The Last Men Hanged for Sodomy in England:The tragic story of James Pratt and John Smith, 1835

Daniel Holland
4 hours ago
8 min read

Execution scene sketch of two men on a gallows platform, surrounded by a crowd, set against detailed architecture. Text reads: "The Last Men Hanged for Sodomy in England: James Pratt and John Smith, 1835."

There are moments in British history that seem almost impossible to grasp from a modern perspective. The execution of two ordinary men on a November morning in 1835 for an act that would eventually be decriminalised, pardoned and later recognised as a grave miscarriage of justice is one of them. The story of James Pratt and John Smith unfolds in the cramped rooms of a Southwark lodging house, in the corridors of Newgate Prison, and finally on the scaffold before a curious London crowd. It is a story full of contradictions and cruelty, one where poor men faced the full weight of laws seldom used against the wealthy, and where an entire case rested on what two people claimed to have seen through a keyhole.

The execution of Pratt and Smith would mark the last time in England that any person was put to death for sodomy. Their lives, their trial, and the moral climate that condemned them reveal a great deal about nineteenth century attitudes toward sexuality, class and criminal justice. It is not a simple story of repression, though repression lies at its centre. It is also a story about power, fear, doubt and the uneasy relationship between public morality and private lives. And it is one that continues to resonate today.

Lives shaped by poverty and surveillance

James Pratt was born in 1805 and appears in most contemporary sources as both James Pratt and John Pratt. John Smith was born a decade earlier in 1795 and lived in the Southwark Christchurch area. In different court accounts Smith was described as an unmarried labourer, although other reports claimed he was married and working as a servant. The inconsistency is typical of working class people in the historical record. Their lives were not documented unless something went terribly wrong.

For both men, life in London in the 1830s meant insecurity and constant surveillance from landlords, authorities and neighbours. Working men lived in crowded lodging houses where privacy barely existed. Doors were flimsy, keyholes were wide, stairways creaked with every step. The legal system, still shaped by Tudor and Georgian moral codes, held harsh penalties for sexual acts between men. Technically the crime carried the death sentence, although by the early nineteenth century executions for sodomy had become rare and were often commuted to transportation.

The room at the centre of this case belonged to an elderly man named William Bonill, aged 68. He had lived for just over a year in a small rented room near Blackfriars Road in Southwark. His landlord later testified that Bonill received regular visits from men, often in pairs. That detail would be used to characterise the lodging as a place of moral danger rather than merely a refuge for lonely or impoverished men seeking companionship. The idea of a man receiving male guests was enough to arouse suspicion.

The arrest through a keyhole

What happened on the afternoon of 29 August 1835 formed the whole foundation of the case. According to the landlord, Pratt and Smith arrived to visit Bonill as they had done before. Sensing something improper, the landlord climbed into the loft of a stable building next door and from there claimed to see into Bonill’s room through a window. Unsatisfied, he and his wife then looked directly through Bonill’s keyhole. Later they stated that this tiny vantage point allowed them to witness Pratt and Smith committing an act of sodomy.

The reliability of their account has been questioned ever since. Keyholes provided minimal visibility and nineteenth century rooms were often dark even in daylight. The couple’s account also involved claims of acts that anatomical experts later described as physically impossible given the time, angles and restricted view. But in 1835, the landlord’s certainty was all that mattered. Once the couple believed they had glimpsed something illicit, the scene moved quickly.

The landlord forced the door open and confronted the two men. Bonill himself was not there. He returned a few minutes later carrying a jug of ale, suggesting that he had briefly stepped out on an errand. What happened next altered the lives of all three men.

A constable was summoned. Sergeant Robert Valentine of the Metropolitan Police arrived, inspected the room and examined the clothing of both Pratt and Smith. All three were arrested and taken to Union Hall police office in Southwark, which combined the functions of a magistrate’s court and a police station. Magistrate Hensleigh Wedgwood questioned the men and determined that there was enough evidence to send the matter to trial at the Old Bailey. Because the trial sessions were not due for another month, the men were remanded in Horsemonger Lane Gaol to await the formal hearing.

A trial weighted by class and circumstance

The trial took place on 21 September 1835 at the Central Criminal Court before Baron Gurney. Gurney was known for being sharp and decisive, though not always merciful. Pratt and Smith were charged under section 15 of the Offences Against the Person Act 1828, which codified offences previously governed by the sixteenth century Buggery Act.

Bonill, though absent from the alleged act, was charged as an accessory for providing the room. He was convicted and sentenced to fourteen years of transportation. He would never return.

At the trial, character witnesses testified on Pratt’s behalf, speaking to his decency and work ethic. Smith, however, had no such advocates. That absence may have reflected little more than poverty. The people most likely to speak for him may not have been able to attend or had no standing in the eyes of the court. In a system where reputation was everything, the lack of supportive voices did Smith no favours.

The entire prosecution case rested on the landlord, his wife and the constable. No other witnesses were present. No physical evidence existed beyond the constable’s opinion that the men’s clothing showed signs of recent activity. From the vantage point of modern law, such a case would collapse immediately. But in 1835, the moral climate and longstanding statute were enough to turn suspicion into conviction.

A magistrate’s conflicted conscience

Hensleigh Wedgwood, the magistrate who originally sent the men to trial, later wrote privately to the Home Secretary arguing for clemency. His letter delivered a striking critique of the system.

He wrote:

"It is the only crime where there is no injury done to any individual and in consequence it requires a very small expense to commit it in so private a manner and to take such precautions as shall render conviction impossible. It is also the only capital crime that is committed by rich men but owing to the circumstances I have mentioned they are never convicted."

Wedgwood, though devoutly religious, found the death penalty disproportionate. He recognised that the law punished the poor disproportionately because they lacked private spaces or the ability to flee abroad after posting bail. The wealthier classes, he noted, protected themselves with walls and servants, creating conditions where detection was almost impossible.

Yet even Wedgwood was a man of his age. In another letter he described Pratt and Smith as "degraded creatures", revealing lingering prejudices even as he argued for mercy. His moral discomfort did not prevent the machinery of justice from grinding forward.

Dickens enters the story

The most vivid contemporary description of Pratt and Smith came from a young Charles Dickens. On 5 November 1835, he visited Newgate Prison with editor John Black. In his Sketches by Boz he described what he saw:

"The other two men were at the upper end of the room. One of them, who was imperfectly seen in the dim light, had his back towards us, and was stooping over the fire, with his right arm on the mantel-piece, and his head sunk upon it. The other was leaning on the sill of the farthest window. The light fell full upon him, and communicated to his pale, haggard face, and disordered hair, an appearance which, at that distance, was ghastly. His cheek rested upon his hand; and, with his face a little raised, and his eyes wildly staring before him, he seemed to be unconsciously intent on counting the chinks in the opposite wall."

Dickens noted that the gaoler escorting him predicted their execution with certainty. That grim forecast proved accurate.

The final decision: death for two, mercy for all others

In the September and October sessions of the Central Criminal Court seventeen people had been sentenced to death for crimes including burglary and attempted murder. On 21 November all were granted reprieve except Pratt and Smith. They alone were denied mercy.

The refusal was extraordinary. Men convicted of sodomy had been reprieved before. In 1828 Martin Mellet and James Farthing were transported instead of executed. But Pratt and Smith would not receive such clemency. Even the landlord and his wife, whose testimony secured the conviction, petitioned for mercy. Wives of the condemned men appealed before the Privy Council. None of it was enough.

The execution at Newgate

On the morning of 27 November 1835, James Pratt and John Smith were led from their cells to the scaffold outside Newgate Prison. Public executions were still common and often attracted large crowds. The Times reported that the turnout that day was larger than usual, perhaps because it had been nearly two years since an execution took place at Newgate.

The Morning Post described the crowd hissing as the men emerged. It is unclear whether the hissing expressed sympathy or contempt. Some historians believe the reaction reflected discomfort at the severity of the punishment. Others argue it expressed moral disapproval of the alleged act. Both interpretations could be true.

Pratt was reportedly too weak to stand and had to be physically supported while preparations were made. Their execution was swift. Within minutes the crowd began to disperse.

A printed broadside recounting the trial was sold in the streets shortly after, capitalising on public curiosity. It included the text of a supposed final letter by Smith, though its authenticity is doubtful.

Aftermath and legacy

Bonill, transported aboard the ship Asia, reached Van Diemen’s Land in February 1836. He died in 1841 in New Norfolk Hospital. His life ended in obscurity on the other side of the world.

The legal landscape changed slowly. The death penalty for sodomy remained technically available until 1861, though no further executions took place after Pratt and Smith. Their case lingered as an uncomfortable marker of the past.

Over the years their story resurfaced in archives, theatre and song. The United Kingdom National Archives holds petitions and correspondence relating to the case. The stage play Particular Disposition, written by Benjamin Fulk, reimagines their final days. The folk song 45 George Street by Bird in the Belly recounts the injustice in haunting detail.

In February 2024 Chris Bryant MP published James and John: A True Story of Prejudice and Murder, offering the most extensive modern account of their lives and deaths. And in April 2024 a proposal was made for a rainbow plaque on Blackfriars Road to mark the place where the story began.

The most significant development came in January 2017 when both men were posthumously pardoned under what became known as the Alan Turing law. The pardon did not erase the historical record, but it acknowledged that the laws which condemned them were wrong. It recognised, finally, that their deaths were not justice but the result of prejudice and legal cruelty.

Today, the story of James Pratt and John Smith remains a reminder of how fragile justice can be when morality and class shape the law. Their fate was sealed not by violence or harm but by what two people claimed to see through a keyhole. What followed was a trial influenced by class, religious belief, social prejudice and the rigid legal codes of the age.

Their execution marked an ending of sorts, but their legacy has become part of a much larger story about human rights, the evolution of sexual freedom and the long struggle to correct historic injustices. Through newspaper reports, archival documents and the words of Charles Dickens, the two men stand before us still: pale, haggard, terrified, and counting the chinks in the opposite wall as the city outside prepared to take their lives.