Judge Jeffreys' Chair (Detail)
When Judge Jeffreys arrived in Bristol on 21st September 1685, he dined at town clerk John Romsey's house in King Street and then proceeded to the Tolzey, where the clerk stored all the records belonging to the mayor. He then went on to the Guildhall to hold assize. While no prisoners were held at Bristol in connection with the Monmouth Rebellion, various sources indicate that Jeffreys condemned six Bristol rebels to death, three of whom were later hanged, drawn and quartered on Redcliffe Hill. Having concluded this relatively trifling task, Jeffreys turned his attention to the mayor, who was sat next to him. (If I were making a film about this, I'd have the mayor grinning smugly, nodding his head in sycophantic approval and occasionally stroking the drum-taut curve of his belly beneath fur-lined scarlet robes - though that would be poetic licence, as there's no account of his body language at the assize).
At this time, Bristol's aldermen (councillors) were renowned for their involvement in white slavery, working in league with the city's merchants. [No word of a lie]. There was a big market for white labour on the plantations of the West Indies, some of which were owned by the aldermen themselves. These well-connected men would procure white slaves either by coercing suspected criminals to beg for transportation (as an alternative to the death penalty) or by participating in straightforward kidnapping. Huge sums of money could be made by "inveigling, purloining and stealing away boys, maids and others" - and of course, those in authority were confident they could indulge in this unsavoury practice without the slightest fear of being apprehended by the law.
Jeffreys, however, on arriving at the Guildhall, was in no mood for leniency. Possibly suffering from chagrin at the thought that others besides himself were profiting handsomely from flouting the law, or subconsciously galled at the extraordinary hypocrisy of his own actions, he was determined to bring Bristol's civic elite to justice.
He stood up to announce his intention:
"...we come to do the King's business - a King who is so gracious as to use all means possible to discover the disorders of the nation, and to search out those who indeed are the very pest of this kingdom".
After a long, impassioned (and possibly intoxicated) rant, he addressed the aldermen. "Gentlemen," he said, "I have brought a brush in my pocket and I shall be sure to rub the dirt wherever it lies or on whomsoever it sticks."
Turning to the mayor, he denounced him as a "a kidnapping knave" and ordered him and his fellow aldermen to enter the dock like common prisoners. "You are worse than the pickpocket," he declared, "I hope you are men of worth. I will make you pay sufficiently for it."
He fined the mayor £1000 (the equivalent of about £85,000 today) and turned him over as a prisoner, telling him that he had only spared him from hanging out of "respect to the city". The remaining aldermen were ordered to find sureties of £5000 each to answer indictments in the King's Bench division for kidnapping.
After several costly adjournments (paid for by the aldermen) the charges were finally quashed in 1688.
Some have argued that this curious episode, which occurred two days before the end of the special assize, demonstrates that Jeffreys was a "redressor of grievances", a protector and defender of civil rights. But, before we conclude that Jeffreys was an enemy of corruption and a tireless champion of liberty, it should be noted that he himself had sentenced prisoners to transportation throughout the Bloody Assize, particularly during the latter stages, by which time he had grown to find the practice of accumulating wealth more agreeable than the profitless practice of death sentencing. In a letter addressed to King James II, Jeffreys highlighted the lucrative business of transportation, stating, "I beseech your Majesty that I may inform you that each prisoner will be worth £10, if not £15, apiece."
***
It would seem then that the chair known as Judge Jeffreys' Chair, currently stored at Bristol Central Library, may have come from Bristol's Guildhall or the town clerk John Romsey's house, which was situated on the same street as the city library.
Judge Jeffreys' Chair (Detail)
When Judge Jeffreys arrived in Bristol on 21st September 1685, he dined at town clerk John Romsey's house in King Street and then proceeded to the Tolzey, where the clerk stored all the records belonging to the mayor. He then went on to the Guildhall to hold assize. While no prisoners were held at Bristol in connection with the Monmouth Rebellion, various sources indicate that Jeffreys condemned six Bristol rebels to death, three of whom were later hanged, drawn and quartered on Redcliffe Hill. Having concluded this relatively trifling task, Jeffreys turned his attention to the mayor, who was sat next to him. (If I were making a film about this, I'd have the mayor grinning smugly, nodding his head in sycophantic approval and occasionally stroking the drum-taut curve of his belly beneath fur-lined scarlet robes - though that would be poetic licence, as there's no account of his body language at the assize).
At this time, Bristol's aldermen (councillors) were renowned for their involvement in white slavery, working in league with the city's merchants. [No word of a lie]. There was a big market for white labour on the plantations of the West Indies, some of which were owned by the aldermen themselves. These well-connected men would procure white slaves either by coercing suspected criminals to beg for transportation (as an alternative to the death penalty) or by participating in straightforward kidnapping. Huge sums of money could be made by "inveigling, purloining and stealing away boys, maids and others" - and of course, those in authority were confident they could indulge in this unsavoury practice without the slightest fear of being apprehended by the law.
Jeffreys, however, on arriving at the Guildhall, was in no mood for leniency. Possibly suffering from chagrin at the thought that others besides himself were profiting handsomely from flouting the law, or subconsciously galled at the extraordinary hypocrisy of his own actions, he was determined to bring Bristol's civic elite to justice.
He stood up to announce his intention:
"...we come to do the King's business - a King who is so gracious as to use all means possible to discover the disorders of the nation, and to search out those who indeed are the very pest of this kingdom".
After a long, impassioned (and possibly intoxicated) rant, he addressed the aldermen. "Gentlemen," he said, "I have brought a brush in my pocket and I shall be sure to rub the dirt wherever it lies or on whomsoever it sticks."
Turning to the mayor, he denounced him as a "a kidnapping knave" and ordered him and his fellow aldermen to enter the dock like common prisoners. "You are worse than the pickpocket," he declared, "I hope you are men of worth. I will make you pay sufficiently for it."
He fined the mayor £1000 (the equivalent of about £85,000 today) and turned him over as a prisoner, telling him that he had only spared him from hanging out of "respect to the city". The remaining aldermen were ordered to find sureties of £5000 each to answer indictments in the King's Bench division for kidnapping.
After several costly adjournments (paid for by the aldermen) the charges were finally quashed in 1688.
Some have argued that this curious episode, which occurred two days before the end of the special assize, demonstrates that Jeffreys was a "redressor of grievances", a protector and defender of civil rights. But, before we conclude that Jeffreys was an enemy of corruption and a tireless champion of liberty, it should be noted that he himself had sentenced prisoners to transportation throughout the Bloody Assize, particularly during the latter stages, by which time he had grown to find the practice of accumulating wealth more agreeable than the profitless practice of death sentencing. In a letter addressed to King James II, Jeffreys highlighted the lucrative business of transportation, stating, "I beseech your Majesty that I may inform you that each prisoner will be worth £10, if not £15, apiece."
***
It would seem then that the chair known as Judge Jeffreys' Chair, currently stored at Bristol Central Library, may have come from Bristol's Guildhall or the town clerk John Romsey's house, which was situated on the same street as the city library.