Marriage Customs in England

Wedding Banns 1819

I am fascinated with genealogy. When I am searching the records that document the evidence of my ancestors’ lives, I feel like a detective, tracking the confirmation of their lives to discover who they are. Yesterday I discovered my ancestor’s wedding banns.  I was so excited because I had read often about banns.

Wikipedia explains that "The banns of marriage, commonly known simply as the 'banns' or 'bans' (from a Middle English word meaning 'proclamation') are the public announcement in a Christian parish church of an impending marriage between two specified persons specified persons for three consecutive weeks." 

Wedding Registry 1754

  
“The purpose of banns is to enable anyone to raise any legal obstacle to the marriage, so as to prevent marriages that are invalid. Impediments would be such things as a pre-existing marriage that has not been dissolved or annulled, lack of consent, or the couple’s being related within the prohibited degrees of kinship."


There have always been laws concerning marriage. In 1215 Catholic Canon law enacted a law to prevent clandestine marriages. The Council of Trent on November 11, 1563 went  further; they made the law more precise; this stated that before any marriage, the names of the wedding couple should be announced publicly by the parish priests of both parties on three consecutive Holy Days (publishing the banns). This law also required each parish to keep a register of marriages; however many parishes ignored this order—only about 800 records exist from the 1500s.


Some couples did not want to wait three weeks to marry, so marriage licenses were introduced in the 14th century. However, these licenses were not cheap; the groom paid a fee, and made a written oath on that there was no "canonical impediment" to the marriage. Sometimes the groomsmen also had to post a hefty bond to ensure the legality of the marriage. 

Marriage Registry 1726

After the wedding the marriage was recorded in the parish records; sometimes the priest recorded all the names, other times the bride and groom wrote their names.


In the 1600s, many people had begun marrying without publishing banns. It was possible for eloping couples to be married clandestinely by an ordained clergyman and it became more and more common for couples to marry in “irregular” or “clandestine” marriages.

“Clandestine" marriages were those that had an element of secrecy to them; perhaps they did not take place at the home parish, without either banns or marriage license. An "irregular" marriage was one that took place either away from the home parish of the spouses (but after banns or license), or at an improper time. 

Marriage Registry 1689

A Fleet Prison marriage in London is the best-known example of a “clandestine” or “irregular” marriage; it took place in the Fleet Prison environs. As a prison Fleet Prison was outside of the jurisdiction of the church, and eventually the whole area around the Fleet Prison became a lawless area which operated under “fleet rules.”  


An Article called “Thorley’s Fleet Marriages,” (From the Thorley Archives, With acknowledgements to: - Fleet Marriages of Hertfordshire People to 1754, Jack Parker, Published by Hertfordshire Family & Population History Society 1999, Bill Hardy, May 2003) gives an interesting insight into Fleet marriages:

Fleet Marriage Certificate (NOT my Ancestor)

 “No banns or licenses were required but a record was kept by an accompanying register keeper and hence many of these records now survive in The Public Record Office. Strangely, unlike parish registers of that period, these records contain details of occupations, marital status and home locality and are therefore of interest to those trying to track down their family history in counties surrounding London.”


 Wikipedia states, “The Marriage Duty Act 1695 put an end to irregular marriages at parochial churches by penalizing clergymen who married couples without banns or license. By a legal quirk, however, clergymen operating in the Fleet could not effectively be proceeded against, and the clandestine marriage business there carried on. In the 1740s, over half of all London weddings were taking place in the environs of the Fleet Prison. . . .


“During the 1740s up to 6,000 marriages a year were taking place in the Fleet area, compared with 47,000 in England as a whole. . . It was not merely a marriage center for criminals and the poor, however; both rich and poor availed themselves of the opportunity to marry quickly or in secret.”


The government was determined to prevent these irregular marriages and Parliament passed Lord Hardwick's Act of 1753, wherein marriage was only legally valid if the banns had been called or a marriage license had been obtained. The only exception was if a bishop's license (a common license) or the special license of the Archbishop of Canterbury had been obtained. Lord Hardwick’s Act of 1753 also required a separate marriage register to record witnesses, signatures of all parties, occupation of groom and the residences of the couple marrying.
 

Gretna Green Marriage Registry--Not my ancestor

After the Act of 1753 law, elopers had to leave England and Wales in order to contract a marriage to avoid these formalities. Scotland, in particular Gretna Green, the first village over the border from England, was the customary destination, but became less popular after 1856 when Scottish law was amended to require 21 days' residence. I was excited to find an example of a Gretna Green marriage online. As an avid reader of romance novels, I was thrilled to see that it was a wedding between nobles—Lady Mary Beauclair and Lord George Wm. Coventry on 11 Jun 1811 (they are not my ancestors).


In 1763, the minimum age of marriage was set at age 16; marriage without consent of parents was set at 21 years of age. This law also stipulated that parish records should be written on lined papers with various columns for each category to make the records more readable. 


Each law made marriage more secure, made records more permanent and accessible; each law protected the rights of the wives and children of the marriage.

St. Peter's Church, Blackley, Lancashire where my ancestor's worshiped

But not everything was perfect. Most of my British ancestors are from Manchester in Lancashire County in England. However, they lived in tiny communities, Blackley, Ashton Under-lyne, Newton Heath, and Oldham. I was surprised that often they were married, and baptized in the Manchester Cathedral rather than their own parish chapels, St. Mary’s, St. Peter’s, All Saint’s, Chorlton Chapel. 

Manchester Cathedral

At first I thought that it was more romantic to be married in the great cathedral. Then I discovered the real reason—money. The Collegiate Church of Manchester (the Cathedral) was the Parish Church for the parish of Manchester. In 1421 the warden and fellows of Manchester Cathedral decided that under their charter they could claim fees for any marriage within the geographical parish of Manchester. Therefore, anyone married in their own parish (such as Blackley) had to pay marriage fees to their local church, plus the Manchester Cathedral.  However, if a couple married only in the Manchester Cathedral, they only had to pay one marriage fee. 

Free BMD Index 1838

Also, the Manchester Cathedral often conducted many “irregular” marriages, and couples would not have to schedule a wedding, but just appear and get married. One report also indicates that they did multiple marriages of poor people in the Manchester Cathedral in the 1800s.

  

In July 1837, the government Introduced General Civil Registration of Births, Marriages and Deaths in England and Wales. This is the basis of all “FreeBMD Indexes” that Genealogists love; these record all civil birth, marriages and deaths from the year 1838 and after. These are government records, not parish records and very reliable. Note, its index is by three-month period. From these you can locate the original record.

1851 Census of Newton township, Lancashire

Censuses, beginning with 1841, tried to document families and individuals for many purposes. If you are a genealogist, censuses are a great way to find names and information. 

Censuses list all those who live in each house, their names and their ages, sometimes their occupations, and where they come from. This gives you an idea which year someone was born and how many children there are at that year so you can locate information about the children.

But today marriage is becoming less and less an option for people. Many are not marrying at all; the government records their birth and death, but those are the only official records of their life. No marriages, children with no fathers, same-sex couples with marriages recognized in some states and not in others. Marriage vows that are not official, but merely made up, and dissolved as easily. Couples that live together as long as it convenient and then move on with or without the children they had with that individual. 

People move so much today that no census can track them. When I was researching my ancestors near Blackley, I could tell which were mine because they were at Blackley. If someone with the same name were from Yorkshire, I knew he was not related. But now, although we’ve lived in the same place for 23 years, the census has recorded us here for only one of those censuses. In 1990, we didn’t move here until after the census, so we were recorded in California; in 2000, we were recorded here; in 2010, the census recorded us in Los Angeles where we were living while Ed received his new lung. So how could any census track anyone in a society as mobile as ours?

Can you imagine a genealogist of the future trying to make sense of the chaos of family situations in the future? I’m just glad I’m researching my past—and not the future generations.

You Can't Always Judge an Open Book

I located Bryan’s birth certificate yesterday so he could renew his driver’s license yesterday. Actually he has three certificates—the elegant, colorful Italian birth certificate in two languages that certifies that he was born in Vicenza, Italy, the official certificate of birth from the base (with notarized signatures) that indicates his birth on the military base at Caserma Ederla, Vicenza, Italy, and the official one (and the only one that counts) the record of birth abroad at the embassy in Milan, Italy, that required birth certificates of both Ed & I, our marriage certificate, our passports, and his birth certificate from the hospital at Caserma Ederla. The last was the only one the Driver’s License Bureau would accept as legal proof—the others were pretty, but worthless.

It was ironic that when we went to the city offices in Vicenza to get the Italian certificate, they originally printed that he was born on 30 February instead of 30 January. I tried to explain to them in my inadequate Italian that the date was wrong; there was no 30 February—not even in Italy. They argued with me for a few minutes, trying to set straight the foolish Americans, before they realized their error and corrected it. Ed has always wished he could have kept the birth certificate with the incorrect date, but they destroyed it quickly; I was just glad to get one with the correct date so we could get the paper work done to get Bryan’s papers so we could get him papers to certify him as an American and bring him back to America with us. 

Another interesting sideline to Bryan’s birth abroad; he does not have dual citizenship by being born in Italy. The Italian law does not grant any rights to an individual born in their country as America does; you retain the citizenship of your parents. However, if your parents or grandparents or great-grandparent’s heritage is Italian, no matter how many generations removed from Italy, you can regain Italian citizenship. So Bryan is as American as if he were born in Utah.

The correct birth certificates are very important as Ed found out when we lived in Hawaii. Normally military personnel do not need passports as long as they are on military business; their military ID serves as a passport. In the good old days you did not need a passport to travel to Mexico or Canada, so we could travel to both of those countries without a passport, and we traveled to Mexico often as we were stationed in El Paso, Texas on the border of Mexico. 

However in 1980 when we lived in Hawaii, Ed & I decided to travel to Japan and Korea on Space-A (Space Available—or military flights wherever there was room). To do this, we both needed passports. Ed pulled out his Idaho birth certificate to get a passport and we discovered that all we had was the hospital certificate (similar to what Bryan had), and it didn’t count as an official birth certificate. We were in a terrible time crunch to get an official state birth certificate so Ed called his sister who worked at the Idaho state capital and she obtained a copy of his birth certificate (not nearly as “pretty” as his hospital certificate) and over-nighted it to us in Hawaii. With that, we were able to get a passport and our visas in time for our trip. 

That experience really impressed upon me the importance of true official documents; I also realized how often true documents are not as pretty as fancy unofficial documents. 

I later extended this analogy to people—some people come in very charming, attractive, pretty, striking packages that influence people.  Other people come in very plain, unattractive, official-looking, simple packages that don’t enthrall or excite people; however these people are often honest, hardworking, dedicated, loving, and very valuable. That isn’t to say that charming, attractive people cannot be wonderful, but so often we overlook the simple people because they don’t stand out. Yet they might be just as honest, upright, intelligent, and full of integrity as those who stand out.

We're always quick to judge an open book; sometimes it pays to read between the lines.

Grey Hair at Eighteen

I didn’t date much in high school, but I remember one date that was very memorable. It was a date I had in 1961 when I was a junior and I went to the senior prom at Bountiful High School. My date, Bill was a very intelligent guy from a wealthy family who was planning on going to medical school. He had been accepted at a prestigious college back east. We had known each other for quite a while through Honor Societies, United Nations and other activities and he had asked me to go with him to his senior prom.

“Don’t worry, Beth, I’ll get you home in time,” Bill laughed.

“I just don’t want my parents to worry,” I said. I was having a good time, but I always worried about everything.

“Relax,” Bill said. “No one has started leaving yet. Besides, this is my senior prom. Let’s enjoy it.”

“I guess you’re right. It is still early.”

“Don’t forget, the new car my folks gave me for graduation will make it to the moon and back in a flash, so it’ll take only a second to get home.”

Persuaded by the soft lights, Bill’s laughter, and the dancing, I pushed the nibbling worry further back among the cobwebs. This was the prom, I rationalized; my parents wouldn’t expect me to come home until later.

It was 12:15 a.m. when we finally left the dance and raced our friends to Salt Lake City to eat at the Pancake House. Bill’s car was swifter than the rest so no one was at there when we arrived. Bill, too impatient to wait there, started searching for them. As it became later, and we couldn’t find them, he decided to eat without them. Since by now, the Pancake House was closed, we headed toward the airport.

Once away from the glare and noise of the city, and onto the still darkness of the road, my worry again crept to the surface. The excitement of the evening was beginning to wilt, and I thought of how my parents would start worrying if we didn’t get home soon. But I took a deep breath, looked over at Bill—and thought, he’ll get me home in time.

My worry increased as the road stretched more and more endlessly ahead of us and we saw no sign of the airport. Finally I ventured a remark.

“Are you sure we’re on the right road? I don’t see any sign of the airport.”

“Yes, we’re going due west, aren’t we? There’s only one road going that way—the one to the airport.”

“But it has never taken this long to get out to the airport. It’s getting pretty late, too.”

Bill clutched the wheel more tightly and floored the engine as though speed would drive away my worry. I searched the empty roadside anxiously for a sign of some sort to tell us where we were headed. As the miles swept by, a small line of fear began to crease Bill’s face, and my hands grew clammy as I thought of my parents worrying at home. Just as we were about to give up, we saw a small sign ahead. Bill slowed the car as we drew nearer. My heart turned over with despair as I read, “Bingham, 5 miles.”

“Well, anyway, we weren’t too far off; we are heading West, or Southwest.” I feebly tried to joke, hoping to laugh away my growing fear. In my mind’s eye, I saw my mother apprehensively pacing the floor, wondering why I wasn’t home.

Finally, after what seemed to be hours of anguish, we drove into the airport parking lot; my watch read 2:33. I tried to smile as I ordered sandwiches, the quickest prepared food on the menu, while Bill went to phone my parents to tell them we’d be getting home later than we’d planned. I relaxed a little, thinking that at least they wouldn’t worry any longer. But one look at Bill’s face as he returned told me I was wrong.

“Your line’s busy,” he told me. “I couldn’t talk to your folks.” My mind thought immediately of them frantically calling all over, trying to find out why I wasn’t home. The food, as I tried to force it down, tasted like dry paper. If only we’d get home, I kept thinking.

“Let’s go on Redwood Road,” Bill said. “It may be more isolated, but it will get you home in ten minutes.” I relaxed again as the car raced along the darkened road. I wouldn’t be much longer until I’d be home.

“Heck! Look at that temperature!” Bill exclaimed as he jerked on the brake. I looked, and my heart stopped as it glared a bright red at me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked timidly, scared by this new obstacle and also by the look on Bill’s face.

“I don’t know, but the oil’s dry, too.” We crawled along for a while, but neither the oil, nor the temperature got any better. Suddenly the speedometer jumped.

“If it doesn’t improve going slowly, I might as well go faster so we won’t be so far out here in no man’s land when it gives out,” he explained.

I sat silently hoping we’d make it to civilization before the engine stopped. Now I was worrying, not only about what my parents were thinking, but also about whether I’d ever get home. No one would think to look for us out of Redwood Road.

Suddenly all hopes were dashed as the engine sputtered and stopped. I held my breath as the car came to a halt. As Bill examined the engine, I sat inside and fought back the tears. I realized that, now, my parents had a valid right to worry about me.

As I thanked the person who’d picked us up and taken me home, I steeled myself for the ordeal ahead. The customary porch light showed my watch that it was 4:40 a.m. I could see only one of our cars; either the other was in the garage or my parents were out looking for me.

“I’m terribly sorry, Beth,” Bill broke into my train of thought. “Do you want me to go in and try to explain to your parents?”

“No, you’d better go get someone to tow your car and see if there’s anything they can do about fixing it.”

“Well, I’m awfully sorry about everything.”

I opened the door and crept into the house; to my shock no one was up. They were not pacing the floor waiting for me. Even if they had gone to bed, they would never have gone to sleep before they knew I was safely home. But this time they had! I couldn’t believe it.

I tiptoed in to say “good night” and the noise awoke my mother slightly.

“What time is it?” she mumbled sleepily.

“I don’t know,” I lied. The next morning was early enough to tell her the story.

“We went to sleep and didn’t worry,” she muttered, “cause we knew you’d be okay with Bill, and you are always so responsible.”

Well, I thought heading for my own room, it’s a relief to know they didn’t worry.

Winter Lessons

Marlowe taking care of Athena Christmas 1970

The winter winds blew so coldly and I felt so vulnerable as I left the pediatrician’s office with my 18-month old daughter, Athena. The doctor had said her cough wasn’t anything serious and hadn’t given me anything for it, but I was still worried. She kept coughing and coughing. It was only a few days before Christmas in 1970, and I was living in a small upstairs apartment in Bountiful, Utah while my husband was serving his second tour as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam. My oldest son, Marlowe, had just celebrated his third birthday, and he held onto Athena’s hand as we walked to the car, telling her she would be better soon.

 Ed had left for Vietnam in mid-November and I’d felt very brave and self-confident then. But the cold, snow, and Athena’s cough, had weakened my resolve. But since the doctor had said Athena was “okay” I decided to do some more shopping. I just didn’t want to go home to my empty apartment. It was dark before I got home, and the phone was ringing. I grabbed it, and tried to get the children’s coats off as I talked on the phone. I was surprised that it was my dad. He was very worried and explained that he had been trying to locate me for hours. 

Beth Christmas 1970 Bountiful, Utah

“The doctor’s office called me when they couldn’t reach you,” he said.  “You had put me down as an emergency contact. The radiologist looked at Athena’s x-ray and said she definitely had pneumonia and you needed to get her back to the emergency room at Hill Field as soon as possible. They have medicine and treatment waiting for her.”

I looked at my toddler, whose coat I had just taken off, and who was coughing again. What a lousy mother I had been. I had kept her out all afternoon when she was sick with pneumonia! How grateful I was that my father had been able to get the message from the doctors and notify me. 

Later that same winter I was feeling lonely and isolated. I had no one I could relate to. I missed my two sisters who were closest in age to me. Both were married and living far away. One had one daughter Athena’s age, and the other was expecting a baby the same time I was, in February. How I wished we could do things together; but we were so far away and long distance phone calls were so expensive. Our mother had died not long after I had married so none of us had had someone we could call on for motherly advice.  Dad lived in the same town, but he worked swing shift. My younger brother at home was 16 years old; my youngest sister had just turned 14 years old. My mother-in-law lived several hundred miles away; she had remarried recently and her husband did not care for my husband, so I did not feel I could call on her for help or advice.

Marlowe & Athena 1970

One of the other “Waiting Wives” in Bountiful had three small children about the same age as mine, and I often thought to call her and do things with her. However, I knew she had many siblings who lived in the area, and I kept thinking that I was being a bother to want to do things with her when she was probably doing things with her family. When I went back to the pediatrician to have him check to make sure Athena was completely clear of her pneumonia, I met my friend there in the waiting room in tears. Her youngest son was very sick, and she had no one to take care of the other two while they hospitalized him. I immediately offered to take them home with me, and was surprised that her family had not offered to help her. 

“They are too busy with their lives. They don’t understand how it is to not have a husband to help,” she sobbed. 

I realized all the times I had hesitated to call her because I thought I would bother her when she was busy with her extended family, and she was just as isolated as I was because her husband was in Vietnam. I decided then to reach out to each woman whose husband was in Vietnam—whether they had a lot of extended family or not. We were in a unique situation; no one understood what it was like and how we could help each other like we could. 

Athena & Marlowe playing in the snow 1971

It was late in January of 1971 when I got my last lesson. I awoke to my three-year-old son crying. I went to him and tried to comfort him, but nothing would help. He was doubled over with pain. He was in so much pain that he couldn’t talk. Finally I realized that I needed to take him to the emergency room. It was about 3:00 in the morning, and I was frantic. I couldn’t take both children out in the cold to the emergency room, so what was I to do?  I prayed; I knew Marlowe had to go to the emergency room. Something was desperately wrong with him. 

I decided to call my father. He worked swing shift. He would come over no matter what the hour to babysit Athena while I took Marlowe to the emergency room. I called and he came right over. I’ll never forget what he said when he saw Marlowe. 

“He’s wheezing, Beth. He has asthma.” I was shocked. I had had asthma as a baby, and for a year as a teenager, but then I had mainly coughed continually. I couldn’t remember wheezing, or even what wheezing was. 

“Can’t you hear him wheezing?” Now that I listened of course I could hear the wheezing sound. “That’s why he can’t talk—he can’t breathe.” My father knelt down and carefully touched Marlowe’s doubled up diaphragm. Marlowe jumped and cried. “He’s wheezed and struggled to breathe so much that he’s pulled the muscles in his diaphragm, pour little guy. Get him up to the emergency room.”

All the way up to the emergency room with Marlowe crying and wheezing in his car seat, I kept thinking what I crummy mother I was—I didn’t even know when my own child had asthma and I endangered his life. It took my own father to tell me what to do. At the emergency room, they quickly treated him and told me what to do. 

I had felt alone that winter, and that year—and often very inadequate—as young parents often do. But I wasn’t alone; of course we are never alone. The Lord is always aware of us, and our needs; he uses those around us, then as now—family and friends—to help us meet the challenges of life.