"Lord have mercy upon you! Christ have mercy upon you! Lord have mercy upon you! Christ have mercy upon you!"

When he came to the close of this touching appeal, "Lord have mercy upon you!" Doctor Dodd wrung his hands bitterly. With a strange want of decency, the old churchyard had been built up with wooden stands, and was blackened over with human figures, who looked on at this dismal spectacle.

Then they moved on again. At St. Giles's the block became tremendous, and they had to stop often. It must have been an agonising pilgrimage for the chief actor, whose "corpse-like face," says one who saw it, was framed, as it were, in the mourningcoach window. No wonder he said that he would gladly have died in the prison yard. He prayed all the way. They had actually to pass by his former house the one in Pall-Mall, where he took in his genteel pupils and it affected him greatly. At last it all ended, and they were now at Tyburn.

Johnson had written an address for him, a sort of contrite confession, which was to have been read at the gallows; but, owing to the enormous crowds, who would not have heard a word of it, it was wisely and decorously omitted.

They were more than two hours reaching the place, and the scene there was yet more exciting.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.

TYBURN.

FROM eight o'clock it had been crowded. All the house-tops that commanded a view were covered. The windows were filled. The trees-and there were many trees then in Tyburnia-were literally loaded with human beings. Huge galleries-erected by a notorious speculator, the wife of a COWkeeper, and known popularly as "Mother Proctor's Pews"-grew up the day before, like a stand at a race-course, and furnished an excellent view of the dismal show. Places here brought high prices, and it was said that at Earl Ferrers's execution over five hundred pounds had been cleared by the "Tyburn Boxes." Others, of humbler degree, paid a shilling for standing room on a cart.

In Hogarth's plate of the Idle Apprentice's execution we have the whole scene-the mourning-coach, with the chaplain's face in the window; the loaded trees, and the open country, where fashionable streets now

cluster thickly; and even Mother Proctor's Boxes, built of rude timber, with men at the top letting off pigeons. Here are the women and their babies, the ballad-singers selling the "Last Dying Speech,” printed the day before; and the cart, shaped like a two-wheeled Pickford's van, with the officers in front.

On the top of an unfinished house close by were seen Charles Fox and the Abbé Raynal.* There was much impatience, as the procession was delayed. Just before it arrived-as if to throw an air of burlesque over the unhappy prisoner's sufferings-a sow got into the enclosed space, and was baited after the usual fashion, its distress causing roars of laughter in the crowd.

At last, the head of the procession came in sight. From the loaded trees, from the carts, from the Tyburn Boxes, the roar of voices and excitement became tremendous. Sheriff Thomas led the way, and after him the City marshals and mounted constables; then the mourning-coaches slowly debouched.

Selwyn, that notorious amateur, was, strange to say, not present; but he had friends who knew his taste, and who furnished the fullest details. Storer, one of the wild, unprincipled set who were his friends, had a good place, and observed everything.† To this blasé man of fashion, who thought the whole

* See "Love and Madness," p. 102. Sir Herbert Croft, the author gives his honour for this fact.

†This taste of Selwyn's, for which a "morbid fancy" is too lenient a term, was questioned seriously some years ago, but has been perfectly well established.

performance very insipid, we owe a sort of photograph of the proceedings.

The weather had been variable all the morning, a strong wind being abroad, with heavy showers coming on every now and then. The ghastly ceremonial then began. Harris was speedily despatched; then the mourning-coach drew up closer, and the Doctor descended.

Every eye was turned on that ghastly face, seen under the heavy broad-brimmed hat, "flapped down" so closely all over his face. Mr. Storer was quite near, and said he seemed stupid from despair; but a constable, a better judge in such matters, who told the whole story to Lord March, said he never saw a man behave better.* It was told, also, how earnestly he prayed; but, adds this fashionable scoffer, who was writing at Almack's, and in a hurry to get to Ranelagh, "that was in his profession."

As he appeared on the fatal cart a heavy shower came down. Under the great flapped hat his eyes were never lifted, and the corpse-like face was turned to the ground. He was heard praying aloud for his wretched self and for his more wretched wife. The clergymen prayed with him; but it was noted how one, Mr. Dobey, was deeply affected, while the other, Villette, hardened to his office, was "perfectly indifferent and unfeeling in everything he said and

* Several spectators-besides the reporters of newspapers-have left accounts of what they saw. Storer was in the "Tyburn Boxes;" Angelo, the fencing-master, at Mr. Langdale's, the distiller's; and Archenholtz, a Prussian traveller, was at Tyburn. They all agree wonderfully.

N

did." * There seems to have been no limit to the indulgence of time, and this praying, and instructions, and preparation, went on for nearly an hour; so that the people grew very impatient, and were eager for what they had come to see, to begin.

The executioner now drew near, and put the rope about his neck, which he himself assisted in adjusting; but he still kept on his broad flapped hat and wig. Suddenly a gust came and blew it off, and a murmur went round as the corpse-like face was exposed to a full gaze. He was a little embarrassed, but resumed his praying when it was restored to him. Another spectator remarked the almost piteous burlesque in the fitting on of the nightcap. Even the tenderest, it was said, could not but be sensible of this impression.†

Now at last the moment was come, and the unhappy man was making his final preparations. Even at this awful moment everything seemed to go wrong. He took off his great hat, and with it came his wig, which the executioner gave him back, and which he put on ‡ and took off again. He then took

* Archenholtz, who was a stranger, tells a story of this heartlessness of the ordinary. Villette worked his experiences of Dodd's last moments into a pamphlet (on every copy of which he wrote his name), which was sold enormously for his own benefit. But a more significant act of his, was the publication, only a year before, of the Newgate Calendar, with "virtuous" and "improving" reflections attached. (See Appendix VII.)

Sir Herbert Croft. Though this account is thrown into the form of a novel, the details may be accepted as accurate. "Every guinea in my pocket," says the writer, "would I have given that he had not worn a wig; or that, wearing one, the cap had been bigger."

"Why he put on his wig again," wrote Storer, "I know not."