Tales from the Parish Clerks’ Memoranda No.6: The devil as a roaring lion walketh about seeking whom he may devour

This week we discover an instance of institutional kindness – unusual in the early 17th century – following the suicide of a maid of East Smithfield.

7 October 1616
Mary Play, a Maid of East smithfeild, who poysened hir selfe, in the house of hir Maister, Mr John Barbour, was (by a Licence from my Lord Bishoppe of London) buried in our new Church-yard, without any buriall Service, shee was coffind, and had our Black Cloth, Be Sober and watch, for your aduersary the Divel, as a roaring lion walketh abour, Seeking whom he may devour. 1 Peter. 5 Chap. 8 verse
P69/BOT2/A/003/MS09223 f262v

The first thing that struck me about this entry was the choice of scripture, which seemed to express a great sympathy for the unfortunate Mary Play. This made me wonder if John Clerke (the aptly-named Parish Clerk) and church leaders had information about the circumstances of Mary’s suicide that left them feeling sympathetic rather than merely condemnatory towards her actions as was more usual at this time. We will, of course, never know, but the choice of Bible verse sounded so heartfelt that it I couldn’t help but wonder.

The second particularly interesting thing about this was the fact that Mary was buried in hallowed ground – without a Christian burial service, but in hallowed ground nonetheless – the church having sought permission from the Lord Bishop of London. It was more usual at this time for suicides not only to be denied burial in hallowed ground, but often to suffer descecration of their corpses, and punishment of their families.1

It wasn’t until later in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that suicide began to be viewed not as a sinful decision made voluntarily, but as the result of melancholy madness which was beyond the control of the unfortunate victim. Martin Luther went so far as to argue that suicides were driven to their deaths by the devil, and that they – and their families – therefore could not be held responsible for their actions.2 Our Parish Clerk seems to be of this view as well.

By the early 1700s, the laws disgracing suicides and punishing their families gradually disappeared, and a more humane approach was adopted across Europe.3 It would be interesting to find out how many licences allowing suicides to be buried in hallowed ground were granted by John King, the Lord Bishop of London from 1611 to 1621. I know that he was a well-known Calivinist and anti-Catholic preacher before being appointed Lord Bishop. Did this make him more willing to challenge the dogma of the day? It would certainly appear that at least in this instance he, and St Boltolph’s, were very much ahead of their time.

1 Gale Encyclopaedia of the Early Modern World. http://www.answers.com/topic/suicide accessed 16 August 2011
2 ibid.
3 Sleepless Souls: Suicide in Early Modern England (1990) Michael MacDonald, Terence R. Murphy. Oxford University Press

Many thanks to St Botolph without Aldgate and London Metropolitan Archives for permission to reprint extracts from the Parish Clerks' Memoranda.

The Parish Clerks' Memoranda transcripts were prepared by the Centre for Metropolitan History team as part of their Economic and Social Research Council-funded Life in the Suburbs project (Grant Reference: RES-062-23-1260; http://www.history.ac.uk/projects/life-in-the-suburbs).

Tales from the Parish Clerks’ Memoranda No.3: Hang Sorrow! The Remarkable Recovery of the Heavy-Hearted Widower

I was intrigued to read the following account of a grieving widower who, within the space of three weeks, had found the cure for his heavy heart – the gaining of a new wife:

17 Octobris 1615
Thomas Addis Gun-smith in the Minories Street, who continued a havie widower almost three weekes, was Maried again to one Anne Basse a widow of Stepney, by a Licence from Mr Kempe[s] office the Seaventeenth day of October, Anno domini 1615. he was a heavie man, at the death of his other wife but now is lightlie geven, and Saies, hang sorow.
P69/BOT2/A/003/MS09223 f223r

This seemed rather a quick recovery to me, and I wondered if this was common practice. I didn’t have to look far to find another widower who had taken the same route to renewed happiness:

23 Octobris 1615
Henry Jaques, who has continewed a widower almost a moneth, was maried to Mary Sussex, a widow the xxiiith day of October. Anno domini
P69/BOT2/A/003/MS09223 f233v

The only information I could find about their respective first wives were their funeral details. They were buried within a day of each other:

24 September Anno Domini 1615,
Ffrancis Addis, wife to Thomas Addis Gun-smith in the Minories street, was buried in the Church the xxiiith day of September, Anno dm, who had a knell wth the great Bell, the black Cloth not vsed, but paid for, Shee was a Auncient parishioner,
P69/BOT2/A/003/MS09223 f231r

25 Septembris 1615
Elizabeth Jaques, wife Henry Jaques of Cock Alley in Eastsmithfeild was buried the xxvth day of September, Anno dm 1615. Coffind in the old Church-yard, and had the Blacke Cloth
P69/BOT2/A/003/MS09223 f231r

Once ReScript is fully operational, it would be interesting to do an analysis to find the average timespan between the death of one spouse and the marrying of the next in 17th century London, whether this differed between men and women, and whether Thomas Addis and Henry Jaques were unusual in their alacrity.

I did find one further interesting fact about the Addis household: they kept lodgers in their house on Minories Street, including the “seafaring man”, Henry May in 1615. According to the Parish Clerks’ Memoranda, there were quite a few sailors who lodged in the area, some of whom returned from the sea in poor health, and who subsequently died in their lodgings. But Thomas Addis’s lodger, Henry May, appears to have had a former career – or at least training - in the textile industry.

26 Maii 1615
Henry May, a Seafaring man, who lodged in the house of Thomas Addis Gunsmith in the Minories street, was buried in the new Churchyard neer Rosemary lane the xxvith day of May, Anno dm 1615. he was free of the Cloth workers
P69/BOT2/A/003/MS09223 f220r

I consulted my colleague Mark Merry, IHR Digital Projects and Training Officer, about this. Mark supplied the following information:

Ah, a salty sea-dog - there were lots of those in Aldgate in the 17th century! Being free of the Clothworkers doesn't necessarily mean he worked in the textiles industry, but it is quite likely. It means he was trained at the Company, and whether or not he did actively work with cloth, the being 'Free' makes him a man of some social standing. That he ended up as a seafarer and a lodger is interesting, suggesting one of two scenarios:

1) He fell on hard times, and made a living as a sailor signing on as crew as and when a voyage was available
2) 'Sea farer' might imply a more senior figure, a ship's master or perhaps owner/master, and he was involved in trading textiles overseas, which would suggest he was quite well off. That he ended up lodging was common for mariners (even the rich ones), as they were often taken in by parishioners if they came off ship after a voyage and were sick.

As the record shows that the clerk received no payment for his burial, this might suggest that May was the poor kind of sea farer, rather than the more successful kind. I don't think we know enough about him to decide definitively either way. However, if you want a bit more information on him, it so happens that one of the Centre for Metropolitan History's other projects (http://www.history.ac.uk/projects/livery-company) has digitised the membership records of the Clothworkers, and we have May's freedom record. He was made free in 1597 by patrimony - meaning his father (John) was a member of the Clothworkers too. Unfortunately the record in this instance is one of the least informative in the database, so we don't know much more than that...

Making connections such as these is one of the joys of using online digitised resources such as ReScript. You never know where a simple query, such as that into the background of a heavy-hearted widower, may lead you.

Many thanks to St Botolph without Aldgate and London Metropolitan Archives for permission to reprint extracts from the Parish Clerks' Memoranda.

The Parish Clerks' Memoranda transcripts were prepared by the Centre for Metropolitan History team as part of their Economic and Social Research Council-funded Life in the Suburbs project (Grant Reference: RES-062-23-1260; http://www.history.ac.uk/projects/life-in-the-suburbs).

Tales from the Parish Clerks' Memoranda No. 2: The Intriguing Tale of the Newgate Newlyweds

Continuing in my quest to key tag the entire contents of the Parish Clerks’ Memoranda from St Botolph’s Church in Aldgate (1583-1625), I came across a very unusual wedding announcement from 5 September 1615.

Christopher Edwardes of the Cittie of Gloucester, Gentleman, and Martha Ffoster of St Michaells parish in Cornehill widow, were Maried (also) by a Licence from the Lord Archbishoppe of Canterbury, ye fift day September Anno domini 1615, The abouenamed Gentleman and his new maried wife, were both Lodged in Newgate, the same weekes, and hang'd Shortly after
(City of London, London Metropolitan Archives, P69/BOT2/A/003/MS09223 f.229r)

Who were Christopher and Martha, how did they end up in the notorious Newgate Prison, and what were the crimes for which they were hanged? The PCMs had no further information to offer – this was, after all, a wedding announcement, not a court record. So where to turn? My first instinct was to search the excellent resource, Old Bailey Online, but their records only begin in 1674 and so could not help with this. Clearly, we need more online digitised historical databases!

So I appeal to the online community of historians: do you have any clues to this mystery? Answers on a blog post...


Many thanks to St Botolph without Aldgate and London Metropolitan Archives for permission to reprint extracts from the Parish Clerks' Memoranda.


The Parish Clerks' Memoranda transcripts were prepared by the Centre for Metropolitan History team as part of their Economic and Social Research Council-funded Life in the Suburbs project (Grant Reference: RES-062-23-1260; http://www.history.ac.uk/projects/life-in-the-suburbs).

Tales from the Parish Clerks' Memoranda No. 1: The Collapsing House

Having, recently joined the IHR as Project Officer for the ReScript project, part of my role involves reading through the approximately 1.4 million words of the Parish Clerks’ Memoranda (PCM) from St Botolph’s Church in Aldgate, and key tagging the content so that you will be able to discover interesting facts and connections through ReScript. The PCM transcript was prepared by the Centre for Metropolitan History team as part of their ESRC-funded Life in the Suburbs project. These books cover much of the period between 1583 and 1625, and record in extraordinary detail the comings and goings of the resident population of this area of London. As I explore the documents over the course of the next few months I will be sharing some of the stories which I find particularly gripping and which I hope will interest you.

What has struck me so far is how details of very personal events can shine a light on much wider social issues. For example, an entry from 2 July 1616 describes how

A woman, and hir Child who by a fall of a House in Pond alley where shee lodged, were both slaine: after that the Coroners Quest had viewed them, they were buried in our new Church yard the second day of July Anno dm 1616, hir name none there could tell vs because shee was vnknowen. (City of London, London Metropolitan Archives, P69/BOT2/A/003/MS09223 f.254v)

This tragic story, in which a mother and child die as the result of their lodging house collapsing, highlights one of the darker facts of life in 17th century London: poorly constructed and maintained housing stock meant that collapsing buildings were not uncommon, and houses with a transient population were particularly likely to suffer from such dangerous neglect. At a time when this area of London was experiencing a dramatic population explosion, it would not be difficult for a mother and child to find themselves in such unsuitable and dangerous accommodation in a neighbourhood where they had no friends or family and were completely unknown.


Many thanks to St Botolph without Aldgate and London Metropolitan Archives for permission to reprint extracts from the Parish Clerks' Memoranda.

The Parish Clerks' Memoranda transcripts were prepared by the Centre for Metropolitan History team as part of their Economic and Social Research Council-funded Life in the Suburbs project (Grant Reference: RES-062-23-1260; http://www.history.ac.uk/projects/life-in-the-suburbs).