The Ipswich Witch E-Book

David L. Jones

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

The year 1645 saw the biggest witch-hunt in English history. Faced by the extreme challenges of religious dissent, poverty, sickness and the threat of foreign invasion, Ipswich became an ideological battlefield during the English Civil Wars. Here Puritanism struggled against Catholic sensibilities, the Devil loomed at the door of every English home, and the age of the witchfinder was born. This book focuses on witchcraft in Ipswich and the most extreme punishment ever given to an English witch, and challenges some stereotypes of the period: reflecting on the growth in Puritan sects, gender politics, the exploitation of the poor, the importance of beliefs in the occult and the rise of English power in the New World.

Leseprobe

I would like to acknowledge; my teacher the emotional support and interest of Jean Platten-Jones Catherine Darling and the professional support over many years of the staff of the Ipswich branch of the Suffolk Record Office and the Ipswich Museum.

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

1 Two Deaths in Ipswich

2 Ipswich: The Setting

3 The Holy City of Ipswich and its Enemies

4 Undercover Religion and Cunning Men

5 A Witchfinder’s Career Cut Short: Patrons and Enemies

6 Evidence of Sin

7 Women, Witches and Quakers

8 Witches and the Poor

9 Re-examining the Trial of Mary Lackland

10 Aftermath

11 Conclusions

Bibliography

Copyright

1

TWO DEATHSIN IPSWICH

In late August 1645, the streets and markets of Ipswich were surely much quieter than normal. Only those who had pressing reasons for staying would have remained in the town rather than make the short journey eastward to Rushmere Heath outside the walls. For on this day justice was to be done; one woman, Alice Denham, was to be hanged, and another, Mary Lackland, was to be burnt. (Mary Lackland’s name was variously spelt as Lakland, Lakeland or Lacklond. Consistency in spelling was not a seventeenth-century habit, but for ease I have used Lackland throughout.) Alice Denham’s case was never reported in any detail, and it is not possible to chart her story, but Mary Lackland’s case can be investigated.

It had been around 100 years since the last execution by burning had been carried out in the town. Then, the burnings had been for heresy but now the executions were for the dreaded crime of witchcraft, causing interest not only within Ipswich but spread throughout the land by pamphlets. Though no one could have known it – and there is good reason to believe that some had planned the opposite – this was the last time that anyone was to be executed for witchcraft in Ipswich.

Any public execution was something of a ceremony, which the whole community was expected to attend, and each had their different parts to play: the child was to learn about the punishment of sin; the potential evildoer to be overawed by the terrible majesty of the law; the respectable were there to endorse it by their presence; the clergy to point out the moral lesson; and the governors to see their judgement carried out and to preserve order. Ideally, a public execution was a religious drama of confession and repentance, with the clergy praying for the victim’s soul. This gave a role to the condemned themselves. As the penitent sinner they were supposed to warn others not to follow them, and to be grateful for those ministers who had led them to repentance and given them hope of divine forgiveness, assuring them of a place in heaven.

But on this day, had the women confessed and begged for forgiveness? There is good reason to think that at least one of them would have had no confidence in the minister and would have seen nothing to repent. The two women would have made the journey from the town prison, through the streets and then the lanes to the stake, standing in a slow-moving tumbrel or cart. It is unlikely to have travelled at more than a walking pace as it needed to accommodate the halberd-carriers on foot. It would have taken something like an hour and a half, or more.

As they passed through the town and into the surrounding countryside, they would have seen signs of the harvest – a time of worry, work and finally of celebration, of laden wagons gathered in the barn and of harvest home feasts. But this was part of the rhythm of a world that was passing them by, from which they were becoming more separate by the minute. Were the women in shock? Did they frantically go over in their minds what had they done to deserve this, and would God forgive them for whatever they had done wrong? Did they wonder why they, of all the accused, had to suffer? Or did they know exactly why it had suited people to choose them for this death?

Perhaps they still hoped for some last-minute reprieve.

Given the notoriety of this case, we can imagine more crowds than usual and the presence of the local East Suffolk gentry from their estates, with their costumes and horses and servants, all adding notes of colour against the otherwise dark tones of the townspeople.

Rushmere Heath, the execution site for Ipswich where Anne Bedingfield was also burnt for the murder of her husband in 1763. (Author’s collection)

At the centre, seated on horseback, would have been the two Bailiffs of Ipswich – Puplett and Pemberton – resplendent in their fur-trimmed scarlet gowns of office; and grouped around them, other leading local councillors, chamberlains, clavigers, wardens of Christ’s Hospital and so on, in their gowns of murray (a slightly less gaudy shade of red). In attendance on them would be the various town sergeants in their blue jackets and with the town’s heraldic badge on their arms in silver, carrying their maces; and possibly the town’s bellmen, ready to ring for silence.

Close by, in cap and gown of black and white surplices, would be the clergy of the town, led by the town lecturer, Mr Lawrence, all no doubt clasping their Bibles. Respectable merchants would be dressed in black, and the poor in leather jackets and undyed linen, some in the distinctive clothes of their occupations, including mariners in thrum caps and slop skirts. The children and other inmates of Christ’s Hospital would have made up the rest of the crowd, kept in order by some of their fellows who had been pressed into service and issued with javelins or halberds for the occasion. The stylised engravings in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs give a good impression of the scene.

And at the heart, the focus of this crowd was the scaffold and the stake. The stake was a substantial post, taller than a person and firmly fixed in the ground, to which the victim was chained, while bunches of faggots were piled up around her, ready to be set alight. The engravings in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs show the victims buried to the waist with bundles of faggots, or sometimes straw – or else they have been stood inside a tar barrel. If the fire was built up high enough the victim could inhale hot gases immediately, causing them to suffocate before they actually burned alive. Even such an awful death could be worsened if the smoke blew away from the person so that they burned rather than asphyxiated, or if the fire was sulky and slow. The fiercer the fire, the quicker the death.

Since Mary Lackland was sentenced for petty treason (the crime of killing her husband, whether with a knife, by poison or by witchcraft) and not heresy, the executioner should have strangled her with a cord once she was tied to the stake and before the fire was lit. This was, however, a very rare procedure, and we simply don’t know whether it was carried out and, if it was, whether it was carried out efficiently – nerves on the part of the executioner could sometimes lead to a botched job.

How are we to imagine the crowd? As a brutalised group of thugs of the sort depicted on northern European paintings of martyrdoms and crucifixions, baying for blood? Or stunned, perhaps silent and sullen, some praying or singing psalms? As we shall see, there are reasons for thinking that a few possibly did see one of the women as a martyr, that some had severe reservations about the case that may have troubled them later and, indeed, that another small group were doing their best to forget that they knew very well that the poor woman was innocent of the crimes she had been charged with, and that they had deliberately chosen to destroy her. The solemn governors of Ipswich would have done all they could to preserve order and avoid the brutal fairground nature of an eighteenth-century Newgate hanging. The drunkenness, disorder, and the criminal gamely defiant to the last would have been the reverse of their intentions. Perhaps they did not succeed completely.

The Protestant women burnt for heresy 100 years earlier had often made a heroic choice to suffer and die a martyr’s death, rather than recant. However, these two women were dying knowing that they could not have done what they were accused of, and they may have had no belief or cause to sustain them. One thing of which we can be certain is that as Alice Denham and Mary Lackland approached their ends, as they looked around at the faces of the neighbours – the people they had known since childhood, their friends and their enemies, their daughters and families – wherever they looked there was no way out. Something terrible was about to happen to them. Then the sentence of the court – incendant ad cineres (may she be burnt to ashes) – was carried out.

As we look at this event and its background, some things – like the cost (£3 3s 3d) – are clearly recorded, with an intimate sense of detail and concreteness; but much is unrecorded and uncertain. The little that we know for certain lies in the borough records. We know also what was said to have happened from a contemporary pamphlet. But, of course, what is said to have happened and what did actually happen are two different things.

The only things we can be sure of are what Mary was accused of, and some of the stages of the case. So we should start with the bare bones; the execution of a convicted witch was the end of a long process, which had to pass through a series of stages first and could be blocked at any one of them:

1 There had to be in existence a belief in witchcraft as an explanation for why bad things happened to good people.

2 There had to be some kind of actual quarrel or dispute amongst ordinary people, usually villagers or the urban poor, that led to accusations of witchcraft. (I can think of no case in which two landowners or wealthy merchants accused each other in this way.)

3 The local authorities had to decide to take up the case, usually the local Justice of the Peace who was lord of the manor, along with the local clergyman.

4 The case had to go forward to the assizes or sessions of the peace, which would be held at some distance from the village.

5 A jury had to convict the accused and then the sentence had to be carried out.

It is clear that many accusations which had passed the third and fourth stages and became formal trials failed to gain convictions. Indeed, it seems as if the majority of trials, once put to a jury from outside the immediate locality of the accusation, led to acquittals. Very few cases, however, led to pardons after conviction.

Before the trial Mary would have been kept in the town gaol, a squat, medieval stone box-like building immediately next to the imposing west gate of the town. Conditions in such places were notorious, and there is no reason to think that those in Ipswich were any better than those elsewhere. Outside the prison we know that one prisoner was chained up, but allowed to beg on behalf of all the prisoners who had no one to pay for their food. If we are to believe one source from around this time, there were thirty-eight people held in the Ipswich gaol accused of witchcraft.

The pamphlet, The True Informer for the 23 of July, describes the situation in Ipswich as follows:

That there are at least 38 Witches imprisoned in that town: all of which (except one) by the testimony of the town-Searchers, confesse that they have one or two paps on which the Devill sucks: divers of them voluntarily, and without any forcing or compulsion, freely declare [a stock phrase of the lobby in favour of trials], That they have mad a Covenant with the Devill, to forsake ----- It is further certified thence; that there are divers women apprehended upon suspition from day to day, which if they should all be found guilty, there is scarce a village in those parts free.

The Ipswich trial would have been held in the Moot Hall before the two bailiffs and the other justices. This was a rather grand brick building with a Dutch gable and projecting window looking out over the Cornhill, and attached to what had originally been the medieval church of St Mildred before it was reused by the borough. It was reached by an external staircase that ran up from the stocks and the conduit house. From the borough records, we learn that the staircase was painted in different colours; the hall was painted with the town’s arms and the royal arms; that it contained a long table, presumably behind which the justices sat; there was an elaborate carpet to decorate the table and two elaborately carved muniment chests, which still survive; and to make the place more inspiring, the armour and weapons of the town watch, newly repaired and polished. (There is a useful inventory included in John Webb’s book The Town Finances of Elizabethan Ipswich.)

The bench was made up of very experienced men who had held all kinds of civic offices at the top of their society. On this occasion, they would have been the two bailiffs, Richard Pupplet and Joseph Pemberton, and the other justices, William Cage and John Brandling. Though they were not to know it, Pemberton and Cage were never to hold a senior office again. Also in the courtroom would have been the town recorder, Nathaniel Bacon, and the town lecturer, Matthew Lawrence. The year before, on 11 April 1644, Richard Grimston had been elected one of the attorneys of this court in the room of his father (Bacon’s Annalls of Ipswche). They were all connected with each other in a complex web of interests – political, religious, shared administrative duties, and so on.

Ipswich Town (or Moot) Hall, the scene of Lackland’s trial. (Suffolk Record Office)

The trial itself was very different from any procedure with which we are familiar. At least some of the proceedings took place in Latin or Law French, and were, therefore, completely incomprehensible to the majority of those present. The accused were not allowed lawyers. Apparently they should, in theory, have been able to call witnesses but could neither compel them to attend, nor make them take the oath. The prosecution could (but usually didn’t) have counsel, could compel witnesses and could make them take the oath.

Everything rested with the judge, or in this case with the justices. The legal authority, Coke, explained that the reason for not allowing defence counsel was ‘first, that the testimony and the proofs of the offence ought to be so clear and manifest as there can be no defence to it; secondly the Court ought to be instead of counsel for the prisoner’. In other words, the judge was supposed to act as the defence lawyer. This might have been acceptable with an assize court at which career judges from outside the area presided, but in the Ipswich Court, where the justices in cases like this were drawn from the tight little group of oligarchs that had brought the case in the first place, it was little more than a very bad joke.

Trials in any court in those days could be very quick indeed. At the Bury witch trials, the grand jury dealt with ninety cases in a day. Juries consisted of twelve men, owning the equivalent of property worth £4 a year. The laws of Ipswich provided that jury men should be selected from a panel of people called for jury service by spinning a knife. Those to whom the knife pointed were to serve. Presumably, the aim was to prevent packing a jury with people favourable to one side or another. Because jury service was often unpopular, it was apparently quite common for people to pay illegal substitutes to take their places on juries.

Juries often heard a batch of cases before retiring to deliberate on them. They would frequently not have a private secure jury room but deliberated in open court, so that anyone who wished to listen would have known who supported a conviction or an acquittal. As there is no record of a separate jury room in the Ipswich Moot Hall, this may have been the case here.

The cases were actually tried on 2 August 1645, and to the first two accused were added Rose Parker, Margery Sutton and Alice Daye, and a couple, James and Mary Emerson. The charges and verdicts were recorded as follows:

Margery, wife of James Sutton, for felony and witcherye Ignoramus [unproven] to find sureties for good behaviour.

Rose Parker, wife of Christofer Parker, for witchcraft and murder of John Cole, plea not guilty, found not guilty for feeding of imps.

Alice Daye, widow, for felony and witchcraft, plea not guilty, outcome unknown.

Alice Denham, widow, for felony and witchcraft, for feeding of imps, pleads not guilty, found guilty, therefore hanged.

Jacobus [James] Emerson and Maria [Mary] his wife for witchcraft and sending lice upon Robert and Mary Wade, plea not guilty, proved guilty and sentenced to 1 years’ imprisonment and four times standing on the pillory.

Maria Emerson, wife of James Emerson, for witchcraft and sending lice upon Joan Seeley, pleads not guilty, proved not guilty.

Jacobus Emerson for felony witchcraft and murder of Richard Braye, pleads not guilty, found not guilty.

Mary Lackland for witchcraft and murder of William Lawrence, plea not guilty, found guilty.

For witchcraft and murder of Elizabeth Alldham, plea not guilty, found guilty.

For witchcraft and murder of Sarah Clarke, plea not guilty, found guilty.

For casting away Henry Reades shipp and murdering the said Read and divers persons unknown, plea not guilty, found guilty.

For felony and witchcraft and wasting the body of John Beale, plea not guilty, found guilty.

For felony and witchcraft and wasting the body of Thomas Holgrave, plea not guilty, found guilty.

For felony and witchcraft and nourishing of evil spirits, plea not guilty, found guilty.

For felony and witchcraft and traitorously murdering of John Lackland her husband, plitavit non culpa, sed culpa,Incendet ad cineres [plea not guilty, but guilty, let her be burnt to ashes].

The case was then rushed into publication in a pamphlet, The Laws against Witches and Conjurations, by printers in London, to add to the considerable amount of witchcraft literature already being produced for an eager public. This is the only Ipswich trial to have been published. In detail, there are differences between the actual record and the much fuller pamphlet; notably that the pamphlet insists on her confession. In fact, it is a refrain added to each separate charge, while in the legal record she is recorded as confessing to nothing.

The site of Mother Lackland’s house in St Clement’s. (Author’s collection)

The trial lists her victims as: William Lawrence, Elizabeth Alldham, Sarah Clarke, Henry Reade and the unknown crew of his ship, Thomas Holgrave, John Beale, and John Lackland. The pamphlet lists them as: Mr Lawrence and his child, Mrs Jenings’ maid, John Beale and burning his new ship, and John Lackland. It is, of course, quite possible that Sarah Clarke or Elizabeth Alldham is hiding behind the description ‘Mrs Jenings’ maid’. The pamphlet describes events as follows:

The said Mother Lackland hath been a Professour of Religion, a constant hearer of the Word for these many years, and yet a Witch (as she confessed) for the space of near twenty years. The Devil came to her first, between sleeping and waking, and spake to her in a hollow voice, telling her that if she would serve him she should want nothing. After often solicitation she consented to him, then he stroke his claw (as she confessed) into her hands, and with her blood wrote the covenants. Then he furnished her with three imps, two little dogs and a mole (as she confessed), which she employed in her services. Her husband she bewitched (as she confessed) wherby he lay in great misery for a time and at last dyed. Then she sent one of her dogs to Mr Lawrence in Ipswich to torment him and take away his life; she sent one of them also to his child, to torment it, and take away the life of it, which was done upon them both; and all this was because he asked her for twelve shillings that she owed him and for no other cause.

She further confessed that she sent her mole to a maid of one Mrs Jenings of Ipswich, to torment her, and take away her life, which was done accordingly and this for no other cause but for that said maid would not lend her a needle that she desired to borrow of her, and that she was earnest with her for a shilling that she owed the said maid.

Then she further confessed she sent one of her imps to one Mr Beale of Ipswich who had formerly been a suitor to her grandchild and because he would not have her she sent and burnt a new ship, that had never been at sea, that he was to go master of; and sent also to torment him and take away his life; but he is yet living, but in very great misery, and it is vainly conceived by the doctors and chirugeons that have him in hand that he consumes and rots and that half his body is rotten upon him as he is living. But since her death there is one thing that is very remarkable and to be taken notice of: That upon the very day that she was burned, a bunch of flesh, something after the form of a dog, that grew upon the thigh of the said Mr Beale, ever since the time that she first sent her imp to him, being very hard, but could never be made to break by all the means that could be used, break of itself without any means using. And another sore that at the same time she sent her imp to him rose upon the side of his belly, in the form of a fistula which ran and could not be braked for all the means that could be used, presently also began to heale and there is great hopes that he will suddenly recover again, for his sores heal apace. He was in this misery for the space of a yeare and a halfe, and was forced to go with his head and his knees together, his misery was so great.

This ‘confession’ was published, along with the Act Against Witchcraft of James I, and some useful hints for discovering witches:

Now for as much as witches are the most cruell, revengefull and bloody of all others: the justices of the peace may not always expect direct evidence, seeing all their works are workes of darknesse, and no witnesses present with them to accuse them.

These tips were drawn from the trial of witches in Lancaster in 1612, and from Richard Bernard’s Guide to Grand-Jury Men (1627).

A survey of all of the evidence shows us that the first and second stages of witchcraft accusations, those contained within the local community itself, seem to have been present in the Middle Ages and to have lasted well into the later nineteenth century. What the evidence also shows, is that the third and fourth stages, those connected with bringing formal cases, were not continuous but took place in clusters at various periods.

Witchcraft trials were not common in Ipswich. I estimate that around eleven people were accused, and there were few convictions throughout the whole period. A number of smaller places in Essex had seen more: for example, Hatfield Peverel saw twenty-five cases from 1566–1589; Stisted, twenty-three from 1581–1643 and St Osyth, twenty-one from 1582–1645. The most obvious such cluster are the 1645 cases that immediately followed the period of Archbishop Laud and Bishop Wren of Norwich, during which no cases at all seem to have been brought, and which in Suffolk is followed by a similar lack of cases, until a second flurry just after the Restoration.

This burning, like the previous heresy burnings, was not a common event. It was unique and, like them, marked a watershed in belief and practice. It did not take place in a vacuum, but is clearly related to the largest ever outbreak of witch trials in England – those associated with the activities of the famous Matthew Hopkins, the famous ‘Witchfinder General’ and his associate John Stearne. These two are never mentioned as being directly involved in the Ipswich trials, which therefore have not become so famous, but the Ipswich trials were backed by the interest group behind Hopkins at exactly the same time. Ipswich valued its separate legal jurisdiction to the rest of the county, and its council preferred to do the same thing in its own way. After this unprecedented campaign of witch hunting, nothing similar happened again.

To make some sense of this brutal occasion, we have to enter the world; walk its streets; learn what it believed and how it ran community life; understand its hopes and fears, its divisions and tensions; listen to its people and try and comprehend them. Paraphrasing the words of advice given to justices of the peace quoted above, it is fair to say:

The historian may not always expect direct evidence, seeing all their works are workes of darknesse, and no witnesses present with them to accuse them

It will become rapidly clear that this remark not only applies to witches but even more to witchfinders, their backers and the justices of the peace before which they appeared.

As the evidence will show, the participants were confused and moreover they sought to confuse others. Yet, in this fog it is possible to see certain shapes loom up indistinctly, there are currents and eddies in the fog, there are forces hidden within it, even if we never see them clearly. We will find our expectations turned inside out.

2

IPSWICH: THE SETTING

Ipswich has always been the market town and administrative centre of East Suffolk. Its position, about 7 miles from the coast and the estuary of the River Orwell, means that it has always had a port as well as a market. During the period of the witch trials it was comparatively much more important than it is at present. Textiles and the coastal coal trade, as well as the usual crafts and shops of a market town, helped to keep it prosperous.

The town was invisibly linked to a network of contacts and trade which, even at this early date, had become global. Trade across the North Sea with the Low Countries was constant. There was a significant Dutch colony in Ipswich during the reign of Henry VII, and troops led by members of the local Withipole family had campaigned for years on the Continent. Political and religious refugees from Suffolk took shelter in the Netherlands whenever necessary, Samuel Ward amongst them. Ipswich men had a warehouse in Elbing (Eblag) just outside Danzig (Gdansk) on the Baltic.

Men from Ipswich, led by Thomas Cavendish of Trimley and navigated by Thomas Eldred of Ipswich, had sailed around the world, the second group of English to have made the voyage. Local merchants were trading in North Africa and the Turkish Empire, and taking part in campaigns against pirates from Algiers.

This part of Suffolk, Ipswich and its hinterland, as well as the Harwich area on the other side of the river in Essex, had provided many of the backers of the first Virginia voyages. Bartholomew Gosnold, Edward Maria Wingfield, Richard Hakluyt and Captain Christopher Newport all played leading roles, and all came from a small region around the banks of the Orwell. The second and third governors of Virginia, Sicklemore and Scrivener bore the names of families who had supplied Ipswich with leading councillors and bailiffs (Sicklemore was also known as John Ratliffe, under which name he was governor). This probably accounts for why the Borough of Ipswich bought shares in the Virginia venture, which in time they passed on to the Ipswich town lecturer, Samuel Ward. Ward was organising the emigration of Suffolk people to New England. These ventures had been promoted by firstly the Earl of Essex, and then by Robert Rich, Earl of Warwick.

On any bright day in the seventeenth century, a visitor standing on the well-known beauty spot at Stoke Hills would have seen the whole of the town of Ipswich stretched out to the north before him, cradled in a bowl of land surrounded by hills. This view was captured by John Speed’s sketch map of 1610, and by the later engravings and paintings of Buck, Clevelly and Frost.

To the south and west, the town was bordered by the estuary of the Orwell, with its fish weirs and oyster beds, then by the Gipping and the streams of the two water mills at Handford and Stoke Bridge. Water meadows gently led up to the gardens of the town. The green of the meadows contrasted with the white of the many blankets stretched out on tenterhooks, a testament to the town’s textile industry (and a detail preserved on Speed’s sketch map). Even from a distance, one could see that the centre of the town was green with gardens and orchards.

The northern side of the town contained most of the markets and shopping streets, while the southern river frontage contained the wharves and the maritime trades. The river was crossed by Stoke Bridge, which was a wooden bridge consisting of two sections like the modern Tower Bridge, which could be lifted by cranes for shipping, and were painted and gilded with the town and royal arms. Alongside the bridge was a ford and there was a smaller footbridge at Handford Road.

John Speed’s 1610 Ipswich map. (Ipswich Museum)

Ships were moored along the quayside, and at the point where the river turns to the south the hulls of the ships under construction drawn up on the banks were a common sight, reflecting the important maritime interests of the town. From the reign of Elizabeth I, Ipswich had been identified as the largest producer of sail cloth in the country. It was also a major supplier of rope, and the region produced the majority of supplies for the navy – including an extremely hard, Parmesan-like cheese called ‘Suffolk Bang’. Trinity House certificates show that in this period, Ipswich built more ships than any town except London. A little later, during the Restoration, Suffolk was seen as having inexhaustible oak forests for ship building. Ipswich was also the home port for the sailing fleet that ran the coastal coal trade from Newcastle to London.

To the north and the east, the town was enclosed by the green ramparts of its earthen walls, on top of which was a wooden palisade looming over the smaller houses. In front of the rampart were the well-maintained ditches, access to which was controlled by stiles and gates. Householders could climb to the top of ‘their’ section of wall, and had a key to their little section of the ditch beyond. These ramparts were pierced by the grand Westgate, with its stone base and brick upper floors, soon to be ornamented with its own clock. Visitors entering by this gate were reminded of the brutal realities of life when passing by a chained-up prisoner, who would be stationed there to beg on behalf of all the penniless prisoners held in the gate.

Westgate. (Ipswich Museum)

A south-west prospect of Ipswich. This detail shows the town’s waterfront from Stoke Hills at the base of Stoke Windmill, looking across at St Clement’s Parish. (Samuel and Nathaniel Buck, 1774, Suffolk Record Office)

Next was the Northgate, and at the other end of the town the new bar gates at the end of Carr Street. At this time, the gates and walls, which had lost something of their practical use, were busily being refurbished to meet the threats of the Civil War.

Apart from the stone and flint churches, Blackfriars Monastery, and the West gate and North gate, there were five or six brick buildings in the town. Three of these were quite elaborate. The most imposing was Seckford Place in Westgate Street, with its turrets and cupolas. Christchurch Mansion was a little less grand, but was beautifully surrounded by its own park, and then was finally the smaller New Place in Gyppeswyck Park. One church, St Mary Elms, was also partially brick. The Moot Hall, the second storey of the Westgate, and Pykenhams gateway were also brick.The use of brick and even the design of some of the buildings reflected the town’s strong links with northern Europe.

All the remaining buildings were timber-framed houses of typical Suffolk form, although the borough had insisted, as a fire precaution, that all were to have tiled, rather than thatched, roofs. A few were the town houses of great landowners; there were mansions belonging to the Wingfields, the Withipoles, the Seckfords, the Duke of Suffolk, Sir Thomas Rushe and Lord Curson. Somewhere between Northgate and Carr Street lay the mansion of Sir Harbottle Grimston the Elder.

Corner post with monstrous padlocked woman, from No. 10 Lower Orwell Street, by John Shewell Corder. The original post is now in the Ipswich Museum. (Ipswich Museum)

Most, however, were the homes of the town’s oligarchy of rich merchants and traders. They represented a major, but surprisingly little-studied, art form, for the principal beams of these houses were richly carved and sometimes painted. Their upper storeys were supported by massive oak corner posts carved with monumental figures and emblems that, for their variety and striking designs, recall Tudor totem poles. Inside, they were plastered and covered in mural paintings, or lined with painted ‘steyned’ cloths which served as poor men’s tapestries. The images on all these artworks were drawn from Christian angels and bishops, plant designs, figures of workmen, political and heraldic imagery, classical gods and heroes, but also – and as time progressed, more and more frequently – with images of bisexual creatures, heavily bearded but with big breasts and nipples and animal legs, emerging from foliage: half-men and half-women; half-human and half-animal; half-animal and half-plant. Carvings of screaming grotesque women with animal legs, imprisoned in gibbets, appeared on the outside of buildings. There is, I think, no clear contemporary statement that these carvings represented witches, nor is there any clear explanation of why they were carved on houses, but the fact remains that such images coincide with the witch fear.

The principal shopping streets of the town ran from the Westgate to the Cornhill, and from thence along Tavern Street and Carr Street, and along the Buttermarket and Dial Lane. These, and the more prestigious residential streets, had been progressively paved since the reign of Elizabeth I. They were designed with a central channel for refuse, and the owners of the houses were each responsible for the stretch of road along their frontage and out to the channel. The paving stones were probably stone setts: larger stones laid edgeways.

The council was concerned about carts, and forbade any carts used within the town to be shod with iron tyres in order to prevent them from damaging the roads and lanes. Cart drivers were ordered to drive with one wheel on either side of the channel in the middle of the road – in part, as a protection for children playing in the streets. Anyone blocking the roads with rubbish; leaving piles of timber or other materials in the streets; with holes in the roadway outside their house or leaving cellar trapdoors opened; setting up the posts of inn signs; extending their property with a new bay window or study; or shoring it up with timbers in the streets, could expect to be reported by the ever-watchful ‘headboroughs’ and ordered to make repairs, fined or made to pay extra rent for their additions. Further improvements were introduced in 1614, when the town began to lay water pipes along main streets.

Cornhill, showing the square and Moot Hall. (Ipswich Museum)

Streets in the town centre were often extremely narrow, and with stalls running down each side it must have been difficult even for shoppers on foot to make their way through the crowds. The main streets were ‘pedestrianised’ on market days and posts were set up at either end from the Westgate to the New Bar Gates to prevent anyone trying to get a cart through.

Most buying and selling was done directly from the houses of the tradesmen. The shutters on the windows of groundfloor rooms were often hinged horizontally along the top of the window so that, when propped open, they sheltered the stalls of boards on trestles set up underneath them. By James I’s reign, some shopkeepers were making their stalls more elaborate and permanent, and setting up glass windows – much to the concern of the headboroughs. One house might contain several shops, each consisting of a single small room rented from the wealthy merchant who had had the house built.

From amongst the mass of houses, the towers of twelve churches rose up. Almost as prominently, windmills with their sails turning in the breeze could be seen on the tops of most of the surrounding hills. The violent religious changes of the Reformation had left their visible mark on the town, as the two Austin priories of Christchurch and St Peter and Paul, along with the priories of Whitefriars, Greyfriars and Blackfriars, still stood but were either converted to other functions or left as substantial ruins.

It is easy to see why local authors, like Nathaniel Bacon in the 1640s, described Ipswich as ‘the glory of the parts about.’ Evelyn, in 1677, wrote in his diary that ‘it is for building cleanness and good order, one of the best towns in England’ and also noted, ‘There is not any beggar asks alms in the whole place, a thing very extraordinary, so ordered by the prudence of the magistrates.’

Ipswich is particularly well provided with a wealth of contemporary documents. From these, the picture that emerges of the town is one of an obsessively controlled and recorded community, far from the squalor, beggary and chaos beloved of the historical film-maker. However, away from the principal streets, there would have been areas with farmyard smells and heaps of muck, and certainly the tanners’ and curriers’ lanes and the dyers’ pits cannot have smelt too pleasant.

This world pulsed according to its own slow rhythms. The weekly cycle ran something as follows: Monday, the Cloth Hall was open; Tuesday, wagons left from the Waggon & Horse Inn in the Buttermarket for London; on Wednesday, a general market was held, the Cloth Hall was open and a compulsory lecture was held at St Mary Tower church; Thursday had no special features; on Friday, the Cloth Hall was open again and another lecture was held; on Saturday the main food market was held on the Cornhill, with small stalls selling oysters or nuts; and on the Sabbath there were the regular church services, and in addition the three hour lecture in St Mary Tower church.

An earlier style of corner post. It shows a blacksmith at work, rather than the monsters which later became popular. The corner post is one of the few still in its original position, at the corner of Northgate Street and Oak lane. (Suffolk Record Office)