Anything more gruesome and demoralizing than an eighteenth-century hanging it would be impossible to imagine. We know from contemporary accounts of Dodd’s execution that it differed only in detail from other hangings, which were at the time a common occurrence. His last night on earth was made hideous by the ringing of bells. Under the window of his cell a small bell was rung at frequent intervals by the watch, and he was reminded that he was soon to die, and that the time for repentance was short. At daybreak the great bell of St. Sepulchre’s Church just over the way began to toll, as was customary whenever prisoners in Newgate were being rounded up for execution.
“Hanging Days” were usually holidays. Crowds collected in the streets, and as the day wore on, they became mobs of drunken men, infuriated or delighted at the proceedings, according to their interest in the prisoners. At nine o’clock the Felon’s Gate was swung open and the prisoners were brought out. On this occasion, there were only two; frequently there were more—once indeed as many as fifteen persons were hanged on the same day. This was counted a great event.
Dodd was spared the ignominy of the open cart in which the ordinary criminal was taken to the gallows, and a mourning coach drawn by four horses was provided for him by some of his friends. This was followed by a hearse with an open coffin. The streets were thronged. After the usual delays the procession started, but stopped again at St. Sepulchre’s, that he might receive a nosegay which was presented him, someone having bequeathed a fund to the church so that this melancholy custom could be carried out. Farther on, at Holborn Bar, it was usual for the cortège to stop, that the condemned man might be regaled with a mug of ale.
Ordinarily the route from Newgate to Tyburn was very direct, through and along the Tyburn Road, now Oxford Street; but on this occasion it had been announced that the procession would follow a roundabout course through Pall Mall. Thus the pressure of the crowd would be lessened and everyone would have an opportunity of catching a glimpse of the unfortunate man; and everyone did. The streets were thronged, stands were erected and places sold, windows along the line of march were let at fabulous prices. In Hyde Park soldiers—two thousand of them—were under arms to prevent a rescue. The authorities were somewhat alarmed at the interest shown, and it was thought best to be on the safe side; the law was not to be denied.
Owing to the crowds, the confusion, and the out-of-the-way course selected, it was almost noon when the procession reached Tyburn. We do not often think, as we whirl in our taxis along Oxford Street in the vicinity of Marble Arch, that this present centre of wealth and fashion was once Tyburn. There is nothing now to suggest that it was, a century or two ago, an unlovely and little-frequented outskirt of the great city, given over to “gallows parties.”
At Tyburn the crowd was very dense and impatient: it had been waiting for hours and rain had been falling intermittently. As the coach came in sight, the crowd pressed nearer; Dodd could be seen through the window. The poor man was trying to pray. More dead than alive, he was led to the cart, on which he was to stand while a rope was placed about his neck. There was a heavy downpour of rain, so there was no time for the farewell address which Dr. Johnson had so carefully prepared. A sudden gust of wind blew off the poor man’s hat, taking his wig with it: it was retrieved, and someone clapped it on his head backwards. The crowd was delighted; this was a hanging worth waiting for. Another moment, and Dr. Dodd was swung into eternity.
Let it be said that there were some who had their doubts as to the wisdom of such exhibitions. Might not such frequent and public executions have a bad effect upon public taste and morals? “Why no, sir,” said Dr. Johnson; “executions are intended to draw spectators. If they do not draw spectators they do not answer their purpose. The old method is satisfactory to all parties. The public is gratified by a procession, the criminal is supported by it.” And his biographer, Hawkins, remarks complacently: “We live in an age in which humanity is the fashion.”
“And so they have hanged Dodd for forgery, have they?” casually remarked the Bishop of Bristol, from the depths of his easy-chair. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“How so, my Lord?”