GOING TO SEE A MAN HANGED. (*Originally published in Fraser's Magazine.)
July 1840.
X-, who had voted with Mr. Ewart for the abolition of
the punishment of death, was anxious to see the effect on the public mind of an
execution, and asked me to accompany him to see Courvoisier killed. We had not
the advantage of a sheriff's order, like the "six hundred noblemen and
gentlemen" who were admitted within the walls of the prison; but determined
to mingle with the crowd at the foot of the scaffold, and take up our positions
at a very, early hour.
As I was to rise at three in the morning, I went to bed at
ten, thinking that five hours' sleep would he amply sufficient to brace me
against the fatigues of the coming day. But as might have been expected, the
event of the morrow was perpetually before my eyes through the night, and kept
them wide open. I heard all the clocks in the neighbourhood chime the hours in
succession; a dog from some court hard by kept up a pitiful howling; at one
o'clock, a cock set up a feeble, melancholy crowing; shortly after two the
daylight came peeping grey through the window shutters; and by the time that X-
arrived, in fulfilment of his promise, I had been asleep about half an hour. He,
more wise, had not gone to rest at all, but had remained up all night at the
Club, along with Dash and two or three more. Dash is one of the most eminent
wits in London, and had kept the company merry all night with appropriate jokes
about the coming event. It is curious that a murder is a great inspirer of
jokes. We all like to laugh and have our fling about it; there is a certain grim
pleasure in the circumstance-a perpetual jingling antithesis between life and
death, that is sure of its effect.
In mansion or garret, on down or straw, surrounded by weeping
friends and solemn oily doctors, or tossing unheeded upon scanty hospital beds,
there were many people in this great city to whom that Sunday night was to be
the last of any that they should pass on earth here. In the course of half a
dozen dark, wakeful hours, one had leisure to think of these (and a little, too,
of that certain supreme night that shall come at one time or other, when he who
writes shall be stretched upon the last bed, prostrate in the last struggle,
taking the last look of dear faces that have cheered us here, and lingering -
one moment more- ere we part for the tremendous journey); but chiefly, I
could not help thinking, as each clock sounded, what is he doing now? has
he heard it in his little room in Newgate yonder? Eleven o'clock. He has
been writing until now. The jailer says he is a pleasant man enough to be with;
but he can hold out no longer, and is very weary. "Wake me at four,"
says he, "for I have still much to put down." From eleven to twelve
the jailer hears how he is grinding his teeth in his sleep. At twelve he is up
in his bed, and asks, "Is it the time?" He has plenty more time yet
for sleep; and he sleeps, and the bell goes on tolling. Seven hours more - five
hours more. Many a carriage is clattering through the streets, bringing ladies
away from evening-parties ; many bachelors are reeling home after a jolly night;
Covent Garden is alive, and the light coming through the cell-window turns the
jailer's candle pale. Four hours more "Courvoisier," says the jailer,
shaking him "it's four o'clock now, and I've woke you as you told me but
there's no call for you to get up yet." The poor wretch
leaves his bed, however, and makes his last toilet ; and then falls to writing,
to tell the world how he did the crime for which he has suffered. This time he
will tell the truth, and the whole truth. They bring him his breakfast
"from the coffee-shop opposite - tea, coffee and thin
bread-and-butter." He will take nothing, however, but goes on writing. He
has to write to his mother - the pious mother far away in his own country - who
reared him and loved him, and even now has sent him her forgiveness and her
blessing. He finishes his memorials and letters, and makes his will, disposing
of his little miserable property of books and tracts that pious people have
furnished him with. "Ce 6 Juillet, 1840. Francois Benjamin
Courvoisier vous donne ceci, mon ami, pour souvenir." He has a
token for his dear friend the jailer another for his dear friend the
under-sheriff. As the day of the convict's death draws nigh, it is painful to
see how he fastens upon everybody who approaches him, how pitifully he clings to
them and loves them.
While these things are going on within the prison (with which
we are made accurately acquainted by the copious chronicles of such events which
are published subsequently), X-'s carriage has driven up to the door of my
lodgings, and we have partaken of an elegant dejeuner that has been
prepared for the occasion. A cup of coffee at half-past three in the morning is
uncommonly pleasant; and X- enlivens us with the repetition of the jokes that
Dash has just been making. Admirable, certainly - they must have had a merry
night of it, that's clear ; and we stoutly debate whether, when one has to get
up so early in the morning, it is best to have an hour or two of sleep, or wait
and go to bed afterwards at the end of the day's work. That fowl is
extraordinarily tough - the wing, even, is as hard as a board ; a slight
disappointment, for there is nothing else for breakfast. "Will any
gentleman have some sherry and soda-water before he sets out? It clears the
brains famously". Thus primed, the party sets out. The coachman has dropped
asleep on the box, and wakes up wildly as the hall-door opens. It is just four
o'clock. About this very time they are waking up poor - pshaw who is for a
cigar? X- does not smoke himself but vows and protests, in the kindest way in
the world, that he does not care in the least for the new drab-silk linings in
his carriage. Z-, who smokes, mounts, however, the box. " Drive to
Snow Hill," says the owner of the chariot. The policemen, who are the only
people in the street, and are standing by, look knowing - they know what it
means well enough.
How cool and clean the streets look, as the carriage startles
the echoes that have been asleep in the corners all night. Somebody has been
sweeping the pavements clean in the night-time surely; they would not soil a
lady's white satin shoes, they are so dry and neat. There is not a cloud or a
breath in the air, except Z-'s cigar, which whiffs off and soars straight
upwards in volumes of white, pure smoke. The trees in the squares look bright
and green - as bright as leaves in the country in June. We who keep late hours
don't know the beauty of London air and verdure ; in the early morning they are
delightful the most fresh and lively companions possible. But they cannot hear
the crowd and the bustle of mid-day. You don't know them then - they are no
longer the same things. We have come to Grays Inn. There is actually dew upon
the grass in the gardens ; and the windows of the stout old red houses are all
in a flame.
As we enter Holborn the town grows more animated, and there
are already twice as many people in the streets as you see at mid-day in a
German Residenz or an English provincial town. The gin-shop keepers have
many of them taken their shutters down, and many persons are issuing from them
pipe in hand. Down they go along the broad, bright street, their blue shadows
marching after them for they
are all bound the same way, and are bent like us upon seeing the hanging.
It is twenty minutes past four as we pass St. Sepulchre's. By
this time many hundred people are in the street, and many more are coming up
Snow Hill. Before us lies Newgate Prison; but something a great deal more awful
to look at, which seizes the eye at once, and makes the heart beat, is-
There it stands, black and ready, jutting out from a little
door in the prison. As you see it, you feel a kind of dumb electric shock, which
causes one to start a little and give a sort of gasp for breath. The shock is
over in a second, and presently you examine the object before you with a certain
feeling of complacent curiosity. At least, such was the effect that the gallows
produced upon the writer, who is trying to set down all his feelings as they'
occurred, and not to exaggerate them at all.
After the gallows shock had subsided, we went down into the
crowd, which was very numerous, but not dense as yet. It was, evident that the
day's business had not begun. People sauntered up, and formed groups, and
talked the newcomers asking those who seemed habitués of the place about
former executions; and did the victim hang with his face towards the clock or
towards Ludgate Hill ? and had he the rope round his neck when he came on the
scaffold, or was it put on by Jack Ketch afterwards? and had Lord W-- taken a
window, and which was he? I may mention the noble marquis's name, as he was not
at the exhibition. A pseudo W-- was pointed out in an opposite window, towards
whom all the people in our neighbourhood looked eagerly, and with great respect
too. The mob seemed to have no sort of ill-will against him, but sympathy and
admiration. This noble lord's personal courage and strength have won the plebs
over to him. Perhaps his exploits against policemen have occasioned some of this
popularity for the mob hate them, as children the schoolmaster.
Throughout the whole four hours, however, the mob was
extraordinarily gentle and good-humoured. At first we had leisure to talk to the
people about us ; and I recommend X-'s brother senators of both sides of the
House to see more of this same people and to appreciate them better. Honourable
members are battling and struggling in the House; shouting, yelling, crowing,
hear-hearing, pooh-poohing, making speeches of three columns, and gaining
"great Conservative triumphs," or "signal successes of the Reform
cause," as the case may be. Three hundred and ten gentlemen of good
fortune, and able for the most part to quote Horace, declare solemnly that
unless Sir Robert comes in the nation is ruined. Throe hundred and fifteen on
the other side swear by their great gods that the safety of the empire depends
upon Lord John; and to this end they quote Horace too. I declare that I have
never been in a great London crowd without thinking of what they call the two
"great" parties in England with wonder. For which of the two great
leaders do these people care, I pray you? When Lord Stanley withdrew his Irish
bill the other night, were they in transports of joy, like worthy persons who
read the Globe and the Chronicle? or when he beat the
Ministers, were they wild with delight, like honest gentlemen who read the Post
and The Times? Ask yonder ragged fellow, who has evidently frequented
debating clubs, and speaks with good sense and shrewd good-nature. He cares no
more for Lord John than he does for Sir Robert, and, with due respect be it
said, would mind very little if both of them were ushered out by' Mr. Ketch, and
took their places under yonder black beam. What are the two great parties to
him, and those like him? Sheer wind, hollow humbug, absurd clap-traps; a silly
mummery of dividing and debating, which does not in the least, however it may
turn, affect his condition. It has been so ever since the happy days when Whigs
and Tories began; and a pretty pastime no doubt it is for both. August parties,
great balances of British freedom are not the two sides quite as active, and
eager, and loud, as at their very birth, and ready to fight for place as stoutly
as ever they fought before? But lo in the meantime whilst you are jangling and
brawling over the accounts, Populus, whose estate you have administered
while he was an infant, and could not take care of himself- Populus has been
growing and growing, till he is every bit as wise as his guardians. Talk to our
ragged friend. He is not so polished, perhaps, as a member of the "Oxford
and Cambridge Club;" he has not been to Eton, and never read Horace in his
life: but he can think just as soundly as the best of you; he can speak quite as
strongly in his own rough way; he has been reading all sorts of books of late
years, and gathered together no little information. He is as good a man as the
common run of us ; and there are ten million more men in the country as good as
he - ten million, for whom we, in our infinite superiority, are acting as
guardians, and to whom in our bounty, we give - exactly nothing. Put yourself in
their position, worthy sir. You and a hundred others find yourselves in some
lone place, where you set up a government. You take a chief as is natural ; he
is the cheapest order-keeper in the world. You establish half a dozen worthies,
whose families you say shall have the privilege to legislate for you for ever;
half a dozen more, who shall be appointed by a choice of thirty of the rest and
the other sixty, who shall have no choice, vote, place, or privilege at all.
Honourable sir, suppose that you are one of the last sixty, how will you feel,
you who have intelligence, passions, honest pride, as well as your neighbour -
how will you feel towards your equals, in whose hands lie all the power and all
the property of the community? Would you love and honour them tamely acquiesce
in their superiority, see their privileges, and go yourself disregarded, without
a pang? You are not a man if you would. I am not talking of right or wrong, or
debating questions of government. But ask my friend there, with the ragged
elbows and no shirt, what he thinks? You have your party, Conservative or Whig,
as it may be. You believe that an aristocracy is an institution necessary,
beautiful, and virtuous. You are a gentleman, in other words, and stick by your
party.
And our friend with the elbows (the crowd is thickening
hugely all this time) sticks by his. Talk to him of Whig or Tory - he
grins at them; of virtual representation - pish! He is a democrat, and
will stand by his friends, as you by yours; and they are twenty millions, his
friends, of whom a vast minority now (a majority a few years hence) will be as
good as you. In the meantime, we shall continue electing, and debating, and
dividing, and having every day new triumphs for the glorious cause of
Conservatism, or the glorious cause of Reform, until-
* * * * *
What is the meaning of this unconscionable republican tirade,
apropos of a hanging? Such feelings, I think, must come across any man in a vast
multitude like this. What good sense and intelligence have most of the people by
whom you are surrounded! how much sound humour does one hear bandied about from
one to another! A great number of coarse phrases are used, that would make
ladies in drawing-rooms blush ; but the morals of the men are good and hearty. A
ragamuffin in the crowd (a powdery baker in a white sheep's wool cap) uses some
indecent expression to a woman near. There is an instant cry of
"Shame" which silences the man, and a dozen people are ready to
give the woman protection. The crowd has grown very dense by this time. It is
about six o'clock, and there is great heaving, and pushing, and swaying - to and
fro but round the women the men have formed a circle, and keep them as much as
possible out of the rush and trample. In one of the houses near as a gallery has
been formed on the roof. Seats were here let, and a number of persons of various
degrees were occupying them. Several tipsy, dissolute looking young men, of the
Dick Swiveller cast, were in this gallery. One was lolling over the sunshiny
tiles, with a fierce sodden face, out of which came a pipe, and which was shaded
by long matted hair, and a hat cocked very much on one side. This gentleman was
one of a party which had evidently not been to bed on Sunday night, but had
passed it in some of those delectable night houses in the neighbourhood
of Covent Garden. The debauch was not over yet; and the women of the party were
giggling, drinking and romping, as is the wont of these delicate creatures -
sprawling here and there, and falling upon the knees of one or other of the
males. Their scarfs were off their shoulders, and you saw the sun shining down
upon the bare white flesh, and the shoulder-points glittering like
burning-glasses. The people about us were very indignant at some of the
proceedings of this debauched crew, and at last raised up such a yell as
frightened them into shame, and they were more orderly for the remainder of the
day. The windows of the shops opposite began to fill apace, and our
before-mentioned friend with ragged elbows pointed out a celebrated fashionable
character who occupied one of them, and, to our surprise, knew as much about him
as the Court Journal or the Morning Post. Presently he entertained
us with a long and pretty accurate account of the history of Lady -, and
indulged in a judicious criticism upon her last work. I have met with ninny a
country gentleman who had not read half as many books as this honest fellow,
this shrewd prolétaire in a black shirt. The people about him took up
and carried on the conversation very knowingly, and were very little behind him
in point of information. It was just as good a company as one meets on common
occasions. I was in a genteel crowd in one of the galleries at the Queen's
coronation indeed, in point of intelligence, the democrats were quite equal to
the aristocrats. How many more such groups were there in this immense multitude
of nearly forty thousand, as some say? How many more such throughout the
country? I never yet, as I said before, have been in an English mob without the
same feeling for the persons who composed it, and without wonder at the
vigorous, orderly good sense and intelligence of the people.
The character of the crowd was, as yet, how ever, quite
festive - jokes bandying about here and there, and jolly laughs breaking out.
Some men were endeavouning to climb up a leaden pipe on one of the houses. The
landlord came out, and endeavoured with might and main to pull them down. Many
thousand eyes turned upon this contest immediately. All sorts of voices issued
from the crowd, and uttered choice expressions of slang. When one of the men was
pulled down by' the leg, the waves of this black mob-ocean laughed innumerably.
When one fellow slipped away, scrambled up the pipe, and made good his lodgment
on the shelf, we were all made happy, and encouraged him by loud shouts of
admiration. What is there so particularly delightful in the spectacle of a man
clambering up a gas-pipe ? Why were we kept for a quarter of an hour in deep
interest gazing upon this remarkable scene? Indeed, it is hard to say. A man
does not know what a fool he is until he tries - or, at least, what mean follies
will amuse him. The other day I went to Astley's, and saw clown come in with a
fool's-cap and pinafore, and six small boy's who represented his schoolfellows.
To them enters schoolmaster - horses clown, and flogs him hugely on the
back part of his pinafore. I never read anything in Swift, Boz, Rabelais,
Fielding, Paul do Kock, which delighted me so much as this sight, and caused me
to laugh so profoundly. And why? What is there so ridiculous in the sight of one
miserably-rouged man beating another on the breech? Tell us where the fun lies
in this and the before-mentioned episode of the gas pipe? Vast indeed are the
capacities and ingenuities of the human soul that can find, in incidents so
wonderfully small, means of contemplation and amusement.
Really, the time passed away with extraordinary quickness. A
thousand things of the sort related here came to amuse us. First, the workmen
knocking and hammering at the scaffold; mysterious clattering of blows was heard
within it ; and a ladder painted black was carried round, and into the interior
of the edifice by a small side-door. We all looked at this little ladder and at
each other - things began to be very interesting. Soon came a squad of
police-men - stalwart, rosy-looking men, saying much for City feeding;
well-dressed, well-limbed, and of admirable good humour. They paced about the
open space between the prison and the barriers which kept in the crowd from the
scaffold. The front line, as far as I could see, was chiefly occupied by'
blackguards and boys professional persons, no doubt - who saluted the policemen
on their appearance with a volley of jokes and ribaldry. As far as I could judge
from faces, there were more blackguards of sixteen and seventeen than of any
maturer age - stunted, sallow, ill-grown lads, in rugged fustian, scowling
about. There were a considerable number of girls, too, of the same age - one
that Cruikshank and Boz might have taken as a study for Nancy. The girl was a
young thief's mistress, evidently; - if attacked, ready to reply without
a particle of modesty; could give as good ribaldry as she got; made no secret
(and there were several inquiries) as to her profession and means of livelihood.
But with all this, there was something good about the girl - a sort of
devil-may-care candour and simplicity that one could not fail to see. Her
answers to some of the coarse questions put to her were very ready and good-humoured.
She had a friend with her of the same age and class, of whom she seemed to be
very fond, and who looked up to her for protection. Both of these women had
beautiful eyes. Devil-may-care's were extraordinarily bright and blue, an
admirably fair complexion, and a large red mouth full of white teeth ; au
reste, ugly, stunted, thick-limbed, and by no means a beauty. Her friend
could not be more than fifteen. They were not in rags, but had greasy cotton
shawls, and old, faded, rag-shop bonnets. I was curious to look at them, having,
in late fashionable novels, read many accounts of such personages. Bah! what
figments these novelists tell us! Boz, who knows life well, know's that his Miss
Nancy is the most unreal, fantastical personage possible - no more like a
thief's mistress than one of Gesner's shepherdesses resembles a real country
wench. He dare not tell the truth concerning such young ladies. They have, no
doubt, virtues, like other human creatures; nay, their position engenders
virtues that are not called into exercise among other women. But on these an
honest painter of human nature has no right to dwell. Not being able to paint
the whole portrait, he has no right to present one or two favourable points as
characterizing the whole, and therefore, in fact, had better leave the tincture
alone altogether. The new French literature is essentially false and worthless
from this very error - the writers giving us favourable pictures of monsters,
and (to say nothing of decency or morality) pictures quite untrue to nature.
But yonder, glittering through the crowd in Newgate Street -
see, the sheriffs' carriages are slowly making their way! We have been here
three hours! Is it possible that they can have passed so soon? Close to the
barriers where we are the mob has become so dense that it is within difficulty a
woman can keep his feet. Each man, however, is very careful in protecting the
women, and all are full of jokes and good humour. The windows of the shops
opposite are now pretty nearly filled by the persons who hired them. Many young
dandies are there with moustaches and cigars; some quiet, fat family-parties of
simple, honest tradesmen and their wives, as we fancy, who are looking on with
the greatest imaginable calmness, and sipping their tea. Yonder is the sham Lord
W-, who is flinging various articles among the crowd. One of his companions, a
tall, burly man, with large moustaches, has provided himself with a squirt, and
is aspersing the mob with brandy-and-water. Honest gentleman! high-bred
aristocrat! genuine lover of humour and wit! I would walk some miles to see thee
on the treadmill, thee and thy Mohawk crew!
We tried to get up a hiss against these ruffians, but only
had a trifling success. The crowd did not seem to think their offence very
heinous, and our friend, the philosopher in the ragged elbows, who had remained
near us all the time, was not inspired with any such savage disgust at the
proceedings of certain notorious young gentlemen, as I must confess fills my own
particular bosom. He only said, "So-and-so is a lord, and they'll let him
off;" and then discoursed about Lord Ferrers being hanged. The philosopher
knew the history pretty well, and so did most of the little knot of persons
about him and it must be a gratifying thing for young gentlemen to find that
their actions are made the subject of this kind of conversation.
Scarcely a word had been said about Courvoisier all this
time. We were all, as far as I could judge, in just such a frame of mind as men
are in when they are squeezing at the pit-door of a play, or pushing for a
review or a Lord Mayor's show. We asked most of the men wino were near us
whether they had seen many executions? Most of them had, the philosopher
especially. Whether the sight of them did any good? "For the matter of
that, no. People did not care about them at all ; nobody ever thought of it
after a bit." A countryman, who had left his drove in Smithfield, said the
same thing; he had seen a man hanged at York, and spoke of the ceremony with
perfect good sense, and in a quiet, sagacious way.
J. S , the famous wit, now dead, had, I recollect, a good
story upon the subject of executing, and of the terror which the punishment
inspires. After Thistlewood and his companions were hanged, their heads were
taken off, according to the sentence, and the executioner, as he severed each,
held it up to the crowd, in the proper orthodox way, saying, "Here is the
head of a traitor!" At the sight of the first ghastly head the people were
struck with terror, and a general expression of disgust and fear broke from
them. The second head was looked at also with much interest; but the excitement
regarding the third head diminished. When the executioner mad come to the last
of the heads, he lifted it up, but, by some clumsiness, allowed it to drop. At
this the crowd yelled out, "Ah, Butter-fingers!" - the
excitement had passed entirely away. The punishment had grown to be a joke -
Butter-fingers was the word - a pretty commentary, indeed, upon the august
nature of public executions and the awful majesty of the law.
It was past seven now ; the quarters rang and passed away the
crowd began to grow very eager and more quiet, and we turned back every now and
them and looked at St. Sepulchre's clock. Half an hour; twenty-five minutes.
What is he doing now? He has his irons off by this time. A quarter: he's in the
press-room now, no doubt. Now at last we had come to think about the man we were
going to see hanged. How slowly the clock crept over time last quarter! Those
who were able to turn round and see (for the crowd was now extraordinarily
dense) chronicled the time - eight minutes, five minutes. At last - ding, doing,
dong, dong! -the bell is tolling the chimes of eight.
* * * * *
Between the writing of this line and the
last, the pen has been put down, as the reader may suppose, and the person who
is addressing him has gone through a pause of no verv pleasant thoughts and
recollections. The whole of the sickening, ghastly, wicked scene passes before
the eyes again; and, indeed, it is an awful one to see, and very hard and
painful to describe.
As the clock began to strike, an immense sway and movement
swept over the whole of that vast dense crowd. They are all uncovered directly,
and a great murmur arose, more awful, bizarre, and indescribable than any sound
I had ever before heard. Women and children began to shriek horridly. I don't
know whether it was the bell I heard, but a dreadful quick, feverish kind of
jangling noise mingled with the noise of the people, and lasted for about two
minutes. The scaffold stood before us, tenantless and black; the black chain was
hanging down ready from the beam. Nobody came. "He has been respited,"
some one said; another said, "He has killed himself in prison."
Just them, from under the black prison-door, a pale, quiet
head peered out. It was shockingly bright and distinct. It rose up directly, and
a man in black appeared on the scaffold, and was silently followed by about four
more dark figures. The first was a tall, grave man: we all knew who the second
man was. "That's he - that's he!" you heard the people
say, as the devoted man came up.
I have seen a cast of the head since, but, indeed, should
never have known it. Courvoisier bore his punishment like a man, and walked very
firmly. He was dressed in a new black suit, as it seemed; his shirt was open.
His arms were tied in front of him. He opened his hands in a helpless kind of
way, and clasped them once or twice together. He turned his head here and there,
and looked about him for an instant with a wild, imploring look. His mouth was
contracted into a sort of pitiful smile. He went and placed himself at once
under the beam, with his face towards St. Sepulchre's. The tall, grave man in
black twisted him round swiftly in the other direction, and drawing from his
pocket a nightcap, pulled it tight over the patient's head and face. I am not
ashamed to say that I could look no more, but shut my eyes as the last dreadful
act was going on, which sent this wretched, guilty soul into the presence of
God.
If a public execution is beneficial - and beneficial it is,
no doubt, or else the wise law's would not encourage forty thousand people to
witness it - the next useful thing must be a full description of such a ceremony
and all its entourages, and to this end the above pages are offered to
the reader. How does an individual man feel under it? In what way does he
observe it? how does he view all the phenomena connected with it? what induces
him, in the first instance, to go and see it? and how is he moved by it
afterwards? The writer has discarded the magazine "We" altogether, and
spoken face to face with the reader, recording every one of the impressions felt
by him as honestly as he could.
I must confess, then (for "I" is the shortest word,
and the best in this case), that the sight has left on my mind an extraordinary
feeling of terror and shame. It seems to me that I have been abetting an act of
frightful wickedness and violence, performed by a set of men against one of
their fellows and I pray God that it may soon be out of the power of any man in
England to witness such a hideous and degrading sight. Forty thousand persons
(say the sheriffs) of all ranks and degrees - mechanics, gentlemen, pickpockets,
members of both Houses of Parliament, street-walkers, newspaper writers gather
together before Newgate at a very early hour. The most part of them give up
their natural night's rest, in order to partake of this hideous debauchery,
which is more exciting than sleep, or than wine, or the last new ballet or any
other amusement they can have. Pickpocket and Peer each is tickled by the sight
alike, and has that hidden lust after blood which influences our race.
Government, a Christian Government gives us a feast every now and then. It
agrees - that is to say, a majority in the two Houses agrees - that for certain
crimes it is necessary that a man should be hanged by the neck. Government
commits the criminal's soul to the mercy of God, stating that here on earth he
is to look for no mercy ; keeps him for a fortnight to prepare ; provides him
within a clergyman to settle his religious matters (if there be time enough, but
Government can't wait) and on a Monday morning, the bell tolling, the clergy-man
reading out the word of God, "I am the resurrection and the life,"
"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away"- on a Monday morning, at
eight o'clock, this man is placed under a beam, with a rope connecting it and
him; a plank disappears from under him, and those who have paid for good places
may see the hands of the Government agent, Jack Ketch, coming up from his black
hole, and seizing the prisoner's legs, and pulling them, until he is quite dead,
strangled.
Many persons, and well-informed newspapers say that it us
mawkish sentiment to talk in this way, morbid humanity, cheap philanthropy, that
any man can get up and preach about. There is the Observer, for instance,
a paper conspicuous for the tremendous sarcasm which distinguishes its articles,
and which falls cruelly foul of the Morning Herald "Courvoisier is
dead," say's the Observer. "He died as he lived-a villain; a
lie was in his mouth. Peace be to his ashes! We war not with the dead."
What a magnanimous Observer! From this, Observer turns to the Herald
and says, "Fiat justitia ruat coelum". So much for
the Herald.
We quote from memory, and the quotation from the Observer
possibly is - De mortuis nil nisi bonum or, Omne ignotum pro
magnifico; or, Sero nunquam est ad bonos mores via - or, Ingenuas
didicisse fideliter artes emollit mores nec sinit esse feros -- all of which
pithy Roman apophthegms would apply just as well.
Peace be to his ashes. He died a villain. This is both
benevolence and reason! Did he die a villain? The Observer does not want
to destroy him body and soul, evidently, from that pious wish that his ashes
should be at peace. Is the next Monday but one after the sentence the time
necessate for a villain to repent in? May a man not require more leisure - a
week more - six months more - before he has been able to make his repentance
sure before Him who died for us all? For all, be it remembered; not alone for
the judge and jury, or for the sheriffs, or for the executioner who is pulling
down the legs of the prisoner, but for him too, murderer and criminal as he is,
whom we are killing for his crime. Do we want to kill him body and soul? Heaven
forbid! My lord in the black cap specially prays that Heaven may have mercy on
him; but he must be ready by Monday morning.
Look at the documents which came from the prison of this
unhappy Courvoisier during the few day's which passed between his trial and
execution. Were ever letters more painful to read? At first, his statements are
false, contradictory, lying. He has not repented then. His last declaration
seems to be honest, as far as the relation of the crime goes. But, read the rest
of his statement - the account of his personal history, and the crimes which he
committed in his young days; them "how the evil thought came to him to put
his hand to the work." It is evidently the writing of a mad, distracted
man. The horrid gallows is perpetually before him; he is wild with dread and
remorse. Clergymen are with him ceaselessly; religious tracts are forced into
his hands: night and day they ply him with the heinousness of his crime, and
exhortations to repentance. Read through that last paper of his. By heaven, it
is pitiful to read it. See the Scripture phrases brought in now and anon; the
peculiar terms of tract-phraseology (I do not wish to speak of these often
meritorious publications with disrespect). One knows too well how such language
is learned-imitated from the priest at the bedside, eagerly seized and
appropriated, and confounded by the poor prisoner.
But murder is such a monstrous crime (this is the great
argument) - when a man has killed another, it is natural that he should be
killed. Away with your foolish sentimentalists who say no; it is natural. That
is the word, and a fine philosophical opinion it is - philosophical and
Christian. Kill a man, and you must be killed in turn; that is the unavoidable sequitur.
You may talk to a man for a year upon the subject, and he will always reply
to you, " It is natural, and therefore it must be done. Blood demands
blood."
Does it ? The system of compensations might be carried on ad
infinitum - an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as by the old
Mosaic law. But (putting the fact out of the question, that we have had this
statute repealed my the Highest Authority) why, because you lose your eye, is
that of your opponent to be extracted likewise? Where is the reason for the
practice? And yet it is just as natural as the death dictum, founded precisely
upon the same show of sense. Knowing, however, that revenge is not only evil,
but useless, we have given it up on all minor points. Only to the last we stick
firm, contrary though it be to reason and to Christian law.
There is some talk, too, of the terror which the sight of
this spectacle inspires, and of this we have endeavoured to give as good a
notion as we can in the above pages. I fully confess that I came away down Snow
Hill that morning with a disgust for murder ; but it was for the murder I saw
done. As we made our way through the immense crowd, we came upon two little
girls of eleven and twelve years. One of them was crying bitterly, and begged,
for Heaven's sake, that someone would lead her from that horrid place. This was
done, and the children were carried into a place of safety. We asked the elder
girl - and a very pretty one - what brought her into such a neighbourhood? The
child grinned knowingly, and said, "We've koom to see the mon
hanged!"
Tender law, that brings out babes upon such errands and
provides them with such gratifying moral spectacles!
This is the 20th of July, and I may be permitted for my part
to declare that, for the last fourteen days, so salutary has the impression of
the butchery been upon me, I have had the man's face continually before my
eyes; that I can see Mr. Ketch at this moment, with an easy air, taking the rope
from his pocket that I feel myself ashamed and degraded at the brutal curiosity
which took me to that brutal sight; and that I pray to Almighty God to cause
this disgraceful sin to pass from among us, and to cleanse our land of blood.
W. M. Thackeray, Sketches and Travels in London, 1847
I was a witness of the execution at Horsemonger Lane this morning. I went there with the intention of observing the crowd gathered to behold it, and I had excellent opportunities of doing so, at intervals all through the night, and continuously from day-break until after the spectacle was over... I believe that a sight so inconceivably awful as the wickedness and levity of the immense crowd collected at that execution this morning could be imagined by no man, and could be presented in no heathen land under the sun. The horrors of the gibbet and of the crime which brought the wretched murderers to it faded in my mind before the atrocious bearing, looks, and language of the assembled spectators. When I came upon the scene at midnight, the shrillness of the cries and howls that were raised from time to time, denoting that they came from a concourse of boys and girls already assembled in the best places, made my blood run cold. As the night went on, screeching, and laughing, and yelling in strong chorus of parodies on negro melodies, with substitutions of ‘Mrs. Manning’ for ‘Susannah’, and the like, were added to these. When the day dawned, thieves, low prostitutes, ruffians, and vagabonds of every kind, flocked on to the ground, with every variety of offensive and foul behaviour. Fightings, faintings, whistlings, imitations of Punch, brutal jokes, tumultuous demonstrations of indecent delight when swooning women were dragged out of the crowd by the police, with their dresses disordered, gave a new zest to the general entertainment. When the sun rose brightly—as it did—it gilded thousands upon thousands of upturned faces, so inexpressibly odious in their brutal mirth or callousness, that a man had cause to feel ashamed of the shape he wore, and to shrink from himself, as fashioned in the image of the Devil. When the two miserable creatures who attracted all this ghastly sight about them were turned quivering into the air, there was no more emotion, no more pity, no more thought that two immortal souls had gone to judgement, no more restraint in any of the previous obscenities, than if the name of Christ had never been heard in this world, and there were no belief among men but that they perished like the beasts.
Charles Dickens to the Editor of The Times, Letters. Nov. 13, 1849
Victorian London - Publications - Humour - Punch - cartoon 61 - The Great Moral Lesson at Horsemonger Lane Gaol, Nov. 13.
WE was
havin a kevarten wen BILL, he says, says he,
"To-morrow is the hanging-match; let us go and see."
I was game for anything: off we set that night;
Ha! the jolly time we spent until the morning light.
Neath
the timbers whereupon the conwicts wos to die,-
(And ugly black the gallows looked atween us and the sky)-
More than thirty thousand on us shouted, yelled, and sung,
Chaffin about murder, and going to be hung.
Each
public-house was all alight, the place just like a fair;
Ranting, roaring, rollicking, larking everywhere,
Boosing and carousing we passed the night away,
And ho! to hear us curse and swear, waiting for the day.
At last
the morning sunbeams slowly did appear,
And then, ha, ha! how rum we looked, with bloodshot eyes and blear:
But there was two good hours at least afore the hanging yet,
So still we drained the early purl, and swigged the heavy wet.
Thicker
hacked the crowd apace, louder grew the glee,
There was little kids a dancin, and fightin for a spree;
But the rarest fun for me and BILL, and all our jolly pals,
Was the squeakin and squallin and faintin of the gals.
"Time s up!" at last cries BILL. "Why, sure, it ain't to be a
sell!
Never. It can't be, I should think. All right! There goes the knell!
See, here they come, and no mistake, JACK KETCH and all his crew
The Sheriffs, Parson, and - that's them! Hats off in front, there, you!
"Quick, JACK'S about it. There he s got the fust beneath the beam;
And now, the other! Not a start, a tremble, or a scream!
All a ready. There they stand alone. The rest have gone below.
Look at him - look - he's at the bolt! Now for it! Down they go!"
Twas over. Well, a sight like that afore these eyes of mine
I never had - no sort of mill, cockfightin, or canine.
Hurrah! you dogs, for hangin, the feelins to excite;
I could ha throttled BILL almost, that moment, with delight.
But, arter all, what is it? A tumble and a kick!
And, anyhow, tis seemingly all over precious quick,
And shows that some, no matter for what they've done, dies game!
Ho, ho! if ever my time comes, I hope to do the same!
Punch, Jul.-Dec. 1849
THE
PROPER TIME FOR PUBLIC EXECUTIONS.
The Humble Petition of the Newgate Weekly Press
To the Commons in Parliament assembled.
WE, the undersigned, proprietors of the Sunday Drop, the Scaffold
Weekly News, the Old Bailey Enquirer, and the Life in Newgate, newspapers
published on the morning of the Sabbath, and for the benefit of that truly great,
intelligent, and multitudinous British public which cannot afford to waste its
week-day time in the perusal of the daily newspapers, humbly submit to your
Honourable House the great evil which is done by the present system of
executions in this country, or rather by the neglect of a simple means by which
the performance of the last sentence of the law might be rendered a thousand
times more useful, terrible, and public as an example to the nation, and a
warning to evil doers.
The injustice which is done to ourselves by the present
system of hanging on Mondays or Tuesdays is manifest, and calls for a remedy at
the hands of an equitable British nation. FOR WHEREAS, upon the apprehension of
a criminal, we notoriously spare no pains to furnish the nation with his
complete biography; employing literary gentlemen, of elegant education and
profound knowledge of human nature, to examine his birthplace and parish
register, to visit his parents brothers, uncles, and aunts, to procure
intelligence of his early school days, diseases which he has passed through,
infantine (and more mature) traits of character, &c. AND WHEREAS, we employ
artists of eminence to sketch his likeness as he appears at the police court, or
views of the farm-house or back kitchen where he has perpetrated the atrocious
deed. AND WHEREAS, regardless of expense, we entertain intelligence within the
prison walls wit the male and female turnkeys gaolers and other authorities, by
whose information we are enabled to describe every act and deed of the prisoner,
the state of his health, sleep, and digestion, the changes in his appearance,
his conversation, his dress and linen, the letters he writes, and the meals he
takes-it is manifestly hard, cruel, and unjust, that having thus carried a man,
with intense sympathy and watchfulness, through his examination, commitment,
trial, and condemnation into his condemned cell, we should there be unkindly
separated from him, and that the daily prints should be allowed to take him in
hand.
In the case of the late MR. MANNING we ask, what energy did
the latter-mentioned journals exhibit compared to our own? Did one of the
morning papers present pictures of that party and the partner of his bed and
crimes? Week after week, on the other hand, we kept the British public
acquainted with the minutest details regarding the prisoner's words, actions,
and behaviour; we supplied our readers with elegant pictures, we ransacked every
corner for particulars regarding the very earliest lives of the beings about
whom it was so important that the people of England should know everything.
Now, it is manifest, that had the Judge but ordered MR. and MRS.
MANNING to be hanged on a Saturday morning, the ends of justice would have been
answered equally; the public would have been induced to purchase many thousands,
nay, hundreds of thousands more of our papers than we have been enabled to sell;
and the people, after perusing our accounts (written wider the glow and
enthusiasm of the moment) would have had wholesome and solemn subject for
Sabbath conversation;-whereas, by the lapse of days between Tuesday and
Saturday, the enthusiasm has had time to wear away; the glow has of necessity
cooled; or the reader has slaked his thirst for knowledge at other and less
authentic sources than those which we supply. We have sown, but others have
reaped. We are but permitted to glean a few straws and a little chaff on a field
which by right should be our own.
As then it is right that executions should be public, it is
clear that they should be as public as possible: to make them so public it is
evident that the agency of the public prints is necessary: hence the statesman
will see that the more newspapers that are sold the better. Let the weekly
papers then, let trade and literature, let useful knowledge and sound morality,
be encouraged by Justice and hanging on Saturdays be henceforth the law of the
land.
And your petitionners will every pray, &c.
Punch, Jul.-Dec. 1849
Newgate
p.185 from Thomas Miller, Sketches of London Past and Present, 1852
see also James Ewing Ritchie in The Night-side of London
see also Charles Maurice Davies in Mystic London
In the sixties "hangings"
were done in public, and anything of an unusual kind attracted large parties
from the West End; this was as recognised a custom as the more modern fashion of
making up a party to go to the Boat Race or to share a coupé on a long
railway journey.
And so it came about that the phenomenal sight of the
execution of the seven Flowery Land pirates in '64 created, in morbid
circles, a stir rarely equalled before or since. Members of the Raleigh, as may
be supposed, mustered in considerable numbers, and days before that fatal
morning, trusty agent had visited the houses that face Newgate Gaol and secured
every window that gave an unobstructed view of the ghastly ceremony.
The prices paid were enormous, varying from twenty to fifty
guineas a window, in accordance with the superiority of the perspective from
"find to finish".
The rendezvous was fixed for 10 p.m. on Sunday at the
Raleigh, but as it was raining in torrents it was a question with many whether
to face the elements, or content themselves with a graphic description in the
next day's papers. But the sight of three or four cabs, a couple of servants,
and a plentiful supply of provender decided the question, and the procession
started on its dismal journey.
Cursing the elements, the sightseers little knew in what good
stead the downpour served them, and with nothing worse than being drenched to
the skin the party arrived safely.
A cab-load of young Guardsmen, however, preferring to wait
until the storm abated, never got beyond Newgate Lane - where they were politely
invited to descend and, after being stripped to their shirts, were asked where
the cabman should drive them to.
The scene on the night preceding a public execution afforded
a study of the dark side of nature not to be obtained under any other
circumstances.
Here was to be seen the lowest scum of London densely packed
together as far as the eye could reach, and estimated by The Times at not
less than 200,000. Across the entire front of Newgate heavy barricades of stout
timber traversed the streets in every direction, erected as a precaution against
the pressure of the crowd, but which answered a purpose not wholly anticipated
by the authorities.
As the crowd increased, so wholesale highway robberies were
of more frequent occurence; and victims in the hands of some two or three
desperate ruffians were as far from help as though divided by a continent from
the battalions of police surrounding the scaffold.
The scene that met one's view on pulling up the windows and
looking out on the black night and its still blacker accompaniments baffles
description. A surging mass, with here and there a flickering torch, rolled and
roared before one; above this weird scene arose the voices of men and women
shouting, singing, blaspheming, and, as the night advanced and the liquied
gained firmer mastery, it seemed as if hell had delivered up its victims. To
approach the window was a matter of danger; volleys of mud immediately saluted
one, accompanied by more blaspheming and shouts of defiance. It was difficult to
believe one was in the centre of a civilised capital that vaunted its religion
and yet meted out justice in such a form.
The first step towards the morning's work was the appearance
of workmen about 4 a.m.; this was immediately followed by a rumbling sound, and
one realised that the scaffold was being dragged round. A grim square, box-like
apparatus was now distinctly visible, as it slowly backed against the
"debtors' door". Lights now flickered about the scaffold - the workmen
fixing the cross-beams and uprights. Every stroke of the hammer must have
vibrated through the condemned cells, and warned the wakeful occupants that
their time was nearly come. These cells were situated at the corner nearest
Holborn, and passed by thousands daily, who little knew how much misery that
bleak white wall divided them from. Gradually as the day dawned the scene become
more animated, and battalions of police surrounded the scaffold.
Meanwhile, a little unpretending door was gently opened; this
was the "debtor's door," and led direct through the kitchen on to the
scaffold. The kitchen on these occasions was turned into a temporary mausoleum
and draped with tawdry black hangings, which concealed the pots and pans, and
produced an affect supposed to be more in keeping with the solemn occasion. From
the window opposite everything was visible inside the kitchen and on the
scaffold, but to the surging mass in the streets below this bird's-eye view was
denied.
Presently an old and decrepit man made his appearance and
cautiously "tested" the drop; but a foolish impulse of curiosity
leading him to peep over the drapery, a yell of execration saluted him. This was
Calcraft, the hangman, hoary-headed, tottering, and utterly past his usefulness
for the work.
The tolling of St. Sepulchre's bell about 7.30 a.m. announced
the approach of the hour of execution; meanwhile a steady rain was falling,
though without diminishing the ever-increasing crowd. As far as the eye could
reach was a sea of human faces. Roofs, windows, church-rails, and empty vans -
all were pressed into service, and tightly packed with human beings eager to
catch a glimpse a seven fellow-creatures on the last stage of life's journey.
The rain by this time had made the drop slippery and necessitated precautions on
behalf of the living if not of those appointed to die, so sand was thrown over a
portion, not of the drop (that would have been superfluous), but on the side,
the only portion that was not to give way. It was suggestive of the pitfalls
used for trapping wild beasts - a few twigs and a handful of earth, with a
gaping chasm below. Here, however, all was reversed; there was no need to resort
to such a subterfuge to deceive the chief actors who were to expiate their crime
with all the publicity that a humane Government could devise. The sand was for
the benefit of the "ordinary," the minister of religion, who was to
offer dying consolation at 8 a.m. and breakfast at 9.
The procession now appeared, winding its way through the
kitchen, and in the centre of the group walked a sickly cadaverous mob securely
pinioned, and literally as white as marble. As they reached the platform a halt
was necessary as each was placed one by one immediately under the hanging
chains. At the end of these chains were hooks which were eventually attached to
the hemp round the neck of each wretch. The concluding ceremonies did not take
long, considering how feelbe the aged hangman was. A white cap was placed over
every face, then the ankles were strapped together, and finally the fatal noose
was put round every neck, and the end attached to the hooks. One fancies one can
see Calcraft now laying the "slack" of the rope that was to give the
fall lightly on the doomed men's shoulders so as to preclude the possibility of
a hitch, and then stepping on tiptoe down the steps and disappearing below. At
this moment a hideous contretemps occurred, and one poor wretch fell
fainting, almost into the arms of the officiating priest.
The reprieve was, however, momentary, and, placed on a chair,
the inanimate mass of humanity awaited the supreme moment in merciful ignorance.
The silence was now awful. One felt one's heart literally in one's mouth, and
found oneself involuntarily saying "They could be saved - yet - yet -
yet," and then a thud that vibrated through the street announced that the
pirates were launched into eternity. One's eyes were glued to the sport, and,
fascinated by the awful sight, not a detail escaped one. Calcraft, meanwhile,
apparently not satisfied with his handiwork, seized hold of one poor wretch's
feet, and pressing on them for some seconds with all his weight, passed from one
to another with hideous composure. Meanwhile, the white caps were getting
tighter and tighter, until they looked ready to burst, and a faint blue speck
that had almost immediately appeared on the carotid artery gradually became more
livid, till it assumed the appearance of a huge black bruise. Death, I should
say, must have been instantaneous, for hardly a vibration occurred, and the only
movement that was visible was that from the gradually stretching ropes as the
bodies kept slowly swinging round and round. The hanging of the body for an hour
constituted part of the sentence, an interval that was not lost upon the
multitude below. The drunken again took up their ribald songs, conspicuous
amongst which was one that had done duty pretty well through the night, and end
with
"Calcraft, Calcraft, he's the man,"
but the pickpockets and highwaymen reaped the greatest benefit. It can hardly be
credited that respectable old City men on their way to business - with
watch-chains and scarf-pins in clean white shirt-fronts and with unmistakable
signs of having spent the night in bed - should have had the foolhardiness to
venture into such a crowd; but they were there in dozens. They had not long to
wait for the reward of their temerity. Gangs of ruffians at once surrounded
them, and whilst one held them by each arm, another was rifling their pockets.
Watches, chains and scarf-pins passed from hand to hand with the rapidity of an
eel; meanwhile their piteous shouts of "Murder!" "Help!"
"Police!" were utterly unavailing. The barriers were doing their duty
too well, and the hundreds of constables within a few yards were perfectly
powerless to get through the living rampart.
Whilst these incidents were going on 9 o'clock was gradually
approaching, the hour when the bodies were to be cut down. As the dismal clock
of St. Sepulchre's chimed out the hour Calcraft, rubbing his lips, again
appeared, and, producing a clasp knife, proceeded to hug the various bodies in
rotation with one arm whilst with the other he severed the several ropes. It
required two slashes of the feeble old arm to complete this final ceremony, and
then the heads fell with a flop on the old man's breast, who staggering under
the weight, proceeded to jam them into shells.
And then the "debtor's door" closed till again
required for a similar tragedy, the crowd dispersed and the sightseers sought
their beds to dream of the horrors of the past twelve hours.
After the trapeze performance we have just read of, given by
the venerable Calcraft to a delighted audience in front of Newgate Gaol, it
appears to have dawned upon the "Hanging Committee" of the Home Office
that, although much of the solemnity of the "painful" performance
would be lost by the removal of the patriarchal beard, counter advantage smight
be attained by the substitution of a younger man to fill the Crown appointment
so popular amongst the masses. A new era was thenceforth inaugurated.
Instead of the length of the drop being left to the discretion of the artiste,
the exact measurement was not only fixed, but the rope itself supplied by the
Hanging Committee, after a careful calculation by dynamics of the height and
weight of the principal performer. But the immediate successor of the venerable
Calcraft was found wanting in certain material qualifications, and although
admittedly an expert operator, had a habit of talking when under the genial
influence of stimulants.
An unrehearsed incident, when the head rolled off at a
private execution, thus got into the papers, and it became apparent that a
combination of expertness and reticence was the desideratum to be sought and
found.
It was thus that the hero we are discussing came upon the
scene some few years later.
Marwood allowed nothing to interfere with business and he
would as soon have hanged his grandmother - if duly instructed - as the most
brutal ruffian that ever passed through his hands. To arrive over-night with a
modest carpet-bag and be up betimes the following morning were to him matters of
routine: to truss his subject with a kicking strap 6 in. wide and then drop into
the procession with a face like a chief mourner's were to him sheer formalities;
to give evidence later in the day before an enlightened but inquisitive
coroner's jury was to him a matter of courteous obligation; and to step into the
street half an hour afterwards with the same bag -but with evidently less hemp
in it - all came to him as part of a routine to be henceforth cast from memory
till the service of his country again demanded his undivided and best attention.
Any one looking at the retiring little man, dressed in the
most funereal of clothes, clutchung a pint pot with his long and nervous
fingers, would have found it difficult to associate him with anything more
formidable than a bagman hawking samples for "the firm," and it was
only when a sort intimacy had been struck up and a certain quantity of swipes
had been consumed that, yielding to pressure, the great man launched out upon
his unique experiences.
Marwood's invariable resort was the Green Dragon in Fleet
Street, and so certain as a malefactor met his doom at eight so certain was the
hangman to be found at twelve in the "select" section of the pub. This
peculiarity, of course, by degrees got to be known, and so it came to pass that
young bloods with a thirst for knowledge resorted thither, and "hanging
days" raised the "takings" of the fortunate house in Fleet
Street.
'One of the Old Brigade' (Donald Shaw), London in the Sixties, 1908
see also Times report on execution of Henry Wainwright, 1875
see also James Payn in Lights and Shadows of London Life - click here
see also Newgate - click here