The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 251: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. 237 997 no mockery, but an awful, appalling, stupendous | something white projecting from the sheriff's reality! Yes—there was death in all this—death —death!—and the hideous conviction struck to the soul of Dysart that he was duped—deluded— deceived,—aye, unto the very verge of that grave which was already yawning at his feet! Such were the thoughts that swept, ghastly as a train of spectres and swift as a flight of birds, through the imagination of Dysart. But the next instant his presence of mind returned: and allina moment did he marshal! and review in his fancy the circumstances that were favourable to him, The governor had solemnly affirmed that a despatch had arrived from the Home Office: he himself had seen the sheriff produce this despatch in order to display it to the chaplain ;—and Daniel Coffin had given him assurances relative to the nature of its contents. It must be, then, a reprieve—it could be nothing else: oh! no—it could be nothing else ! But this hideous uncertainty !—the agonies, the tortures, the excruciations of a thousand racks were comprised therein! Oh! if he had not been so rash—so precipitate in trusting to others—if he had accepted the alternative of the three years’ im- prisonment—he would at least have been spared these immitigable horrors—these rending agonies! But was it too late? No: he would tell the sheriff and the governor everything—how his wife held the solemnly recorded pledge of the Prince Regent —how the compromise of three years’ imprison- ment had been offered him—and how he would now rather accept this proposal than proceed any farther in the pathway which terminated at the scaffold! But, oh! miserable wretch that he was—his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth—he could not speak—he felt as if burning ashes were in his throat! Horror of horrors! what was he to do? Fleet and fast did his thoughts thus travel through his brain. Travel! they swept along quicker than the lightning! A whole volume would not contain the reflections which he thus made in the time that his feet were only taking a dozen steps! The page which now affords a succinct outline of those thoughts, sinks into utter insignificance when compared with the vast folios and bulky tomes that these ideas, if chronicled at length, would fill! His brain was on fire: it whirled— whirled—and yet he could not give utterance to a single one of those myriad million thoughts that were thus sweeping —dashing—flying—gushing— tearing through that maddening brain! And now the breeze suddenly blows more freshly upon his countenance—and at the same instant his eyes, plunging through the opening of a low narrow doorway, recoil as it were from the sinister object which bursts upon them. For he is now traversing the little kitchen which is just inside that ominous- looking door whereon no eye ever fails to linger a moment when passing along the front of New- gate! “ Courage!” whispers a voice in Dysart’s ear: he looks aside for an instant—and beholds the blackened countenance of the Hangman. Recalled to himself, as it were from a hideous dream in which he appeared to have been walking, Dysart does summon all his courage to his aid: and fortunately for the complete gathering of his pre- sence of mind at this supreme moment, he observes TY FTE, ee ne mm rem pocket. Ah! it is the reprieve—the reprieve which he has placed thus handy, so that it may be drawn forth in a moment. After all, Dysart | feels that he is safe: and he ascends the steps of | the scaffold, pinioned and trussed for death, with | the conviction that he shall speedily descend those steps again to enter upon a new lease of life! A solemn stillness once more falls upon the crowd—and not a murmur is heard. His is nota crime which calls for the expression of public Opinion in yells and execrations: and therefore not a reproachful voice is heard—not an abusive syl- lable is uttered! A dimness comes upon Dysart’s eyes: he closes them hard—then opens them promptly again—and his sight has now a horrible clearness. The rapid glance which he flings right and left, shows him the countless myriads of human faces all turned towards that black funereal eminence on which he stands. The knell of St. Sepulchre’s church falls like a sledge-hammer upon his brain. The eyes of the multitudes seem to pierce him through and through. And these are his sensations during the first quarter of a minute that he stands upon the scaffold: but then in that quarter of a minute are concentrated whole ages and ages of sense, feeling, faculty, and circumstance! He is now recalled to a livelier and keener appre- ciation of his position. by the touch of the Hangman, who nevertheless again breathes the word “ Courage” in his ear. He strives to speak: but at the instant his lips are wavering, the halter circles his neck: a shriek rises to the very tip of his tongue—but it is stifled by the sudden drawing down of the night-cap over his face, Then the fingers of the Hangman are lifted from him—and he hears the wretch hasten away, his heavy feet stamping upon the hollow platform and then rushing down tie ladder. For never, never were all Dysart’s faculties and organs of sense so acute as upon the present occa- sion: his very looks can penetrate dimly through the cotton night-cap drawn over his face! But ah! the sudden sound as of a bolt touched beneath his feet, came thrilling up to his ear: and now again—but oh! with what an overwhelming force—struck upon his soul the conviction that he was betrayed! Yes—now ’twas sure—certain— beyond all doubt: O horror, horror—horror of hor- rors! he was there on the drop—’twas giving way beneath his feet--—— It fell!—the blood gushed upward like lightning into his brain—strong spasms convulsed him—and in a few moments he hung a lifeless corpse! The aristocratic party at the windows opposite remained until nine o’clock, when the body was cut down. They then returned to the Saracen’s Head, paid the bill liberally, and took their departure in the Earl of Curzon’s carriage towards the West End. But in the meantime the Governor of Newgate was entertaining the sheriff, the under sheriffs, and the chaplain at breakfast, according to the custom which prevailed in those times relative to the mornings of public exeeution. ‘Poor Lady Ernestina!” said the governor, “she will be dreadfully eut up. She all along made sure of her husband being reprieved: and when she left him last evening she expressed her conviction that she should meet him again to-day, From what she con- E ReEomilGooo (C©@)