[6] “Anecdotes of the Manners and Customs of London in the
        Eighteenth Century,” vol. ii. p. 378.

* * * * *

THE SKETCH BOOK

NO.  XLV.

* * * * *

BEHIND THE SCENES; OR, A BREAKFAST IN NEWGATE.

(Concluded from page 134.)

No further delay was allowed.  The sheriffs moved on, the ordinary, the culprits, and the officers did the same; and that class of attendants to which I belonged followed.  I shall not easily forget the circumstances of this brief, but melancholy progress.  The faltering step—­the deep-drawn sigh—­the mingling exclamations of anguish and devotion which marked the advance of the victims—­the deep tones of the reverend gentleman who now commenced reading a portion of the burial service, and the tolling of the prison bell, which, as we proceeded through some of the most dreary passages of the gaol, burst on the ear, rendered the whole spectacle impressive beyond description.  Few steps sufficed to conduct us to the small room, or entrance-hall, into which the debtor’s door opens, and from this we saw the ladder which the criminals were to ascend, and the scaffold on which they were to die.  I was on the alert to detect any sudden emotion which this spectacle might cause, but could not perceive that it had the slightest effect.  The minds of the sufferers had been so prepared, that a partial view of the machine to which they were being conducted, seemed to give no additional shock.  No further pause was deemed necessary.  The clock was striking eight, and the ordinary and the youth first brought to the press-room, immediately passed up the ladder.  To the two culprits that remained, the gentleman whom I have already mentioned offered his services, and filled up with a prayer the little interval which elapsed, before the second was conducted to the platform.

I heard from without the murmur of awe, of expectation, and pity, which ran through the crowd in front of the prison, and stepping on a small erection to the left of the door, gained a momentary glimpse of a portion of the immense multitude, who, uncovered, and in breathless silence, gazed on the operations of the executioners.  I retreated just as the third halter had been adjusted.  The finisher of the law was in the act of descending, when the under-sheriff addressed him—­

Is everything quite ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then take care and draw the bolt out smartly.—­Now, don’t bungle it.”

“No, sir—­you may depend upon it,” was the answer.  And the obsequious anxiety of the hangman to seem polite and obliging, his apparent zeal to give satisfaction, though very natural seemed to me not a little curious.

Prayers, which had been interrupted for a moment, while the last awful ceremony was in progress, were resumed.  As he read them, I saw the clergyman fix his eye on the executioner with a peculiar expression.  He drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and passed it slightly over his upper lip.  This was the fatal signal.  A lumbering noise, occasioned by the falling of part of the apparatus, announced that it had been obeyed.