking at some length
(usually across a number of turns) on a specific topic, for example, and rela-
tively closed questions, “‘yes/no” questions and questions that seek very specific
information’ (2000: 63, 66).
Interestingly, Culpeper and Kytö (2000a) found that the judges treated the
male and female witnesses differently, allotting them different conversational
roles. The female witnesses, for example, were often constructed as ‘crime nar-
rative givers’, or so the judges’ frequent use of prompters with female witnesses
was taken to suggest. In contrast, the male witnesses were seemingly viewed in
a more hostile manner, and thus subjected to more intense cross-examination
via challenging statements or rhetorical questions. Although providing inter-
esting results, the pilot study related to only 506 speech contributions/turns
(including ‘silent responses’) of some 36 witnesses (18 male and 18 female).
Consequently, they cannot be used to support strong generalisations.64
Kryk-Kastovsky’s (2000) database was even smaller – the records of two
trials dating from 1685 (e.g. The trial of Titus Oates and The Trial of Lady Alice
Lisle). Kryk-Kastovsky’s (2000) primary interest is not questioning strategies
in their own right, but the way in which the latter and other features establish
the orality of Early Modern English ‘verbatim’ courtroom records. Concen-
trating on the turn-taking strategies within the trials, she makes some general
observations about the discourse strategies of the different participants which,
for simplicity, she labels as interrogators and interrogated. The terms, however,
are potentially misleading, as Titus Oates is included within the former cate-
gory, even though he is a defendant and thus in a subordinate role. Some of
Kryk-Kastovsky’s (2000) findings are fairly typical (e.g. that the interrogators
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
generally have the floor much more often). What is surprising, however, is the
number of turns attributed to Oates (i.e. 15.8% as opposed to 21.9% for the
Lord Chief Justice, 14.1% for the Attorney General and 8.2% for the Solici-
tor General). Kryk-Kastovsky (2000) thinks that Oates’ representing himself is
unusual, and somehow to do with his privilege, but, as we have established,
defendants defending themselves on charges of perjury in 1685 is not unusual
at all (see 3.4.2 and 3.4.3.1). Oates’s command of the floor is unusual, how-
ever, and this may indicate some special favour. Unfortunately, Kryk-Kastovsky
(2000) does not pursue this. Instead, she concentrates on questioning strate-
gies in more general terms, highlighting two techniques that she classifies as
‘direct’ and ‘indirect’ questioning, and explains via examples from The Trial of
Alice Lisle. The ‘indirect’ example is interesting because of its apparent ineffec-
tiveness, for Judge Jeffreys’ (the L.C.J.’s) discourse is so vague that the witness
(Dunne) has to ask a clarification question, which, in turn, prompts a reworded
question with a direct structure from Jeffreys (Kryk-Kastovsky 2000: 221–222):
L.C.J. Very well, and upon that Discourse with Nelthorp, which I had in
Town, did I give particular Direction, that the Outlawry of Nelthorp
should be brought down hither, for he told me particularly of all
the Passages and Discourses of his being beyond Sea, and coming
from beyond Sea: I would not mention any such thing as any piece
of Evidence to influence this cases, but I could not but tremble to
think, after what I knew, that any one should dare so much to
prevaricate with God and Man, as to tell such horrid Lyes in the
Face of a Court.
Dunne. What does your Lordship ask me?
L.C.J. Come, I will ask thee a plain Question; Was there no Discourse
there about the Battle, and of their being in the Army?
Kryk-Kastovsky’s (2000: 221) example of direct questioning relates to a coer-
cive question that she believes casts doubt on the truth of Dunne’s testimony
by its ‘You are sure?’ structure. But, as the example reveals, its effectiveness in
reducing Dunne to short, confirming utterances is as much to do with its repe-
tition, the use of a similar clarification structure (e.g. ‘You say’), and the judge’s
demands for the truth:
L.C.J. You are sure of this?
Dunne. I am so, my Lord.
L.C.J. You are sure you did not drink there?
Dunne. I am, my Lord.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
L.C.J. And you say he brought the Light into the Stable, and gave your
Horse Hay?
Dunne. He did, my Lord.
L.C.J. Now prithee tell me truly, where came Carpenter unto you? I must
know the Truth of that; remember that I gave you fair Warning, do
not tell me a Lye, for I will be sure to treasure up every Lye that thou
tellest me, and thou may’st be certain it will not be for thy
Advantage: I would not terrify thee to make thee say any thing but
the Truth: but assure thy self I never met with a lying, sneaking,
canting Fellow, but I always treasur’d up Vengeance for him: and
therefore look to it, that thou dost not prevaricate with me, for to
be sure thou wilt come to the worst of it in the end?
[The Trial of Lady Alice Lisle, State Trials]
As Culpeper and Kytö (2000a: 60) highlight, this particular witness (Dunne)
employs a much more interesting defensive strategy than the above, which in-
volves him persistently remaining silent, in spite of Judge Jeffreys’ attempts to
get him to answer the questions put to him. Indeed, he chooses to be silent
on eleven separate occasions. Moreover, one of his silences was extraordinarily
long, as a textual comment – ‘he paused for half a quarter of an Hour’ – reveals
(Culpeper & Kytö 2000a: 62). Such uncooperative behaviour is very unusual
for this period.
Kryk-Kastovsky (2000) also looks (albeit briefly) at the responses of the
‘interrogated’, and the role of court reporters. In terms of the former, she
highlights the ways in which the interrogated employed avoidance techniques
geared at their specific communicative goals, which are comparable to those
used in court today. Indeed, among the most frequent were: (i) flouting the
Gricean Maxim of Relevance in order to avoid answering the question, (ii)
flouting the Gricean Maxim of Quantity/Relevance by giving a longer answer
than necessary, and (iii) giving complete information in accordance with the
rules established by the activity type. In relation to court reporters, she briefly
explores evidence to suggest that they not only took down the trial proceedings
but ‘improved’ on them, thereby impacting upon the ‘faithfulness’ of ‘verba-
tim’ accounts, to varying degrees. Nevertheless, she concludes that ‘the Early
Modern English trial records’ that she analyses are ‘a relatively adequate reflec-
tion of discourse in courts, particularly since shorthand was already known at
that time’ (2000: 208). But there is some caution needed, as she seems to rely on
the State Trials – which we know have been amended/tampered with (see 1.4).
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
.. Linguistic research relating to the Salem Witchcraft Trials
Hiltunen (1996) examined the opening question/answer sequences of twenty-

six examinations from Boyer and Nissenbaum’s (1977) Salem Witchcraft Pa-
pers, Doty and Hiltunen (2002) analysed 29 records of confessions, and I anal-
ysed the examination transcripts of twelve individuals accused of witchcraft
(see Archer 2002). One important finding highlighted by all three studies is
the examiners’ negative presupposition respecting the innocence of the ac-
cused (cf. Harris 1984). By this I mean, the examining magistrates at Salem
attempted to establish that the accused were guilty of witchcraft from the out-
set, and, depending on the answer to their initial question, then either tried ‘to
adduce more evidence that the person [was] in fact guilty or, if the person ha[d]
confessed, .. [went] into the details of the witchcraft related actions of that per-
son’ (Doty & Hiltunen 2002: 308).65 Notice, for example, that the magistrate’s
opening question to the first defendant to be questioned at Salem assumed her
familiarity with an evil spirit:
(H.) Sarah Good what evil Spirit have you familiarity with
(SG) none
(H) have you made no contract with the devil
(g) good answered no
(H) why do you hurt these children
(g) I doe not hurt them. I scorn it.
(H) what creature do you imploy then
(g) no creature but I am falsely accused
[Examination of good, SWP: 356]
As wh-interrogatives generally have a presupposition which the questioner

is understood to assume to be true, they are a good (albeit implicit) indi-
cator of the speaker’s perception of his/her world. Significantly, Hathorne
actually addressed seventeen wh-interrogatives to Good, most of which as-
sumed that Good was responsible for hurting the children either directly (see
third question above) or indirectly (see fourth and fifth questions). Hathorne’s
three remaining questions were negative yes/no interrogatives. According to
Levinson (1983: 184), ‘yes/no questions will generally have vacuous presuppo-
sitions, being the disjunction of their possible answers’. The negative structure
of Hathorne’s first yes/no interrogative to Good biased a yes answer (see sec-
ond question above), while simultaneously intimating his dissatisfaction with
her previous response (that she had had no familiarity with any evil spirit).
Even so, Good contradicted Hathorne’s implicit proposition that she had made
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Prosecution Tituba’s strategy Narrative aspect
a. repeated implied accusations denial orientation

(wh- questions)
b. change of strategy changes strategy complicating action
(‘if not you, who is guilty?’) (blame on the devil)
c. contact with the devil? confesses contact complicating action
d. names of other witches? two names revealed orientation/complicating action
e. further details: where, when, details given complicating action
what for?
f. own involvement in denied (charges others) complicating action
afflictions?
g. question repeated confesses (with a prom- complicating action
ise not to do it again)
h. own judgement of repentance complicating action
involvement
i. details about devil & details given orientation/complicating action
witchcraft
j. who hurts the afflicted now? charges Good; feigns complicating action
blindness
Figure 9. Questions and answers as narrative (taken from Doty & Hiltunen 2002: 319)
some sort of contract. However, because she did so without explanation, she ef-
fectively enabled Hathorne to quickly move from assuming her involvement in
witchcraft to seeking her reason for hurting the afflicted (Archer 2002: 16).
In Archer (2002), I argue that Hathorne and his fellow magistrates adopted
a ‘guilty but unwilling to confess’ perspective when denying defendants main-
tained their innocence, which not only affected the function of their questions,
transforming many into accusations (cf. Harris 1984), but impeded their in-
ferencing processes – to the extent that they did not infer or chose to ignore
occasions when defendants flouted a maxim so as to generate an implicature
that contradicted that perspective (i.e. that they were innocent and therefore
unable to confess). I also suggest that this ‘guilty’ perspective was so potent that
it locked discourse participants into a situation of presuppositional conflict,
and led to defendants being put under increasing pressure to abandon their
own reality perspectives in favour of those of the magistrates. The first to do so
was Tituba (a servant woman questioned on the same day as Good).
According to Doty and Hiltunen (2002: 315), Tituba’s defensive strategy
can be considered as the prototype in the Salem data. The strategy itself was
that of accusation → denial → confession (Doty & Hiltunen 2002: 312). In other
words, Tituba initially denied the accusations put to her, until, that is, she was
asked whether she had ‘never seen the devil’, at which point she ‘confessed’ that
‘the devil came to me and bid me serve him’. As Figure 9, reveals, Doty and
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
Hiltunen (2002) use Labov’s (1972, 1997) concepts of ‘orientation’, ‘complicat-

ing action’ and ‘personal biography’ to explain Tituba’s ‘confession’ strategy.
Doty and Hiltunen’s (2002) decision to study Tituba’s discourse from a
narrative perspective was probably motivated by the fact that she managed
to ‘tell her own story’ in a distinctive way. Indeed, as I highlight in Archer
(2002: 23), she was the first defendant to speak of meetings at Boston, black
dogs that speak, and journeys on broomsticks, and thereby ‘confirmed’ for the
magistrates that witchcraft was taking place (see SWP: 748). Yet, it is worth not-
ing that some of the other important features that I (Archer 2002) and Doty
and Hiltunen (2002) argue Carrier also introduced into her ‘confession’ were
actually ‘introduced’ by Hathorne, Tituba’s examiner:
(H) and did you hurt them [the children]
(T) no there is 4 women and one man they hurt the children and then lay
all upon me and they tell me if I will not hurt the children they will
hurt me
(H) but did you not hurt them
(T) yes, but I will hurt them no more
(H) are you not sorry you did hurt them
(T) yes
(H) and why then doe you hurt them
(T) they say hurt the children or wee will doe worse to you
Notice, in particular, Hathorne’s third question to Tituba: ‘are you not sorry
you did hurt them?’, which not only introduced the theme of regret, but also
presupposed that Tituba was experiencing that regret.
Significantly, the confessions that followed Tituba’s contained similar el-
ements to the above (i.e. an indication of regret paralleled by an insistence
that the confessor was not the actual source of the evil deeds but merely the
devil’s involuntary intermediary, and, importantly, an apparent desire for re-
habilitation; see also Figure 9, above), albeit to varying degrees. However, as the
following extract from Richard Carrier’s examination reveals, they were ‘told’
more by the examiners than the examined:
Q. have you been in the devils snare A: yes. Q. is yo’r bro: Andrew ensnared by
the devils snare: A yes Q. how long has yo’r brother bin a witch: A. not long:
Q. have you joined in afflicting the afflicted persons: A: Yes.
Indeed, Carrier merely provided confirmation of the examiner’s propositions

(see 1.2.2 for a more detailed analysis of this extract). It is therefore worth re-
membering that the telling of courtroom ‘narratives’ (historical and modern)
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
was/is a joint and, when involving defendants and ‘non-friendly’ witnesses, a

competing enterprise (see 3.3.2.1).
Showing repentance was an important element in establishing credibility
in the Salem confessions, as was blaming the devil and/or others for what had
happened. The irony, of course, was that studies of other witch-hunt trials of
the EmodE period have shown that the judiciary often assumed a ‘confessed’
witch gave ‘unreliable evidence’ (see, for example, Culpeper & Semino 2000).
At Salem, such beliefs appear to have been overridden by the individual reality
paradigms of the magistrates themselves (Archer 2002: 23). Indeed, the Salem
magistates urged the ‘denying defendants’ to ‘tell the truth’ which, tellingly,
they often paralleled with a need to ‘confess’. By way of illustration, Hathorne
(the magistrate) commanded Martha Corey to ‘tell .. w’t [she] kn[e]w . . . ’ on
several occasions, advising her that ‘If [she] expect mercy of God, [she] must
look for it in Gods way by confession’. Corey responded to one of these im-
peratives with a rhetorical question: ‘Why I am a Gosple woman, & do you
think I can have to do with witchcraft too’ (SWP: 248). Although she had
meant to imply, via the maxim of Manner, that religious status was sufficient
proof of innocence, the ‘guilty perspective’ in which the magistrate was oper-
ating was so potent that it impeded his inferencing processes, that is to say, his
ability/willingness to discern Corey’s implicature.
As I point out in Archer (2002), Corey was not the only defendant to utilise
questions. George Jacobs Snr. also did so. Significantly, he also denied the ac-
cusation of witchcraft. It is worth noting that Hiltunen (1996: 29) found that
‘denying’ defendants tended to utilise rhetorical questions, which he suggests
is understandable, given ‘rhetorical questions function as forceful statements,
and those who plead not guilty generally use more forceful language than
those who confess’. But Jacobs’s question was not rhetorical, – although it did
occasion a ‘rhetorical’ question from his examiner, William Stoughton:
Here are them that accuse you of acts of witchcraft
Well, let us hear who are they, and what are they.
Abigail Williams – Jacobs laught.
Because I am falsely accused. – Your worships all of you do you think this is
true?
Nay, what do you think? [SWP: 474]
As Levinson (1992: 97) highlights, assigned roles help to determine how what
participants say will be taken, ‘that is, what kinds of inferences will be made
from what is said’ (Levinson 1992: 21). Jacobs’s activity-assigned role was
such that he immediately felt the need to explain his laughter. He then asked
Chapter 3. Questioning procedures in courtrooms 
those present whether they believed the allegations against him were true.
Stoughton’s response, ‘Nay, what do you think?’, implied that he did. Because
of his role, Stoughton’s rhetorical question carried much more potency than
Corey’s rhetorical question (above). Indeed, Jacobs immediately affirmed his
innocence: ‘I am as innocent as the Child born to night, I have lived 33 years
here in Salem’. Stoughton then asked Jacobs:
Who is responsible for afflicting the children
Don’t ask me [SWP: 474]
Notice that Jacobs utilised an imperative structure in response, that is, a lin-
guistic device we normally associate with the ‘powerful’. However, his role was
such that Stoughton chose to ignore Jacobs’ implicature (that he either did not
know and/or was not the right person to ask because of his innocence) and
responded, instead, to the imperative’s literal meaning via a second rhetorical
question that affirmed his socially legitimated ‘right’ to question him, ‘Why
should we not ask you? Sarah Churchwell accuseth you, there she is’.
. Insights gained
My brief analysis of the linguistic literature relating to historical courtroom

discourse suggests that questions and answers were used strategically in the
EmodE courtroom, as they are today, thus confirming my earlier point that
we cannot really understand one without studying the other (see 2.3). That
said, there are differences. EmodE defendants were allowed to ask questions of
witnesses, for example. As Corey and Stoughton’s use of questions illustrate,
defendants also addressed questions to their examiners (albeit infrequently).
This suggests, then, that the role (and thus ‘power’/‘powerlessness’) of both the
speaker and addressee will also prove to be an important factor when determin-
ing their successfulness, by which I mean the extent to which questions (and
answers) achieved their desired goal (cf. Levinson 1992: 97; see 3.7 below, and
Chapter 4). At the very least, we may have to re-think the way in which court-
room questions are normally described, i.e. as a means of control (cf. Harris
1984; Woodbury 1985; Walker 1987).
The observant reader will also be aware that the Salem magistrates were
not the only examiner to utilise ‘tell me the truth’ commands. Indeed, the Lord
Chief Justice did so when examining Dunne in the Trial of Lady Alice Lyle (see
p. 98). As the extract from Jacobs’ examination at Salem (above) reveals, ‘im-
perative’ structures were also utilised by some of the Salem defendants (albeit
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
infrequently), suggesting that trial talk between EmodE judges and defendants,
in particular, may have involved more than just questions and answers (see
Chapter 11).
. Final comment
The primary purpose of Chapters 2 and 3 has been to discover what constitutes
a question and answer – in general and in the context of the courtroom – so
that I can develop a classification system that can capture not only their form,
but also the different uses to which they could be put, depending on the role of
both speaker and addressee. However, it has become obvious that such a system
may have to be broad enough to capture those instances when participants used
‘speech acts’ other than questions (commands, for example). In the following
chapter, I introduce that system. I begin, however, by explaining the broader
annotation scheme that my classification system complements, that is to say, is
designed be used in conjunction with. As previously explained, the ‘socioprag-
matic’ annotation scheme (as we call it) has been implemented by myself and a
colleague to a sub-section of the CED data (see Archer & Culpeper 2003), and
is designed so that important contextual factors such as the role of speaker and
addressee are identified at the level of the utterance (as opposed to the text; cf.
Hymes 1972; Levinson 1983: 22).
Chapter 4
A systematic approach to context

identification and analysis
. Rationale behind methodology
Traditionally, linguists have used the term corpus to designate a body of natu-
rally occurring language data that can be used as a basis for empirical linguistic
research. This body of data may consist of written texts, spoken discourses, or
a mix of the two. Since 1961, however, the term has been increasingly applied
to a body of language material that is maximally representative of the linguistic
phenomenon under investigation, and, importantly, which exists in electronic
form. Indeed, in corpus linguistics, the terms corpus and machine-readable cor-
pus seem to be synonymous (cf. Leech 1997: 1; McEnery & Wilson 2001: 17,
30). ‘This is no accident’, according to McEnery and Wilson (2001: 17):
The computer has allowed techniques previously thought of as being dis-
tinctly in the realm of the pseudo-procedure to be used . . . [e.g.] searching
for, retrieving, sorting and calculating linguistic data, [. . . ] processes [that, al-
though] possible using a willing army of human analysts, [. . . ] were wildly
unattractive. Willing armies of analysts cost money, work slowly and make
mistakes. The computer, over the last fifty years, has become cheaper, faster
and is capable of total accuracy in text processing.
This apparent synonymy warrants our consideration, if only to point out that,
although the past half-century has seen major developments in electronic
text availability through major world text archives, ‘the suitability of a spe-
cific research project for treatment by computer’ still depends, in part, on the
availability of computer-readable data (Barnbrook 1996: 6), or the researcher’s
willingness and/or ability to produce new data in or convert existing data to an
electronic format. And the latter, especially, may prove as time consuming and
expensive as human analysts, on occasion. I raise this issue not to detract from
McEnery and Wilson’s (2001) main point (above), but to clarify their position.
In other words, to argue that, when available, machine-readable corpora enable
a computer-based approach to language analysis that, depending on research
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
goals and/or under certain contexts, has several advantages over a manual-based
approach, including (i) the speed, accuracy and consistency of processing, (ii)
the ability to perform further processing on the results, and (iii) the ease with
which data can be manipulated, selected, sorted and formatted (for an illumi-
nating discussion of the advantages and disadvantages of the computer analysis
of language, see Barnbrook 1996).
That said, information retrieval using a computer is reliant on the re-
searcher’s ability to inform the computer of what to look for. And some in-
vestigations are so complex that they may only be possible ‘if the computer
has access to some form of detailed linguistic analysis of the text’ (Barnbrook
1996: 107). In other words, appropriate annotation that makes possible more
linguistically motivated retrieval from a corpus may also have to be included.
In this chapter, I will introduce an annotation scheme developed by myself and
Jonathan Culpeper that we have implemented in a sub-section of the CED.
As this annotated sub-section (totalling 28 texts, 16 of which are trial texts)
is designed to interface with four fields – namely, historical linguistics, prag-
matics, corpus linguistics and sociolinguistics – we call it the Sociopragmatic
Corpus (henceforth SPC). Of course, historical linguistics, pragmatics, corpus
linguistics and sociolinguistics have their own research goals and methodolog-
ical preferences and problems, which, when combined, present a particular set
of difficulties (see Archer & Culpeper 2003: 38–42 and 1.5.1). At the heart of
these difficulties lies the issue of context. One of my primary aims in this chap-
ter, then, is to demonstrate the ways in which an annotation scheme such as
the one we have implemented to the SPC can help bridge the gap between
text and context, and thus further research in (historical) sociopragmatics. In
particular, I will be seeking to demonstrate how the annotation scheme we’ve
developed:
1. Accommodates the investigation of language set in various context(s), for
example, speaker/hearer relationships, social roles, and sociological char-
acteristics such as gender.
2. Treats contexts as dynamic (cf. other annotation systems, such as the spo-
ken sub-section of the BNC, which concentrates upon the relatively static
characteristics of speakers).
As my data is historical, I will also address relevant issues/potential problems

regarding the reconstruction of the historical social context (see 4.3.2 and
4.3.5). However, my ultimate aim will be to introduce the three level scheme
that I have added to the trial section of the SPC as a means of enabling the in-
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
Text-type Period Number of words

Trial proceedings (1640–1679) 37,052
(1680–1719) 42,545
(1720–1760) 41,592
Total = 121,189
Drama (1640–1679) 40,618
(1680–1719) 40,587
(1720–1760) 42,697
Total = 123,902
Grand total = 245,091
Figure 10. Distribution of words in the SPC
vestigation of participants’ use of ‘questions’ and ‘answers’ (see 2.2.6). Before I

do so, however, I will provide a description of the data itself.
. Description of the sociopragmatic corpus (SPC)
The SPC is an annotated sub-section of the CED (1560–1760) described in 1.4.

As previously explained, this one-million-word-plus corpus was developed in
light of the obvious need for a large computerised corpus of historical speech-
related texts, and offers easy access to a structured and contextualised selection
of texts drawn from reliable sources. Whereas the CED draws from six text
types, the SPC draws from two – drama and trial proceedings. These text-types
offer interactive, face-to-face, speech-related data, which has only a minimum
of narratorial intervention.66 The SPC covers three of the five sub-periods of
the CED (1640–1760), and totals 245,091 words. Figure 10 provides a break-
down of the distribution of words in the periods covered, whilst Figure 11
(following) provides additional details relating the trial section of the SPC, be-
cause of its direct relevance to this book (see Appendix 1 for specific details
relating to each trial).
. The sociopragmatic annotation scheme
As Leech (1997: 2) highlights, the main purpose of annotation is to add ‘in-

terpretative, linguistic information’ to data in a way that aids the retrieval of
those linguistic features under investigation. It is worth noting that, although
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Trial of . . . Place . . . Date of trial

Connor Lord Macguire Old Bailey 10.02.1644
King Charles I Westminster Hall 20.01.1649–27.01.1649
Henry Slingsby, Westminster Hall 25.05.1658
Dr. John Hewet 01.06.1658
John Mordant 01.06.1658
Sir Hardresse Waller Hick’s Hall, Middlesex Oct 1660
Thomas Harrison
Henry Heveningham
Henry Martin
Gilbert Millington
Robert Tichborn
Owen Roe
Robert Lilburn
Hugh Peters
Mary Moders Old Bailey 04.06.1663
Edward Coleman King’s Bench 27.11.1678
Elizabeth Cellier King’s Bench 11.06.1680
John Giles Old Bailey 14.07.1680
Nathaniel Thompson, Guild Hall 20.06.1682
John Farewell,
William Pain
Ambrose Rookwood Westminster Hall 21.04.1696
Francis Francia Old Bailey 22.01.1716
Christopher Layer High Bench, Westminster 1722
Teophilus Cibber v. King’s Bench 05.12.1738
William Sloper
Bartholomew Greenwood Surrey Assizes 02.08.1740
Captain Ambrose On board ships; Oct/Nov 1745
The Chatham & The London
William Baker Old Bailey Dec 1750
Figure 11. The trial section of the SPC
grammatical annotation schemes are well established (particularly for part of

speech), pragmatic and discoursal annotation work is much less advanced (cf.
Leech 1997: 12). For example, recent work in this area has been undertaken by
the Expert Advisory Groups for Language Engineering Systems (EAGLES).67
However, although one of their main interests is the automated analysis of dia-
logue, the notion of the ‘addressee’ is conspicuously absent from much of their
work. One possible explanation for the absence might be their focus on dyadic
interactions rather than multi-part talk. Not surprisingly, automatically identi-
fying the addressee in multi-party talk is well beyond the capabilities of current
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
tagging programs. Even less work has addressed the relevant contextual proper-
ties of spoken interaction on a turn-by-turn basis. Indeed, only the global and
static properties of speakers are given in the headers of some corpora (i.e. the
spoken part of the BNC). An important aim of the Sociopragmatic Annotation
Scheme, then, was to help advance pragmatic and discoursal annotation work
by devising and implementing a tagging system that captures the speaker[s]
and addressee[s]’s age, status, gender and role at the level of the utterance.68
Sections 4.3–4.3.6 describe the scheme in detail.
.. The design of the tags and segmentation
The Text Encoding Initiative (henceforth TEI) advises that information about
participants (together with details regarding the setting) be included in head-
ers. This is the practice followed by the BNC. Indeed, the participant de-
scriptions field of the BNC includes a person identification code, roles, sex,
age, social class and, where/if applicable, name, occupation, and (additional)
notes (regarding his/her (social/personal) relationships with other partici-
pants) (BNC: Users Reference Guides, Version 1.0, Oxford University Com-
puting Services, 1995). The TEI proposes that individual utterances then be
transcribed using the element, so that signals the beginning of the
segment to which the annotation pertains and the end. For example:
How are you?.
Note that, as the participant descriptions are given in the header, the ele-
ment may only contain the person id (TEI Guidelines, www.uic.edu/orgs/tei/p3/
doc/p3.html).
Our approach is slightly different, but still SGML/XML compatible. We
have adopted the element, whilst opting for text-internal coding; that is
to say, participant information is given in the element, not in the header.
Our annotation scheme is designed to identify the specific combination of socio-
pragmatic variables affecting each segment. In particular, this means describing
who is talking to whom at a particular point in time, and in what capacity (cf.
the annotation scheme in the BNC, which only describes the static properties
of speakers across the whole interaction). However, we have included a list of
id tags (and the name of the individual) in the header, so that we can search on
specific individuals. Here is an example of a tagged utterance (an explanation
of fields and values will be given in the following section):
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Look upon this Book; Is this the Book?
In most cases, our tags were applied to the whole of one speaker’s conversa-
tional turn. However, as we are interested in speakers and addressees, another
 element is included when an existing speaker begins to converse with an-
other hearer in the same turn, as in the following example taken from the Trial
of Charles I (see italicised part):
. . . [Then the Clerk of the Court read, as followeth:]
CHARLS STUART King of England,

You have been accused on the behalf of the / People of England of high Treason,
and other high Crimes; the Court have determined / that you ought to answer
the same.
[$ The King. $] I will answer the same so
soon / as I know by what Authority you do this.
[$ Lord President. $] If this be all that you will
say,
then, Gentlemen, you that brought the / Prisoner hither, take charge
of him back again.
Our decision to define segments for tagging in this way is motivated by the
belief that changes to any one (contextual) variable can potentially affect the
social meaning of the interaction (cf. Hymes 1972; Levinson 1983: 22). Conse-
quently, we want to capture the varying degrees of [ir]relevance of particular
contextual features to particular utterances in different situations.
.. Tag fields and values: The historical context
The construction of relevant sociopragmatic categories and the application of

those categories to the data pose a major challenge to this type of historical
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
work, not least because modern sociological categories are not applicable, and
the possibility of asking speakers is not available! These factors alone go some
way towards explaining why so little work has been done on sociopragmatic
annotation in historical texts.69 This is not to say that no historical socio-
pragmatic work has taken place. The work of Terttu Nevalainen and Helena
Raumolin-Brunberg (1996) is of particular importance here, not least because
it demonstrates a recent development in corpus-based historical linguistics –
an interface with sociolinguistics (Archer & Culpeper 2003: 42). Nevalainen
and Raumolin-Brunberg (1996) draw from their Corpus of Early English Cor-
respondence (henceforth CEEC), which spans the period 1417–1681, in order
to correlate the sociological features of letter writers (e.g. their gender or so-
cial status) with particular lexical or grammatical features. However, as they
acknowledge, due to widespread illiteracy, only the highest ranks of society
are well represented in the CEEC, and women’s letters form no more than one
fifth. Also, because their data is not dynamic face-to-face interaction, they were
able to place contextual information for whole texts in a separate database. Our
challenge is that within the dialogue of a text (drama texts, in particular) the
contextual variables are in a continual state of flux. The intensive annotation
required to track these variables explains why our total corpus is much smaller
than the CEEC (245,091 words compared to 2.7 million words respectively).
Like Raumolin-Brunberg (1996: 11), we recognise that the historical con-
text is not always given the prominence that it deserves within histori-
cal linguistics. Consequently, we have engaged in socio-historical research,
so that our fields and values more accurately reflect the society of Early
Modern England.
.. Overview of fields and values
Figure 12 below displays the fields and values that we utilise. For reasons of
space, only the speaker is represented (however, the parallel set of fields and
values for addressees can be easily identified, by substituting ‘sp’ for ‘ad’ in the
tag element):
Section 4.3.4 following will outline the rationale behind the above fields
and their related values. I will begin with the relatively static values, and end
with ‘role’, which tends to be much more dynamic.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Field Feature marked Sign Possible values

1st Speaker(s) speaker=
s (single speaker), m (multiple speakers)
2nd Speaker ID tag spid= e.g. S3tmoder001
3rd Gender of speaker spsex= m (male), f (female) n (neither)
4th Role of speaker sprole1=
Activity role [optional] e.g. w (witness), d
(defendant),
sprole2= Kinship role [optional]e.g. e (husband),
g (wife), f (father),
sprole3= Social role [optional] e.g. s (servant),
t (master/mistress),
sprole4= Dramatic role [optional] (seducer),
(seduced), (fool), (villain)
5th Status\social rank of speaker spstatus= 0 (nobility), 1 (gentry), 2 (professions),
3 (other middling groups), 4 (ordinary
commoners), 5 (lowest groups)
6th Age of speaker spage= 6 (young), 8 (adult), 9 (older adult)
Note that there is also a set of generic values, to be utilised across the various fields when
appropriate. They include X = not known/not applicable, P = problematic, and A = assumed
(e.g. when a participant assumes characteristics different from his/her ‘actual’ characteristics).
Figure 12. Tag fields and values
.. A description of the fields and their values
The speaker/addressee identification categories distinguish single speakers

and/or addressees from multiple speakers and/or addressees.
Each participant in the corpus (whether speaker or hearer) also receives
a unique code, by which we can identify him/her. These ID tags consist of
three elements:
An initial code that (i) identifies the corpus (e.g. ‘s’[= SPC]), (ii) identifies the
sub-period in which the participant occurs (e.g. ‘3’ relates to the period 1640–
1679), and (iii) distinguishes text type (e.g. ‘t’ for trials, and ‘d’ for drama)
A second code identifying the text in which that participant is involved (e.g.
moder)
A three-figure number identifying a specific participant (e.g. 001)
Thus, the first participant to appear in the Trial of Mary Moders (1663) is given
the ID tag, s3tmoder001.
The ‘status’ field gives an indication of a participant’s social status. The
categories we formed (see below) are based on rank, estate or sort, in order to
reflect (i) the pre-industrialised nature of Early Modern English society, and
(ii) the way in which Early Modern English contemporaries spoke about status
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
(Holmes 1982; Wrightson 1982, 1991; Sharpe 1987; Nevalainen & Raumolin-
Brunberg 1996). Gregory King (1695), for example, devised a hierarchy based
upon ‘Ranks, Degrees, Titles and Qualifications’ as part of his famous attempt
to estimate the state of national resources as they had stood in the year 1688.
It followed the gradations of gentility from the peerage down to the level
of plain gentleman much as his near contemporaries, Harrison (1577) and
Wilson (1600), had done – i.e. ‘titular nobility, knights, esquires’ (Harrison
1577. Quoted in Wrightson 1991: 19) – but, thereafter, effectively became a
‘ladder of occupations’, i.e. Gentry, Persons of Office (merchants, lawyers and
clergymen), Freeholders, Farmers, ‘Persons in Sciences and Liberal Arts’, Shop-
keepers and Tradesmen, Artisans and Officers in the Forces, Common Seamen,
‘Labouring People and Outservants’, Cottagers and Paupers, Common Sol-
diers and Vagrants (capitals as the original). Interestingly, aside from inevitable
variation in detail, disagreements over the exact positions of certain groups,
and changes within the make-up of the social order over the period covered
by our corpus, a ‘broad pattern of society’ emerges ‘from Harrison to King’
(Wrightson 1991: 22). That said, ‘distinctions at the lower end of the scale’
tended to be minimised, to the point that the middling and lower groups in
society were (and often still are) lumped together in a ‘non-gentry’ category.
This is not problematic for Nevalainen (1996: 58), who uses illiteracy as a deter-
mining factor when deciding the make-up of the CEEC’s ‘non-gentry’ category
(i.e. anyone below ‘Merchant’ or ‘Professional’ status). However, as the ‘non-
gentry’ or ‘common people’ feature regularly within our data, we have opted
for a six-way categorisation that allows for a more detailed classification of this
group. The definitions are determined by a number of criteria including title,
ownership, income (economic status) and employer/employee status:
Nobility [status=“0”]: Royalty, and those with particular inherited or con-
ferred ‘titles’ that allow them to sit in the House of Lords, including the Lords
‘spiritual’. Prototypical examples – Duke, Marquess, Earl, Viscount, Baron,
Archbishop, Bishop.
Gentry [status=“1”]: Upper Clergy and non-hereditary knights not able to
sit in the House of Lords, people entitled to carry arms and/or recognized as
having the (legitimate) capacity to govern (Wrightson 1991: 38), and those
able to append the title esquire (Esq.) to their name (legitimately). Likely
to be of a certain income (i.e. substantially above £2,000 per annum, de-
pending on year70 ) (see Hunt 1996: 16). Prototypical examples – Sir (+first
name/surname), Knight, Major General.
Professional [status=“2”]: Those involved in skilled tertiary-sector occupa-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
tions, whose focus is upon ‘service’ (Corfield 1995: 25), including civil ser-
vants, teachers, army and naval officers and members of the ‘learned profes-
sions’ or, to use Addison’s (1711) phrase, the ‘three great professions’ of Law,
Medicine and the Church. Prototypical examples – clergymen, lawyers, med-
ical practitioners, school teachers, military and naval officers.
Other middling groups [status=“3”]: Those directly involved in trade and
commerce (see Hunt 1996: 19), whose focus is upon production or distri-
bution as opposed to service (see Corfield 1995: 25) and whose income is
likely to have been between £50 and £2,000 (see Hunt 1996: 15).71 They
include manufacturers, wholesalers, retailers, merchants, money-lenders,
skilled craftsmen, and financiers. Prototypical examples – merchant, shop-
keeper, carpenter, shipbuilder, warehouseman, cloth dealer.
Ordinary commoners [status=“4”]: Those who laboured on someone else’s
materials or in someone else’s fields, household or manufactory, and whose
income is likely to have been less than £50 per annum (see Hunt 1996: 21, 15).
Prototypical examples – ‘labouring folk’, yeomen, poor husbandmen, wage
labourers, apprentices to the non-professional occupations.
Lowest groups [status=“5”]: Common seamen, servants, cottagers and pau-
pers, the unemployed, common soldiers and vagrants. Prototypical exam-
ples – servant, vagrant.
As exact ages are rarely provided in historical texts, the age field gives a general
indication of a participant’s age rather than a specific age. As a consequence,
we use general descriptive labels that roughly correspond to a numerical age
range. In fact, this approach reflects the socio-historical situation. The fact that
some individuals in our data were vague about their own ages is consistent with
the idea that conceptions of age were not based on an exact numerical figure,
but on factors such as physical appearance and seniority in a profession (e.g. a
judge was highly likely to be 45+). Our categories are:
Young [age=“6”]: Notional age range 0–14; people described as ‘children’,
‘young boy/girl’, etc.
Adult [age=“8”]: Notional age range 15–44; people described as ‘apprentice’,
‘young wife’, etc.
Older Adult [age=“9”]: Notional age range 45+; people described as ‘old’,
‘judge’, etc.
The age ranges are designed so as to correspond broadly to significant mile-

stones in the life of the average Early Modern English contemporary, for ex-
ample: (i) the age of first marriage (approximately mid-20s) (Sharpe 1987: 40;
Coward 1988: 20; Wrightson 1982), (ii) the commencement and completion of
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
apprenticeships (O’Day 2000: 20–24; Holmes 1982), (iii) significant advance-

ment within a profession (e.g. judges) (Foss 1870; Simpson 1984), and (iv) the
average expectation of life at birth (upper-30s to early 40s, depending on the
period) (Sharpe 1987: 38; Coward 1988). The reader should be aware that the
average life expectancy rose as contemporaries passed certain milestones (e.g.
infancy, childhood, etc.). This can be seen in some of the ages of the senior
lawyers (especially judges). For example, in one trial – that of Elizabeth Cellier
in 1680 – the ages of the Lord Chief Justice, the King’s Sergeant and the Attor-
ney General were 57, 78, and 53 years respectively. One consequence of this low
average life expectancy but high standard deviation is that I prefer to use the
term ‘older adult’ as opposed to ‘old adult’ for the final category (cf. Archer &
Culpeper 2003: 49. See also 4.3.5 below).
The role field captures a more dynamic – and consequently more prag-
matic – aspect of the interaction. Some roles (e.g. kinship roles) are relatively
static, but for most types of role it is quite normal to switch from role to role,
depending on the context. Clearly, this kind of information cannot be put in
the header. Consequently, there are four fields in our annotation scheme cap-
turing the various roles of participants at the level of speaker/hearer interaction.
These are as follows:72
Activity role [role1=]: A participant’s role within a particular activity type
(prototypical examples – ‘witness’, ‘defendant’, ‘customer’).
Kinship role [role2=]: Any blood relation or relation by law between the par-
ticipant and his\her interlocutor (prototypical examples – ‘father’, ‘daughter’,
‘mother’, ‘son’, ‘father-in-law’).
Social role [role3=]: A participant’s occupational or familiar role (prototypi-
cal examples – ‘surgeon’, ‘baker’, ‘friend’).
Dramatic role [role4=]: Those roles that are dramatic stereotypes (prototypi-
cal examples – ‘fool’, ‘villain’, ‘seducer’).
Except for the kinship role field, these fields have a functional basis: a partici-
pant’s function in an activity, a participant’s social function, and a participant’s
function in relation to the plot. Some activity roles and social roles overlap.
A ‘judge’ is a particular salaried occupational role, but also denotes a specific
activity role in the courtroom. Likewise, a ‘domestic servant’ is a particular
salaried occupational role, but also denotes a specific activity role in the do-
mestic household. However, these roles can be separated: a ‘domestic servant’
who appears in the courtroom as a ‘witness’ would require different values in
the social role and activity role fields. Multiple roles are a frequent occurrence
in the drama sub-section especially, and our scheme is such that more than
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Activity roles Kinship roles Social roles

CR CRYER E Wife – –
D DEFENDANT G HUSBAND
IP INJURED/OFFENDED PARTY
J JUDGE/MAGISTRATE
K KINGS COUNSEL
L JURY
LF FOREMAN OF THE JURY
M EXAMINER FOR DEFENCE
N COURT OFFICIAL (clerk of the peace, court
recorder, etc.)
NG GUARD
O NON-SPECIFIC EXAMINER
ON ONLOOKERS (people, crowds, observers . . . etc.)
RE RECORDER
SA SERGEANT AT ARMS
SL SERGEANT AL LAW
SR SERGEANT ROLL
U PLAINTIFF
V EXAMINER FOR THE PROSECUTION
W WITNESS
Figure 13. Roles and their values (trial section of the SPC)
one role field may be identified for any given interaction. The dramatic role
field has been included to accommodate the dynamics of our play-text data
(see Shiina forthcoming for an illustration of the ways in which the different
role fields can enhance our understanding of drama texts).
Figure 13 provides a breakdown of the ‘roles’ evidenced in the trial sec-
tion of the SPC (for a list of roles evidenced in the drama texts, see Shiina
forthcoming).
.. Implementation issues
Applying social categories. Applying social categories is not without its prob-
lems. Take the status category, for example. Although I have intimated that
there was general agreement regarding the broad pattern of society, contem-
poraries nevertheless disagreed, on occasion, about whether ‘all members of
the learned professions were gentlemen or not’ (my emphasis) or whether
only ‘leading merchants and urban plutocrats be assimilated to the gentry’
(Wrightson 1991: 43). This highlights four important (and inter-related) con-
siderations: Firstly, there was (i) a reformulation of the concept of ‘gentlemen’
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
throughout our period, from those able to carry arms to those with the ca-
pacity to govern (see Wrightson 1991: 38), and (ii) a transition from ‘estate
to profession’ that was well underway by 1640, the starting point for the SPC
(the three learned professions, especially, becoming occupational groups that
claimed status in society on the basis of the expert services it offered the com-
monwealth – see O’Day 1987: 28, 30–31). In these particular cases, we have
treated the gentry and professionals as separate social groups (unless we have
evidence to the contrary). Secondly, there was a close link between rank and
income in the Early Modern period. That said, the former was ‘never purely a
function of income’ (Hunt 1996: 15), which may help to explain why contem-
poraries also debated over the less affluent groups within society (i.e. whether
lesser yeomen should be distinguished from husbandmen, and husbandmen
from cottagers and labourers). In these particular cases, husbandmen have
been grouped with yeoman. Thirdly, there were distinctions of rank within the
various groups. Consider the professions, for example. The distinctions be-
tween the latter were brought about (and, in many ways, perpetuated) by the
division of many professions into tiers, such as the upper and lower clergy and
the barristers and solicitors (or attorneys). Importantly, some argue that such
distinctions caused a social gulf, with the higher branches being the preserve
of the gentry only (Carr-Saunders & Wilson 1933; Brooks 1986: 243; Miles
1982: 50–56). But recent research suggests that gentlemen and non-gentlemen
alike made up the workforce of many of the highest tiers of the professions,
leading Prest (1987: 9) to conclude that:
While learned physicians, counselors and advocates at law may have claimed
the right to bear a coat of arms and the courtesy rank of esquire by virtue of
their calling during our period, the majority certainly would not have been
entitled to such marks of status on hereditary grounds alone.
In other words, only a minority of professionals could make any claim to gen-
tle blood (Duman 1981; Lemmings 1986; Prest 1987). Indeed, Prest (1987: 9)
suggests that the proportion of barristers with landed gentry backgrounds de-
clined steadily from an outside maximum of 50% at the very most in the
half-century before 1640 to around a quarter by the later 18th century. As for
the civil lawyers, fewer than half of the elite group of advocates admitted to the
practice in the Court of the Arches between 1600 and 1749 were the sons of
peers, baronets, knights, esquires or gentlemen, the balance being mainly from
clerical, legal, office-holding or mercantile backgrounds (Prest 1987: 9). Never-
theless, in practice, the professions and commerce offered many who were not
‘gentlemen born’ a road to gentility (Raumolin-Brunberg 1996: 27), thanks to
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
the reformulation of ‘gentleman’ and the continuing transition from ‘estate to

profession’, highlighted previously. This leads us to our fourth consideration –
the fluidity among the different groupings. As previously intimated, there was
an especial fluidity amongst the gentry, professions and other middling groups.
However, this does not mean that fluidity – or social mobility – was always
upwards. Indeed, the feudal system was hierarchical in structure, which may
help to explain why the more informal terminology of social description (e.g.
‘sorts’) drew on a vocabulary of ‘radical differentiation, which was both eco-
nomic and cultural, cleaving society into the haves and havenots, the respected
and the contemned’ [sic], e.g. ‘better’, ‘meaner’, ‘vulgar’, ‘common’ (Wrightson
1991: 46–47). Of course, our scheme could have made finer-grained distinc-
tions between some of the groupings (our reasons for not doing so are dis-
cussed below), but the important general point here is that people will always
have different perspectives on the nature of at least some social groups, and
that social categorisation schemes will iron out those perspectives.
Delicacy of categorisation. A second implementation issue concerns how del-

icate a categorisation scheme should be. There are advantages for adopting a
delicate scheme. It should lead to a more accurate description of the data, for
example. But there are also disadvantages. Firstly, a scheme that is overly deli-
cate is likely to result in there not being sufficient evidence to apply a particular
category, and, consequently, to obtain statistically meaningful results for that
category. Secondly, the categories may be potentially more problematic to im-
plement. Thirdly, there is likely to be more scope for error (especially when
inputting the annotation tags manually, as we do). Consequently, there has to
be a trade-off between usefulness and ease or consistency of coding. We have
designed our system so that we can make general distinctions regarding a par-
ticipant’s status, role and age, for example, whilst allowing for the possibility of
expanding or, indeed, collapsing the categories as the need arises (we may de-
cide that it is more fruitful statistically speaking to compare the highest status
group with the two lowest status groups, for example).
The age field provides a useful example of amendments we have already
made to our system, because our original categories were too delicate. The ob-
servant reader may have noticed that our tagging values for age are “6”, “8” and
“9”, missing out “7”. The middle age range, 15–44, used to be split, so that it
included the two age ranges 15–25 (‘younger adult’) and 26–44 (‘mid-adult’).
The first age range carried the tagging value “7” and the second “8”. How-
ever, having tagged a number of texts, it became clear that there was a lack of
evidence to enable us to accurately place individuals in either of the two cat-
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
egories. Thus, the age field for many adults received the value “X”, indicating
‘not known’. Consequently, we collapsed our two middle categories into one
(carrying the value “8”).
Sources of information. In implementing our annotation scheme, we utilised
three sources of information:
Secondary: the trial proceedings (which make up half of the SPC) concern real
people, and often very famous people. Thus, we were able to use information
in contemporary accounts and modern commentaries.
Textual: This included (1) speaker-identification labels (e.g. ‘Old man’, ‘Sur-
geon’, ‘Maid’, ‘Vagrant’), (2) participant comments (e.g. describing the age
or income of another person and/or self-description), (3) authorial/editorial
comments (e.g. the character list at the beginning of a play text), and (4) spe-
cific terms of address, either occupational terms (e.g. ‘Doctor’, ‘Lawyer’) or
high-status titles (e.g. ‘Sir X’, ‘Lord X’).
Inferential: This included (1) networks of interaction (i.e. a participant who
habitually keeps company with a particular social group is likely to be of that
social group), (2) patterns of behaviour (e.g. a participant offering to pay for
something in a shop is likely to be a customer).
If a piece of evidence was considered to be weak (e.g. a participant who keeps

company with a particular social group the majority of the time, but also mixes
with other social groups), then a second piece of evidence would be required.
Clearly, we avoided linguistic evidence contained within a participant’s speech,
because of the danger of circularity. For example, we could not use the whole
array of address terms, a theoretically rich source of social information, because
(even if we could be sure about the social value of a particular term of address)
that is one of the areas of usage we wish to investigate. We allowed ourselves two
areas of exception here, occupational terms and high-status titles. In both these
areas, the meanings of the terms are relatively unambiguous (e.g. ‘Lord Mohun’
is a lord, ‘Doctor Jones’ is a doctor), and have remained relatively unchanged
over time.73
.. Benefits of new approach
As the drama and trial data in the SPC contain a mix of people from all social
groupings (upper, middle and lower), we have devised a categorisation system
based on socio-historical research that accounts for the full spectrum of Early
Modern English society. An added advantage of this social representativeness is
that it makes possible research that, because of a lack of data (especially within
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
similar historical corpora such as the CEEC), has hitherto been problematical
(cf. Raumolin-Brunberg 1996: 17–18).
Moreover, our annotation scheme incorporates not only classic sociolin-
guistic variables, such as status and age, but also role, a much more dynamic
and pragmatic aspect of interaction. Perhaps the most important aspect of
our scheme – and one that makes significant pragmatic research possible –
is that it captures the utterance-by-utterance interaction between speakers and
their addressees. This is reflected in the segmentation of the data in terms of
speaker/addressee-defined units of utterance as opposed to turns (see exam-
ple from the Trial of King Charles, 4.3.2). Consequently, we can investigate
how combinations of speaker characteristics interact with combinations of
addressee characteristics, and also deal with multi-party talk.
In addition, our scheme has been designed in such a way that it can be
expanded, by simply adding more fields into the element. In the following
section, I will describe the fields that I have added to the regular SPC fields
highlighted above so that I can explain the use of questions and answers (and
other speech acts) within the trial section of the SPC.
. Annotation scheme for questions and answers
As Chapters 2 and 3 make clear, the function of a question (in a courtroom, at

least) does not always lie within itself or the answer it receives. Indeed, it might
only be understandable once its juxtaposition with what has gone before has
been taken into account. I have therefore developed a three-way classification
of questions and answers according to their ‘interactional intent’, their ‘force’,
and, where applicable, their ‘(grammatical) form’. I have provided a visual rep-
resentation of the (relationship between the) first two fields below (see Figure
14). However, as with most visual representations, the diagram is a simplifi-
cation. My categories are much more dynamic, having ‘fuzzy edges’ (hence,
the hint of overlap amongst some of the definitions), and also cyclic in nature.
Sections 4.4.1–4.4.3 describe each of the three fields in detail.
.. The interactional intent field
The interactional intent field [‘stfunc’] relates to the position an utterance oc-
cupies in the discourse. In other words, it assesses the interactional/structural
purpose of an utterance, i.e. what the speaker intends to achieve in struc-
tural/interactional terms at a particular point in the discourse and how s/he
INTERACTIONAL INTENT = FORCE = COMPARABLE SPEECH ACT CATEGORIES =
(cf. Sinclair and Coulthard 1975; Stenström 1984) (cf. Verschueren 1999; Wierzbicka 1987) (cf. Searle 1969; Bach and Harnish 1979)
COUNSEL [“w”] COMMISSIVES (or directives)
(e.g. caution, warn, threaten, compel, advise) (commit S to do something/attempt
QUESTION [“q”] to get H to do something)
INITIATION [“INI”]
(e.g. eliciting devices, including (e.g. ask (about), inquire (into), interrogate, query)
QUESTION, REQUEST REQUEST [“r”] DIRECTIVES
REQUIREMENT) (e.g. beg, beseech, plead, request, desire, solicit) [requestives, questions, requirements]
(attempt to get H to do something)
REQUIRE [“c”]
(e.g. command, instruct, require, direct, order)
REPORT [“REP”] SENTENCE [“v”] DECLARATIONS
(e.g. STATEMENT) (e.g. convict, acquit, pardon) [verdictives]
(declares something to be the case)
EXPRESS [“k”] EXPRESSIVES
(e.g. reprimand, criticise, praise, exclaim, protest) (express something of S’s attitude[s])
RESPONSE [“RES”] INFORM [“h”] REPRESENTATIVES
(e.g. ANSWER, REPLY, (e.g. affirm, assert, claim, deny, state, admit, confess, [assertives, predictives
ACCEPTANCE, REFUSAL) recount concede, allow, maintain, conclude) concessives]
RESPONSE-INITIATION (report a state of affairs)
[“RES-INI”]
(e.g. RESPONSE-REQUEST)
FOLLOW UP [“FOL”]
(e.g. COMMENT, FEEDBACK) Key
FOLLOW UP-INITIATION Represents a relationship between one move and another,
[“FOL-INI”] (e.g. COMMENT-QUESTION) e.g. “initiation” & “response”
Indicates type of speech act category involved
Figure 14. Representation of “interactional intent” and “force” fields

Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis

 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
does it (cf. Stenström 1984: 3) – so that we have a better understanding of the

ways in which trial talk is organised. Possible values include:
“initiation” = initiating a new exchange by means of an elicit-
ing device. Prototypical examples: question, request,
requirement
“response” = providing information that has been directly
elicited by another participant, usually by responding
verbally. Prototypical examples: answer, acceptance,
refusal, denial
“response-initiation” = responding to a direct elicitation of another par-
ticipant by using/and following it with an eliciting
device. Prototypical examples: an answer immediately
followed by a request
“report” = stating information which has not been directly
elicited by another participant. Prototypical exam-
ples: statement, explanation
“follow up” = providing follow-up/feedback to a preceding utter-
ance in some way. Prototypical examples: comment,
evaluation
“follow up-initiation” = providing follow-up/feedback to a preceding utter-
ance by using/and following it with an eliciting de-
vice. Prototypical examples: a comment immediately
followed by a question
The reader will have noticed that my design shares some similarities with
the Birmingham School of Discourse Analysis, pioneered by Sinclair and
Coulthard (1975). Sinclair and Coulthard (1975) recorded a number of British
primary school lessons and, on the basis of their data, proposed a rank struc-
ture for a ‘lesson’ along the lines of ‘Lesson – Transactions – Exchange – Move –
Act’, where:
1. ‘Act’ denoted specific speech acts (21 in total).
2. ‘Move’ denoted the ways in which the various ‘acts’ combined together
(e.g. an ‘opening move’ may consist of m (= marker) + s (= starter) + el (=
elicitation) + p (= prompt) + n (= nomination)).
3. ‘Exchange’ denoted the ways in which ‘moves’ combined together (e.g. an
‘opening move’ + ‘answering move’ + ‘follow-up move’).
4. ‘Transaction’ denoted the ways in which ‘exchanges’ combined together to
make sub-dialogues that accomplished one major step in the participant’s
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
plan for achieving the lesson task, and ‘lesson’ denoted the ways in which
the different transactions combined together.
Why have I chosen to adopt a system that appears to resemble Sinclair and
Coulthard’s (1975) ‘exchange’ element (above), especially given the fact that
they have been criticised for attempting to impose a pre-existing Hallidayan
rank-scale model of linguistic description on the data rather than allowing the
data to drive the theory (cf. Stubbs 1996: 28)? I do so because I believe that we
cannot really understand questions and answers (in the courtroom, at least)
unless we appreciate that such utterances form interactive units. ‘Answer’, af-
ter all, is not a specific illocutionary force. Rather, it is a functional discursive
qualification (Moeschler 2001: 241). In other words, it indicates the function
that a speaker wants a particular speech act to serve.
The above interactive/structural elements are also meant to ensure that (i)
we do not confuse turns (i.e. what a speaker says as long as he holds the floor),
with what the speaker actually does in a turn, so that (ii) we can account for
those instances when the speaker does more than one thing in the same turn,
such as responding to given information and immediately eliciting new infor-
mation (e.g. “response-initiation”, see also “follow up-initiation” above, and
Stenström 1984: 83). Moreover, as it is possible for a speaker turn – a response,
in particular – to be verbal or non-verbal, the reader should note that an ad-
ditional sub-field deals specifically with the function of ‘questions’ and their
‘answers’ (see 4.4.3 below, and, in particular, ‘refuse to answer’, which allows
for the coding of deliberate silences).
It is worth noting that, like Stubbs (1983: 183), I do not merely see
the ‘moves’ that make up ‘exchanges’ as ± predicting and ± predicted (cf.
Coulthard & Brazil 1981: 97), but as ± initial:
A starting point for discourse analysis is to use the concept of continuous
classification (Sinclair & Coulthard 1975: 120): each utterance is classified or
interpreted in the light of the structural predictions, if any, set up by the pre-
ceding utterance. That is, given any utterance we ask whether it predicts a
following item, whether it is itself a response to preceding items, whether
it marks an initial boundary of a relatively large unit of discourse and thus
predicts such a unit, and so on (cf. Sinclair & Coulthard 1975: 14). Such an
approach proposes a small number of minimal interactional categories, at
primary delicacy, which might include moves such as initiate, I; respond, R;
respond-initiate, R/I; and feedback, F. Coulthard and Brazil (1981: 97) define
elements of exchange structure in terms of two features, ± predicting and ±
predicted . . . these features entail other features. The feature + predicting en-
tails – terminal: if an utterance predicts a following utterance, it cannot be
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
terminal. Similarly, the feature + predicted entails – initial: another utterance

must have preceded it. But the features – predicting and – predicted do not
entail anything about the position of utterances within an exchange (Stubbs
1983: 135–136).
The primary purpose of my ‘interactional intent’ field, then, is to distinguish

those utterances that elicit from those that respond to, comment upon or ter-
minate an exchange. Nevertheless, my awareness that the ‘emergent theory’
should be ‘controlled by the data’ ensures that the categories are designed so
as to reflect the ‘moves’ (to use Sinclair and Coulthard’s term) that occur in the
SPC trial texts (cf. Stubbs 1983: 129).
As interaction in the courtroom is similar in some ways to interaction in
the classroom, that is to say, both are rather formal and ritualistic, and fea-
ture (at least) one participant with the institutionalised power to direct the
discourse, it is not too surprising that a system similar to the three-part struc-
ture of initiation-response-feedback (IRF) should be useful in such a setting.
The IRF structure has also been utilised by Coulthard and Montgomery (1981)
and Berry (1981), to describe the interaction in other ‘formal/ritualistic’ dis-
course types such as medical consultations and quiz shows. So does this mean,
as some claim, that the concept of exchange structure is only applicable to
those discourse types that are overtly structured? Work by Stenström (1984)
and Carletta et al. (1997) suggest not. Stenström (1984) utilises Sinclair and
Coulthard’s (1975) basic pattern of ‘Initiation-Response-Follow-up’, as well as
subsequent work done by the Birmingham group (Coulthard & Montgomery
1981), to study face-to-face question/response exchanges in 25 conversations
taken from the London-Lund Corpus of Spoken English (LLC) (Stenström
1984: 3, 4). Taking their inspiration from computational models of dialogue
as well as Sinclair and Coulthard (1975), Carletta et al. (1997) apply a dialogue
structure coding scheme to a corpus of spontaneous task-oriented spoken dia-
logues in an attempt to represent dialogue structure generically ‘so that it can
be used in conjunction with codings of many other dialogue phenomena’.
Stenström (1984) and Carletta et al. (1997) account for many more values
at their ‘move’ level than I do at my ‘interactional intent’ level (cf. Stenström’s
(1984: 83–86) ‘framing’, ‘focusing’, ‘checking’, and ‘supporting’ moves and
Carletta et al.’s (1997) ‘instruct’, ‘explain’, ‘check’, ‘align’, ‘query’ and ‘acknowl-
edge’ moves, etc.). My reasoning for not including additional values is two-fold.
Firstly, as previously explained (4.3.5), there is a trade-off in any categorisation
between usefulness and ease or consistency of coding. As the primary purpose
of my ‘interactional intent’ field is to distinguish between utterances that elicit,
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
respond to, comment upon, and terminate an exchange, I decided that further
classifications would make the field overly-cumbersome and, thus, potentially
more problematic to implement. Secondly, I believe that the kind of distinc-
tions that Carletta et al. (1997) and Stenström (1984) make at this level can
be adequately accounted for at a different level (i.e. the force field and, where
applicable, their function-indicating sub-fields). We can distinguish the differ-
ent functions that a ‘question’ is serving, for example, by initially identifying
that an eliciting move has the force of a question (as opposed to a command
or request, for example), and then substantiating its particular function (e.g.
whether it is confirmation-seeking as opposed to information-seeking). The
particular fields designed to make such distinctions – namely, the force field
and additional (function of Q or A) sub-field – are discussed in more detail in
4.4.2 and 4.4.3 following.
.. The force field
The force field [force=“”] assesses the illocutionary force of an utterance and,
as such, draws on (but does not replicate) the work of Speech Act theorists (see
2.2.3–2.2.3.3). Figure 15 (below) provides a summary of five of the best-known
classifications of illocutionary types in tabular form.
Allan (2000) suggests that these classifications can be divided, in turn, into
two approaches: a lexical classification of so-called illocutionary verbs (follow-
ing Austin 1962) and a classification of acts (following Searle 1969, 1975).74 The
work of Ballmer and Brennenstuhl (1981) and Wierzbicka (1987) exemplifies
the first approach. Ballmer and Brennenstuhl (1981) classify 4,800 verbs into
600 categories, according to a specific “illocutionary property”. For example,
Austin Vendler Searle Bach and Harnish Allan
Expositives Expositives Assertives Assertives Statements

Commissives Commissives Commissives Commissives
Behabitives Behabitives Expressives Acknowledgments Expressives
Exercitives Interrogatives Directives Directives Invitationals
Exercitives Authoritatives
Verdictives Verdictives Declarations Verdictives
Operatives Effectives
Figure 15. A comparison of five classifications of illocutionary types (from Allan

2000: 10)
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
the verbs to bitch at, carp about, grumble, murmur, mutiny, nag, pout, rum-
ble, sulk, whine, and wrangle are grouped together under the heading, ‘Make
a hidden appeal’ (1981: 73), and the (related) SA verbs are then identified us-
ing the following formula: Jo ______ “Why me?” [e.g. whined]. Wierzbicka
(1987) groups 270 speech act verbs into 37 ‘bundles’ of components, ‘every
component represent[ing] a certain state or ‘posture’ of the mind’ (Wierzbicka
1987: 17). For example, she initially sub-categorises ‘ask’ to capture their dif-
ferent senses (cf. ‘asking a question’ [Wierzbicka’s ask2 ] and ‘asking someone
to do something’ [Wierzbicka’s ask1 ]) before grouping inquire/enquire, interro-
gate, question and query under ask2 , and request, beg, beseech, implore, appeal,
plead, intercede, apply, urge, persuade/dissuade, convince under ask1 . Bach and
Harnish’s (1979) ‘speech act schema’ exemplifies the second approach. The
‘schema’ consists of four main types of illocutionary act, constatives, directives,
commissives, and acknowledgements (cf. Searle’s 1969, 1976 concentration on
‘illocutionary point’):
For us constatives express the speaker’s belief and his intention or desire that
the hearer have or form a like belief. Directives express the speaker’s attitude
toward some prospective action by the hearer and his intention that his ut-
terance, or the attitude it expresses, be taken as a reason for the hearer’s
action. Commissives express the speaker’s intention and belief that his utter-
ance obligates him to do something (perhaps under certain conditions). And
acknowledgements express feelings regarding the hearer or, in cases where the
utterance is clearly perfunctory or formal, the speaker’s intention that his ut-
terance satisfy a social expectation to express certain feelings and his belief that
it does. (Bach & Harnish 1979: 41; original emphasis)75
Although both approaches (i.e. classification of ‘verbs’ and classification of

‘acts’) are highly intuitive in some respects, they have provided me with use-
ful classificatory insights when thinking about the design of my own force field.
Wierzbicka’s (1987) distinction between asking a question and asking someone
to do something has been particularly useful, inspiring me to adopt separate
‘request’ and ‘question’ categories (see Appendix 2). That said, my approach
is not a strict lexical classification of so-called illocutionary verbs, or Searlean
speech acts for that matter. Rather, I assign utterances to one (or more) of seven
macro categories, e.g. ‘counsel’ (= “w”), ‘question’ (= “q”), ‘request’ (= “r”), ‘re-
quire’ (= “c”), ‘sentence’ (= “v”), ‘express’ (= “e”) and ‘inform’ (= “h”), viewing
these macro categories, and the values they subsume, as ‘reasonably accurate
approximations of the prototypical instances of verbal behaviour describable
by means of the English verbs used as labels’ (Verschueren 1999: 131–132). Def-
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
initions of the macro-categories are as follows (detailed definitions of the values

they subsume are given in Appendix 2):
Counsel S wants to convey something to A which will help prevent Y or will
result in Y [Y = an event not in A’s best interest]
Question S wants A to supply a missing variable by saying/confirming/clari-
fying something about X [X = an action/event/behaviour/person]
Request S wants Z to happen and hopes to do it, to get A to do it or to get
others to do it [Z = an action/event]
Require S wants (and expects) A to do something, even though A may be
reluctant, or to do something him/herself, in spite of A’s (possible)
reluctance
Sentence S wants to signal a legal decision to A/others (that A is (i) being
formally indicted, (ii) to be legitimately punished for, or (iii) being
released from the threat of legal punishment)
Express S wants A (and others) to know his feelings (about X) and/or cause
the action or behaviour to stop
Inform S wants to communicate something (about X) to A
My motivation for opting for reasonably accurate approximations of the proto-
typical instances of verbal behaviour rather than strict lexical classifications of
illocutionary verbs is both methodological and theoretical. Firstly, in contrast
to Wierzbicka (1987), my main interest is a pragmatic one: i.e. classifying the
primary force of particular utterances in the specific context of the Early Mod-
ern English courtroom so that I have a better understanding of the function[s]
of utterances (as opposed to ‘modelling in explicit and verifiable formulae
the meanings which people convey in speech ([. . . ] by conventional linguis-
tic means)’: Wierzbicka 1987: 17). Secondly, I do not believe that the categories
actually utilised in speech production are properly explicated by providing sets
of necessary and sufficient conditions for speech act category membership. In
other words, I do not see terms such as request, require and question as being
the inventions of speech act theory. Rather, following Levinson (1983: 368),
I see them as being part of ‘a rich (if largely unexplored) natural language
metalanguage’.
As my stated intention is to classify the primary force of particular ut-
terances, I should flag up that I am aware that SA theory is often criticised
for underestimating speaker meaning by attempting to assign, by and large, a
single force to an utterance. In one sense, this is an overly-made criticism, of
course, as most speakers on most occasions resolve any apparent ambiguity by
assigning one force to an utterance. However, as the force of some utterances
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
can/may remain indeterminate (because of contextual factors such as status,

power and discourse sequencing, for example), my design allows for the inclu-
sion of multiple and, indeed, indeterminate forces (by using the “m” and “p”
values respectively).
The reader will also be aware that I seem to be assuming that the illo-
cutionary force of a particular ‘verbal action category’ (e.g. question, request)
existed as a language function during the period under investigation (Jucker &
Taavitsainen 2000: 70). And, according to Stetter (1991: 74, 79, cited in Jacobs
& Jucker 1995: 19), speech act-type methodologies possess no historical ap-
plication because of the impossibility of reconstructing speaker meaning in
the past. In my defence, I believe that it is more accurate to say that histor-
ical context is not completely recoverable, but that it can be approximated
and reconstructed – as long as we recognise that ‘speech act’ forms are rela-
tive to the specific environment in which they occur, that is to say, that the
conventions of language use in the culture under discussion need to be fac-
tored in whenever they are recoverable (cf. cross-cultural analyses). In other
words, as Arnovick (1999: 12) makes clear, we need to think in terms of his-
torically determined, differentiated, and conventionalised ‘speech acts’, which
are relative to (any) one time, place, and people (see also Jacobs & Jucker
1995: 19–20). Consequently, I reconstruct my categorisations from my his-
torical courtroom data, and corroborate them utilising the OED and other
historical corpora/dictionaries, to ensure their contextual/historical relevance.
My macro-categories, then, are meant to exemplify the main instances of
verbal behaviour in the (historical) courtroom. Some ‘speech-act’ phenomena
are highly conspicuous in EmodE courtroom data, of course. Questions, for
example, are frequently identified by the use of the capital letter ‘Q’. However,
they are not the only eliciting device utilised in the (historical) courtroom. In-
deed, as Figure 14 reveals, (re)initiations in the historical courtroom consist
of ‘counsels’, ‘questions’, ‘requests’, and ‘requires’. Consequently, I should point
out that, as I am interested in ‘speech acts’ as functional units – and ‘speech
acts as functional units do not correspond directly to speech act verbs’ (Jucker
& Taavitsainen 2000: 70) – I do not restrict myself to performative/speech act
verbs that appear in the texts, but utilise evidence of all ‘speech act’ phenomena
(direct and indirect). I also take into account how ‘speech acts’ interface with
one another, in accordance with Jucker and Taavitsainen’s (2000) notion of
‘pragmatic space’. In other words, I analyse verbal action categories ‘in relation
to their neighbouring speech acts in the same way that natural language expres-
sions are analysed within semantic fields in relation to expressions with related
meanings’ (Jucker & Taavitsainen 2000: 68), hence the macro-categories.
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
My macro categories, and the values they subsume, are also designed so as
to reveal a cline of speaker/addressee involvement, and sensitivity to the influ-
ence of social variables such as role, status and distance. Consider ‘inform’, for
example. Two of its values are ‘state/testify’ and ‘insist/swear’. Notice, however,
that the former tend to convey a sense of neutrality or objectivity on the part
of the speaker, whilst the latter convey an assumption of resistance on the part
of would-be addressees (see Appendix 2 for more detailed definitions of the
above). As defendants had to prove their innocence, it is not unreasonable to
suppose that they were more likely to ‘insist’ as opposed to ‘state’ when giving
evidence in a courtroom setting (that is, maintain very firmly and/or persistently
as opposed to saying what is “true” in a way that does not react to nor anticipate
other people’s utterances).
.. Additional question and answer function-indicating sub-fields
As previously mentioned, ‘answers’ are not really speech acts. Rather, they are
a means of distinguishing the (interactional/structural) function that a partic-
ular speech act is serving at a particular time in the discourse. Consequently,
utterances that function as ‘answers’ are put into the most pertinent macro
category in respect to the force field (in most cases, this tends to be ‘inform’),
and I include an additional sub-field to capture the various functions of an-
swers and their corresponding questions [a=“” and q=“” respectively]. Possible
values include:
q= ask (about) = “as”, e.g. seek to get A to confirm (some thing[s] about) Y (cf.
Carletta et al.’s 1997 ‘check move’, and Stenström’s 1984: 156 <Q: confirm>)
inquire (into) = “iq”, e.g. solicit a verbal response from A which would cause S
(and others) to know (some thing[s] about) Y. May be subdivided as follows:
Ask for a polarity decision = “iqp” (cf. Carletta et al.’s 1997 query-yn move,
and Stenström’s 1984: 156 <Q: polar>)
Ask for (or that B provide) a missing variable = “iqi” (cf. Carletta et al.’s
1997 query-w move, and Stenström’s 1984: 155 <Q: identify>)
question, ascertain = “it”, e.g. solicit (a) verbal response(s) from A in a formulaic
and systematic way
interrogate = “tr”, e.g. (use force to) solicit verbal responses from A
query/call into question = “qy”, e.g. respond to and/or seek clarification for some-
thing said by another (cf. Stenström’s 1984: 173 <Q: clarify>)
entreat = “qe”, e.g. seek to get A’s (verbal) permission for Y
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
a= (in)validate = “inv/val”, e.g. provide polarity decision (explicitly) (cf. Carletta et

al.’s 1997 reply-y and reply-n moves, and Stenström’s 1984: 78 <R: polar>)
identify = “ide”, e.g. provide requested information (explicitly) (cf. Carletta et
al.’s 1997 reply-w move, and Stenström’s 1984: 77 <R: identify>)
imply = “imp”, e.g. do not provide/express ‘yes’, ‘no’, or value for a missing vari-
able explicitly, but answer in such a way that one can be inferred (cf. Stenström’s
1984: 78 <R: imply>)
supply = “sup”, e.g. provide information which is not the requested information
(cf. Stenström’s 1984: 78 <R: supply>)
elaborate = “ela”, e.g. provide additional/supporting information than explic-
itly requested. Includes amplifies (which emphasize the information given),
qualifies (which explain/give/provide additional information/reason(s)) and
expands (cf. Stenström 1984: 78)
confirm (proposition) = “ca”, e.g. verbally respond to Q to establish that what
has been proposed (by A) in that SA (something about Y) is true
do not confirm/oppose (proposition) = “nca”, e.g. verbally respond to Q to es-
tablish that what has been proposed (by A) in that SA (something about Y) is
false
disclaim = “dis”, e.g. verbally respond to Q to establish inability to provide re-
quested information/answer (cf. Stenström 1984: 77)]
evade = “ev”, e.g. do not provide/express ‘yes’, ‘no’, or value for missing vari-
able, and do not answer in such a way that one can be inferred
refuse to answer = “na”, e.g. do not give a (verbal) answer even though the SA
requires and/or expects a verbal response.
My values share similarities with – but are not based upon – Carletta et al.’s
(1997) and Stenström’s (1984) work on moves (see 4.4.2), and also draw on the
insights of conversation analysis (see ‘refuse to answer’). An expanded version
of the above is included in Appendix 2.
.. The form field
The form field relates to questions only. Its purpose is to account for the
grammatical form of ‘prototypical’ questions (i.e. those utterances whose lin-
guistic structure is that of the interrogative, and which are heard by the
hearer/addressee as requesting some kind of verbal and/or non-verbal re-
sponse). The form field consists of two sub-fields, the first of which identifies
the grammatical question type, and the second of which provides a brief in-
dication of its actual form in the text (i.e. ‘what’, ‘did’). The primary purpose
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
Are Can Could Could not Did

Did not Do Do not Don’t Had
Has Has not How How came How come
How far How long How many How much How near
How often Is Might not Might Must
Must not Never Or Shall Was
Were What When Where Whether
Which Who Why Why did not Would, etc.
Figure 16. Possible values for the ‘qform’ field76
of the second sub-field, in particular, is to help determine the types of wh-

questions and yes/no questions in the data (‘what’ as opposed to ‘why’, ‘did’
as opposed to ‘have’, etc.). Possible values for ‘qform’ and ‘qtype’ are given in
Figures 16 and 17 respectively. Brief illustrative examples and/or definitions for
the ‘qtype’ values are also provided in Figure 17 (for more detailed definitions
of these question types, see Chapter 2).
As the categories for the different fields are data-driven, they have not been
overly problematic to implement. That said, some have been easier to imple-
ment than others. Indeed, the form field has probably been the easiest to im-
plement of the three, and the force field, the most difficult field to implement.
This is not unduly surprising, given that most questions had a recognisable in-
terrogative form (see 5.2).77 In contrast, assigning one functional meaning to
questions and (answers) could prove taxing, on occasions. A particularly in-
teresting case was ‘do you know anything of . . . ’ type questions, which at their
surface level, at least, wanted validation and also additional information. As
there is always a trade-off between usefulness and ease or consistency of cod-
ing, I decided to use ‘iq’ (= questions that solicit a verbal response from A which
would cause S (and others) to know (some thing[s] about) Y) for these questions
(see Appendix 2).
. Some final comments
Barnbrook (1996: 9) highlights an important point that I found relates to

projects such as mine, and one that I feel is important to mention here, as I have
previously suggested that annotation schemes ultimately save the analyst time:
In practice, it often happens that the features of the text under analysis are not
completely established until several attempts . . . have been made. [In other
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Question type (qtype) Example or definition

“w” = wh-interrogative An interrogative structure that (usually) begins with a
wh-element: ‘What is your name Sir’
“nw” = negative wh- A wh-interrogative that is negatively framed: ‘Why did you
not name Coleman at that time?’
“iw” = indirect A wh-question whose interrogative element is reported: ‘I
wh-interrogative asked her why she’d done it’
“y” = polar An interrogative structure that can be answered by ‘yes’ or
interrogative ‘no’: ‘Have you any more to say?’
“ny” = negatively framed A polar interrogative that is negatively framed: ‘. . . shall I
polar not know by what Law I am tried’
“ip” = indirect polar A yes/no question whose interrogative element is reported:
‘I humbly ask whether it was a reasonable thing to conceive
that the Council should extenuate the punishment. . . ’
“inp” = indirect negative An indirect yes/no question that is negatively framed: ‘The
polar Question is, Whether she hath never owned and confessed to
any Body, that these Papers were opened before a Friend of
hers, before the Messenger seized them?’
“a” = disjunctive A structure that asks H to choose between two expressed
interrogative alternatives: ‘Are you Elder or Younger than he?’
“ia” = indirect An alternative question whose interrogative element is
disjunctive reported: ‘tell us whether it is your own hand writing, or
not?’
“d” = declarative A structure that has the force but not the form of a
question question (i.e. subject/verb inversion): ‘And you don’t
remember that your Father and Mother came to England in
that time?’
“t” = tag question An elliptical interrogative structure attached to a
declarative form: ‘You dwell there sometimes, don’t you?’
“ec” = echo question A structure that ‘echoes’ something previously said by
another
“el” = elliptical A question involving ellipsis: ‘Well, Sir, the second Year?’
question
“r” = rhetorical An interrogative structure that does not seem to expect an
question answer (usually because the answer is self-evident)
“f ” = question[s] in Questions that appear in speakers’ narratives: ‘Says I, if you
narrative would have me, I will go to him, and desire him to come.
When would you speak with him? At any time, says he . . . ’
“m” = multiple A utterance that contains more than one interrogative
interrogatives
“p” = problematic Question-type is ambiguous
Figure 17. Classification of question-types (including an illustrative example and/or
brief definition)
Chapter 4. A systematic approach to context identification and analysis 
words], . . . a cyclic process of program specification, output checking and

program amendment is needed before a completely usable result is produced.
The software used for this study was specially developed for it (Hughes 2002),
and, as Barnbrook (1996) predicted, this took up a significant amount of
time.78 Indeed, it involved an ‘extra stage’ that I had not envisaged initially,
namely, changing ‘the format of the data . . . to make it suitable for the soft-
ware’, which, in turn, resulted in ‘further analysis’ and checking procedures (cf.
Barnbrook 1996: 9).
When we began work on the original annotation scheme (see Archer &
Culpeper 2003), we assumed that the scheme could be adequately interrogated
by WordSmith Tools (Scott 1996). But it soon became obvious that our annota-
tion scheme was too complex for Wordsmith: Wordsmith only allows searches
of complete strings (i.e. a particular string cannot omit the status field for ex-
ample, and search only the sex and age fields). In contrast, the new program has
been designed in such a way that it allows searches of different fields, no matter
where they are situated in the string. This is primarily because it makes use of
Boolean searches (that is, the program is able to represent relations between
sets, using symbols such as ‘and’, ‘or’, etc.). It is worth noting that Lou Burnard
suggested another way of constructing the annotation scheme, namely, placing
more of the static information in the header. By way of illustration, we could
have placed in the header a list of speakers and a list of addressees with their
respective status and age values. This would have meant that the tags in the
text would have included less values, i.e. a speaker identification number, an
addressee identification number, dynamic properties, such as role and, in the
case of the trial data, values for my question (and answer) fields. The bene-
fit, of course, is that it reduces the amount of information that is carried in
the tag and, consequently, the potential for error when the tags and values are
inserted.79 Even so, the number of fields would have still proved problematic
when using Wordsmith. Moreover, once the approach to the computer-based
analysis had been established (i.e. the texts were made XML-compatible so that
they could be interrogated by the PERL program within a web-interface), the
processing itself was automatic and reasonably fast. Also, as our program is de-
signed to collate information regarding fields and values, the fact that we have
all our information in tags has actually turned out to be very useful, not least
because the program retrieves all the field values along with the utterance[s] to
which they relate.
Finally, I should point out that the size of my corpora, and the low frequen-
cies of some of the findings I report on are such that the following chapters
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
should be regarded as a snapshot of the period which, although more de-

tailed than previous research, does not tell us the ‘the whole truth’ about the
courtroom of the 1640s–1760s, and, as such, requires (in)validation by further
research (see Chapter 12). The size of my corpora, and the low frequencies of
some of the findings I report on also explain my decision to use raw figures,
percentages and phrases such as substantial proportion as opposed to statistical
figures when presenting my findings (see Chapters 5–11 following). I do not
see this as a problem (as long as I shy away from claiming comprehensive ‘rep-
resentativeness’). Indeed, like Stubbs (1996) I think that it would be inadvisable
to attribute levels of statistical significance to some of my figures:
First, the frequency of individual words in different corpora is highly sensitive
to the content of the texts which make up the corpus. Second, normal statis-
tical assumptions of random occurrence do not apply [. . . ]. Third, although
there may be only a few observed instances of a given [feature] . . . the occur-
rence [may still be] . . . linguistically highly significant, even if conventional
statistical tests do not apply. (Stubbs 1996: 241, n.3)
I am not suggesting that statistical analysis is unnecessary. Rather, I am advo-

cating that we use it wisely. For example, Chi-squared or binomial distribution
tests are based on the assumption of ‘normal distribution’, and:
Statistics based on the assumption of normal distribution are invalid in most
cases of statistical text analysis unless either enormous corpora are used, or the
analysis is restricted to only the very most common words (that is, the ones
least likely to be of interest). (Dunning 1993: 16)
Consequently, results generated from applying such procedures would prob-

ably seriously underestimate the significance of some of the more ‘statistically
rare’ features in my data.80 The following chapters, then, highlight (quantita-
tive and/or qualitative) findings respecting the use of questions and answers
and other ‘speech acts’ in the EmodE courtroom that I believe to be ‘linguis-
tically significant’, and thus worthy of study (cf. Stubbs 1996: 241, n.3; see also
7.5 and Chapter 12).
Chapter 5
Questions in the historical courtroom

(1640–1760)
. A sociopragmatic account of courtroom questions
This chapter provides an overview of the period covered by the SPC data as a
whole (1640–1760). My main focus is identifying the various forms of questions
in the SPC data, so that I can go on to demonstrate that questions served vari-
ous functions in the late EmodE courtroom, depending on the role of the user,
their addressee, and the ultimate aim of their interaction (see also Chapters
6–10). In particular, I will be concentrating on:
1. The types of interrogatives utilised in the SPC data, and their frequencies.
2. The frequency of ‘pragmatic’ questions (i.e. utterances with the force of a
question, but not the interrogative form).
3. The extent to which those interrogatives/pragmatic question-types func-
tioned as part of a questioning sequence.
4. The extent to which those interrogatives/additional question-types took on
additional ‘context-specific’ functions, such as ‘control’ (cf. Harris 1984;
Woodbury 1984).
5. The effect of (institutionally sanctioned) power/powerlessness upon the
“potency” of questions.
Whilst the focus of this chapter is mainly on formal aspects, I will be empha-
sising throughout that one needs to take sociopragmatic factors into consid-
eration if one is to fully appreciate the dynamics of questioning in the EmodE
courtroom. For example, in relation to (iv) and (v), I will argue that, although
one of the functions of questions was to (seek to) control, we should not
automatically assume that questions were a manifestation of power. Indeed,
I will demonstrate that interrogative syntax only ‘places unusually powerful
constraints on what can follow’ (cf. Stubbs 1983: 104) when the questioner’s
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
role is associated with power in some way (e.g. if they have the institutionally
sanctioned right to ask questions and the authority to compel answers).
I begin Chapter 5, then, with a summary of the question-types utilised
in the SPC, and their various forms. In particular, I examine the multi-
functionality of some interrogative forms, and the ‘routinized’ nature of others
(see 5.2.1–5.2.2). I also explore the extent to which different interrogative-
types exhibited non-periphrastic inversion and/or indirectness (see 5.2.3 and
5.3). Section 5.3.1 then looks at the use of questions in narrative, and 5.4, at
whether, given this ‘reporting’ function, we should automatically assume that
courtroom questions contain a ‘command’ element (cf. Goody 1978; Walker
1987). In 5.5, I return to an examination of interrogatives that elicit something
(be it information, confirmation, or an action, etc.), in order to point out that
the individual interrogatives of the examiners, in particular, cannot be inter-
preted in isolation in a courtroom context, for they are invariably part of a
questioning sequence. I also document some of the most common question-
ing sequences evidenced in the SPC (5.5–5.6). Section 5.7 then highlights the
importance of investigating questions according to use and user, i.e. how dif-
ferent participants utilised question-types in different ways, depending on the
role that they adopted.
. The form of questions in the SPC
Participants utilised a total of 1,889 interrogatives in the trial texts of the SPC
(see Table 1, below, for a breakdown of their types). 72 interrogatives occurred
as part of a narrative. In other words, they were not eliciting devices as such,
but reports of questions that had been asked previously, usually outside the
courtroom (see 5.3.1 for a discussion of their various forms). The remaining
1,817 interrogatives were used to elicit something, be it information, confir-
mation or an action of some description. As we might expect, the majority (i.e.
98.3% or 1,786 out of 1,817) had a ‘questioning’ function, that is, S used the
interrogatives as a means of getting A to supply a missing variable by saying con-
firming/clarifying something about X (X = an action/event/behaviour/person).
The remaining 1.7% had the force of a ‘request’, ‘express’ or ‘require’. As pointed
out in 4.4.2, utterances are assigned to the macro-category ‘requests’ when S
wants Z [Z = an action/event] to happen and hopes to do it or get A (or others) to
do it. They are assigned to the macro-category ‘express’ when S wants A (and
others) to know his feelings (about X) and/or cause the action/behaviour to stop,
and to ‘require’ when S wants (and expects) A to do something, or wants to do
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
something him/herself, even though A may be reluctant (Appendix 2 provides a

list, as well as more detailed descriptions, of the sub-values belonging to each
macro-category). Thus, in context, interrogatives like those in the following ex-
tract, taken from the Trial of Elizabeth Cellier (1680), often had the (primary)
force of an ‘express’, that is, they were a means by which S made known his
feelings about X. For clarity, I provide the participants’ roles, and underline
the relevant interrogatives:
[Context: The defendant had informed the judge that she could ‘prove’ the
main prosecution witness against her, one Thomas Dangerfield, to be ‘per-
jured’. After some investigation, the judge discovered that Dangerfield had
been indicted for several crimes. However, as the witness said that he had been
pardoned, he was ordered to produce the pardon. The following exchange
occurs after the witness had re-entered the courtroom . . . ]
L. C. J. [Judge] (to Mr. Dangerfield) Such Fellows as you are, Sirrah, shall
know we are not afraid of you.
(addressee problematic) He produces us here a Pardon by the Name of
Thomas Dangerfield of Waltham, and says, his
Father and Kinsman are both of that Name and
Place. VVill you have him Sworn whether his
Father or Cozen Thomas was ever convicted of
Felony. It is notorious enough what a Fellow this
is, he was in Chelmsford Goal. I will shake all such
Fellows before I have done with them.
(to Mr. Dangerfield) Have you any more to say? Are there any Waltham
Men here?
Mr. Dan. My Lord, this is enough to discourage a man from
ever entring into an honest Principle.
L.C.J. What? Do you with all the mischief that Hell hath
in you think to brave it in a Court of Justice? I
wonder at your Impudence, that you dare look a
Court of Justice in the Face, after having been
made appear so notorious a Villain.
[Trial of Elizabeth Cellier, 1680]
Notice that the above interrogatives functioned as rhetorical questions, that

is to say they did not expect an ‘answer’ as such. Rather, they indicated the
judge’s strength of feeling regarding Dangerfield’s ‘unacceptable’ behaviour (cf.
Section 2.2.1.2). Indeed, the last example was particularly face-threatening, be-
cause it presupposed that Dangerfield was prepared to ‘brave it in a Court of
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Justice’ because he was amoral (cf. Brown & Levinson 1978: 228–230, who sug-
gest that speakers use rhetorical questions to soften, rather than strengthen,
their statements; see 7.7.1 and 10.3 for further commentary on the interaction
between the Lord Chief Justice and Dangerfield).
Table 1 (below) provides a breakdown of all 1,889 interrogatives in
the SPC (please note that the table includes those interrogatives that were
used to ‘report’ questions as well as those interrogatives that were used as
eliciting devices).
Much of the data relating to questions in the EmodE period identifies the
syntactic question-types that were available, but says very little about the ac-
tual frequency with which those question-types were utilised. A strength of
my annotation scheme is that I can provide quantitative figures with which to
begin to (in)validate hypotheses (at least in relation to the courtroom). No-
tice, for example, that, although relatively infrequent in percentage terms, the
declarative question was nonetheless the third most frequent question-type in
the SPC data overall. It was most common during Period 4 (i.e. 1680–1720),
when it accounted for 5.6% (that is, 38) of the 678 question-types. That said,
its frequency (in percentage terms) was roughly consistent throughout the pe-
Table 1. The various question-types utilised in the SPC data (by sub-period), and their
frequency
Period 3 Period 4 Period 5 SPC

(1640–1679) (1680–1719) (1720–1760) (1640–1760)
Interrogative type No. % Rank No. % Rank No. % Rank No. %
Wh- 148 46.1 1st 292 43.1 1st 322 36.2 2nd 762 40.3
Polar 82 25.6 2nd 246 36.3 2nd 412 46.3 1st 740 39.2
Declarative 17 5.3 5th 38 5.6 3rd 38 4.3 4th 93 4.9
Negative polar 8 2.5 6th 36 5.3 4th 49 5.5 3rd 93 4.9
Indirect polar 7 2.2 7th 31 4.6 5th 19 2.1 6th 57 3.0
Alternative 22 6.8 3rd 1 0.1 11th 33 3.7 5th 56 3.0
Problematic 20 6.2 4th 8 1.2 7th 3 0.3 =8th 31 1.6
Rhetorical 6 1.9 =8th 17 2.5 6th 7 0.8 7th 30 1.6
Indirect neg. polar – – – 3 0.4 9th 3 0.3 =8th 6 0.3
Negative wh- 6 1.9 =8th – – – – – – 6 0.3
Elliptical 4 1.2 10th – – – 1 0.1 =10th 5 0.3
Tag – – – 4 0.6 8th 1 0.1 =10th 5 0.3
Indirect wh- – – – 2 0.3 10th – – – 2 0.1
Indirect alternative 1 0.3 11th – – – 1 0.1 =10th 2 0.1
Echo – – – – – – 1 0.1 =10th 1 0.1
Total 321 100 678 100 890 100 1889 100
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
riod (i.e. between 4.3% and 5.6%; see Table 1, above).81 Wikberg (1975: 130)
highlights an important point about assertive questions that I will discuss in
more detail in 5.4.1, namely, that ‘all declarative sentences cannot be turned
into this Q-type’. This suggests, then, that context cannot be disregarded, even
at the level of identifying form and, in turn, justifies my decision to emphasise
sociopragmatic factors (in particular, how use is constrained by the role of the
user and his/her addressee) throughout a chapter that is explicitly formal in
orientation.
Notice, then, that the wh-interrogative and the polar interrogative were the
most popular interrogative types in the SPC, accounting for 40.3% and 39.2%
of the total interrogatives respectively. A substantial proportion of these (i.e.
82.7% or 630 out of 762 in the case of wh-interrogatives and 73.1% or 541 out
of 740 in the case of polar interrogatives) were utilised by the primary exam-
iners of the EmodE courtroom, by which I mean the judges, the prosecution
and defence counsels, the courts and the recorders. The reader should note
that those identified as the ‘court’ or ‘recorder’ in the SPC trial texts adopted a
judicial role similar to that of the ‘judge’. The former was a label that EmodE
scribes applied to both judge and jury. Consequently, several trials utilise both
the ‘judge’ participant label and the ‘court’ participant label (see, for exam-
ple, the Trial of Edward Coleman, 1678). Recorders were/are a type of judge
that could/can continue working as an advocate when not engaged in judicial
activities. As with the ‘court’ and ‘judge’, several of the SPC trial texts utilise
both the ‘recorder’ and ‘judge’ label (see, for example, the Trial of Elizabeth
Cellier, 1680).
As highlighted in Section 3.3, different question types can be classified
according to the degree of control they provide the questioner in much of
the literature relating to the contemporary courtroom (e.g. Woodbury 1984;
Philips 1987). For example, polar interrogatives are generally characterised as
more controlling than wh- and disjunctive interrogatives, because of ‘the in-
tent of greater specificity and narrowness of response’ (Philips 1987: 84), but
less controlling than declarative questions and tag questions, which ‘presup-
pose the answer as well as limiting it to yes or no’ (Philips 1987: 84). The
EmodE examiners’ preference for two of the least controlling question-types
in the SPC data may lead us to assume that they did not exercise a high degree
of control over their respondents (see 3.3). However, we should not judge the
‘controlling’ capacities of question-types without also considering their objec-
tive, for many of the wh-interrogatives in the SPC trial texts requested fairly
minimal responses in context, such as the naming of a figure (how many. . . ),
location (where. . . ), time (how long/when/what time . . . ), and object or person
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
(what/who. . . ), etc., and thereby reflected a stronger control function than we

might initially anticipate.
.. The multi-functionality of what-interrogatives
The ‘restrictive’ use of wh-interrogatives in the contemporary courtroom

is well documented (see, for example, Woodbury 1984: 212; Luchjenbroers
1997: 482). Here, wh-interrogatives tend to be sub-classified into broad, nar-
row and reduced, depending upon the ‘degree of [situation-bound] specificity
required of the addressee’ (Woodbury 1984: 202). Yet, my data suggests that
even the wh-interrogatives that are given a ‘broad’ classification may not be as
unrestricted as traditionally assumed when utilised by examiners in the court-
room context. Take what-interrogatives, for example. As Table 2 (below) reveals,
what was the most popular interrogative form in the SPC (please note that I
have ranked the forms according to their frequency in the trial data).
Table 2. The various interrogative-forms utilised in the SPC, and their frequency
Form Freq. Form Freq. Form Freq.
What 360 How far 20 Shall 3

Did 297 If 17 Was (. . . ) never 3
Was 143 Whose 12 Hath 2
Do 87 Was (. . . ) not 10 Must 2
Have 83 Would 10 Must not 2
How 83 Could 9 Shall not 1
Or 76 How many 9 Had (. . . ) never 1
Where 72 How often 8 Might not 1
How long 62 Which 7 Was it not (t) 1
Who 51 Why (did) not 6 Nor what 1
Whether 47 Is not 5 Has 1
Did (. . . ) not 44 How come 4 Don’t 1
Were 41 Were not/(. . . ) no 4 Can not 1
When 40 Have (. . . ) not 4 Did he (t) 1
Is 35 Are not/never 3 Don’t you (t) 1
Had 24 How much 3 Doth 1
Are 24 How near 3 Have you not (t) 1
Can 23 Do[es] (. . . ) not 3 Could (. . . ) not 1
Why 21 Did (. . . ) no/nobody 3 Would not 1
How came 20 Did never 3 Problematic 8
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
The high proportion of what-interrogatives is not surprising when one

considers the functional range of the latter. Indeed, what-interrogatives are
utilised in the SPC data to:
1. Initiate questioning sequences, the ‘broadest’ being those that functioned
like ‘give an account’ imperatives (e.g. ‘What do you know concerning’;
‘What say you . . . ’),
2. ask about the discourse of the respondents and/or another (e.g. ‘. . . what
said X’; ‘What did you say to that’), and, significantly,
3. request specific information, such as an amount (‘. . . what did you spend
there?’), or a name (‘What is your name Sir’).
Moreover, it is worth noting that even the ‘broad’ what-interrogatives were

not as broad as they would have been if they had been spoken in a differ-
ent context. By this I mean, the examiners did not allow the respondents to
tell all they knew in their own words. Rather, they tended to utilise the what-
interrogatives as part of a questioning sequence designed to elicit only that
information which they deemed to be ‘appropriate’ to the case. By way of illus-
tration, in the following extract taken from the Trial of Francis Francia (1716), a
defence lawyer, Hungerford, was questioning a ‘friendly’ witness, Cecilia Ceres.
As the extract reveals, Hungerford’s first question to Ceres was a ‘broad’ what
do you know question. However, as it was restricted in context by a second
what-interrogative immediately following it, the witness’s options were not as
‘broad’ as the what do you know question implied:
Then Cecilia Ceres was sworn.
Mr. Hungerford. What do you know of the Prisoner? What Country Man is
he?
Ceres. I went to School with him at Bourdeaux.
Mr. Hungerford. Where was he reputed to be born?
Ceres. At Bourdeaux, in the same Street where I was.
Mr. Hungerford. How Old was he when you knew him first?
Ceres. We were both Children.
Mr. Hungerford. I think the Place of a Man’s Birth can’t be better prov’d, it is
prov’d by some that were in the Room at his Birth, some
that went to School with him, and some that knew him
there a Child.
I will be discussing the different uses of what-interrogatives in more detail
throughout Chapters 7 and 8 in particular.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
.. Routinized questions
The second most popular wh-interrogative was how and its variants, e.g. how +
adverb (see Table 2 above). Many of these interrogatives exhibited features ob-
served by Philips (1987: 98) when examining modern courtroom data; namely,
they repeatedly appeared in the same form and requested the same/similar
(type of) information from respondents (Philips uses the term ‘routinized’
when referring to such questions). This is not to say that all ‘routinized’ how. . .
interrogatives were information seeking. Indeed, some of the most popular,
that is ‘How (do/did) . . . know. . . ?’ and ‘How came . . . ? (which were utilised
on 15 and 20 occasions respectively in the SPC data), were used to seek clarifi-
cation of something said by another, and, occasionally, to undermine a respon-
dent. Which function they served tended to depend on both the immediate
co-text and on the type of examination (e.g. direct versus cross-examination).
In the following extract, for example, a seemingly harmless request to know
how a witness came to be at Newgate prison was one of several interrogatives
whose ultimate goal was not to procure information, but to undermine the
witness (for clarity, I include an indication of participants’ roles):
Then Mary Meggison was sworn.
Mr. Hungerford. (defence counsel) Do you know of any Offers that were
made to the Prisoner, and by whom?
Meggison. (witness for defence) Upon the Twenty Eighth of September
last I was in Mr. Francia’s Room, and Mr.
Buckley came in and told him he should
be tried suddenly, and there were a great
many Witnesses against him; and he
would swear against him, because, says
he, you have cheated my Master of Five
Guineas, and won’t swear against Mr.
Harvey.
Mr. Att. General. (pros. counsel) Was you in the Room then?
Meggison. I sat upon a little Box at the Bed’s Feet,
and it was so dark he could not see me.
Mr. Att. General. How came you to Newgate.
Meggison. I have been a great many times in
Newgate.
Mr. Att. General. You dwell there sometimes, don’t you?
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
Meggison. No, I never did.

Mr. Att. General Are you a married Woman?
[Trial of Francis Francia, 1716]
Notice that only one of the interrogatives, the tagged declarative, was gram-
matically conducive (i.e. it signalled its predisposition for a specific answer
syntactically). Yet, in context, the how came-interrogative was not as innocuous
as it first appears. Indeed, as I will explain in Section 10.4.2, Meggison appeared
to infer an incriminatory element, and thereby answered with an ‘evade’ (i.e.
she did not provide ‘yes’, ‘no’ or value for a missing variable explicitly, or answer
in such a way that one could be inferred). Although we cannot know for sure
that the Attorney General meant for his how came-interrogative to contain an
incriminatory element, it is worth noting that his next question to Meggison
implied that she had been an inmate at Newgate. The Attorney General’s polar
interrogative is also interesting for, like the how came-interrogative, it may have
been non-conducive in a different context. However, because of the questions
that had preceded it, its function was clear – to once again call into question
Meggison’s reputation, by suggesting that she associated with men who were
not her husband.
Like its modern counterpart, then, the context of the historical courtroom
could affect the conducivity of questions to the extent that even apparently
non-conducive questions took on additional ‘accusing’ and ‘controlling’ func-
tions (cf. Harris 1984: 6, 22). This does not mean that all question-types auto-
matically became conducive, of course. Indeed, as I will demonstrate at various
points in this book, the controlling capacity of questions (in the historical
courtroom, at least) had more to do with the institutionally/legally inscribed
roles of the participants than any inherent characteristic of the question-types
themselves (see, for example, 5.4.1 and Chapters 7–9).
.. Non-periphrastic inversion
A further characteristic of several ‘routinized’ interrogative types (including

how know/came/come-interrogatives) was their non-periphrastic inversion. As
explained in Section 2.4.1, the use of do to form questions was optional dur-
ing the period covered by the SPC data. Compare, for example, ‘How know
you this, that Mr. Coleman did take a Copy of these Instructions for that pur-
pose as you say?’ (Trial of Edward Coleman, 1678) and ‘How do you know
she was not in a Line with the Admiral?’ (Trial of Captain Ambrose, 1745).
Rissanen (1999: 244) has suggested that, although the use of do in questions in
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
the eighteenth century was very close to Present-Day English, non-periphrastic

questions with verbs of high frequency (e.g. know, think, say, come and go)
were still easy to find. Whilst my data appears to support this hypothesis, there
are interesting variations in frequency depending on both the question-type
and/or its ‘routinization’. For example, non-periphrastic inversion was a fea-
ture of how come/how came interrogatives throughout the period covered by the
SPC (e.g. 1640–1760). Indeed, all twenty instances of how came-interrogatives
and all 4 instances of how come-interrogatives were formed without the do. In
comparison, only 2 of the 15 ‘How do/did you know . . . ?’ questions exhibited
non-periphrastic inversion. Both instances occurred in the Period 3 data (i.e.
1640–1679).
As the frequencies of interrogatives formed with do and did reveal (see Ta-
ble 2 above), non-periphrastic inversion was less common with positive polar
interrogatives than with wh-interrogatives (cf. Salmon 1965; Wikberg 1975).
Positive polars tended to utilise ‘have’ and ‘had’ in non-periphrastic struc-
tures (e.g. ‘Have you your Pardon?’, ‘Had he such a Kingsman there?’). That
said, non-periphrastic structures were more common with had-interrogatives
than with have-interrogatives. Indeed, I found that the majority of had-
interrogatives (i.e. 19 out of 24) were formed without the do, but only 5 clear
examples of non-periphrastic inversion involving have (as Table 2 reveals, 83
interrogatives in the SPC were formed with have). That said, the number
of have-interrogatives involving non-periphrastic inversion would increase to
eleven if we included the six instances of the following have-interrogative which
occurred in several of the SPC trial texts: ‘Have you any more [witnesses]?’. The
‘issue’ with including them, of course, is that their apparent acceptability (or
otherwise) will depend on one’s dialect (cf. Hughes & Trudgill 1987: 25). There
was only one example of a polar interrogative utilising non-periphrastic in-
version with one of the high frequency verbs highlighted by Rissanen (1999),
‘Know you of any Commision?’. Significantly, it came from one of the earlier
trial texts (i.e. The Trial of Coleman, 1678).
Do, did and doth interrogatives accounted for over half (that is, 52% or
385) of the 740 polar interrogatives in the SPC (see Table 2 for totals of each
form). Significantly, several of the polar interrogatives formed with did were
routinized (i.e. 118 out of 297). Did you know, did (. . . ) say/tell/hear/look were
particularly common, suggesting that respondents were asked as much about
what they said/heard as they were about what they or others did (see 3.3.2.1
and 10.4.3 for a discussion of the ways in which respondents’ ‘narratives’ in
a courtroom differ from a Labovian narrative, in large part because of the
question/answer mode of the examination sequences). A substantial number
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
of do-forms were also routinized. Indeed, 41 out of 84 adopted a ‘do you

know’ format, and a further 18 adopted a ‘do you remember’ format. Some,
like other routinized questions involving the modal can (e.g. ‘Can you remem-
ber/say. . . ’) had both a yes/no and wh- requirement (cf. ‘Do you know where
. . . ?’, ‘Do you remember about what time . . . ?’, ‘Can you remember what . . . ?’,
‘Can you say how . . . ?’). Walker (1987: 73–75), discussing present-day data, be-
lieves that such questions (she describes them as yes-no/wh questions) are the
most ambiguous as to intent, and the richest in manipulative possibilities in
the courtroom, because they leave the respondent in a ‘no win-situation’:
If the [respondent] gives you a WH answer to a Yes-NO/What question, you
can fall back on the YN form and say, ‘Just answer the question Yes, or No.
All I asked you was: Do you remember how fast the car was going.’ On the
other hand, if the witness responds to the YN embedding questions with an
unadorned, ‘Yes’, you can sit back, wait in silence, look quizzical, and then say,
‘Well? How fast was it going?’ . . . no matter which way he jumps, he’s wrong.
Now, that’s control. (Walker 1987: 77)
Although I classified such questions as polar interrogatives, I found that re-

spondents tended to treat these types of question in a similar way to wh-
interrogatives. By which I mean, most ‘answers’ provided the requested missing
variable rather than ‘yes’ or ‘no’, as in the following example which, as before,
is taken from the Trial of Francis Francia (1716) (please note that the italics are
as in the original, but the underlining is mine):
Then Mr. Everall was called.
Mr. Hungerford. What do you know of White or Meggison?
Everall. I know nothing of them.
Mr. Ward. Do you know where the Prisoner’s Foreign Letters used
to be left?
Everall. His Letter always came to my House.
Mr. Ward. Was he usually watchful for the coming in of his
Letters, as if there was any Thing of Concern in them?
Everall. No, they often used to lye some time before he call’d for
them.
Mr. Ward. How long did they use to lye?
Everall. Sometimes three or four Days.
Notice that Hungerford again utilised an opening ‘what do you know ..?’ ques-
tion. I will be discussing the extent to which interrogative choice is related to
the individual style of a particular examiner at various points in this book (see,
for example, 7.5).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. Indirect interrogatives
A number of the interrogatives in the SPC (i.e. 67) displayed an indirect for-
mat. The most common indirect interrogative form was whether (see Table 2,
p. 140). However, less than half of the 47 whether-interrogatives (i.e. 19) func-
tioned as ‘questions’ (e.g. as a means of getting A to supply a polarity decision or
missing variable by saying/confirming/clarifying something about X (X = an ac-
tion/event/behaviour/person)). Of the remainder, twenty were eliciting devices
whose primary force was that of a ‘request’ or ‘require’, and eight were reports
of questions previously spoken by another (‘questions’ that appear as part of
narratives are discussed in detail in the following section).
It is worth noting that the scribes often assigned question marks to a num-
ber of the whether-interrogatives whose primary force was that of a ‘request’
or ‘require’, which suggests that they were also understood as questions. Com-
pare, for example, ‘Look upon this warrant, and tell us whether it is sign’d by
you?’ (Trial of Baker, 1750) and ‘My Lord, Pray give me leave to ask this question,
Whether there be any president for this?’ (Trial of Slingsby, Hewet and Mordant,
1658), which had the primary force of a ‘request’ and ‘require’ respectively, and
the secondary force of a ‘question’.82 That said, scribal practice was inconsis-
tent, by which I mean scribes did not always assign question marks, even when
a speaker explicitly signalled a questioning force. Compare the Slingsby exam-
ple (above), for example, with the following taken from the Trial of Thompson,
Farewell and Pain (1682), ‘My Lord, I desire the same Question may be asked
Rawson’s Wife; Whether the Blood did not run from the Body on the Table on
the Floor, and down into the Cellar’. The last example is particularly interesting
because of the fact that Rawson’s Wife confirmed that ‘the Blood and Water ran
from the Table on the Floor’ in the following turn.83
Of the nineteen whether-interrogatives that functioned as ‘questions’, eigh-
teen adopted a subordinated structure, as in this example taken from the Trial
of Christopher Layer (1722), ‘I ask you, Whether you had shown those Bundles
to any Body before that Time?’ (underlining is mine). The remaining whether
‘question’ appeared to be a non-subordinated ‘direct’ question, that is to say,
no reporting clause was present: ‘Whether did you go from thence?’ (Trial
of John Giles, 1680). However, the question that preceded the above (‘You
went to Whetstones-Park, and what did you spend there?’), and the ‘answer’
to the whether-interrogative itself (‘Into Drury-lane.’) suggest that it may have
been a misrepresentation of a where-interrogative (cf. ‘Where did you go from
thence?’). This, in turn, would support Traugott’s (1972) claim that a ‘direct’
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
question with either a whether + verb + subject . . . or whether + auxiliary +

subject + verb format was no longer possible by the EmodE period.
The only other example of an utterance that began with whether was the
following (for clarity, I include an indication of participant roles, and underline
the relevant utterance):
Mr. Ketelbey. (Defence counsel) I don’t know whether your Lordship will
indulge us to ask the Witness a Question or
two now.
L. Ch. Jus. (Judge) Propose your Questions, and we will tell
you.
Mr. Ketelbey. (Defence counsel) Whether he hath any Offer of Pardon
propos’d to him to induce him to give
Evidence against the Prisoner at the Bar;
which if he hath, we apprehend will
invalidate his Evidence
Lynch. (witness) No, Sir; I have no Promise of Pardon at all: I
only do this out of Justice, to make what
Reparation I can, and to save the Blood of
many People.
[Trial of Christopher Layer, 1722]
Notice that the defence counsel’s utterance is in response to the judge’s instruc-
tion to ‘propose [his] Questions’ so that the Court may determine whether they
may be put to the witness. Consequently, the whether tends to function more
like a reported clause than an eliciting device (see 5.3.1, below). In other words,
it ‘informs’ rather than elicits.84 That said, the witness appears to have inter-
preted the ‘inform’ as though it was a question, for he provides both a polarity
decision and an explanation for that polarity decision.
Many of the ‘indirect’ interrogatives occurred as part of a narrative re-
sponse. This was especially the case with if -interrogatives. Indeed, there was
only one example of an if -interrogative being used as an eliciting device, and
its primary force was that of a ‘request’ (‘I desire to know if he had Fly-
blows in his Eyes?’, Trial of Thompson, Farewell and Pain, 1682). Most of the
if -interrogatives, then, were reports of questions that had occurred in previ-
ous exchanges (usually outside of the courtroom). In the following section, I
examine the use of what I refer to as ‘questions in narratives’ in more detail.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
.. Questions in narratives
Harris (2001: 60) has found that present-day courtroom responses, particularly
witness responses, are not primarily action dependant (‘what the witness did’).
Rather, they frequently involve both ‘what the witness said or saw’. Witnesses
were also asked to account for what they had said or seen in the SPC data,
with the result that their utterances often contained reported speech. Moreover,
a proportion of this reported speech was made up of questions that they or
a third party had asked – usually, at the time of the primary event (i.e. the
event that the examiners were attempting to reconstruct). Indeed, of the 55
utterances in the SPC which I categorised as ‘questions in narrative’, 51 were
witness utterances. Of the remaining, two were uttered by a judge, and two
by those assigned an ‘injured party’ role. The injured parties’ utterances were
similar to the witnesses, in that they reported speech that they themselves had
heard or spoken during the primary event. In contrast, one of the reported
questions utilised by a judge summarised questions that had previously been
uttered in the context of the courtroom:
This comes in Answer to Mr. Ward’s Question. He ask’d my Ld. Townshend,
whether there was not some Promise that this Confession should not be made
use of against the Prisoner? His Lordship gives this Account, and justifies him-
self, how he came to make use of it, and gives this as the Reason.
The other reported question summarised questions that others had reported
using during the primary event (please note that the underlining is mine):
But besides, that is not this Case: you are mooting upon Points that are not
in the Case. When Mr. Harris came to Mr. Rookwood, and finding them in
some Disorder, and being inquisitive what was the Occasion, he was sent to
Counter; and when he discovered what they were to go about, he afterwards
meeting Mr. Rookwood, says to him, Are we sent over to murder the Prince
of Orange? says Rookwood, If I had known of this Design before I came from
France, I wou’d have begg’d the King’s, that is, King James, Pardon, and desired
to have been excused. Hereby he expresses his Knowledge of the Design, and
what he was to do; and tho he disliked, yet wou’d obey Orders.
[Trial of Ambrose Rookwood, 1696]
Harris (2001: 61) makes a useful distinction between the ‘knower’ in the court-
room (i.e. someone present at the event in question) and the ‘teller’ (i.e. some-
one who provides an account of what happened). She then goes on to explain
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
that the ‘teller’ and ‘knower’ do not always coincide in the modern courtroom.
As the above extract highlights, this is also true of the historical courtroom.
Indeed, the judge could not have known what Rookwood actually said (and it
is debatable whether Rookwood himself could have recalled the exact words).
Even so, the directness of the judge’s ‘reporting’ style suggests that these were,
indeed, Rookwood’s words. As I will reveal in Chapter 10, a disjunction be-
tween ‘knower’ and ‘teller’ was often exploited by defence and prosecution
lawyers so that witnesses’ accounts of ‘what happened’ could be shaped to
conform to the ‘stories’ they were attempting to present to the juries.
The witnesses’ utterances that were characterised as ‘questions in narra-
tive’ tended to contain multiple interrogatives. Consequently, the total number
of ‘reported’ interrogatives was 72.85 As with the judges, the structure of the
witnesses’ ‘reported’ interrogatives was both direct and indirect. Moreover,
because of the multiple interrogative formats, some of the questions utilised
direct and indirect ‘reported’ interrogatives within the same utterance.
L. Chief. Just. (Judge) What said Mr. Langhorn to you about the
Commissions in his chamber?
Mr. Oats. (witness) Not a word; but seem’d glad.
L. Chief. Just. (Judge) Did you see them open upon his Table? or did you ask
to see them?
Oates (witness) They did not lye open upon the Table, but the
Commissions were before him; I asked to see them.
Mr. Langhorn (said I) I hear you have received the
Commissions from Rome; he said, he had. Shall I have
the honour to see some of them? He said, I might; he
thought he might trust me; and so he might, because
that very day I gave him an account of the Consult.
[Trial of Edward Coleman, 1678]
Notice that the witness tended to utilise a direct format when reporting his
own speech, and an indirect format when reporting Langhorn’s. Although the
use of direct speech is often linked to faithfulness claims (e.g. Leech & Short
1981), the lapse of time between the primary event and Oates’s reporting of
it means that the words that he purports to have uttered are unlikely to have
been the exact words used. Nevertheless, they provide his account with a sense
of authenticity.
Although Oates’s style was fairly typical of the way in which witnesses
utilised ‘reported’ questions, other patterns are also evident. For example, some
witnesses utilised an indirect interrogative structure to report their own ques-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
tions, and a direct interrogative structure to report the questions of others,

some mainly utilised an indirect structure for both themselves and others, and
some a mainly direct structure, as in the following example taken from the Trial
of Francis Francia (1716):
Then Revel was sworn.
Mr. Att. General. Do you know the Occasion of Mr. Buckley’s coming to
Francia in Newgate; Give an Account of what you
know of it.
Revell My Lord, Mr. Francia , called to me one Day, and I think it
was when I was in the Chappel, and told me, I believe I can
do a Piece of Service to the Government; I believe I can
suppress the publishing of the Shift shifted, I am sure I can:
Pray let me speak with Mr. Buckley. Says I, if you would
have me, I will go to him, and desire him to come. When
would you speak with him? At any time, says he; then I
believe the Morning is the best to meet with him; and the
next Morning I went to him
Significantly, a witness’s use of direct speech to report the speech of others
could have the effect of condemning the latter with their own words, as in-
dicated by the following example taken from the Trial of Mary Moders (1663):
[$ Jane Finch examined.]
My Lord, there came a man and a woman one night, and knockt at my door;
I came down, they asked to speak with one Jane Finch; I am the person, said
I, We understand, said they, you know Mrs. Charleton now in prison; Not I,
said I, I only went to see her there; said they, be not scrupulous, if you will go
and justifie any thing against her, we will give you 5 l
Other strategies used by witnesses when giving evidence are discussed in detail
in Chapter 10.
. Questions as a means of control
Walker (1987: 62) identifies a firmly-held belief in the modern courtroom,

namely, that witnesses should not be allowed to assume the role of initiator:
‘That role [is] one intrinsically associated with the role of questioner [and, as
such], belongs to the attorney’. In other words, it ‘is a non-transferable marker
of power’. There is evidence to suggest that the situation was very similar in the
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
EmodE courtroom, at least in the case of witnesses (but see 5.4.1 following).
For example, Tiersma (2000) provides the example of Lady Henrietta Berkely,
a witness at the Trial of Lord Grey (1682). As Tiersma (2000: 159) explains:
Lord Grey had been accused of corrupting the morals of Lady Henrietta,
apparently because he had helped the young woman run away from her tyran-
nical parents and secretly marry. Lady Henrietta took the stand. In response
to questions, she testified that she had left home voluntarily. She was then told
to sit down. ‘Will you not give me leave to tell the reason why I left my father’s
house?’ she begged the court. ‘Will you not give me leave to speak for myself?’.
One of the judges retorted: ‘You are, madam, to answer only such questions as
are asked you pertinent to the issue that the jury are to try; and if the counsel
will ask you no such questions, you are not to tell any story of yourself ’.
Although there were no examples of witnesses being dissuaded from using

questions in the SPC data, they nevertheless utilised them rarely. Indeed, a mere
0.4% of the witnesses’ utterances (i.e. 6 out of 1,554) displayed a ‘questioning’
force (see Chapter 10). Moreover, only three were addressed to the primary
examiners.86 Two of the witnesses’ interrogatives requested clarification from a
main examiner, as when Elizabeth Crook asked the recorder to clarify ‘In whose
chamber?’ after he had asked her whether she remembered seeing a fellow wit-
ness, one Richmond, ‘in the Chamber’ (Trial of John Giles, 1680). The other
was addressed to a prosecution lawyer, and appeared to be rhetorical:
Mr. Att. General. Are you acquainted with his Son’s Hand?
Barwell. How do I know that?
Mr. Att. General. Are you acquainted with his Son’s Hand?
Barwell. No, not at all.
Notice that the lawyer’s right to ask questions ensured that he could require
the witness to ‘answer’ appropriately, albeit by repeating his initial question
verbatim until that ‘appropriate’ answer was forthcoming.
As previously highlighted, another means of achieving witness control is
the selection of question types which narrow the choice of answers and/or allow
the examiner rather than the respondent to phrase the evidence, e.g. declar-
ative questions, negative polars and tagged declaratives (cf. Walker 1987: 58;
Harris 2001: 59). The most popular ‘conducive’ interrogatives in the SPC were
the declarative question and the negative polar. Yet, as Table 2 reveals, they each
account for only 4.3% (i.e. 93) of the SPC interrogatives. The majority of these
(e.g. 142 out of 186) were utilised by the primary examiners. For example, the
recorders and judges addressed twenty-one declarative questions to witnesses
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
in Period 4 alone. As established in Section 3.3.1, question-types that suggest –

and try to lead the respondent to – a ‘correct’ answer tend to be ‘less requests
for information than assertions of fact or accusations for which the [examiner]
seeks agreement’ (Tiersma 2000: 165). This is most clear in declarative ques-
tions, as they are assertions with interrogatory (rising) intonation (see 2.1).
Because of their declarative structure, declarative questions can be difficult to
identify (we cannot rely on intonation patterns, for example). Fortunately, as
the tendency in EmodE was to punctuate according to force, the majority of
the declarative questions were given a question mark by the scribes:
[Context: a witness, one William Richmond, has given evidence explaining
how John Giles had arrived at his lodgings on the day he was supposed to
have attacked John Arnold]
Record. You were not out of the House all the while?
Will. Richmond. No Sir, I was not out of it.
Record. And you are sure that you did not see him again till he came
to your door going to Bed?
Will. Richmond. Yes Sir.
[Trial of John Giles, 1680]
Although the inclusion of question marks proved very useful when identifying
declarative questions, it is worth noting that the punctuation gives the scribe’s
interpretation of the utterance, and, as such, may not always represent what
the speaker actually intended. This may help to explain why scribes assigned
question marks to some declarative questions in a trial text, but not to others
(please note that the following example is taken from the same trial as the above
extract):
Recorder. Mr. Arnold I would know one thing, will you undertake to
Swear positively that this Person was one of the Persons who
stept before you? Will you take it upon your Oath, That the
Person, the Prisoner at the Bar, went before you?
Mr. Arnold. I will take it upon my Oath as far as a Man can do, for one
Man, ’tis possible, may be like another both by his Voice and
his Face; I can Swear I believe he is the man.
Mr. Thompson. You are Satisfied upon the first Sight that you had of him in
the Countrey, that he was the Man.
Mr. Arnold. Yes Sir, and he can tell you that by a very good token, for I
had like to have run him through.
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
Consequently, an utterance (or part of an utterance) was marked as a declara-

tive question in the SPC when the respondent appeared to answer in a way that
suggests that s/he believed s/he was being asked a question, whether or not it
was assigned a question mark.
.. Questions as ‘commands’?
The fact that some question-types ‘function more like assertions of fact or ac-
cusations for which [the examiner] seeks agreement’ may explain why several
linguists recognise a ‘command’ element in questions. For example, Goody
(1978: 23) states that ‘the most general thing we can say about a question is that
it compels, requires, may even demand a response. It is this fact which leads
to questions often carrying a strong command message’. Walker (1987: 59–60)
goes even further:
(In a legal setting), a question becomes an order that the respondent’s knowl-
edge be displayed in an appropriate form . . . In fact [. . . ] it is as commands
to deliver information, (and sometimes perform an act: ‘Can you look at
this document?’) that most serious utterances by a lawyer to witness, whether
structurally questions or not, must be understood. A statement such as ‘Your
name is John Doe and you’re a civil engineer’, when made by an examiner,
may not normally be met, as it might be in an ordinary exchange, with silence.
Even though on the face of it no question is posed by such an utterance, when
it is made in a [trial] a response which confirms or denies the proposition
presented is expected.
Whilst Walker’s (1987) description helps explain why some declarative utter-
ances are interpreted as questions in the context of the courtroom, it is impor-
tant that we do not categorise every utterance or, indeed, every question, as
having a ‘command’ element.87 For to do so would be to assume, like Walker
(1987), that question-types are only utilised by the powerful. Although this
may be an acceptable assumption to make when discussing the modern court-
room, it does not reflect the EmodE practice of allowing defendants to ask
questions of witnesses as they gave their evidence (see 3.4.2).
It is worth noting that, whilst the defendants addressed most of their ‘ques-
tions’ to the witnesses (i.e. 164 out of 185), they also addressed a few questions
to the main examiners (i.e. 17). Moreover, they utilised the very question-
types that are regarded by many as the most controlling or explicitly restrictive,
namely declarative questions and negative polars:
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Mr. Mord. My Lord, shall I not know by what Law I am tryed, nor by what
Act, nor by what Commission?
However, as will become clear in Chapter 9, a legally-sanctioned right to ask
questions was not the same as having the ‘coercive’ power to ‘compel responsive
answers’ from their respondents (cf. Walker 1987: 58). Indeed, many defen-
dants were unable to procure the responses they sought (from witnesses or
examiners). This suggests, then, that questions can be used to control, but only
when asked by participants who not only have a legally-sanctioned right to ask
them, but also a recognised position of authority within the courtroom itself.
In other words, when three of French and Raven’s (1959) five classifications
of power – ‘expert power’, ‘legitimate power’ and ‘coercive power’ – are in op-
eration, that is, a participant’s specialist knowledge/expertise, a participant’s
right to prescribe or request certain things, and a participant’s right to control
negative outcomes by virtue of their role, age or status (cf. Section 1.5). The
defendants’ use of so-called ‘conducive’ questions also suggests that
1. There is a scale of conducivity within a particular question-type as well as
between the different question-types (cf. Woodbury 1984), and
2. The level of the conducivity within a particular question-type is likely to
be dependent on ‘the real or apparent dominance of the speaker’ (Piazza
2002: 511).88
This is not to say that questions automatically become ‘demands to deliver

information’ when asked by the powerful (cf. Walker 1987: 59–60), or that so-
called ‘conducive’ questions are always used coercively. Indeed, the recorder in
the Giles trial (1680) utilised a declarative tag to indicate his surprise at having
misunderstood a witness’s prior testimony:
[Context: The defendant was attempting to explain to the recorder that he
had misunderstood some previous information given by the witness, one
Ann Beron]
Giles. My Lord, she don’t say she was with us all the while, but
we came to an House where she was, and several other
People our Neighbours.
Recorder. (to Giles) She say you did go out sometime [. . . ]
Recorder. (to Ann) [. . . ] Now see whether I mistake you.
Ann. Yes you do mistake me.
Recorder. (to Ann) He went out, did he?
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
Ann. Yes he went out after we came into the City, he and some
others, and then they came back to me again in two or
three hours.
The relationship between questions and power will be discussed at various
points in this book (see, for example, 7.5 and 9.4).
.. Countering conducivity
Another important fact that is not always spelled out by linguists dealing with
conducivity and the courtroom relates to the counter-strategies of the respon-
dents. Put simply, the fact that conducive questions ask the respondent to
‘conform to the underlying presupposition of the question’ (Shuy 1995: 208)
does not ensure that they automatically do so. Indeed, they may ‘answer’ in
such a way that prevents the examiners from successfully imposing their own
interpretation on the evidence (this, in turn, should persuade us of the need
to examine responses to questions as well as the questions themselves). For ex-
ample, in the following extract taken from the Trial of John Mordant (1658), a
prosecution lawyer switched to negative polar interrogatives when the witness
did not provide the ‘appropriate’ information to a relatively ‘broad’ what-
interrogative (e.g. ‘What did he tell you concerning his being entrusted by the
King therein’). Yet, Stapely was not immediately forthcoming even when faced
with conducive questions:
Mr. At. G. Did he not say that he had Commissions from the King?
John Stapely He did not tell me so, but I have heard him say others had had
Commissions, two other Gent. in Surrey
Mr. At. G. Did he not encourage you thereto? what Arguments did he use?
John Stapely He spoke to me of it several times.
Mr. At. G. After what manner?
John Stapely Onely in commendation of the thing; I heard him say that if
there were a necessity, Surry folks would come into Sussex to
assist them.
[Trial of John Mordant, 1658]
Indeed, Stapely’s response to the Attorney General’s second utterance (above)

was particularly vague when one considers that he had been asked: (i) to con-
firm that he had been ‘encouraged’ to accept a ‘Commission from the King’,
and (ii) to provide a summary of the ‘Arguments’ that had been used to
persuade him. His ‘answer’ to the Attorney General’s second narrow what-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
interrogative, ‘After what manner?’, was also carefully worded so that it was
not self-incriminating.
. Questions as part of a questioning sequence
As the above extract from the Trial of John Mordant (1658) reveals, the primary
examiners often pursued a line of questioning as opposed to asking one or two
questions in isolation (cf. the defendants’ use of questions; see 9.4). This type
of practice (or ‘strategy’) suggests that the best way to interpret interrogatives is
not in isolation but, rather, as part of a questioning sequence. Consequently, in
this and following sections, I examine the ‘composition’ of the majority of the
questioning sequences in the SPC data, and how the latter was affected, in turn,
by the type of examination sequence (e.g. examination-in-chief as opposed to
cross-examination).
Questioning sequences within the SPC were predominantly a mixture of
wh- and polar interrogatives. This pattern appears to have been quite common
in the courtrooms of that period, as I found similar wh- and polar interrogative
sequences in the Salem data (Archer 2002: 14). That said, there were some no-
ticeable differences. Firstly, the Salem magistrates tended to elicit details from
witnesses while simultaneously restricting them to minimal responses, as this
extract taken from the ‘Examination of Sarah Cloyse and Elizabeth Proctor’
(SWP: 659) reveals:
Q. Mary Walcot! Who hurts you?
A. Goody Cloyse.
Q. What did she do to you?
A. She hurt me.
Q. Did she bring the book?
A. Yes.
Secondly, the successive use of wh-questions, in particular, signalled both the

magistrates’ control over what was said and talked about at Salem, and their
acceptance (as fact) of the answers given. Notice, for example, that the ‘fact’ that
Goody Cloyse had hurt Mary is included as part of the propositional content of
‘what did she do to you’ (Archer 2002: 14), i.e. it is presupposed. Although both
phenomena are evidenced in the SPC data, they are not as marked. Indeed,
examiners occasionally utilised a series of wh-interrogatives to challenge/seek
clarification about a witness’s prior evidence, as in the following extract taken
from the Trial of Edward Coleman (1678):
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
L. Chief. Just. Did you open the Letters?

Mr. Oates Yes?
L. Chief. Just. When saw you the Letters at St. Omers?
Mr. Oates I saw the Letters at St. Omers in the month of January; then
they came from Rome; and after I received summons to be at
this Consult in the month of April; and accordingly we
came over.
L. Chief. Just. VVhat time did you come over?
Mr. Oates In the month of April.
L. Chief. Just. VVhat time went you to Langhorns chamber? I cannot
reconcile the months together.
The reader will have noticed the question mark in Oates’s initial response. I
believe that its presence is not accidental but, rather, an attempt by the scribe
to indicate the witness’s surprise at being asked to repeat information that he
had already supplied. As the following extract reveals, the Lord Chief Justice
had asked the same question when Oates initially informed him of a letter that
the defendant had apparently given to him:
L. Chief. Just. In what language was it written?
Mr. Oates In plain English words at length.
L. Chief. Just. Directed to whom?
Mr. Oates It was directed to the Rector of St. Omers, to give him
intelligence how affairs went in England.
L. Chief. Just. Did you break it open?
Mr. Oates I was at the opening of it, and saw it and read it. There was a
Letter to Father Lechees, which was superscribed by the same
hand that the treasonable Letter of news was written, and the
same hand that the recommendation to Playford was written
in. When this Letter was open there was a Seal fixt, a flying Seal
and no mans Name to it.
Notice that the Lord Chief Justice’s initial polar interrogative ‘Did you break
it open?’ received a long (e.g. 66-word) response from the witness, but the re-
peat polar ‘Did you open the Letters?’ was confirmation-seeking as opposed to
information-seeking, and thus only received a one-word response. This sug-
gests that polar interrogatives should be seen as more or less restrictive, like
wh-interrogatives (see 5.2–5.2.1). It also suggests that the conducive force (or
‘restrictiveness’) of question-types is not just dependent on the real or apparent
dominance of the speakers, but on: (i) the specific questioning function of the
interrogative (e.g. clarification-seeking as opposed to information-seeking),
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
(ii) the questioner’s goal[s], and (iii) the interrogative’s positioning in the ques-
tioning sequence. In regard to the latter point, polar interrogatives that initi-
ated (or occurred toward the beginning of) a questioning sequence tended, on
the whole, to procure longer responses from respondents than polar interrog-
atives that occurred mid-sequence, as demonstrated by the following extract:
Then Lucy White was sworn.
Mr. Hungerford. Was you by, or in hearing, when any Offers were made to
the Prisoner.
White. Upon the Seventh of September I went to see the Prisoner
in Newgate. He told me Mr. Buckley was to be there with
him, and desired me to conceal my self in the Room, that I
might hear what past, and I did so. When Mr. Buckley
came he spoke about one Flint; and afterwards Mr. Buckley
ask’d him several Questions about Mr. Harvey. He said he
knew nothing but that he was innocent. Mr. Buckley told
him he must swear right or wrong for the Government; if
he would not, he himself would swear High Treason
against the Prisoner; for he had taken Money of my Lord
Townshend, and done nothing for it.
Mr. Hungerford. Did you see any Thing of two Warrants Mr. Buckley had at
that Time?
White. No.
Mr. Hungerford. Did Mr. Buckley see you?
White. No, I conceal’d my self under the Feet of the Bed.
Mr. Att. General. You say this was the Seventh of September. What Year?
White. In the Year 1716.
This was also the case with wh-interrogatives. In other words, wh-interrogatives
that initiated (occurred towards the beginning of) a questioning sequence
tended to procure longer responses from respondents than wh-interrogatives
that occurred mid-sequence.
. Examinations-in-chief and cross-examinations
The restrictiveness of a particular question-type was also dependent, in part,

on the type of examination sequence. In other words, interrogatives utilised
during cross-examinations tended, on the whole, to be more restrictive than
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
interrogatives utilised during examinations-in-chief. This is probably due to

the different purpose of cross-examinations, for witnesses and defendants
were mainly questioned about evidence they had already given (indeed, in
a modern court of law, new evidence cannot be introduced during a cross-
examination sequence). Moreover, there is plentiful evidence to suggest that
the lawyers’ primary goal during such sequences was to undermine what the
witnesses/defendants had previously communicated. This did not mean that
lawyers began by asking overtly manipulative questions. Rather, they tended to
build towards their primary goal:
[Context: The witness, one Mr. Buckley, had been asked (by the prosecution
counsel) to give an account of Francia’s examination before Lord Townshend
and Mr. Secretary Stanhope, which he had been responsible for taking down.
Mr Buckley had informed the court that Francia had refused to swear on the
New Testament. Instead, ‘he took another Book out of his Pocket’ to swear
on. He was then questioned by the defence team . . . ]
Mr. Denton. Was he examin’d at any time after?
Mr. Buckley. Yes.
Mr. Denton. Was you present then?
Mr. Buckley. No.
Mr. Ward. How long were they [a book and some letters belonging to
Francia] in your Custody?
Mr. Buckley. From the time that Mr. Walpole went abroad, till he came back
again, and then I deliver’d them back to him.
Mr. Ward. Were they in your Custody when Mr. Jones was under
Examination?
Mr. Buckley. I can’t tell; but I never did show them to him.
Mr. Ward. Were they not deliver’d out on that Occasion?
Mr. Buckley No, they were not deliver’d out by me.
Mr. Ward. You say you read the Examination to him. Did not he desire to
read it himself?
Mr. Buckley. I don’t remember it.
Mr. Ward. Was he not refused to read it?
Mr. Buckley. No, upon my Soul.
Notice that the witness was questioned by two defence lawyers in the above ex-
tract (see 5.6.2 following). Mr. Denton began by using two polar interrogatives
that, although non-conducive, were quite restrictive. Mr. Ward followed these
with a series of wh-interrogatives and positive and negative polar interrogatives
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
that, taken together, assumed that Francia did desire to read his examination
transcript but was refused the privilege. Once again, this nicely illustrates that
we cannot treat individual questions in isolation in the courtroom but, rather,
we must view them as part of a strategy. It also highlights the need to under-
stand that lawyers, in particular, began to utilise interrogatives as a means by
which they could establish a ‘credible’ story for the jury during this period (see,
in particular, Chapter 8 and 10.4.1).
The same lawyer, Ward, was able to adopt a strategy that was slightly less
controlling when examining ‘friendly’ witnesses during examination-in-chief.
Then Mr. Everall was called.
Mr. Hungerford. What do you know of White or Meggison?
Everall. I know nothing of them.
Mr. Ward. Do you know where the Prisoner’s Foreign Letters used to
be left?
Everall. His Letter always came to my House.
Mr. Ward. Was he usually watchful for the coming in of his Letters, as
if there was any Thing of Concern in them?
Everall. No, they often used to lye some time before he call’d for
them.
Mr. Ward. How long did they use to lye?
Everall. Sometimes three or four Days.
Mr. Ward. Were they kept up close till he called for them?
Everall. No, they lay in a publick Room, so that any one might see
them.
Notice, for example, that the questioning sequence began with a broad what-
interrogative. That said, Ward’s interrogatives (a series of polar interrogatives
and a restrictive how long interrogative) were designed so as to extract only that
information from Everall that helped establish part of the defence’s story (in
this case, that Francia’s ‘traitorous’ letters could not have been too traitorous,
or Francia would have been more secretive about them). Significantly, Tiersma
(2000: 161) suggests that this style of questioning (e.g. from open-ended to
increasingly coercive or controlling questions) typifies direct examination se-
quences in today’s courtrooms.
.. Information-seeking questions: is it always ‘new’ information?
The extracts of Ward’s questioning style highlight a related issue, namely, that
some information-seeking questions, but especially those utilised by lawyers in
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
direct examination sequences, were not information-seeking in the sense advo-

cated by Searle (1969). By this I mean, although they sought information, that
information would have been new to the judge and jury but not to the ques-
tioner. Indeed, the lawyers would have had to have an idea of the ‘answers’ that
‘friendly’ witnesses were likely to give in order to be able to shape their ques-
tions so that they elicited information appropriate to their ‘story’. In a very real
sense, then, the lawyers were asking the questions on behalf of the jurors, which
means that the jurors, in turn, were the EmodE witnesses’ real addressees. In a
contemporary courtroom, the witnesses may signal their awareness of the real
addressee by turning to the jury when giving an answer (Tiersma 2000: 168).
Such extralinguistic clues are not retrievable from the SPC data. However, wit-
nesses and defendants were occasionally instructed to address their ‘account’ to
the Court and/or the jury (e.g. ‘Pray Sir, will you give the Court and the Jury an
Account of this Book and those Letters; and how, and when they were brought
to you?’, Trial of Francis Francia, 1716).
.. A blurring of the sequences
Although I have stated that interrogatives were at their most restrictive during
cross-examination sequences, it is worth noting that there was not the strict di-
vision between examination-in-chief and cross-examination in the courtroom
of the EmodE period that there is in the modern courtroom (cf. Section 3.2.1).
Indeed, prosecution counsels and defence counsels appear to have been per-
mitted to intervene in the others’ questioning session in a way that would be
inconceivable today (one explanation for this is that cross-examination was
a developing discourse practice for lawyers at this time; see Chapter 8 and
10.4.1). For example, in the following extract taken from the Trial of Fran-
cia (1716), the defence lawyer only managed to elicit one response from the
witness before the prosecution lawyer intervened:
Then Simon Francia was sworn.
Mr. Hungerford. Pray give an Account what you know of the Prisoner,
what Country Man he is, and where he was born?
Simon Francia. He is my Brother, he was born in France at Bourdeaux.
Mr. Att. Gen. Are you Elder or Younger than he?
Simon Francia. I am Four Years Elder.
Mr. Att. Gen. How then can you remember what was done when
you was Four Years old?
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Simon Francia. I can’t remember the Day of his Birth, but I was bred up
with him at Bourdeaux, we were all born in the same
House.
The Attorney General’s interruption at the point when Simon Francia in-
formed the court that his brother was a Frenchman is significant, because, if the
court had accepted Francia’s ‘alien’ status, it would have effectively meant that
he could not have committed the treasonable acts of which he was accused.89
The prosecution lawyer’s strategy, therefore, was to pre-empt the defence coun-
sel’s attempt to have Francia acquitted by questioning the accuracy of Simon
Francia’s recall, given his tender age. Notice, however, that that strategy was
achieved over a number of turns (e.g. a disjunctive interrogative that asked
Francia to state which brother was the eldest, and a wh-interrogative that
specifically asked how Francia was able to remember). Significantly, refuting
an argument or appeal before it is even presented is seen as an effective way of
‘inoculating’ the audience in today’s courts:
It seems to work by motivating the listener to think about counter-arguments
while hearing the opposing evidence or appeal. This may be done by explicitly
providing ready-made counter-arguments on specific points, or by stimulat-
ing the listener to generate them for him or herself. (Lloyd-Bostock 1988: 46)
Lloyd-Bostock (1988) goes on to raise a related issue, namely, whether the or-
der of presentation at a modern trial gives an advantage to the prosecution (or
plaintiff) because they go first, or the defence because they go last. The fluid-
ity of the EmodE courtroom suggests that our EmodE ancestors did not have
to be concerned with either primacy or recency effects. But the defence teams
were at a disadvantage for other reasons, the most pertinent of which were (i)
not being able to make open/closing statements to the jury, and (ii) having to
prove their clients’ innocence (cf. the modern courtroom, where a defendant
is presumed innocent, and guilt must be proven ‘beyond reasonable doubt’).
The consequences of these disadvantages will be explored in more detail in
Chapters 8 and 12.
. A sociopragmatic approach to questions: Investigating user

as well as use
Although my focus has been on the formal aspects of questions, I have been
careful to highlight the limitations of a purely formal approach at various
points throughout this chapter, not least because one cannot fully appreciate
Chapter 5. Questions in the historical courtroom (1640–1760) 
the different functions that questions serve in the historical courtroom unless
one also considers the role of the user, and the user’s ultimate aim. For example,
I am aware that a large part of my findings thus far display a common theme
of modern courtroom literature: namely, the control achieved through ques-
tions (cf. Atkinson & Drew 1979; Harris 1984). Given the fact that the role of
questioner is typically occupied by a participant with an institutionally/legally
recognised status and thus the authority to compel responses, this is not sur-
prising. But, as I have highlighted, a concentration on the power of questions
to control can be potentially misleading in the historical courtroom for, unlike
their modern counterparts, defendants were also permitted to ask questions
(see 3.4.2 and 5.4.1). In Chapter 6, then, I will be concentrating more explicitly
on the user. I begin with a breakdown of the participants according to the role
that they adopted, and a discussion of the interactional intent of the six main
participants’ utterances. I then identify the main questioners in the SPC, so
that I can go on to describe the strategic use that they made of questions in the
historical courtroom, and assess the extent to which the distribution figures
for questions mirror the power distribution in the courtroom of the EmodE
period in general.
Chapter 6
Interactional intent of
participants’ utterances
. Investigating questions from the perspective of the user
Chapter 5 accounted for the formal aspects of the various question-types that
appeared in the SPC data, whilst highlighting the limitations of a purely formal
approach. For example, I explored the extent to which the role of the user dic-
tates the ‘potency’ of questions (to compel/shape a response), and concluded
that the different functions that questions serve can only be fully appreciated
when the role of the user, and the user’s ultimate aim are also taken into con-
sideration. This chapter also provides an overview of the period covered by the
SPC data as a whole (1640–1760), but its focus is more explicitly on the user.
In particular, I investigate:
1. The discursive norms of interaction in operation in the historical court-
room (e.g. who talks to whom, in the SPC overall and in each sub-period).
2. The make-up of that interaction (e.g. the proportion of ‘questions’ and
‘informs’, compared to ‘requests’, ‘requires’ and ‘counsels’).
3. The nature of the participants’ relations (e.g. whether there is evidence
of change over the period covered by the SPC data, especially in terms of
participants’ active involvement).
I begin by listing the participant roles adopted in the sixteen trial texts, and
documenting which participant roles were the most active (see 6.2 follow-
ing). I then examine the interactional intent of the main participants’ ut-
terances (6.2.1–6.2.6) to determine (i) the most active (re)initiators, and (ii)
the most active questioners (6.3). I do so to highlight that initiator and ques-
tioner were not ‘non-transferable marker[s] of power’ in the courtroom of the
EmodE period (cf. Walker 1987: 62), not least because four eliciting devices
(e.g. ‘question’, ‘request’, ‘require’ and ‘counsel’) were utilised by ‘powerful’ and
‘powerless’ participants alike in the SPC data (albeit to varying degrees).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. Participant roles evidenced in the SPC
Our discussions thus far have centred on a handful of participant roles (e.g.
judges, courts, recorders, defence and prosecution counsels, defendants, wit-
nesses and juries). With the exception of the juries, these roles were the most
frequently utilised roles in the SPC data (see Table 3 below). The fact that
the primary examiners and respondents were the most active suggests that
the Early Modern Courtroom shared many similarities with its contemporary
counterpart. But there are striking differences, both for the 120-year period
covered by the SPC, and for the individual sub-periods that make up the lat-
ter. These will become obvious as we look at each of the main participant roles
in turn (see 6.2.1–6.2.6, following). As Table 3 also reveals, the primary exam-
iner and respondent roles were not the only participant roles utilised in the
SPC data. Indeed, a further twelve roles can be identified. Ten of these (e.g.
court official, crier, injured party, king’s counsel, member of court, member of
Table 3. Frequency of utterances, according to participant role, and ranking order

(figures in brackets show percentages)
Participant role Period 3 Rank Period 4 Rank Period 5 Rank SPC

(1640–1679) (1680–1719) (1720–1760) (1640–1760)
Witness 191 (20.2) 3rd 547 (35.0) 1st 816 (46.9) 1st 1,554 (36.6)
Judge 286 (30.3) 1st 249 (15.9) 3rd 40 (2.3) 6th 575 (13.5)
Prosecution 96 (10.2) 4th 245 (15.7) 4th 224 (12.9) 3rd 565 (13.3)
counsel
Defendant 235 (24.9) 2nd 100 (6.4) 6th 138 (7.9) 5th 473 (11.1)
Defence counsel – 255 (16.3) 2nd 143 (8.2) 4th 398 (9.4)
Court 47 (4.9) 6th – 349 (20.0) 2nd 396 (9.3)
Recorder 6 (0.6) 9th 114 (7.3) 5th – 120 (2.8)
Court official 52 (5.5) 5th 4 (0.3) 10th – 56 (1.3)
Injured party – 12 (0.8) 8th 27 (1.6) 7th 39 (0.9)
Crier 2 (0.2) 11th 25 (1.6) 7th – 27 (0.6)
Plaintiff 12 (1.3) 7th – – 12 (0.3)
Jury 9 (1.0) 8th – 1 (0.05) = 9th 10 (0.2)
Onlookers 5 (0.5) 10th 3 (0.2) 11th – 8 (0.2)
Unknown – 5 (0.3) 9th 1 (0.05) = 9th 6 (0.1)
King’s counsel 1 (0.1) = 11th 2 (0.1) 12th – 3 (–)
Member of court – – 2 (0.1) 8th 2 (–)
Wife 1 (0.1) = 11th – – 1 (–)
Serjeant Roll 1 (0.1) = 11th – – 1 (–)
Serjeant-at-Law 1 (0.1) = 11th – – 1 (–)
Problematic – 1 (0.1) 13th – 1 (–)
Total 945 1,562 1,741 4,248
Chapter 6. Interactional intent of participants’ utterances 
jury, onlookers, plaintiff, sergeant roll and sergeant-at-law) directly related to

the courtroom. The remaining roles – that of ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ – occurred
in the Trial of Mary Moders (1663). In total, participants adopting the above
roles utilised 4,241 utterances in the SPC data. A further seven utterances are
accredited an ‘unknown’ or ‘problematic’ label, making 4,248 utterances in to-
tal. Table 3 provides a breakdown of the number of utterances utilised by each
participant role. Please note that the ordering of the participant roles reflects
their activity in the SPC as a whole. However, I also include a rank ordering for
each individual period.
Sections 6.2.1–6.2.6 (following) outline the interactional intent of the main
participants’ utterances. As explained in Chapter 4, by ‘interactional intent’ I
mean the position an utterance occupies in the discourse, and what the speaker
intends to achieve by it (cf. initiating a new exchange and responding to the
direct elicitation of another, for example). Definitions of the six possible values
subsumed within the interactional intent field are given in 4.4.2.
.. The interactional intent of the witnesses’ utterances
The witnesses were the most active participants in the SPC, with 36.6% of the
utterances (that is 1,554 out of 4,248). Predictably, their participation was con-
sistent throughout each sub-period (see Table 3 above). Moreover, the bulk of
their utterances (i.e. 92.5% or 1,437 out of 1,554) were ‘responses’, e.g. they
provided information that had been directly elicited by another participant.
Most of these, in turn, functioned as ‘answers’, e.g. they were directly elicited
by questions. As Table 4 (below) reveals, the remainder of the witnesses’ utter-
ances were mainly made up of ‘reports’ and ‘follow ups’ (as explained in 4.4.1,
‘reports’ state information that has not been elicited, and ‘follow ups’ provide
follow-up/feedback to a preceding utterance in some way).
These results, and the small number of (re)initiations utilised by the wit-
nesses (by which I means eliciting devices that initiated a new exchange or
reinitiated an existing exchange) suggest that the primary function of the wit-
nesses’ utterances was as it is today, to ‘inform’. The witnesses’ utterances will
be examined in more detail in Chapter 10.
.. The interactional intent of the judges’ utterances
The judges were the second most active participants in the SPC data, with
13.5% of the utterances. Moreover, as the ‘initiation’, ‘response-initiation’ and
‘follow-up initiation’ columns of Table 4 reveal, a substantial proportion of
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 4. The main SPC trial participants, and the interactional intent of their utter-
ances (figures in brackets show percentages)
Interactional intent Total no.

Participant Initiation Response- Response Report Follow Follow up- Problem- utterances
role initiation up initiation atic (incl. %)
Witness 3 6 1,437 90 14 1 3 1,554 (36.6)

Judge 171 66 52 44 42 197 3 575 (13.6)
Prosecution 224 7 4 95 5 224 6 565 (13.3)
counsel
Defendant 114 52 69 51 26 160 1 473 (11.1)
Defence 143 5 27 50 18 153 2 398 (9.4)
counsel
Court 40 1 1 3 1 350 0 396 (9.3)
Recorder 39 2 2 14 8 55 0 120 (2.8)
Others / 66 3 54 21 11 12 0 167 (3.9)
Unknown
Total 800 142 1,646 368 124 1,153 15 4,248
(24.5) (11.0) (29.1) (11.2) (5.3) (18.7) (0.2) (100)
these utterances (i.e. 171 + 66 + 197 = 434 or 75.5%) were (re)initiations. As

the bulk of the SPC data relates to examination sequences, and examination
sequences are generally made up of questions and answers, it would be un-
derstandable if one assumed that judges were the most active ‘questioners’ of
witnesses and defendants (but see 6.3 following). This would represent a sig-
nificant difference from today’s courts, of course, as the defence counsels and
prosecution counsels tend to be the most active ‘questioners’. However, it would
support historians’ claims that the majority of defendants defended themselves
in the EmodE period, and prosecution lawyers were only present for (i) impor-
tant State trials from the Tudor period onwards, and (ii) treason trials from the
late 1690s (Beattie 1986: 42, see also 3.4.1).
Yet, the above assumptions are potentially misleading. Firstly, it does not
tell us what type of eliciting devices that the judges were utilising, or to
whom they were addressed. This is especially important given the fact that
(re)initiations in the EmodE courtroom tended to fall into four categories:
‘counsel’, ‘question’, ‘request’ and ‘require’. Consequently, I provide an overview
of the types of (re)initiations utilised by the main (re)initiators in Section 6.3
(following), and document the judges’ main addressees in the various sub-
periods in Chapter 7. Secondly, it does not take into account that the judges’
active involvement in the trials’ production peaked in Period 3, and declined
thereafter. Indeed, as Table 3 (above) reveals, the judges began as the most ac-
tive participants during 1640–1679, with 30.3% of the utterances, but their in-
Chapter 6. Interactional intent of participants’ utterances 
volvement dropped to a mere 2.3% during the period 1720–1760. I examine the
judge’s changing role in some detail in 7.1–7.1.2. In particular, I demonstrate
how the judge’s role in Period 3 differed significantly from that we associate
with contemporary judges, but that a ‘presiding’ role was becoming evident by
Period 5 (cf. Sections 3.2.1 and 3.4.1). In other words, the judges’ active partic-
ipation was becoming increasingly restricted to interchanges with the defence
and prosecution counsels (e.g. when considering and deciding upon legal is-
sues), and the jury (e.g. when instructing the latter as to the correct view of
the law relevant to the case, and when summing up after the prosecution and
defence barristers have submitted all their evidence, etc.).
.. The interactional intent of the prosecution counsels’ utterances
The prosecution counsels were the third most active participants in the SPC
data. Like the judges, most of their 565 utterances (i.e. 224 + 7 + 224 = 455 or
80.5%) initiated a new exchange or reinitiated an existing exchange (see ‘initia-
tion’, ‘response-initiation’ and ‘follow up-initiation’ columns of Table 4, above).
As I will demonstrate when I discuss the prosecution counsels’ strategies in
more detail in Chapter 8, the total number of (re)initiations shows a steady in-
crease from sub-period to sub-period, the bulk of which were ‘questions’ that
the prosecution counsels addressed to witnesses. This means that prosecution
counsels were becoming increasingly involved in the examination of witnesses
at the same time as the judges were becoming less involved. Yet, their involve-
ment with the examination of defendants decreased. Possible reasons for this
are discussed in Chapter 12.
.. The interactional intent of the defendants’ utterances
The fourth most active ‘role’ in the SPC data was that of the defendant. Given
the judges’ assumption that, as defendants knew most about the alleged inci-
dent, they were in the best position to state ‘what happened’, it is perhaps not
too surprising that defendants should figure so strongly. This is especially the
case in Period 3, of course, as the defence counsels were absent (see Table 3
above). However, two features, in particular, suggest that the defendants’ role
during the period covered by the SPC data was quite distinct from the role of
a defendant today. Firstly, the ‘response’ column of Table 4 reveals that only 69
of the defendants’ 473 utterances functioned as responses to the initiating ex-
changes of others (e.g. provided information that had been directly elicited by
another participant). This, and their high number of (re)initiations (i.e. 114 +
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
52 + 160 = 326 or 68.9%) suggest that the defendants’ primary strategy was
not merely answering the allegations put to them (cf. the witnesses, above).
Secondly, although like the EmodE judges, their active participation seems to
have decreased as the EmodE period progressed, it is worth noting that Peri-
ods 4 and 5 defendants still made use of a variety of eliciting devices, just as
their Period 3 counterparts had done. The defendants’ use of eliciting devices
is not unduly surprising given their right to question witnesses, of course (cf.
3.4.2). What is surprising, however, is their continued use of (re)initiations in
spite of the presence of the defence counsels, whom we would expect to speak on
the defendants’ behalf. As both features are worthy of further consideration, I
provide a breakdown of the types of (re)initiations utilised by the defendants
in Section 6.3, following, so that I can discuss the special role of the defendant
in detail in Chapters 9 and 11.
.. The interactional intent of the defence counsels’ utterances
The defence counsels were the fifth most active participants in the SPC data,
with 9.4% (i.e. 398 out of 4,248) of the utterances (see Table 4). Like the judicial
examiners and prosecution lawyers, most of these utterances (i.e. 143 + 5 +
153 = 301 or 75.6%) were (re)initiations, helping to establish them as one of
the primary (re)initiators in the SPC (see 6.3 following).
Although the defence counsels involvement may appear quite small to the
reader, it is worth noting that the above percentage figure of 9.4% actually re-
lates to two sub-periods (as previously pointed out, the defence counsels were
absent in Period 3: see also Table 3, above). It is also worth noting that, in spite
of historians’ claims that defendants were usually without counsel until the
early to mid-eighteenth century (cf. Beattie 1986), the SPC data suggests that
defence lawyers were active for some considerable time before laws allowing
defendants the right to counsel were enacted (Fox 1870: 586). Indeed, defence
counsels appear in the Trial of John Giles (1680), and the Trial of Nathaniel
Thompson, John Farewell and William Pain (1682), which predate the Trea-
son Act of 1696 by some fifteen years.90 The figures for the defence counsels
also produced another unexpected finding, namely, a decrease in participation
from Period 4 to Period 5 (e.g. from 16.3% of the total utterances to 8.2%;
see Table 3, above). Indeed, the defence counsels were only slightly more ac-
tive than the defendants they were defending in Period 5. Although it would
be dangerous to come to any firm conclusion based on such a small number
of texts, I will offer several (potentially overlapping) explanations: Firstly, the
Period 4 data is not representative of the EmodE period as a whole. By which
Chapter 6. Interactional intent of participants’ utterances 
I mean, defence counsels were not as actively involved in the examination of

participants as the data implies (this would correspond to historians’ claims;
cf. Beattie 1986); Secondly, the role of the defence lawyer was not yet ‘fixed’. In
other words, the defence lawyer was becoming (but was not yet established as)
a main examiner. This would explain the fluctuation in figures, whilst allowing
for the fact that most of the defence counsels’ utterances were (re)initiations
in both periods; Thirdly, the Period 5 defence counsels and the defendants
they represented were working more closely together than they had in Period
4. According to historians, this would also be unusual, as defendants were be-
lieved to have little direct involvement with their trials, in practice (cf. Beattie
1986: 350). These explanations will be explored in more detail when I examine
the defence counsels’ utterances in Chapter 8 (see also Chapter 12).
.. The interactional intent of the Courts’ and recorders’ utterances
The sixth and seventh most active participants in the SPC data were the
Courts and the recorders. As previously explained (see 5.2), the Courts and
the recorders adopted a similar role to the judges. Consequently, many of their
utterances were similar (in both form and function) to the judges’ utterances.
Indeed, the only text that showed significant variation from the pattern estab-
lished by the judges was the Court-martial of Captain Ambrose (1745). As its
title implies, the text relates to a court martial hearing, as opposed to a trial
hearing, and the ‘Court’ in such hearings tended to be made up of a group
of officers (their rank depending on the rank of the defendant). More impor-
tantly, the hearing tended to follow a strict format, namely, a deposition was
initially read to all present, and then the Court asked witnesses a series of ques-
tions about the evidence they had given in that deposition. This meant that
the hearing had a stronger ‘question-and-answer’ element than the other SPC
texts, and helps to explain (i) the high number of (re)initiations utilised by the
Courts (as they addressed question after question to the witnesses; see Table 4
above), and (ii) why the Courts were the main ‘questioner’ in the SPC (see Ta-
ble 5 below). I will discuss the role of the Court in the Ambrose trial in detail in
Chapter 7 (see, in particular, 7.3. and 7.6). In the following section, I highlight
the other main questioners in the SPC, and give readers some idea of the ratio
of their questions to other eliciting devices.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. The five main questioners in the EmodE courtroom (1640–1760): The
courts, the prosecution counsels, the judges, the defence counsels and
the defendants
As Table 5 (below) reveals, the three main (re)initiators in the SPC, the prose-
cution counsels, the judges and the Courts, were also the three main question-
ers. However, their ranking was different.91 Indeed, the Court was the most
active questioner (with 388 questions), the prosecution counsel, the second
most active questioner (with 351 questions), and the Judge, the third most ac-
tive questioner (with 314 questions). The fourth most active questioner was
the defence counsels (with 251 questions).
Such a result is not unduly surprising, given their legally-sanctioned right
to ask questions, but there are several observations to be made about the re-
sults. For example, although ‘questions’ were by far the most frequent eliciting
device, accounting for between 71.5% and 99.2% of the respective examin-
ers’ (re)initiations, most of the examiners also utilised ‘counsels’, ‘requests’ and
‘requires’. Admittedly, the figures for the non-question eliciting devices are rel-
atively low, but they are sufficient in number to suggest that the terms initiator
and questioner may not have had the same synonymy that Walker (1987: 62)
argues they have today or, indeed, that they were ‘non-transferable marker[s]
Table 5. (Re)initiations according to role type (including an indication of ranking)
Participant Force of (re)initiation Total no. of

role Question Rank Request Rank Require Rank Counsel Rank (re)initiations
Prosecution 351 2nd 43 2nd 59 2nd 9 2nd 462 (21.8)

counsel
Judge 314 3rd 3 4th 103 1st 19 1st 439 (20.7)
Court 388 1st – – 3 8th – 391 (18.4)
Defendant 185 5th 116 1st 19 5th 2 4th 322 (15.2)
Defence 251 4th 24 3rd 29 3rd 3 3rd 307 (14.5)
counsel
Recorder 91 6th 1 8th 6 7th 98 (4.6)
Court offic’l 32 7th – – 16 6th 48 (2.3)
Crier 2 11th – – 22 4th 24 (1.1)
Witness 7 8th 3 4th – – 10 (0.5)
Jury 4 10th 2 6th – – 6 (0.3)
Unknown 5 9th – – 1 9th – 6 (0.3)
Onlooker – 2 6th 1 9th 3 (0.1)
Others 3 – – – 1 4 (0.2)
Total 1633 194 259 34 2120
(77.0) (9.2) (12.2) (1.6) (100.0)
Chapter 6. Interactional intent of participants’ utterances 
of power’ (my italics). This is especially important when we consider that

the most ‘powerless’ participants – the defendants – were the fourth most ac-
tive (re)initiators, according to my data, and the fifth most active questioners,
behind the defence counsels.
If we explore the defendants’ (re)initiations in detail we find that 57.5%
(or 185 out of 322) were questions. We also find that most of these (i.e. 163
out of 185) were addressed to witnesses, suggesting that defendants (who were
permitted to do so) did take advantage of their ‘right’ to ask questions of the
witnesses as they gave their evidence (cf. Sections 3.2.1 and 3.4.2). Defendants
also utilised a high proportion of ‘requests’ (i.e. 116), the majority of which
they addressed to judges. Whilst it is tempting to assume that the defendants’
powerless status ensured that they utilised a more indirect method of elicitation
when interacting with a more powerful participant, it cannot explain their use
of ‘requires’, a large proportion of which were also addressed to the judges. Such
apparent contradictions highlight the complexity of [in]directness, of course,
and, in turn, suggest that Tannen (1987: 7) is right to emphasise the danger of
beginning ‘with our real-world assumptions about who has power and who
doesn’t, and interpret[ing] the use of various linguistic devices in support of
those assumptions’.
. Insights gained
This chapter has provided a general overview of the discursive norms of in-
teraction in operation in the EmodE courtroom, that is to say, who talked to
whom, and in what capacity during the 200 year period covered by the SPC
data. In particular, I have listed the participant roles adopted in the sixteen
SPC trial texts, and documented which participant roles were the most active,
before going on to examine the interactional intent of the main participants’
utterances in more detail. One of my most pertinent findings has been that
the four eliciting devices of ‘question’, ‘request’, ‘require’ and ‘counsel’ were
utilised by ‘powerful’ and ‘powerless’ participants alike in the SPC data (albeit
to varying degrees). I have thus suggested that initiator and questioner were not
‘non-transferable marker[s] of power’ in the EmodE courtroom as they are in
the modern courtroom (cf. Walker 1987: 62).
In the following chapters, I focus in more depth on the specific strate-
gies utilised by these main participants, that is to say, the judicial examiners,
lawyers, defendants and witnesses. As my main interest is in the strategic use
that participants made of questions in the context of the historical courtroom
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
(and questions accounted for the bulk of the (re)initiations), I begin with an
examination of questioning strategies utilised by the judges and the lawyers
(see Chapters 7 and 8 following).
Chapter 7
Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies
. Examiners’ questions – a manifestation of power?
In the penultimate section of Chapter 6, I highlighted a concern voiced by

Tannen (1987: 7), namely, the danger, in interpretation, of beginning ‘with
our real-world assumptions about who has power and who doesn’t, and inter-
pret[ing] the use of various linguistic devices in support of those assumptions’
(see 6.3). In this chapter, I focus specifically on the strategic use that the judicial
examiners made of questions in the context of the courtroom in order to de-
termine the extent to which their questions can be regarded as a manifestation
of power. In particular, I identify:
1. The discursive norms of the judicial examiners, including their regular
addressees in the SPC overall, and the specific sub-periods.
2. The types of interrogatives/pragmatic questions utilised by the judicial ex-
aminers when addressing their most active addressees, and their frequency.
3. The primary function of those questions (e.g. to elicit information/confir-
mation/clarification/other).
4. The extent to which the judicial examiners’ questions took on additional
‘controlling’ and ‘accusing’ functions (cf. Harris 1984; Woodbury 1984).
5. The importance of viewing the judicial examiners’ questions as part of
a questioning sequence, and the effect of their institutionally sanctioned
power on the ‘potency’ of those sequences.
6. Evidence of a changing role, as the EmodE period progressed.
It is worth noting, then, that I am revisiting many of the issues addressed in

Chapters 5 and 6, but from the perspective of the judicial examiners. I begin
by documenting the extent of the latter’s activity in the various sub-periods of
the SPC, and the addressees with whom they interacted. My motivation for
so doing is to give the reader a sense of the role of the judges, Courts and
recorders during the period covered by the SPC data (1640–1760), and, in the
case of the judges, to demonstrate that their role was undergoing change (see
7.2 following).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. The judge
Judges were the most active (re)initiators/questioners in both the Period 3

and Period 4 data. However, in Period 5, they were only the fifth most ac-
tive (re)initiators/questioners. The total number of utterances attributed to the
judges in Period 5 (i.e. 40 out of 1741) represents a marked drop in participa-
tion from the previous sub-periods (cf. Tables 6–8 below), and suggests that
judges were becoming less directly involved with the questioning of partici-
pants as the EmodE period progressed.92 That said, it is worth noting that most
of the judges’ utterances (i.e. 31 out of 40) were (re)initiations in Period 5 (see
Table 8 below), the majority of which were addressed to witnesses (i.e. 22 out
of 31). A possible explanation, then, is that the judges were still involved in the
examining process, but that their role had undergone/was undergoing change.
This becomes increasingly obvious when we compare the judges’ addressees in
each sub-period (see Tables 6–8 below).
Notice, for example, that the judges interacted with a wider variety of par-
ticipants in the Period 3 and Period 4 data than they did in the Period 5 data.
However, their most popular addressees in Period 3 were the defendants, fol-
lowed by the witnesses, but, in Period 4 and 5, this ordering was reversed.
This helps to explain why the witnesses were the most popular addressees of
the judges in the SPC as a whole (indeed, the judges addressed 47.8% of their
utterances to them, that is 266 out of 556).
Because of the Period 3 judges’ considerable interaction with defendants,
defendants were the SPC judges’ second most popular addressees. Notice, how-
Table 6. Interactional intent of judges’ utterances in Period 3 (figures in brackets show

percentages)
Move Addressees (in Period 3) Total

Defendant Witness Unknown Court Jury SRJ-at- Pros. Guard exchanges
official arms counsel
Initiation 15 30 8 6 4 2 0 1 66 (23.1)
Response- 52 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 54 (18.9)
initiation
Response 39 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 40 (14.0)
Report 11 3 4 1 0 0 0 0 19 (6.6)
Follow up 19 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 19 (6.6)
Follow up- 14 74 0 0 0 0 0 0 88 (30.8)
initiation
Total 150 108 13 7 4 2 1 1 286
(52.4) (37.8) (4.5) (2.4) (1.4) (0.7) (0.4) (0.4) (100)
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 

percentages)

Def. Witn. Unk. Crier Jury Defence Judge Pros. Recr.
couns. couns.
Initiation 13 45 9 3 2 8 0 2 2 84 (33.9)
Response- 1 2 0 0 0 6 0 0 0 9 (3.6)
initiation
Response 2 1 1 0 0 4 0 2 0 10 (4.0)
Report 0 1 7 0 1 8 1 1 1 20 (8.1)
Follow up 4 2 1 0 0 11 0 2 1 21 (8.5)
Follow up- 7 84 0 0 0 10 0 0 0 101 (40.7)
initiation
Problem 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 3 (1.2)
Total 27 136 19 3 3 48 1 7 4 248
(10.9) (54.8) (7.7) (1.2) (1.2) (19.4) (0.4) (2.8) (1.6) (100)

percentages)

Defendant Witness Unknown Defence Member of court Jury
Initiation 1 14 1 3 1 1 21 (52.5)
Response- 0 0 0 2 0 0 2 (5.0)
initiation
Response 0 0 0 3 0 0 3 (7.5)
Report 3 0 2 0 0 0 5 (12.5)
Follow up 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 (2.5)
Follow up- 0 8 0 0 0 0 8 (20.0)
initiation
Total 4 22 3 9 1 1 40
(10.0) (55.0) (7.5) (22.5) (2.5) (2.5) (100)
ever, that the Period 4 and Period 5 judges interacted with the defence counsels
more than the defendants. Notice, also, that a surprising number of the utter-
ances that Period 3 judges addressed to defendants (i.e. 39 out of 150 or 26%)
were ‘responses’, i.e. they provided information that had been directly elicited by
the defendant. This suggests two things. Firstly, that the role of respondent and
initiator were not as fixed in 1640–1679 as they are today (cf. Walker 1987).
Secondly, that the judges’ role in Period 3 was very different than it is today.
The SPC judges’ ‘questioning’ of defendants will be discussed in Section 7.7.
As the judges also utilised a selection of other eliciting devices when interact-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ing with the defendants (e.g. ‘request’, ‘require’, ‘counsel’), their interaction is
also discussed in detail in Chapter 11.
. The Court and the recorder
The Courts (or non-specific examiners) were the most active questioners in the
SPC overall, and the third most active (re)initiators. Yet, they were only present
in three of the Period 3 trials and two of the Period 5 trials.93 As Tables 9 and 10
(below) highlight, the Courts addressed a larger percentage of their utterances
to the witnesses than the EmodE judges had done (i.e. 68.1% / 97.7% [= 82.9%
for SPC] in the case of the Courts as opposed to 37.8% / 54.8% / 55% [= 49.2%
for SPC] in the case of the judges; cf. Tables 6–8 above).
It is worth noting that one particular text – the Court-martial of Cap-
tain John Ambrose (1745) – accounts for most of the Courts’ utterances with
the witnesses (i.e. 14 initiations and 320 follow up-initiations). Yet, this text
is atypical when compared to many of the other SPC trial texts. Firstly, as its
title implies, it is a court martial hearing, and such hearings were usually held
aboard one of His Majesty’s ships of war, before a group of officers (their rank
depending on the rank of the defendant). Secondly, the highest ranking of the
naval officers was assigned the role of president. Thirdly, the president, along
with the remaining naval officers, were the only official examiners of the pro-
ceedings. Put simply, there were no prosecution or defence counsels present.
Fourthly, the Court appeared to follow a strict format, namely, a deposition
was initially read to all present, and then the Court asked witnesses a series of
questions (e.g. ‘Is this Deposition true?’, ‘Was she [= the Rupert] (ever) within
Table 9. Interactional intent of the Courts’ utterances in Period 3 (figures in brackets

show percentages)

Defendant Witness Recorder Plaintiff Unknown
Initiation 1 12 0 6 1 21 (52.5)
Response-initiation 0 0 0 0 0 2 (5.0)
Response 0 0 1 0 0 3 (7.5)
Report 0 0 0 0 1 5 (12.5)
Follow up 0 20 0 5 0 1 (2.5)
Follow up-initiation 0 0 0 0 0 8 (20.0)
Total 1 21 1 11 2 40
(2.1) (68.1) (2.1) (23.4) (4.3) (100)
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
Table 10. Interactional intent of the Courts’ utterances in Period 5 (figures in brackets
show percentages)

Defendant Witness Defence counsel Injured person
Initiation 0 18 0 2 20 (5.7)
Response-initiation 0 1 0 0 1 (0.3)
Response 0 0 0 0 0 (–)
Report 1 0 1 0 2 (0.6)
Follow up 1 0 0 0 1 (0.3)
Follow up-initiation 0 322 0 3 325 (93.1)
Problem 0 0 0 0 0 (–)
Total 2 341 1 5 349
(0.6) (97.7) (0.3) (1.4) (100)
point-blank?’, ‘Did you see the Fireship go(ing) down?’, etc.). Fifthly, the text
has a strong ‘question-and-answer’ element, which is reflected in the court
recorder’s representation of it:
Lieutenant Hugh Palliser was called in and sworn. Then his Deposition was
read, setting forth, that he was first Lieutenant of the Essex, during the Month
of February 1743
[text omitted]
Then the Court asked. Q Is this Deposition true?
A. Yes.
Q Was the Rupert never in the Line?
A. No.
Q. Was she ever within Point-blank?
A. No, not when I saw her.
Q. What time did you see her?
A. I saw her several times that Day
The strong question-and-answer element helps to explain why the majority
of the Court’s utterances functioned as (re)initiations/questions in the Court-
martial of Ambrose (1745), and why the Courts were thus the most active
questioners in the SPC as a whole (see 6.3). Sixthly, the set-up of the exam-
ining procedure – a reading of a deposition followed by a series of ‘routinized’
questions (cf. Section 5.2.2) – appears to result in a more ‘controlling’ strategy
(see 7.6, this chapter).
Most of the utterances ascribed to recorders (i.e. 114 out of 120) were also
utilised by one man – in this case, the infamous Sir George Jeffreys – in the
Period 4 trials of Elizabeth Cellier and John Giles (both of which occurred in
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
1680, towards the end of Jeffreys’ reign as the Recorder of London).94 As with
the Courts, Jeffreys’ main addressee was the witness. Indeed, he addressed 72%
(or 83 out of 114) of his utterances to witnesses, most of which (i.e. 52) were
follow up-initiations. Yet, like the judges, Jeffreys had a mix of addressees (i.e.
injured party, judge, prosecution counsel, defence counsel, and defendant).
As witnesses were the judicial examiners’ main addressee overall, Sections
7.4–7.6 examine their interaction in more detail. Please note that, in the case
of the Courts and the recorders, the analyses will concentrate on their most
active period(s). Section 7.4, then, examines the judges’ interaction with the
witnesses in the SPC as a whole (e.g. 1640–1760), 7.5 examines Jeffreys’ inter-
action with witnesses in Period 4 (1680–1719), and 7.6, the Courts’ interaction
with witnesses in Period 5 (1720–1760). However, where relevant, I contrast
the Courts’ and Jeffreys’ interaction with that of the judges to determine any
significant similarities/differences between them.
. The judges’ interaction with witnesses (1640–1760)
Table 11 (below) provides a breakdown of the judges’ interaction with wit-

nesses in each of the three sub-periods of the SPC. Notice that the majority
of the utterances addressed by judges to witnesses had the force of a question.
This suggests that judges continued to be involved in the questioning of wit-
nesses throughout the EmodE period, in spite of their apparent decrease in
participation in the courtroom procedure as a whole (cf. Table 3, p. 166).
Although the high proportion of ‘questions’ (in Period 3 and 4, in par-
ticular) is not sufficient in itself to suggest that the judges’ primary goal was
establishing the ‘facts’ of the primary event (i.e. what had happened), two
Table 11. Breakdown by force of judges’ interaction with witnesses (figures in brackets
show percentages)
Pd Counsel Question Request Require Express Inform Totals

3 0 103 0 2 1 4 110
(–) (93.7%) (–) (1.8%) (0.9%) (3.6%) (100%)
4 1 123 2 11 2 4 143
(0.7%) (86.0%) (1.4%) (7.7%) (1.4%) (2.8%) (100%)
5 0 21 0 2 0 0 23
(–) (91.3) (–) (8.7) (–) (–) (100%)
SPC 1 247 2 15 3 8 276
(0.4) (89.5) (0.7) (5.4) (1.1) (2.9) (100%)
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
additional factors appear to support such an hypothesis. Firstly, a substantial

proportion (i.e. 166 out of 266 or 62.4%) of the questioning moves occurred
in the ‘follow up-initiation’ position (see Tables 6–8 above): in other words,
the judges and witnesses were regularly involved in relatively long questioning
sequences like the following in Periods 3 and 4:
[Context: the Lord Chief Justice is questioning a witness, Mr. Oates. Oates has
just informed the judge of a letter apparently given to him by the defendant . . . ]
Interactional Intent Force Utterance
“fol-ini” “Question” In what language was it written?
“res” “Inform: answer” In plain English words at length.
“fol-ini” “Question” Directed to whom?
“res” “Inform: answer” It was directed to the Rectour of St. Omers, to
give him intelligence how affairs went in
England.
“fol-ini” “Question” Did you break it open?
“res” “Inform: answer” I was at the opening of it, and saw it and read it.
There was a Letter to Father Lechees , which was
superscribed by the same hand that the
treasonable Letter of news was written, and the
same hand that the recommendation to
Playford was written in. When this Letter was
open there was a Seal fixt, a flying Seal and no
mans Name to it.
“fol-ini” “Question” What was the Contents of that Letter to Lechees?
[Mr. Oates goes on to describe the contents of the letter at length]
Secondly, wh-questions and polar interrogatives with an information-seeking

function were the predominant question-types (see Table 12 below).
Wh-interrogatives are generally regarded as information-seeking (i.e. they
request a missing variable). However, the majority of the judges’ polar inter-
rogatives requested a polarity decision which would cause S (and others) to know
(some things[s] about Y, thereby sharing the formers’ information-seeking
function (see 4.4.3). It is worth noting that many of these ‘information-seeking’
polar interrogatives procured longer ‘answers’ than polar interrogatives with
other functions. Compare, for example, the Lord Chief Justice’s initial ‘Did
you break it open?’ question to Oates, which (as previously explained) received
a long (e.g. 66-word) response from the witness, and his repeat question (e.g.
‘Did you open the Letters’), asking Oates to re-confirm his answer, to which
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 12. Breakdown by period of question-types that judges addressed to witnesses

Pd Polar Wh-Q Decl-Q Neg Alt Neg Ind Rhet-Q Ellip Tag Total
polar Wh- polar
3 35 60 6 3 4 4 0 0 2 0 114
(30.7) (52.6) (5.3) (2.6) (3.5) (3.5) (–) (–) (1.8) (–) (100)
4 54 57 10 5 3 0 3 1 0 1 134
(40.3) (42.5) (7.5) (3.7) (2.2) (–) (2.2) (0.8) (–) (0.8) (100)
5 8 12 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 23
(34.8) (52.2) (13.0) (–) (–) (–) (–) (–) (–) (–) (100)
SPC 97 129 19 8 7 4 3 1 2 1 271
(35.8) (47.6) (7.0) (2.9) (2.6) (1.5) (1.1) (0.4) (0.7) (0.4) (100)
Oates gave a one-worded response, ‘yes’ (see p. 157). That said, most ‘answers’
to polar interrogatives were longer than one word in Period 3. Indeed, the latter
was the only one-word ‘answer’ given in response to a judges’ single polar inter-
rogative in Period 3 (by single polar interrogative, I mean a polar interrogative
that was not part of a multiple-interrogative format). In other words, witnesses’
‘answers’ to the judges’ polar interrogatives tended to contain ‘elaborates’ (i.e.
additional/supporting information than explicitly requested, see 4.4.3). This sug-
gests, then, that ‘elaborates’ were quite common in the Period 3 data, and thus
apparently acceptable to the judges, and, in turn, that ‘yes’ and ‘no’ was not
the ‘expected’ response of polar interrogatives (cf. Sections 3.3 and 7.6). How-
ever, I should point out that overly-wordy ‘elaborates’ like the above were not
tolerated when used frequently. Indeed, Oates was instructed to ‘answer the
question in short, and without confounding it with length’ after producing a
series of ‘lengthy’ answers (Trial of Edward Coleman, 1678). I will explore some
of these issues in greater depth, when I examine the responses of the witnesses
(see Chapter 10).
Period 3 and 4 judges not only requested that witnesses recount a chain of
events, but also ‘what’ they ‘knew’ and/or ‘what’ they had said or heard another
say (e.g. ‘Mr. Gadbury, What do you know concerning this Plot?’, ‘What said
Mr. Langhorn to you about the Commissions in his chamber?’, ‘What was the
Information you gave at that time to the Council against Mr. Coleman?’, etc.).
Not surprisingly, what was the most common wh-form. That said, the majority
of what-interrogatives requested fairly minimal responses in Period 3 and 4,
such as the naming of a location (‘At what house was it?’), time (‘What time
did you . . . ’), or an amount (‘What did you spend there?), thereby challenging
the traditional assumption that what-interrogatives are relatively unrestricted
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
(see 5.2.1). This is not to say that all of the judges’ what-interrogatives were
information-seeking, for some were used to challenge/seek clarification about
a witnesses’ prior evidence, as when the Lord Chief Justice asked Oates, ‘VVhat
time went you to Langhorns chamber? I cannot reconcile the months together.’
(Trial of Edward Coleman, 1678; see 5.5 for a commentary on this and the
preceding interaction).
The use of wh-questions to query and/or request clarification of something
said by another was a particularly common feature of judges’ interaction with
witnesses in Period 5. Indeed, twelve of the judges’ twenty-one questioning
moves responded to and/or requested clarification of something said by another
(cf. Stenström 1984: 173; see also 4.4.3). By way of illustration, the judge in the
Layer trial (1722) intervened to help clarify an interchange between a witness
and the defendant (for clarity, I have indicated to whom each of the utterances
were addressed):
[Context: a witness, Mrs. Mason, has previously stated that the prisoner had
instructed her to take in any letters ‘directed to Mr. Fountaine’ for him, and
that she had done so]
Prisoner. [to witness] How can you tell how that Letter was directed,
which you took in since you say you cannot Read?
Mrs. Mason. [to prisoner] It was directed to Mr. Fountaine.
Prisoner. [to witness] Did you read the Superscription?
Mrs. Mason. [to prisoner] No. Mrs. Cook did.
Ld. Ch. Just. [to witness] You say you was desired by Mr. Layer, when any
Letter came directed to Mr. Fountaine, to take it
in; and that a Letter came directed to Mr.
Fountaine, and you took it in. The Question is
asked you, since you cannot read, how could you
tell it was directed to Mr. Fountaine?
Mrs. Mason. [to judge] My Landlady told me it was for Mr. Fountaine,
and she knew he went by the Name of Fountaine
sometimes.
Prisoner. [to judge] She said she read it.
Mrs. Mason. [to witness] No. I said I gave it to you, and you open’d it, and
you read it.
Ld. Ch. Just. [to prisoner] The Occasion of this Question is, that this
Misnomer was approved of by you. She says that
you order’d her, that if any Letter came directed
to Mr. Fountaine, she should take it in; a Letter
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
did come directed so, she took it in, and then

deliver’d it to you; and you receiv’d it from her,
and open’d and read it;
Ld. Ch. Just. [to witness] but how, say they, cou’d you know this Letter was
directed to Mr. Fountaine, when you can neither
write nor read?
Ld. Ch. Just. [to prisoner] She having receiv’d such an Order, when there
was a Letter come, it was natural enough, that she
that cou’d not read, should ask her Landlady the
Directions of the Letter, and it was directed for
Fountaine; it was natural enough for her to take it
in, and give it to you.
The initial evidence that the Lord Chief Justice chose to clarify related to how
the witness could tell that the letter she had taken in was directed to Mr. Foun-
taine if she could not read. Although one could argue that Mrs. Mason had
already provided the evidence (albeit implicitly) when she informed the de-
fendant that Mrs. Cook had read it, the judge apparently desired an explicit
response from her (as Tiersma 2000: 168 highlights, the same expectation – that
information which is pragmatically obvious be made more explicit – can be ev-
idenced in the modern courtroom). That explicit response provoked a second
interchange between the witness and the defendant, and caused the Lord Chief
Justice, in turn, to ‘weigh’ the evidence given by each participant, before com-
ing to a conclusion in favour of the witness. Notice that the judge was careful
to frame his utterances so that they ‘objectively’ summarised what had been
said by the participants themselves (‘She says that you . . . but . . . say they . . . ’).
This type of strategy appeared to be designed so as to avoid misrepresenting
the participants and, in turn, draw the jury’s attention to (without negatively
influencing their assessment of) particular salient points. The impression given
by this and similar extracts from the Period 5 data is that judges were beginning
to adopt a ‘presiding’ role similar to that embraced by judges today (cf. Section
3.2.1). However, as will become clear in 7.7, they were not as ‘neutral’ as we
assume modern judges to be (cf. Drew’s 1985: 136 assessment of contemporary
judges – in particular, their concern for neutrality). Indeed, a judicial examiner
who utilised a number of questioning moves that responded to and/or requested
clarification of something said by another for reasons other than ‘neutrality’ is
Sir George Jeffreys. I analyse his utterances in 7.5, following.
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
. Jeffreys’ interaction with witnesses
‘Judge Jeffreys’ is perhaps best known for his involvement in the Bloody As-
sizes, the name given to the assizes which took place after the defeat of the
Duke of Monmouth at the Battle of Sedgemoor, and resulted in the execution
of 150 of Monmouth’s followers, and the exile of a further 800. Indeed, his
activity during these trials led to him becoming known as the ‘hanging judge’
(Simpson 1984: 274). Yet, whilst contemporaries recognised his ‘judicial brutal-
ity and manifest unfairness’ when ‘in pursuit of the Crown’s interests’ (Simpson
1984: 275), ‘in mere private matters he was thought an able and upright judge
whereever he sat’ (Speaker Onslow, quoted in Burnet’s History of his own time,
Vol. II: 600n).
The trials of Cellier and Giles took place five years prior to the Bloody
Assizes (i.e. 1680 as opposed to 1685), after the conclusion of the ‘Popish
Plot’ trials, which were themselves highly contentious (see Kenyon 1972). It’s
worth noting, however, that Jeffrey’s direct participation as recorder in these
trials seemed to be dependant upon whether another more senior examiner
was present. In the Trial of Elizabeth Cellier (1680), for example, the main
questioner was not Jeffreys but the Lord Chief Justice William Scroggs. Con-
sequently, Jeffreys utilised only seven utterances, two of which had the force of
a question. In contrast, in the Giles trial (for which Jeffreys was the main judi-
cial examiner), Jeffreys utilised 107 utterances, 86 of which had the force of a
question (76 being addressed to witnesses).
As Section 7.4 revealed, the SPC judges utilised wh-interrogatives more
than any other question-type when interacting with the witnesses, the majority
of which had an information-seeking function and were part of a question-
ing sequence. Jeffreys’ interrogative use reveals a similar pattern. Indeed, 44
(55%) of his interrogatives had a wh-structure, 40 of which requested a miss-
ing variable.95 What was, once again, the most common wh-form. Indeed, the
what-interrogative accounts for more than half (i.e. 24 or 54.6%) of the wh-
interrogatives addressed by Jeffreys to the witnesses. As we found with the
Period 3 and 4 judges, Jeffreys’ use of what-interrogatives challenges the tra-
ditional assumption that what-interrogatives are relatively unrestricted (see
also 5.2.1). Indeed, only five could be categorised as ‘broad’ (the remaining re-
quested similar minimal responses to the judges’ what-interrogatives, e.g. the
naming of a location, time, name, etc.). Moreover, it is worth noting that the
‘broad’ interrogatives were perhaps not as broad as they would have been if they
had been spoken in a different context. For example, two of the five were ‘what
say you . . . ’ interrogatives that initiated an examination of a witness. Although
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
seemingly ‘open’ (i.e. they raised ‘the general issue of what [the witness] had to
say’, without relating to prior given evidence; cf. Hiltunen 1996: 25f.), the ques-
tioning sequences they initiated were very short. Indeed, one witness (Roger
How) was not asked any further questions, and the other (Elizabeth Crooks)
was asked only one additional question, according to the scribes:
Record. What have you to say?
Eliz. Sir I went with mr. Giles home, and it was between Nine and Ten a
Clock, and I saw him in his Lodging, and I saw him in the Morning.
Record. Are you sure he went to Bed when you made it?
Crook, It was between Ten and Eleven a Clock.
[Trial of Giles, 1680]
A tight control over testimony has previously been put down to the use of
‘leading questions’, but Jeffreys often used wh-interrogatives (or a combina-
tion of ‘leading’ and wh-interrogatives) to request from witnesses only that
information that he deemed to be ‘appropriate’ to the case:
[Context: a member of the prosecution counsel, Mr. Thompson, had asked
Richmond to explain how John Giles had arrived at his lodgings on the day
he was supposed to have attacked John Arnold]
Mr. Richmond. We went to several places that day, and at Eight or Nine, or
between Eight and Nine, we came to the Kings Arms in St.
Martins-lane, and I left him at the Kitchin Fire, and went
up into the Chamber, and drank a considerable quantity of
drink; and as near as I can guess, it was between Twelve and
One a Clock before he came to his Bed: for after I was going
to Bed, about One of the Clock, I heard John Giles come up
the Stairs, and bid me Good-night; he called at my door
just as I was pulling off my Breeches to go into Bed.
Recorder. What time was this?
Will.Richmond. As near as I can guess it was between Twelve and One, or
very near One.
Recorder. At what House was it?
Will Richmond. The Kings Arms in St. Martins-lane.
Recorder. What did you say when the Maid was making the Bed.
Will Richmond. I asked her who it was for? And she said for a Man that was
not willing to lie with any Body.
Recorder. What time did you come to the House?
Will. Richmond. About Nine.
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
Record. Did you stay in that House till that time?

Will. Richmond. I lay in the House Sir.
Record. You were not out of the House all the while?
Will. Richmond. No Sir, I was not out of it.
Record. And you are sure that you did not see him again till he
came to your door going to Bed?
Will. Richmond. Yes Sir.
Record. What time was that?
Will. Richmond. Nigh One.
Richmond’s first ‘answer’ (above) was in response to a ‘what say you’ ques-
tion from the prosecution counsel (e.g. ‘What do you say to his coming to
his Lodging?’). As that answer reveals, the question was open-ended enough
to allow Richmond to provide a brief narrative. Jeffreys’ wh-interrogatives, in
contrast, sought very specific information from Richmond. Notice that they
were followed by a polar interrogative and two declarative questions, which
sought – and received – the witness’s confirmation. Notice, also, that the
wh-interrogative after the declarative questions asked Richmond to confirm
information he had previously volunteered.
Jeffreys utilised a second series of wh-interrogatives (nine in total) imme-
diately following the above extract to establish an itinerary of Richmond and
Giles’s whereabouts/actions on the evening in question. All were restrictive (e.g.
‘where did you go at that time?’ . . . ‘what did you spend there?’ . . . ‘whether did
you go from thence?’ . . . ‘How long did you stay in Drury-lane?’ . . . ‘Where af-
ter that?’ . . . ‘Who did you meet with all between X and Y . . . ?’ . . . ‘What did
you drink there?’ . . . ‘How long did you stay there?’ . . . ‘What time of Night was
it that you went from thence?’). Such a strategy (i.e. carefully framing questions
so that they appear open-ended, but, in reality, allow a tight control over tes-
timony) is remarkably similar to that advocated by Koskoff (1983) in a recent
article published in The Litigation Manual: A Primer for Trial Lawyers:
The lesson could not be more clear. Completely neutral questions are rare
indeed. Questions which will influence the answers – at least statistically – can
be framed so they will not run afoul of the rule against leading. If the words in
question are going to influence the answer, they should be carefully thought
out in advance. (Koskoff 1983: 111. Cited in Tiersma 2000: 175)
Of course, the one main difference between the above and Jeffreys’ strategy is
the use of leading questions, for contemporary lawyers cannot make use of the
latter during direct examination (Tiersma 2000: 172), but judicial examiners in
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
the EmodE period were not restricted by such a rule.96 Indeed, Jeffreys followed
up the above sequence with two further declarative questions.
Yet, it is worth noting that, even though Jeffreys’ questioning style was pri-
marily controlling, not all of the ‘conducive’ question-types that he utilised
exhibited a controlling element. Indeed, as I highlighted in Section 5.4.1, Jef-
freys addressed a ‘copy’ tag to Ann Beron that indicated his surprise at finding
that he had misunderstood some prior evidence given by her:97
[Context: The defendant (John Giles) is attempt to point out to Jeffreys that
he believes he has misunderstood some previous information given by the
witness, one Ann Beron]
Giles. My Lord, she don’t say she was with us all the while, but
we came to an House where she was, and several other
People our Neighbours.
Record. (to Giles) She says you did go out sometime [. . . ]
Record. (to Beron) [. . . ] Now see whether I mistake you.
Ann. Yes you do mistake me.
Record. He went out, did he?
Ann. Yes he went out after we came into the City, he and some
others, and then they came back to me again in two or
three hours.
I highlight this example again so that I can point out that ‘conducivity’ is re-
lated to – but not the same as – ‘control’ (cf. Section 3.3.2). This means that
the presence of conducive question-types in the historical courtroom cannot
automatically be taken as a signal that they were being used coercively – even
when utilised by judicial examiners as controlling as Jeffreys (for contempo-
rary views of Jeffreys’ questioning method see Burnet 1715; North 1742). In
other words, counts of question-types cannot be seen as explanatory in and of
themselves. Rather, they are a first step towards the identification of patterns
or norms and, by extension, the identification of exceptions from those norms
as we move towards ‘qualitative, functional interpretations of quantitative pat-
terns’ (cf. Biber et al. 1998: 5; see, also, Section 12.8 for my understanding of the
relationship between corpus linguistics and historical research). As will become
clear, an approach that blends quantitative and qualitative analyses is especially
important when attempting to understand the role of the Court in the EmodE
courtroom.
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
. The Courts’ interaction with witnesses (1720–1760)
The previous section revealed that ‘control’ in the (historical) courtroom was
not merely achieved by the types of interrogatives utilised, but by the individual
style of the examiner and the context in which they were used. In this section,
I suggest that ‘control’ may also be achieved by the set-up of the examining
procedure itself.
As previously highlighted, the Court was the second most active partic-
ipant in Period 5, with 20% (i.e. 349 out of 1,741) of the total utterances.
Although relatively low, the figure needs to be viewed in light of the fact that
the Court only appeared as an active participant in two trials, the Trial of
Mr. Bartholomew Greenwood (1740), and the Court-martial of Captain John
Ambrose (1745).98 Because most of the Courts’ utterances (i.e. 99.1%) were
(re)initiations with a questioning force, the Court was the most active ques-
tioner in both Period 5 and in the SPC as a whole (see Table 5, p. 172).99 The
majority of the Courts’ questions (i.e 333 out of 339) occurred in the Court-
martial of Ambrose. As the SPC extract of the text relates to a day of the trial
which specifically dealt with the examination of witnesses, all 333 question-
ing moves were addressed to witnesses. The six questions utilised by the Court
in the Trial of Greenwood (1740) were also addressed to witnesses. Table 13
(below) provides a breakdown of the interrogative types utilised in both texts
(please note that, as some ‘questions’ contained multiple interrogatives, the
total for the latter is slightly higher than the total for the questioning moves).
Notice that the Courts favoured the polar interrogative above the wh-
interrogative in Period 5. Indeed, the polar interrogative accounted for 62.9%
of the total number of interrogatives utilised by them, and the wh-interrogative
only 30.4%. This is in stark contrast to the Courts in Period 3 and the judges
in all periods: 62.2% (i.e. 23 out of 37) of the Period 3 Courts’ interroga-
tives were wh-interrogatives, and only 21.6% (i.e. 8 out of 37) were polar
interrogatives.100
Table 13. Interrogative-types addressed by the Court to witnesses in Period 5 (figures

in brackets show percentages)
Trial Polar Wh-Q Decl-Q Neg polar Alternative Total

Ambrose 210 102 1 12 9 334
Greenwood 5 2 – – 1 8
Total 215 104 1 12 10 342
(62.9) (30.4) (0.3) (3.5) (2.9) (100)
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
The Courts’ interaction with the witnesses in the Ambrose text (1745) is
not completely different from that of the judges generally. Indeed, a high num-
ber of their questioning moves occurred in the ‘follow up-initiation’ position
(i.e. 322 out of 341), as the judges’ questioning moves had done (cf. Section
7.4).101 The Courts also utilised a substantial proportion of ‘information-
seeking’ interrogatives (i.e. interrogatives that requested a polarity decision
and/or a missing variable). However, before assuming that the Court’s ultimate
goal was therefore similar to that of the Period 3 and 4 judges, namely, estab-
lishing the facts surrounding the primary event, it is worth noting that their
habit of ensuring that all present heard a witness’s deposition prior to that wit-
ness being questioned effectively meant that, for much of the time, they were
seeking to verify information provided in the deposition as opposed to uncov-
ering ‘new’ information (cf. the judges and the Period 3 Courts, who tended
to utilise wh-interrogatives to procure facts relating to the primary event at the
beginning of their examinations, moving to polar interrogatives as the exam-
ination continued). Consequently, their questioning style was more explicitly
controlling than the judges’/Period 3 Courts’ questioning style. Indeed, there
were no ‘give an account’ requires or ‘what say you’ type questions, which
allowed witnesses to provide mini-narratives detailing what they knew (cf. Sec-
tion 5.2.1). Rather, their questions were designed to procure minimal answers
from the witnesses, as in the following extract taken from the examination of
Joseph Meyers (please note, the underlining is mine):
Q. If the Rupert had gone down in the Line at first, cou’d she have fired at
the headmost of the five Sail of the Enemy, and left a Space for the
Dorsetshire and Essex ?
A. Yes.
Q. At the Beginning?
A. Yes.
Q. Must not she have been to leeward of the Admiral then?
A. No.
Q. When the Admiral wore in the Evening, what Position were the
sternmost of the Enemy in from the Rupert?
A. When the Admiral wore, we were firing at them.
Q. Did they shoot up a-head, or lie a-breast of the Rupert?
A. The headmost of them was upon her Beam, but not the sternmost.
Q. Were they a-head of the Rupert?
A. No, when we wore, we fired our larboard Guns at them.
Q. When you was so near the Rupert, how far was you from the Spanish
Ships?
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
A. Near a Mile.
Q. Did any of the Spanish Ships coming up alter their Course from the
Rupert’s Fire?
A. No.
Q. Was the Rupert never nearer the Spanish Ships than she was just before
you wore?
A. No, that was the nearest.
Q. Did you fire any Shot at the Enemy?
A. Yes.
Q. At what Distance?
A. A Mile.
Notice that the Court’s negative polar questions (e.g. ‘Must not she. . . ?’) and
disjunctive interrogatives (e.g. ‘Did they shoot up a-head or lie. . . ?’) tended to
have a ‘querying’ or ‘clarifying’ force, and procured answers that were longer
than the answers made in response to the information-seeking polar interroga-
tives and wh-interrogatives. Notice, also, that several of the polar interrogatives
had a similar force, primarily because of the Court’s inclusion of the non-
assertive items ‘any’ and ‘ever’. Yet, they tended to receive short ‘answers’ in
comparison (cf. the judges’ information-seeking polar interrogatives in Pe-
riod 3, which generally contained ‘elaborates’; see 7.4).102 In Chapter 10, I
suggest that the reading of a deposition prior to the questioning of witnesses
might account for the witnesses’ preference for short ‘answers’ in the Court-
martial of Ambrose (1745). By this I mean, witnesses were effectively confirm-
ing/clarifying ‘given’ evidence as opposed to providing ‘new’ information.
What the above example from the Ambrose trial cannot reveal (but a com-
parison of an earlier section of Meyer’s examination and another extract taken
from the Ambrose trial will), is the Courts’ strong reliance upon ‘routinized’
questions (see underlined sections, below).
[Context: Lieutenant Palliser’s examination (please note, Palliser was the first
witness to be questioned by the Court)]
Q. Did you see the Fireship go down?
A. Yes.
Q. Did the Rupert attempt to cover her?
A. No.
Q. Did she ever attempt to cover the Marlbro?
A. She went down to the Marlbro at Night, when we wore, but not before.
Q. Was she near you when you brought up?
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
A. Yes, she presently fell farther a-stern of us and to leeward, but not so far
as to form the Line.
Q. Was she ever within Point-blank?
A. No.
[Context: Extract from Joseph Meyer’s examination]
Q. Did you see the Fireship go down?
A. Yes.
Q. Did the Rupert cover her or attempt it?
A. No.
Q. What did the Rupert do?
A. She began to fire when we did.
Q. When did she begin?
A. Soon after the Admiral.
By the time of Meyer’s examination, there is evidence to suggest that witnesses
knew what information the Court was requesting, even though they may not
have requested that information explicitly. By way of illustration, a question
regarding whether the shot fell short had been addressed to three witnesses
prior to the Court questioning Meyer, and a question regarding whether the
Fireship was ‘within point blank’ had been addressed to four witnesses. Thus,
when Meyer was asked what the Fireship was doing at a particular time, he
answered by stating that ‘She continued firing some time, and all the Shot fell
short’ (my italics), and, when asked ‘At what distance she [the Fireship] was
from the Enemy?’, answered ‘Not within point blank’ (my italics). It is important
to note that, although ‘routinized’ questions were also a feature of several other
trial texts in the SPC, they were not used as frequently (cf. Section 5.2.2).
Thus far, I have concentrated on the judicial examiners’ interaction with
witnesses, which was largely made up of ‘questions’ and ‘answers’. In Section 7.7
(following), I describe how the judges’ interaction with defendants did not fol-
low a simple ‘question’ and ‘answer’ pattern, but often involved other eliciting
devices or, alternatively, the judges ‘informing’ rather than seeking informa-
tion from defendants. I go on to highlight the judges’ specific use of questions
in 7.7.1, and discuss their use of non-questioning eliciting devices in Chapter 11.
. The judges’ interaction with defendants (1640–1760)
Of all the judicial examiners, the judges interacted most with defendants.103
That interaction was at its greatest during Period 3. Indeed, judges addressed
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
52.4% of their utterances to defendants (that is, 150 out of 286), making
them their favoured addressee between 1640–1679. After 1680, however, judges
addressed approximately 10% of their utterances to defendants (cf. Tables 6–
8, pp. 176–177).
Table 14 (below) provides a breakdown by force of the judges’ interaction
with defendants in the SPC data. Notice that their favoured verbal action cat-
egory was that of the ‘question’ between 1680–1719, but that their favoured
verbal action category for the other sub-periods and the SPC as a whole was
the ‘inform’.
The favouring of the ‘inform’ when interacting with defendants suggests
two things. Firstly, that interaction between EmodE judges and defendants was
not based upon the question-and-answer sequences we commonly associate
with the courtroom. Secondly, the assumption that EmodE judges gave de-
fendants ‘every opportunity’ to give their version of events is erroneous (cf.
Sections 3.4.1–3.4.2).
Indeed, the Period 4 data seems to be distinct because of the judges’ utili-
sation of questions. Moreover, a closer examination reveals that most of these
questions did not seek to uncover ‘what happened’ during the primary event.
Rather, they asked whether the defendant had ‘any more witnesses’, ‘any Thing
more to say’ (for) themselves, ‘any Thing more to offer’, or any ‘Objection[s]’ to
what had been said by another. I also found that the interaction between judge
and defendant tended to be single ‘question-answer-follow up’ exchanges. The
one exception to this was the interchange between Lord Chief Justice William
Scroggs and Elizabeth Cellier (The Trial of Elizabeth Cellier, 1680). I examine
this interaction in 7.7.1 in detail, after I have documented the use that Period 3
judges made of ‘questions’ when interacting with the defendants.
Table 14. Breakdown by force of judges’ interaction with defendants (figures in brack-
ets show percentages)
Period Counsel Question Request Require Express Inform Sentence Problem Totals
3 17 21 1 45 9 60 1 1 155
(1640–1679) (11.0) (13.6) (0.6) (29.0) (5.8) (38.7) (0.6) (0.6) (100)
4 1 18 0 3 1 5 0 0 28
(1680–1719) (3.6) (64.3) (–) (10.7) (3.6) (17.8) (–) (–) (100)
5 0 0 0 1 2 2 0 0 5
(1720–1760) (–) (–) (–) (20.0) (40.0) (40.0) (–) (–) (100)
SPC 18 39 1 49 12 67 1 1 188
(1640–1760) (9.6) (20.7) (0.5) (26.1) (6.4) (35.6) (0.5) (0.5) (100)
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
.. Judges’ ‘questioning’ of defendants (1640–1719)
As defendants had been present during the alleged primary event, the EmodE
justice system regarded them as being in the best position to state what had
happened – in theory. In practice, however, my SPC data relating to Period
3 suggests that they were not ‘given every opportunity to tell all they knew’
(cf. Sections 3.4.2 and 3.4.3.1). Indeed, as Table 14 (above) reveals, judges ad-
dressed nearly as many ‘counsels’ as ‘questions’ to defendants (i.e. 17 compared
to 21), three times as many ‘informs’ as ‘questions’ (i.e. 60 compared to 21),
half as many ‘requires’ as ‘questions’ (i.e. 45 compared to 21) and nearly half as
many ‘expresses’ as ‘questions’ (i.e. 9 compared to 21).
If we examine the types of interrogatives utilised by the judges when inter-
acting with defendants in Period 3 we find that the polar interrogative was the
most popular, accounting for 38.5% of their questions (i.e. 10 out of 26) (N.B.
the judges’ favoured interrogative when interacting with the witnesses was
the wh-interrogative; see 7.4).104 Half of these polar interrogatives requested
a polarity decision (i.e. they were information-seeking). The other half sought
further clarification of and/or queried some prior evidence whilst also reveal-
ing something of the judges’ attitudes towards the defendants (see 4.4.3). That
said, the number of interrogatives that queried or sought clarification of prior
evidence increases to nine, if we include two of the alternative questions and
two of the four what-interrogatives. By way of illustration, when Connor Lord
Macguire ‘humbly desire[ed] to have a formall Triall’, the judge asked
In what respect do you meane? I think it is so now: Now you are come to
be arraigned, and the evidence is to come in against you, I conceive it is a
formall one
[Trial of Connor Lord Macguire, 1644]
Macguire was apparently not satisfied, however, for he later asked ‘what seal
you thus proceed against me, for I thinke you sit here by the new seal’. Once
again, the judge answered Macguire’s query with a query of his own, ‘What
seal do you mean, I sit here by vertue of the Olde by Order of Parliament’.
One of the two rhetorical questions addressed by judges to defendants in
Period 3 was also directed at Macguire.
What can your Witnesses say for you? Can they say thus much, That you did
not conspire, as this Indictment charges you? that there was no taking of these
Castles? Can they sweare in the Negative? the proofe lies in the Affirmative on
the Kings Part?
[Trial of Connor Lord Macguire, 1644]
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
The implication of the rhetorical wh-question was that the witnesses could not
say anything for him, of course (cf. Greenbaum & Quirk 1990: 240). More-
over, the judge was careful to reinforce the implicature by appending a series of
‘leading’ questions (see 3.3.1).105 Macguire appeared to recognise that he could
not hope to answer any of the ‘questions’ without buying into their damaging
presuppositions, for he did not attempt to answer any of them. Instead, he in-
formed the judge that he felt the Court had been misinformed about him! The
judge – and the Court – did not share his view. He was found guilty of ‘rioting
and enticing rebellion in Ireland’, and promptly executed.
As the above examples reveal, the questions that judges addressed to de-
fendants in Period 3 tended to impose a higher level of restriction upon their
response options than had been the case with witnesses. This was not as evident
in Period 4. Indeed, the judges asked defendants questions which functioned
like ‘prompters’ (Culpeper & Kytö 2000a), i.e. they asked whether the defen-
dant had ‘any Thing more to say’ (for) themselves’, or ‘any Thing more to
offer’, or, indeed, any ‘Objection[s]’ to what had been said by another. The
defendants’ ability to make the most of these invitations to speak depended on
several factors, of course, including whether they had been able to prepare for
the trial, had objections of substance to offer, and were able to talk effectively
in this type of public setting (see 3.4.2). One defendant who managed to speak
well on her own behalf was Elizabeth Cellier.
The main prosecution witness against Cellier was Thomas Dangerfield.
However, Cellier ‘accepted against’ him, claiming that (at a previous trial) he
had ‘threatened some of [her] witnesses, that if they would not Swear as he
would have them, he would kill them’. She also informed the judge that Danger-
field had been indicted for burglary. A witness for the defence, Ralph Briscoe,
was then called to substantiate Cellier’s claim. Although Briscoe did so, the
Lord Chief Justice appeared to want additional proof. He asked Cellier ‘Have
you any more?’. The Lord Chief Justice wanted to know whether Cellier had
any more witnesses, of course, but Cellier did not provide any names. Instead,
she provided information that was not the requested information, namely, that
she could ‘prove him [Dangerfield] perjured’. The ‘supply’ prompted the Lord
Chief Justice to pursue a new line of enquiry:
L. C. J. Have you any Records to shew he was perjured? is he convinced?
Mrs. C. No.
L. C. J. Then you can’t do it.
Mrs. C. My Lord, I can prove him guilty of Forgery.
L. C. J. If you don’t produce the Record, you do nothing.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Moreover, he continued to probe, in spite of his obvious reservations:

L. C. J. Can you shew he forged any Deeds. If you can prove that he hath
committed Forgery, and be not convicted, it is no Errour.
L. C. J. Have you your Pardon? She hath proved the Conviction of Felony,
prove your Pardon.
The second of the Lord Chief Justice’s utterances (above) was addressed to
Dangerfield, suggesting that some activity had occurred that the scribe chose
not to document. Fortunately, we can infer that it involved Cellier providing
evidence to prove ‘the Conviction of Felony’. Moreover, the scribe attributed
the next utterance to Cellier, confirming as much:106
Mrs. I have the Copies of several Records here in Court, which will be
C. sworn to. To which Mr. Dangerfield pleaded his Majesties most
gracious Pardon. To which Mrs. Cellier replyed, that she had a Copy
of the said Pardon in Court, but it did not extend to some of the
Crimes for which he stood convicted, and then produced a Record,
wherein it did appear, he was outlawed upon Fellony. Upon which
the Court commanded Mr. Dangerfield to go and fetch his Pardon,
in the interim examining several of the Kings VVitnesses.
After examining the witnesses, Dangerfield was found to be ‘not fit for a wit-
ness’, and Cellier was released.
In 7.4, I mentioned how Period 5 judges appeared to be developing a con-
cern for neutrality that Drew (1985: 136) associates with contemporary judges.
The compassion shown by Lord Chief Justice William Scroggs in the Trial of
Elizabeth Cellier (1680) suggests that judicial examiners in the Period 4 trials
also exhibited neutrality. Yet, with defendants, at least, this was the exception
rather than the norm. Indeed, there is plentiful evidence of judicial examiners
not taking kindly to defendants who voiced concerns about their proceedings,
as Cellier had done. For example, Ambrose was rebuked for ‘dictat[ing] to the
Court’ and using ‘ungenteel’ Speech (Court-martial of Ambrose, 1745). The
suggestion that led to the rebuke was that:
Every Gentleman that is a Member of the Court . . . destroy the Minutes they
have taken upon the former Tryals, that they may have no Influence in regard
to the Sentence that may be pass’d upon my Conduct.
I will be examining other instances of friction between defendants and judicial

examiners in Chapter 11.
Chapter 7. Judicial examiners’ questioning strategies 
. Insights gained
Evidence from the SPC data suggests that the judicial examiners’ questions
served various functions in the courtroom of the EmodE period, depending on
both the role of the addressee and the judicial examiners’ ultimate aim. For ex-
ample, the majority of the questions that the judicial examiners asked witnesses
had an ‘information’ and, to a lesser extent, ‘confirmation’-seeking function. In
contrast, the ‘few’ questions that judicial-examiners addressed to defendants
tended to have a ‘querying’/‘clarification’-seeking function (it is worth reiter-
ating that the judicial examiners’ interaction with defendants did not follow a
simple ‘question’ and ‘answer’ pattern, but often involved other eliciting devices
or, alternatively, the judges ‘informing’ rather than seeking information from
defendants). That said, there is strong evidence to suggest that the function of
the questions that the judicial examiners addressed to witnesses became more
‘clarification’-seeking as the EmodE period progressed. This is largely because
of a change in the judicial examiners’ role: At the beginning of our period, ju-
dicial examiners were the primary enquirers in the courtroom. Consequently,
they were ‘responsible for the development of the case’ (Landsman 1990: 506).
By this I mean that it was (the propositional content of and the ‘answers’ pro-
cured by) their ‘inquisitorial’ questioning, rather than any ‘altercation’ between
the respective parties (i.e. the witnesses and the defendants), which tended to
provide ‘proof ’ that criminal activity had/had not taken place.107 However, as
the EmodE period progressed, the judicial examiners were increasingly adopt-
ing the role of ‘umpire’.
The most striking evidence that the judicial examiners’ role was chang-
ing during the period covered by the SPC is their decreasing involvement in
the questioning of witnesses (and defendants) and thus control over the ques-
tioning process. Although their decreasing use of questions could be taken as
a loss of power on their part, it is worth noting that the inquisitorial form of
procedure had not been abandoned (cf. the activity of the Court in the Court-
martial of Ambrose). Rather, as will become clear in Chapter 8, it was slowly
being replaced by ‘new approaches, [which] rel[ied] more on party-conducted
interrogation’ (Landsman 1990: 514). As will also become clear, the judicial ex-
aminers found new ways of manifesting their ‘power’ (in particular, ‘weighing’
the evidence put forward by the lawyers).
Chapter 8
Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760)
. The emergence of counsel as major players?
Counsel rarely took part in criminal trials prior to the mid-eighteenth cen-
tury, according to historians (3.4.3–3.4.3.1). However, by the end of the
same century:
Counsel had had an immense impact on the conduct of criminal trials. They
had ushered into criminal procedure the divisions between examination-in-
chief and cross-examination and between evidence and argument, nourished
the growth of the law of evidence, changed the nature of the judicial involve-
ment in the trial, and supplemented the haphazard efforts of the prisoners to
defend themselves with professional advocacy. (Cairns 1998: 3)
Yet, prosecution and/or defence lawyers are present in several of the later SPC
texts. Moreover, they appear to have ‘impacted’ examination procedure almost
immediately, in terms of both their activity and the strategies they adopted. As
will become clear, several of the prosecution and defence counsels’ strategies
share similarities with the adversarial techniques adopted by today’s lawyers.
For example, there is evidence to suggest they used questions to control and
accuse as well as to elicit information, confirmation and/or clarification (cf.
Harris 1984; Woodbury 1984). As will also become clear, the EmodE lawyers’
use of ‘adversarial-type’ techniques was at its greatest when interacting with
witnesses in the presence of their ‘opposing’ counsel (see 8.2–8.5). For it was
under such circumstances that they began to design their utterances so that
they related to what had gone before and, ultimately, to the context of what
was at issue in the trial as a whole – the guilt or innocence of the defendant (cf.
Drew 1985: 137).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 15. Interactional intent of prosecution counsels’ utterances in Period 3 (figures


Judge Witness Defendant Court Unknown
Initiation 16 9 14 3 2 44 (45.8)
Response- 0 0 1 0 0 1 (1.05)
initiation
Response 0 0 1 0 0 1 (1.05)
Report 10 0 11 3 5 29 (30.2)
Follow up 0 0 0 0 1 1 (1.05)
Follow 2 15 1 0 1 19 (19.8)
up-initiation
Problem 0 0 1 0 0 1 (1.05 )
Total 28 24 29 6 9 96
(29.2%) (25.0%) (30.2%) (6.2%) (9.4%) (100)
. Strategies of the prosecution counsels
Prosecution counsels were present in four trials in Period 3.108 As Table 15 re-
veals, they utilised 96 utterances, that is, 10.2% of the total utterances during
1640–1679 (cf. Table 3, p. 166).
Although the relatively low figures (above) suggest that prosecution coun-
sels played a minor role in the 1640–1679 courtroom, their appearance is
nevertheless greater than many historians predict that it should be.109 Like the
Period 3 judges, the prosecution counsels’ main addressee was the defendants,
followed closely by the judges and witnesses. Notice that all of the utterances
that the prosecution counsels addressed to witnesses (i.e. 24 out of 24), and a
large proportion of the utterances that the prosecution counsels’ addressed to
judges and defendants (i.e. 18 out of 28 utterances in the case of judges, and 16
out of 29 utterances in the case of defendants) functioned as (re)initiations.
All but one of the (re)initiations that prosecution counsels addressed to
witnesses (that is, 23 out of 24) had the force of a question (I examine that
interaction in 8.4). In contrast, all but three of their 17 (re)initiations to
judges had the force of a request. That said, prosecution counsels also utilised
a number of ‘informs’ (x6) and ‘expresses’ (x4) when interacting with the
judges. Their interaction with defendants, their most popular addressee in
Period 3, was also mixed, consisting of 7 counsels, 3 questions, 1 request, 7
requires, 3 expresses and 7 informs.110 Interestingly, the majority of the ‘coun-
sels’ and ‘requires’ urged defendants to answer the charges put to them, as in
the following example:
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
Sir, This is the Grand Jury, the Petty Jury, and your Judge; they require you to
give your Answer, whether guilty or not guilty
[Trial of Dr. John Hewet, 1658]
This theme was also a topic of one of their three questions, a confirmation
seeking polar interrogative (e.g. ‘Do you stand to your Plea not guilty?’).
One of the two remaining questions that the prosecution counsels ad-
dressed to the defendants appeared to have a rhetorical function. It was moti-
vated by an exchange that Dr. Hewet directed to the judge rather than Attorney
General Edmund Prideaux:
Dr. H. My Lord, I hope it is not the sense of the whole Court that they
should proceed against me, either to sentence or any other way,
till first they clear themselves to me.
Mr. At. G. Pray who is the Judge? you must clear your self to him.
[Trial of Slingsby, Hewet and Mordant, 1658]
It is worth noting that Dr. Hewet was not given an opportunity to respond,
even if he had wanted to. The Attorney General’s retort was immediately fol-
lowed by a ‘require’ from the Lord President, urging Dr. Hewet ‘to plead’.
The (re)initiations that prosecution counsels directed to defendants sug-
gest a similar finding to that of the judges’, namely, that the primary expectation
of defendants in Period 3 (1640–1760) was not to state ‘what happened’ (in
spite of the contemporary assumption that the defendants should be given ev-
ery opportunity to do so), but ‘to plead’ so that the Court could establish their
guilt or innocence, based on the evidence of the witnesses (see 7.7.1 and Chap-
ter 11). In addition, comments like that of the Attorney General’s ‘Pray who
is the Judge? You must clear yourself to him?’ (see Hewet extract, above) give
the impression that the prosecution counsels’ primary goal at this time was to
work in conjunction with/support the judges. Moreover, the impression seems
to be confirmed by the main subject matter of the ‘requests’ that prosecution
counsels directed to the judges. Indeed, five of the fourteen requests were at-
tempts to get the judge to require the defendants to (i) perform a specific task
(such as pleading to their charge or providing specific information), and/or
(ii) inform the defendants of the outcome if they did not do so. The remain-
der sought something from the judge, including (i) an adjournment, (ii) a writ
made available the following day, (iii) that ‘justice’ be done, and (iv) that the
prosecution counsel be allowed ‘to go unto Evidence’ (see also 11.5).
If we compare these findings with the prosecution counsels’ utterances in
Period 4, we find a number of differences. Firstly, the prosecution counsels
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 16. Interactional intent of prosecution counsels’ utterances in Period 4 (figures


Def. Wit. Unk. Crier Jury Def. Injured Judge Record. Pros.
couns. party couns.
Initiation 2 72 7 1 2 7 2 8 0 0 101 (41.3)

Response- 0 1 0 0 0 2 0 0 0 0 3 (1.2)
initiation
Response 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 3 (1.2)
Report 3 2 22 0 2 7 0 18 2 2 58 (23.7)
Follow up 0 0 0 0 0 2 0 1 1 0 4 (1.6)
Follow up- 1 69 0 0 0 0 2 0 0 0 72 (29.4)
initiation
Problem 0 0 1 0 0 3 0 0 0 0 4 (1.6)
Total 6 144 31 1 4 22 4 28 3 2 245
(2.4) (58.9) (12.7) (0.4) (1.6) (9.0) (1.6) (11.4) (1.2) (0.8) (100)
were interacting with a wider variety of participants (cf. Table 15 above and
Table 16). Secondly, their involvement as a whole had increased, from 10.2% of
the total utterances in Period 3 to 15.7% of the total utterances in Period 4. The
majority of those utterances, (that is, 144 out of 245 or 58.9%) were addressed
to the witnesses, all but 2 of which were (re)initiations.
Thirdly, the prosecution counsels still interacted with the judges and de-
fendants, but the level of that interaction was much less in percentage terms,
i.e. 11.4% as opposed to 20.2% in the case of the judges, and 9% as opposed
to 30.2% in the case of defendants. Even so, a substantial proportion of these
utterances were (re)initiations (i.e. 8 out of 28 in the case of judges, and 3 out
of 6 in the case of defendants). The prosecution counsels’ continued use of
(re)initiations when interacting with judges is particularly interesting, as it sug-
gests that prosecution counsels utilised an initiator role with powerful as well
as powerless participants throughout the EmodE period, albeit infrequently.
However, the initiator role between powerful participants tended to involve the
utilisation of eliciting devices other than questions (‘requests’ in particular).
Notice that the prosecution counsels also adopted an initiator role for nine
of their twenty-two utterances with the defence counsels (e.g. participants with
a similar role in terms of power). Although the latter were the prosecution
counsels’ third most popular addressee, that interaction is too minimal (i.e.
9% of their total utterances in Period 4, that is 22 out of 245) to allow us to as-
certain a link between the appearance of the defence counsels and the decline
in interaction between the prosecution counsels and defendants in Period 4.
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
However, the Period 4 and 5 SPC data strongly suggests that the role of the
prosecution counsels in the courtroom itself was strongly affected by the ap-
pearance of the defence counsels (I will pick up on this observation at various
points throughout Sections 8.2–8.5).
In Period 5, the prosecution counsels’ interaction with the witnesses in-
creased again, to 194 utterances. This accounts for 86.6% of their total interac-
tion (cf. their interaction with the judges, which accounts for a mere 2.7%).111
All 194 utterances functioned as (re)initiations, that is, they initiated a new
exchange or continued an existing exchange. This level of interaction is con-
siderable, given that they were only present in four of the five trial texts relating
to Period 5.112
Taken together, the above figures suggest that the prosecution counsels’
role was different in 1640–1679 than it is today, for their modern equivalents
address most of their (re)initiations to the witnesses (see 3.4.1). In Period 4,
however, we see a strong shift towards that modern role, as the EmodE prosecu-
tion counsels become increasingly involved in the examination of witnesses. I
examine the prosecution counsels’ ‘questioning’ of witnesses in Section 8.4, af-
ter I have examined the interaction of the defence counsels and their addressees
throughout Periods 4 and 5.
. Strategies of the defence counsels (1680–1760)
Defence counsels were present in eight of the SPC texts, e.g. four of the five
trial texts relating to Period 4, and four of the five trial texts relating to Period
5.113 Like the other examiners, the defence counsels addressed the majority of
their utterances to the witnesses (i.e. 246 out of 398, that is 61.8%). As Tables
17 and 18 reveal, all but one were (re)initiations (they initiated a new exchange
or continued an existing exchange).
Notice that the prosecution counsels’ second most popular addressees were
the judges, to whom they addressed 19.6% of their utterances (i.e. [62 + 16 =]
78 out of [255 + 143 =] 398). That said, their active involvement with the judges
declined in Period 5 (as highlighted in Section 6.1.5, the defence counsels’
active involvement declined in Period 5 as a whole; see, also, Table 3, p. 166).
The Period 4 defence counsels often found themselves in the role of re-
spondent when interacting with the judges (they utilised fourteen ‘responses’
as opposed to thirteen (re)initiations). They also utilised a substantial pro-
portion of ‘follow ups’ (i.e. 16). The same does not appear to be true of the
Period 5 defence counsels. Indeed, eleven of the sixteen utterances that defence
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 17. Interactional intent of the defence counsels’ utterances in Period 4 (figures in
brackets show percentages)
Move Addressees Total

Defend. Wit. Unk. Crier Jury Court Judge Pros. Rec.
offic. couns.
Initiation 0 67 6 4 1 1 7 3 1 90 (35.3)
Response- 0 1 0 0 0 0 3 1 0 5 (2.0)
initiation
Response 1 0 0 0 0 0 14 8 1 24 (9.4)
Report 0 0 20 0 0 0 19 5 1 45 (17.6)
Follow up 0 0 0 0 0 0 16 1 0 17 (6.7)
Follow up- 0 68 0 0 0 0 3 1 0 72 (28.2)
initiation
Problem 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 2 (0.8)
Total 1 136 27 4 1 1 62 20 3 255
(0.4) (53.3) (10.6) (1.6) (0.4) (0.4) (24.3) (7.8) (1.2) (100)
Table 18. Interactional intent of the defence counsels’ utterances in Period 5 (figures in

Witness Injured Judge Unknown Court
party
Initiation 33 3 9 8 0 53 (37.1)
Response-initiation 0 0 0 0 0 0 (–)
Response 0 0 2 0 0 2 (1.4)
Report 0 0 3 2 0 5 (3.5)
Follow up 1 0 0 0 1 2 (1.4)
Follow up-initiation 76 3 2 0 0 81 (56.6)
Problem 0 0 0 0 0 0 (–)
Total 110 6 16 10 1 143
(76.9) (4.2) (11.2) (7.0) (0.7) (100)
counsels addressed to judges were (re)initiations. Like the prosecution coun-

sels, the majority of those (re)initiations (i.e. 9) had the function of ‘requests’.
It is worth noting that four of the nine ‘requests’ sought the judges’ permission
that they be allowed to ask/continue asking a witness some/more questions: ‘I
don’t know whether your Lordship will indulge us to ask the Witness a Ques-
tion or two now’, ‘I beg Leave to ask him a few more Questions’, ‘My Lord, I
desire to go on with our Questions’. This appears to confirm that the judge de-
termined the extent to which defence counsels were actively involved in trials
at this time (see 3.4.3.1). The remaining sought some action from the judge,
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
including that the judge ‘adjudicate’ upon the actions of the opposition, as in
the following example taken from the Trial of Christopher Layer:
Mr. Hungerford. My Lord, with Submission they ought not to be suffer’d to
give Evidence of any Overt Act in Middlesex, before they
give Evidence of some Overt Act in Essex; for the proving
some Overt Act in Essex is the only Thing which can entitle
them to prove any Overt Act elsewhere. For by the Method
they would go on in, the Jury may be captivated with a
Story of the Gryffin Tavern, and of Mr. Layer’s other
Assignations and Actions in Middlesex, which cannot be
imputed to him upon this Indictment until some Treason
be proved in Essex: I hope therefore the King’s Counsel
shall receive your Lordship’s Directions to go on regularly,
to begin to give an Account of the Overt Acts in Essex,
before they go into another County.
It is worth noting that the Lord Chief Justice responded by informing the de-
fence lawyer that he ‘must give them [the prosecution counsel] leave to go on
in their own Method’, before adding ‘if you dare not trust them and us, but will
have your own Method, it would be to put us into Confusion’. The judge’s last
comment was particularly interesting, as he appeared to be positioning him-
self with the prosecution counsel. As Section 8.6 will reveal, it was not the only
occasion when judges sided with the prosecution counsels in the SPC. How-
ever, before examining the interaction between judicial examiners and lawyers,
I will explore counsels’ interaction with their main addressees, the witnesses,
in greater detail. I begin with the prosecution counsels.
. The prosecution counsels’ interaction with witnesses (1640–1760)
Questions accounted for 83.9%–95.8% of the prosecution counsels’ utterances

when interacting with witnesses.
Like the judges, what was the prosecution counsels’ most popular question
form when interacting with witnesses in all three sub-periods of the SPC. In-
deed, over half of the wh-interrogatives were formed using what (i.e. 104 out
of 183: see Table 20). Consequently, what-interrogatives represent a significant
proportion of the prosecution counsels’ interrogatives overall (i.e. 29.1% or
104 out of 357).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 19. Breakdown by force of prosecution counsels’ interaction with main ad-
dressees in SPC (figures in brackets show percentages)
Period Counsel Question Request Require Express Totals
3 0 23 0 1 0 24
1640–1679 (–) (95.8) (–) (4.2) (–) (100)
4 0 121 9 15 0 145
1680–1719 (–) (83.4) (6.2) (10.4) (–) (100)
5 0 177 1 20 1 199
1720–1760 (–) (88.9) (0.5) (10.1) (0.5) (100)
Total 0 321 10 36 1 368
(–) (87.2) (2.7) (9.8) (0.3) (100)
Table 20. Interrogative-types addressed by prosecution counsels to witnesses in SPC

Period Polar Wh-Q Decl-Q Neg Alt-Q Indirect Elliptical Tag Total
polar polar
3 6 22 0 2 1 0 0 0 31
1640–1679 (19.3) (71.0) (–) (6.5) (3.2) (–) (–) (–) (100)
4 53 73 5 1 1 1 0 1 135
1680–1719 (39.3) (54.1) (3.8) (0.7) (0.7) (0.7) (–) (0.7) (100)
5 81 88 8 6 4 1 2 1 191
1720–1760 (42.4) (46.1) (4.2) (3.2) (2.1) (0.5) (1.0) (0.5) (100)
Total 140 183 13 9 6 2 2 2 357
(39.2) (51.2) (3.6) (2.5) (1.7) (0.6) (0.6) (0.6) (100)
Significantly, twenty-one of the prosecution counsels’ wh-interrogatives in

Period 3, and all six of their polar interrogatives were information-seeking,
suggesting that Period 3 prosecution counsels were not engaging in adversar-
ial (or what Landsman 1990: 517 refers to as ‘contentious’) encounters with
witnesses at this time. Indeed, the only prosecution counsel to utilise ‘con-
ducive’ question-types was Attorney General Edmund Prideaux (as I explained
in 5.4.2, he utilised two negative polar interrogatives in his examination of John
Stapely when the witness did not provide the ‘appropriate’ information to the
relatively ‘broad’ what-interrogative which initiated their exchange, e.g. ‘What
did he tell you concerning his being entrusted by the King therein’). How-
ever, the arrival of the defence counsels in Period 4 coincides with an increased
participation on the part of the prosecution counsels, and the adoption of an
approach that is more markedly adversarial (i.e. that involves the greater ques-
tioning of witnesses in an attempt to establish facts/shape testimony in a way
that is beneficial for their case).
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
Period 4 prosecution lawyers commonly utilised what-interrogatives as

their opening initiation. As the following extract from the Trial of John Giles
(1680) reveals, they tended to function in a similar way to ‘give an account of ’
requires (e.g. they enabled witnesses to provide mini-narratives):
Mr. Holt. Mr., Watkins. What did you hear that Giles should say in
Gloscester-shire about this Bufiness?
Mr. Thompson. What said he about this business of Mr. Arnold?
Mr. Watkins. My Lord, All I can say is this, I begin at the Stating some
Accounts between Mr. John Giles and Mr. Richmond, I asked
Mr. Giles for some Horse-hair to make a Fishing-line. Mr.
Giles replied, That he had left very good Hair for me at a
Farriers in Glocester, for he and Mr. Herbet Jones made such
haste through the Town of Glocester that they did not call for
the Horse-hair. I asked Mr. Giles what was the occasion of
his haste? Said he, For fear we shou’d be stopt in our Journey,
as suspected to be concerned in Mr. Arnold’s Business.
Notice that Watkins faced two ‘opening’ questions formed using what. Fortu-
nately, the repetition did not appear to faze him at all, for he still provided a
detailed mini-narrative.
It is worth noting that, although two what-interrogatives did occur as part
of an opening move in the Period 5 data, they were not meant to function as
mini-narrative prompters. Indeed, the questioning move of which they were a
part sought very specific information from the witness (i.e. a polarity decision
as to whether he attended Mr. Wheatley on a certain date, the time that he
attended him, and an explanation as to why):
Council. Call Dr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson was you sent for to Mr. Wheatley on the 5th
of June, what Time, and upon what Account.
Thompson. Between Nine and Ten o’Clock on the Fifth of June, I was
sent for to Mr. Wheatley, I live in Camberwell, I went to his
House, and dress’d him, he said he had been robb’d, and
that he believ’d he knew the Man.
[Trial of Bartholomew Greenwood, 1740]
Notice that, as the presuppositions of the two what-interrogatives assumed that

the doctor did, in fact, attend Mr. Wheatley, the doctor chose to concentrate on
providing the missing variables requested by them. The prosecution lawyer’s
second and third question to the doctor also requested specific information:
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Council. Did he mention no Particulars.

Thompson. Not while I staid, but I was not there long.
Council. What Time was it when you was at Mr. Wheatley’s?
Thompson. It was almost Ten o’Clock, but not quite Ten.
Notice, also, that the second of those questions, the what-interrogative, asked
the doctor to confirm evidence that he had already given, namely, ‘what Time’
he had been ‘at Mr. Wheatley’s’. Drew (1985) has shown how modern cross-
examining counsel often utilise ‘repeats’ as a means of undermining witness
testimony. Citing the example of a victim of an alleged rape who was immedi-
ately asked the same question about a car (‘Did it have hubscoops on it’), even
though she had answered the first question by stating that she did not ‘even
know what they are’, Drew (1985: 137) suggests that:
While the jury and others may be unclear about what hangs on whether nor
not the defendant’s car had hubscoops, [the design of the counsel’s] turn as
a repeat instead of a clarification ‘instructs’ the jury, or provides them the
occasion to infer, that the witness’ testimony is not to be believed or trusted.
As the above extract from the Trial of Greenwood (1740), and the following
extract from the Trial of Francia (1716) highlight, repeats can be utilised for
very different purposes during direct examination sequences. In the case of the
former, the purpose of the repeat was to draw the jury’s attention to factual
evidence that supported critical elements of the counsel’s ‘story’ (the time that
the alleged incident took place was a crucial factor in the Greenwood case).
In the case of the latter, it was occasioned by an overly-long ‘elaborate’ given
by the witness. Let me elucidate. The Solicitor General in the Trial of Francia
(1716) followed up his initial ‘require’ to Smith (see Francia extract, above) by
asking him, ‘Is this the book?’. Smith provided the following 236-word answer
in response:
Mr. Smith. This is the Book; it lay upon the Desk, and I looked into it,
and observed this Writing at the one End of it: He said it was
his Son’s Writing, and then I shut it again. I opened the Desk,
and looked over the Papers; I found there several other Papers
and Letters folded up: I took them out, and laid them upon
the Desk by the others. Then I searcht the other Parts of the
Closet, and laid all the Papers by the other Letters. I desired
then to go up Stairs, and I did so: And a Person I saw just now
in Court, his Son, went with me; and I searched the Rooms
and Boxes, and found several other Papers, and brought them
down into the Chamber where the Prisoner was, with Mr.
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
Wilcox; I put up all the Papers together, and said I had taken
all Things that I thought necessary, and desired to be going.
The Prisoner desired to stay and drink some Coffee; we did
so, and then brought him down to a House at Westminster.
We carried the Papers to the Office, and delivered them to Mr.
Horatio Walpole. When I was in the Chamber with him, he
seemed to be under a Concern when I put up the Book; and I
asked him what that Book was? He said it was the Book of his
Correspondence abroad.
Although Smith provided the information that the Solicitor General had re-
quested, he faced the same question from the Attorney General, Sir Edward
Northey:114
Mr. Att. Gen. Is this the Book?
Mr. Smith. Yes.
Mr. Att. Gen. You say you saw several Letters there, did you look into them?
Mr. Smith. I saw they were directed to Francia: There was a Parcel that lay
open in Folio; and others that lay folded up in the Desk.
Mr. Att. Gen. What became of the Book and Papers after you had them?
Mr. Smith. We went with them and the Prisoner, and delivered the
Prisoner into a House at Westminster; and then went to the
Office, and staid till Mr. Walpole came, and then delivered the
Book and Papers to him.
Mr. Att. Gen. Did you deliver any Papers to him but what were seized there?
Mr. Smith. No.
Mr. Att. Gen. What is become of Mr. Wilcox?
Mr. Smith. He is Dead.
As the extract reveals, the witness provided a confirmatory ‘yes’ only (cf. the
interaction between the judge and Oates in the Trial of Edward Coleman,
1678; see 7.4).
Notice that the Attorney General followed up his initial confirmation-
seeking question with a series of polar and wh-interrogatives whose design
gave the witness much less leeway than he had enjoyed initially. The approach
utilised by the Solicitor General and Attorney General in the Trial of Fran-
cia (1716), that is, a progression from open-ended to increasingly controlling
questions was a characteristic of examination sequences between prosecution
lawyers and witnesses in the Period 4 and 5 trial texts in general. In other words,
for those interactions when opposing counsel were also present. It also typifies
the direct examination of witnesses in courtrooms today, according to Tiersma
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
(2000). Indeed, lawyers tend to utilise the strategy when they want to steer ‘the
testimony of witnesses’ in a way that produces ‘persuasive evidence to support
the critical elements of [their] client’s story’: in simple terms, when they want
to ‘advance their client’s case’ (Tiersma 2000: 160–161).
Occasionally, the prosecution counsels would utilise ‘requires’ to initiate
examination sequences before switching to more restrictive questions. For
example, the prosecution lawyer in the Giles trial (1680) began his exam-
ination of Mr. Hobbs with two ‘requires’, and then switched to a series of
wh-interrogatives which sought specific information regarding Mr. Arnold’s
injuries (Mr. Arnold was Giles’s alleged victim):
Mr. Thompson. Mr. Hobbs, Pray tell how you found Mr. Arnold when he was
Wounded.
Mr. Hobbs. I found Mr. Arnold Bleeding.
Mr. Thompson. Tell what Wounds there were.
Mr. Hobbs. Two in his Arm, Two others upon the Face, another upon
the Throat, which bled very much; another two upon the
Breast, and one in the Belly.
Mr. Thompson. What depth might that be?
Mr. Hobbs. Two Inches and an half long.
Mr. Thompson. Where else?
Mr. Hobbs. There was another upon his Breast.
Mr. Thompson. What depth?
Mr. Hobbs. They were not very deep, but there was one upon the Belly
Six Inches and an half; there was Two through his Arm, and
a Wound and several Bruises in his Head.
The point of the above was to spell out the victim’s precise injuries for the jury,
of course. However, when Period 4 and Period 5 prosecution counsels utilised
restrictive wh-interrogatives and other interrogative types with witnesses for
the defence, their goal was less about establishing a credible ‘story’ for the pros-
ecution and more about damaging the ‘story’ of the opposition. For example,
in the Trial of Greenwood (1740), the counsel for the defence asked a ‘friendly’
witness, one Cicely Mow, whether she knew ‘any Thing of seeing the Prisoner
at his Uncle’s on the Fifth of June, and what Time was it?’. Mow offered the
following ‘answer’:
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
Cicely Mow. I am a Servant to Mr. Greenwood. He lives the Corner of the

Savoy. Between Seven and Eight o’Clock, on Thursday Night,
young Mr. Greenwood came to our House, and ask’d for his
Uncle, I told him he was not at Home, but was gone up to the
Genoa Arms in Catherine street, and he said he would go to
him, for he had got on a new Fustian Frock and Breeches, and I
took up the Flap to look on it.
The prosecution counsel then intervened to ask a question or two of his own:
Pros. Co. Do you usually take up the Flap of Peoples Cloaths that come
to your Master’s House?
Mow. No; but I thought I might take that Liberty with young Mr.
Greenwood.
Pros. Co. What was he dress’d in do you say?
Mow. In a white Fustian Frock and Breeches, a white Waistcoat and
Stockings.
P. Co. How do you know it was the 5th of June?
Mow. I am sure it was; he was taken up on the Saturday, and it was
the Thursday before.
The implication of his initial ‘query’ was that taking up the ‘Flap’ of guests’
clothes was unusual, to say the least (prosecution counsels often responded to
and/or requested clarification of something said by a ‘non-friendly’ witness as a
way of influencing the jury’s assessment of that information). Mow’s ‘answer’
seemed to confirm that her behaviour was, indeed, out of the ordinary, whilst
intimating that her relationship with ‘young Mr. Greenwood’ was such that she
felt she could ‘take that Liberty’. The purpose of his other questions was to
suggest to the jury that Mow was mistaken in both the clothes that Greenwood
had been wearing and also the day of his visit. Moreover, by going on to ask
how often these visits occurred, he was able to imply that, as these visits were
so irregular, such a ‘mistake’ was highly conceivable:
Pr. Co. Perhaps you may mistake the Day, how often does he use to
come to his Uncles?
Mow. Once in three Weeks.
P. Co. What just once in 3 Weeks and no oftner?
Mow. Yes, sometimes oftener.
[Trial of Greenwood, 1740]
It is worth noting that not all of the prosecution counsels’ 63 ‘queries’ in Pe-
riod 5 were designed so as to undermine witnesses’ testimonies. Indeed, a large
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
proportion was used to give credence to factual evidence provided by the lat-
ter, when that evidence was crucial to their case. In the Trial of Christopher
Layer (1722), for example, Elizabeth Mason was instructed to ‘Give an Ac-
count’ of what she knew of some Papers belonging to the defendant. She began
by explaining that:
Mrs. Mason. Mr. Layer left two Parcels of Papers with me: He told me
they were of the Value of 500 l. He afterwards took them
away from me; and afterwards brought them to me again.
The prosecution counsel then asked Mrs. Mason a series of questions de-
signed so as to establish how she had kept the letters for Layer, believing them
to be love letters, and, when instructed by Layer, had brought them to him.
At which point, Cheshyre asked Mason a rather unusual question, given her
‘friendly’ status:
Mr. Serj. Cheshyre. Did you meddle with them, or open them?
Mrs. Mason. No, Sir; I put them in my Trunk: They lay there all the
time.
Its purpose was to help establish that the letters were always sealed when in the
latter’s keeping, as Sergeant Cheshyre and the Attorney General’s later ques-
tions to both Mason and Speare, the messenger who collected the letters from
Mason, confirm:
Mr. Serj. Cheshyre. Were they there when the Officers came?
Mrs. Mason. Yes, Sir.
Mr. Serj. Cheshyre. Was you there when the Bundles were opened?
Mrs. Mason. I was there.
Mr. Serj. Cheshyre. Did you mark the Papers your self?
Mrs. Mason. I did.
Mr. Serj. Cheshyre. Look upon the Papers, and see if you find your Mark on
those Papers?
Mrs. Mason. Yes, this is my Mark.
Mr. Serj. Cheshyre. Mr. Speare, you was present at the opening of them?
Mr. Speare. I was. They were sealed up when I opened them.
Mr. Serj. Cheshyre. Did you put your Name on them?
Mr. Speare. I did put my Name on them.
Mr. Serj. Cheshyre. Were they out of your Custody before you put your
Name on them?
Mr. Speare. No; they were not.
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
Mr. Serj. Cheshyre. Did Mr. Turner put his Name to them?
Mr. Speare. He put his Name to them, before ever they were out of
my Custody.
Mr. Att. Gen. You have mark’d all those Papers. You are sure those are
the Papers you took out of the Trunk in Mrs. Mason’s
Lodging?
Mr. Speare. I am sure they are.
Mr. Att. Gen. Shew them to Mrs. Mason. Mrs. Mason, were those
Papers in the Bundles that were deliver’d to you by Mr.
Layer?
Mrs. Mason. Yes, Sir; they were.
Mr. Att. Gen. You have mark’d those Papers, have you not?
Mrs. Mason. Yes, I have.
This suggests, then, that the Period 5 prosecution lawyers were aware of the
importance of designing their questions so that they did not just relate to those
that they followed (i.e. the immediate questioning sequence of which they were
a part), but also to what had gone before and, ultimately, to the context of
what was at issue in the trial as a whole (see Drew 1985: 137). Indeed, the SPC
data relating to the eighteenth century suggests that the importance of doing so
intensified with the arrival of the defence counsels, for they often asked about
the same ‘evidence’, but from a very different perspective. Moreover, as will
become clear, the differing perspectives occasionally became glaringly obvious,
because of the EmodE practice of allowing prosecution and defence lawyers to
intervene in the questioning sequences of the other (see Sections 8.5 and 8.6).
. The defence counsels’ interaction with the witnesses
The defence counsels addressed 53.3% of their utterances to witnesses in Pe-

riod 4 (i.e. 139 out of 255), and 76.9% of their utterances to witnesses in
Period 5 (i.e. 110 out of 143). All but one were (re)initiations. As previously
explained, the majority of these (re)initiations had a ‘questioning’ function in
each sub-period (i.e. 123 and 104 respectively). The defence counsels’ favoured
interrogative-type was the polar interrogative (see Table 21). The reader will
be aware that the only other examiner to favour the polar interrogative above
the wh-interrogative when interacting with the witnesses was the Court in the
Court-martial of Ambrose (1745). That said, only 33.5% of the defence coun-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 21. Interrogative-types addressed by defence counsels to witnesses in Periods 4

and 5
Period Polar Wh-Q Decl-Q Neg Alt-Q Indirect Negative Total
polar polar decl-Q
4 64 51 6 8 3 2 0 134
1680–1719 (47.8) (38.0) (4.5) (6.0) (2.2) (1.5) (–) (100)
5 45 42 10 7 10 0 1 191
1720–1760 (39.1) (36.5) (8.7) (6.1) (8.7) (–) (0.9) (100)
Total 109 93 16 15 13 2 1 325
(33.5) (28.6) (4.9) (4.6) (4.0) (0.6) (03) (100)
sels’ questions adopted this form, whereas polar interrogatives accounted for
62.9% of the Court’s interrogatives.
The defence counsels’ favouring of the polar interrogative may be due, in
part, to the examination sequence itself. Let me elucidate. Prosecution counsels
began the examining process (Beattie 1986) in the EmodE period, as they do in
today’s courts. This meant that defence counsels regularly found themselves
having to secure evidence from witnesses that ‘countered’ or ‘contradicted’
facts previously established by the prosecution counsels. Polar interrogatives
are ideally suited to such a purpose, for they provide a means by which the
questioner can restrict the choice of answers and, in conjunction with more
explicitly ‘conducive’ question-types, shape the respondent’s testimony so that
s/he produces persuasive evidence in support of their client’s case.
Occasionally, the defence lawyers’ desire to direct the testimony of the wit-
nesses was made clear from the outset, by which I mean, defence counsels
utilised polar interrogatives to initiate an examining sequence. This was es-
pecially the case in Period 4. Indeed, Period 4 defence lawyers utilised polar
interrogatives to initiate an examining sequence of a witness on eight occa-
sions (out of a possible 42). Several of these were ‘Do you know’ questions,
as when Mr. Phipps asked Oldfield ‘Do you know Capt. Porter’ in the Rook-
wood trial (1696), and Mr. Hungerford asked Mary Meggison ‘Do you know
of any Offers that were made to the Prisoner, and by whom?’ in the Fran-
cia trial (1716). However, as another initiating polar interrogative utilised by
Hungerford reveals, the witnesses still tended to provide a mini-narrative:
Then Lucy White was sworn.
Mr. Hungerford. Was you by, or in hearing, when any Offers were made to
the Prisoner.
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
White. Upon the Seventh of September I went to see the Prisoner

in Newgate. He told me Mr. Buckley was to be there with
him, and desired me to conceal my self in the Room, that I
might hear what past, and I did so. When Mr. Buckley
came he spoke about one Flint; and afterwards Mr.
Buckley ask’d him several Questions about Mr. Harvey. He
said he knew nothing but that he was innocent. Mr.
Buckley told him he must swear right or wrong for the
Government; if he would not, he himself would swear
High Treason against the Prisoner; for he had taken
Money of my Lord Townshend, and done nothing for it.
Mr. Hungerford. Did you see any Thing of two Warrants Mr. Buckley had at
that Time?
White. No.
Mr. Hungerford. Did Mr. Buckley see you?
White. No, I conceal’d my self under the Feet of the Bed.
Mr. Att. General. You say this was the Seventh of September. What Year?
White. In the Year 1716.
It is worth noting that the majority of the defence counsels’ polar interroga-
tives occurred once an examination had begun and, as can be gleaned from
the above, tended to receive shorter answers than polar interrogatives in initial
position. However, unlike the above, they were generally interspersed between
other interrogative types, the wh-interrogative in particular.
Polar interrogatives were also used to seek clarification of something said
by another, as when Charles Gastineau was asked, ‘Can you be positive that
you took a list of these warrants at that time?’. That said, Period 5 defence
counsels utilised slightly more wh-interrogatives for this purpose than polar
interrogatives (i.e. 14 as opposed to 12). The following extract from the Baker
trial (1751) provides an example of interrogatives being used both to ‘clarify’
and also ‘call into question’. The counsel for the prosecution in the Baker trial
(1751) had directed John Sedgwick to:
Q. Look upon this, and tell us whether it is your own hand
writing, or not? [That is the false one]
Sedgwick. I believe not, my lord, here is a K I don’t think to be like
mine.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Q. Look upon the name William Webb, is that Mr. Webb’s

writing?
Sedgwick. I have seen him write many hundred times; I believe it is
not.
The witness was then cross-examined by the counsel for the prisoner:
Counsel for the Prisoner. Can you be positive your name there is not your
hand writing?
Sedgwick. I am certain it is not.
Counsel for the Prisoner. How come you to be certain, you was not just now?
Sedgwick. There are the letters k, e and S, and the n in John,
are not like mine.
Counsel for the Crown. Is the whole name of your own hand writing, as it
there stands, or is it not?
Sedgwick. I am positive it is not.
Notice that the defence lawyer utilised a polar interrogative and a wh-
interrogative to contest the evidence just given. Notice, also, that the counsel of
the crown immediately countered the defence counsel’s attempt to undermine
Sedgwick’s testimony by asking Sedgwick to provide the same information that
he had initially, namely, that the handwriting was not his own. On this occa-
sion, Sedgwick’s ‘answer’ was more categorical. Indeed, ‘I believe not’ became
‘I am positive it is not’ (see Chapter 10 for a discussion respecting the wording
of witnesses’ ‘answers’).
The respective counsels often utilised their ability to intervene in the oth-
ers’ questioning session strategically, by which I mean they would attempt to
present evidence that was potentially damaging to their case from a perspective
that favoured their own version of events. Notice, for example, that Phipps,
the defence lawyer, chose to intervene in the proceedings after the prosecution
lawyer (Cowper) complained that the witness (Harris) did not seem to know
‘which side [he] was of ’ (see underlined utterance; for clarity, I have included
an indication of each participant’s role):
[Context: continuation of examination of Captain Harris . . . ]
Mr. Att. Gen. (prosec.) Can you Remember what Discourse you had that
Saturday Night?
Mr. Cowper. (prosec.) You say that on Saturday the 22d. Mr. Rookwood
gave you the List.
Capt. Harris. (witness) I do not say it was the 22d. for I cannot swear to
the Day of the Month but it was the Second
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
Saturday that we were to have gone about

this Business.
Mr. Cowper. (prosec.) You say he gave you a Lift of Names: Pray, when he
gave you that List, what Discourse happened in the
Room, just before, or after the giving of the List?
Capt. Harris. (witness) Sir, I think I told the Court that before.
Mr. Cowper. (prosec.) Sir, I desire you would repeat it.
Capt. Harris. (witness) My Lord, I humbly desire to know whether I am to
answer that Gentlemen that Question?
L. C. J. Holt. (judge) Yes, you are to answer, being upon your Oath, and
to tell the whole Truth.
Mr. Cowper. (prosec.) I ask him the Question so fairly, what Discourse
introduced the giving of the List, and what followed
upon it, that I perceive this Gentleman does not
know which side I am of.
Capt. Harris. (witness) Mr. Rookwood said we were to go to
Turnham-Green; and he told me, that I was to be
one of his Party, that we were to attack the Prince of
Orange.
L. C. J. Holt. (judge) You say you were to be one of his Party: Pray was it
there that he told you, you should be his Aid de
Camp.
Capt. Harris. (witness) Yes, he did tell me I was to be his Aid de Camp?
Mr. Phipps. (defence) Whose Hand-writing was that List?
Capt. Harris. (witness) I cannot tell, I had it from that Gentleman.
Mr. Phipps. (defence) But whose Writing was it?
Capt. Harris. (witness) Indeed I know not his Hand-writing, and therefore
cannot tell whose it was: He is for his Life, but I
believe he cannot deny any thing that I have said, I
suppose not: I shou’d be very sorry to accuse Mr.
Rookwood of any thing that was not true.
Mr. Phipps. (defence) Pray whose Names were in that List?
[Trial of Ambrose Rookwood, 1696]
Phipps’ questions centred around Harris’s ability to confirm that the list Rook-
wood had given to Harris was written by Rookwood. However, it may be more
appropriate to say ‘inability’, for Phipps’ second question was designed to un-
dermine Harris’s first answer by implicating, via the conjunction but, that
he had not, in fact, answered the question. Harris’s ‘answer’ to Phipps’ re-
peat question is also interesting. Notice that he emphasised that Rookwood
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
could ‘not deny any thing that [he had] said’ and, moreover, that he would
‘be very sorry to accuse Mr. Rookwood of anything that was not true’. This
may suggest that Harris interpreted Phipps’ second question as an accusa-
tion (that, for example, he was deliberately withholding information or, more
damagingly, lying).
. Questioning the questioners
It is worth noting that judges also intervened in the respective counsels’ exami-
nation sequences. Most of those interventions were addressed to the witnesses.
But this was not always the case. Indeed, the judge in the Rookwood trial (1696)
chose to ‘cross-examine’ a defence lawyer, Sir Bartholomew Shower, in front of
the whole court (cf. today’s courts, where lawyers ‘approach the bench for a
side-bar conference’ (Tiersma 2000: 169)).115
[Context: Captain Porter had been recalled to answer questions regarding the
first meeting – or meetings – between him and the defendant, including their
whereabouts, who was present and what was discussed, etc.]
Capt. Porter. They did there discourse the whole Matter, and Sir George
Barclay was not for going at that time, because there was so
many People that went with the King; that there wou’d not be
a good Opportunity to effect the Design: but I told him they
wou’d go off after the Hunting was over, and so it was agreed
upon to go on with the Undertaking.
Mr. At. Gen. Pray, at that time did Mr. Rookwood pretend to dislike the
Affair, or refuse to be any way at all concern’d in it?
Capt. Porter. No, my Lord, I can’t remember that he spoke one word.
Notice that the Attorney General worded his polar interrogative in such a way
that it presupposed – and communicated to the jury – that Rookwood did not
actually ‘dislike the Affair’ (the ‘Affair’ being a treasonable plot against King
William). Although Loftus (1975) has shown that the way in which questions
are worded can have an impact on the witness’s testimony, Capt. Porter’s ‘an-
swer’ shows no evidence of such manipulation.116 Indeed, he informed the
court that the defendant had not spoken ‘one word’ at the meeting. The judge’s
next exchange to the defence counsel picked up on Rookwood’s silence:
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
L. C. J. Holt. Why then, suppose at the Globe-Tavern, such an Expression

had not dropt from the Prisoner, but a Man is present at two
Consults that are held about the Death of the King, but says
nothing either at the first or second, What wou’d you make of
that Case?
Shower, the defence lawyer, responded by stating that Rookwood’s presence
did ‘not amount to a proof of Treason’. Significantly, the judge pursued the
matter, pointing out that there were two meetings not one (in today’s court,
we would expect the prosecution counsel to engage in such argument with the
opposition). Shower was careful to insist that he ‘did not know whether there
were two Meetings or one’, but that it did not really matter, because Rookwood
could have attended them both ‘by accident’. The judge did not appear to agree:
L. C. J. Holt. How is this by accident?
Sir. B. Shower. It does not appear that it was by Design or Appointment.
L. C. J. Holt. They were Acquaintance.
Sir. B. Shower. He had no acquaintance with him but in Sir George Barclay’s
company.
L. C. J. Holt. But besides, there was an express Consent at the
Globe-Tavern, when Rookwood said there’s an end of it.
Sir. B. Shower. That is as much as to say, I will not do it, I will not go with
you –
Mr. Soll. Gen Sir George Barclay was the Person whom they were to obey;
and Harris tells you, he told them what they were to do, and
six Horses were first plac’d, and three of them
afterwards remov’d.
Sir. B. Shower. That won’t affect him what Sir George Barclay said, any more
than Lewis’s appointing of the Horses.
L. C. J. Holt. Then there is another thing, Why did he give a List to Mr.
Harris? the List that was given had Mr. Rookwood’s Name at
top, as he was to command the Party, and there was Harris’s
Name and Hare’s Name as of his Party; that is, their feign’d
Names; Mr. Rookwood’s feign’d Name was Roberts that was at
top, and they were to go to Turnham-Green , and Rookwood
told Harris, he shou’d be his Ayd du Camp.
Notice the presupposition of many of the judge’s utterances. The why-
interrogative in the final interchange (above), for example, presupposed that
Rookwood had given him the list and, by implication, was responsible for its
contents. In other words, the judge seemed to be assuming that Rookwood was
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
guilty. One of the disadvantages faced by defence counsel during the period
covered by the SPC was that they had to prove their clients’ innocence (cf. the
modern courtroom, where a defendant is presumed innocent, and guilt must
be proven ‘beyond reasonable doubt’). Whether this meant that judges in gen-
eral sided with the prosecution counsels and against the defence counsels is
difficult to tell (especially given the low frequency of exchanges between the
judges, prosecution counsels and defence counsels in the trial data relating to
Period 4 and Period 5). However, the example of Elizabeth Cellier (p. 196) sug-
gests that judges were prepared to revise their ‘guilty’ assumptions when faced
with contradictory evidence (cf. the Salem magistrates in Archer 2002: 18–22,
who assumed that any who did not give them the answers they wanted or re-
sisted any accommodation to their version of the truth were lying and/or being
‘uncooperative’).
. Insights gained
The role that we associate with lawyers today – that of main questioner – was
still developing during the period covered by the SPC data (1640–1760), which
helps to explain why the questioner role was not limited to them alone, and why
they were not the main questioners for a large part of our period. Indeed, in
Period 3 especially, that role was mostly associated with the judicial examiners
(see 6.3 and Chapter 7). However, as the EmodE period progressed, we see a
pattern emerging, that is to say, more active counsels usually signalled a less
active judicial examiner (whether that be the judge, court or recorder). We also
see the emergence of a new relationship between the respective counsels and
the judicial examiners. Indeed, as Sections 7.4 and 8.6 (above) reveal, some
judges were beginning to ‘play a reactive [as opposed to pro-active] part in
proceedings’ (Landsman 1990: 520), and some defence lawyers were prepared
to stand their ground when the judicial examiners ‘questioned’ the credibility
and accuracy of their witnesses (and thus, their case).117
It is also worth noting that the introduction of defence counsel led to
the emergence of a new discourse practice in the EmodE courtroom. By this
I mean, the presence of lawyers acting on behalf of the prosecutor and de-
fendant seemed to lead to a recognition that the respective parties should be
responsible for providing persuasive evidence (the inquisitorial system, in con-
trast, tended to maximise judicial power and minimise the extent to which the
prosecutor and defendant were able to develop proof; see Langbein 1978: 315).
This, in turn, led to a more thorough questioning of witnesses and, con-
Chapter 8. Lawyers’ questioning strategies (1640–1760) 
versely, to the development of more explicitly adversarial questioning strate-

gies. Indeed, we see the beginnings of the system we have today – opposing
sides seeking to create/communicate a credible ‘story’ via their use of ques-
tions. Moreover, that ‘story’ was increasingly being established over a (number
of) questioning sequence(s), and often involved more than one participant
(see 5.5 and 8.2–8.3). Questions, then, were not only used to seek informa-
tion/clarification/confirmation, but were also used by the respective counsels
(in Periods 4 and 5, especially) as a means by which they might control and,
on occasions, undermine their respondents (cf. Walker 1987: 59–60). The only
way to ascertain how successful they were is by studying the ‘answers’ that
their ‘questions’ procured, of course. Indeed, the co-dependent relationship
between the examiner and the examined necessitates it (cf. Archer 2002: 9; see
also 3.3.2). Consequently, in Chapters 9 and 10, following, I turn my attention
to the main respondents in the SPC, the defendants and the witnesses.
Chapter 9
Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760)
. The multiple discourse goals of defendants
Chapters 7 and 8 have revealed that questions were commonly utilised by the
EmodE primary examiners, especially when interacting with witnesses, and
that they served a variety of micro and macro purposes, including seeking
information, clarification, confirmation and, in the case of the lawyers, con-
structing a ‘story’ or secondary ‘reality’ for the jury. Questions, in turn, often
exhibited controlling, undermining and accusing functions. Yet, the judicial
examiners and lawyers were not the only participants to utilise questions reg-
ularly in the EmodE courtroom, for the defendants also did so (see 6.3). As
we might expect, given their ‘right’ to ask questions of witnesses as they gave
their evidence, defendants tended to address most of their ‘questions’ to wit-
nesses (i.e. 164 out of 185; see Table 5, p. 172). The purpose of this chapter is
to examine those ‘questions’, with the specific aim of determining:
1. The types of interrogatives/pragmatic questions defendants utilised when
interacting with the witnesses, and their frequency.
2. The primary function of those questions (e.g. to elicit information/confir-
mation/clarification/other).
3. The effect of the defendants’ powerlessness on the ‘potency’ of their ques-
tions and, in particular, the extent to which the capacity of interrogative
syntax to constrain what can follow diminished because of their role.
4. Evidence of a changing role, as the EmodE period progressed.
Of course, the ‘questioner’ role was not the only role that EmodE defendants
were ascribed in the EmodE courtroom: Like their modern counterparts, they
were there to ‘answer’ allegations made about them. Consequently, I also ex-
plore EmodE defendants’ use of ‘answers’ to determine:
1. The extent to which their ‘answers’ supplied the requested information/
agreement/disagreement.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
2. The extent to which their ‘answers’ were the type of response that their
corresponding question-type typically expects, especially given the fact
that logically well-formed replies or, alternatively, responses that conform
with expectations, can be one of many pragmatically appropriate answers
(Quirk et al. 1985: 806).
The main argument of this chapter is that some defendants (albeit a small
number) continued to take advantage of their right to question witnesses, in
spite of the introduction of defence lawyers (i.e. in Periods 4 and 5). I also
point out that the defendants’ use of (re)initiations was not limited to ques-
tions which they directed at witnesses (i.e. someone in a similar ‘powerless’
role), for they addressed a substantial number of ‘requests’ to the primary
examiners. I suggest that this meant that EmodE defendants did not adopt a
respondent role when interacting with the primary examiners as often as one
might expect. As Section 9.2 (following) will reveal, this was especially the case
in Period 3 (1640–1679), suggesting, in turn, that the defendants’ role in Period
3 (i.e. before the arrival of the defence counsels) was very different from what
it is today.
I begin by identifying the discursive norms of the defendants, including
their regular addressees in the SPC overall, and the specific sub-periods (9.2
below). Sections 9.3–9.4 then concentrate on the defendants’ interaction with
the witnesses and, to a lesser extent, the judges, looking specifically at their use
of ‘questions’, and 9.5, on the defendants’ interaction with the judges, looking
specifically at their use of ‘answers’.
. The defendants’ strategies
Defendants interacted with participants adopting a wide variety of roles in each

sub-period relating to the SPC (see Tables 22–24 below).
Notice that the defendants addressed the majority of their utterances, that
is, 75.4% (or 177 out of 235) to the judges in Period 3 (see Table 22). In Period
4, they had two main addressees, the judges and the witnesses, to whom they
addressed 38% (i.e. 38 out of 100) and 27% (i.e. 27 out of 100) of their utter-
ances respectively (see Table 23). The witnesses were their main addressees in
Period 5, with 95.7% of their utterances (that is, 132 out of 138; see Table 24).
Although the above figures suggest that defendants interacted most fre-
quently with witnesses during those sub-periods in which the defence counsels
were present and, supposedly, speaking on their behalf, it is worth noting that
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
Table 22. Interactional intent of defendants’ exchanges in Period 3 (figures in brackets

show percentages)

Witness Court Unknown Jury Court Judge Pros. King’s
offic. couns. couns.
Initiation 4 6 3 0 0 41 1 0 55 (23.4)
Response- 0 0 0 0 0 47 1 1 49 (20.9)
initiation
Response 0 2 1 0 17 28 3 0 51 (21.7)
Report 1 5 5 0 0 13 1 0 25 (10.6)
Follow up 0 0 0 1 0 17 1 0 19 (8.1)
Follow up- 2 1 0 0 0 30 2 0 35 (14.9)
initiation
Problem 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 (0.4)
Total 7 14 9 1 17 177 9 1 235
(3.0) (6.0) (3.8) (0.4) (7.2) (75.4) (3.8) (0.4) (100)
Table 23. Interactional intent of defendants’ utterances in Period 4 (figures in brackets

show percentages)

Judge Witness Pros. Injured Recorder Unknown Crier
couns. party
Initiation 6 21 1 1 1 2 5 37 (37.0)
Response- 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 (3.0)
initiation
Response 14 0 0 0 3 0 0 17 (17.0)
Report 12 3 1 2 3 4 0 25 (25.0)
Follow up 2 1 0 0 1 1 0 5 (5.0)
Follow up- 1 12 0 0 0 0 0 13 (13.0)
initiation
Problem 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 (–)
Total 38 37 2 3 8 7 5 100
(38.0) (37.0) (2.0) (3.0) (8.0) (7.0) (5.0) (100)
the defendants’ interaction with witnesses in Period 5 related solely to two

defendants, Captain Ambrose and Christopher Layer. The first defendant, Cap-
tain Ambrose, faced a court-martial in 1745, and, crucially, no counsel were
present. The second defendant, Layer, was supported by two defence lawyers
in his trial for High Treason. Nevertheless, like Ambrose, the majority of the
utterances that he directed to witnesses (i.e. 44 out of 46 as opposed to 85 out
of 86 for Ambrose) had the force of a ‘question’, which suggests that he made
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 24. Interactional intent of defendants’ utterances in Period 5 (figures in brackets

show percentages)
Structural Addressees Total

function Witness Judge Court Member of No explicit Unknown
court addressee
Initiation 19 0 2 0 0 1 22 (15.9)
Response- 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 (–)
initiation
Response 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 (0.7)
Report 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 (0.7)
Follow up 1 0 0 1 0 0 2 (1.4)
Follow up- 112 0 0 0 0 0 112 (81.2)
initiation
Problem 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 (–)
Total 132 1 2 1 1 1 138
(95.7) (0.7) (1.5) (0.7) (0.7) (0.7) (100)
extensive use of his ‘right’ to ask questions of the witnesses as they gave their
evidence (cf. Section 3.4.2). In contrast, the remaining Period 5 defendants –
Bartholomew Greenwood, William Sloper and William Baker – seemed to pre-
fer to ‘put their cases entirely in the lawyer’s hands’ (cf. Landsman 1990: 547).
Given the fact that defendants were in court to answer allegations made
about them/explain their behaviour, we might expect the response to be a fre-
quent function of their utterances when addressing the primary examiners.
However, as the above tables reveal, this was only the case in Period 3 (see Table
22). Notice, for example, that all 17 of the utterances that defendants addressed
to the court officials functioned as ‘responses’ and, in turn, could be classified
as ‘answers’ (i.e. they provided information that had been directly elicited by a
question).
As court officials were relatively inactive in the SPC overall, I have not high-
lighted their specific use of questions, but it is worth noting that they tended to
utilise highly formulaic questions such as the following, ‘X, hold up thy hand,
what sayest thou, art thou guilty of this horrid Act of [. . . ] whereof thou standest
indicted, or not guilty’. It is also worth noting that all of the court officials’ ques-
tions to defendants shared one theme – soliciting a plea – but that defendants
did not always provide the appropriate ‘answer’ to these questions immediately.
As the following extract from the Trial of Harrison (1660) reveals, this was usu-
ally because the defendants chose to address an initiation of their own to the
judges rather than ‘answer’ the court official’s question (for clarity, I provide
an indication of the speaker’s addressees):
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
Cler. [to defendant] Thomas Harison, Hold up thy hand, art thou guilty or
not guilty
Har. [to clerk] If I should say I am not guilty, I should wrong my own
conscience, yet in matter and form as it is laid down in
this Indictment, I am not guilty.
Cler. [to defendant] Then you plead not guilty.
Har. [to judge] My Lord, I desire I may have counsell afforded me, and
time to make my defence, for I have been kept close
prisoner in a dark Chamber, and had no notice of my
Tryal till five of the clock in the morning, that I am
altogether unprepared.
Judge [to defendant] You are to plead guilty or not guilty, for in cases of
Treason Counsel is not to be assigned, for that would
make it justifiable, and that it were not Treason, and you
would be quit, but if it be treason, then it is not
justifiable.
Har. [to clerk] I am not guilty.
Cler. [to defendant] How wilt thou be tryed.
Har. [to clerk] By the Lords Lawes, and by the good and wholesome
Laws of the Land.
Cler. [to defendant] Wilt thou be tryed by God and the Countrey.
Har. [to clerk] He answered that was a profane word.
Then the Judge answered he shall be turned over to God and the Countrey.
Har. [to judge] No Sir, I will be tryed by God and the Country.
Cler. [to defendant] God send thee a good deliverance
If an EmodE defendant pleaded guilty, he was set aside to be sentenced at
the conclusion of the session. As the above extract reveals, if s/he declared
him/herself not guilty the clerk asked him/her how s/he would be tried (see first
underlined utterance, above). As Beattie (1986: 337) explains, ‘the only accept-
able answer was “by God and my Country”, that is to say by the jury’. Notice
that Harrison eventually supplied that answer, but only after the court clerk
addressed a pointed question to him (see second underlined utterance). Har-
rison was not the only defendant to exhibit an unwillingness to plead. Indeed,
the court clerk had to ask some defendants to plead several times. However,
‘standing mute’ or refusing to plead, was not an advisable defensive strategy in
Treason trials, as it was simply taken as an acknowledgement of guilt. Indeed,
‘after sufficient warning the prisoner in such cases was punished as though he
had pleaded guilty’ (Beattie 1986: 337; but see Chapter 11).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Court officials were not really primary examiners, of course. Yet, the in-
teractional intent of the defendants’ interaction with the judges (their main
addressee in Periods 3 and 4) highlights that defendants adopted the respon-
dent role even less with them than with the court officials (i.e. on seventy-five
occasions or 42.4% of the time in Period 3 and on seventeen occasions or 44.7%
of the time in Period 4). Forty-two of these [= twenty-five in Period 3 and sev-
enteen in Period 4] were ‘responses’, twenty-four of which were ‘answers’ to
‘questions’ [= twelve in Period 3 and twelve in Period 4]. The remaining fifty
utterances [= forty-seven in Period 3 and three in Period 4] were ‘response-
initiations’ (see 4.4.1 for a definition of the categories).
Yet, only one of the ‘response-initiations’ in Period 3 functioned as an ‘an-
swer’, albeit in an implicit way. The defendant in the Coleman trial (1678)
stated that the main prosecution witness (Oates) ‘did declare he did not know’
him. The comment prompted the judge to ask ‘Can you prove that’. Coleman’s
‘answer’ was to ‘appeal to Sir Tho. Dolman, who is now in Court, and was then
present at the Council-Table’. As the ‘appeal’ implied that Sir Dolman would
be able to provide proof, the judge immediately directed him ‘to speak on the
behalf of the Prisoner’.
The ‘response-initiation’ was not the only (re)initiation category to be
utilised frequently by defendants in Period 3, for the ‘initiation’, and the ‘fol-
low up-initiation’ also accounted for a substantial proportion of the utterances
that defendants’ addressed to their judges in particular (i.e. forty-one and
thirty respectively; cf. Period 4, where defendants addressed six ‘initiations’
and one ‘follow up-initiation’ to their judges). Indeed, taken together, the three
(re)initiation categories accounted for two thirds (i.e. 66.7%) of the defen-
dants’ interaction with the judges in Period 3. This means, then, that Period 3
defendants tended to adopt an initiator role when interacting with their judges,
that is to say, they utilised utterances that initiated a new exchange or continued
an existing exchange). In contrast, the three (re)initiation categories accounted
for less than a third of the Period 4 defendants’ interaction with their judges
(i.e. 10 out of 38 or 26.3%). This is not to say they were therefore adopting
a respondent role, for ‘responses’ accounted for only 36.8% of the utterances
that defendants addressed to the judges (i.e. 14 out of 38). Rather, as Table 23
reveals, their interaction involved a combination of ‘initiations’, ‘responses’ and
‘reports’ (as explained in Section 4.4.1, ‘reports’ state information that has not
been directly elicited by another participant).
As the EmodE defendants’ adoption of an initiator role with their judges in
Period 3 (and, to a lesser extent, Period 4) is somewhat surprising, given that
their ‘right’ to ask questions related to witnesses (see 3.4.1), 9.3 (following) will
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
examine their use of eliciting devices with the judges (and with witnesses) in
some detail. Section 9.4 then looks at the specific use that defendants made of
questions.
. Eliciting devices utilised by defendants when interacting with judges

and witnesses
An examination of the defendants’ use of eliciting devices for the SPC as a

whole reveals that they tended to utilise two in particular, ‘questions’ and
‘requests’ (see Table 25 below).
Indeed, over half of the defendants’ (re)initiations (that is, 185 out of 322
or 57.5%) were achieved by ‘questioning’ moves, and over one third (that is,
116 out of 322 or 36%) were achieved by ‘requesting’ moves. As we might
expect, the majority of the defendants’ questions (i.e. 164 out of 185) were
addressed to the witnesses (see Table 26 below).
Table 25. Eliciting devices utilised by defendants (figures in brackets show percentages)
Period Counsel Question Request Require Totals

3 2 19 103 10 134
(1640–1679) (1.5) (14.2) (76.9) (7.5) (100)
4 0 35 11 9 55
(1680–1719) (–) (63.6) (20.0) (16.4) (100)
5 0 131 2 0 133
(1720–1760) (–) (98.5) (1.5) (–) (100)
Total 2 185 116 19 322
(1640–1760) (0.6) (57.5) (36.0) (5.9) (100)
Table 26. Breakdown by force of defendants’ interaction with witnesses (figures in

Period Question Request Require Express Inform Totals
3 5 1 0 0 1 7
(1640–1679) (71.4) (14.3) (–) (–) (14.3) (100)
4 29 3 2 4 2 40
(1680–1719) (72.5) (7.5) (5.0) (10.0) (5.0) (100)
5 130 0 0 1 3 134
(1720–1760) (97.0) (–) (–) (0.7) (2.3) (100)
Total 164 4 2 5 6 181
(1640–1760) (90.6) (2.2) (1.1) (2.8) (3.3) (100)
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 27. Breakdown by force of defendants’ interaction with judges (figures in brack-
ets show percentages)
Period Counsel Question Request Require Express Inform Problem Totals
3 2 12 91 10 14 53 3 185
(1640–1679) (1.1) (6.5) (49.2) (5.4) (7.6) (28.6) (1.6) (100)
4 0 5 6 0 5 23 2 41
(1680–1719) (–) (12.2) (14.6) (–) (12.2) (56.1) (4.9) (100)
5 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1
(1720–1760) (–) (–) (–) (–) (100) (–) (–) (100)
Total 2 17 97 10 20 76 5 227
(1640–1760) (0.9) (7.5) (42.7) (4.4) (8.8) (33.5) (2.2) (100)
In fact, questions accounted for 90.6% of the defendants’ interaction with

the witnesses in the SPC, which means that the defendants’ role when interact-
ing with witnesses was generally that of an initiator. That said, it is worth noting
that the majority of those questions (i.e. 130 out of 164) occurred in Period 5.
Moreover, a large proportion of those questions (i.e. 85 or 65.4%) were asked
by the same defendant – Captain Ambrose. As previously explained, Captain
Ambrose did not have the help of counsel during his court-martial (in spite
of the fact that the court-martial took place in 1745). He was thus allowed to
question his witnesses at length, in a way that was not reflected in the other
SPC trial texts (see 9.4 following).
Defendants tended to prefer the ‘request’ when interacting with the judges,
according to my SPC data (see Table 27).
The majority of these requests (i.e. 91 out of 97) occurred in Period
3, suggesting that the defendants’ interaction with judges during the period
1640–1679 was either highly unusual and/or indicative of the special role that
defendants enjoyed at that time (I will pick up on these issues in Chapter
11, when I discuss the judges/defendants’ non-questioning interaction in this
sub-period).
. The defendants’ use of questions with witnesses and judges
In this section, I examine the defendants’ use of ‘questions’ when interacting

with witnesses and judges. In respect to the judges, I argue that defendants
were careful to attend to any possible challenge implications of the questions
they asked their judges. With respect to the witnesses, I point out that de-
fendants utilised a variety of question-types (including conducive questions).
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
Yet, in spite of the similarity in power, they found it difficult to ‘control’ the
witnesses’ responses. I also highlight extracts from one trial – that of Christo-
pher Layer (1722) – which suggest that some defendants chose to work in close
collaboration with their defence lawyers when questioning witnesses.
Table 28 (below), then, provides a breakdown of the interrogative-types
that defendants utilised when interacting with the witnesses and judges.
Notice that the defendants favoured the wh-interrogative when interact-
ing with the witnesses (as most of the primary examiners had done), and the
polar interrogatives when interacting with the judges. However, there were no
discernible differences in their function. By this I mean, defendants regularly
asked witnesses and judges questions that sought to procure clarification from
them as well as information. That said, there was a discernible difference in
directness. Indeed, defendants addressed as many indirect polar interrogatives
as polar interrogatives to the judges. As the following example highlights, the
force of these initiations was often somewhere between a question and a re-
quest: ‘I humbly ask whether it was a reasonable thing to conceive that the
Council should extenuate the punishment, if Mr. Oats came with such an
amazing account to the Council’ (Trial of Coleman, 1678).
The above ‘question/request’ also contains a deference marker (e.g. ‘hum-
bly’). The two strategies – including deference markers and utilising an indirect
format – were a common feature of the questions that defendants addressed to
Table 28. Interrogative types utilised by defendants when interacting with witnesses
and judges
Interrogative Pd 3 (1640–1679) Pd 4 (1680–1719) Pd 5 (1720–1760) SPC (1640–1760)

type Judge Witness Judge Witness Judge Witness Judge Witness
Wh 4 5 – 18 – 42 4 65
Polar 6 1 1 4 – 53 7 58
Neg. polar 1 – – 8 – 19 1 27
Declarative – – 2 1 – 13 2 14
Alternative – – – – – 9 – 9
Indirect polar 4 1 3 1 – – 7 2
Rhetorical 2 – – 1 – – 2 1
Ind. Neg. polar 1 2 – – 1 2
Echo 1 – – – – 1 1 1
Indirect wh- – – 2 – – – 2 –
Elliptical 1 – – – – – 1 –
Neg wh 1 – – – – – 1 –
Total 20 7 9 35 – 137 29 179
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
judges, suggesting that they were aware of the possible challenge implications
of the questions they asked their judges. Indeed, Mordant began by ‘humbly
crav[ing]’ that the Act under which he was being tried ‘may be read’. How-
ever, when his request was denied, he made a second – and third – plea to the
judge that did not exhibit the same level of deference. Indeed, the third ‘plea’
appeared to imply that the judge was taking away the defendant’s liberty:118
Mr. Mord. My Lord, shall I not know by what Law I am tryed, nor by what
Act, nor by what Commission? . . . My Lord, Will you take away
that liberty that we shall not know by what Commission we are
tryed, and who are our Judges? I desire I may not be made the first
president.
[Trial of John Mordant, 1658]
It is worth noting that Mordant did not have the necessary power to secure his
goal (i.e. the identification of the Law/Act/Commission under which he was
being tried), even when resorting to ‘conducive’ questions. Indeed, the Lord
President ‘answered’ the second ‘plea’, a negative polar interrogative, with a
‘supply’ (i.e. he supplied information that had not been requested by Mordant):
‘You seem to be a young Gentleman; I wish rather you would plead Not guilty,
or make an ingenuous Confession.’ This confirms my earlier point about con-
ducivity, namely, conducive questions – even grammatically marked conducive
questions such as negative polars and negative wh-interrogatives – do not al-
ways receive their designated answers (5.4.2), and suggests, in turn, that the
coercive potential of any question-type needs to be pragmatically determined
(Archer 2002; Piazza 2002).
As we might expect, the defendants addressed the majority of their ‘con-
ducive’ questions to the witnesses (see Table 28 above). Given their ‘right’ to
ask questions of witnesses, one might expect defendants to possess the neces-
sary power to achieve their goal in such circumstances. But, as the following
extract from the Trial of Francis Francia (1716) reveals, this was not always the
case, especially when the witness was of a higher status than the defendant:
[Context: Lord Townshend was asked by Sir Jekyll to state what he knew ‘in
relation to the Prisoner . . . as to the issuing out the Warrant against him, and
what happen’d afterwards.’ Townshend stated that he had received ‘Informa-
tion that there was a Treasonable Correspondence carry’d on between the late
Duke of Ormond, Duke D’Aumont, Coulange and Mr. Harvey, in which the
Prisoner was concern’d, and was the Channel in which the Correspondence
was convey’d; and that the Pretence of it was a Law-Suit, but that the De-
sign of it was in Favour of the Pretender’. Consequently, Townshend seized
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
Francia’s letters, and examined Francia on two occasions regarding their con-
tents. Jekyll’s next question to Lord Townshend sought to establish whether
‘all the Letters that were brought by Mr. Walpole, were laid upon the Table at
the time of the Prisoner’s Examination.’ Lord Townshend confirmed that they
had been, at which point the defence counsel took over the questioning . . . ]
Mr. Ward. I desire to ask your Lordship whether you heard that
Declaration read over to him?
Ld. Townshend. I dare say I did.
Mr. Ward. Did he not endeavour to excuse himself from signing it, till
he had read it himself?
Ld. Townshend. I don’t remember that, I don’t know that he made any
Difficulty of signing it; but I am sure it could not be
because he was refus’d to read it.
Prisoner. Was not there any Reluctancy in me to sign it?
Ld. Townshend. What do you mean? Have not I answer’d that already?
Prisoner. Did not you offer me some Money to sign it?
Notice that Francia’s two negative polars are preceded by a negative polar from
the defence lawyer, Mr. Ward. Ward’s negative polar assumed – and asked
Lord Townshend to confirm – that Francia did not want to sign the written
account of his examinations until he had read them. Significantly, the Lord
Townshend’s ‘answer’ referred back to an accusation that Francia’s defence
counsel had made to Buckley, i.e. that Francia had not been permitted to read
the account (see pp. 254–256 for a discussion of this interaction). Presumably,
Lord Townshend re-introduced this evidence to emphasise his belief that Fran-
cia was neither ‘refus’d to read’ the written account nor reluctant to sign it.
The defendant’s first negative polar then picked up on Townshend’s response,
and indicated to the jury that there was ‘Reluctancy’ on his part that he be-
lieved Townshend could confirm. Although Townshend’s ‘response-initiation’
was presumably meant to communicate his annoyance at being asked such
questions by the defendant, Francia continued. Indeed, his second negative po-
lar contained an accusation, namely, that Townshend had attempted to bribe
Francia into signing his examination/confession. Townshend did not answer
the accusation directly. Instead, he utilised an ‘imply’ to intimate that the ac-
cusation was too scandalous to be taken seriously: ‘I hope you can’t say such a
thing of so much Infamy’. He then turned to address a 177-word utterance to
the whole court which suggested that Francia had ‘begg’d [him] so hard’ that
he felt compelled to give ‘him three, four, or five Guineas . . . in Charity’ (see
p. 258). Francia was not satisfied, and gave the Lord Townshend a challenge:
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Prisoner. I desire to ask you whether you ever bestow’d on any body
else the like Charity? Pray my Lord, name the Man under
your Examination, you ever gave five Guineas to before? (At
which there being a Laugh round the Court.) you did not
answer me.
Lord Ch. Baron. Propose your Question to the Court?
Prisoner. I desire to know who he ever gave five Guineas to besides
me?
L. Ch. Baron. My Lord says it was out of Charity.
As the above extract reveals, the ‘challenge’ provoked an instruction from the
judge. Yet, when Francia did as he had been instructed (proposed his request
to the Court), it was the judge rather than the witness who responded. Francia
continued to ask questions, but found that he had insufficient power to compel
the desired response from Lord Townshend. As the witness’s behaviour (turn-
ing to address the Court when he was not happy with the way his examination
was proceeding) was highly unusual in the SPC data, I will be examining his
strategy in more detail in Chapter 10 (see, especially, 10.4.2).
Captain Ambrose utilised the most negative polar interrogatives of all the
defendants (i.e. 19), all of which he addressed to witnesses. As the following
extract reveals, he also utilised long questioning sequences (in contrast, the
other defendants – Christopher Layer apart (see pp. 236–238 below) – tended
to ask their questions of witnesses intermittently):
Then the Prisoner asked.
Q. In the Evening, when you wore, did not you engage the five Spanish
Ships a-stern, and how was it possible, if once they got a-head of the
Rupert, for the Rupert to wear and engage them in passing?
A. The Rupert had bore away, and was firing at those Ships upon the
Admiral’s wearing; it was then that I observed the Rupert.
Q. If the five Ships once past me, how could I go under the Stern of the
Admiral and all the other Ships, and engage those five Ships in passing?
A. They were not a-breast of you when you fired at them.
Q. You say that I was engaged with the five Ships, that I was half a Mile from
you, and that I was out of point-blank, then how could I shoot up to you
in the Wearing, and engage the five Ships in passing?
A. You did not shoot up to us, we came down to you.
[text omitted]
Q. As the Rupert was between you and the Enemy, how could you
distinguish whether I was near enough to do Execution?
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
A. I could judge of the Distance as it appeared to me, and by our Shot

falling short by the Distance you were from us, and the Distance we were
from the Enemy; I think we in the Essex were two Miles from them, and
you half a Mile nearer than we.
Q. Then I was a Mile and a half off?
A. Yes.
Q. From the Situation you lay to windward, could you judge whether the
Rupert was in a Line with the Admiral?
A. Yes, because you was so near us, therefore I am sure you was not in a
Line.
Q. Was you far out of your Station at your first bringing to?
A. No.
[text omitted]
Q. Then how could I have any Ship to engage?
A. But we were a great Way from the Enemy when that Shot reached us; I
judge the Essex’s Distance from the Hercules was about two Miles, and
her Weather Guns would carry a Shot that Distance.
It is worth noting that the above extract is part of a sequence involving twenty-
two questions, some of which contained multiple interrogatives. It is also worth
noting that, after the twentieth question:
The Court interrupted, and told the Prisoner, that the asking those Questions
took up a great deal of Time, and only seem’d proper Questions to be ask’d
his own Witnesses. The Prisoner said, he thought them material; but if the
Court thought they were not proper Questions, he would submit.
[Trial of Ambrose, 1745]
As the underlined utterances (above) reveal, Ambrose’s strategy when examin-

ing witnesses (‘friendly’ and ‘non-friendly’) was to precede many of his ‘ques-
tions’ with a short account of what the witness had previously testified (e.g.
‘You say that . . . ’). The questions themselves were also ‘hypothetical’ in nature
and/or contained modality elements designed to express improbability (e.g.
‘how was it possible, if once they. . . ’, ‘how could . . . ’). The point of his ques-
tions, of course, was to cast doubt upon the witness’s version of events, when
that version differed from his own. Perhaps not surprisingly, such questions of-
ten procured ‘elaborated’ answers when addressed to ‘non-friendly’ witnesses.
That is to say, witnesses provided additional detail to that which had been re-
quested, as a means of emphasising the accuracy of their account. Notice, for
example, that the witness’s ‘answer’ to Ambrose’s ‘. . . could you judge whether
the Rupert was in a Line with the Admiral?’ question provided a qualifying
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
comment introduced by the words ‘therefore I am sure. . . ’ (my italics). It is

worth noting that similar questions asked by the Court received one-word
responses (see Chapter 10).
As previously explained, Ambrose was only one of two defendants who
asked witnesses questions in Period 5 (p. 225). If we compare Ambrose’s use of
questions with the other defendant, Christopher Layer, we find that he also
preceded several of his questions (i.e. 4 out of 44) with ‘you say . . . ’ com-
ments. Interestingly, one of his defence counsel, Mr. Ketelbey, also used the
same strategy (see below):
Mr. Ketelbey. I don’t know whether your Lordship will indulge us to ask the
Witness a Question or two now.
L. Ch. Jus. Propose your Questions, and we will tell you.
Mr. Ketelbey. Whether he hath any Offer of Pardon propos’d to him to
induce him to give Evidence against the Prisoner at the Bar;
which if he hath, we apprehend will invalidate his Evidence
Lynch. No, Sir; I have no Promise of Pardon at all: I only do this out of
Justice, to make what Reparation I can, and to save the Blood
of many People.
Mr. Ketelbey. I beg Leave to ask him a few more Questions.
[to Lynch] I think you say the first time you were introduced into this
Gentleman’s Company, the Prisoner at the Bar was at the
Griffin-Tavern in Holborn, and that he then told you he had
great Designs in hand; and that there was an Insurrection
design’d, and they wanted a Person of Resolution to seize a
General: This, you say, was the first Time that ever you saw the
Prisoner at the Bar. How came you to have that Share of
Confidence in a Man that you never saw before?
Lynch. I told you I was in Discourse with Dr. Murphey a great many
Days and Weeks before I saw Mr. Laye; I told you how every
Day I saw him, and always discours’d about the Insurrection,
and how he told me then that he would recommend me to a
Man that had the Management of the greatest Part in this
Affair; and I ask’d every Day when I should be introduced to
him: He told me, the Time was not come yet; but when it was a
proper time, he would introduce me.
Note that Ketelbey asked the court to ‘indulge’ them before speaking to the wit-
ness. However, his deference to the Court seemed strategic. Firstly, it allowed
Ketelbey to introduce the idea that the witness had turned king’s evidence for a
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
reward and, by so doing, suggest to the jury that Lynch’s credibility as a witness
was questionable, at the very least.119 Secondly, he did not wait for the judge’s
response to his second ‘request’, but began questioning Lynch immediately.
Ketelbey went on to ask Lynch a series of questions designed to further
undermine Lynch’s character (by suggesting he had been personally involved
in a ‘treasonous’ affair). He then altered his approach. Indeed, he asked Lynch
a question that seemed rather innocuous:
Mr. Ketelbey. Did you look out of the Window and see a Person of your
Acquaintance?
Lynch. I saw two Gentlemen, but did not know them.
Mr. Ketelbey. Did not you look out of the Window, and say, you saw a
Gentleman of your Acquaintance?
Lynch. I said I saw two Gentlemen that I thought I had seen before.
Mr. Ketelbey. Did not you go down to those Gentlemen?
Lynch. No; I did not go down to them.
Mr. Ketelbey. Did not you go down to them?
Lynch. No.
The answer to whether Lynch knew and thus went ‘down to . . . the Gentlemen’
was obviously important, because Layer (= prisoner) pursued both matters
with the witness:
Prisoner. Did not you tell me that those Gentlemen were your
Acquaintance?
Lynch. I told you, those two Gentlemen I had seen before.
[text omitted]
Prisoner. Did not you go down Stairs, pretending you went to those
Gentlemen?
Lynch. No, I did not tell you I went to those Gentlemen.
Prisoner. Did you not go down Stairs?
Lynch. Yes, I did; and came up again immediately.
Notice that Layer had to amend his question in order to secure confirmation
from Lynch that he had, indeed, gone down the stairs (Lynch went on to state
that he had left the room on two separate occasions). Hungerford, the second
defence lawyer, then pursued a different line of enquiry (whether Layer had
shown Lynch a paper), before addressing the judge. Hungerford wanted the
judge to direct the prosecution counsel to ‘not go into Overt-Acts committed
in any other County, till they make the whole of their Proofs of an Overt-Act
in Essex’, because ‘relations of Fact arising in another County’ had no relation
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
to this case. Historians believe that objection-tactics such as this reveal the ex-
panding role of counsel in the EmodE courtroom (see, for example, Landsman
1990: 543–547). However, the judge’s response suggests that such practices were
still rare at this time:
Ld. Ch. Jus. Sure never any Thing was like this! It is our Province to give
Directions, and we think it not proper to interrupt the King’s
Counsel, but that they should proceed in their own Method:
You shall be heard as long as you please, when you come to
make your Observations.
Moreover, the prosecution counsel seized the opportunity to complain about
the prisoner’s behaviour:
Mr. Soll. Gen. The Prisoner hath a Right to say any thing that is proper, to
the Court and the Jury, in his Defence, but he must say it
openly; he is not to talk privately with the Jury; though I am
sure they are Gentlemen of so great Worth and Honour, as
not to be influenced.
Mr. Att. Gen. I dare say the Jury won’t be influenced; but he talks to his
Counsel so loud, that the Jury may easily hear every
Word he says.
It is worth noting that the judge immediately addressed an ‘instruction’
to Hungerford that suggested that he should have more control over the
defendant (‘He must not speak so loud’), before turning to speak to the
defendant himself:
L. Ch. Jus. [. . . ] You have a Right to discourse with your Counsel, but
you must do it in such a Manner as the Jury may not hear.
Charles’ behaviour in court was also censured by the judge. Indeed, Bradshaw
complained that his ‘way of answer [was] to interrogate the Court, which be-
seems not [a prisoner] in this condition’. However, as the rhetorical questions
(below) highlight, the king had a very different reality paradigm to Brad-
shaw (as explained in Chapter 2, by ‘reality paradigm’ I mean the ‘perspectives
of reality’ through which interlocutors operate/filter information about their
world[s]; cf. Archer 2002: 20):
Here is a Gentleman, Lievt. Col. Cobbet, (ask him) if he did not bring me from
the Isle of Wight by force? I do not come here as submitting to the Court; I wil
stand as much for the priviledg of the house of Co∼mons, rightly understood,
as any man here whatsoever. I see no House of Lords here that may constitute
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
a Parliament, and (the King too) should have been. Is this the bringing of the
King to his Parliament ? Is this the bringing an end to the Treaty in the publike
Faith of the world? Let me see a legal Authority warranted by the Word of
God, the Scriptures, or warranted by the Constitutions of the Kingdom, and I
will answer.
Charles believed in his ‘divine right’ to rule, and that the Parliament was there-
fore ‘his Parliament’. Moreover, he believed (as he later asserted) that this
‘divine right’ to rule meant that he could ‘plead for the liberties of the peo-
ple of England more than’ any ‘pretended judges’. He also believed that, if he
was ‘suffered to speak’, he could prove that ‘right’. As the interaction between
Charles and Bradshaw was largely made up of ‘requests’ and ‘requires’, I will
leave my discussion of their strategies until Chapter 11. Suffice it to say, Charles
and his accuser were locked into a situation of presuppositional conflict, and,
although put under increasing pressure to abandon his own reality paradigm in
favour of his accusers, the king refused. As will become clear, the High Court’s
response was to silence the king as much as possible as they continued with
what, in effect, became a show trial (see Seymour 1987). The king was found
guilty, and executed.
Poignantly, Charles asked one of his final questions – ‘Will you hear me a
word Sir?’ – after his sentence had been passed. However, because a ‘prisoner
condemned to death was already dead in law’ (Wedgwood 1964: 164), he was
‘not suffered to speak’:
Lord Pres. Sir, you are not to be heard after the sentence
King. No Sir?
Lord Presid. No Sir, by your favor Sir. Guard, withdraw your Prisoner.
King. I may speak after the sentence – By your favor Sir, I may speak
after the sentence ever. By your favor (hold) the sentence Sir – I
say Sir I do – I am not suffered for to speak, except what Justice
other people will have.
Like many defendants, Charles discovered that it was an exceptional pris-
oner indeed who asked probing questions or who spoke effectively on his/her
own behalf – and managed to secure his/her freedom. Indeed, even ‘divinely
sanctioned power’ could not overcome the power imbalance of the EmodE
courtroom (see Chapter 11).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. Defendants’ ‘answering’ strategies
In the introduction, I stated that my interest was not merely in the strategic use
that participants made of questions in the historical courtroom, but also the
‘answers’ that those questions received. I also suggested that we cannot really
understand the use of the former without studying the latter. In this section,
I briefly examine the defendants’ use of ‘answers’ when interacting with their
most active addressee in Periods 3 and 4, the judges (please note that defen-
dants did not address any ‘answers’ to judges in Period 5). However, as a mere
11% of the defendants’ total utterances with the judges (that is 25 out of 227)
were directly elicited by a question that the judges had previously posed to
them (i.e. functioned as ‘answers’), I will be concentrating on providing exam-
ples of the types of ‘answers’ that they utilised, and the various functions that
they appeared to serve. In other words, I will be using my findings to structure
my explanatory discussion of the usages of ‘answers’ in the EmodE courtroom,
and to offer hypotheses that are open to future testing and revision.
Table 29 (below), then, reveals the types of ‘answers’ that defendants
utilised in Periods 3 and 4.
Notice that the ‘imply’ was the defendants’ favoured ‘answer’ in Period
3, four of which occurred in the ‘response’ position (the fifth was part of a
‘response-initiation’; see p. 225, above). As Table 29 reveals, ‘implies’ do not
provide express ‘yes’, ‘no’ or a value for a missing variable explicitly, but the
latter can be inferred from what is said. By way of illustration, Coleman stated
that Oates, the main prosecution witness against him, ‘did seem to say [at his
previous examination], he never saw me before in his life’. The observation
occasioned the following question from the judge:
L. Ch. Just. Was he asked whether he was acquainted with you? (for those
words are to the same purpose).
Rather than providing an explicit ‘yes’ or ‘no’, Coleman gave an ‘answer’ that
intimated that, as Oates had said that he did not know him, he could not have
been acquainted with him:
Pris. I cannot answer directly, I do not say he was asked if he was acquainted
with me, but I say this, that he did declare he did not know me.
[‘imply’]
It is worth noting that only three of the thirteen ‘answers’ utilised by defendants
in Period 3 supplied an explicit variable. The first, ‘yes sir’, was used by Charles
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
Table 29. Function of answers addressed by defendants to judges (1640–1679)120
Function Definition of . . . Pd 3 Pd 4 Total
Imply S does not provide/express ‘yes’, ’no’, or value for a 5 2 7

missing variable, but answers in such a way that [1] [1] [2]
one can be inferred
Confirm S establishes that what has been proposed 1 0 1
(something about Y) is true [–] [–] [–]
Do not confirm/ S establishes that what has been proposed 0 0 0
oppose (something about Y) is false [–] [–] [–]
Disclaim S establishes their inability to provide requested 1 0 1
information/answer [–] [–] [–]
Supply S provides information which is not the requested 1 1 2
information [–] [–] [–]
Validate S provides a positive polarity decision (explicitly)
0 2 2
[–] [1] [1]
Invalidate S provides a negative polarity decision (explicitly) 1 3 4
[1] [1] [2]
Identify S provides requested information (explicitly) 2 4 6
[1] [1] [2]
Refuse to answer S does not give a (verbal) answer, even though one – – –
is expected
Evade S does not provide/express ‘yes’, ‘no’, or value for 1 0 1
missing variable, and does not answer in such a [–] [–] [–]
way that one can be inferred
Challenge S conveys why/that Y (proposed by A/others) 1 0 1
cannot be right [–] [–] [–]
Total 13 12 25
[3] [4] [7]
to ‘confirm’ that he had finished speaking. The second, an ‘identify’, provided

information that had been previously requested (e.g. ‘Then my Lord I plead
not guilty’). Importantly, however, it occurred after the judge had made it clear
that the defendant, one Henry Martin, would not be given counsel, as he had
requested. The third, ‘No, my Lord’, provided a negative polarity decision for
the following question: ‘Sir H. S. have you any thing else to say’.
If we compare the defendants’ choice of ‘answers’ in Period 4 we find that
their favoured ‘answers’ when interacting with the judges were the ‘identify’
and the ‘invalidate’, both of which provide an explicit variable (see Table 29
above). Notice, also, that Period 4 defendants did not utilise any ‘challenges’,
‘evades’ or ‘disclaims’. This suggests Period 4 defendants were displaying their
knowledge in a way that Walker (1987: 59–60) would describe as ‘appropri-
ate’ for the courtroom. In other words, their ‘answers’ were ‘as informative
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
(and only so) as [was] necessary, spoken in truth, relevant to the immediately
preceding offering, clear, brief and orderly’ (cf. Grice 1975).
Walker’s (1987) comments about ‘answers’ in the modern courtroom re-
flect the assumption that a response to a question should directly answer the
question, and only that question, and thus that all relevant information should
be made explicit, no matter how pragmatically obvious (Tiersma 2000: 168).
Such an assumption would have proved problematical for EmodE defendants.
Indeed, they often found it necessary to breach the pragmatic norms set up by
the courtroom activity type, not least because they were assumed to be guilty
from the outset (cf. Section 3.4.2). Consequently, they sometimes produced
‘answers’ which were not ‘appropriate’, in Walker’s (1987) sense (cf. Sections
2.3.2–2.3.3). The most common strategy utilised by the defendants in the SPC
was to adopt a less-than-direct approach as a means of thwarting the exam-
iner’s line of argument. Thus, Cellier answered a relatively straight-forward
question ‘Have you any more?’ with a ‘supply’: ‘My Lord, I can prove him
perjured’. Providing information that was not the requested information was not
without risk, but, on this occasion, the Lord Chief Justice began to pursue a
new line of enquiry, ‘Have you any Records to shew he was perjured? Is he con-
vinced? . . . Can you shew he forged any Deeds. . . ’ (see pp. 195–196 for further
commentary).
Two other strategies utilised by defendants in the SPC were expressing one’s
inability to provide the requested information/action and conveying why/that Y
(proposed by S/others) could not be right (see Appendix 2). However, it is worth
noting that the defendants communicated these strategies through their ‘re-
quests’ and ‘reports’ more than they did through their ‘answers’. Indeed, there
are only two examples of ‘answers’ communicating the above. The first, a ‘dis-
claim’, was utilised by Coleman when asked whether he had ‘spoken all that was
true’ (‘I know no more, than what I declared to the Two Houses). Significantly,
the judge interpreted Coleman’s inability to provide the requested informa-
tion/answer as unwillingness (cf. Archer 2002; see also 10.2.1). Indeed, he made
his inability to believe Coleman explicit in his very next turn:
L. C. Just Mr. Coleman, I’ll tell you when you will be apt to gain credit in this
matter: You say, that you told all things that you knew, the Truth,
and the whole Truth. Can Mankind be persuaded, that you, that
had this Negotation in 74. And 75. Left off just then, at that time
vvhen your Letters vvere found according to their Dates? Do you
believe, there vvas no Negotation after 75. because vve have not
Chapter 9. Defendants’ strategies (1640–1760) 
found them? Have you spoke one vvord to that? Have you
confessed, or produced those Papers and Weekly Intelligence?
When you answer that, you may have credit; vvithout that, it is
impossible: For I cannot give credit to one vvord you say, unless
you give an account of the subsequent Negotiation.
The second answer, a ‘challenge’, was utilised by Connor Lord Macguire.

Macguire wanted to know ‘under what seal’ the Court was operating, but his re-
quest for the information was met with the following: ‘What seal do you mean,
I sit here by vertue of the Olde by Order of Parliament’. The remark immedi-
ately following the judge’s what-interrogative – ‘I sit here . . . ’ – suggests that the
what-interrogative was not really information-seeking. Rather, its function was
one of emphasis. In other words, the judge was making it clear that his actions
were so legitimate, they should have been beyond questioning. But Macguire
replied by stating ‘that the Ordinance of Parliament for the New seal, makes
all done by the old seal to be voide’, and thereby challenged that assumption of
legitimacy (that is, he ‘challenged’ the underlying presupposition[s] inherent
within the question).
. Insights gained
EmodE defendants adopted a role that is regarded as a ‘non-transferable

marker of power’ in the modern courtroom, that of initiator (cf. Walker
1987: 62). The bulk of the defendants’ initiations had the force of ‘questions’
and ‘requests’. The questions were mainly addressed to the witnesses, and ex-
hibited similar functions as the primary examiners’ questions, that is to say,
they sought information, confirmation and/or clarification of prior evidence.
They also sought to bring prior evidence into dispute and undermine wit-
nesses. The bulk of the defendants’ requests were addressed to the judges, and
sought some specific action and/or an opportunity to speak (see Chapter 11).
Although defendants tended to secure their interactional goals (i.e. wit-
nesses, in the main, responded to their ‘questions’), they often struggled/failed
to secure their discoursal and/or social goals. In other words, they did not pro-
cure the relevant information/clarification/confirmation/action/permission etc.
that might ‘prove’ their innocence. Two factors account for this. Firstly, they
had the ‘legitimate’ right to request but not the ‘coercive power’ to shape re-
sponses in the case of the witnesses, and to compel responses in the case of
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
the judges (i.e. they lacked the ‘right to control negative outcomes by virtue
of their role’; cf. French & Raven 1959; Spencer-Oatey 1992; Thomas 1986).
Secondly, most defendants did not share the primary examiners’ specialist
knowledge/expertise. The second factor, in particular, may explain why most
of the Period 5 defendants were happy to leave their defence to the lawyers,
when present.
Defendants were also hampered by the Courts’ ‘guilt’ bias. Indeed, the SPC
data suggests that it could affect both the defendants’ choice of answer, and the
examiners’ interpretation of the latter. For example, judges/prosecution lawyers
would often assume that defendants who expressed their inability to provide
the requested information/action (because of their innocence) were really un-
willing to do so (because it may establish their guilt; cf. Archer 2002). In Chap-
ter 10 (following), I examine the witnesses’ answers to determine the extent to
which they were similar to/different from those utilised by the defendants.
Chapter 10
Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies

(1640–1760)
. The witnesses’ role as ‘answerer’
In the latter part of Chapter 9, I briefly examined the ‘answers’ that defendants
used when interacting with their main addressees. In this chapter, I exam-
ine the witnesses’ use of ‘answers’ to determine the extent to which witnesses
utilised ‘answers’ in ways that were similar to or different from the defendants.
As with the defendants’ ‘answers’, I will be examining the extent to which the
witnesses’ answers:
1. Supply the requested information/agreement/disagreement.
2. Are the type of response that their corresponding question-type typically
expects, especially given the fact that logically well-formed replies, or, al-
ternatively, responses that conform with expectations, can be one of many
pragmatically appropriate answers (Quirk et al. 1985: 806).
I will also assess the extent to which the choice of answer seems to have been
dependent on the addressee. In addition, I will be looking for evidence that
suggests that the witnesses’ role was undergoing change. I begin, then, with
an overview of the witnesses’ interaction in each sub-period (see 10.2 follow-
ing), before moving on to an examination of their specific interaction with the
judges (10.3), lawyers (10.4–10.4.2), Courts and defendants (10.5).
. The strategies of the witnesses
As established in Section 6.2.1, witnesses were the most active participants in

the SPC, with 36.6% of the utterances (that is 1,554 out of 4,248). The bulk
of those utterances (i.e. 92.5% or 1,437 out of 1,554) were ‘responses’, i.e. they
provided information that had been directly elicited by another participant.121
A large proportion of these ‘responses’, in turn, (i.e. 95.6% or 1,374 out of
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 30. Witnesses’ ‘answers’ in the SPC, and the participants to whom they were
addressed
Addressee Imply Confirm Do not Disclaim Supply Valid. Invalid. Identify Evade Chall. Total
confirm
Court 41 8 1 36 6 84 77 108 0 0 361

Pros. 56 8 5 17 6 48 17 145 5 2 309
counsel
Judge 47 18 4 13 15 19 20 99 6 0 241
Defence 38 8 10 20 5 30 36 69 4 4 224
counsel
Defendant 39 9 8 17 3 9 16 42 3 4 150
Recorder 6 11 2 1 1 5 8 37 1 0 72
Others – 1 – – – 4 4 8 – – 17
Total 227 63 30 104 36 199 178 508 19 10 1374
1,437) functioned as ‘answers’, i.e. they provided information that had been
directly elicited via questions. Table 30 provides a breakdown of the types of an-
swers that witnesses utilised when responding to their main questioners in the
SPC as a whole, i.e. the judicial examiners, the lawyers and the defendants (see
4.4.3, for a summary of the specific functions of the various ‘answer’ types).
As Table 30 (above) reveals, the witnesses addressed more of their ‘answers’
to the Courts and the prosecution counsels than they did to the judges, in spite
of the fact that the latter were the witnesses’ favoured addressees in Periods
3 and 4 (see 6.2.1 and 10.3 following). Two factors account for this. Firstly,
the high number of questions addressed by the Court to the witnesses in the
Court-martial of Ambrose (see 6.3). Secondly, the emergence of an ‘adversarial’
contest between the prosecution lawyers and the defence lawyers as the EmodE
period progressed, which led, in turn, to a tendency for the former, especially,
to be more closely involved in the questioning (and re-questioning) of wit-
nesses. Indeed, as the EmodE period progressed, it was the lawyers rather than
the justices of the peace who decided which witnesses would appear in court
(cf. Landsman 1990). In the following sections, I examine the witnesses’ in-
teraction with their most favoured participants (the Courts, the lawyers, the
judges and the defendants). However, as the bulk of the witnesses’ interaction
with the Courts and defendants occurred in the final sub-period of the SPC
(1720–1760), I begin with an examination of the witnesses’ interaction with
the judges in Periods 3 and 4 (1640–1719).
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
. Witnesses’ interaction with the judges (1640–1719)
97% of the witnesses’ responses to the judges in Period 3 (that is, 97 out of 100)
functioned as ‘answers’. In Period 4, the figure was slightly less in percentage
terms (i.e. 84.3% or 124 out of 147). Table 31 (below) provides a breakdown
of their specific function (please note, the bracketed number highlights those
‘answers’ that were elaborated in some way, that is to say, they provided ad-
ditional/supporting information than was explicitly requested). Table 31 also
provides a definition for each answer-type.
Notice that the ‘identify’ was the witnesses’ favoured ‘answer’ when inter-
acting with the judges in both sub-periods. The popularity of the ‘identify’
is not unduly surprising, when one considers that (i) identify-type answers
are those in which S explicitly provides the requested information and, as such,
tend to ‘answer’ wh-interrogatives like ‘How long have you been acquainted
with Mrs. Cellier?’ (the answer to the latter was ‘Ten or a dozen Years’), and
(ii) judges asked witnesses more wh-interrogatives than any other question-
Table 31. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to judges (1680–1719)
Function Definition of . . . Pd 3 Pd 4 Total

Imply S does not provide/express ‘yes’, ’no’, or a value for 17 26 43
the missing variable, but answers in such a way [7] [13] [20]
that one can be inferred
Confirm S establishes that what has been proposed 5 11 16
(something about Y) is true [4] [3] [7]
Do not confirm S establishes that what has been proposed 1 3 4
or oppose (something about Y) is false [1] [3] [4]
Disclaim S establishes their inability to provide requested 4 9 13
information /answer [–] [5] [5]
Supply S provides information which is not the requested 6 9 15
information [6] [0] [6]
Validate S provides a positive polarity decision (explicitly) 8 7 15
[2] [6] [8]
Invalidate S provides a negative polarity decision (explicitly) 3 17 20
[–] [13] [13]
Identify S provides requested information (explicitly) 52 37 89
[26] [15] [41]
Evade S does not provide/express ‘yes’, ‘no’, or a value for 0 5 5
the missing variable, and does not answer in such [–] [–] [–]
a way that one can be inferred
Total 97 124 221
[46] [58] [104]
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
type (i.e. 60 out of a possible 114 in Period 3, and 57 out of a possible 134
in Period 4; see 6.2.1).122 What is surprising, however, is that nearly half of
the ‘identifies’ (i.e. 41 out of 89) were ‘elaborated’ in some way, i.e. provided
additional/supporting information than explicitly requested by the judges, even
though a substantial number of the judges’ wh-interrogatives requested quite
specific information, in context (see 6.2.1).
The high number of elaborated ‘identifies’ suggests that witnesses were gen-
erally cooperative, in both a Gricean and social sense. In other words, they not
only used language in such a way that their interlocutors could understand
what they were saying and implying, but seemed to want to tell their interlocu-
tors everything they wanted to know, and more besides (cf. Thomas 1986: 47;
Archer 2002: 10; Section 9.5; see also 10.3 following).
Yet, it is worth noting that the ‘identify’ was more popular with witnesses
in Period 3 (1640–1679) than in Period 4 (1680–1719). Indeed, it accounted
for more than half (i.e. 52 out of 97 or 53.6%) of the witnesses’ answers in the
former, and only one third (i.e. 29.3% as opposed to 53.6%) of the witnesses’
answers in the latter. One possible reason for this difference may be due to
the fact that Period 4 judges addressed nearly as many polar interrogatives to
witnesses as wh-interrogatives (i.e. 54 as opposed to 57). Polar interrogatives,
in the main, procured ‘(in)validate’-type answers (e.g. ‘No, my Lord’; ‘Yes, my
Lord.’) or ‘imply’-type answers, that is, answers where a polarity decision was
not expressed explicitly, but one could be inferred (e.g. ‘Do you know Dan-
gerfield? . . . I remember one Thomas Dangerfield. I saw him burnt in the hand
at the Old-Baily’). A second possible reason may be that the presence of the
prosecution and defence counsels meant that the Period 4 judges were ask-
ing witnesses questions that were less about procuring information and more
about clarifying information previously given by the witnesses to the lawyers
(cf. Section 7.4). A third possible reason may be that Period 4 witnesses were
slightly less forthcoming than their Period 3 equivalents. Notice, for example,
that in addition to answers that (like ‘identifies’) explicitly provide some re-
quested information, be it a polarity decision (e.g. ‘validates’ and ‘invalidates’)
or acknowledgement that what has been proposed is true/false (e.g. ‘confirms’
and ‘do not confirms’), Period 4 witnesses also utilised a small number of
‘evades’ (i.e. five) and slightly more ‘disclaims’ (i.e. nine as opposed to four).
As Table 31 highlights, in ‘evade’-type answers, S does not provide/express
‘yes’, ‘no’, or a value for a missing variable, and does not answer in such a way
that one can be inferred. For example, in the Trial of Francis Francia (1716),
Mr. Justice Pratt asked Rafter ‘If it is not his Writing, whose do you take it
to be?’, and Rafter replied ‘I don’t take it to be his’. By so doing, Rafter reiter-
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
ated what the judges’ question assumed (that is, provided ‘given’ information)
rather than supplying the requested (‘new’) information. Negatively-framed
utterances tend to be ‘less informative than their positive counterparts’, and, as
such, are ‘marked’ (cf. Leech 1983: 100). Indeed, Justice Pratt chose to repeat his
question, but appended a second as a means of limiting Rafter’s response op-
tions: ‘Whose do you take it to be. Are you acquainted with his son’s hand?’. Yet,
Rafter’s response to that question – a ‘disclaim’ – was equally uninformative: ‘I
don’t know whether it is his Son’s or not’.
Disclaims are thus similar to evades in the sense that they can be seen
as less ‘cooperative’ than those answer-types that explicitly provide some re-
quested information and/or confirmation. This is especially the case if the
hearer decides that S’s inability to provide the requested information/answer is
not inability but unwillingness (cf. Archer 2002; see also Section 9.5). Surpris-
ingly, judges did not appear to interpret them in this way, even when witnesses
utilised ‘disclaims’ several times. Mr. Gadbury, for example, utilised ‘disclaims’
on three occasions in the Trial of Elizabeth Cellier (1680). On the first occasion
he was asked ‘What [he] kn[e]w concerning this plot?’, to which he responded,
‘I know nothing of it, neither one way, nor another’. On the second, he was
asked whether he had specifically heard Cellier say:
. . . that she had heard Dangerfield say there was a Nonconformists Plot, and
that he was to have a Commission among them? and did she say, that she had
heard him say, that he hoped under the colour of that, the Popish Plot would
go on? or did she say it of her own accord, that she hoped that would carry on
the Popish Plot?
He responded by stating that he could not ‘remember particulars’. On the third,

Gadbury had previously stated that he thought ‘she did say she heard there were
some [Priests or Jesuits] coming over’. However, when asked ‘What to do?’, he
responded ‘God knows what’. On the fourth, he was asked ‘What Discourse’
he had had ‘with Mrs. Cellier passing through Westminster Abby?’, to which he
responded:
My Lord, my memory hath been exceedingly bruised; but I remember, my
Lord, as I was going through the Abby in a rainy afternoon, she said, this Abby
was formerly filled with Benedictine Monks, or something to that purpose,
and, saith she, what if it should be so again?
The only witness to utilise more than one ‘disclaim’ in Period 3 was the infa-
mous Titus Oates (Trial of Edward Coleman, 1678). Two of Oates’ ‘disclaims’
are relatively straightforward. For example, when asked ‘Did you know him
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
[= Coleman] by some French name? What said you?’, Oates replied ‘I could
say little to this’. Oates’s third ‘disclaim’ is much more interesting, however,
for (like Gadbury’s final ‘disclaim’) it contained an additional answering func-
tion; that of a ‘supply’ (as highlighted in Table 31, ‘supplies’ provide information
which is not the requested information). Oates had claimed that Coleman had
made copies of some important instructions, but the Lord Chief Justice could
not understand why Coleman would make copies of instructions that detailed
how ‘ten thousand pound’ would be ‘advanced, if Doctor Wakeman would
Poison the King’. According to Oates, ‘the reason [was] plain’ – to ‘incour-
age’ sympathisers ‘a gathering a Contribution about the Kingdom, and [by]
these Instructions’ ensure that ‘some Thousands of pounds were gathered in
the Kingdom of England’. The propositional content of the Lord Chief Justice’s
next wh-interrogative, ‘To whom was Mr. Coleman to send them?’, suggests that
he was satisfied with Oates’ explanation. Oates’s response to that interrogative
was as follows:
Mr. Oates. I know not any of the Persons, but Mr. Coleman did say he had
sent his Suffrages (which was a Canting word for Instructions) to
the Principal Gentry of the Catholicks of the Kingdom of
England.
Oates appeared to delight in providing specific details (whether requested or

not). He was also the only witness to ‘answer’ a question posed by a defendant
in Period 3 (which provides evidence, in turn, that defendants were not really
cross-examining the witnesses in that sub-period). Given Oates’s role in insti-
gating the Popish plot, it is easy to surmise that Oates’s willingness to ‘tell all’
was because his goal was to incriminate rather than to tell the truth. However,
it is worth remembering that the court did not have the benefit of hindsight as
we do today, and Oates’s fictitious Popish plot was only beginning to unravel
at this point in history (but see 11.2 and 11.3).
Very few witnesses gave vague responses to their judges in Periods 3 and
4. One such witness was John Stapely (the Trial of Slingsby, Hewet and Mor-
dant, 1658). For example, when asked whether Mordant had told him ‘it was
the King that wrote to him, and therefore it was just to assist him’, he replied
‘I think I heard him say so, I cannot take my Oath of it’. Similarly, when asked
whether Mordant told him ‘what considerable persons were concerned’, Stap-
ley responded by stating: ‘I have heard him speak of some persons that were
ingaged in this design .. Sir Fran. Vincent, . . . and one Brown’.123 The judge
appeared to accept Stapley’s evidence, in spite of his obvious attempts not to
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
say more than was absolutely necessary. The same cannot be said for the judge
and Dangerfield, however (the Trial of Elizabeth Cellier, 1680). As previously
highlighted, Dangerfield was the main prosecution witness against Elizabeth
Cellier, but she managed to convince the judges that he was an ‘unfit witness’
and the case against her was dropped (see pp. 195–196).
Dangerfield was asked only three questions by the judge (one of which
was rhetorical). But his answers to those questions help us to understand why
the latter believed Cellier. For example, after having been informed by Mrs.
Cellier that Dangerfield had ‘been Indicted for Burglary’, the judge gave the
witness an opportunity to confirm or refute the claim (‘VVas you Indicted
for Burglary?’). However, Dangerfield preferred to challenge Cellier and her
supporters to prove their allegations rather than answer the judge’s question
directly (‘I will take it at their Proof ’). The Lord Chief Justice’s second ques-
tion to Dangerfield was also designed to provide him with an opportunity to
defend himself:
L. C. J. Have you any more to say? Are there any Waltham Men here?
Mr. Dan. My Lord, this is enough to discourage a man from ever entring
into an honest Principle.
Once again, Dangerfield did not do so. Instead, he intimated that the Lord
Chief Justice’s treatment of him was such that it might discourage him
from becoming honest. That ‘answer’ occasioned the Lord Chief Justice’s
rhetorical question, the function of which was to ‘express’ indignation (cf.
Section 2.2.1.2):
L. C. J. What? Do you with all the mischief that Hell hath in you think to
brave it in a Court of Justice? I wonder at your Impudence, that
you dare look a Court of Justice in the Face, after having been
made appear so notorious a Villain.
Dangerfield aside, witnesses were treated more favourably than the defendants
in the Period 4 trial texts. And, unlike Dangerfield, several were able to protect
themselves against allegations/insinuations made by the defendants. For exam-
ple, Captain Harris informed Rookwood ‘Mr. Rookwood, I believe you are very
sensible I do not accuse you of any thing that is not true’ when Rookwood
stated that ‘It’s a very strange thing I should give you a List with a Man’s Name
that I don’t know’ (see pp. 216–217).
Significantly, witnesses were also prepared to challenge evidence given
by fellow witnesses. For example, in the Giles Trial (1680), William Rich-
mond and Elizabeth Crook queried one another’s evidence on several occa-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
sions, even though they were both witnesses for the defence! (see underlined
sections below):
[Context: Elizabeth Crook had been asked to state the time that she made
Giles’s bed and the time that he retired to his room. She was then asked to
confirm evidence previously offered by Richmond]
Record. Did Richmond come in when you were making the Bed?
Crook. He was not there that I knew of.
Rich. Was not I in the Chamber when you made the Bed?
[neg. polar]
Crook. No, I don’t remember you. [‘invalidate: elaboration’]
Rich. My Lord, when this Maid went to make the Bed, I went into
the Room after her, and had some discourse with her, we
lean’d together upon the Window, and I told her I was in
Love with her, I told her, if she liked of it, I would Marry her
the next Morning: I did it to make merry, for indeed I am a
Married Man.
Record. What time a Night was it?
Rich. About Twelve a Clock.
Record. If you forget your other Sweet-Hearts, can you remember
this? Do you remember now he was there?
Crook. I remember he was there.
[text omitted]
Rich. And she told me that he would lie by himself though the
house was very full.
Record. Do you remember any such Discourse?
Crook. I do remember that Mr. Richmond did come in.
Kings Coun. What time of Night was it that he was making love to you?
Crook, I think about Ten a Clock.
Kings Coun. Time passed merrily away with you then.
Rich. It was Twelve a Clock.
Crook, Why do you say so? Our house was all quiet presently after
Eleven [polar]
Rich. Why will you say so? Were not we Singing and Roaring
together? [polar + negative polar]
Record. Come don’t be angry, you were not angry when you were
making love together?
Rich. I am not angry indeed Sir.
Notice that Richmond’s initial negative polar interrogative presupposed – and
sought confirmation from Crook – that he was in the Chamber when she made
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
the bed. But Crook opposed Richmond’s claim, adding information, which,
although ambiguous, suggests that she did not remember him because he was
not there (cf. another witnesses’ use of a similar ‘don’t remember’ comment,
10.4 following). Richmond then communicated an incident to the judge that
occurred in the Chamber, possibly in an attempt to ‘prove’ to the latter (and the
jury) that he was there. After clarifying the time with Richmond, the recorder
asked Crook whether she now remembered that he was there, to which Crook
responded affirmatively.
A little later in the examination, Crook was asked to state ‘What Time of
night’ they had been together in the Chamber. Her answer was that she thought
‘about Ten a clock’. Richmond then proposed a different time (notice that he
was not asked to volunteer the information, but did so of his own volition).
The comment prompted a question from Crook, but its purpose was to al-
low her to contradict Richmond by pointing out that the ‘House . . . was quiet
presently after Eleven’. Richmond responded to Crook’s ‘query’ with a ‘query’
of his own (‘queries’ call into question or request clarification of something said
by the other). The question contained multiple interrogatives, the first of which
was a near repeat of Crook’s question, and the second of which presupposed a
positive response (i.e. that they were ‘Singing and Roaring’ together at ‘Twelve
a Clock’). It is worth noting that Recorder Jeffrey’s response to Richmond (i.e.
‘Come don’t be angry . . . ’) suggests that he, at least, found their ‘disagreement’
amusing.124
. Witnesses’ interaction with the lawyers (1680–1719)
Table 32 (below) provides a breakdown of the ‘answers’ that witnesses gave

in response to the questions posed to them by the prosecution lawyers, and
Table 33 (following), a breakdown of the ‘answers’ that witnesses gave to the
defence lawyers.
Notice that the witnesses’ favoured ‘answer’ in both cases was the same,
i.e. the ‘identify’. That said, there is a difference in usage when viewed in the
context of all their other ‘answer’ types. Indeed, the ‘identify’ accounted for
nearly half (i.e. 45.4% or 132 out of 291) of their answers to the prosecution
lawyers, but only accounted for one third (i.e. 30.5% or 69 out of 226) of their
answers to the defence lawyers. The witnesses’ second most popular ‘answer’
when interacting with the prosecution and defence lawyers was also the same,
i.e. the ‘imply’ (as previously explained, ‘implies’ do not provide/express ‘yes’,
‘no’, or value for a missing variable explicitly, but one can be inferred from what
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Table 32. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to prosecution lawyers (1680–

1719)
Function Pd 4 Pd 5 Total
Imply 13 [6] 39 [30] 52 [36]
Confirm 3] [1] 5 [2] 8 [3]
Do not confirm/oppose 1 [1] 4 [3] 5 [4]
Disclaim 10 [7] 7 [4] 17 [11]
Supply 2 [–] 4 [–] 6 [–]
Validate 18 [11] 28 [27] 46 [38]
Invalidate 7 [5] 9 [7] 16 [12]
Identify 54 [26] 78 [40] 132 [66]
Evade 3 [1] 2 [–] 5 [1]
Challenge 1 [1] 1 [1] 2 [2]
Problem 0 [–] 2 [1] 2 [1]
Total 112 [59] 179 [115] 291 [174]
Table 33. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to defence lawyers (1680–1719)
Imply 24 [13] 14 [8] 38 [21]
Confirm 4 [1] 4 [3] 8 [4]
Disclaim 16 [10] 4 [3] 20 [13]
Supply 4 [–] 1 [–] 5 [–]
Validate 13 [8] 17 [16] 30 [24]
Invalidate 17 [9] 19 [12] 36 [21]
Identify 34 [12] 35 [10] 69 [22]
Evade 1 [–] 3 [–] 4 [1]
Challenge 1 [–] 3 [2] 4 [2]
Problem 0 [–] 2 [–] 2 [–]
Total 112 [57] 105 [56] 226 [113]
is said). But their third most popular answer was different, that is to say, ‘val-
idates’, when interacting with the prosecution lawyers, and ‘invalidates’, when
interacting with the defence lawyers.
A significant proportion of the ‘invalidates’ that witnesses addressed to de-
fence lawyers in the SPC (i.e. twelve, that is to say one third) occurred in the
Trial of Francis Francia (1716). A closer examination of that trial reveals that
prosecution witnesses, in particular, utilised the ‘invalidates’ to counter the de-
fence lawyers’ attempts to undermine them. Take Mr. Buckley, for example.
Buckley, a witness for the prosecution, had been asked (by the prosecution
counsel) to give an account of Francia’s examination before Lord Townshend
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
and Mr. Secretary Stanhope, which he had been responsible for taking down.
Buckley had informed the court that Francia had refused to swear on the New
Testament. Instead, ‘he took another Book out of his Pocket’ to swear on:
Mr. Buckley. [. . . ] I ask’d him [Francia] whether this was true: He said it
was. Then he sign’d it [the written record of his examination];
and afterwards my Lord Townshend sign’d it.
Mr. Cowper. Is the Subscription of his Hand-Writing?
Mr. Buckley. It is. [‘validate’]
Prisoner. You say I took an Oath? On what Book was it?
Mr. Buckley. Indeed I don’t know, I believe it was an Hebrew Book; Mr.
Secretary Stanhope look’d upon it. [‘disclaim: elaborate’]
At this point in Buckley’s examination, two of Francia’s defence team (Mr. Den-
ton and Mr. Ward) took over the questioning (I have included an indication of
the types of ‘answer’ that Buckley made in response).
Mr. Denton. Was he examin’d at any time after?
Mr. Buckley. Yes. [‘validate’]
Mr. Denton. Was you present then?
Mr. Buckley. No. [‘invalidate’]
Mr. Ward. How long were they [a book and some letters belonging to
Francia] in your Custody?
Mr. Buckley. From the time that Mr. Walpole went abroad, till he came back
again, and then I deliver’d them back to him.
[‘elaborated identify’]
Mr. Ward. Were they in your Custody when Mr. Jones was under
Examination?
Mr. Buckley. I can’t tell; but I never did show them to him.
[‘disclaim: supply’]
Mr. Ward. Were they not deliver’d out on that Occasion?
Mr. Buckley. No, they were not deliver’d out by me.
[‘do not confirm: elaborate’]
Mr. Ward. You say you read the Examination to him. Did not he desire to
read it himself?
Mr. Buckley. I don’t remember it. [?]
Mr. Buckley. No, upon my Soul. [‘invalidate’]
Notice that Denton’s/Ward’s initial questions were designed to establish

whether Francia was permitted to read his own examination/confession. How-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ever, by the sixth and seventh question, Ward was assuming that Francia did
desire to do so, but was refused the privilege (see underlined negative po-
lar interrogatives, above). Although both negative polar interrogatives sought
Buckley’s confirmation, Buckley chose to oppose the proposition of one, and
‘answered’ the other by stating that he did not remember. The reader will have
noted that I have not assigned that answer to a specific ‘answer’ category. This
is because several possibilities appear to present themselves. For example, a lit-
eral understanding of that answer would necessitate our categorising it as a
‘disclaim’ (that is, it intimates an inability on Buckley’s part – apparently occa-
sioned by his poor recall – to provide Ward with the confirmation he sought).
However, if we embrace a non-literal reading of ‘I don’t remember it’, we may
prefer to categorise it as an ‘imply’ (that is, although ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was not pro-
vided explicitly, a negative response was inferable). In other words, Buckley
did not remember it because it did not happen. Although such ‘implies’ are
unusual in the modern courtroom, because of the expectation that witnesses
answer the question posed (cf. Tiersma 2000: 168), Ward’s next question to
Buckley, and Buckley’s response to that question appear to allow both of the
above interpretations, that is, a ‘disclaim’ or ‘imply’:
Mr. Buckley. No, upon my Soul [‘do not confirm’]
This second negative polar also appears to suggest a third interpretation,
namely, that Buckley could remember, but was using an ‘evading’ tactic (claim-
ing that he did not remember) so that he did not have to provide the confir-
mation that had been requested. As Thomas (1995) highlights, pragmatically
misleading or potentially pragmatically misleading utterances of this sort are
regularly encountered in today’s trials. So much so, in fact, that ‘they could be
seen as the norm for this type of interaction, and be interpreted in that light
by participants’ (1995: 74). However, ‘lies’ are notoriously difficult to classify
in practice, not least because the whole point of a lie is to mislead (cf. Grice
1975: 49).
.. Emergence of cross-examination as an adversarial technique
Thomas’s (1995) comment regarding pragmatically misleading utterances in

the modern courtroom raises an important issue, namely, whether utterances
are interpreted as such by participants because of the activity type in which
they are engaged rather than because they are pragmatically misleading. I would
like to propose that evidence like the Francia extract (above) suggests that
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
this conundrum is a feature of cross-examination itself, when undertaken by

lawyers. It is worth noting that defence lawyers had only been permitted to
cross-examine witnesses for a short period by the time of the Francia trial in
1716 (officially, since the Treason Act of 1696; Beattie 1991: 248–249). It is also
worth noting that the very need to thwart an opponent’s argument necessitated
that lawyers begin to ‘construct’ a representation of (the secondary) reality that
corresponded to the facts as they wanted the jury to see them (in Ward’s case,
from Francia’s perspective; cf. Hale & Gibbons 1999). Consequently, lawyers
began to use questions in a different way to, say, the judicial examiners in Pe-
riod 3 had utilised questions. By this I mean, they began to use questions as a
means of building the necessary ‘evidence’ to convince or persuade the judges
and/or jury that they should believe their version, and disregard the version of
the opposing party (see Chapter 8).125 This effectively meant that, regardless of
whether witnesses like Buckley were telling the truth, Ward and defence lawyers
like him were increasingly attempting to persuade the judges and jury to believe
that they were able to provide the requested information (or, in Buckley’s case,
confirm the propositional content of the defence lawyer’s questions), but were
unwilling to do so, because it would damage the prosecution’s case.
.. A growing need for counter-strategies
One consequence of the emergence of cross-examination as an advocacy strat-

egy was that some witnesses found themselves in a similar position to defen-
dants, that is to say, they had to thwart an opposing argument, justify their
evidence and, in some cases, defend their character.
Buckley’s main counter-strategy, resorting to increasingly resolute denials,
was a tactic that defendants had commonly employed for some time, and
witnesses were increasingly employing. It was not the only strategy, however.
Indeed, a second witness questioned by Ward tended to answer indirectly and,
when in difficulty, address the judges/jury. Lord Townshend was particularly
aggrieved by the questions he faced from Francia, the defendant. Indeed, he
‘answered’ one with a ‘challenge’:
[Context: Ward was questioning Townshend about Francia’s examination]
Mr. Ward. I desire to ask your Lordship whether you heard that
Declaration read over to him?
Ld. Townshend. I dare say I did.
Mr. Ward. Did he not endeavour to excuse himself from signing it, till
he had read it himself?
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Ld. Townshend. I don’t remember that, I don’t know that he made any
Difficulty of signing it; but I am sure it could not be because
he was refus’d to read it. [‘disclaim; elaboration’]
Prisoner. Was not there any Reluctancy in me to sign it?
Ld. Townshend. What do you mean? Have not I answer’d that already?
[‘challenge’]
That ‘challenge’ signalled Townshend’s belief that the prisoner was wrong to
ask him such a question, but Francia’s ‘answer’ to Townshend was to ask him a
second inflammatory question, ‘Did not you offer me some Money to sign it?’.
Townshend response was to denounce the prisoner for his behaviour (‘I hope
you can’t say a thing of so much Infamy’), and then address the judges/jury.
When Francia attempted to resume his questioning of Townshend, one of the
judges ‘answered’ for the latter. This prompted Ward, the defence lawyer, to
take over the questioning of Townshend. However, he was treated similarly,
that is to say, Townshend addressed a short ‘answer’ to Ward, and then ad-
dressed the judges/jury ‘at length’. It is worth noting that Townshend began by
stating that he ‘did not know whether it [was] proper to give [his] Reasons why
[he] was convinc’d [Francia] did not deal candidly’, before summarising the
contents of a letter that Francia had written to his wife whilst in prison:
[text omitted. . . ] the Subject was to bid her not afflict herself, for he found
better Company in Newgate than he expected, that the better Half of them
were in upon the Government Account; that he had said nothing of Mr. Har-
vey that could hurt him, nor could he; that the Government had nothing
against Mr. Harvey, but a general Suspicion that he was against the Gov-
ernment, which three Parts in four of the Nation were; and that he himself
laugh’d at any thing the Government could do against him the Prisoner:
When I found a Man write in his Stile, I could not but think he had not dealt
ingenously.
It is also worth noting that Hungerford, a second defence lawyer, waited until
Townshend had finished before asking ‘the Court whether it [was] proper to give
Evidence of the Substance of a Letter without offering the Letter it self ’. The
question suggests that (he, at least, believed that) Townshend should not have
been permitted to recount the contents of a letter that had not been previously
submitted as evidence. Significantly, a judge (Mr. Justice Pratt) once again came
to Lord Townshend’s aid:
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
Mr. Just. Pratt.This comes in Answer to Mr. Ward’s Question. He ask’d my

Ld. Townshend, whether there was not some Promise that
this Confession should not be made use of against the
Prisoner? His Lordship gives this Account, and justifies
himself, how he came to make use of it, and gives this as
the Reason.
Mr. Hungerford. But to give an Account of the Substance of a Letter without
producing it, I apprehend, is not according to the Rules
of Evidence.
It is difficult to know the extent to which Townshend’s dual strategy of ap-
pealing to the judges/jury and challenging/opposing the evidence given by the
defendant/defence counsel was successful because of his high status or because
he was a witness for the prosecution. However, Hungerford’s decision not to in-
terrupt him, and a comment by a defence witness later in the trial suggests that
Townshend’s status gave him some leverage. The comment occurred during the
examination of Mary Meggison. I include the full examination below because
it succinctly shows not only the different ways in which witnesses were treated
by the different sides, depending on whether they were perceived as ‘friendly’
or ‘unfriendly’ witnesses by 1716, but also the different ways in which witnesses
were responding to those opposing sides (cf. Tiersma 2000: 158–167):
Then Mary Meggison was sworn.
Mr. Hungerford. Do you know of any Offers that were made to the Prisoner,
and by whom?
Meggison. Upon the Twenty Eighth of September last I was in Mr.
Francia’s Room, and Mr. Buckley came in and told him he
should be tried suddenly, and there were a great many
Witnesses against him; and he would swear against him,
because, says he, you have cheated my Master of Five
Guineas, and won’t swear against Mr. Harvey.
[‘imply: elaboration’]
Mr. Att. General. Was you in the Room then?
Meggison. I sat upon a little Box at the Bed’s Feet, and it was so dark
he could not see me. [‘imply: elaboration’]
Mr. Att. General. How came you to Newgate.
Meggison. I have been a great many times in Newgate. [‘evade’]
Mr. Att. General. You dwell there sometimes, don’t you?
Meggison. No, I never did. [‘do not confirm: elaboration’]
Mr. Att. General. Are you a married Woman?
Meggison. Yes. [‘validate’]
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Mr. Att. General. What is your Husband?

Meggison. A Dealer, but he is not in England now.
[‘identify: elaboration’]
Prisoner. What Room was I in?
Meggison. A little dark Room. [‘identify’]
Prisoner. What do they call it?
Meggison. The Lions Den. [‘identify’]
Prisoner. Every Body knows that Room is a dark Room, that People
can’t easily be seen in it.
Mr. Hungerford. Did you hear Mr. Buckley say any thing more?
Meggison. Nothing, but that he would bring my Lord Townshend into
Court, on purpose to influence the Jury by his presence.
[‘imply: elaborate’]
Mr. Hungerford. As to these two Witnesses, we have several to speak to their
Reputations; but I believe you have no doubt as to that.
Sir. J. Jekyll. I dare say no one Person in Court believes a Word they say.
Notice, for example, that even when the Attorney General asked Meggison a
non-conducive wh-interrogative (‘How came you to Newgate?), Meggison ap-
peared to infer an incriminatory element, and thereby answered with an ‘evade’
(that is, she did not provide ‘yes’, ‘no’ or value for missing variable explicitly, or an-
swer in such a way that one could be inferred). The Attorney General then asked
a tag question to Meggison that was explicit in its denunciation (it implied that
she had been an inmate at Newgate). Meggison strongly refuted the prosecu-
tion lawyer’s insinuation, so the Attorney General asked a polar interrogative
that in another context may have been non-conducive. However, because of
the questions that had preceded it, its function was clear – to once again call
into question Meggison’s reputation (that she associated with men who were
not her husband).
In contrast to the Attorney General, Francia only asked questions that
sought information from Meggison (notice that that information would not
have been ‘new’ to Francia, however; see 5.6.1). That said, Meggison’s answers
to his what-interrogatives helped clarify for the judges/jury how she was able
to be in a room without being seen by Buckley. Meggison’s most damning ev-
idence, however, came in response to Hungerford’s polar interrogative, for it
suggested that the judges/jury were being deliberately manipulated (by Buckley
and, by implication, the prosecution counsel).
It is worth noting that Hungerford’s final comment suggests that he still felt
it necessary to counter the Attorney General’s attempts to undermine Meggi-
son’s reputation. However, he did so in a way that intimated that her reputation
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
should have been beyond ‘doubt’. As the extract reveals, his ‘no doubt’ com-
ment was immediately refuted by Sir Joseph Jekyll, ‘I dare say no one Person
in Court believes a Word they say’. Such comments reveal that the lawyers’ at-
tempts to influence the judges/jury were not restricted to question-and-answer
sequences alone in the EmodE courtroom (in spite of the fact that defence
counsel, at least, were not ‘officially’ allowed to address the jury until after the
Prisoners’ Counsel Act of 1836). Such comments also highlight the need to go
beyond an investigation of questions and answers if we are to fully appreciate
the dynamics involved.
.. Courtroom data as narrative?
Many of the above interactions between examiners and witnesses are not re-
ally ‘narratives’ in a pure Labovian (1972, 1997) sense, as the core narrative
(i.e. the ‘what happened’ element) is provided as much by the presupposi-
tions of the examiner’s (i.e. the teller’s) questions as by the witnesses’ (i.e. the
knower’s) responses to them (Harris 2001: 60; Doty & Hiltunen 2002: 317). In
other words, they are highly ‘fragmented’ accounts told by multiple tellers (cf.
Labov 1972: 359–360, who defines oral narratives of personal experience as a
linguistic method of replicating the temporal unfolding of events in the se-
quence in which they occurred; see also Section 3.3.2.1). Yet, Harris (2001)
and Doty and Hiltunen (2002) propose Labovian-inspired models for trial data
that can help us to recognise the core elements of ‘trial narrative’ (note that the
‘elaboration’ element is contained within square brackets to indicate that it is
non-compulsory; Harris 2001: 60):
Orientation – the circumstances which surround the narrative account, i.e.
who, what, when, where?
Core narrative (complicating action) – the account itself, i.e. what happened,
including often what was said and seen as well as what was done.
[Elaboration] – [provides further details, clarification, explication, etc. of the
core narrative].
Point – significance of the narrative account for the larger trial narrative,
i.e. usually the guilt or innocence of the defendant. Addressed explicitly
to the jury.
Length constraints prevent an in-depth discussion of all of the above elements.

Suffice it to say, point appears to be especially important in the interaction be-
tween witnesses and the lawyers, as it establishes the significance of the core
narrative in the minds of the jury. However, I would suggest that the ‘guilt or
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
innocence of the defendant’ is, in fact, the macro point (or the point of the
larger narrative), which the individual witness accounts (or mini-narratives)
build towards. This is not to say that lawyers will not ask witnesses to confirm
the same or a related point. Indeed, a large part of the lawyer’s role by the mid-
eighteenth century was establishing a ‘story’ that accounts for ‘evidence’ given
by the opposing counsel, but from a perspective that helps their client/supports
their case (see Chapter 8). It is worth noting, however, that my SPC data sug-
gests that the point (or significance) of the core narrative was communicated as
much by the witnesses as the lawyers. Indeed, Lord Townshend reintroduced an
earlier point made by the defence team (i.e. that Francia had not been allowed
to read his own examination/confession) so as to imply that their alternative
interpretation was, in fact, incorrect (see p. 233). Like Oates in the Trial of
Edward Coleman, Lord Townshend also provided extended narratives in re-
sponse to ‘questions’ (see p. 250 and pp. 254–259). But such behaviour was
unusual, according to my SPC data. Indeed, most witnesses preferred to elab-
orate their answers in minor ways, with the effect that a significant portion of
their examinations were non-narrative in form (cf. Stygall 1994; Harris 2001).
. The witnesses’ interaction with the Court and defendants

(1720–1760)
Tables 34 and 35 provide a breakdown of the types of ‘answers’ that witnesses

addressed to the Court and the defendants in Period 5 (1720–1760). Notice that
the Period 5 witnesses tended to ‘elaborate’ their answers when interacting with
the defendants, but not when interacting with the Courts. Notice, also, that
they mainly utilised ‘identifies’ and ‘in/validiates’, that is to say, ‘answers’ that
provided a missing variable/polarity decision explicitly when interacting with the
Courts, but resorted to a variety of ‘answer’ strategies when interacting with the
defendants (including ‘evades’, ‘challenges’, ‘do not confirms’ and ‘disclaims’).
As explained in 9.4, the witnesses were interacting with two defendants,
Captain Ambrose and Christopher Layer (1722). I suggested, in that sec-
tion, that Ambrose’s strategy (of using ‘hypothetical’ questions, preceded by
a short account of what the witness had previously testified) affected the wit-
nesses’ responses, to the extent that they tended to provide additional detail
to that which had been requested, as a means of emphasising the accuracy of
their account:
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
Q. As the Rupert was between you and the Enemy, how could you
distinguish whether I was near enough to do Execution?
A. I could judge of the Distance as it appeared to me, and by our Shot
falling short by the Distance you were from us, and the Distance we were
from the Enemy; I think we in the Essex were two Miles from them, and
you half a Mile nearer than we.
Q. Then I was a Mile and a half off?
A. Yes.
Q. From the Situation you lay to windward, could you judge whether the
Rupert was in a Line with the Admiral?
A. Yes, because you was so near us, therefore I am sure you was not in a
Line.
[Court-martial of Captain Ambrose, 1745]
Table 34. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to the Court (1720–1760)
Imply 2 [–] 39 [23] 41 [23]
Confirm 2 [2] 6 [2] 8 [4]
Do not confirm/oppose 0 [–] 1 [1] 1 [1]
Disclaim 5 [–] 31 [7] 36 [7]
Supply 0 [–] 6 [–] 6 [–]
Validate 4 [3] 79 [17] 83 [20]
Invalidate 0 [–] 77 [28] 77 [28]
Identify 17 [3] 91 [16] 108 [19]
Problem 0 [–] 2 [–] 2 [–]
Total 112 [57] 105 [56] 226 [113]
Table 35. Function of answers addressed by witnesses to the defendants (1720–1760)
Imply 7 [3] 32 [19] 39 [22]
Confirm 0 [–] 9 [4] 9 [4]
Disclaim 2 [2] 15 [6] 17 [8]
Supply 1 [–] 2 [–] 2 [–]
Validate 0 [–] 9 [5] 9 [5]
Invalidate 0 [–] 16 [8] 16 [8]
Identify 9 [2] 31 [6] 40 [8]
Evade o [–] 3 [–] 3 [–]
Challenge 1 [–] 3 [–] 4 [–]
Problem 0 [–] 1 [–] 1 [–]
Total 21 [8] 128 [54] 149 [62]
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
It is worth noting that the same witnesses did not ‘elaborate’ their answers
when interacting with the Court, even when asked similar questions:
Q. Did you ever see the Rupert in a Line with the Admiral?
A. No.
Q. How do you know she was not in a Line with the Admiral?
A. Because I saw both her and the Admiral.
Q. Was you in the Line?
A. No.
Q. How far to windward of the Line?
A. A Mile.
Indeed, less than one third of the ‘answers’ that witnesses made in response to
the Court’s ‘questions’ (that is, 94 out of 333) provided additional/supporting
information than was explicitly requested. As all of the ‘answers’ in the Period
5 column of Table 35 (above) relate to the Court-martial of Ambrose (1745),
a possible explanation for the witnesses’ lack of ‘elaborates’ may be the proce-
dure followed during that court-martial. By this I mean, that witnesses tended
to ‘explain’ in greater detail only those responses that in some way contra-
dicted information contained within their depositions (notice, in particular,
that Period 5 witnesses tended to elaborate their ‘invalidate’-type answers).126
The witnesses questioned by Layer also ‘elaborated’ their evidence. How-
ever, their most interesting strategy appears to have been occasioned by Layer
and his defence team’s character assassination tactics (as explained in 9.4, Layer
was one of the few defendants to work in collaboration with their defence
team). By way of illustration, Layer and his two defence lawyers intimated that
Mrs. Mason’s primary motivation for giving evidence against Layer was that of
profit (as 9.4 highlights, they used the same tactic when questioning Lynch):
Mr. Ketelbey. Before that Time that the Two Messengers came, Mr.
Turner and Mr. Speare, and seiz’d the Papers, and
afterwards one of them went for Mr. Stanyan; I ask you,
Whether you had shown those Bundles to any Body before
that Time?
Mrs. Mason No; I had shown them to no Body.
Mr. Att. Gen. She hath said so Two or Three Times before.
Ld. Ch. Just. Indeed, Mr. Ketelbey, we must direct you not to spend the
Time of the Court so. You have ask’d her that Question
Two or Three Times over.
Mr. Ketelbey. My Lord, I would very fain have the Truth come out.
Chapter 10. Witnesses’ ‘answering’ strategies (1640–1760) 
Mr. Hungerford. I will ask you a Question or Two. What Trade or Business
do you follow? What is your Trade or Occupation.
Mrs. Mason. What is that to you? I have no Trade.
Mr. Hungerford. I should have ask’d you another Question before; Have you
not a Promise of Reward for the Service you do here, in
giving this Evidence?
Mrs. Mason. No, I have not.
Prisoner. Nor you have received none?
Mrs. Mason. No. You are an unjust Man.
Ld. Ch. Just. Are you promised any Reward! Why don’t you ask her
whether she is to swear for Hire? Is that a proper Question
to ask a Witness?
Mr. Ketelbey. I submit it to your Lordship, whether it is not proper to ask
her this Question; Whether she hath not told any Person,
and whom, that she was to have a Reward for coming
hither?
Prisoner. The Question is, Whether she hath never owned and
confessed to any Body, that these Papers were opened
before a Friend of hers, before the Messenger seized them?
Mrs. Mason. No, my Lord, I never did. I never opened them before any
Body.
Notice that the Attorney General complained about Ketelbey’s initial question,
because it asked for evidence that Mrs. Mason had already provided. Notice,
also, that the judge directed Ketelbey to not waste the Court’s time by asking
‘her that Question Two or Three Times over’. Ketelbey’s response to that ‘direc-
tion’ suggests that defence lawyers were increasingly recognising ‘contentious’
questioning as a legitimate means of getting to the truth (cf. Landsman 1990).
Hungerford’s willingness to persevere in the face of judicial hostility also sug-
gests a growing assertiveness on the part of some defence lawyers (see Chap-
ter 8). Under such circumstances, it is not surprising that witnesses became
self-protective (notice, for example, Mrs. Mason’s response to Hungerford’s
question about her ‘Trade’; ‘What is that to you?. . . ’).
Hungerford’s second question revealed his real motivation for asking about
the witness’s ‘Trade’, for it presupposed that Mrs. Mason was ‘promised a
Reward’, and thus intimated that she earned her living by accusing others
(Langbein 1999: 320–321).127 Although Mrs. Mason categorically denied the
accusation, Layer pursued the topic (‘Nor have you received none?’). Mrs. Ma-
son once again denied the accusation. She also rebuked the defendant. The
judge’s intervention at this point suggests that he was as unhappy with the de-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
fence team’s strategy as Mrs. Mason. That said, it did not cause Ketebley or the
prisoner to change their tactics. It is worth noting, however, that the witness
chose to address the judge from this point onwards.
. Insights gained
At the beginning of our period (1640–1679), witnesses were primarily ques-

tioned by the judges. As the main aim of the judges was to procure information,
they tended to be ‘cooperative’, on the whole (in a social as well as Gricean
sense). Indeed, some provided additional information than requested. As the
trial began to move towards a more markedly adversarial contest (1690s+), wit-
nesses also became an increasing source of information for the lawyers (and,
surprisingly, for the defendants). However, the lawyers’ increasing adoption of
a more ‘contentious’ questioning style meant that witnesses needed to utilise
strategies that were self-protective as well as ‘informative’, e.g. resolute denials,
emphasising the accuracy of their account, etc.
Some witnesses also looked to the judges to intervene on their behalf.
When the judges did so, their comments suggest that the period covered by the
SPC data (the 18th century, in particular) was a period of transition for all con-
cerned, that is to say, the judges, lawyers, defendants and the witnesses. Those
comments, and the continued activity of the Courts (and, to a lesser extent,
the defendants) suggest, in turn, that the emergence of the modern Anglo-
American adversarial trial was far from ‘an inevitable development rushing to
completion’ (Cairns 1998: 36). I will pick up on this point in the conclusion.
In the penultimate chapter, I provide a brief account of some of the non-
questioning strategies utilised by EmodE participants in the courtroom so that
we have a more rounded view of the dynamics of courtroom interaction in this
period.
Chapter 11
Courtroom interaction
in the historical period
More than ‘questions’ and ‘answers’
. Participants’ use of ‘requests’, ‘requires’ and ‘counsels’
One of the primary aims of this work has been to examine questions in terms
of their form and/or function, and a number of interrelating factors, such as
where the question occurred in the discourse, why it was uttered, who uttered
it, and to whom (cf. Stenström 1984: 150), and to examine answers in terms
of their ‘appropriacy’ and purpose (cf. providing information/a polarity deci-
sion explicitly/indirectly, and supplying information that was not the requested
information, etc.). Consequently, I developed a taxonomy that identifies ques-
tions (and answers) according to their:
Interactional/structural intent, e.g. the position questions (and answers) oc-
cupy in the discourse and the purpose for doing so (cf. initiating a new
exchange, responding to an initiation/continuing an existing exchange, and
terminating an exchange, etc.).
Illocutionary force, e.g. the speaker’s intention (cf. seeking information, seek-
ing clarification, seeking confirmation, querying, undermining, accusing,
providing information, denying an allegation, evading, etc.).
Form, e.g. the (grammatical) question type or answer-type utilised, and (in
the case of questions) its actual form in the text (cf. ‘what’, ‘did’, ‘or’).
By distinguishing between interactional/structural intent and force, I have also

been able to identify those instances when participants initiated a new exchange
or continued an existing exchange using an eliciting device other than ‘ques-
tions’ (i.e. they used utterances whose illocutionary force fell within the verbal
action category of ‘request’, ‘require’ or ‘counsel’), as well as those instances
when they used utterances to comment upon the utterances of others or termi-
nate an exchange as opposed to responding to the (re)initiations of others (see
4.4–4.4.4).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
As my focus has been upon ‘questions’ and ‘answers’, the different par-
ticipants’ use of additional eliciting devices has only been mentioned briefly.
However, in Period 3 in particular, the dynamics of courtroom interaction
cannot be fully appreciated unless we understand the different ways in which
participants used ‘requests’, ‘requires’ and ‘counsels’, depending on their role
and ultimate aim. In this penultimate chapter, then, I concentrate on the strate-
gic ways in which three of the most active participants in the Period 3 SPC
data – the judges, the defendants and the prosecution lawyers – used ‘requires’,
‘requests’ and, to a lesser extent, ‘counsels’.
. The judges’ interaction with defendants (1640–1679)
As explained in Section 7.7, the judges’ interaction with the defendants was at
its greatest during Period 3. Indeed, judges addressed 52.4% of their utterances
to defendants (that is, 150 out of 286), making them their favoured addressee
between 1640–1679. Although a large proportion of those utterances func-
tioned as (re)initiations, they tended to have a force other than ‘questioning’.
Indeed, judges addressed nearly as many ‘counsels’ as ‘questions’ to defendants
(i.e. 17 compared to 21), three times as many ‘informs’ than ‘questions’ (i.e.
60 compared to 21), and nearly half as many ‘expresses’ than ‘questions’ (i.e. 9
compared to 21).
The overwhelming impression of many of these ‘informs’, ‘expresses’ and
‘counsels’ is that judges were commenting upon – and thereby shaping – tes-
timony as it was being given (see 3.3). A trial that amply demonstrates this is
the Trial of King Charles (1649). Part of the charge against Charles I was that,
as King of England, he had been
. . . trusted with a limited power to govern by, and according to the laws of the
land, and not otherwise [. . . ] yet nevertheless out of a wicked Design, to erect,
and uphold in himself an unlimited and Tyrannical Power to rule according to
his Will, and to overthrow the Rights and Liberties of the People [. . . ] hath
Trayterously and maliciously levyed War against the present Parliament, and
the People therein Represented . . .
(King Charls his tryal . . . , 1648)
Charles was loath to provide an answer to it, when his ‘judge’, Lord President
John Bradshaw, requested that he do so.128 Instead, he utilised a ‘response-
initiation’ to ask ‘by what power’ he had been ‘called hither’ (Charles’ use of
(re)initiations is discussed in 11.4 and 11.6). Bradshaw interpreted the king’s
Chapter 11. Courtroom interaction in the historical period 
re-initiation as a criticism of the legal authority of the High Court of Justice.

Indeed, utilising a ‘response-initiation’ of his own, he pointed out that ‘if [he]
had been pleased to have observed what was hinted to [him], by the Court, at
[his] first coming hither, [he] would have known by what Authority’, and then
required him, ‘in the name of the People of England’ to answer. But Charles re-
fused. That refusal sparked a series of exchanges between Bradshaw and Charles
that, on Bradshaw’s part, mainly involved ‘requires’, ‘counsels’ and ‘informs’
(twelve, eight and sixteen respectively). Several of these were made up of mul-
tiple forces (i.e. ‘inform’ and/or ‘counsel’ and/or ‘express’), as the following
example illustrates:
Sir, you have offered something to the Court, I shall speak something unto
you the sence of the Court. Sir, neither you nor any man are permitted to
dispute that point, you are concluded, you may not demur the Jurisdiction of
the Court, if you do, I must let you know, that they over-rule your Demur-
rer, they sit here by the Authority of the Commons of England, and all your
Predecessors, and you are responsible to them.
The above succinctly captures the overall goal of Bradshaw’s exchanges,

namely, to alert the king to his ‘unacceptable’ behaviour and to persuade him
to ‘acknowledg [..] the Authority of the Court’.
The Trial of Charles is untypical in many ways, of course. The king was
on trial for his life, the High Court of Justice had been hastily convened
to specifically try him, any MPs likely to vote in his favour were refused
entry to Westminster Hall, and Bradshaw had been elevated to the posi-
tion of ‘Lord President’ because no judge of merit was prepared to try the
king, etc. Yet, defendants from the other trials in Period 3 faced similar ‘in-
forms’/‘cautions’/‘expresses’ to Charles. The following extract is taken from the
treason trial of Edward Coleman (1678). As previously established, Titus Oates
had invented a fictitious plot involving the Duke of York, and he named Cole-
man (secretary to the Duchess of York) as one of the ‘catholic conspirators’ (see
3.3.2). Coleman had expressed a concern that ‘the violent prejudices that seem
to be against every man in England that is confess’d to be a Roman Catholick’
would mean that he would not be given a fair trial. The judge’s initial response
to Coleman’s fear was to reassure him that he would. However, the judge had
more to say on the subject:
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
L. C. Just. [. . . ] Therefore you shall find, we [= protestants] will not do to

you [= catholics], as you do to us, blow up at adventure, kill
people because they are not of your perswasion; our Religion
teacheth us another Doctrine, and you shall find it clearly to your
advantage. We seek no mans blood, but our own safety. But you
are brought here from the necessity of things, which your selves
have made; and from your own actions you shall be condemned,
or acquitted.
Notice that the opposition between ‘we’ and ‘you’ effectively positioned Cole-
man with those Catholics that ‘blow up at adventure, kill people. . . ’, etc., and
the judge with those whose ‘Religion teacheth . . . another Doctrine’. Such fea-
tures suggest that Coleman’s fears were founded, that is, that the assumption
that ‘Roman Catholic equalled traitor’ was in operation, in spite of the judge’s
earlier promise that he would ‘have a fair, just and legal Trial’. We have no way of
measuring the impression that such comments may have made upon the jury,
of course. What we do know is that Coleman was found guilty, and executed
at Tyburn on 3rd December 1678, and that Oates, his main accuser, was later
found guilty of perjury, and imprisoned (see also pp. 271–272, this chapter).
. The judges’ use of ‘requires’
As previously established (see 7.7), the Period 3 judges’ favoured eliciting de-
vice when addressing defendants was the ‘require’ (a speaker utilises a ‘require’
when s/he wants (and expects) the addressee[s] to do something). Indeed, they
addressed more than half as many ‘requires’ as ‘questions’ to them in Period 3
(i.e. 45 as opposed to 21). Many had the force of commands/instructions, and
were re-initiations as opposed to initiations (indeed, only eight of the forty-five
requirements addressed by judges to defendants initiated a new exchange). A
theme common to nearly half (i.e. 22) of the ‘requires’ (both initiating and re-
initiating) was the need for defendants to answer the charge put to them. These
ranged from a simple ‘you must plead guilty or not guilty’ (Trial of Robert
Tichborn, 1658) to the following, where the judge felt the need to make his
authority explicit:
You have a very great Grand Jury, forty persons, and we have power upon a
special Act of Parliament to give order for a Charge to be brought in against
you, and we have according to that power and Authority given order for this
Charge to be brought in against you, and you are to answer to it
Chapter 11. Courtroom interaction in the historical period 
The primary function of such ‘requires’ was to compel a response (cf.

Culpeper & Kytö’s 2000a ‘prompters’). Yet, as the following extract also re-
veals, several ‘requires’ exhibited an additional and/or alternative characteristic,
namely, curtailing the ‘inappropriate’ ramblings of over-zealous defendants
(see italicised section):
Nay Sir, by your favour, you may not be permitted to fall into those discourses;
you appear as a Delinquent, you have not acknowledged the authority of the
Court, the Court craves it not of you, but once more they command you to give
your positive Answer –
[Trial of Charles I, 1648]
This was especially the case in the trial of Charles. Indeed, rather than at-
tempting to ‘compel an (appropriate) response’, three ‘requires’ attempted to
silence him:
You may answer in your time, hear the Court first . . .
Sir you shall be heard in due time, but you are to hear the Court first . . .
Sir, You shall be heard before the Judgment be given, and in the mean time
you may forbear.
In Archer (2002: 17), I showed that the Salem judges’ commands often revealed
an underlying presumption of guilt (see also 3.5.2). Indeed, in Martha Corey’s
trial, Hathorne (one of the Salem magistrates) paralleled the need to con-
fess with the need to tell the truth and, in so doing, manifested a philosophy
still dominant in courts today – ‘that, if someone is put under enough pres-
sure, they will tell the truth, or the truth will emerge despite the teller’ (Lakoff
1990: 90). Interestingly, there are no instances of commands being used to pres-
sure defendants to tell the ‘truth’ in Period 3. However, defendants occasionally
raised the topic themselves. Edward Coleman, for example, insisted that:
. . . when I was in Prison, I was upon my ingenuity charged; I promised I would
confess all I knew. And I onely say this, That what I said in Prison is true, and
am ready at any time to Swear and Evidence, that that is all the truth.
The Lord Chief Justice’s response was to ask ‘It is all true that you say: but did
you tell all that vvas true?’. In other words, he intimated that Coleman was be-
ing economical with the truth. Coleman responded by stressing that he ‘kn[e]w
no more than what [he had] declared to the Two Houses’, but it was not the
‘answer’ that the Lord Chief Justice had wanted:
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
L. C. Just. Mr. Coleman, I’ll tell you when you will be apt to gain credit in
this matter: You say, that you told all things that you knew, the
Truth, and the whole Truth. Can Mankind be persuaded, that you,
that had this Negotiation in 74. and 75. Left off just then, at that
time vvhen your Letters vvere found according to their Dates? Do
you believe, there vvas no Negotiation after 75. because vve have
not found them? Have you spoke one vvord to that? Have you
confessed, or produced those Papers and Weekly Intelligence?
When you ansvver that, you may have credit; vvithout that, it is
impossible: For I cannot give credit to one vvord you say, unless
you give an account of the subsequent Negotiation.
Nevertheless, the Lord Chief Justice was careful to inform Oates, the main wit-
ness against Coleman, that he must tell the truth when giving his evidence, so
‘that Mr. Coleman may be satisfied in the Trial’:
Mr. Oates, we leave it to your self to take your own way, and your own method:
only this we say, here’s a Gentleman stands at the Bar for his life; And on the
other side, the King is concerned for His life: you are to speak the truth and
the whole truth; for there is no reason in the world that you should adde any
one thing that is false. I would not have a tittle added for any advantage, or
consequences that may fall, when a man’s bloud and life lieth at stake: Let him
be condemned by truth: you have taken an Oath, and you being a Minister,
know the great regard you ought to have of the sacredness of an Oath; and
that to take a man’s life away by a false Oath is murther, I need not teach you
that. But that Mr. Coleman may be satisfied in the Trial, and all people else
be satisfied, there is nothing required or expected, but downright plain truth,
and without any arts either to conceal, or expatiate, to make things larger then
in truth they are; he must be condemned by plain Evidence of Fact.
The irony, of course, is that Oates was later found guilty of perjury, strongly
suggesting that Coleman was not ‘condemned by truth’. In which case, the Lord
Chief Justice’s perspective of reality also played a part, for it meant that he could
not – or chose not to – recognise the falseness of Oates’s ‘oaths’. Indeed, we
see some evidence of this in the above extract. Notice, for example, the Lord
Chief Justice’s comment regarding Oates’s occupation, which suggests that his
mindset was such that he believed being a ‘Minister’ equated to being truthful
(cf. his assumptions regarding Catholics).
Chapter 11. Courtroom interaction in the historical period 
. The defendants’ use of ‘requests’
Nearly half (that is 49.2% or 91 out of 185) of the defendants’ (re)initiations

in Period 3 had the force of a request. Requests also accounted for 76.9% of
their (re)initiations for Period 3 as a whole (e.g. 103 out of 134; see Table 25,
p. 229). Yet, it is worth noting that a mere six defendants – Charles I, Con-
nor Lord Macguire, Sir Henry Slingsby, Mr. John Mordant, Thomas Harrison
and Dr. John Hewet – were responsible for all of the requests that were ad-
dressed to the judges. Significantly, the six defendants faced charges of treason.
Moreover, their status was that of professional or higher (see pp. 113–114,
for definitions of the different status categories). I mention this to highlight
that the defendants’ use of ‘requests’ in the SPC may not be representative of
the EmodE period as a whole (see 12.9). As such, the following observations
require (in)validation by further research. The theme of eighteen of the defen-
dants’ requests was that they be given an opportunity to speak. Indeed, the king
made the request six times. However, instead of being given ‘every opportunity’
to give his version of events, he tended to be interrupted:
The King. When I was here yesterday, I did desire to speak for the
Liberties of the People of England; I was interrupted. I
desire to know yet whether I may speak freely or not.
Lord President. Sir, You have had the Resolution of the Court upon the like
Question the last day, and you were told, That having such a
Charge of so high a Nature against you, and your Work was,
that you ought to acknowledge the JURISDICTION of the
COURT, and to Answer to your CHARGE. Sir, if you Answer
to your Charge, which the Court gives you leave now to do,
though they might have taken the advantage of your
contempt, yet if you be able to Answer to your Charge,
when you have once Answered, you shall be heard at large,
make the best Defence you can. But Sir, I must let you know
from the Court, as their commands, that you are not to be
permitted to issue out into any other discourses, till such
time as you have given a positive Answer concerning the
Matter that is CHARG’D upon you.
[Trial of Charles, 1649]
Charles did not answer the charge, as instructed. Instead, he informed the
Court that he ‘value[d] it not a Rush’, pointing out that he could not ‘acknowl-
edge a new Court that [he had] never heard of before’. He then attempted to
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
address a conditional requirement of his own to the judge, seemingly without

much success:
The King. [text omitted] . . . If you will give me time, I will shew you
my reasons why I cannot do it [answer the charge], and
this – Here being interrupted, he said By your favour, you
ought not to interrupt me; how I came here I know not,
there’s no Law for it to make your King your Prisoner: I was
in a Treaty upon the publique Faith of the Kingdom, that
was the known – two Houses of Parliament that was the
Representative of the Kingdom, and when that I had almost
made an end of the Treaty, then I was hurried away and
brought hither, and therefore –
Here the Lord President said Sir, you must know the pleasure of the Court.
The King. By your favour Sir:
Lord President. Nay Sir, by your favour, you may not be permitted to fall
into those discourses; you appear as a Delinquent, you have
not acknowledged the authority of the Court, the Court
craves it not of you, but once more they command you to
give your positive Answer –
Notice that Charles’ behaviour caused the Lord President to make explicit
reference to the intended pragmatic force of his or, rather, the Court’s utter-
ance. When used by dominant speakers, such ‘metapragmatic acts’ are thought
to ‘effectively remove any possibility of “negotiating communicative intent”’
(Thomas 1986: 194). Indeed,
The subordinate interlocutor is obliged not only to produce a contingently
relevant response (the adjacency pairs which conversational analysts describe),
but also, because of the power relationship obtaining between the speaker and
hearer, a polite response. (Thomas 1986: 195)
Thomas (1986: 195) goes on to explain that:

The clash between the prepositional and the interpersonal is such that the sub-
ordinate must either directly contradict his/her superior (and risk aggravating
the confrontation), or s/he must back down and lose the argument (or at best
remain silent).
Charles opted to ‘risk aggravating the confrontation’. Indeed, when asked (by
the clerk) to answer to his charge, the king requested that he be excused from
having to answer, because to do so would ‘alter the fundamental Laws of the
Kingdom’. As previously explained, in a case of treason, prisoners who would
Chapter 11. Courtroom interaction in the historical period 
not plead were treated as though they had pleaded guilty (see p. 227). Yet, the
king appears to have used this principal to his advantage:
[The Court] had wanted to demonstrate the King’s guilt by calling witnesses,
and allowing John Cook to condemn his policies and his conduct in a stirring
speech for the prosecution. But it was not possible either to examine witnesses
or to make out a public case for the prosecution if the accused stood mute or
pleaded guilty, for in that case – logically enough – no such demonstrations
were required by English law. Therefore the silence of the King destroyed a
principal purpose of the trial. Certainly he could be taken as guilty and sen-
tenced to death; but he could not be proved guilty for all the world to see.
(Wedgwood 1964: 135)
It is difficult to assess whether the king’s refusal to make a plea, and his insis-
tence that he be allowed to ‘give in [his] reasons why [he would] not answer’,
was motivated as much by a desire to make a mockery of the whole proceed-
ings as his belief that he was ordained under God, and thus could not be tried
by them. What is clear is that the trial was a show trial, with only one possible
outcome (Seymour 1986).
The King was not the only defendant to question the legality of the judicial
system he faced. Indeed, the latter was the theme of twenty requests. Most,
however, chose to couch their requests with more reverence than Charles, even
though, like the latter, their very lives depended on a successful outcome:
This learned Gent. he is better able to speak what is Law than I; but under
favour, and with submission, I do not think he may judge of the Laws, or
the other (that spoke his private conception) to interpret the meaning of the
Parliament. And (my Lord) if your Lordship please, I shall make this my
humble appeal to the learned Judges of the Law; That if they will say in this
respect that this is a lawful Judicature, I shall proceed
Notice, in particular, that Hewet uses a preparatory illocutionary act prior to

his hypothetical clause (‘And (my Lord) if your Lordship please, I shall make this
my humble appeal to the learned Judges of the Law; That if they. . . I shall. . . ’)
in addition to the obligatory deferential terms of address (‘my Lord’, ‘your
Lordship’ ‘learned Judges’). He is also careful to utilise an indirect format.
Of the remaining requests, thirteen sought counsel, nine sought a copy
of/desired that the charge against them or the Act/Commission under which
they were being tried might be read, two desired to know why they were being
prosecuted, one requested trial by jury, and a further seven requests desired
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
confirmation that the defendants’ lack of legal knowledge would not be used
against them.
. The prosecution counsels’ use of ‘requests’
It is worth noting that the prosecution counsels also utilised ‘requests’ when
they wanted to elicit something from the judges in Period 3. Most contained the
obligatory deference markers. They also tended to contain explicit references to
defendants undermining the authority of the Court in some way, and the need
for (as well as the legal right of) the judges and/or themselves to ‘do their duty’:
Att. Gen. My Lord, some of his own Coat have acknowledged the like
Authority before him; but if Mr. Doctor be peremptory in this
that he will not own your Authority, and plead to his charge, I
must do my duty, that is, humbly to pray the Court, that if he
refuse to answer, I must pray their Judgment, and acquaint him
with the words of the Act; [which accordingly was read.] So that,
my Lord, in default of Answer, if Mr. Doctor will not plead to this,
my Lord I must thereupon pray that you will proceed according to
the Act, as in cases of High Treason which is very penal. I have no
more to say.
The same prosecution counsel, Attorney General Prideaux, also addressed two
‘requires’ to the Lord President. The first, a conditional requirement, occurred
during the Trial of John Mordant (1658):
If Mr. Mordant will be pleased to answer whether or no guilty of those Crimes,
then he shall have a fair Trial, and full Examination: If otherwise, the same
Sentence must be required as before; that is, upon refusall, the Judgement
pronounced for High Treason
Its instructional force – that the Lord President pronounce a judgement of High
Treason – was indirect, however, helping to mitigate the face-threat to the lat-
ter’s negative face. In contrast, the second ‘require’ is much more direct at first
sight (note the use of first and second person pronouns, in particular):
My Lord we must not suffer this, pray if he will not be otherwise satisfied I
must require your strict justice.
Chapter 11. Courtroom interaction in the historical period 
But Prideaux was actually pointing out what (he felt) the Lord President must
do if a particular action continued, rather than directly ‘requiring’ the latter to
stop that action (cf. the defendants’ use of ‘requests’, above). Indeed, its co-text
suggests that its primary force was that of an ‘express: protest’ (e.g. express a
negative view about somebody else’s action. S does not want the action to continue
and hopes to cause the action to stop, see Appendix 2), and its secondary force
that of a ‘require’ (e.g. S wants (and expects) A to do something).129
. The defendants’ use of ‘requires’ and ‘counsels’
Defendants also addressed a number of ‘requires’ and ‘counsels’ to the judges

(ten and two respectively). This is surprising, given their asymmetrical role.
However, one explanation for defendants using verbal action categories that
are primarily the reserve of powerful participants appears to be the high status
of the former. By way of illustration, Charles (who had the highest status of all
the participants in Period 3) was responsible for one of the ‘counsels’, and seven
of the ten ‘requires’ (as previously highlighted, he was also keen on requests –
he made eighteen, addressing all of them to Lord President Bradshaw). The
king’s ‘counsel’ occurred in an exchange that also had the force of a ‘require’,
but its main force appears to have been somewhere between a recommendation
and a warning (see Appendix 2):
I say this Sir, That if you will hear me, if you will give me but this delay, I
doubt not but I shall give some satisfaction to you all here, and to my People
after that, and therefore I do require you, as you will answer it at the dreadfull
day of Judgment, that you will consider it once again
Indeed, the king appears to be have been strongly counselling the Lord Presi-
dent against a certain course of action whilst intimating that compliance with
the king’s wishes was actually in the judge’s best interest (because a delay would
have resulted in the king giving the Court the ‘satisfaction’ they were wanting
and save them from eternal damnation!).
Interestingly, many of the king’s ‘requires’ had the same force as the
judges’, namely, ‘commands/orders’. ‘Commands/orders’ not only expect H to
do something, they ‘presuppose that S has sufficient authority, and that S and
H are in an asymmetrical relationship’ (see Appendix 2):
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Shew me that Jurisdiction where Reason is not to be heard . . .

Shew me where ever the House of Commons was a Court of Judicature of that
kind . . .
Consequently, we would expect them to be utilised by judges, but not by defen-

dants. Indeed, Bradshaw actually informed the king that: ‘It is not for prisoners
to require’ in one of their exchanges. The king’s response to Bradshaw’s ‘re-
prove’ is very telling: ‘I am not an ordinary prisoner’. The first of the king’s
‘orders’ (above) then followed, and provoked a ‘threat’ from the Lord President:
Sir, We shew it you here, the Commons of England; and the next time you
are brought, you will know more of the pleasure of the Court, and, it may be,
their final determination
On hearing the second ‘order’ (see above), the Lord President commanded that
the ‘Serjeant, Take away the Prisoner’.
Another ‘require’ utilised by Charles had the force of a ‘demand’. As the
following example reveals, ‘demands’ still ‘require/claim a certain course of ac-
tion’ from H, but S expects that A will be reluctant to comply (cf. Wierzbicka
1987: 39, 70):
I do not know how a King can be a Delinquent; but by any Law that ever I
heard of, all men (Delinquents, or what you will) let me tell you, they may
put in Demurrers against any proceeding as legal, and I do demand that, and
demand to be heard with my Reasons, if you deny that, you deny Reason.
Notice that Charles made explicit reference to the intended pragmatic force
of his utterance, just as Bradshaw had done. According to Leech (1980: 70–
71), such a strategy (making ‘the hearer understand that this force, and no
other is intended’) not only removes any ‘polite ambivalence’, but also gives
the utterance a ‘sledgehammer’ effect. This suggests, then, that ‘demands’ are
as challenging as ‘requires’ when used by subordinate participants. Indeed, the
above occasioned a stern ‘rebuke’ from the Lord President:
Sir, you have offered something to the Court, I shall speak something unto
you the sence of the Court. Sir, neither you nor any man are permitted to
dispute that point, you are concluded, you may not demur the Jurisdiction of
the Court, if you do, I must let you know, that they over-rule your Demur-
rer, they sit here by the Authority of the Commons of England, and all your
Predecessors, and you are responsible to them.
The rebuke did not dissuade the king, however. He responded with a firm
denial (which contained another illocutionary force indicating device (hence-
Chapter 11. Courtroom interaction in the historical period 
forth IFID)), and a second ‘command/order’: ‘I deny that, shew me one

president’.
The fact that ‘prisoners [were not meant] to require’ may help to explain
their relative infrequency in the other trial texts relating to Period 3. Indeed,
there are only three instances: the first involved a defendant with a lesser status
than the judge, but it was conditional: ‘My Lord, if you sit by the Act, sit according
to the Act, and then I shall submit . . . ’ (Trial of Dr. John Hewet). The remaining
‘requires’ were utilised by John Mordant, a ‘gentleman’ who probably shared
the same status as the judge (as with ‘requests’, the defendants utilising ‘re-
quires’ were all facing charges of treason).130 Mordant’s first ‘require’ appears
to have had the force of a command/order: ‘My Lord, convince me by this Act
that I am to lose the right of Jury; I have not heard any reason why I must
lose it’. In contrast, his second ‘require’ had the force of a ‘demand’ and, like
Charles’s ‘demand’, made explicit the illocutionary force of his utterance: ‘My
Lord, I demand this, to hear the Commission read’.
In spite of such ‘inappropriate’ behaviour, Mordant was acquitted. The rea-
son, according to the SPC data, was that Mordant was examined immediately
after Dr. Hewet and Sir Henry Slingsby, and the Attorney General and judge
appear to have believed that his behaviour (i.e. his repeated use of ‘requests’
and ‘requires’, and his refusal to make a plea) was occasioned by ‘ill advise’ he
had received from them. Consequently, they spent some considerable time con-
vincing him that his best course of action was to ‘plead . . . and put [himself]
upon . . . Trial’. And Mordant eventually complied.131
. Insights gained
Length constraints have forced me to be brief in this penultimate chapter. Nev-

ertheless, I believe that my ‘snapshot’ of the Period 3 judges/defendants’ use
of ‘requests’ and ‘requires’ is sufficiently detailed to demonstrate that much
is to be gained by studying more than questions and answers, in particular, a
more rounded appreciation of the dynamics of EmodE trial talk. We have also
gained a better sense of the confrontations that occurred between the judges
and defendants, and the ‘risky strategies’ that some of the latter were willing to
adopt at moments of crisis (in particular, the use of IFIDs; cf. Thomas 1986).132
Charles I was the most confrontational, of course. Yet, it is worth reiterating
that the other defendants to utilise ‘requests’ and ‘requires’ also faced accusa-
tions of treason (further research is therefore required to determine whether
this need to go beyond questions and answers relates to treason trials only or,
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
alternatively, is a feature of defendants who enjoyed a ‘high[er]’ status: see 12.5

and 12.9). Fortunately, my annotation scheme is such that differences between
demanding, requiring and ordering can be captured at the ‘function’ level (cf.
‘demand’, ‘require’ and ‘order’, which are subsumed within the ‘require’ verbal
action category; for definitions, see Appendix 2).
The major focus of this study is not ‘requires’ or ‘requests’ however, but
‘questions’ and ‘answers’. Consequently, I begin my concluding chapter (fol-
lowing) with a brief summary of my main findings in relation to questions
and answers, and then assess the extent to which I have achieved my aim of
enhancing our understanding of EmodE courtroom discourse.
Chapter 12
Concluding comments
. Approach adopted in this work
In this work, I have sought to enhance our understanding of historical court-

room discourse by engaging in a sociopragmatic analysis of sixteen trial texts
taken from the Sociopragmatic Corpus (1640–1760). As trial talk, then as now,
was largely made up of questions and answers, and questions and answers
were typically used by identifiable participants (Archer 2002; Culpeper & Kytö
2000a), I began by establishing what it is about questions and answers that
helps us to recognise them as such both generally (see Chapter 2) and in the
specific context of the modern/historical courtroom (see Chapter 3). I then devel-
oped a three-level classification system of questions and answers that captures
their interactional intent, force and, where applicable, form, and implemented
this to the sixteen trial texts in the SPC (see Chapter 4). My analysis of the SPC
data began in Chapter 5, with an overview of the formal aspects of the trial
data as a whole (i.e. 1640–1760). In particular, I identified the various forms of
questions and their frequencies, and pointed out that some were particularly
multifunctional (i.e. what-interrogatives), and others, highly ‘routinized’ (i.e.
‘Did/do you know. . . ’). I also pointed out that the bulk of the interrogatives
were used to elicit something (be it information/confirmation/clarification or
an action, etc.). That said, some interrogatives in the SPC data had a ‘reporting’
function (i.e. reported questions that participants – witnesses, in particular –
had asked others or had had addressed to them during the alleged primary
event). My most important ‘finding’, however, was that the frequency with
which questions were used, the function that they served, and their ability
to achieve their social and/or interactional goal depended, in large part, on
a number of sociopragmatic factors. These include the speech event (including
the type of trial), the position of the question[s] in the discourse, the role of the
user and addressee, the ultimate aim of their interaction, and the date of the
trial(s). The recognition of the importance of sociopragmatic factors accounts
for the focus of Chapter 6, that is to say, the supplying of a general overview
of the SPC participants according to the role that they adopted, and a discus-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
sion of the interactional intent of their utterances (in particular, the frequency
with which they utilised questions compared to other speech acts/eliciting de-
vices over the 200-year period of the SPC). Chapters 5 and 6, in turn, provided
the foundation for Chapters 7–11, which examine the utterances of the par-
ticipants who adopted the most active roles (i.e. the judicial examiners, the
lawyers, the defendants and the witnesses).
The following sections below assess some of my findings in relation to the
above, and determine the implications that my work has for our understand-
ing of questions and answers, both generally and in the context of the historical
courtroom. In regard to the historical courtroom, the reader should note that
I had one overarching goal in this book, namely, understanding the strategic
use that participants made of questions and answers. The culmination of my
argument has been that, if we to are understand questions and answers, we
must take a number of contextual factors into account. For example, my ex-
amination of the SPC data suggests that the roles that participants adopt are
particularly important (in an institutional context, at least). Consequently, I
start my detailed conclusions with an investigation of how participants’ roles
were changing, leading to ‘new’ discourse practices and, in turn, to changes
to the (discursive norms of) the historical courtroom itself. I then summarize
the participants’ specific use of questions (and answers), depending on their
role, before assessing the extent to which questions can be seen as ‘controlling’
in the EmodE courtroom. The issue of ‘control’ is then picked up again, as I
consider the extent to which any of the ‘inherent’ characteristics of questions
discussed in Chapter 2 are truly inherent. Finally, I explore the extent to which
my work has strengthened the relationship between corpus linguistics and his-
torical pragmatics, before outlining my plans to expand the trial section of the
Sociopragmatic Corpus.
. 1640–1760: A period of emerging and changing roles
The SPC data suggests that discourse practices in the EmodE courtroom were
undergoing change. By way of illustration, the judicial examiners were respon-
sible for the development of the case at the beginning of our period (1640–1679
especially), and the prosecution counsels – when they did appear – adopted
a supportive role. The judicial examiners tended to ask witnesses questions
that were information and, to a lesser extent, confirmation-seeking at this
time, and to ask defendants questions that were querying and/or clarification-
seeking. However, as the EmodE period progressed, the judges questioned
Chapter 12. Concluding comments 
witnesses and defendants less and less. Moreover, the questions that they ad-
dressed to witnesses changed function, becoming more clarification-seeking.
This change in function occurred at the same time as defence counsel be-
gan to appear (1680 onwards in my data). The arrival of defence counsel also
coincided with (some say resulted from) an expanded role for prosecution
counsel (cf. Langbein 1978; Beattie 1986). Put simply, the prosecution coun-
sel took over the questioning of witnesses (on behalf of the State/prosecutor),
and the judicial examiners began to ‘play a reactive [as opposed to pro-active]
part in proceedings’ (Landsman 1990: 520). This is not meant to imply that
judicial examiners had become the ‘neutral’ umpire that we might associate
with that role today, for this was clearly not the case. Indeed, the EmodE as-
sumption that defendants were ‘guilty until proven innocent’ often meant that
their allegiances were very much with the (prosecutor and his/her) prosecution
counsel. However, the arrival of the defence lawyers, and the increased activity
of the prosecution lawyers did lead to a more ‘contentious’ questioning style
(Landsman 1990: 522). And the new form of questioning led, in turn, to (i) the
majority of defendants choosing not to take an active part in their defence (this
was especially the case in Period 5), and (ii) ‘unfriendly’ witnesses, in partic-
ular, experiencing some of the same phenomena that defendants had endured
for some time (i.e. having their ‘evidence’ contradicted, and their credibility
questioned).
The need to provide persuasive evidence also accounts for the more thor-
ough questioning of witnesses that we evidence in the SPC as the period pro-
gresses, and, conversely, the development of more explicitly adversarial ques-
tioning strategies, the characteristics of which bear a strong resemblance to the
system we have today (but see 12.2.1 following). For example, opposing sides
were increasingly using questions as a means of controlling and, on occasions,
undermining their respondents’ contributions so that they could steer ‘the tes-
timony of witnesses’ in a way that created a ‘story’ – or ‘secondary reality’ – that
was of maximal benefit to their clients’ case (cf. Walker 1987: 59–60; Tiersma
2000: 160–161; Hale & Gibbons 1999). Those ‘stories’ were increasingly estab-
lished over a (number of) questioning sequence(s), and often involved more
than one participant. In other words, lawyers were increasingly designing their
utterances so that they did not just relate to those that they followed (the im-
mediate questioning sequence of which they were a part), but also to what had
gone before and, ultimately, to the context of what was at issue in the trial as a
whole (the guilt or innocence of the defendant: cf. Drew 1985: 137). They were
also attempting to persuade the judges/jury to believe that witnesses who did
not ‘cooperate’ were able to provide the requested information, but were un-
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
willing to do so because it would damage the opposition’s case (cf. Harris 1984;
Archer 2002). Not surprisingly, witnesses began to utilise strategies that were
self-protective as well as ‘informative’, e.g. resolute denials, emphasising the ac-
curacy of their account, etc. Some witnesses also looked to the judges (as well
as to their own counsel) to intervene on their behalf.
.. The emergence of the adversarial system?: Assessing my work

in relation to previous (historical) studies
One of the major differences between previous historical studies (e.g. Lands-
man, Langbein, Beattie) and my own work is that I draw from a number of
sources, including Treason trials (similar to those reported in the State trials),
Sessions of Oyer and Terminer, and Old Bailey sessions, etc.) My use of Treason
trials, in particular, means that I see the emergence of the defence counsel in the
late seventeenth century as opposed to the early eighteenth century (cf. Beattie’s
1986 study of the Surrey Assizes, and Langbein’s 1978 study of the Old Bailey
Sessions Papers). As my interest is linguistic, I also attempt to explain the new
discursive practices that were emerging at this time. In contrast, many of the
historians are happy to highlight the ‘flowering of the art of cross-examination’,
without explaining what it actually entailed.
In respect of the ‘art of cross-examination’, I suggest that some of the
emerging practices of the lawyers were strikingly similar to techniques used in
modern courtroom examinations (see 12.2 above). The EmodE trial was not
the same as a modern trial in other respects, however, not least because:
1. The ‘inquisitorial’ procedure was still in evidence (cf. the Court-martial of
Ambrose, 1745).
2. When counsel were present, the judicial examiners determined the extent
to which defence counsels, in particular, were actively involved.
3. The judges often intervened in the examination sequences to ask questions
(mainly of witnesses, but also of counsel).
The counsels, defendants (and, very rarely, the witnesses) also intervened in
the examination sequences of others, giving the EmodE courtroom a fluidity
that is lacking today. That said, I would suggest that the ability to intervene
in this way intensified (rather than decreased) the ‘contentious’ nature of the
proceedings. This was especially true of the eighteenth century trials. Indeed,
the differing perspectives of the opposing sides become glaringly obvious in
the later SPC data.
Chapter 12. Concluding comments 
Yet, the adversarial system we have today was not an ‘inevitable’ conse-
quence of the changes that took place in this period (see Sections 3.4.3–3.4.3.2),
for modern advocacy, in its strictest sense, involves more than just the exami-
nation and cross examination of witnesses. It involves addressing the jury as a
means of ensuring that jurists are fully informed of all the facts, and all the pos-
sible interpretations of those facts, when reaching their verdicts. And, as Cairns
(1998: 2) explains, full defence by counsel was only achieved in the 19th cen-
tury, through the Prisoners’ Counsel Act’ (1836) and related reform, including
the campaign against capital punishment (see 12.9).
. The efficacy of using contemporary approaches to examine

historical data
In Section 3.4.3.2, I highlighted Cairns’ (1998: 36) concern that legal historians
have allowed ‘present concerns’ and ‘practices’ to bias their analyses. As this
work has shown, however, contemporary techniques do have an historical ap-
plication – as long as we are sensitive to the socio-historical context (Jacobs &
Jucker 1995: 19). By way of illustration, I try to use ‘labels’ that the EmodE par-
ticipants themselves used (i.e. ‘question’, ‘request’, ‘require’, ‘demand’, ‘plead’,
etc.). In this way, I am following a tried-and-tested approach to the recov-
ery and scrutiny of historical utterances (see, for example, Schlieben-Lange
1976).133 This is not meant to imply that I am wholly reliant on explicit per-
formatives. On the contrary, as I am interested in ‘speech acts’ as functional
units – and ‘speech acts as functional units do not correspond directly to speech
act verbs’ (Jucker & Taavitsainen 2000: 70) – I do not restrict myself to per-
formative/speech act verbs that appear in the texts, but utilise evidence of all
‘speech act’ phenomena (direct and indirect). As Section 12.2 highlights, I also
go beyond the level of the ‘speech act’ in order to provide the reader with a
better sense of the discursive norms of the EmodE courtroom, and the pro-
cesses (linguistic and extra-linguistic) that effected change. In addition, I have
recognized and ‘owned’ a sympathy on my part for the defendants (occasioned
by the EmodE assumption of being ‘guilty until proven innocent’), as a means
of ensuring that my findings are not irretrievably coloured in any way. I have
also made concerted efforts to appreciate the EmodE courtroom system from
the point of view of the contemporaries themselves (see Chapter 3 and also
12.9). The reader is in the best place to determine my success (or failure) in
this regard.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. Questions: Not just the preserve of the primary examiners
As previously stated, my overarching goal was to discover the strategic use that
participants made of questions in the context of the courtroom. It is worth noting
that the EmodE primary examiners (the judicial examiners and the lawyers)
addressed most of their questions to the witnesses.134 Those questions served
a variety of micro and macro purposes, including seeking information, clari-
fication, confirmation and, in the case of the lawyers towards the end of the
period covered by the SPC data, constructing a ‘story’ or secondary ‘reality’
for the jury (see 12.2). Questions, in turn, often exhibited controlling, under-
mining and accusing functions. I am therefore aware that a large part of my
findings display a common theme of modern courtroom literature: namely, the
control achieved through questions (cf. Atkinson & Drew 1979; Harris 1984).
However, as I have argued throughout, this is only part of the story, not least
because it suggests that questions are always a manifestation of power when ut-
tered in the courtroom (cf. Walker 1987: 62) – and, in the EmodE courtroom,
defendants were also permitted to ask questions of witnesses. Moreover, those
questions exhibited similar functions to the primary examiners’ questions (see
Chapter 9).
.. Questions did not always control the contributions of respondents
The difference between the defendants and the primary examiners, of course,
was that the defendants had the ‘legitimate’ right to request but not the ‘coercive
power’ to shape witnesses’ responses. They also lacked the primary examiners’
(growing) specialist knowledge/expertise (cf. French & Raven 1959; Spencer-
Oatey 1992; Thomas 1986). Consequently, they tended to secure their inter-
actional goals (witnesses, in the main, responded to their ‘questions’), but not
their discoursal and/or social goals (defendants experienced difficulties when
attempting to procure the relevant information/clarification/confirmation, etc.
that might ‘prove’ their innocence).
One might conclude, at this point, that questions should not be seen as
‘controlling’ in and of themselves but, rather, as having the ability to control
when used by dominant participants. Of course, such a conclusion is only vi-
able if we recognize that having the ability to control respondents’ contributions
is not the same as controlling respondents’ contributions. For example, a factor
that affected the primary examiners’ ability to control respondents’ contribu-
tions in the SPC data was the extent to which respondents’ individual goals
overlapped/clashed with their goals. By this I mean that respondents who had
Chapter 12. Concluding comments 
a great deal invested in the outcome of the interaction (i.e. the avoidance of
punishment and/or the slurring of their character) often employed strategies
that appeared to be cooperative. However, that cooperation was at an interac-
tional level only. Respondents resisted giving information that might hamper
their personal cause and/or that clashed with their own sense of the ‘truth’ (cf.
Archer 2002; Doty & Hiltunen 2002).
. The need to go beyond a study of questions and answers
Defendants and witnesses (especially those with a higher status) were at their
least ‘compliant’ when their assigned role rendered them ‘powerless’ to speak
and/or open to ‘character assassination’. The most obvious example of this is
that of Charles I (see Chapter 11). A common strategy of the primary examin-
ers, at this point, was to invoke the rights and power attached to their role, as
a means of getting the subordinate participant to submit. The eliciting device
they used was not the question in such circumstances, but the ‘require’ and, to
a lesser extent, the ‘counsel’.
The SPC defendants also made use of the same eliciting devices, albeit in-
frequently – Charles, for example, ‘demanded’ that he be allowed to speak.
However, defendants tended to favour the ‘request’ (indeed, the majority of
their utterances were requests in Period 3). It is worth noting that some of
those ‘requests’ (like some of their ‘reports’) were designed so as to express their
inability to provide the requested information/action and/or to convey why/that
Y (proposed by S/others) could not be right (Appendix 2). In other words, they
were ‘defensive’ techniques. I would argue, then, that (like the role of ques-
tioner) the role of initiator was not a ‘non-transferable marker of power’ in the
EmodE courtroom (cf. Walker 1987: 62). I would also reiterate that those in-
terested in (historical) ‘trial talk’ need to study more than just questions and
answers if they are to fully appreciate the dynamics of the EmodE courtroom.
Such study, in turn, would have the added benefit of helping [in]validate my
hypothesis that ‘requires’ and ‘counsels’ were used at moments of crisis (for
example, when defendants were not complying with the desires of the Court).
As previously indicated, further study would also help determine whether ‘re-
quests’ and ‘requires’ were a feature of particular trials (i.e. Treason trials), or a
feature of defendants of a high status (see p. 279).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. Implications for questions generally
Schegloff (1978: 82) suggests that ‘even where an utterance is in the linguistic
form of a question, and seems to be doing questioning, the latter will not be ad-
equately accounted for by the former’ or, indeed, vice versa. His main point, of
course, is that ‘question forms can be used for actions other than questioning,
and questioning can be accomplished by linguistic forms other than questions’
(Schegloff 1978: 85). Although a valuable point to make, I found that ‘when
the forms and functions of questions are examined together, it becomes evi-
dent that a relationship exists between the two’ (Freed 1994: 635). Indeed, the
majority of the questions in the SPC data tended to have an interrogative form
and an information-seeking function.135 This is not meant to imply that such
characteristics are ‘inherent’. On the contrary, the main argument of this work
is directly opposed to the semanticists’ view that contextual factors can be dis-
regarded when defining questions, not least because those factors appear to
directly influence the operation/function of questions (and their respective an-
swers: see 12.7 following). Indeed, I believe that we should regard supposedly
‘inherent’ characteristics in the same way that Gazdar (1979) regards presuppo-
sitions, that is, as ‘potential’ characteristics that are actualised – or cancelled –
depending on the context. These characteristics might include:
1. The (categorical) view of an interrogative as an incomplete object that
needs to be augmented, by something else being added to it (for not all
questions require a verbal response, cf. rhetorical questions).
2. The (propositional) view of questions as requests for information (for
questions seek more than just information).
3. The (imperative-epistemic) view that questions oblige the respondent to
speak while restricting the prepositional content of his/her answer and thus
contain a ‘control’ element in the underlying structure (cf. Aqvist 1965;
Katz & Postal 1964).
4. The (Searlean) view that the speaker wants an answer to his/her ques-
tion which s/he does not know but that the addressee does know (for
lawyers, in particular, ask friendly witnesses questions for which they know
the answer).
I believe that a systematic approach to question-identification that consid-

ers contextual factors such as ‘role’, ‘status’, etc., at the level of the utterance
can help us to determine which characteristics are in operation, and which
are cancelled.136 By way of illustration, my findings suggest that several of the
above characteristics tend to be actualised by the courtroom context (historical
Chapter 12. Concluding comments 
and modern). By this I mean, questions (and a number of other ‘verbal ac-
tion categories’, i.e. ‘request’ and ‘require’) tend to serve an ‘eliciting’ function.
When asked by the powerful, they also impose illocutionary and discursive
constraints on the answer, and thus give indications about what a possible (ap-
propriate) answer might be. This helps to explain why question-forms that are
usually regarded as non-conducive (i.e. wh-interrogatives, yes/no questions)
can become conducive, and why, although a speaker may intend that the hearer
interprets his/her question as ‘rhetorical’ (i.e. as not requiring an answer), the
hearer may nevertheless have cause to want to provide an answer, and thereby
treat it as an information seeking question.
Even so, we must not make dangerous assumptions about the use of ques-
tions because of the context before checking whether they actually apply. By
way of illustration, I found that some of the wh-interrogatives that are given
a broad classification when used by examiners in the modern courtroom (i.e.
what-interrogatives) were not as unrestricted in the EmodE courtroom. Yet,
Culpeper and Kytö (2000) tend to classify what-interrogatives as ‘open ques-
tions’ only, even though they draw from the same data source (i.e. the CED). A
second ‘assumption’ that we should be aware of relates to so-called ‘conducive’
questions, not least because I found that not all ‘conducive’ questions were used
coercively, even by the primary examiners (a finding that led me to conclude
that conducivity should be regarded as a pragmatic issue; see Archer 2002;
Piazza 2002). A third assumption relates to the extent to which some questions
in the courtroom, in particular, lawyers’ questions to friendly witnesses, seek
information that is already ‘known’ to both parties (which, in turn, suggests
that their primary intention is not necessarily to elicit ‘new’ information).
. Implications for answers
I am aware that my main motivation for examining answers was so that I might
better understand the role of questions in the EmodE courtroom. Even so, I be-
lieve my research has implications for answers in general. By way of illustration,
as with questions, I would suggest that there are various parameters we must
consider if we are to understand ‘answers’. These include:
1. The local constraints at the exchange level (i.e. the extent to which answers
are conditionally relevant (Sacks et al. 1974)).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
2. The situational or appropriateness constraints (i.e. the extent to which an-

swers observe/conflict with the pragmatic parameters of relative power,
status and social distance (see below)).
We might also wish to take heed of:

3. The position of an answer within the discourse (i.e. whether they directly
follow a question (cf. Labov & Fanshel 1977: 65; Schegloff 1984: 35)).
4. The extent to which they provide information (be it new or given, com-
plete or partial, verbal or non-verbal (cf. Groenendijk & Stockhof 1986;
Riley 1986)).
In regard to the fourth point, in particular, it is worth reiterating that an ‘an-

swer’ is a discursive element which has several purposes, one of which is to
provide requested information. Indeed, an answer may be carrying one (or
more) of several illocutionary force(s) at any given time, and still function
as an answer. Another point to bear in mind is that different activity types
have different interactional norms, with the result that participants have dif-
ferent obligations to respond to questions. For example, a participant’s role
may be such that they feel compelled to breach pragmatic norms (cf. Section
2.3; see also Hymes 1972: 285 and Fairclough 1986: 34). For these reasons, I
would suggest that the above are best considered as ‘potential’ as opposed to
inherent features of answers, which (like the characteristics of questions) can
be actualised or cancelled in context.
. A corpus-based approach to pragmatic phenomena: How successful?
Given the data problems encountered by those wishing to study the language of
the past, the relationship between historical pragmatics and corpus linguistics
is, by necessity, a close one. I have attempted to strengthen that relationship
even further by adding ‘interpretative, linguistic information to an electronic
corpus’ (Leech 1997: 2, original emphasis), which makes possible linguistically
motivated retrieval at the touch of a button.
As annotation is designed to capture the ‘what’ and the ‘how’ as opposed
to the ‘why’, we still have to engage in qualitative analysis as a means of ex-
ploring ‘the importance of [our] findings’ (cf. Biber et al. 1998: 5). The reader
may therefore be wondering why we have to engage in corpus annotation tech-
niques at all. The answer is that we don’t. However, I would argue that my
particular investigation, studying the relationship between the role of the par-
Chapter 12. Concluding comments 
ticipants and the various verbal action categories utilised by them, was made
easier because of the systematic identification of functional/contextual aspects
at the level of the utterance (the speaker[s]’ and addressee[s]’ role, status, age,
gender, interactional intent, force of utterance, etc.).
I have already highlighted the originality of an annotation scheme that is
able to treat contexts as dynamic (see Chapter 4 and also Archer & Culpeper
2003: 43, 51). Suffice it to say, its ability (i) to take account of the characteristics
of the speaker and addressee, and (ii) to identify the position of the utterance
in the interaction (via the interactional intent field) are both valuable steps in
advancing pragmatic and discoursal annotation work (the latter, in particular,
is especially important when pragmatic force tends to be cumulative; see 12.2
above and also Thomas 1986: 215).
An additional strength of my annotation scheme is that it can provide
quantitative figures with which to begin to (in)validate hypotheses respecting
the EmodE question (at least in relation to the courtroom).137 I see this as par-
ticularly important, as many of the quality summaries of the period are forced
to rely on general statements (see, for example, Rissanen 1999).
Suffice it to say, there is still much to do, not least capture the effect of
an ‘audience’ (i.e. the way in which a speaker may amend his/her utterance
because of an awareness that it may/will be overheard by a third party). This
issue was relevant to the present work, of course, as the real addressees in the
EmodE courtroom were the jury. Why, then, was this not picked up in our
initial scheme? The answer is a simple one – because most of the utterances
relating to the trial proceedings would have had to be categorised in this way. In
hindsight, however, I believe that we should consider expanding the addressee
field so that a value for ‘audience’ can be included when the text-type demands
it (this may prove especially beneficial for the drama texts, i.e. when a character
communicates to the audience in an aside).138
. Plans to expand the trial texts in the Sociopragmatic Corpus
A strength of my work is that I draw from a number of trial-types as a means

of gaining a more rounded view of the historical courtroom (i.e. bigamy, at-
tempted murder, forgery, treason, writing and publishing scandalous letters,
conspiracy, rioting and enticing rebellion, etc.). As such, I am able to take some
steps towards establishing the ‘discursive norms’ of the 1640–1760 courtroom.
Indeed, I have suggested that defence lawyers made their first appearance in
the English courtroom; defendants increasingly left their defence to counsel
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
(when present); judges questioned witnesses and defendants less in the eigh-
teenth century than they had in the seventeenth, and began to adopt more of
a presiding role; lawyers, in turn, became more involved in the examination
procedure; and witnesses faced increasingly ‘adversarial’ questioning strategies
(i.e. they had their evidence contradicted, and their credibility questioned),
and, as a result, had to adopt defensive counter-strategies.
As I argue in Archer (forthcoming), my work also takes the first few steps
towards providing a means of measuring the ‘(a)typicality’ of Early Modern
English trials. For example, my findings respecting the sixteen SPC trial texts
suggest that two texts in particular – the Courtmartial of Captain Ambrose
(1745) and the Trial of Charles I (1649) may be atypical. The former is atyp-
ical because of (i) its strong question and answer format, occasioned by the
Court’s practice of utilising a series of ‘routinized’ questions, in response to a
deposition read prior to questioning, and (ii) the defendants’ practice of using
long questioning sequences when addressing witnesses. The Trial of Charles
I (1649) is atypical because of the king’s ‘excessive’ use of ‘requests’ and ‘re-
quires’ given his role (i.e. eighteen and seven respectively), many of which were
confrontational in tone (see Chapter 11).
That said, my measure of (a)typical features is only valid if my identifica-
tion of ‘discursive norms’ is valid, that is, if the trial texts I utilise are typical of
(i) the particular trial types they are meant to represent at that particular point
in time, and/or (ii) the courtroom in general during the late EmodE period.
Indeed, further study might reveal that the Ambrose courtmartial is typical of
this type of trial, but untypical of the historical courtroom as a whole. Alterna-
tively, we might find the Ambrose courtmartial’s question-and-answer format
is typical of the historical courtroom as a whole, and that some of the other SPC
trials are atypical for the period. In particular, we might find that defendants
who utilised eliciting strategies similar to Charles were facing similar charges
(i.e. treason) and/or were of a high status (see p. 273). I therefore intend to
expand the trial section of the SPC corpus by adding texts with publication
dates that fall between 1640–1760. By so doing, of course, we will also be in a
better position to ascertain whether the greater activity of the defence counsels
in 1680–1719 than in 1720–1760 is an anomaly of the SPC data. This is espe-
cially important when one considers that historians date the emergence and/or
increased activity of counsel from the 1720s onwards.
I also intend to expand the coverage of the corpus a further 120 years,
so that the SPC captures the period in which the criminal trial achieved its
modern adversarial shape (Cairns 1998: 2). My reasons are two-fold: To assess
changes to the dynamics of the courtroom occasioned by the introduction of
Chapter 12. Concluding comments 
full defence counsel and, by so doing, determine the true impact of the lawyers.
Like Cairns (1998), I believe that my efforts will be more successful for the pe-
riod 1760–1880 if I were to draw from a variety of courtroom sources, and
also utilise secondary sources that provide clues respecting the views of the
barristers themselves. For ‘the profession’:
[. . . ] demanded certain standards of behaviour from its members [from the
late 18th century onward], and these rules of etiquette, informally enforced by
social pressure, might affect the representation of prisoners. An over-zealous
barrister on the Midland Circuit, for example, was expelled from the circuit
mess in 1790 in respect of his handling of a prisoner’s defence.
(Cairns 1998: 33)139
In light of the above-mentioned ‘rules of etiquette’, I will be seeking to identify

those (linguistic) features that barristers claimed distinguished ‘good’ advocacy
from ‘bad advocacy’ over the additional 120-year period, and determining the
extent to which actual trial practice reflects these views. I am particularly inter-
ested in whether ‘good’ advocacy constrained/allowed participants to ‘tell their
story’ in their own words. I will also be seeking to establish any further links be-
tween (linguistic) performance and status, as a growing number of ‘gentlemen’
were taking ‘upon the degree of a . . . Barrister without any design to practice
the law’ during this period, not least because ‘admission to the bar served as a
general qualification for a diversity of offices and activities in [. . . ] eighteenth-
century England’ (see Lemmings 1990: 58–60). In this case, I will be seeking to
determine the extent to which such men, on finding themselves in court (as
defendants or witnesses), found it easier to thwart the strategies of the primary
examiners than, for example, lower-status participants. As with this investiga-
tion, then, my future studies will analyse the contributions of both the primary
examiners and their respondents.
Notes
. In this and subsequent chapters, I will be using the abbreviation ‘EmodE’ as a use-
ful means of signalling courtrooms, judges, defendants, juries, etc., that relate to (or who
were active during) the period 1500–1760 in general, or the period covered by my data in
particular (i.e. 1640–1760).
. Verschueren’s (1997) use of perspective here is deliberate, for he believes that ‘pragmat-
ics does not constitute an additional component of a theory of language’, and thus should
not try to identify its own set of linguistic features in contradistinction with phonology,
morphology, syntax and semantics’ (Verschueren 1987: 36). See Mey (2001: 8ff.) for a useful
summary of the component and perspective views of pragmatics.
. Cognitive linguistics, in the USA, ‘is concerned with the systematic relation between lan-
guage and cognition, particularly as evidenced by mapping from one semantic domain
to another, polysemies, and gestalt phenomena such as figure and ground’ (Schwenter &
Traugott 1995: 243).
. The Carrier text was one of twelve that I examined. The Salem Witchcraft Trials represent
an infamous episode in American history that took place at the close of the 17th century
(see Section 1.3 for a brief description of the data source, and Section 3.5.2 for a summary
of Archer 2002 and related research).
. It’s worth noting that the later pamphlets often claimed accuracy and completeness. Al-
though technically untrue (see Kytö & Walker’s 2003: 230 work on the ‘interference’ caused
by the production process itself), such a claim is important, not least because the published
editions could be (and probably were) scrutinised by contemporary audiences that included
many of the official participants (Langbein 1978: 265).
. Kytö and Rissanen (1983) provide a useful account of American English in the Early
Modern period.
. Culpeper and Kytö (1999) present an interesting account of the multiple discourse levels
present within the Wonderfyll Discoverie, and their effect upon its representation.
. See http://www.oldbaileyonline.org/ for details.
. French and Raven (1959) also identify ‘reward’ and ‘referent’ categories, which relate to
A’s ability to control positive outcomes (by providing, helping to ‘provide, things that B
desires, and to remove or decrease things that B dislikes’, and B’s identification with and
desire to become more like A, respectively (see Spencer-Oatey 1992: 108).
. Two exceptions to this statement are the Cross Cultural Speech Act Realization Patterns
(CCSARP) project, and work at the pragmatics-cognition interface. The former is an ex-
ample of a large-scale quantitative study involving seven different languages or language
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
varieties and 1088 informants. Data was elicited by questionnaire (see Applied Lingustics
Vol. 5, No. 3, and Blum-Kulka 1989). An example of the latter is Relevance theory (Sperber
& Wilson 1992), which contents itself with brief constructed examples.
. Cf. Halliday (1985) and Brazil (1995) who, for varying reasons, reject the assumption.
. Both a negative particle and the enclitic n’t can be used to form a negative tag; not is
placed after the pronoun, and n’t is attached to the operator – cf. ‘He likes his job, doesn’t
he?’ and ‘He likes his job, does he not?’.
. The intensifier, ever, is often added so as to emphasise the bafflement or emotional
involvement of the speaker (Quirk et al. 1985: 817).
. Interestingly, all three approaches deal with the analysis of interrogatives from the per-
spective of the question-answer relationship, but their focus is slightly different in each
case. Hence, (i) categorial theories see the relation between interrogatives and answers as
linguistic – with the result that syntactic expressions are given central importance, (ii)
propositional theories see the semantic content of the answer as the crucial factor, and (iii)
imperative-epistemic approaches see the pragmatic viewpoint as dominating.
. According to Groenendijk and Stokhof (1984: 12), ‘treating the semantics of the two
equivalently does not necessarily mean making them equivalent, but assigning them mean-
ings which can be related to each other in a systematic way’.
. Note how the explicit presence of both the semantic and epistemic elements within the
paraphrase results in an embedding of interrogatives under a sequence of logical operators.
. Katz and Postal (1964) also attempt to identify imperatives using a similar process, but
with an imperative (I) morpheme.
. Levinson (1983: 184) also postulates a disjunctive presuppositional analysis for the struc-
ture of yes/no questions, arguing the latter ‘generally have vacuous presuppositions, being
the disjunction of their possible answers’. Leech (1983: 116), however, adopts a slightly dif-
ferent approach, stressing that ‘the free variable is in effect a gap in the sense of a proposition,
and so a yes-no question is characterizable as a defective proposition, from which one spec-
ification is missing, viz the polarity sign pos or neg’. Although a departure from standard
logic, he describes the addition of a positive operator as ‘reasonable’.
. According to Lyons (1977: 762), a restricted wh-Q is one ‘in which the set of possible
values for x [the wh-variable] is restricted to those that the speaker actually supplies in his
question’.
. The traditional test for identifying presupposition, the ‘constancy under negation’ test,
has also been heavily criticised. For example, Lyons (1977: 768) points out that the assertion
of a negative proposition (‘it is the case that not-p’) is not always equivalent to the denial
of the corresponding positive proposition (‘it is not the case that p’), especially when those
propositions contain a modal operator of possibility (cf. ∼nec p (‘it is not necessary that p’)
and nec ∼p (‘it is necessary that not-p’)). This has led to a number of suggestions, including
that the constancy under negation test be abandoned as the acid text of presuppositionhood
(Karttunen 1973).
. Both the semantic approach to presupposition and its pragmatic counterpart have their
origins in the theories of Strawson (1950, 1952), Russell (1905) and Frege (1952).
Notes 
. ‘Context’, for Gazdar, consists ‘of a set of propositions, which are mutually known
by the participants or which would be accepted as non-disputable facts’ (quoted in Riley
1986: 104).
. Leech (1980: 325), in particular, points out the dangers of arguing for ‘every single direct
statement’ to be seen as ‘an indirect statement’, and ‘every direct question [. . . ] an indi-
rect question’ given the rarity of explicit performatives in actual discursive situations. And
Stubbs (1983: 117) highlights the problems of assuming a “semantic equivalence” which fails
to take account of stylistic considerations, counter-arguing that the presence of an explicit
performative may actually change the speech act performed. He invites a comparison of the
following examples ‘I hereby ask you whether you are going’ and ‘Are you going’, which, he
asserts, ‘would not be intersubstitutable in the same social or discourse contexts and would
have different responses’.
. The use of constructed examples is now seen as problematic by many (see, for example,
Geis 1995: 13), but the preferred practice in the 1960s seems to have been to rely on native-
speaker knowledge (i.e. to make judgements intuitively or through introspection (Searle
1969)) rather than substantiate any claims by using authentic linguistic evidence. Although
I, too, recognise – and, indeed, will be highlighting some of – the limitations of using con-
structed examples, I stress the point here as a means of drawing attention to the changing
fashions within linguistics.
. Austin presented his ideas on speech acts in How to do things with words. The latter was
published posthumously in 1962 (Austin died in 1960), and consists of a series of recon-
structed lectures (known as the William James Lectures), which Austin delivered at Harvard
University in 1955. Searle’s seminal work, An Essay on the Philosophy of Language (1969),
develops Austin’s ideas, and is largely based on his DPhil thesis written ten years earlier.
. Interestingly, explicit performatives came to be regarded as a specialised subset of all
performatives.
. Yet, Geis (1995: 13–14) believes the term ‘speech act’ may be misleading, pointing out
that a soldier interested in volunteering for a mission, ‘might volunteer by taking a step
forward or raising an arm, or by saying I’ll do it, or, I’ll volunteer. Clearly, in stepping forward
or in raising an arm, the soldier performs essentially the same act as s/he would perform in
saying I’ll do it or I’ll volunteer’ (for similar criticisms, see Levinson 1983: 291; Schegloff
1984: 266–296).
. As previously highlighted, the use of illocutionary point is what made Austin’s analysis
of Commissives ‘clear and unambiguous’, in Searle’s estimation (Searle 1976: 8).
. Indeed, Mey (2001: 104) believes that ‘speech act theory, even though in name and
pretension a theory of action, in reality is a philosophical theory of, or about, propositions’.
. Thomas (1986: 16) provides interesting examples of such multifunctionalism, as when
A asks B ‘are those your filthy socks decorating the bathroom floor’, which is ambivalent be-
tween a request/order to move the socks and a complaint/reproach to H for his inconsiderate
behaviour).
. Indeed, Sinclair and Van Gessel (1990: 942) maintain that the difficulty which re-
searchers have previously had in identifying the relations between form and function is a
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
result of “naïve view-points of the function(s) of utterances”, and not from problems related
to analysing form (1990: 942).
. The constraint seems to be an expectation that the question will receive an answer,
though precisely what it is about an utterance/question that sets up this expectation is not
discussed.
. Coulthard and Brazil (1981: 97–98) propose an alternative I R/I R analysis of the three-
part teacher/pupil exchange, where the second move constitutes both a response and an
initiation (cf. Stubbs 1983: 137).
. The reader may be interested to know that Moeschler (2001) has now rejected his dis-
cursive approach to conversation in favour of Relevance Theory, because of the apparent
‘inability’ of the former to account for the two aspects of discourse, namely sequencing and
interpretation.
. These instances included ‘side-dialogues’ and ‘summaries’, which accounted for 23% of
the civil proceeding discourse that Stenström (1984) analysed.
. The fact that ‘suspects often produce behaviour which is appropriate to their interac-
tional goals but not in respect of their situational role’ leads Riley (1986: 258) to conclude
that we need to distinguish ‘between appropriate norms relative to speakers’ goals and those
relative to subject positions’.
. Thomas (1986) provides a useful summary of the two goal-sharing views relating to
Grice’s (1975) Cooperative Principle (linguistic goal-sharing and social goal-sharing).
. The thematic condition is satisfied when the R-move is semantically related to the Q-
move (implicitly or explicitly). The condition of propositional content is satisfied when the
R-move is semantically related to the Q-move by way of one of the following semantic rela-
tions: paraphrase, opposition, or implication. The illocutionary condition is satisfied when
the R-move has an illocutionary type compatible with the Q-type. The condition of argu-
mentative orientation is satisfied when the R-move has the same argumentative orientation
as the Q-move (see Moeschler 1987: 249).
. Ellegård (1953) is regarded as the most important early study on the origin and de-
velopment of do-periphrasis, but other early studies worthy of attention include Langenfelt
(1933), Engblom (1938) and Dahl (1956). The reader might also wish to refer to Tieken
(1985, 1986, 1987, 1989, 1990), Stein (1985, 1986, 1990), Denison (1985), Nevalainen
(1987), Kroch (1989), and Rissanen (1985, 1991).
. According to Bourcier (1981), the spread of inflexional weakening and the increasing
reliance on word-order contributed to the establishment of S-V-O word order.
. Rissanen (1999: 274) goes on to explain that ‘this distribution pattern is based on the
weight of the subject: when the subject is an emphatic pronoun or consists of two coordi-
nated pronouns, the order is the same as with a nominal subject [e.g. ‘Shall not thou and I
. . . compound a Boy . . . (Shakespeare Henry VV.ii)]’. He also suggests that ‘the placement
of not between the verb and the pronominal subject may reflect the gradual development
of the enclitic [nt] in spoken language’, which becomes increasingly popular throughout the
17th- and 18th centuries.
Notes 
. Rissanen (1999: 244) suggests that the slower development of do-periphrasis in wh-
questions may be due to the fact that the object is often the initial interrogative pronoun
(‘What sayest thou, Jack?’), ‘so that the problem of post-verbal subject + object sequence
does not occur’.
. The most popular modals in Shakespeare are shall and will. Shall accounted for 80 of the
298 modals found in questions, and 14 of the 66 modals found in answers. Will accounted
for 125 and 31 respectively (Wikberg 1975: 110).
. The negative statement + negative tag does not occur in either Wikberg’s (1975) or
Salmon’s (1966) Shakespeare corpus.
. As Wikberg (1975: 42–45) believes that Shakespeare exploited the material in contempo-
rary handbooks on rhetoric, he explains rhetorical questions by drawing upon Quintilian’s
distinctions between questions that ask (i) for emphasis, (ii) what cannot be denied, (iii) a
question to which it is difficult to reply, (iv) to excite pity, (v) to embarrass, (vi) to express
indignation etc., and answers that (a) answer another question, (b) make defence precede
confession, and (c) serve to raise a laugh, etc.
. According to Wikberg (1975: 162), the factual/logical distinction is best seen as ‘a scale
rather than either/or’.
. For example, the inversion occasioned by the use of marry and indeed in EmodE which
is no longer possible today.
. I use ‘story’ to indicate that barristers are not aiming to establish ‘truth’ in the literal
sense but, rather, to establish facts which support their client’s version of the truth.
. Questions are not the only marker of asymmetrical discourse to be worthy of study,
of course. Indeed, Thomas (1986: 1) highlights a number of pragmatic features, includ-
ing illocutionary force indicating devices (IFIDs), metapragmatic comments, ‘upshots’ and
‘reformulations’. As Chapter 11 highlights, IFIDs seem to be especially characteristic of
courtroom interaction that is overtly confrontational (see, in particular, Sections 11.6 and
11.7).
. In the majority of cases, the three magistrates will probably be “lay” persons from the
local community rather than professional judges or lawyers. However, an increasing number
of “stipendiary” magistrates – paid magistrates who are qualified lawyers – are becoming
active in such courts.
. Danet et al. (1980: 223), for example, identify further features of ‘coerciveness’, including
(falling) intonation, negation and illocutionary ambiguity.
. A fact that supports Luchjenbroers’ (1997: 482) claim that restrictive yes/no questions
can provide barristers with maximal control over the content of witness replies.
. Surviving records seem to suggest that such interventions not only took place, but
were acceptable to the bench, even though they led to a certain amount of chaos (Beattie
1986: 344).
. According to Beattie (1986), the ‘prosecutor’ role was not usually adopted by a profes-
sional during the EmodE period (but see Chapter 6).
. A lay magistrate (or Justice of the Peace) determined who would appear as prosecution
witnesses at a pre-trial committal proceeding (Langbein 1999: 315).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. Nowadays, recorders are part-time judges, which means that many tend to carry on their
barrister duties when not acting as a judge.
. The whole procedure was much quicker than it is today. Langbein (1978: 274–276, 282)
and Beattie (1986: 376–378) offer several explanations as to why this was the case, including
(i) many cases were heard at one time by the same judges and jury and the verdicts were
given at the end, (ii) many of the jurors were veterans of the procedure, having been in-
volved in prior jury service, (iii) what lawyers now do remained undone (e.g. there was no
opening statement, or assertion of what was going to be proved against the prisoner), and
(iv) the prosecution evidence was presented directly and briefly, with the judges keeping the
witnesses to the narrow track of evidence that related to the issue at hand.
. See Beattie (1986: 346) for a colourful example of a judge supporting a prisoner. The
case involves a prostitute accused of robbing one of her clients, and in some ways typifies
the instances when prisoners were treated more favourably because the ‘victims’ were judged
to have brought their misfortune on themselves.
. In Law, a recognizance is ‘a bond or obligation entered into and recorded before a court
or magistrate by which a person engages himself to perform some act or observe some con-
dition (as to appear when called on, to pay a dept, or to keep the peace); also, a sum of
money pledged as a surety for such performance and rendered forfeit by neglect of it’, OED.
. Such a belief is largely based on the question that judges frequently asked defendants
after the prosecution had finished giving its evidence – ‘what do you have to say for yourself?’.
As evidence for this view, Beattie (1986: 349), highlights one judge’s follow-up comment to a
defendant’s response of ‘I am no thief ’ to his initial question: namely, ‘You must prove that’.
. Langbein (1978: 312), for example, has found ‘unmistakable instances of lawyers exam-
ining and cross-examining for the defence’ in the Old Bailey trials of 1734–1735.
. Titus Oates joined forces with Israel Tonge to invent the story of the ‘Popish Plot’. Al-
though Oates had a history of falsification (he lied about his ordination as an Anglican
priest, for example), the ‘Popish Plot’ was made more ‘believable’ by two factors: (i) some
‘treasonous’ letters that Edward Coleman had apparently sent to the French Jesuit, François
La Chaise, and (ii) the untimely death of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey, the judge to whom
Tonge and Oates had first told their story. Godfrey’s death was attributed without evidence
to the Catholics, leading to an upsurge in anti-Catholic hatred.
. The most widely cited text in the second half of the 18th century was Sir Geoffrey
Gilbert’s, The Law of Evidence. It was first published in Dublin in 1754, but must have been
written much earlier as Gilbert died in 1726 (cited in Beattie 1986: 363n120).
. Culpeper and Kytö’s (2000a) methodology is worth mentioning here, as they attempt
to ensure a stable basis for comparison by matching utterances according to certain criteria
(i.e. gender and/or status). Consequently, although the speech contributions are low, they
are potentially more representative than studies that do not pay attention to such contextual
factors.
. Doty and Hiltunen (2002) also highlight the additional ‘evidence’, which was provided
by the accusers at Salem (e.g. the calling out, crying, violent physical reactions), and sug-
gest that the accused quickly surmised the importance of cooperating with the accusers
(especially given the fact that the latter’s ‘torment’ often ceased once the accused ‘confessed’).
Notes 
. Drama consists of imaginary constructed dialogue, whereas trial proceedings are the
supposed record of a prior speech event.
. EAGLES seeks to survey dialogue annotation practices and produce a set of guidelines.
For furter details, see their website at http://www.ling.lancs.ac.uk/eagles/.
. This work was made possible by a grant awarded to Dr. Culpeper by the British Academy
(SG-350252).
. Of course, some limited contextual information is provided in the text file headers of
corpora such as the Helsinki Corpus of English Texts. This typically includes information
such as the age of the text, who wrote it, and its genre.
. We are aware that some may find our decision to define rank in terms of income poten-
tially problematic, as incomes will have changed over our period. In our defence, incomes
do not appear to have dramatically changed (Hunt 1996). Even so, we do not base decisions
regarding status on income alone.
. ‘Individual circumstances varied, but at the bare minimum an urban householder in the
eighteenth century needed £50 to £80 a year to sustain a lifestyle and a level of “indepen-
dence” commensurate with middling status’ (Hunt 1996: 15).
. Our first three role fields are inspired by the work of Jenny Thomas.
. Needless to say, what constitutes the occupational role (of, say, ‘doctor’) can change
over time. Also, in the case of high-status titles, note that we would not consider a title alone
used as a vocative. Thus, ‘sir’ in ‘Sir Credulous’ gives us a reasonable indication that he is of
gentry status, but ‘sir’ alone used by one individual to address another provides no reliable
indication of status.
. Nevertheless, Allan (2000) believes that the differing perspectives of the SA theorists
(e.g. Austin 1962; Vendler 1972; Searle 1969; Bach & Harnish 1979; Allan 1986) share
more similarities than they do differences (for a summary of these similarities, see Allan’s
compilation of the different theorists’ definitions of specific speech act verbs like ‘assert’).
. As Table 5.5 indicates, Bach and Harnish identify two further categories, effectives and
verdicatives. However, as they are ‘not communicative’, they tend to treat them separately
(1979: 40).
. As the various form values reveal, I make use of single lexical items and multi word
expressions (i.e. ‘what’, ‘who’, ‘how come’, ‘why did not’, etc.).
. Overlap between the form values (i.e. Do you know where . . . , do you remember how
. . . ) was extremely rare in my data, making categorisation relatively straightforward. When
overlap did occur, I tended to treat such questions as polar interrogatives, for categorisation
purposes.
. I am indebted to Dr. Graeme Hughes for not only his PERL program, but his patience
while I made the necessary amendments to my scheme and whilst teaching me the finer
points of XML programming!
. The fact that our software program utilises a web interface meant that we had to produce
an xml-version of each text, and thus had numerous opportunities to check (and correct)
errors.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. It is worth noting that researchers working primarily within the area of computational
linguistics are now highlighting the importance of distinguishing ‘between . . . statistical
significance and practical significance’ (Rayson 2003: 155). Put simply, they argue that some-
thing that is statistically significant (for example, the ‘fact’ that Research Assistants in the
Computing department at Lancaster University use 5% less adjectives than Research As-
sistants in the Linguistics department) might not be practically significant, that is to say,
it might not tell us anything about the style of writing adopted by the two disciplines as a
whole (example provided by Rayson 2003, in email communication).
. Notice that, although the negative polar interrogative was utilised as much as the declar-
ative question in the SPC overall (i.e. on 93 occasions), its frequency in the different sub-
periods exhibited greater variance than the declarative question (i.e. between 2.5% and 5.5%
as opposed to the declarative question’s 4.3% to 5.6%).
. The terms ‘request’ and ‘require’ as used here denote the macro-categories which cap-
ture ‘neighbouring speech acts’, that is to say, the speech acts that interface with one another
(cf. Jucker & Taavitsainen’s 2000: 70 notion of ‘pragmatic space’). This means that some
‘requires’ may have the force of an ‘entreat’, whilst others have the force of a ‘command’.
. It is also worth noting that the two ‘requests’ were utilised by defendants, and the ‘re-
quire’, by a prosecution lawyer. Moreover, although prosecution and defence lawyers did
utilise whether-constructions with the force of a request, they were addressed to the judges
(for an interesting discussion on indirectness in discourse, and its relationship to power, see
Tannen 1981, 1986).
. As explained in Section 4.4.2, S utilises an ‘inform’ when s/he wants to communicate
something (about X) to A, and utilises a ‘question’ when s/he wants A to provide a missing
variable by saying/confirming/clarifying something about X (X = an action/event/behaviour/
person)).
. Two polars, four indirect polars, and six wh-interrogatives were used in Period 3;
seven polars, thirteen wh-interrogative, one negative wh-interrogative, one disjunctive in-
terrogative, and nine indirect polars were used in Period 4; one negative polar, sixteen
wh-interrogatives, and twelve indirect polars were used in Period 5.
. The remaining three were addressed to fellow witnesses (the reader should note that
these ‘questions’ are discussed in detail in Chapter 10).
. Walker (1987: 60) believes that even ‘re-questions’ (e.g. ‘Can I ask you . . . ’ questions)
are better understood as commands, because, whereas in ordinary conversation the hearer
has the option of withholding information ‘by answering the first part . . . (No, you may not
ask) or by evading, or responding negatively to the second part (No, I will not tell X)’, the
force of the hidden imperative may not be ignored in the context of a courtroom (cf. Danet
et al. 1976: 5, who prefer to categorise such questions as ‘requests for information’).
. Piazza (2002) does not deal with the courtroom specifically. Yet, she proposes a useful
way of approaching conducivity, i.e. ‘a pragmatic, hearer-oriented model of conducive-
ness which considers the assumptions underlying a question and which views the hearer’s
response as an integral part of the picture’ (Piazza 2002: 511–512).
Notes 
. Francia’s indictment had not taken into account that he was ‘an Alien’, and ‘if an Indict-
ment for Treason be against an Alien, it must be charged against his Allegience in general
but not against his natural Allegience’ (Trial of Francis Francia, 1716).
. Fox (1870: 586) confirms the activity of the defence counsels at this time. For example,
with respect to Edmund Saunders (the defence lawyer for John Giles), he says that he was
‘sometimes to be found acting for the defence in government prosecutions – as for Mr. Price
in 1680, when indicted for attempting to suborn one of the witnesses to the Popish plot; and
for the five Popish lords charged with high treason, of whom only Lord Stafford was tried’.
. Notice, also, that the ranking for the most active questioners differs from the ranking
for the most active participants (see Table 5.4 above). The most striking omission is the
witnesses, of course, but the Courts’ ranking is also significantly different (e.g. 1st as opposed
to 6th).
. The Period 5 result may be partially skewed by the way in which EmodE trials were
recorded, as the court scribes (or reporters) did not assign judges a (direct) speaker role in
two of the trials: the Trial of William Baker (1751) and ‘The Tryals of two Causes between
Theophilus Cibber, Gent. Plaintiff, and William Sloper, Esq. Defendant’ (1739). By which I
mean, there are no instances of judges verbally addressing utterances to another courtroom
participant. Indeed, the scribes even chose to inform us that the judges ‘summed up the
Evidence’ for the juries before asking them to retire to consider their verdicts, rather than
record what was actually said. This is an important reminder that, although the scribe is
meant to produce a verbatim transcript of the courtroom proceedings, ‘it is seldom a real
word-for-word’ and thus complete transcription of the oral event (see 1.3, and also Tiersma
2000: 175–179).
. The trials are Connor Lord Macguire, 1644; Mary Moders, 1663; Edward Coleman,
1678; Mr. Bartholomew Greenwood, 1740; and the Court-martial of Captain John Ambrose,
1745.
. Giles was accused of a ‘Barbarous and Inhumane Attempt to Assassinate and Murther
John Arnold Esq; One of the Justice of Peace for the County of Monmouth, and now a
Member of the Honourable HOUSE of COMMONS’, and Cellier, of ‘writing, printing and
publishing a scandalous libel called, Malice defeated &c.’.
. Jeffries also utilised 21 polar interrogatives, 11 declarative questions, 1 negative polar
interrogative, 1 alternative question and two tag questions, making a total of 80 questions in
total.
. As established in Section 3.3.1, a leading question (prototypical examples of which are
the negative polar, the declarative question and the tagged declarative) is one that suggests –
and tries to lead the respondent to – a ‘correct’ answer.
. Jeffreys’ second tag was addressed to Elizabeth Crook (a chambermaid), and was op-
posite in polarity (e.g. ‘You made the Bed, did not you?’). Consequently, it functioned as a
‘checking’ tag (Biber et al. 1999: 209). As highlighted in Section 2.2.1, the primary function
of tagged declaratives is not to elicit information from the addressee but, rather, agreement
or confirmation (Biber et al. 1999: 208). The reader will not be surprised to learn that both
tags were therefore confirmation-seeking.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
. In contrast to the Court, the other main judicial examiners (the judge and the recorder)
were (relatively) inactive. Indeed, recorders were not present in any of the trial texts relating
to Period 5. Not that presence alone guarantees strong participation, for the Period 5 judges
were only the sixth most active participants/fifth most active (re)initiatiors in Period 5, in
spite of their presence in all five trials.
. The two remaining (re)initiations had the force of a ‘require’ (x2). The Courts also
utlised 1 inform, making 243 utterances addressed to witnesses in total.
. Like their Period 3 and 4 counterparts, the period five judges’ most popular interrog-
ative was the wh-interrogative (of the 21 questioning moves that Period 5 judges addressed
to witnesses, 12 contained wh-interrogatives and 8 contained polar interrogatives).
. I anticipated that this use of ‘follow up-initiations’ would be a characteristic of a pri-
mary examiners’ interaction, and was therefore surprised to find that the defendant in the
Court-martial of Ambrose (1745) also utilised a high percentage of ‘follow up-initiations’
when interacting with witnesses (see Chapter 9).
. The Period 3 Courts had more in common with the judges than the Period 5 Courts.
That said, the Court in the trial of Mary Moders (1663) did utilise a small number of polar
and wh-interrogatives with a querying or clarifying force, addressing them to the principle
witness for the plaintiff, Knot, and the plaintiff himself, John Carleton Snr. For example,
Knot claimed that he had given Mary away to her “first” husband, Thomas Steadman, and
the Court responded by asking, ‘You gave her in marriage, but did the Minister give her to
her husband then?’.
. The Period 4 recorder addressed 6.1% (or 7 out of 114) of his utterances to the defen-
dants, 4 of which had a ‘questioning’ force. The Court in the Court-martial of Ambrose
(1745) addressed two of their 349 utterances to defendants. Neither had the force of a
‘question’.
. Judges also utilised 5 wh-interrogatives, 5 declarative questions, 3 alternative questions
and 3 rhetorical questions when interacting with defendants.
. It is worth noting that nine of the questions that judges addressed to witnesses also
contained multiple interrogatives. However, they tended to be information-seeking rather
than rhetorical.
. Nevertheless, the omission (and, indeed, the scribe’s switch to a narrative account)
highlights a problem with the trial texts in general, that is, the representativeness/accuracy
of the supposedly verbatim accounts.
. Langbein (1978) likens judicial questioning at this time to modern continental court-
rooms.
. The four trial texts are the Trial of Connor Lord Macguire (1644), the Trial of Charles I
(1649), the Trial of Slingsby, Hewet and Mordant (1658), and the Trial of Edward Coleman
(1678).
. The presence of the prosecution counsels may be explained by the fact that the SPC
contains several treason/State trials, and, in contrast to ordinary trials, the case for the
Crown in such trials was commonly put by the attorney general, assisted by other counsel,
from as early as the Tudor period (Beattie 1986: 42; see also Section 3.4.1)
Notes 
. A further 3 utterances were classified as problematic.

. Other addressees included the ‘injured party’ (to whom they addressed 14 or 6.3% of
their utterances), and other prosecution and defence counsels (to whom they addressed 1
utterance each), making a total of 224 utterances in total.
. The trial texts are the Tryal of Christopher Layer (1722), Theophilus Cibber versus
William Sloper (1740), the Trial of Mr. Bartholomew Greenwood (1740), and the Trial of
William Baker (1751).
. These were John Giles (1680), Thompson, Farewell and Pain (1682), Ambrose Rook-
wood (1696), Francis Francia (1716), Layer (1722), Cibber versus Sloper (1740), Greenwood
(1740) and Baker (1751).
. According to the trial data relating to Period 4 and 5 (1680–1760), the prosecution
counsels began the examination of witnesses in the EmodE courtroom, as they do in to-
day’s court. However, members of the prosecution team tended to share the questioning of
witnesses (e.g. ask the same witness questions in the same examination sequence).
. A ‘side-bar conference’ is a brief session between the lawyers and judge out of hearing
of the jury.
. Loftus (1975) asked one group of people whether they got headaches frequently, and
another group, whether they got headaches occasionally. The first group reported an average
of 2.2 headaches a week, the second group an average of 0.7 headaches a week.
. Landsman (1990: 521) suggests that this type of behaviour, especially, ‘is the clearest
demonstration of a break with the days when the court was the primary enquirer and ‘a due
Regard [was to] be shewed to those in Authority’ [OBSP Aug. 1727].
. The Lord President did not appear to appreciate the inference (that he was taking away
the defendant’s liberty). He answered curtly: ‘It is visible who are your Judges, they are
named by Act of Parliament: We are your Judges’.
. According to Langbein (1999: 320–321), the government of the early eighteenth century
introduced a scheme whereby they offered monetary rewards for the successful prosecution
of offenders who committed certain ‘serious’ crimes. The system led to the development of
a corps of reward-seeking ‘thieftakers’ who were largely mistrusted by the public-at-large.
. The figures in square brackets reveal the number of ‘answers’ that were elaborated in
some way.
. Note that 86.4% (i.e. 165) of the witnesses’ 191 utterances were responses in Period 3,
89.9% (i.e. 491) of the witnesses’ 547 utterances were responses in Period 4, and 95.6% (i.e.
780) of the witnesses’ 816 utterances were responses in Period 5.
. This is not to say that wh-interrogatives always received an ‘identify’-type answer. In-
deed, some wh-interrogatives received an ‘imply’-type answer, that is to say, the requested
information could be inferred, but it was not provided explicitly, as in the following: ‘How
came you to talk of a Non-conformists Plot? It was only common Discourse as it was at
Coffee-Houses’. Witnesses also ‘answered’ a small number of wh-interrogatives with ‘dis-
claims’ (i.e. they verbally responded to Q to establish their inability to provide the requested
information): ‘Mr. Gadbury, What do you know concerning this Plot? I know nothing of
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
it, neither one way, nor another’ (both interactions involved the same participants, the Lord
Chief Justice and Mr. Gadbury, and came from the same trial, that of Elizabeth Cellier, 1680).
. Two of his eight answers to the prosecution counsel and one of his four answers to the
judge emphasised that he had heard/thought he had heard Mordant say X, whilst one answer
each to the prosecution counsel and judge emphasised that much of their discourse occurred
when ‘there was none but him and [=Mordant] by’ (making his evidence unverifiable).
. The fact that the recorder found the ‘disagreement’ amusing may suggest, in turn, that
such interactions/interjections were ‘atypical’.
. Although one could argue that the ‘accused’ attempted to do the same when question-
ing the prosecutor and other witnesses, evidence suggests that it was the judge who actually
gleaned the evidence.
. As explained in Section 7.6, witnesses were asked questions about evidence they had
previously given in a deposition, which was read to them prior to the questioning proper
beginning.
. A reward system was implemented by the government in the 1720s as a means of
increasing/securing criminal prosecutions, but it was abused by a minority who used the
opportunity of making money. Indeed, some became ‘professional’ thieftakers (see Langbein
1999).
. Charles’ hesitancy is understandable, given the fact that he learned of the actual charge
on the first day of his trial.
. The Attorney General’s outburst was occasioned by an exchange between the Lord
President and Dr. John Hewet, in which the latter makes reference to an ‘Act of Parlia-
ment’ being used to try him that, in his opinion, was unsuitable because ‘one hundred and
fifty’ Members of Parliament had not been ‘permitted to sit’ when it became law. Moreover,
Prideaux immediately followed up his entreaty to the judge with a second ‘express’, which he
addressed to Hewet. The second express – ‘Your words they are seditious’ – had the force of a
‘criticise/censure’ (e.g. express disapproval about and/or declare a person/action to be wrong).
. Although the judge was referred to as ‘Lord President’ in the trial text, the trial occurred
during the Interregnum, so it is highly unlikely that the judge was higher than 1 (see Section
4.3.4). Even so, he is given a status of P (signifying problematic) in Appendix 1 (see ID
classifications for the Trial of King Charles).
. It was examples of judicial benevolence like that enjoyed by Mordant that led many
contemporaries to claim that the English courts were exceptionally humane (Section 3.4.1).
In practice, however, these instances appear to have been rare. Indeed, Mordant’s co-
defendants, Hewet and Slingsby, were found guilty, and promptly sentenced to death.
. Thomas (1986: 200) found that subordinate speakers in her modern data were only
prepared to use IFIDs when they were ‘certain of not being challenged or of being able to
withstand a challenge should it occur’.
. Schlieben-Lange (1976) initially investigates dictionaries to find out about the kind
of performative and speech act denoting verbs. She then examines the texts to see how
speech acts are executed and accepted. Finally, she examines other sources to determine
the form/function of speech acts in other social contexts.
Notes 
. The primary examiners’ interaction with defendants amounted to very little when com-
pared with their interaction with witnesses. Indeed, the judges were the only participants to
ask questions of defendants to any marked degree. The bulk of their interaction, however,
involved eliciting devices other than questions or, alternatively, the judges informing rather
than seeking information from the defendants.
. A strength of my taxonomy, of course, is that I can identify form and function simul-
taneously, that is to say, the lexical, grammatical and prosodic aspect and the speech act
aspect.
. The reader should note that I regard any taxonomy of questions (even one which ac-
counts for form, force and interactional intent) to be of little analytical use unless attention
is also paid to important contextual factors such as the ‘roles’ adopted by the participants,
and thus their ‘power/lessness’. Consequently, I see the Sociopragmatic annotation scheme
(Archer & Culpeper 2003) as a necessary – as opposed to complementary – component of
the taxonomy I have developed.
. For example, whether ‘so called assertive questions’ (i.e. non-interrogative ‘utterances
that can be interpreted as questions’) were ‘more common’ in spoken texts, as Rissanen
(1997: 275) hypothesises.
. Another field that we might like to consider for the drama texts, in particular, is that
of an ‘overhearer’ (i.e. when character A ‘communicates’ to character B and is overheard by
character C).
. The barrister in question (Henry Hutton) had written a letter to a potential witness
seeking alibi evidence.
Appendix 1
Details of the SPC trials
ID classifications for Macguire (1645)

Trial Court Old Bailey
Charge Rioting / enticing rebellion in Ireland (treason)
Outcome Found guilty. Petition rejected. Executed – February 20th
ID Participant Additional info Occupation Status Role Age
S3tmacgu001 Connor Lord In previous court session, put 0 D X

Macguire, the in ‘plea of peerage’. Described
prisoner as ‘Baron of Enniskillen’ by
Hargrave
S3tmacgu002 Mr. Justice Bacon NOT Francis Bacon Judge 1 J 9
S3tmacgu003 Sergeant Whitfield 2 V 8
S3tmacgu004 M. Nudigate See Biographical details Sergeant Roll – 2 SR 8 (age 42)
(following) b. 1602
S3tmacgu005 Sir William Steward 1 W X
S3tmacgu006 The Court Legal Profession X O X
S3tmacgu007 Lord Blaney 0 W X
S3tmacgu008 Lady Calfield 0 W X
S3tmacgu009 Mrs. Mary Wordrose X W X
S3tmacgu010 Walter Gu’for X W X
S3tmacgu011 Sir Francis Hamilton 1 W X
S3tmacgu012 Sir Charles Coote 1 W X
S3tmacgu013 Gentlemen of the Jury X L X
S3tmacgu014 Kings Counsel Title of honour Senior barrister 1 KC X
S3tmacgu015 Sir John Clotworthy? Member of House of 1 ON X
(see Hargrave, Vol. I, Commons
p. 950)
S3tmacgu016 Mr. W. Prynne, Esq. See Biographical details Kings Sergeant 1 SL 9 (age 45)
(following) at Law b. 1600
S3tmacgu017 another ‘Layer’ (= Probably Bradishaw Legal profession 1 V? 8 (age 42)
lawyer) b. 1602
Note. Trial date was Feb. 10 1644, according to Hargrave (Vol. I, p. 950).
Plot related to a siege of Dublin Castle, and the ‘securing or murdering the Lords, Justices and Council (see Hargrave,
Vol. I, p. 950). Plot was detected, and Macguire fled in disguise. He was apprehended by John Woodcock, one of the
Sheriffs of Dublin, and brought before Lords Justices and Council, where he made ‘some sort of confession’. He was
committed prisoner to the Castle 23rd October 1641. 12 June 1642, he was sent to England, where he was imprisoned
until 18 August, when he made an escape bid. However, he was re-captured on 20 October.
After the indictment, he pleaded the Statute of Magna Charta – 10 Feb. 9. Hen. III. That none should be condemned
but by Trial of his peers, and pleaded the statue of 10 Hen. VII. That all the statutes made in England should from
thenceforth be in force in Ireland (footnote, Hargrave, Vol. I, p. 950).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ID classifications for Charles I (20–27 January 1649)

Charge High Treason
Trial court High Court of Justice, Westminster Hall
Outcome Executed
s3tcharl001 Lord President – Not a real judge (see P J 9 (age 45)

given this title for below) b. 1602
this trial (but also
used elsewhere
during Interregnum)
s3tcharl002 King Charles See Biographical details King of England 0 D 9 (age 49)
(following) b. 1599
s3tcharl003 People in the Hall X ON X
s3tcharl004 Mr. Cooke See Biographical details Solicitor General 1 V 8 (age 39)
(following) b. 1609
s3tcharl005 Clerk of the Court Clerks were often Court Clerk 2 N 8
barristers, or trained in the
law
s3tcharl006 Sergeant at Arms Parliamentary court officer Sergeant at Arms 2 SA 8
with ceremonial duties
s36charl007 Crier Crier 4 CR 8
s3tcharl008 Person in crowd – X ON X
s3tcharl009 Malignant lady – X ON X
s37charl010 Guard Guard 4 NG 8
Note. Bradshaw was not a ‘real’ judge in the strictest sense, but was assigned that role here. Two commissioners that
Bradshaw had chosen to assist him in points of law sat either side of Bradshaw – their names were William Say and
John Lisle. There were two Clerks – Phelps and Broughton. There were also a number of other commissioners present
throughout the trial (46+). See Hargrave (Vol. I) for names.
Appendix 1. Details of the SPC trials 
ID classifications for Slingsby, Hewet and Mordant (25 May 1658 (S.) and 1 June
1658 (H. and M.)
Charge High Treason (against L. Protector and Commonwealth)
Trial court High Court of Justice, Westminster Hall
Outcome Slingsby & Hewet given death penalty. Mordant acquitted
ID class Participant Occupation Additional info Status Role Age
S3tsling001 Lord President (Title Judge Either Cooke or John P J 9 (a. 49)
only used during Lisle (see Hargrave, Vol.
Interregnum) II, pp. 277–301)
S3tsling002 Sir Henry Slingsby, Member of Parliament Described as ‘knight’ by 1 D 9
defendant Hargrave (see Vol. II,
p. 278). Very critical of
court’s set-up (e.g. court
being both judge and
jury). Has grown-up son
S3tsling003 Mr. Phelps Clerk to High Court 2 N X
S3tsling004 Mr. Attorney General Legal profession – Attorney General from 1 V (for 9 (born
Edmund Prideaux Barrister April 1649 . . . see Crown) 1610s)
Biographical details
S3tsling005 Mr. Ralph Commissioned officer Command of a company, 1 W 9
Waterhouse (major). Assuming and of the South-Block
seniority achieved over House
time – hence age value
S3tsling006 Capt. John Overton Officer at Hull for approx 2 W 8
10 years
S3tsling007 Lieutenant George Lieutenant to Major 2 W 8
Thomson Waterhouse
S3tsling008 Dr. John Hewet, Doctor (D.D.) – doctor of Describes himself as a 2? D X
defendant divinity/ Clergyman freeman of England, ‘by
birth’ (see H, 2L 286)
S3tsling009 Mr. Sol. Ellis Solicitor General. See 1 V 9 (age 49)
Biographical details b. 1609
(following)
S3tsling010 The Court In this trial, acted as both X O X
Judge and Jury – made
up of two or three
persons
S3tsling011 Mr. John Mordant, Note – using 1 because of 1 D 8
Esq., defendant use of Esq. Referred to as
‘young gentleman’
(p. 42) – hence age value
S3tsling012 John Stapley Insufficient evidence X W X
given re potential status
Note. Sergeant Maynard also present at this trial, but does not figure in the extract. Slingsby accused of attempting to
stir up mutiny in the Kingston upon Hull garrison on behalf of Charles Stuart.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ID classifications for Harrison, Waller, Heveningham, etc. (October 1660)

Charge Treason
Trial court Hick’s Hall, in the County of Middlesex
Outcome Harrison and Peters executed (Harrison on 13th October, Peters on 16th October – see Hargrave, Vol. II,
p. 323 & 413 respectively). Marten, Millington, Tichborn, Roe, Lilburn convicted of ‘conspiring and
imagining the death’ of Charles I (see Vol. II, p. 396). Excerpt dealing with all the trials (and convictions)
of the following found in Vol. II, pp. 307–414 – as part of the ‘Trial of the 29 Regicides’).
S3tharri001 Crier (Hart) Crier X CR X

S3tharri002 Sir H. Waller Defendant Described as “knight” 1 D 9
S3tharri003 Judge Judge – legal profession 1 J 9
S3tharri004 Clerk of the Crown Clerk – legal profession Described as “esq” 1 N X
Edward Shelton, Esq. (Hargrave, Vol. II,
p. 303)
S3tharri005 (Colonel) Thomas Late major general. Judge – one of judges that 1 D 9
Harrison, defendant signed death warrant of
Charles I
S3tharri006 Henry Heveningham, Described as William X D 9
defendant Heveningham by
Hargrave (Vol. II, pp.
307–414)
S3tharri007 Henry Martin, Signed and sealed precept X D 9
defendnat for summoning the
Court, and warrant for
execution; sat almost
every day, including the
day of sentence. See
Hargrave (Vol. II, p. 392)
for his trial
S3tharri008 Gilbert Millington, Later changed plea to X D 9
defendant guilty. See Hargrave (Vol.
II, p. 393) for trial
S3tharri009 Their Lordships Judges 1 J 9
S3tharri010 Robert Tichborn, X D 9
defendant
S3tharri011 Owen Roe, defendant X D 9
S3tharri012 Robert Lilburn, Eventually pleads X D 9
defendant ‘ignorance’ (Hargrave,
Vol. II, p. 394)
S3tharr013 Hugh Peters, Accused of stirring up A minister of religion 2 D 9
defendant soldiery (Hargrave, Vol.
II, p. 357). Has grown-up
daughter (Hargrave, Vol.
II, p. 414)
Note. No defence council.

Lord Chief Baron – Mr. Justice Foster, Attorney General – Sir Geoffry Palmer, Solicitor General – Sir Heneage Finch.
Appendix 1. Details of the SPC trials 
ID classifications for Moders (4 June 1663)

Charge Bigamy
Trial court Sessions House, Old Bailey
Outcome Not guilty
s3tmoder001 Clerk of the Peace Responsible for preparing Legal 2 N 8

indictments and keeping a record profession
of proceedings at the Sessions of
the peace
s3tmoder002 Mary Moders, Born in Cullen, Germany. Accused P (= D&G 8 (age is
The prisoner of bigamy. Denied the claim, saying status in disputed
[=defendant] that they were a means of husband dispute). but
and father-in-law gaining access to claims to
her fortune. The fortune, her be 21)
identity/age (and therefore status)
all seem to be in dispute
s3tmoder003 Moders’ husband John Carleton: note, described as 1 E 8
“Gent.” & “young Lord”. Latter (default)
seems to be used in a satirical way
s3tmoder004 James Knot Stedman’s shop-mate (alleges (Kentish) 4 W [pros] 8
Stedman to be Moders’ 1st shoemaker
husband)
s3tmoder005 Jury X L X
s3tmoder006 Court = judge and jury; see especially end Legal X O X
of text, when witnesses addressed profession
utterances to “My Lord”, but the
“Court” responds
s3tmoder007 William Clark Insufficient info to ascertain status X W [pros] 8
(default)
s3tmoder008 Carlton the Elder John Carleton’s father 1 U 9
s3tmoder009 Sarah Williams Insufficient info to ascertain status X W [pros] 8
(default)
s3tmoder010 John Carlton’s 1 W [pros] 8
brother
s3tmoder011 Mr. Smith Parson 2 W 8
s3tmoder012 Judge Howel Judge 1 J 9 (default
for
Judges)
s3tmoder013 Elizabeth Collier Husband is a prisoner, but X W [for X
insufficient info to ascertain status def]
s3tmoder014 Jane Finch Insufficient info to ascertain status X W [def] X
s3tmoder015 Mr. Baley Insufficient info to ascertain status X W X
s3tmoder016 Foreman of the Status probably quite high 1 LF X
jury
Note. Marriage to John Carleton (the marriage which is not disputed) took place 21 April 1663 at St. Bartholomew.
Jury named as: William Rutland, Arthur Vigers, Arthur Capel, Tho. Smith, Fran. Chaplin, Robert Harvey, Simon
Driver, Robert Kerkham, Hugh Massons, Tho. Wesley, Richard Clutterbuck, Randolph Fooke.
No prosecutors/defence council as we would understand them today. However, Kings Justices, Kings Sergeant and
Kings Attorney all present (acted on behalf of Crown).
Text also appears in Hargrave (Vol. II, p. 498).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ID classifications Coleman (27 November 1678)

Charge Conspiring the death of the King, And the subversion of the Govt Of England and the Protestant
Religion (treason)
Trial Court Kings Bench Bar
Outcome Found guilty: Drawn on a hurdle from Newgate to Tyburn, hung on the gallows, cut down alive,
stripped, mutilated, ripped open, disembowelled, and quartered. Carried out December 3rd (Lane
1949: 150)
S3tcolem001 The Prisoner, Prior to trial, was to become ‘Sometime Secretary P (1 or D (def) 8 (default)
Edward Coleman Secretary of State. Described to the Duchess of 2)
as gent in trial text used by York’ according to
Hargrave (Vol. II, p. 659). Oates. Dismissed
See Biographical details before his trial.
Catholic convert
S3tcolem002 Lord Chief Justice Those who hold such Legal profession 0 J 9 (a. 55) b.
(Sir) William positions are peers: see (judge) ?1623
Scroggs Biographical details
S3tcolem003 Attorney General Legal profession 1 V 8 (default)
(Sir) William Jones (Crown)
S3tcolem004 Recorder (Sir) Legal profession – 0 RE 8 (age
George Jeffries their function is 30–34) b.
similar to that of the 1644–1648
judge
S3tcolem005 Court. Legal profession X O X
(court)
S3tcolem006 Mr. Titus Oates See Biographical details Used DD after his 2 W 8 age 29 b.
(following) name, but was not (pros) 1649
qualified (Lane 1949)
S3tcolem007 Just. Wild. Probably William Wilde: see 1 J 9 (a. 67) b.
Biographical details (judge) ?1611
(following)
S3tcolem008 (Gentleman of the) X L (jury) X
Jury
S3tcolem009 Sir Tho. Dolman 1 W (for X
def)
S3tcolem010 Just. Dolben Date of birth not known – 1 J 9
but prop 45+. Knighted in (judge)
1677. See Biographical
details
S3tcolem011 Sir Rob. Southwell 1 W X
Note. No defence council – not (officially) allowed in treason cases until 1696, following the Treason Act (see, for
example, Beattie 1986: 358). Sergeant Maynard, the King’s Sergeant, and the Solicitor General, Sir Francis Winington,
were present, according to Hargrave (Vol. II, p. 659), but they do not figure in this extract.
Jury
Sir Reginald Forster Joshua Galliard, Esq. Charles Unfravile, Esq.
Sir Charles Lee John Bifield, Esq. Thomas Johnson, Esq.
Edward Wilford, Esq. Simon Middleton, Esq. T. Eaglesfield, Esq.
John Bathurst, Esq. Henry Johnson, Esq. William Botice, Esq.
Appendix 1. Details of the SPC trials 
ID classifications for Cellier (11 June 1680)

Charge Treason
Trial court King’s Bench Bar
Outcome Found not guilty. Mr. Dangerfield is then committed
ID Participant Occupation Other info Status Role Age
S4tcelli001 Lord Chief Justice Judge 0 J 9 (age 57)

William Scroggs ? 1623
S4tcelli002 Mr. Gadbury Astrologer Described as ‘man of X W X
learning’. Protestant
S4tcelli003 Recorder (Sir) Legal profession See Biographical details 1 R 8 (age
George Jeffreys (following) 32–36) b.
1644–1648
S4celli004 Mr. Justice Jones Judge 1 J 9
S4celli005 Mr. Justice Judge 1 J 9
Raymend
S4tcelli006 Mr. Sergeant King’s sergeant Acts favourably towards 1 V 9 (age 78)
Maynard (knighted in 1660): Cellier, but not part of b. 1602
see Biographical defence team (not allowed
details (following) in treason trials until 1690s)
S4tcelli007 Attorney General Legal profession: see Employed for Crown in 1– V 9 (age 53)
(Sir) Cresswell Biographical details popish plot trials (Knight) b. 1627
Levinz
S4tcelli008 Mr. Thomas Used to call himself Previously in Chelmsford & X W X
Dangerfield Captain, but Newgate jails. Cellier
(according to Lane ‘accepts against’ him as a
1949: 218), ‘had as witness. By end of this text,
much right to the the judge commits him and
military title as Oates frees Cellier!
to his doctorship’
S4tcelli009 Mrs. Cellier Popish midwife. Wife of French Merchant P D 9 ‘around
Involved in (assigned ‘Gent’ status – see 50 years of
‘charitable’ work, Hargrave, Vol. III, p. 32) age’
including freeing Acted as her own defence
prisoners. See attorney. Literate – wrote
Biographical details her own account of the trial
(following)
S4tcelli010 Ralph Briscoe X W (def) X
S4tcelli011 Thomas Helped Mrs. C in her prison X W (king) X
Williamson ministry!
S4tcelli012 Margaret Jenkens X W (king) X
S4tcelli013 Susan Edwards Has either received charity X W (king) 8
from or works for Cellier –
see ‘who gave you your
clothes?’ comment
Described as ‘civil young
woman’
S4tcelli014 Bennet Dowdal Cellier had tried to make a X W X
marriage match for him,
which suggests similar status
S4celli015 Captain 2 W X
Richardson
S4tcelli016 The Jury X L X
Note. LCJ William Scroggs no longer believed that the government wished the Popish Plot to be considered real, and
consequently made Mrs. Celliers the object of his especial protection and favour (Campbell, Vol. III, p. 15I) – see State
Trials 1013–1055.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ID classifications for Giles (14 July 1680)

Charge Attempted murder of John Arnold
Trial court Sessions House, Old Bailey
Outcome Found guilty. Fined £500 and put in the pillory for two days (Hargrave, Vol. III, p. 65)
S4tgiles001 Recorder Sir George Same as s4tcelli001: see 1 RE 8 (32–36)

Jeffreys Biographical details b.
1644–1648
S4tgiles002 Mr. John Arnold Offended party JP for County of 1 IP X
Monmouth and MP
S4tgiles003 Mr. Thompson Legal profession 2 V X
S4tgiles004 Mr. Holt See Biographical details Legal profession 2 V 8 (age 38)
(following) b. 1642
S4tgiles005 The Prisoner, John ‘Gentleman’ (Hargrave, Chief constable ? 1 D X
Giles Vol. III, p. 66)
S4tgiles006 Mr. Stephen Phillips X W X
S4tgiles007 Mr. Walter Watkins X W X
S4tgiles008 Mr. George X W X
Richmond
S4tgiles009 Walter Powel X W X
S4tgiles010 Mr. Darnal Role may not be official (Seems to be acting as) 2 M X
Council for Def.
S4tgiles011 Mr. William Howel’s “master” 1 W X
Richmond
S4tgiles012 The Court Legal profession X O X
S4tgiles013 Mr. Gibbs Legal profession 2 V X
S4tgiles014 Attorney General Knight: see Biographical Legal profession: same as 1 V 9 (age 53)
Creswell Levinz details (following) s4tcelli007 b. 1627
S4tgiles015 Mr. Bridges X W X
S4tgiles016 Walter Moor X W X
S4tgiles017 Mr. Reynold X W X
S4tgiles018 Mr. Hobbs X W 8
S4tgiles019 L. Mayor Examiner? X P X
S4tgiles020 Mr. Philpot Lives at the Crown Salesman 4 W X
(Inn?)
S4tgiles021 Herbert Jones Mayor of Monmouth 1 W X
S4tgiles022 The Jury X L X
S4tgiles023 Mr. Milbourn 2 M X
S4tgiles024 John Jones Cutler’s apprentice 4 W 8 (15–16)
S4tgiles025 People X ON X
S4tgiles026 John Howel Servant to Richmond 5 W X
S4tgiles027 Ann Beron Frequents Inns. ‘Old 5 W 9
woman’ (see Jeffries’
summing up speech)
S4tgiles028 Elizabeth Edwards X W X
S4tgiles029 Elizabeth Crook Chambermaid 5 W X
S4tgiles030 Kings Council Senior barrister – title of 1 KC X
honour
S4tgiles031 Edward James X W X
S4tgiles032 Robin Gibbon Stable-man at Kings Arms 4 W X
in Martin Lane
S4tgiles033 John Chadwick Translator X W X
S4tgiles034 Peter Powel X W X
S4tgiles035 Roger How X W X
Note. The text seems to imply that a prosecution and defence council are present, even though it is dated 1680.
Appendix 1. Details of the SPC trials 
ID classifications for Thompson, Farewell and Pain (20 June 1682)

Charge Writing and publishing scandalous letters to Mr. Miles Prance
Trial court Guild Hall, London
Outcome Guilty
S4tthomp001 Council (for pros) Barrister 2 V (for pros) X

S4tthomp002 Mr. Miles Prance Witness at trial of Green, Offended party X IP X
Berry and Hill
S4tthomp003 Elizabeth Curtis Witness at trial of Green, X W X
Berry and Hill
S4tthomp004 Crier 4 CR X
S4tthomp005 L.C.J. Sir F. See Biographical details Legal profession 0 J 9 (age 57)
Pemberton (following) b. 1625
S4tthomp006 Sir Philip Floyd 1 W X
S4tthomp007 Sir Fra. Withins No biog details found. 1 V X
Speaker later referred to
as Sir F. Winington same?
S4tthomp008 Mr. Saunders See Biographical details 2 M 9 (age 52)
(following) b. 1630
S4tthomp009 Sir John Nicholas 1 W X
S4tthomp010 Council for defence 2 M X
/ for Thompson
S4tthomp011 C. Thomp May be same as above, 2 X X
but given separate ID
S4tthomp012 One of them X N X
present
S4tthomp013 John Hazard W. for Farewell X W (def) X
S4tthomp014 William Batson X W (def) X
S4tthomp015 Williams Legal profession 2 M X
S4tthomp016 Another witness (1) X W X
S4tthomp017 Another witness (2) Carpenter 4 W X
S4tthomp018 Farewell X D X
S4tthomp019 Rawson X W X
S4tthomp020 Rawson’s wife X W X
S4tthomp021 John Stanly X W X
S4tthomp022 James Chase X W X
S4tthomp023 Mr. Hobbs X W X
S4tthomp024 Mr. Brown X W X
S4tthomp025 Mr. Smith X W X
S4tthomp026 People X ON X
S4tthomp027 King’s surgeon King’s surgeon 2 Expert W X
S4tthomp028 Sir F. Winington 1 V X
S4tthomp029 Sergeant Maynard Same as s4tcelli006: see 1 V 9 (age 80)
Biog. details b. 1602
S4tthomp030 Sol. General See Biog. details 1 V 9 (age 60)
Heneage Finch (following) b. Dec.
1621
S4tthomp031 Jury X L X
Note. Defence council present, even though only 1682. Solicitor General in 1682 was Hon. Heneage Finch.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ID classifications for Rookwood (21 April 1696)

Charge Conspiracy to assassin. King William
Trial court Sessions of Oyer and Terminer for the County of Middlesex Sitting in the Court King’s Bench of
Westminster
Outcome Found guilty (for alternative text, see Hargrave, Vol. IV, pp. 661–698)
S4trookw001 Mr. Attorney See Biographical details Legal profession 1 V 8 (37?)

General Thomas (following) b. ? 1659
Trevor
S4trookw002 L. C. J. Holt Same as S4tgiles004: see Legal profession 0 J 9 (54)
Biog. details b. 1642
S4trookw003 Mr. Phipps Legal profession 2 M X
S4trookw004 Mr. Sol. Gen. John No biog. details found Legal profession 1 V X
Hales
S4trookw005 Sir B. Shower See Biographical details Legal profession 1 M 8 (37)
(following) b. 1658
S4trookw006 Ambrose X D X
Rookwood
S4trookw007 Clerk of Arr 2 N X
S4trookw008 Mr. Cowper Same as s4tfranc005 1 V 8 (37)
b. 1669
S4trookw009 Capt. Harris 2 W X
S4trookw010 Mr. Conyers No biographical details Legal profession 2 V X
S4trookw011 Mr. Chamberlain X W X
S4trookw012 John Allen X W X
S4trookw013 Capt. Porter Previously convicted of 2 W X
manslaughter – pleaded
the king’s pardon
S4trookw014 Crier 4? CR X
S4trookw015 Frederick Milford X W X
S4trookw016 Oldfield X W X
S4trookw017 Mr. Webber Asked where witnesses X N X
that had been called (but
had not shown) were
S4trookw018 Black Will Servant to Capt. Porter A Moor 5 W X
Note. Also present – Lord Chief Justice Tracy, Mr. Justice Nevil, Mr. Justice Powell, Mr. Justice Eyre, . . . later joined by
Lord Chief Baron Ward, Mr. Baron Powis . . . but none appear as speakers/addressees during this extract.
Jury – Samuel Powell, Arthur Bailey, John Webber, George Tredway, Timothy Lennoy, John Harris, George Carter,
William Atley, John Marsh, Samuel Freebody, Daniel Byfield, Benjamin Noble.
Using CRIER (=cr) when speakers ask for witnesses to be called.
Appendix 1. Details of the SPC trials 
ID classifications for Francia (22 January 1716)

Charge high treason
Trial court Old Bailey
Outcome Found not guilty, and discharged (for alternative text, see Hargrave, Vol. VI, pp. 58–102)
S4tfranc001 Mr. Solicitor Knighted 1717 (after this Barrister for Crown 1 V 9 (age 45)
General, John trial). See also Biographical b. 1670
Fortescue Aland details (following)
S4tfranc002 Lord Ch. Baron According to date, should be Judge – legal profession 0 J 9 (age 61)
– Sir Thomas Samuel Dodd. See b. 1655
Bury Biographical details
S4tfranc003 Joseph Smith Messenger [delivers 4 W X
warrants]
S4tfranc004 Mr. Attorney Sir Edward Northey – no Barrister for Crown 1 V X
General biog details found
S4tfranc005 Mr. Cowper Probably Spencer Cowper – Barrister 1 V? 9 (age 47)
brother William was Lord b. 1669
Chancellor
S4tfranc006 Mr. Ward No biog details found Barrister 2 M X
S4tfranc007 Mr. Hungerford No biog details found Barrister 2 M X
S4tfranc008 Mr. Francis Born 26 March 1675 Merchant. Described as X D 8 (age 40)
Francia (newstyle) Bourdeaux, a ‘jew’ by Attorney b. 1675
France. Brother says he was General in Hargrave
worth £8–10,000 before (Vol. VI, p. 62)
losing some of his wealth
S4tfranc009 Sir Joseph Jekyll Made Chief Justice of Chester Kings Sergeant from 1 V 9 (age 53)
June 1697, and knighted 1700: see Biog details b. 1663
soon after
S4tfranc010 Mr. Horatio Under secretary to Lord 1 W X
Walpole Townshend
S4tfranc011 Mr. Buckley Works for Townshend Civil servant ? 2 W X
S4tfranc012 Mr. Denton X X X
S4tfranc013 Mr. Justice Pratt Made a Knight and JKB in Judge 1 J 9 (age 59)
1714 b. 1657
S4tfranc014 Lord Secretary of state at the time Gave Francis 5 guineas 0 W X
Townshend of alleged crime – reason why is disputed
S4tfranc015 Mr. Justice See Biographical details Judge 1 J 9 (age 61)
Tracy (following) b. 1655
S4tfranc016 Mr. Curtis In custody at same time as X W X
Francia
S4tfranc017 Mr. Boyer Interpreter X W [pros] X
S4tfranc018 Mr. Ozell Interpreter X W [pros] X
S4tfranc019 Secretary 1 W X
Stanhope
S4tfranc020 Jury X L X
S4tfranc021 Clerk Legal profession 2 N X
S4tfranc022 Flint May be George Flint, who Interpreter X W [def] X
was with prisoner in Newgate
– see Hargrave (Vol. VI, p.
61)
S4tfranc023 Simon Francia Prisoner’s brother. From X W [def] 8 (age 44)
Bourdeaux
S4tfranc024 Jaques Gonsales Prisoner’s maternal uncle – X W [def] 9
needed interpreter
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
(continued)
S4tfranc025 Emes Lamira Sex not known. Lived in X W [defe] 9

Bourdeaux when Francia was
born
S4tfranc026 Cecilia Ceres Went to school with prisoner. X W [def] 8
Born in same street in
Bordeaux
S4tfranc027 Lucy White X W [def] X
S4tfranc028 Mary Meggison Husband a dealer but, at time 3 W [def] X
of trial, not in England
S4tfranc029 Revel Turn-key 4 W X
S4tfranc030 Mr. Everall Married to Mrs. Everall X W X
S4tfranc031 Mrs. Everall Married to Mr. Everall X W X
S4tfranc032 Rafter X W X
S4tfranc033 Barwell X W X
S4tfranc034 Dr. Cade 2 W X
S4tfranc035 Thomas X W X
Richardson
Note. Solicitor General – John Fortescue Aland, Lord Chief Baron – Thomas Bury, and Attorney General – Edward
Northey in 1716.
Appendix 1. Details of the SPC trials 
ID classifications for Layer (1722)

Charge High Treason
Trial court High Bench at Westminster
Outcome
S5tlayer001 Mr. Solicitor Legal profession Sir Philip York[e] 1 V 8 (age 32)
General b. 1690
S5layer002 Stephen Lynch X W X
S5tlayer003 Mr. Hungerford No biographical details 2 M X
S5tlayer004 Ld. Ch. Just. Made Lord Chief – May 1718 0 J 9
Sir John Pratt (age 65)
b. 1657
S5tlayer005 Mr. Sergeant No biographical details 2 V X
Cheshyre
S5tlayer006 Mr. Sergeant Sergeant-at-Law See Biographical details (following) 1 / 2? V 9 (age 47)
Pengelly b. 1675
S5tlayer007 Mr. Attorney 1 V 9 (age 49)
General b. 1673
S5tlayer008 Mr. West No biographical details 2 V X
S5tlayer009 Mr. Reeve See Biographical details 2 V X
S5tlayer010 Mr. Ketelbey No biographical details 2 M X
S5tlayer011 Prisoner Described as “Esq.” Also seems to 1 D X
have socialised with other members
of the gentry and nobility, hence
status. M. Plunkett calls him
“Counsellor”. According to Mrs.
Mason, used an alias – Fountaine.
Note – brought to trial in irons for
several days, but eventually taken
off
S5tlayer012 Matthew Irishman. Previously, a sergeant in 4 W X
Plunkett the army
S5tlayer013 Mrs. Mason. Bundles (for Layer) delivered to X W X
Mrs. M’s lodgings. She kept these
in her trunk . Describes herself as
“hav[ing] no trade”. Accused of
using aliases by Layer and his
defence team . . .
S5tlayer014 Mr. Speare / One of two messengers (the other 4 W X
Messenger being a Mr. Turner). Opened up
the bundles
Note.
Jury
Thomas Clarke, Gent. Thomas Pratt, Gent. Robert Barnard, Gent.
Isaac Potter, Gent. Francis Aylett, Gent. Richard Gray, Gent.
Hezekiah Haynes, Gent. William Nicholson, Esq. William Wheatly, Gent.
John Lowry, Gent. Christopher Hill, Gent.
High Bench at Westminster probably had same LCJ as King’s Bench.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ID classifications for Cibber v. Sloper (5 December 1738)

Charge Two Causes, between Teophilus Cibber, Gent. Plaintiff, and William Sloper, Esq. Defendant, the first for
criminal conversation, the second for detaining the plaintiff’s wife
Trial court Court of King’s Bench, Middlesex
Outcome although ‘the defendant’s council found that the affair had been not only with the husband’s consent,
but also concerted by him’, the jury seemed to disagree. They ‘brought in a verdict for the plaintiff’ and
awarded him ‘ten pounds damages’
S5tcibbe001 Plaintiff’s Legal profession – 2 V X

Attorney
S5tcibbe002 Mr. Cibber, Snr. The plaintiff’s father. 3 W 9
Produced plays – claims to
have 40 years experience of
‘knowing the stage’
S5tcibbe003 Mr. Fleetwood Master of Drury Lane 3 W X
Playhouse
S5tcibbe004 Defendant’s Legal profession – 2 M X
council
S5tcibbe005 Mrs. Hayes Ran lodgings on Blue Cross 3 W X
St, Leicester Fields.
S5tcibbe006 Mr. Hayes As above. 3 W X
S5tcibbe007 Mr. Rowe Visitor to and friend of the X W X
Hayes
S5tcibbe008 Juryman X L X
S5tcibbe009 Right Hon Sir Legal profession – Lord See Biographical details 0 J 9 (a. 50)
William Lee, Chief Justice of King’s (following) b. 1688
Knight Bench, Middlesex
S5tcibbe010 Mr. Carter Property owner Also owned lodgings, which 3 W X
Mrs. Cibber rented out for
herself, her maid and Mr.
Sloper
S5tcibbe011 Ann Hopson Mrs. C’s maid – rented Mrs. 5 W X
H’s lodgings so that her
mistress and Mr. S could meet
there. At time of trial, had left
Mr. C’s service to return to
“business of mantua-making”,
which she had been bred to . . .
S5tcibbe012 Mrs. Carter Wife of Mr. Carter X W X
S5tcibbe013 Jane Phillips Housemaid – ‘used to make 5 W X
the beds at Burnham’, one of
the lodgings used by Mrs. C,
A.H, and Mr. S
Special note provided detailing both councils: Council for Plaintiff – Mr. Solicitor General, Mr. Hollings, Sergeant
Agar, Mr. Marsh, Mr. Dennison, and Mr. Lawson.
Council for Defendant – Sergeant Eyre, Mr. Noel, Mr. Lloyd, Mr. Murray, and Mr. Barnadiston.
Appendix 1. Details of the SPC trials 
ID classifications for Greenwood (2 August 1740)

Charge Robbing Mr. Roger Wheatly near Camberwell
Trial court Before the Right Honourable Mr. Baron Carter, at the Assizes for the county of Surry (Kingston upon
Thames)
Outcome Not guilty (acquitted)
S5tgreen001 Council (for pros) Legal profession Includes “Pros. Co.” & “P. Co.” 2 V X
S5green002 Mr. Roger Networks with gentry, owns 1 IP X
Wheatley, country house, and described as
victim/injured ‘a Gentleman of Fortune in the
party Country by Mr. M (Prosecutor’s
counsel) (see p. 7)
S5tgreen003 Court Legal profession X O X
S5tgreen004 Council for Legal profession Includes “Pris. Co.” Two 2 M X
Prisoner barristers Mr. Sergeant W—nn
and Mr. L-cy (see p. 16)
S5tgreen005 Thomas Baker Tenant of Mr. Wheatley X W X
(pros)
S5tgreen006 Dr. Thompson Doctor Tended to Mr. Wheatley’s 2 W X
wounds on day of attack
S5tgreen007 John Baker X (for X
def)
S5tgreen008 George Baker Dined with Greenwood on 5 June 1 W (def) X
(night of alleged incident)
S5tgreen009 Cicely Mow Servant to Mr. Greenwood 5 W (def) 8
S5tgreen010 Mr. Chatler Lives ‘next door to Old Mr. 1 W (def) X
Greenwood, in the Savoy’
S5tgreen011 Mr. Bartholomew Uncle of prisoner. Described as 1 W (def) 9
Greenwood “old” (by Sinicrose and Chatler)
S5tgreen012 Mr. Dobbiggen Literate X W (def) X
S5tgreen013 Mr. Turner X W X
S5tgreen014 Mr. Sinicrose X W X
S5tgreen015 Thomas Crose Innkeeper of the Genoa Arms 4 W X
S5tgreen016 Alice Turner Servant at the house where 5 W X
defendant lodges
S5tgreen017 John Greenwood Brother of defendant. Received 1 W (def) X
rents from (father/brother’s)
estate
S5tgreen018 Lord Delawar Commands the troop that the 0 W (def) X
defendant is Riding Master of
S5tgreen019 Mr. Frazier Responsible for dispensing X W (def) X
warrants
S5tgreen020 Col. De Veil J.P ? Local constable? Previously examined defendant 2 W X
S5tgreen021 Mr. Baron Carter Legal profession – see Baron of Exchequer; knighted in 1 J 9 (68)
Biographical details 1724 b. 1672
S5tgreen022 Jury X L X
Note. According to brother John, the prisoner has “Seventy Pound a Year or upwards Estate part Freehold, part
Copyhold”. According to Lord Delawar, he is “Riding Master to the Troop” which L.D. commands. This position alone
worth approx 150–200 l. per annum. Prisoner also described as “young Mr. Greenwood”.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
ID classifications for Ambrose (Oct/Nov 1745)

Charge Enquiry into conduct whilst engaged in combat at sea
Trial court Ships The Chatham & The London
ID Participant Occupation Additional info Status Role Age
S5tambro001 The Court Naval X 0 X

S5tambro002 Lieutenant Hugh Naval: lieutenant 1st Lieutenant of the Essex 2 W 8
Palliser
S5tambro003 Ambrose Naval: captain Prisoner 2 D X
S5tambro004 Captain Renton Naval: captain Member of the Court 2 OC X
S5tambro005 The President Naval 1 J 9
S5tambro006 Lieutenant Joseph Naval: lieutenant 4th Lieutenant of the Essex 2 W 8
Payton
S5tambro007 Lieutenant Naval: lieutenant Lieutenant of the Essex 2 W 8
Hamilton Gore
S5tambro008 Joseph Meyers Naval: Master According to his deposition, 2 W X
was Master of Essex when
incident took place
S5tambro009 Lieutenant Naval: lieutenant Lieutenant of the Royal Oak 2 W 8
Edmund Turner
S5tambro010 Lieutenant Robert Naval: lieutenant 2 W 8
Wilson
S5tambro011 James Patterson Naval: Master’s mate Naval officer 2 W X
S5tambro012 Captain Philip Naval: captain At time of incident, 2nd 2 W X
Toms Lieutenant of the Norfolk
S5tambro013 Sir Charles Naval Member of the Court 1 OC X
Molloy
Note. Incident took place 11 February 1743.

Naval ranks differ from Army ranks –
Captain: title of an officer who ranks between a rear-admiral or a commodore and a commander.
Master: until 1814, the title of the officer in the navy now called commander (commander ranks below a captain and
above a second lieutenant).
Master’s mate: an officer subordinate to commander but working with the master of a ship. Hence – rear-admiral,
captain, master/commander, 1st lieutenant, master’s mate, 2nd lieutenant, etc.
Appendix 1. Details of the SPC trials 
ID classifications for Baker (1750)

Charge forgery
Outcome The pleadings being ended the Jury desired to / withdraw, which they did for about ten minutes, / and
then gave their verdict, Not guilty of forging / the warrant, but Guilty of publishing it knowing / it to be
forg’d. Death.
s5tbaker001 Charles Gastineau Broker 3 W X

s5tbaker002 Counsel for Crown Barrister 2 V X
S5tbaker003 Counsel for Barrister 2 M X
Prisoner
S5tbaker004 Richard Holland Offended party 3 IP X
S5tbaker005 Deputy Slater Able to give credit 3 W X
S5tbaker006 Mr. Holbrook To East India Co. Warehouse keeper 3 W X
S5tbaker007 Toby Chauncey Hayter’s apprentice 4 W 8
S5tbaker008 Robert Sedgwick Transacts business at Broker 3 W X
EIC’s sale
S5tbaker009 Mr. William Web Signs warrants when Joint Treasurer, 3 W X
they are delivered in East India Co.
S5tbaker010 John Sedgwick East India Co. Asst. to 4 W X
employee Dorrington, Joint
Treasurer
S5tbaker011 Anto. Hotchkin Buys/sells tea Merchant 3 W X
S5tbaker012 Mr. Alveringa Lent to defendant Money lender 3 W X
S5tbaker013 Mr. Pacheco Delivers warrants 4 W X
S5tbaker014 Mr. Benny Barrister 2 M X
S5tbaker015 My Lord, the judge Judge 1 J 9
S5tbaker016 Mr. Key Barrister 2 M X
S5tbaker017 Mr. Ford Barrister 2 M X
S5tbaker018 Sir Thomas Bootle Barrister 1 V X
S5tbaker019 William Baker, the Involved in ‘great trade Sugar baker P–?1 D X
prisoner and Great credit’ to or 3
‘ten thousand pound’
sum.
S5tbaker020 Sergeant Hayward Barrister 2 M X
S5tbaker021 Beaston Long, Esq. Deals in sugar Merchant – but 1 (character) W (def) X
note the use of Esq.
S5tbaker022 Mr. Douglas Involved in finance 3 (character) W (def) X
S5tbaker023 Mr. Bradshaw Sugar broker 3 (character) W (def) X
S5tbaker024 Alderman Money lender and 3 (character) W (def) X
Rawlinson trader
S5tbaker025 Mr. Lawrence Credit broker? 3 (character) W (def) X
S5tbaker026 Mr. Nash X (character) W (def) X
S5tbaker027 Mr. Seamark X (character) W (def) X
S5tbaker028 Mr. Kilpin X (character) W (def) X
S5tbaker029 Mr. Hall X (character) W (def) X
S5tbaker030 Alderman – would have lent the Money lender 1 (character) W (def) X
Blackiston prisoner the £1,000 !
S5tbaker031 Mr. Beal Buys/sells goods Merchant 3 (character) W (def) X
S5tbaker032 Mr. Stow Known prisoner for 14 x (character) W (def) X
yrs.
S5tbaker033 Sir Henry Marshall Known prisoner for 1 (character) W (def) X
13–14 years
Note. 015 – My Lord, the Judge could be one of two – Right Hon. Francis Cokayne, Esq., Lord-Mayor of the City
of London (no biographical details for) or Sir Thomas Dennisson, knt (one of the Justices of his Majesty’s Court of
King’s Bench: for biblographical details, see following).
Biographical details for participants
John Fortescue Aland (Lord Fortescue). Grandson of Hugh Fortescue (7 in lineal descent
from the illustrious chief justice of Henry VI), and, as such, part of a very illustrious family.
Born March 7, 1670. Received honorary degree of doctor of civil law on May 4 1733 from
Oxford University. However, no trace of him in the register of matriculations. In 1688, Aland
became a member of the Middle Temple, but afterwards moved to the Inner Temple. Called
to the bar in 1712. Took up post of Reader in 1716. In October 1714, immediately after the
arrival of George I, he was appointed Solicitor-General to the Prince of Wales (afterwards
George II). He was promoted to Attorney-General in December of the following year. He
was member for Midhurst in the first parliament of George I, but only sat during its first
session. Knighted 1717, and raised to the bench of the Exchequer (January 24), a seat he
occupied for little more than a year. Moved to the King’s Bench May 15 1718, and sat in
that court till the death of George I, when he fell out of favour (State Trials, XV, p. 975
and XVI, p. 1206). After 15 months retirement, he was restored to favour, and placed in the
Common Pleas on January 27 1729. He worked in the Pleas for 17 years, resigning in 1746.
Two months later (August), he was granted a barony in the Irish peerage. His title was Lord
Fortescue of Credan in the county of Waterford. Aland died December 19 1746. Source –
Foss (1870: 5).
John Bradshaw (c. 10.12.1602–31.10.1659). After a provincial practice he was called to the
bar at Gray’s Inn, in 1627; Chief Justice of Chester 1647 (according to Foss (1870: 115),
Bradshaw was also appointed Judge of the Sheriff ’s Court in London 23 June 1645). Made
sergeant 12 October 1648. In January 1649, ‘no judge or lawyer of the first rank being
available’, Bradshaw was appointed commissioner for the trial of Charles I and elected Pres-
ident of the Court. Post-trial, he was made President of the Commonwealth of State, but
he resisted Cromwell politically and was demoted. After Cromwell’s death (1659), he was
appointed LCGS on 3 June but died in less than five months. Bradshaw was buried in
Westminster Abbey. In 1660, his remains were disinterred, drawn, hanged, beheaded and
gibbeted, his head being placed on top of Westminster Hall. Source – Simpson (1984: 73).
Note – in 1644, assigned as one of the counsel against Lord Macguire for the rebellion in Ire-
land; and he probably assisted Prynne in his argument to prove that Irish peers were amenable
to trial by an English jury.
Thomas Bury. Youngest son of Sir William Bury, knight, of Linwood in Lincolnshire. Born
in 1655, he entered Gray’s Inn in 1668, and was called to the bar in 1676. After twenty-four
years practice, he obtained the degree of sergeant in 1700, and on January 26 of the next year
he was made a Baron of the Exchequer. Speaker Onslow in his notes to Burnet states that it
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
appeared by Bury’s “Book of Accounts” that Lord Keeper Wright had 1000l. for raising him
to the bench. However, the story depends on very slight testimony. Knighted shortly after
being made baron, Bury sat in the same court during the remainder of his life; for fifteen
years as a puisne baron, and for six as chief baron, to which he was advanced June 10 1716. In
the famous Aylesbury case in the House of Lords he supported the opinion of Chief Justice
Holt, when the judgement he had opposed was reversed. Died May 4 1722.
Lawrence Carter (b. Leicester, 1672 – died March 14 1745). Father – innovator/parliamen-
tarian; mother – daughter of eminent solicitor. Called to bar by Lincoln’s Inn – elected
Recorder of Leicester Sept. 1 1697. Entered House of Commons 1698, where he served for
two different parishes. Re-elected 1710, 1714, 1715, 1722. Professional career distinguished
by his being appointed Solicitor-General to Prince of Wales in 1717. Made King’s Sergeant
soon after, when he was knighted. Sept. 7 1726, Carter succeeded Mr. Baron Price as Baron
of the Exchequer – retained his Recordership for next 3 years. Continued on bench till his
death. Source – Foss (1870: 157).
Elizabeth Cellier. A noted London midwife, who came into prominence through the pre-
tended “Meal-Tub Plot” of 1680. Nothing seems known of her life till her marriage with
Peter Cellier, a Frenchman, and her conversion from Anglicanism. In 1678, the prisons
were filled with Catholics as a result of the national alarm caused by the fabricated plots
of Titus Oates. Mrs. Cellier visited/helped these prisoners and/or became the channel of
other Catholic ladies’ charity towards the prisoners. Among these ladies was the Count-
ess of Powis, whose kindness was shown to, among others, Thomas Dangerfield. However,
Dangerfield was not the man he seemed, and Lady Powis stopped helping him. Dangerfield
wanted revenge, and decided to invent a new popish plot involving Lady Powis. His story
was that he had been released from prison through the good offices of Lady Powis and Mrs.
Cellier, on condition that he would assassinate the king, Lord Shaftesbury, and others. He
further pretended that he was to be engaged in manufacturing false plots to be foisted on
those who were known to be unfavourable to the Catholic cause. One of these shams was to
be based on a document that, he alleged, was hidden in a meal-tub in Mrs. Cellier’s house. A
search was made, and in a meal-tub the paper in question was found. It charged with treason
most of the leading Protestants, including the king’s natural son, the Duke of Monmouth,
the Earl of Shaftsbury, and Sir Thomas Waller, who was the very official charged with the
search. Lady Powis, Mrs. Cellier, the Earl of Castlemain and a number of other Catholics
were arrested. Mrs. Cellier’s trial took place 11 June 1680. She was charged with high trea-
son, but practically the only evidence against her was that of Dangerfield himself, and she
had little difficulty in proving him a witness entirely unworthy of credence. She was found
not guilty, and Dangerfield himself was arrested on account of a felony, for which he had
been previously outlawed. After her acquittal, Mrs. Cellier published a brief relation of the
whole affair, under the title of “Malice Defeated”. This led not only to a long series of pam-
phlets for and against her, but also to a second prosecution – that of libel against the king
and ministry. Source – The Catholic Encyclopaedia, Vol. III (online edition 1999).
Charles I (1600–1649). Charles ascended the throne at the age of 25. Unfortunately, his
reign is more notable for its problems than its successes. Although he summoned parlia-
Biographical details for participants 
ment three times through 1625–1629, it was dissolved because of its unwillingness to grant
funds until Charles addressed the grievances of the nobility. Consequently, Charles financed
his reign by selling commercial monopolies and extracting ship money (a fee demanded
from towns for building naval warships). Charles’ marriage to the devoutly Catholic French
princess further incensed the increasingly Puritan nobility, as her Catholic friends flooded
into the royal court. A problem in Scotland brought an abrupt end to Charles’ 11 years of
personal rule and unleashed the forces of civil war upon England. Charles attempted to force
a new prayer book on the Scots, which resulted in rebellion. Charles’ forces were ill prepared
due to lack of proper funds, causing the king to call, first, the Short Parliament, and finally
the Long Parliament. King and Parliament again reached no agreement; Charles foolishly
tried to arrest five members of Parliament on the advice of Henrietta Maria, which brought
matters to a head. The struggle for supremacy led to civil war and, ultimately, to Charles
trial and eventual execution.
Edward Coleman. A controversialist, politician, and secretary of the Duchess of York, date
of birth unknown. Executed at Tyburn, 3 December 1678. Coleman was the son of a Suf-
folk clergyman and, after a distinguished career at Cambridge, became a Catholic and was
employed by the Duchess of York. As the Duchess’s secretary, Coleman became acquainted
with continental statesmen, among them Père La Chaise, the confessor of Louis XIV, and Fa-
ther Saint-Germain. On occasion, he sought pecuniary help for the Catholic cause. By way
of illustration, he succeeded in obtaining £3,500 from three successive French ambassadors
whom he supplied with daily information regarding the proceedings of Parliament. Perhaps
not surprisingly, Coleman became a suspected character. And Titus Oates then named him
in his fictitious plot. Coleman was so sure of his innocence that he took no steps to protect
himself, allowed his papers to be seized, and gave himself up for examination. He was tried
28 November 1678, being accused of corresponding with foreign powers for the subversion
of the Protestant religion, and of consenting to a resolution to murder the king. His defence
was that he had only endeavoured to procure liberty of conscience for Catholics constitu-
tionally through Parliament, and had sought money abroad to further this object. He denied
any complicity with the plot against the king’s life. His foreign correspondence of 1675 and
1676, when examined, proved him to be an intriguer, but contained nothing that could con-
nect him in any way with designs on the king’s life. However, in spite of the flagrantly false
testimony of Oates and Bedlow, he was found guilty, and executed. Source – The Catholic
Encyclopaedia, Volume IV (online edition 1999).
John Cooke (c. 1609–1660). Law reformer and regicide. Educated – Wadham College, Ox-
ford. Admitted to Gray’s Inn 1623; barrister 1631; admitted King’s Inn 1634. Chief Justice
of Presidency Court of Munster 1650–1655; Justice of Irish Upper Bench 1659. During Civil
War and Interregnum period, Cook was an army independent with an interest in law re-
form – see his The Vindication of the Professors of Law (1646). Because of the absence of
William Steele (Attorney-General), Cooke led for the Commonwealth at the trial of Charles
I. Final years – tried and executed as a regicide (1660). Source – Simpson (1984).
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Mr. Cowper – possibly one of two brothers:

1 choice Spencer Cowper (1669–10.12.1728). Judge. Developed an extensive practice in
his thirties. Also an enthusiastic and able MP.
2 choice William Cowper (1664–10.10.1723). Judge, and the first Lord Chancellor of
Britain (May 1707). Successfully defended his brother against a murder charge.
Also an MP. Indeed, heavily involved in politics. Appointed Lord Keeper in 1605
and a peer in 1706.
Sir Thomas Dennisson [Denison]. Younger of two sons of Mr. Joseph Denison, an opulent
merchant at Leeds. Born in 1699. Received his legal education at the Inner Temple, where
he was called to the bar. His merits as a lawyer soon procured him a considerable practice,
and, without having filled any of the minor offices of the profession, he was made a judge of
the King’s Bench in December 1741. He was knighted in November 1745, when he joined in
the loyal address to the king on the rebellion. Sat under three successive chief justices – Sir
William Lee, Sir Dudley Ryder, and Lord Mansfield. Resigned February 14 1765, due to ill
health and failing eyesight. Lord Mansfield wrote the epitaph for his (graveside) monument.
Source – Source = Foss (1870: 216).
Samuel Dodd. Born about 1652. The Inner Temple was his school of law, where he was
called to the bar in 1679, and admitted to the bench in 1700. He was counsel for Dr.
Sacheverell in the ill-judged impeachment against him in 1710. Very popular among the
high church party (State Trials, xv. 213, &c). On the accession of George I, he was appointed
to the position of lord chief baron (November 22, 1714) and knighted. He occupied his seat
for seventeen months, dying on April 14, 1716. He left a manuscript volume of Reports,
which is preserved amongst the Hargrave Collection in the British Museum. Source – Foss
(1870: 222).
William Dolben. Pursued his legal studies at the Inner Temple, was called to the bar in 1653,
and was elected a bencher in 1672, and autumn reader in 1677. His legal merits probably
procured him a royal recommendation for the recordership of the city of London, to which
he was elected on February 8, 1676, and knighted. He held the place till he was advanced to
the bench, when the corporation voted him a piece of plate ‘as a loving remembrance’. In
1677 he was the first-named sergeant, and was immediately made one of the king’s sergeants.
On October 23, 1678, he was constituted a judge of the King’s Bench; and it was his misfor-
tune to sit under Sir William Scroggs as chief, and to be present at all the trials arising out
of the Popish Plot, in the existence of which, as far as it appears, he had a firm belief. But
he saw and fairly pointed out the inconsistencies and improbabilities of the evidence against
Sir Thomas Gasgoine, which resulted in acquittal; and at the trial of Sir Thomas Stapleton
at York for high treason he summed up favourably for the prisoner, who was thereupon ac-
quitted. Being found to be too independent, and suspected of not siding with the crown in
its attempt against the charter of the city of London, he was suddenly superseded on April
20, 1683, just before the judgement against the city was pronounced. Whether he returned
to the bar is uncertain. At the revolution, Sir William Dolben was replaced in his former seat
(March 11, 1689). He died on Jan. 25, 1694.
Biographical details for participants 
William Ellis (c. 1609–3.12.1680). Solicitor-general to the Protector who became Judge of
the Common Pleas under Charles II. Appointment as Solicitor – 1654. Also served inter-
mittently as an MP. Career – admitted into Gray’s Inn; called to the bar 1634. Between
1656–1659, received a baronetcy from the Protector but lost title in 1660. Became Sergeant
in 1660. Made one of Kings Sergeants in 1671, when he was knighted.
Hon. Heneage Finch. (First Earl of Nottingham), Lord Chancellor (23.12.1621–18.12.1682).

Educated Westminster School, Christ Church, Oxford; admitted Inner Temple 1638; bar
1645. During the Commonwealth he confined himself to private practice, but entered pub-
lic affairs at the Restoration. MP, Solicitor General and baronet 1660. During the next decade
he was active in Parliament and the courts, becoming Attorney General in 1670. On Shaftes-
bury’s dismissal in 1673 he became Lord Keeper and received a peerage, and in 1675 Lord
Chancellor (the office he retained until his death in 1682). In his long political career in
both Houses of Parliament he avoided identifying himself with any party or faction, and as
Blackstone comments ‘the fact that throughout an unceasing official career of more than 20
years, in a time of passion and intrigue, Finch was never once the subject of parliamentary
attack, nor ever lost the royal confidence, is a remarkable testimony both to his probity and
discretion’. Able ‘in the course of nine years to build a system of jurisprudence and juris-
diction upon wide and rational foundations’ (Blackstone Comm. Iii, 55). Finch’s work as
Chancellor earned him the title of ‘The Father of Modern Equity’ amongst his peers. Espe-
cially praised for his development of rational doctrine and in far sighted statesmanship as a
law maker.
Mr. John Holt (30.12.1642–5.03.1709/10). Educated. Oriel College, Oxford; Admitted

Gray’s Inn 1652; Barrister 1663/4; Bencher 1682; Kings Sergeant. 1686; Chief Justice Kings
Bench 1689. Father was a royalist Sergeant at Law. Probably began practice in about 1669.
By about 35, he was established in both civil and criminal cases, appearing as often for the
crown as in defence of Whig ‘troublemakers’, both famous and obscure. Appointed Recorder
of London by James II in 1685/6 and, shortly afterwards, King’s Sergeant. Lost Recordership
in 1686/7. Source – Simpson (1984: 254–255).
Sir George Jeffreys (1648–1689). Born near Wrexham, Clwyd. Education began at the free
school of Shrewsbury, and continued at St. Paul’s School in London (1659–1661) and at
Westminster School (1661–1662). Did not take a degree. Admitted Inner Temple 1663;
called to the bar in 1668. Said to be ‘of little learning in the law’, yet ‘nonetheless a skil-
ful and perspicuous cross-examiner’ (Simpson 1984: 274). Although skill partly explains
his rapid rise (see below), Jeffreys was also prepared to show ‘judicial brutality and man-
ifest unfairness’ when ‘in pursuit of the Crown’s interest’ (Simpson 1984: 275). By way of
example, he apparently advised the Court to ‘swim with the tide of popular anti Papist
sentiment’ in the trials relating to the Popish Plot (Simpson 1984: 274). Yet, according to
Roger North, his contemporary, ‘when he was in temper and matters indifferent came be-
fore him, he became his seat of justice better than any other I saw in his place’ (Life of Lord
Keeper Guilford, p. 219). Knighted 1677; Recorder of London 1678–1680; Sergeant 1679;
Chief Justice of Chester 1680; Baronet 1681; Chief Justice of the King’s Bench 1683; Lord
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Chancellor (1685–1688). After the flight of James II, Jeffreys was imprisoned in the Tower,
where he died.
Sir Joseph Jekyll, Judge (c. 1663–19.08.1738). Admitted Middle Temple (1680), bar (1687),
MP + Chief Justice of Chester (1697). Knighted soon after. A constant whig, who enjoyed the
patronage of SOMERS (whose sister he married). As King’s Sergeant (1700), he was pros-
ecutor in many parliamentary impeachments. In 1717, he was appointed Master of Rolls.
Note – held office of Master of Rolls for 21 years (1717–1738). An able equity lawyer, and
as MR made important contributions to equity jurisprudence. Source – Simpson (1984: 277)
and Foss (1870: 374–375). Note – according to the latter source, Sir J. Jekyll conducted the
indictment against Francis Francia.
Sir William Lee, Judge (1688–08.04.1754). Educated Wadham College, Oxford (no degree);
admitted Middle Temple 1704; Inner Temple 1717; Bencher 1725; Barrister 1711; King’s
Counsel and Attorney-General to Prince of Wales 1728; Justice of Kings Bench 1730; Chief
Justice of Kings Bench 1737; PC 1745.
Sir Cresswell Levinz, Judge and Reporter (1627–19.1.1700 or 1701). Educated Trinity Col-
lege, Cambridge; Admitted Gray’s Inn 1655; Barrister 1661; Bencher 1678; Treasurer 1679;
Knighted and made King’s Council 1678; Attorney-General 1679; Justice Common Pleas
1681; Dismissed 1686. Returning to the Bar, he was one of counsel for the Seven Bishops
in 1688 and continued to practise as a sergeant until his death. Levinz took part as counsel
and judge in many of the political cases from the ‘Popish plot trials to the Western Assizes
in 1685, but his conduct does not appear open to serious criticism. His Reports (published
posthumously in 1702) cover 1660–1697. Source – Simpson (1984: 312) and Foss (1870: 406).
Sir John Maynard, Judge, legal writer (1602–1690). Educated Exeter College, Oxford, BA
25.4.1621; Admitted Middle Temple 1619; Barrister 1626; Bencher 1656–1668, Beeralston
1661–1679, Plymouth 1679; Sergeant 9.2.1654; Solicitor General 1659; Sergeant 22.6.1660;
King’s Sergeant 9.11.1660; Knighted 16.22.1660; Joint Commissioner of Great Seal 5.3.1689.
Regarded by his contemporaries as ‘the best old book lawyer of his time’. Said to have
great knowledge ‘in the more profound + perplexed parts of the law’. Compiled editions
of the yearbooks (including one in Edward II’s reign). Emerged to prominence as a parlia-
mentarian 1640s–1650s. As a fervent Presbyterian, Maynard attacked the Laudian bishops.
As a parliamentarian, he defended the Commons’ privileges against both Charles I and
Cromwell. Note – he withdrew from the House in 1648/9, regarding it as an unconstitu-
tional assembly following the deposition of the king. As a lawyer – defended and secured the
acquittal of John Lilburn in 1653. In 1654, he did the same for a city merchant who had not
paid his taxes. Maynard challenged the lawfulness of Cromwell’s government itself – and, in
consequence, spent a brief spell in the Tower. Following the Restoration, he sat on Council
of State, and represented the Crown at some of the major state trials (e.g. at the trials of Sir
Henry Vane in 1662, Lord Mordant 1666–1667, Lord Cornwallis 1678, and the prosecutions
arising out of the Popish Plot in 1679–1680). Having opposed James II’s policies, he went
on to support William III – and used his deep knowledge of constitutional law to defend
Biographical details for participants 
the convention parliament and the abdication of James II. His reward was an appointment
(jointly with Sir Anthony Keck and Sir William Rawlisson) to the position of a Lord Com-
missioner of the Great Seal (March 5 1689). Maynard retired (or was removed) soon after.
Source – Simpson (1984: 259).
M. Nudigate [Newdigate] (17.09.1602–14.10.1678). Educated Trinity College, Oxford; ad-

mitted Member of Gray’s Inn. Had a considerable practice as an advocate. Engaged by State
with Prynne and Bradshaw in the prosecution of Lord Macguire and others for Irish Mas-
sacres. Later years – made a sergeant in January 1654; in May of same year, accepted a seat
on Upper Bench; Jan 1660 – became (Lord) Chief Justice; 1677 – given baronetcy. Source –
Foss (1870: 479).
Titus Oates (1649–1705). English conspirator. An Anglican priest whose whole career was
marked with intrigue and scandal, he joined forces with one Israel Tonge to invent the story
of the Popish Plot of 1678. Oates, who had been briefly a convert to Roman Catholicism,
claimed that there was a Jesuit-guided plan to assassinate Charles II and to hasten the suc-
cession of the Catholic James, duke of York (later James II). The account was completely
fabricated. Unfortunately, however, ‘treasonous’ letters from Edward Coleman, secretary
of the duchess of York, to the French Jesuit, François La Chaise, were discovered as a re-
sult of his accusations. The unexplained death of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey, the judge to
whom Tonge and Oates first told their story, was also attributed without evidence to the
Catholics, and three innocent men were hanged for it. A frenzy of anti-Catholic hatred swept
through England, resulting in the judicial murder of a number of Roman Catholic peers and
commoners and in the arrest and persecution of many others. Oates enjoyed temporary em-
inence and even accused Queen Catherine of plotting to poison the king. In 1685, Oates was
convicted of perjury, severely flogged, and imprisoned. Under William III he was released
and pensioned. See J. Kenyon’s (1972) The Popish Plot.
Sir Francis Pemberton, Judge (1625–10.6.1697). Educated St. Alban’s GS, Emmanuel Col-
lege, Cambridge, BA 1644; Barrister Inner Temple (1654); Bencher (1670–1680); Reader
(1673–1674); Sergeant (1675); Knighted (1975); Justice of Kings Bench (1679–1680); Chief
Justice of Kings Bench (1681); Chief Justice Common Pleas (1682). After a debauched youth,
he built up a large practice (Pepys refers to his wealth). As a judge, Pemberton had the dis-
tinction of being three times deprived of office, twice certainly because of fears as to his
political reliability to the Crown. Source – Simpson (1984: 410).
Thomas Pengelly. Born Moorifelds, May 16 1675. Son of Thomas Pengelly, of Finchley,
Middlesex. Called to the bar Nov. 1700, and was dignified with the coif in 1710. Elected
member for Cockermouth in both the parliaments of George I. Appointed as king’s prime
sergeant June 24 1719, having been knighted in the previous month. On October 16 1726,
he was appointed chief baron of the Exchequer. (State Trials, xvi. 140, 1330). Presided in
that court for four and a half years. Considered to be a patient but firm and therefore ‘good’
judge. Apparently died from an infection he caught from prisoners while presiding over a
court session.
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Mr. Justice Pratt, Judge (c. 1657–14.02.1725). Fellow Wadham College, Oxford, 1678, MA
1679; Admitted Inner Temple 1675; Barrister 1682. An able advocate and sound lawyer. Pratt
became Sergeant in 1700; Knighted and admitted to Justice Kings Bench 1714; Chief Justice
Kings Bench 1718. Reputed to have been a very good common law judge. His success must
have been very considerable, as he was able to purchase the manor and seat of Wilderness
(formally called Stidulfe’s Place) in the parish of Seale in Kent in 1703. On accession of
George I, by the recommendation of Lord Cowper, Pratt was appointed a judge of the King’s
Bench (Nov. 22 1715), and knighted. On the resignation of the Seals by Lord Cowper, he was
appointed one of the Lord’s Commissioners, holding that office from April 18–May 12 1718.
Three days later, Pratt was elevated to the post of Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. He
presided over the court for seven years. Sources – Foss (1870: 534) and Simpson (1984: 435).
Edmund Prideaux (c. 1610s–9.08.1659). Belonged to an ancient and honourable family, ac-
cording to Foss (1870: 539). Eminent lawyer in the time of the Commonwealth. Second son
of eminent lawyer of same name. Father received the dignity of a baronet in 1622. Prideaux
was called to bar at the Inner Temple 23 November 1623. Named Solicitor-General in Octo-
ber 1648 and Attorney General in April 1649, keeping the latter until his death. Prideaux
made a large fortune – beside practice at the bar (worth about 5000l a year), he was a
postmaster of the inland letters (which netted him a tidy 15,000l a year).
William Prynne (c. 1600–24.09.1669). Educated at Oriel College, Oxford. 24.4.1618; BA

22.1.1621; Admitted Lincoln’s Inn 1621; Barrister 1628; Keeper of Records in the Tower
1661. A militant puritan pamphleteer rather than a lawyer – published around 200 books
and pamphlets. Source – Simpson (1984: 436).
Robert Raymond (Lord Raymond). Only son of Sir Thomas Raymond. Born in 1673. Fa-
ther induced the society of Gray’s Inn to admit his son November 1 1682, when only nine
years old. His call to the Bar did not take place till November 12 1697. Raymond was made
solicitor-general 1709, and knighted. On October 14 1714, he was removed from his of-
fice on the advice of Lord Cowper. Sir Robert was elected for Ludlow in 1715, appointed
Attorney General in May 1720, and elected for Helston in 1722. On January 31 1724, he
was appointed a Judge of the King’s Bench. Raymond is most famous for his law reports,
which commence in Easter Term 1694, when he was 20 years old, and more than 3 years
before he was called to the bar (see below). They finish in Trinity Term 1732, a year be-
fore his death, thus extending over 38 years, during the reign of four sovereigns. They were
published posthumously, ten years after his death. Source – Foss (1870: 548).
Mr. Reeve. Possibly Thomas Reeve. Son of Richard Reeve, Esq., of New Windsor, who
erected 4 almshouses in the parish. Admitted first a member of the Inner Temple, he trans-
ferred himself to the Middle Temple, and was called to the Bar by the latter society in 1713.
He was made King’s Counsel as early as 1718, and soon afterwards Attorney General for
the Duchy of Lancaster. He became a Bencher of the Middle Temple in 1720, and Reader
in 1722. In 1733, Reeve was constituted a Judge of the Common Pleas, and knighted. He
advanced to the head of that court in January 1736, dying one year later (January 13 1737).
Biographical details for participants 
Sir Edmund Saunders, Law reporter (c. 1630–19.6.1683). Born at Barnwood of poor par-
ents. Became an attorney’s entering clerk in Clements Inn. He entered the Middle Temple
(Barrister 1664) and built up a large practice, excelling as a special pleader. His Reports
(pleading in Latin, Reports in Law French) were first published in 1686 (first English edi-
tion 1722). They were the best of the period, and became glossed by Sergeant Williams to
become Williams’ Saunders (1799) . . . Saunders drank heavily and exuded a strong and of-
fensive odour (a contemporary described him as a ‘fetid mass that offended his neighbours
at the bar in the sharpest degree’). An eccentric, he lived humbly in Butchers Row with the
Earls until moving to more elegant surroundings in 1683 (having succeeded Pemberton as
Chief Justice of Kings Bench, and being knighted). He died within six months. Source –
Simpson (1984: 460). According to contemporary Roger North (p. 223), Saunders ‘was at
first no better than a poor beggar boy, if not a parish foundling, without known parents or
relations’. Saunder’s father died early, however, and his mother remarried. North goes on to
describe Saunders as corpulent and beastly, offensive to his neighbours, intemperate in his
habits . . . According to Fox, sometimes he was to be found acting for the defence in govern-
ment prosecutions – as for Mr. Price in 1680, when indicted for attempting to suborn one
of the witnesses to the Popish plot; and for the five Popish lords charged with high treason,
of whom only Lord Stafford was tried. In 1681 he was counsel for the crown against Edward
Fitzharris and Lord Shaftesbury, and in 1682 for the Earl of Danby, on his application to be
bailed. In that year (1682) he was also elected a Bencher of his Inn. Source – Foss (1870: 586).
Sir William Scroggs (? 1623–25.10.1683). Born Dedington, Oxfordshire; Educated at Oriel

and Pembroke Colleges, Oxford; Admitted Gray’s Inn 1641; Barrister 1653; Sergeant and
Kings Sergeant 1669; Justice Common Pleas 1676; Lord Chief Justice 1678. Rose from hum-
ble origins, a fact which may explain his anxiety to keep favour with whichever party seemed
to be in the ascendant at Court. His conduct during the ‘Popish plot’ trials is notorious. At
first his zeal to secure convictions knew no bounds. However, apparently in deference to
the wishes of the Court, at the trial of Sir George Wakeman and others, he changed tack,
discredited the prosecution witnesses, and consequently the defendants were acquitted. On
26 June 1680, by discharging the grand jury, he was instrumental in frustrating Shaftsbury’s
attempts to indict the Duke of York. As a result, articles of impeachment were drawn against
him, but eventually abandoned. Because of his great unpopularity he was replaced as Chief
Justice (1681), but handsomely rewarded for his long servility to the Court. As a person he
appears to have been coarse and loud. He was also a heavy drinker, and suffered from gout.
His ability was as an orator rather than a lawyer, though his book on The Practice of the
Courts Leet and Baron ran into four editions. Source – Simpson (1984: 466).
Bartholomew Shower, Law Reporter (14.12.1658–4.12.1701). A Middle Temple man (made

Barrister 1680) who became Recorder of London (1687–1688), and also reported King’s
Bench cases (the original text of these reports is in the British Library, Landsdowne ms 1105)
as well as cases in Parliament (published 1698). The publication of the latter was treated as
a breach of privilege. Source – Simpson (1984: 474).
Mr. Justice Tracy (Robert – c. 1655–11.09.1735). Eldest son of Robert, second Viscount
Tracy in Ireland. . . Lived to age of 80. Called to the Bar by Middle Temple in 1680. In July
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
1699, King William made him a Judge at the King’s Bench in Ireland, but soon translated
him, on Nov. 4 1700, from that country to be a Baron of the Exchequer in England. Soon af-
ter the accession of Queen Anne, he was moved again, this time to the Common Pleas. Held
that position for 24 years. Also selected by Anne and George I to be one of the Commission-
ers of the Great Seal on vacancies in the office of Lord Chancellor (14.09–19.10.1710 and
also 15.4.–12.06.1718). Resigned due to ill health from his place on the bench (26.10.1726).
Lived a further 9 years, on a pension of 1500l a year. Described as ‘a complete gentleman
and a good lawyer of a clear head and honest heart.’ Source – Foss (1870: 669).
Thomas Trevor (Lord Trevor) was the grandson of Sir John Trevor, of Trevallyn in
Flintshire. His father, also Sir John, became Secretary of State to Charles II, and died in
1672. Born about 1659, Trevor entered Inner Temple in 1672 (just before the death of his
father, who had been a Bencher of the Inn). He was called to the Bar November 28 1680.
Trevir distinguished himself in the courts, and was quickly elected a Bencher (i.e. 1689), and
then elevated to the post of Solicitor General (May 3 1692). He was knighted shortly after.
He initially refused the Attorney Generalship (1693), but later accepted the office (June 8
1695). During his six years as Attorney General, he conducted the trials of those implicated
in the Assassination Plot. Apparently acted with a fairness and candour that formed a re-
markable contrast to the criminal proceedings in previous reigns. Worth noting that, in the
progress of those trials, the act of parliament (St. 7 Will. III. C. 3) for regulating trials for
treason/allowing prisoners the right to defence council came into operation. On the removal
of Lord Somers in May 1700, Trevor declined the offer to be made Lord Keeper; but on June
28 1701, he accepted the more permanent place of Chief Justice of Common Pleas. Trevor
was a member of one parliament only, that of 1695, in which he represented Plympton (State
Trials, vols. Xii, Xiii.). On the accession of Queen Anne, he was re-appointed Chief Justice,
and presided in the Court of Common Pleas during the whole of her reign. In the short
interval between the chancellorships of Lords Cowper and Harcourt, from September 26–
October 19 1710, he was entrusted with the Great Seal as First Commissioner. Trevor was
called to the peerage December 31 1711, and given the title Baron Trevor of Bromham in
Bedfordshire. Source – Foss (1870: 675).
William Wilde (?1611–1679). Called to the Bar by the Inner Temple in 1637, Became a
Bencher in 1652, and was elected Recorder of London November 3 1659. Considered to be
one of the moderate party, he was returned as a member to the Convention Parliament that
met in April 1660, and was immediately knighted on the king’s return. Called to the degree
of sergeant at the second call after the Restoration. Further dignified with a baronetcy on
September 13 in the same year. As Recorder he was named on the Commission for the Trial
of the Regicides. On November 10 in the following year, he was made one of the King’s
Sergeants, which position, with that of Recorder, he enjoyed until April 16 1668, when he
resigned the latter office on being appointed a Judge of the Common Pleas. He remained
there nearly five years, until he was moved to the King’s Bench (Jan. 22 1673). In February
1679, Green, Berry and Hill were tried for the murder of Sir Edmundbury Godfrey; and on
April 16 Nathaniel Reading was tried for tampering with the king’s evidence; the conviction
on both trials was founded upon the evidence of Bedlow, one of the primary witnesses of
the Popish Plot. Justice Wilde took an active part in each, pronouncing sentence of death in
Biographical details for participants 
the former, and saying that the conviction of the latter was ‘a very good verdict’. However, he
then discovered that Bedlow had given false evidence. According to Burnet, he apparently
told Bedlow that ‘he was a perjured man, and ought to come no more into court, but go
home and repent’ (State Trials, VII, p. 222 & 261). On April 29 1679, his patent was revoked
at the same time as those of three other judges – Vere Bertie, Thurland, and Bramston. He
survived his dismissal only seven months, dying November 23 1679.
Philip Yorke (Earl of Hardwicke). Politician and Chancellor (1.12.1690–6.3.1764). As a

judge, Hardwicke can claim greatness. As a politician, he was a partisan, an intimate and
influential confidant of the Pelhams, pursuing their interests and striving to uphold the
principles of the Settlement of 1688. Born in Dover in 1690, where his father was an attor-
ney. Educated at The Blin Beggars House at Bethnal Green. Remained there until he was 16,
when he entered the office of Charles Salkeld, an influential attorney, who was the brother
of Sergeant Salkeld. Whether this relatively modest early education was the consequence of
his father’s choice or his lack of means is conjectural. Certainly his father was sufficiently
well connected to persuade Salkeld to accept his son and sufficiently confident of his son’s
abilities to plan for him a career at the Bar. Admitted to the Middle Temple in 1708, he was
called in 1715. His legal study between those years was largely his own experience. The of-
fice, the courts and indigestible legal tomes were his mentors’ and his student notebooks,
digests of cases that he heard in court demonstrate how rigorous, methodical and meticu-
lous was his course of study. His success at the Bar was meteoric. Within five years of his
call he was Solicitor General (1720) and within nine year he was Attorney General (1724).
Inevitably, political influence was a sin qua non of that success, in his case an introduction
to Macclesfield, to whom he always remained loyal, and his election as an MP in the Pelham
interest (1719). His ability, industry and presence marked him out as a person supremely
qualified to safeguard efficiently and intelligently the interests of the Government. Contem-
poraries described Yorke as handsome, engaging, charming, polite, dignified and courteous.
In debate, he was remembered as an ‘agreeable eloquent speaker, but not without some little
tincture of the pleader’. Source – Simpson (1984: 556).
Notes
Lord Chief Justice Next in rank to the Lord Chancellor.

Solicitor General Law officer (in England, ranking next to Attorney General) who takes
the part of the state or crown in suits affecting the public interest.
First appointment of Solicitor General was 1461.
In 1623, the Attorney General and Solicitor General were by royal war-
rant given precedence over all but the two most senior king’s sergeants,
known thereafter as the king’s first (or ‘prime’) and second sergeants –
(see Baker 1990: 188). According to Baker (1990: 188), a seventeenth-
century Attorney General could earn (besides his modest salary of 81
pounds) at least 6,000 pounds a year in fees. . . !
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
King’s Counsel Charles I appointed nine, and Charles II appointed thirty-one. Office
not really needed. But this was an age for bestowing, or selling, ti-
tles, and the right of pre-audience was highly valuable to the recipient.
Highly honourable to have the title. Institution of rank of King’s Coun-
sel proved to be the principal death blow against the order of sergeants.
In 1670 King Charles II delivered the damaging decision that the new
officers took professional precedence over the sergeants (Baker p. 189 –
see also Baker Sergeants at Law, pp. 488–490).
Sergeant at law Old branch of the profession. However, immediately prior to our pe-
riod, became possible to earn a living from the law without becoming
a sergeant or an attorney: ‘the other ‘men of court’ (e.g. the barris-
ters) thereby grew into a new branch of the profession’ For more details
relating to ‘sergeant at law’ see Baker (1990: 180).
Appendix 2
Sub-categories for ‘force’ field
COUNSEL = “w” = COMMISSIVES/DIRECTIVES

caution, warn [= “w1”]
[e.g. strongly counsel A against pursuing a certain course of action. S wants to enable A to
prevent something bad happening to A (Wierzbicka 1987: 177)]
threaten, coerce [= “w2”]
[e.g. compel (or intimidate) A from/into pursuing a certain course of action. S wants to cause
A to do (or stop doing) something]
advise, recommend, counsel [= “w3”]
[e.g. commend a certain course of action to A. S wants to convey information to A in a way
that implies that S is acting in A’s interest (Wierzbicka 1987: 182)]
REQUIRE = “c” = DIRECTIVES (requirements)

command, require, order, instruct, direct [= “c1”]
[e.g. cause A to do Y (by means of the SA). S wants (and expects) A to do something.
Presupposes S has sufficient authority and that S and H are in an asymmetrical relationship]
demand [= “c2”]
[e.g. require/claim a certain course of action from A. S wants something to happen and s/he
expects that A will be reluctant to comply. Consequently, carries great force that A is bound
to recognise, even though A does/may not have to do what S says s/he wants A to do. Also
requires a response of some description (see Wierzbicka 1987: 39, 70)]
REQUEST = “r” = DIRECTIVES (requestives)

desire, request [= “r1”]
[e.g. try to acquire Y from A (by means of the SA). S wants Y to happen and wants to cause A to
do it [note – ‘request’ seems more dispassionate than ‘desire’, the latter having a strength of
feeling that often implies strong intention or aim (see Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 1993)]
plead, beseech, implore, appeal [= “r2”]
[e.g. try to acquire Y from A. S wants Y from A, but knows that s/he cannot cause A to do
it. Implies an asymmetrical relationship; ‘plead’ appeals to A’s sense of reason and justice
and ‘implore’ to A’s emotions, whilst ‘appeal’ seems to be somewhere between the two. In
contrast, beseeching’ focuses on A’s action rather than any benefit following from that action
(see Wierzbicka 1987: 54)]
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
QUESTION = “q” = DIRECTIVES (questions)

ask (about) [= “as”] (confirmation seeking)
[e.g. seek to get A to confirm (some thing[s] about) Y. S wants A to say something that causes
(some thing[s] about) Y to be confirmed.]
inquire (into) [= “iq”] (generally information seeking)
[e.g. solicit a verbal response from A which would cause S (and others) to know (some thing[s]
about) Y. S wants A to say something that could cause someone to know Y. S believes A
can provide specific information regarding Y, and wants to cause A to say what A knows.
Generally implies a lack of knowledge and a desire to know. Consequently, often associated
with a genuine search for (new) information] May be subdivided as follows:
Ask for a polarity decision [= “iqp”]
Ask for (or that B provide) a missing variable [= “iqi”]
question, ascertain [= “it”] (classification seeking)
[e.g. solicit (a) verbal response(s) from A in a formulaic and systematic way.]
interrogate [= “tr”] (control/domination seeking ?)
[e.g. (use force to) solicit verbal responses from A. S wants to cause A to say everything that S
wants A to say. S assumes that A will/may not want to say certain things, but nevertheless
believes that s/he can extract what s/he wants to know (by verbal pressure/threats). Conse-
quently, implication that there will be more than one question (see Wierzbicka 1987: 71–72)]
query/call into question [= “qy”] (reaction giving/clarification seeking ?)
[e.g. respond to and/or seek clarification of something said by another. S wants to express (and,
in so doing, make others aware of) doubts that S has regarding Y. May carry the implication
that S has good reason(s) to think that there is something wrong with what is being said (see
Wierzbicka 1987: 73, 75)]. Cf. ‘I don’t know if what person X is saying is right’; ‘I think what
person X is saying may not be right’; ‘I think there may be something bad about what person
X is saying’.
entreat [= “qe”] (permission seeking)
[e.g. seek to get A’s (verbal) permission for Y. S wants to do Y, but S needs A to (formally)
approve/sanction it. Consequently, may imply an asymmetrical relationship (cf. ‘plead’ and
‘request’ above)]
INFORM = “h” = REPRESENTATIVES

Please note that, because ‘answer’ is basically an interactional phenomenon (e.g. it must be
coherently linked with ‘question’ in order to be ‘appropriate’ – cf. Stenström 1984: 57), it
does not fit easily into Searle’s classification. Consequently, I am using:
1. The “h” classification in the force-field (to indicate that, in the courtroom at least, part
of the function of an answer is to inform/provide information), and
2. An additional a=“” field, which provides some details about the type of ‘answer’ given.
This field and its possible values are listed below.
answer [a = “”]
[e.g. respond (usually verbally) to another SA requiring and/or expecting a (verbal) response
in a way that (part) fills a perceived knowledge gap (see below). S wants to provide or wants
Appendix 2. Sub-categories for ‘force’ field 
H to believe that s/he wants to provide (part or all of) the knowledge that A is seeking (cf.
‘respond’, where S also wants to say something in (or as a) response to something previ-
ously said but where, unlike ’answer’ there is not a built-in expectation to say something in
response. See also Wierzbicka 1987: 374)]
[(In)validate and identify-type responses (see below) provide/address requested informa-
tion explicitly]
(in)validate [= “inv/val”] [(e.g. provide polarity decision (explicitly)]
identify [= “ide”] [e.g. provide requested information (explicitly)]
imply [= “imp”] [e.g. do not provide/express ‘yes’, ‘no’, or value for a missing
variable explicitly, but answer in such a way that one can
be inferred (cf. Stenström’s <R: imply>, a response which
gives ‘information other than that which is asked for’ in
such a way that ‘the direct answer may be arrived at by
implication’. See also Harris 1981: 85; Philips 1984)]
supply [= “sup”] [e.g. provide information which is not the requested infor-
mation. S wants to say what s/he knows even if s/he does
not possess exact information (see Stenström 1984)]
elaborate [= “elab”] [e.g. provide additional/supporting information than ex-
plicitly requested. Includes amplifies (which emphasise the
information given), qualifies (which explain/give/provide
additional information/reason(s)) and expands (which
develop/build on immediate given information). Please
note that the superfluous information “elaborations” pro-
vide in relation to a Q can/often result in a new informa-
tion exchange (Stenström 1984: 78)]
confirm (proposition) [= “ca”] [e.g. verbally respond to Q to establish that what has been
proposed (by A) in that SA (something about Y) is true. S
wants to say that (something about) Y is true]
do not confirm/oppose [e.g. verbally respond to Q to establish that what has
(proposition) [= “nca”] been proposed (by A) in that SA (something about Y) is false.
S wants to say that (something about) Y is false]
disclaim [= “dis”] [e.g. verbally respond to Q to establish inability to provide re-
quested information/answer. S wants to signal his/her com-
pliance but inability to provide requested information (cf.
Stenström 1984: 77)]
[“Evades” and “refusals” (see below) are ‘conscious avoidance manoeuvres’, e.g. S does not
want to provide (part or all of) the knowledge that A is seeking. Both indicate a level of
non-compliance on the part of S (cf. Stenström 1984: 77)]
evade [= “ev”] do not provide/express ‘yes’, ‘no’, or value for missing vari-
able, and do not answer in such a way that one can be
inferred. S wants to signal his/her non-compliance]
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
refuse to answer [= “na”] [e.g. do not give a (verbal) answer even though the SA re-
quires and/or expects a verbal response. S wants to signal
his/her (total) non-compliance]
Please note that some of the following can also (but may not necessarily) be used to ‘answer’
a preceding Q:
concur, agree with [= “pr”]
[e.g. be (or come to be) of the same opinion as A. S wants to say that she (now) thinks the same
as A. Generally implies some (prior) deliberation (see Wierzbicka 1987: 116) and a willing-
ness on the part of S to accept A’s position/proposition (cf. ‘admit’ and ‘concede’ below)]
admit [= “ak”]
[e.g. disclose/accept/own up to something (proposed by A) that has been (or, in different cir-
cumstances, might have been) concealed. S does not want to say what is not true. Note that
one tends to ‘admit’ when there seems to be no other way of avoiding saying something that
is untrue – see Wierzbicka 1987: 313)]
concede [= “cc”]
[e.g. comply with or yield to A’s demands/questions about Y (to a limited extent). S only wants
to say some of the things that A would want S to say about Y: Namely, as much as the evidence
A presents (against S) forces S to say. Consequently, there is no moral imperative (on S’s
part) to tell the truth (cf. ‘admit’ above – see also Wierzbicka 1987: 316). Suggestive of an
adversarial relationship]
refuse, withhold, decline [= “f ”]
[e.g. do not give or grant. S wants to prevent A’s (next) course of action]
allow, consent, agree to [= “mt”]
[e.g. give or grant. S does not want to stop A from doing what s/he wants to do (Wierzbicka
1987: 111) and/or S enables A to pursue this (next) course of action]
negotiate [= “cd”]
[e.g. confer with another (in an attempt) to bring about a mutual resolution. S wants to say
something that will cause A to (voluntarily) amend his/her opinion/standpoint about Y to
one that is closer to his/her own opinion/standpoint]
disclose, divulge, reveal [= “i”]
[e.g. state something to A that S knows A does not (or will not otherwise) know. S wants to cause
A to know something (that A would not otherwise know) in a way that leaves no room for
doubt. Sense in which S wants to go beyond stating minimal information (cf. ‘state, testify’).
Nevertheless, the implication that ‘the message conveyed concerns an established fact that it
is accurate, exact, and reliable’ remains intact (see Wierzbicka 1987: 302)]
recount, relate, describe [= “t”]
[e.g. say what happened in a way that recreates the past. S wants others (who would not oth-
erwise know) to know what happened (i.e. the chain of events leading to Y). Consequently,
there is a strong link with reality (cf. ‘narrate’ – see Wierzbicka 1987: 292)]
state, testify (inc. in a formulaic manner typical of courtrooms) [= “s”]
[e.g. say what is “true”. S wants to say what S knows to be “true” (however, S is not necessarily
Appendix 2. Sub-categories for ‘force’ field 
reacting to or anticipating other people’s utterances). Tend to convey a sense of neutrality/

objectivity (cf. “assert” and “insist”, and see Wierzbicka 1987: 330, 331)]
assert, affirm, claim [= “af ”]
[e.g. declare some knowledge (about a person/event) in a (markedly) positive manner. S wants
A to be aware that S “knows” that what she is saying is true and wants (to persuade) others to
think the same (Wierzbicka 1987: 321–323). Note – presupposes an opposition from other
people (Wierzbicka 1987: 330)]
insist, swear [= “is”]
[e.g. maintain very firmly and/or persistently. S wants to cause others to perceive something
that S (believes and) is prepared to adhere to even though s/he is aware that others resist
his/her position]
stress, emphasise, point out [= “ss”]
[e.g. draw attention to something (by means of SA). S wants to put across something to
A/others or bring something to their attention that s/he feels (1) is important, and/or (2)
they may have otherwise failed to pay attention to had s/he not done so. Note – S does not
anticipate any resistance]
clarify, spell out [= “cl”]
[e.g. explain (the finer details of) something in a very specific manner. S wants to cause others
to understand something by being extremely specific in his/her explanation of it]
remind [= “rm”]
[e.g. cause A to remember. S wants to revive A’s awareness of a matter A knows about and, by
so doing, direct A’s attention to it once more (Wierzbicka 1987: 344)]
excuse [= “pe”]
[e.g. give extenuating circumstances for X’s guilt. S wants to persuade others not to punish X
for X’s bad act. Note, therefore, that there is a recognition of guilt (see Wierzbicka 1987: 231)]
confess [= “co”]
[e.g. tell or make known (as something wrong or damaging to oneself ) (MWCD, 1993). S feels
that s/he has to say/admit to something bad about him/herself. May imply a sense of guilt
and/or a compulsion to bring Y to the attention of others]
deny, refute, reject, dispute, disagree [= “d”]
[e.g. argue against Y (proposed by A/third party). S wants to cause A/others to think that Y
is not true. In this context, the purpose of Y tends to be to damage S in some way (e.g. S’s
previous testimony, reputation, etc.). Consequently, these SAs invite the inference that those
holding the opposing opinion to S are/may be lying. For this reason, they also tend to suggest
personal involvement on the part of S]
contest, challenge, counter, contradict [= “cha”]
[e.g. convey why/that Y (proposed by A/others) cannot be right. S does not want A/others to say
something that S knows cannot be right/might be damaging to S/others. Not as concerned
with the possibility of falsehood in the same way as the above seem to be, but, rather, with
showing that/why the previous utterance cannot be right (see Wierzbicka 1987: 131–132)]
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
defend, justify, vindicate [= “j”]

[e.g. ward off/maintain a point of view/(against) attack (CD, 1993). S does not want others to
think bad things about S/Y. May contain the implication that someone has previously been
saying ‘bad things’ about S/Y]
sum up, summarise, recapitulate [= “su”]
[e.g. say some of the same things in a different way. S wants to say something that would make
it easy for people to think about a particular matter and, importantly, for them to think
about it in the way in which S thinks about it (Wierzbicka 1987: 310)]
SENTENCE = “v” = DECLARATIONS (verdictives)

accuse, charge [= “ac”]
[e.g. charge (inc. officially) with a fault or offence (Chambers Dictionary, 1993). S wants A to
know that s/he is being (formally) indicated in Y. S wants to establish A’s guilt/innocence so
that, by so doing, A will be convicted/acquitted. In the case of “accuse’, S believes (and wants
to signal her belief) that A is guilty]
sentence, convict [= “ps”]
[e.g. pronounce a judgement/punishment (legally determined by a court/judge). S wants to
signal that person X is to be (legitimately) punished for doing Y. Consequently, contains a
presupposition of guilt (see Wierzbicka 1987: 240)]
absolve, acquit, pardon [= “pp”]
[e.g. release someone from (the threat of) a legal punishment. S wants to signal that person X
will not be punished]
EXPRESS = “K” = EXPRESSIVES

lament, rue [=“ld”]
[e.g. express disappointment/sorrow/anger about (a course of action taken by) A. S wants A
(and others) to be aware of his feelings regarding A’s behaviour]
reprimand, rebuke, admonish [= “rb”]
[e.g. express a negative judgement about an action of A, while presuming that A should under-
stand why his/her action is bad (Wierzbicka 1987: 139). S wants to cause A’s actions to stop]
condemn, criticise, censure [= “b”]
[e.g. express disapproval about and/or declare a person/action to be wrong. S wants to assign
responsibility for Y to X]
commend, credit [= “cm”]
[e.g. express approval of a person/action. S wants A to know that he is pleased by A’s be-
haviour/actions]
protest, object [= “o”]
[e.g. express a negative view about somebody else’s action. S does not want the action to
continue and hopes to cause the action to stop]
apologise [= “ap”]
[e.g. express remorse for Y. S wants to signal to A/others that s/he regrets his/her be-
Appendix 2. Sub-categories for ‘force’ field 
haviour/involvement in Y. There may be an admission of guilt or potential wrong doing.

Alternatively, the SA may be used as a face-saving device to mitigate the potential challenge
of any SA that follows. In all instances, however, S is speaking on his/her own behalf]
reckon, surmise, suppose, posit [=“kn”]
[e.g. express a (firmly-held) belief or conviction. S wants A/others to be aware that S believes
Z to be true]
exclaim [= “e”]
[e.g. vent a strong emotion (. . . shock, surprise, indignation. . . ) (Chambers Dictionary, 1993).
S wants others to know S’s strength of feeling(s)]
Miscellaneous
(re)assure, promise [=“re”] = COMMISSIVE
[e.g. dispel A/others’ apprehensions regarding and/or establish that an event/person/situation
will occur. S wants to put A/others’ mind[s] at rest about (or restore A/others’ confidence
in/that) Y]
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Author index
A Doty, K. & Hiltunen, R. 99–101

Allan, K. 125 Drew, P. 196, 208
Anzilotti, G. 28
Aqvist, L. 30–31 F
Archer, D. & Culpeper, J. 106 Fairclough, N. 16
Archer, D. 8, 17–18, 99–102, 220 Fielding, H. 89
Arnovick, L. 128 Foss, E. 114
Atikinson, M. & Drew, P. 51–52 Frank, J. 27–28
Austin, J. 36–39 Freed, A. 44
French, J. & Raven, B. 17, 154
B
Bach, K. & Harnish, R. 125–126 G
Ballmer, T. & Brennenstuhl, W. 125 Gazdar, G. 35
Barnbrook, G. 105–106, 131–132 Goody, E. 153
Beattie, J. 85–91 Greenbaum, S. & Quirk, R. 27, 195
Belnap, N. 29–30 Grice, H. P. 57
Bennet, W. L. & Feldman, M. 83 Grimshaw, A. 8
Biber et al. 24–25, 188 Groenendijk, J. & Stokhof, M. 29, 53
Biber, D. & Finegan, E. 11
Birnbaum, H. 7
H
Boyer, P. & Nissenbaum, S. 13, 99
Hamblin, C. 30
Brown, P. & Levinson, S. 28, 138
Hargrave, F. 12
Bullokar, W. 60
Harris, S. 76–78, 83–84, 148–149
Harrison, W. 113
C Hawkins, W. 88
Caffi, C. 34 Hawles, Sir J. 92
Cairns, D. 94–95, 292 Henderson, R. 61–62
Carletta et al. 124–125, 129–130 Hiltunen, R. 95, 99, 186
Corfield, P. 113–114 Hudson, R. 31–32
Coulthard et al. 49, 95–96 Jacobs, A. & Jucker, A. 6–7, 10–11
Crystal, D. 28 Jucker, A. & Taavitsainen, I. 128
Culpeper, J. & Kytö, M. 95–96 Jucker, A. 10–11
D K
Danet et al. 81 Katz, J. & Postal, P. 31
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
King, G. 112–113 R
Kryk-Kastovsky, B. 95–98 Raumolin-Brunberg, H. 111, 117,
Koskoff 187 119
Riley, R. G. 40–48, 52–57
L Rissanen, H. 61–66, 143–144
Labov, W. & Fanshel, D. 28–29, 31
Landsman, S. 206 S
Langbein, J. 12–14, 86, 90, 95 Sacks et al. 45
Leech, G. 4, 20, 40, 64, 69, 107, 278 Sadock, J. & Zwicky, A. 31
Lemmings, D. 117, 293 Saeed, J. 34, 40
Levinson, S. 4, 102, 127 Salmon, V. 61–63, 65
Loftus, E. & Palmer, J. C. 77 Schegloff, E. 45–46
Loftus, E. 218 Schrott, A. 41–42
Lowndes, S. 80–82 Schwenter, S. & Traugott, E. 7–8
Luchjenbroers, J. 75–78, 82 Searle, J. 36–43, 125–126, 161, 288
Lyons, J. 32–33 Shuy, R. 85, 155
Sinclair, J. & Coulthard, R. 47,
M 122–124
McEnery, T. & Wilson, A. 105 Stein, D. 62–63
Mey, J. 4, 42 Stenström, A.-B. 28–29, 47–51,
Moeschler, J. 38, 50, 59 55–56, 60, 122–125, 129–130
Stubbs, M. 123, 134
N
Nevalainen, T. & Raumolin-Brunberg, T
H. 111–112 Thomas, J. 4, 40, 256, 274
Nevalainen, T. 113 Tiersma, P. 151, 160, 184, 209
O V
O’Barr, W. 83 Verschueren, J. 5, 42
P W
Philips, S. 55, 60, 139, 142 Walker, A. 56, 145, 150, 153, 172,
Piazza, R. 34 241
Prest, W. 117 Wierzbicka, A. 43, 52, 59, 125–127
Wikberg, K. 60–71
Q Stygall, G. 84
Quirk et al. 27, 66 Woodbury, H. 78
Subject index
A characteristics of 50, 53–54, 59–60,

Act of Settlement 1701 88 69, 123, 129
activity type 56, 73, 124 definition of 70
courtroom talk as 73–76, 98, 242, function(s) of 123, 129, 240–243
256 negative interpretation of 82–83
ambiguity 58, 128, 256 relationship to role 240–245
annotation 15, 20, 106–107, 290–291 answer categorisation
notion of ‘addressee’ 108–110 non-verbal/‘refuse to answer’ 123,
annotation categories 130
see also ‘answer categorisation’ and ‘imply’ 130, 228, 233, 240, 248,
‘question categorisation’ 251, 253–254, 256
(re)initiations 167–172, 176, 189, ‘(in)validate’ 130, 241, 248, 254,
200–204, 213, 229, 267–270, 273 255
‘follow up’ 122, 167, 293 ‘disclaim’ 130, 248–250, 255–256,
‘follow up-initiation’ 122–123, 167, 262
169, 180–181, 190, 228 ‘do not confirm’ 130, 233, 262
‘fuzzy’ nature of 120 ‘elaborate’ 130, 182, 191, 208,
‘initiation’ 122, 167, 207, 210, 214, 235–236, 248, 255, 262, 264
228 ‘evade’ 130, 248–249, 260, 262
‘report’ 122, 167, 228, 242 ‘challenge’ 243, 251, 257, 262
‘response’ 122, 169, 226, 228, ‘confirm’ 130, 182, 191, 209, 211,
245–246 217, 241
‘response-initiation’ 122–123, 167, information-filler (‘identify’)
169, 184, 211, 228, 269 53–54, 82–83, 98, 130, 191,
‘force’ 125–129 240–241, 247–248, 253, 255, 262
‘form’ 130–131 ‘supply’ 130, 195, 232, 242, 250,
‘interactional intent’ 20, 51–52, 255
120–125, 165–174, 267, 282, 293
Qs and As 19, 55–59, 68–70,
120–131, 280, 291 C
answer(s) 17–18, 24, 26, 31, 167, 182, context 4–11, 18–19, 31, 41, 104, 106
216, 226, 246, 280 historical context 110–111, 128
as narrative 83–84, 144, 101–102, Conversation Analysis (CA) 44–46
207 preferred/dispreferred distinction
assumptions relating to the modern 45–46
courtroom 242 Cooperative Principle 57, 242
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Gricean cooperativeness versus social defensive strategies 2, 75, 81–85,

cooperativeness 58, 248 100–101, 227, 257, 265, 287
corpus linguistics 18–19 interrogation strategies 1–2, 77,
techniques 15, 105–106, 290–291 83–85, 94, 159–160, 175–221
corpora non-questioning strategies
see also Sociopragmatic Corpus 267–280
Corpus of Early English discursive norms 16–17, 165–173,
Correspondence (CEEC) 224–229, 285, 291–292
111–113, 119 identification of 188, 284
Corpus of English Dialogues (CED) changes to 197, 201–202, 220, 246,
14–18, 106–107, 289 248, 282–284
British National Corpus (BNC) 109
Old Bailey Sessions Papers 13, 284
Court 71–72, 88, 139, 178–179, E
189–192, 236, 262–264, 276 English courtroom 73–104, 194
Court officials 226–228 adversarial nature of 75, 77, 195,
206, 221, 246, 256, 263, 266,
283–285
D
blurring of sequences 161–162,
defendant(s) 74–76, 85, 87, 93–94,
211, 218, 221, 284
103–104, 169–171, 176–177,
centrality of questioning 96
192–196, 200–201, 230,
262–266, 268–271, 273–279, 292 ‘citizen’ prosecutor 86–87, 90–91
as questioners 102–103, 153–154, cross-examination 75, 79, 81, 84,
163, 170, 173, 183, 194, 93–95, 156, 158–161, 208–209,
223–224, 226, 229–239, 286 256–257, 284
as respondents 228 distinction between ‘knower’ and
disadvantages faced by 88–89, ‘teller’ 84, 148, 182, 261
193–195, 239, 279 emerging ‘rules of etiquette’ 293
deference markers 231, 276 examination-in-chief 74–75, 77,
strategic use of 236 79, 81, 156, 158–161, 187, 209
disambiguation process 8, 128 examiners 16, 52, 78–79, 86, 102,
Discourse Analysis (DA) 46 139, 151–152, 175, 213, 282
criticisms of 48 guilt bias 1, 2, 75–76, 85, 88, 100,
Birmingham School of 46–48, 102, 160, 162, 220, 242–244,
122–123 257, 271–272, 283, 285
exchange patterns 52 history-based studies 1, 85–98,
IRFs 47, 123–124 170–171, 199–200, 238,
discourse strategies 16, 20, 52, 96, 103, 284–285, 292
173, 287, 293 linguistic-based studies 74–85,
avoidance techniques 98, 250–251 95–99
character assassination tactics measuring (a)typicality 292
259–261, 264–266, 287 modern 74–85, 150, 160–161, 184,
counter-strategies 155, 233–234, 187, 195, 208–210, 218–219,
235–236, 240–243, 245–246, 256, 286
257–266, 279, 284, 287, 293 multiple ‘tellers’ 84, 261
Subject index 
presumption of innocence 75, 85, non-periphrastic inversion

88, 90, 162, 220 143–145
standing mute 227, 275 multi-functionality of 140–142,
156–157, 163, 165, 197
polar 24, 49, 77, 80, 139, 144–146,
F
157–158, 181–182, 189, 194,
face threatening act (FTA) 137–138
206, 213–216, 218, 231, 248
force 20, 70–71, 193
some-any-ever 64, 191
see also ‘categories’ and ‘macro
tagged declaratives 24–25, 65–66,
speech acts’
77–78, 139, 143, 154, 260
ambiguity of 40, 127, 147
wh- 25, 49, 63–64, 77–78, 81, 99,
and punctuation 152
139–140, 155–158, 181–183,
‘challenge’ 234
185–187, 189, 205–207, 210,
cumulative nature of 291
215, 219, 231, 247–248
IFIDs 42
Illocutionary force 35, 38–39,
42–43, 125, 128, 267, 279 J
multiple forces 43, 51, 71, 269 Judge Jeffries 97–98, 179–180, 184–188,
form 6, 19, 20, 37, 44, 51, 70, 267 252–253
see also ‘categories’ and ‘interrogative’ see also ‘Recorder’
judge(s) 97, 75–76, 86–87, 90–91, 93,
151, 167–173, 176–178,
G
180–184, 192–197, 200, 220,
grammar 23–24
224, 247–253, 268–272, 282
grammaticalization 4, 7
as respondents 177, 228–230
Gricean Maxims 54, 56–59, 98, 102
neutrality of 184, 196, 205,
see also Cooperative Principle
218–220, 283
jury 75–77, 83, 86–87, 161, 208, 218,
H 270
Historical sociolinguistics 106
L
I Law as a profession 117, 293
initiator 150–151, 165, 168, 170, lawyer(s) 1, 2, 74, 77, 79–82, 85, 90, 93,
172–173, 176–178, 202, 228, 230, 155, 160, 253–261, 289
243, 287 absence of 85–88, 92, 169, 178
interrogative(s) 17, 19–20, 24–26, constraints upon 92–93, 162, 168,
29–30, 38, 42, 135–136, 204, 214, 257
140–142, 158–159, 189, 162–163 defence counsel 170–172, 177,
and modals 64, 78, 82, 99 202–205, 213–218, 236–237,
wh-interrogatives 140–141, 254–257, 264–266, 292
182–183, 185, 187, 289 defence lawyers as respondents 203
disjunctive 24, 80 (expanding) role of 159, 161,
do-periphrasis 25, 61–62, 64, 143 202–203, 220, 238, 246,
frequency 138–140 265–266, 293
indirect interrogatives 26–27, impact on courtroom procedure
146–147, 231 91–94, 195, 283–284, 293
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
introduction of 90–92, 199, 213, data and methodological problems

220, 283, 292 10–16
prosecution counsel 169, 172, diachronic pragmatics 6–7
200–203, 205–213, 237, 276–277 North American approach 7–8
strategies relating to 161–162, pragmaphilology 6–7, 8
195–221, 236–237 pragmatic equivalence 7
prisoner see ‘defendant’
Prisoner’s Counsel Act 1836 93–94, 261,
M
285
macro speech acts
see also ‘question(s)’
command 103–104, 153–155 Q
counsel 126–127, 172, 194, question(s) 1, 2, 11, 16, 23, 84–85,
200–201, 267–269, 277–279, 287 126–127, 172, 180–181, 193,
express 126–127, 136–137, 200, 268 200–202, 205, 213, 221, 237,
inform 147, 193–195, 197, 200, 280, 283, 288–289
268–269 accusatory element within 43, 77,
notion of ‘pragmatic space’ 128 79, 84, 143, 199, 218, 233, 265
require 126–127, 146, 172–173, as commands 153–155
200–201, 207–208, 210, as part of questioning sequence(s)
267–272, 276, 280, 287, 292 156–158, 162, 181, 185–186,
request 38, 43, 126–127, 136, 146, 209, 212–213, 234–238,
172–173, 200–202, 204, 255–256, 283
229–230, 242, 267–268, categorial view of 29–30, 288
273–277, 279–280, 287, 292 consequences of word choice 77,
sentence 126–127 82, 218
conducivity of/control element
within 26, 31, 33–34, 52–53,
P 74, 78–79, 81, 96–97, 103, 135,
Pendle Witch Trials 13 139–140, 143, 151, 150–153,
perjury 86, 89 155–156, 160, 163, 179, 186,
Popish plot 91, 250, 269 188, 190, 195, 199, 209, 221,
power 16–17, 54, 103, 150, 153–154, 232, 282, 283, 286, 289
165, 172–175, 197, 202, 224, declarative questions 28–29, 65–66,
231, 232, 243, 289 78, 81, 138–139, 151–153,
‘coercive’ 2, 154, 243, 286 187–188
‘divinely sanctioned’ 17, 239, 277 definitions of 41–43, 45, 288
‘expert’ 154, 244, 286 diachronic view of 60–68, 136–163
imbalance of 76, 79, 82, 174, 239, function of 6, 74, 11, 36, 44, 49, 67,
277–278, 287 77, 79–80, 84, 120, 125, 129,
‘legitimate,’ 2, 76, 85, 103, 143, 154, 136, 157–158, 197, 266
163, 243, 286 imperative-epistemic view of
‘supernatural’ 17 30–32, 288
Pragmatics 3–7, 18, 24 importance of form 51, 288
definition of 3–6 in narratives 148–150
historical 5–7, 18–19, 106, 290–291 intonation 25, 28
Subject index 
leading questions 79–81, 186–188, S

195 Salem Witchcraft Trials 8–10, 13, 17,
logical properties of 32–35 58–59
negation 25, 33, 64–66, 78, 99, 151, linguistic research relating to 95,
155, 190–191, 233–234, 256 99–103, 156, 271
paraphrased meaning of 31–32 scholarly ‘objectivity’ 95
presupposition of 32, 34–36, 195, Sociopragmatic Annotation Scheme
207, 217–219, 260–261, 265, 270 104, 106–120
propositional view 30, 288 aim of 109
relationship to answers 53, 81–84, benefits of 119–120
103, 221, 240, 289, 296
delicacy of categorisation 118
relationship to context 35–36, 139,
description of fields and their values
185–186, 267, 281–282, 288–289
111–116
repeats 208, 249
implementation issues 116–118
rhetorical questions 27–28, 31, 67,
role categorisations 115–116
102–103, 137–138, 194–195,
201, 251, 289 sources of information 119
routinized questions 142–145, 179, Sociopragmatic Corpus (SPC) 94,
191–192, 292 106–107, 291–293
question categorisation 19–20, 44, (a)typicality of Ambrose trial 178,
48–50, 96 230, 292
ascertain/question 129 (a)typicality of Charles trial 269,
clarification-seeking 43, 136, 277–279, 287, 292
183–184, 194, 197, 199, 211, 231 Baker, John (trial of) 215–216, 226
confirmation-seeking (‘ask about’) Captain Ambrose (court-martial of)
125, 129, 136, 157, 187, 197, 171, 178–179, 189–192, 196,
199, 208–209 213, 225, 234–236, 246, 262–264
information-seeking (‘inquire Cellier, Elizabeth (trial of) 137,
(into)’) 43, 125, 129, 136, 179–180, 185, 193, 195–196,
160–161, 183, 181, 191, 194, 220, 242, 249, 251
197, 199, 206–208, 231, 260 Charles I (trial of) 14, 17, 89–90,
prompters 96, 195, 207 238 39, 268–269, 271, 273,
Q-moves 48–50 273–274
query/call into question 129, 183, Coleman, Edward (trial of) 90–91,
194, 211–212, 216, 235, 260 149, 156–157, 181–182, 228,
231, 242, 249–250, 269–272
description of SPC 107
R Dangerfield (trial of Elizabeth
reality paradigms 58, 238, 272 Cellier) 137–138, 195–196,
conflicting 9, 100, 239, 284 251
Recorder 86, 139, 151 Francia, Francis (trial of) 141–143,
see also ‘Judge Jeffries’ 145, 148, 150, 151, 158–162,
active involvement of 171, 179–180 208–209, 214–215, 232–234,
role categorisations 115–116 254–260
 Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)
Giles, John (trial of) 152, 154–155, IFIDs 274, 278–279

179–180, 185–188, 207, 210, indirect SAs 37–38
251–252 performatives 36–37, 128
Greenwood, Bartholomew (trial of) SA verbs 39–40, 43, 125–126
189, 207–211, 226 taxonomies of 39–41, 43, 125
Harrison, John (trial of) 226–227, theory of 34, 36–41, 47, 125–128
273 State Trials 12, 14, 93, 98
Hewet, Dr. John (trial of) 201, 273, status 16, 77, 112–114, 116–118, 232,
276, 279 258–259, 277, 279–280, 287,
Layer, Christopher (trial of) 147, 292, 293
183–184, 205, 212–213, ‘commoners’ 114, 117
225–226, 236–238, 262, 264–266 ‘gentry’ 113, 116, 279
Macguire, Connor Lord (trial of) ‘middling’ 114
194–195, 243, 273 ‘nobility’ 113
Mordant, John (trial of) 155–156, ‘professional’ 113–114, 116–117
232, 250–251, 273, 276–277, 279
Moders, Mary (trial of) 150
T
Oates, Titus (trial of Edward
Treason Act 1696 92, 170, 257
Coleman) 91, 96–97, 149–150,
trial(s)
157, 181–182, 249–250, 262,
fragmented nature of 261–262
269–270, 272
ordinary 86, 90, 284
participant roles evidenced within
treason 87–88, 90–93, 227, 273,
166–167
279–280, 284, 287
Rookwood, Ambrose (trial of)
148–149, 216–219, 251
Slingsby, Henry (trial of) 273, 279 W
Sloper, William (trial of) 226 witnesses 74–77, 81–88, 150–151, 161,
Townshend, Lord (trial of Francis 167, 173, 176, 178–192, 200,
Francia) 233–234, 255, 203, 205–218, 224–226,
257–258, 262 229–239, 245–266, 282–284
speech act (SA) 37–39, 123, 285 as crime narrative givers 96,
appropriacy 47, 54 101–102, 148–149, 187, 214–215
diachronic analyses of 128, 285 for the Crown 86, 89, 254–255, 259
felicity conditions 37, 42–43 for the defence 86, 89, 259
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Question and Answers in The English Courtroom (1640-1760)

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Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760)

Pragmatics & Beyond New Series

John Benjamins Publishing Company

of American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

© 2005 – John Benjamins B.V.

3.6 Insights gained 103

7.7 The judges’ interaction with defendants (1640–1760) 192

11.3 The judges’ use of ‘requires’ 270

Biographical details for participants 327

Table 21. Interrogative-types addressed by defence counsels to witnesses in

Figure 9. Questions and answers as narrative (taken from Doty &

Investigating the English

Although a lack of linguistic information in history-oriented accounts of

. Pragmatics, historical pragmatics and sociopragmatics:

By claiming that ‘meaning is not something which is inherent in the words

Consequently, Mey (2001: 6) adopts a definition of pragmatics which is built on

reveals, general pragmatics is said to concentrate on the general conditions of

Verschueren (1999: 7) goes on to suggest that pragmatics should therefore be

because it helps us to categorise the extremely diverse range of research efforts

.. Historical pragmatics

English historical pragmatics developed out of early attempts to make prag-

ence between them is one of perspective rather than methodology, explaining

.. A definition of historical sociopragmatics

linguistics.3 Consequently, their concern is ‘with linguistic contexts and not

munity and beyond as the judiciary’s claims of a broad conspiracy of witches

. The data and methodological problems facing

Historical pragmatics has been likened to contrastive pragmatics ‘across time’

These [‘speech-based genres’] include various kinds of transcribed speech,

In reality, however, even speech-based genres such as courtroom records are

A related methodological issue – gleaning information regarding the situa-

These and related methodological issues will be considered at various points

. Availability of historical courtroom data

Data that makes possible the study of courtroom interaction in an histori-

the mid-seventeenth century onwards. These cases were probably chron-

Salem Witchcraft Papers (1692). Boyer and Nissenbaum’s (1977) three-

therefore, little more than ‘sensation-mongering pamphlets written by non-

The Corpus of English Dialogues (1560–1760). Compiled by Merja Kytö and

.. Investigating the historical courtroom using a corpus-based approach

courtroom literature I discuss in Chapter 3 with my own findings (see Chapters

. Primary objectives of this study

It is generally accepted that powerful participants control and constrain the

sanctioned) power/powerlessness upon the “potency” of QA sequences in the

.. Bringing together corpus linguistics and historical sociopragmatics

of computer searches towards form, that is to say, a letter or string of letters

. How I intend to proceed

subject-verb inversion typically distinguishes it from the other major sen-

The ambiguity surrounding the ‘question’ can be explained, in part, by

The characteristics of questions and answers

. Defining questions and answers

This chapter draws on existing research to answer the following, in general

. What constitutes a ‘question’?

Although ‘questions have been investigated at every level of linguistic analy-

.. The characteristic syntactic properties of questions

Figure 2. Grammatical q-types, arranged according to their primary ‘seeking’ function

Figure 2 also contains negatively oriented interrogatives. Negative orienta-

... Indirect interrogatives

... Moving beyond the surface properties of questions: The case

in ‘spontaneous discourse’, not least because they appear to be multifunctional,

A-event information (facts known to A, but not to B)

.. Towards a theory of questions: Semantic approaches to questions

The issue of whether the semantic representation of an utterance may be dis-

... Paraphrased meanings: Inherent or context dependent?