Diligent search was made for the fugitive, but without effect. The brother was detained, but the extent of his crime was a misdemeanour.
The case of this lucky prisoner clearly exemplified, in the language of the prisoner about to receive judgment of death, that he did not believe he was “safe in the hands” of his jailors.
The story runs thus:—An Irishman had been convicted of a robbery at the Old Bailey sessions, for which he was brought up, with others at the conclusion of the session, to receive judgment of death. The ready wit and the natural disinclination of the Irish to give a straightforward answer to a question, are universally known and admitted. The prisoner in question on being called on by Mr. Shelton, the officer of the court, in the usual way, to declare what he had to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him, advanced to the front of the dock with a vacant stare, and inquired “What was the question?”
Mr. Shelton.—You have been convicted of robbery; what have you to say why sentence of death shall not be passed upon you, according to law?
Prisoner.—Faith, I have nothing much to say, except that I do not think I am safe in your hands.
The answer was received with a loud burst of laughter, which even the melancholy nature of the scene could not prevent the learned recorder from joining in. The gravity of the court was, however, soon again put to the test. Sentence had been passed, and the prisoner was about to retire from the bar, when he was unexpectedly called back by Mr. Shelton, who demanded to know his age.
Prisoner.—Is it my age you mean?
Mr. Shelton.—What is your age?
Prisoner.—I believe I am pretty well as ould as ever I’ll be.
Again the whole court was convulsed with laughter; but the wretched man, whose laughter-moving qualities were purely involuntary, was doomed even at “the last scene of all,” to raise the mirth of the spectators of his fate. He was in due form taken from his cell, and the ordinary of the jail attending him, he was conducted to the press-room to be bound, preparatory to his going out to the scaffold. His irons were removed, and his arms confined with cords in the customary manner, but the willing compliance exhibited by the wretched convict in the proceedings which had hitherto taken place, to assist the executioner in performing his office, suddenly ceased. He sat down on a bench, and in spite of the calls of Jack Ketch, and of the sheriffs to accompany them in procession to the scaffold, he remained sullenly on the bench, where he had first taken up his position. “Come,” at last urged Jack Ketch, “the time is arrived;” but his coaxing words and tone were unavailing. “The officers are waiting for you,” said the sheriffs; “can anything be done for you before you quit this world?” No answer was returned. At length, said Jack Ketch, grown surly at the long delay and the silence of the prisoner, “If you won’t go, you know I must carry you.” “Then you may,” said the prisoner, “for I’ll not walk.” “Why not?” inquired the sheriff. “I’ll not be instrumental to my own death,” hesitated the prisoner. “What do you mean?” asked the ordinary. “What do I mane?” answered the unfortunate man. “I’ll not walk to my own destruction;” and in this determination he remained, and Jack Ketch and his assistants were eventually absolutely compelled to carry him to the scaffold, where he was turned off, continuing in his refusal to do anything which might be construed into “his being a party to his own death.”