University of Virginia Library

THE EXECUTION,

AND HOW IT EDIFIED THE BEHOLDERS.

A Sketch.

He staggered on upon the drop; oh, who that saw his look
Can forget it, as his place beneath the gallows first he took,
Can forget the deadly shivering that shook him when his eye
First rested on the heaving crowd agape to see him die,
On the mass of upturned faces that had waited hours below
And cursed the sluggish jail clock whose minutes crept so slow;
Though brutal jokes and laughter were bandied fast about
To serve to pass the time away until he was brought out,
Yet spite of slang and merriment and choice St. Giles's wit,
Of guesses how the dead man's clothes the hangman's form would fit—
Though through the crowd from time to time the roar of laughter ran
As puns upon the dangling rope were tossed from man to man,
Though still fresh source of pleasure high for ever new was found
In the murderer's words and doings that from mouth to mouth went round,
And still, with offered bets and oaths, his best admirers stuck
To their calm reliance on him that he'd die with honour—pluck
Though now and then some minutes yet more jollily were spent
In laughing down some milksop fool who hoped he would repent—
Though turpin's rides and Sheppard's feats, rehearsed with pride and glee,
Taught young aspirers to their fame how great they yet might be—
Though now a pocket picked—a row—a women's fight or so,
Served to keep the crowd in humour, still the time was damned as slow,
And when before their straining eyes the dead man staggered there,
With shouts and yells of gladness they tore the shuddering air;
A thousand tongues took up the roar—a thousand rolled it wide;
Ten times it sank and rose again flung back from side to side;
Then silence fell upon the crowd—a hush as of the dead;
You might hear the platform creaking beneath the hangman's tread;
You might hear the paper's rustle where the painter's hand would try
To seize a fine convulsion—a striking agony;
You might catch the poet's mutter of his rhymes in murmurs faint
As he strove in taking measure the wretch's fear to paint;
Of one reporter's pencil a scratch you might not lose,
As smiling he his tablets gave a crowns-worth good of news.
Still on the glaring multitude unbroken stillness lay
Till with a shriek for mercy the felon tried to pray,
Then suddenly from out the crowd burst up a scoffing yell,
Their scorn of this, his utter lack of manly pluck to tell,
Nor ceased it when the quivering wretch first felt the hangman's touch
And swooned from out his agony, for nature's strength too much,
But fiercer rose the mingling roar of curse and yell bestowed
Upon the craven dastard who so poor a spirit showed,
And gin-shop pals and jail-birds who had looked with pleasant pride
To see how to the very last the law he still defied,
Who'd boasted how with bow polite the cheering crowd he'd greet,
And how his friend, the hangman, with jeer and jest he'd meet,
That high in gallows' annals would live his honoured name,
A spur to all who'd tread his steps, like him, to finish—game,
Now cursing deep his agony and mocking his despair
The fiercest yelled—the thickest filled with howls the reeling air;
Nor many a damn and many an oath, to roar were hundreds slow
'Gainst him whose chickenheartedness stole from them half the show,
Ay, hundreds swore 'twas cursed hard that out of half the fun
They'd waited there five hours for, at last they should be done;
And women who'd for windows paid, were sure 'twas never right
They should turn the man off fainting and spoil their paidfor sight;
But through the ghastly hell of sound—of curse and howl and yell,
The hangman lifts the senseless wretch from where he fainting fell,
And down the clammy forehead—and down the ashen face,
The cap is drawn, the tightened noose is settled in its place;
Now God have mercy upon him upon whom men have none!
A swinging form—a quivering corpse—a stillness—all is done;
A minute more, the sunshine is merry once again
With the buzz of talk and laughing of those who still remain,
With the settling by noisy knots of idlers through the street,
Of which shall be the gin-shop to finish off the treat;
Some, deep in plans of crimes to do, are lounging off to find
Fresh gallows' food, to virtue, to awe the public mind,
And lovers of the good old times and gibbet walk off loud
In praises of the moral good the hanging's done the crowd.