The Tryal of William Penn & William Mead for Causing a Tumult at the Sessions Held at the Old Bailey in London the 1st, 3d, 4th, and 5th of September 1670 — Inside the Classic

The Court's Coercive Rhetoric

The recorder and mayor employ a lexicon of menace that reveals the stakes of the trial. When juror Edward Bushel hesitates to deliver a guilty verdict, the recorder threatens: "I shall set a Mark upon you, Sir." Mayor Sir John Robinson follows with personal attacks, claiming Bushel "thrust your self upon this Jury" and deserves indictment more than the prisoners. The language escalates from legal warning to personal vilification—"impudent Fellow," "void of Justice"—exposing the bench's frustration with a jury that refuses to comply. This pattern of intimidation, documented in the Observations interjected by the defendants, transforms the courtroom into a site of power struggle rather than impartial judgment.

The Jury's Precise Verdict

When the jury returns with a written verdict, they do not simply acquit or convict. They specify: William Penn is "Guilty of Speaking or Preaching to an Assembly" in Gracechurch Street, but William Mead is "Not guilty of the said Indictment." This careful wording, delivered by foreman Thomas Veer, rejects the court's framing of an "unlawful Assembly." The jurors—named individually in the text—stand by their distinction, even as the recorder insists they "had as good say nothing." The jury's insistence on pen, ink, and paper to craft this precise response demonstrates a deliberate act of legal literacy, using the tools of the court to resist its coercion.

The Prisoners' Physical and Rhetorical Position

The defendants are not passive figures. The transcript notes they were kept in "the stinking Hole" while the jury deliberated, a detail that underscores the physical degradation of the accused. Yet their voice persists through the Observations that punctuate the official record, describing the bench's behavior as "barbarous Usage" and noting the court's "imperious" manner. This dual narrative—the official transcript and the defendants' commentary—creates a layered text where the prisoners reclaim narrative authority. The editor Seitz's foreword, which praises Penn as "more than ordinary Man," sets the stage for this tension, but the excerpts themselves show a collective act of defiance by jury and defendants alike.

The Role of the Editor and the Text's Provenance

Don Carlos Seitz, the editor, frames the trial within a hagiographic tradition, dedicating the volume to Thomas Jefferson and asserting Penn's unique role in establishing "Liberty, Equality and Fraternity." Yet the text itself is a transcription from the 1719 Compleat Collection of State Tryals, a source that already shaped the narrative for eighteenth-century readers. The Project Gutenberg edition, released in 2005, adds another layer: the metadata categorizes it as "Science Fiction & Utopias," a curious classification that highlights how Penn's trial has been repurposed as a founding myth of American liberty. Readers should approach the text aware that its presentation—from Seitz's foreword to the digital formatting—carries interpretive weight.

Reading this trial transcript requires attention to its multiple voices: the court's threats, the jury's precise language, and the defendants' editorial interjections. The text is not a neutral record but a contested document, shaped by its original compilers and later editors. For a first reading, focus on the exchanges between the bench and the jury—particularly the moments when the jurors demand paper and the recorder resorts to personal attacks. These passages reveal the mechanics of legal resistance and the fragility of judicial authority in seventeenth-century London.

Reading that old transcript, I kept thinking how the jury’s stubborn "not guilty" must have felt like a small, quiet inheritance—a refusal handed down. It reminded me of the careful, almost tender language in The Will of Samuel Appleton, with Remarks by One of the Executors — A Closer Reading, where every clause carries a weight beyond its words, like a hand pressing firmly on a page centuries later.