The eventful day at length dawned when the scaffold was to be brought into requisition. “The condemned sermon” of the day before, to say nothing of the evident bustle that was going on, had sufficiently prepared our minds for what was about to happen; and the getting our breakfasts half an hour earlier, and the omission of the usual passage cleaning, all clearly pointed to some unusual occurrence. My friend the warder, too, kept me thoroughly au courant with what was passing, and when giving me my breakfast added, “Well, I sha’n’t be back just yet, as I’ve got to assist at a little business down below that will take about an hour.” After, therefore, he had left me, I mounted my stool, and having contemplated Mike’s handiwork with considerable satisfaction, removed the pane of glass and awaited the procession with very much the same sensation that I have looked out for the passing of the Lord Mayor’s Show or Mr. Hengler’s circus. The view I anticipated can hardly be said to have been obtained under the most favourable circumstances. Perched on a stool, and liable, if detected, of getting into a very serious scrape, was in itself sufficient to infuse a certain amount of alloy into the transaction; but when to all this must be added my own feelings—that here was I, ONE prisoner actually confined within the same walls, and watching the execution of ANOTHER prisoner—it will readily be conceived that a piquancy was introduced into the proceeding such as seldom or ever has fallen to the lot of an individual in my position. I could not have had long to wait, though the discomfort of my position and the anxiety attending it made it appear a matter of hours; and no twenty stone of humanity ever suffered more torture than I did whilst with craned neck and squinting through a crevice I awaited the advent of this hideous procession. The dismal toll of St. Sepulchre’s bell and the distant tramp of advancing footsteps, however, announced that the “time had come.” I could distinctly hear the “Ordinary” repeating in very ordinary tones portions of the Burial Service as the weird procession passed below me; a dense fog made it very indistinct, but there it was almost beneath me—the warders first, then the Governor, and then the condemned man trussed like a turkey, supported by Marwood, and immediately preceded by the chaplain. I could have dropped a biscuit amongst the party, so near were they, as they passed through a wicket and were lost to sight. A solemn silence now ensued, followed after a few moments that appeared like hours by a terrible thud; and I pictured to myself the lately scrubbed floor giving way, and my fellow-prisoner suspended mid-air in that dark and bottomless pit. The closing of the outer shed doors recalled me to my senses, and the approaching sound of footsteps, as the “small and early party” dispersed, some to breakfast and some to the morning paper, but all to reassemble an hour hence for the inquest, the quicklime, the thrusting into a hole, and the general obliteration of the morning’s work, suggested to me the advisability of at once restoring my apartment to its normal condition. So with one piece of bread jammed into the window, and another jammed into my mouth, I resumed my breakfast as if perfectly oblivious of the terrible drama that had just taken place. A few hours later we were exercising in the identical yard, and the modest coach-house with its closed doors looked as disused as the portals of a swimming-bath on Christmas Day.

The scene just enacted and the dÉbris of my breakfast forcibly recalled to my mind an execution I witnessed many years ago from, as I believe, the identical eating-house that had just supplied me with my breakfast. It was in ’65, as near as I can recollect, that myself and three or four others engaged a room on the first floor with two windows to witness the execution of MÜller for the murder of Mr. Briggs. A public hanging has been so often and so graphically described that I hesitate to attempt to add anything that is not already known. On the night before (Sunday) we agreed to rendezvous at 10 o’clock at the Raleigh Club. It was raining in torrents, and it was a question in our minds whether or no we should brave the elements; but an empty four-wheeler standing outside settled the point, and we proceeded on our ghastly journey. As it turned out, the deluge was all in our favour, for had it been fine we should never have got near the place, and would assuredly have shared the fate of a cab-load of young Guardsmen who had preceded us about an hour, and who unluckily arrived between the showers and never got beyond Newgate Lane; at this point they were politely but firmly invited to descend, stripped to their shirts, and then asked where the cabman should drive them to. We, however, were more fortunate. In a sheet of water that even the stoutest burglar found to be irresistible, we alighted in a comparatively deserted street in front of our unpretending coffee-house; and a few minutes found us in a cosy room with a blazing fire, and a servant who had preceded us laying out the contents of a hamper of prog. The scene on the night previous to a public execution afforded a study of the dark side of nature, not to be obtained under any other conditions. The lowest scum of London appeared to be here collected in dense masses, which, as the hour of execution approached, amounted, according to the Times, to at least 100,000 people. The front of Newgate was strongly barricaded, huge barriers of stout beams traversing the street in all directions; they were intended as a precaution against the pressure of the crowd; they, however, answered another purpose, not wholly anticipated by the authorities. As the crowd increased, so wholesale highway robberies were of momentary occurrence; 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 that surrounded the scaffold.

The scene that met our view as we pulled up the windows and looked out on the black night and its still blacker accompanyists baffles description. A surging mass, with here and there a flickering torch, rolled and roared before us; above this weird scene arose the voices of men and women shouting, singing, blaspheming; and as night advanced, and the liquor 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 us, accompanied by more blasphemy and shouts of defiance. It was difficult to believe we were 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 we realized that the scaffold was being dragged round. A grim, square, box-like apparatus was now indistinctly visible, as it was slowly backed against the “debtors’ door.” Lights now flickered about the scaffold; it was the workmen fixing the crossbeams and uprights. Every stroke of the hammer must have vibrated through the condemned cells, and warned the wakeful occupant that his time was nearly come. These cells are situated at the corner nearest Holborn, and passed by thousands daily who little know how much misery that bleak white wall divides them from. Gradually as day dawned the scene became more animated, and battalions of police marched down and surrounded the scaffold. Meanwhile a little unpretending door was gently opened; this is the “debtors’ door,” and leads direct through the kitchen on to the scaffold. The kitchen on these occasions is turned into a temporary mausoleum, and draped with tawdry black hangings, which conceal the pots and pans, and produce an effect supposed to be more in keeping with the solemn occasion. From our standpoint everything was visible inside the kitchen and on the scaffold; to the surging mass in the streets below this bird’s-eye view was, however, denied. Presently an old and decrepit man made his appearance, and cautiously “tested” the drop; but a foolish impulse of curiosity led him to peep over the drapery, and a yell of execration saluted him. This was Calcraft, the hangman, hoary-headed and tottering and utterly past his work.

The tolling of St. Sepulchre’s about 7.30 A.M. announced the approach of the hour of execution; meanwhile a steady rain was falling, which, however, in no way decreased 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 the service, and tightly packed with human beings eager to catch a glimpse of a fellow-creature 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 on 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, and below a gaping chasm. Here, however, all was reversed; there was no need to deceive the chief actor by resorting to such a subterfuge: he was to expiate his crime with all the publicity 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 and breakfast at 9 A.M.

The procession now appeared, winding its way through the kitchen, and in the centre of the group walked MÜller, a sickly, delicate-looking lad, securely pinioned and literally as white as marble. As he reached the platform, he looked up, and placed himself immediately under the hanging chain. At the end of this chain was a hook, which was eventually attached to the hemp round the poor wretch’s neck. The concluding ceremonies did not take long, considering how feeble the aged hangman was. A white cap was first placed over his face, then his ankles were strapped together, and finally the fatal noose was put round his neck, the end of which was then attached to the hook. I fancy I can see Calcraft now, laying the “slack” of the rope that was to give the fall lightly on the doomed man’s shoulder, so as to preclude the possibility of a hitch, and then stepping on tiptoe down the steps and disappearing below. The silence now was truly awful. I felt my heart in my mouth; it was the most terrific suspense I had ever realized. I felt myself involuntarily saying, “He could be saved YET, YET, YET;” and then a thud, that vibrated through the street, announced that MÜller was launched into eternity. My eyes were literally glued to the spot. I was fascinated by the awful sight; not a detail escaped me. Calcraft meanwhile, apparently not satisfied with his handiwork, seized hold of the wretch’s feet and pressed on them for some seconds with all his weight, and with a last approving look shambled back into the prison. Meanwhile the white cap was getting tighter and tighter, until it looked ready to burst; and a faint blue speck that had almost immediately appeared on the carotid artery after the drop fell gradually became more livid till it assumed the appearance of a huge black bruise. Death, I should say, must have been instantaneous, for he never stirred a muscle, and the only movement that was visible was that from the gradually stretching rope as the body 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 ended with, “MÜller, MÜller, he’s the man”; but the pickpockets and the 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 there they were 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.

From our window I saw an interesting case of mistaken identity, and I was glad to have the opportunity of saving an innocent man from arrest. The incident was referred to in the next day’s papers, and was briefly this. A well-dressed old man had had his scarf-pin pulled out, and a policeman by this time being luckily near, a lad standing by was taxed with the theft. We, however, from our vantage ground had seen the whole affair, and recognized the real culprit, who was standing coolly by whilst the innocent man was being marched off. By shouting and hammering with our sticks, we eventually succeeded in attracting the notice of the constable, and pointed out the real culprit, and the pin was then and there found on him.

Whilst these incidents were going on, 9 o’clock was gradually approaching, the hour when the body was to be cut down. A few minutes previously two prisoners had brought out the shell—a common deal one, perforated with holes. I remember remarking at the time how small it looked; and my conjecture proved correct, for it was with difficulty that the body could be squeezed in. It showed with what consummate skill and regard to economy the exact size of the body must have been calculated. With its clothes on, the corpse was too big for the shell; divested of them, however, there was doubtless ample room, not only for it, but for the layers of quicklime that enveloped it. And now Calcraft again appeared, and producing a clasp-knife, with one arm he hugged the body and with the other severed the rope. It required two slashes of the feeble old arm to complete this final ceremony, and then the head fell with a flop on the old man’s breast, who, staggering under the weight, jammed it into the shell. The two prisoners then carried it into the prison, the debtors’ door closed till again required to open for a similar tragedy, and the crowd meanwhile having sufficiently decreased, enabled us to go home to bed, and to dream of the horrors of the past twelve hours.