The prisoners were then led away from the bar; but Greenacre, instead of being conducted to the condemned cell, as is customary, was re-taken to the apartment which he had previously occupied. The reason for this alteration in his case, was the necessity which existed for a strict watch being maintained over him, to prevent a repetition of the attempt which he had made upon his own life, which there was good reason to apprehend; and it was felt that the inclemency of the weather would render such a duty in the lower cells of the prison, a punishment upon the attendant turnkeys of no ordinary severity. The demeanour of Greenacre, after his conviction, partook of the same firmness and determination which he had hitherto maintained; and upon the day after his condemnation he requested to be supplied with pens, ink, and paper. His desire was instantly complied with; and from this time he appeared to be occupied in the fabrication of a new statement, bearing the impress of truth, in reference to the foul crime for which he had been tried. He industriously applied himself for several days to this task; but none of the productions of his pen appeared to afford him satisfaction, and each was committed to the flames almost immediately upon its completion. In the course of the day after he received sentence of death, he was visited by the sheriffs, and to them he made a new confession of the circumstances of his crime. The general facts which he now detailed corresponded with the story he had told at the police-office; but in one most important particular he admitted the falsehood of that statement. This was with reference to the immediate cause of the death of Mrs. Brown; and he now stated that the unfortunate woman, having accompanied him home, as proved in evidence, they had taken tea together. Mrs. Brown afterwards proceeded to wash up the tea-things, and while she was so occupied, they continued a conversation which had before commenced, upon the subject of her property. He became enraged at the deception which she had practised on him, and seizing a rolling-pin which lay on the dresser, he menaced her with it, and at length struck her on the eye. She fell to the ground, and on his going to her, he was shocked to find that she was insensible, and apparently dead. He paced the room for some time, in terror at the act which he had committed, as he conjectured that he should be charged as her murderer, and began to reflect upon the best means of screening himself from the consequences of his guilt. A variety of methods presented themselves to his mind; but at length he hit upon the horrible expedient of dividing the limbs from the body, and disposing of the dissevered members separately. He, in consequence, immediately set about cutting off the head, and having done so, he suffered the whole of the blood to drain from it. This done, he determined instantly to get rid of this portion of the frame of his victim, and wrapping it in a silk pocket-handkerchief, he quitted the house with the horrible burden. On reaching Camberwell he got into an omnibus, which conveyed him to Gracechurch-street, and without alarm for the discovery of the contents of his bundle, he carried it on his knee during the whole journey. When he left the vehicle he scarcely knew which way to turn, but a Mile-End omnibus overtaking him as he reached Cornhill, he jumped into it, and was conveyed to the East end of the town, still carrying his dreadful load on his lap, in the same manner in which he had supported it before. On his leaving this second conveyance, he walked on until he reached the Regent’s Canal, and he pursued the course of it, until he came to the Lock at Stepney. An idea suddenly suggested itself to his mind, that this was the fitting place to get rid of the head, and without more ado he “shot it from the handkerchief into the water.” He then directly turned back, and on his way home he called at Mrs. Davis’s, in Bartholomew-close, with whom he entered into conversation, as described in the evidence. He slept in Carpenter’s-buildings alone on that night, out on the morning he went to Mrs. Gale’s lodgings, where he staid until the next day. At an early hour on the morning of the 26th of December, he proceeded to his own house, to dispose of the remaining parts of the body. He began by separating the legs from the trunk, and having done so, he packed them up in a sack and took them to Cold Harbour-lane (it being quite daylight at the time), and threw them into the osier bed. He then once more resumed his dreadful task at his house, in Carpenter’s-buildings, the trunk of the body being now all that he had to get rid of. The sack and the remnants of a gown which were discovered with the body, were the only coverings in which he could wrap these remains, and having securely corded them up, he took the bundle on his back and went out, undetermined as to the course which he should pursue to dispose of this remaining evidence of his guilt. A carrier’s cart passed him soon after he reached the public road, and his load being heavy, he requested permission to place it on the tail-board. This was acceded to, and he walked behind the cart as far as the Elephant and Castle, at Newington. The carrier there stopped to procure his dinner, and left him in the street to take care of the cart; but alarmed lest, during the prolonged absence of the driver, some accident might occur which should procure his detection, he called a hackney cab, and having thrown his bundle under the seat, directed that he should be driven to the Edgeware-road. On his arrival at the Pine Apple Gate, he quitted the vehicle, and paid the driver, and the man having turned back, he walked on towards Kilburn. A favourable opportunity soon presented itself for disposing of the load, and he deposited it behind the stone in the position in which it was found two days afterwards. This, also, he declared took place in the day-time, and he conceived that he underwent less risk in pursuing his operations thus openly, than in endeavouring to conceal them under the shades of night. On his return home, he burned the handkerchief in which he had carried the head, and he also wiped up the blood from the floor with flannels, which he disposed of by throwing them down the privy. This confession was not reduced to writing; but the evident object of the prisoner was to screen Mrs. Gale from the punishment which awaited her, and to raise a belief of her innocence. This, however, failed, for the evidence which was adduced with reference to her implication in the murder, was too clear to admit of any doubt being entertained; and indeed the general impression was, that the murder was the result of a pre-conceived determination, both of Greenacre and his paramour, in order to the accomplishment of which by the former, the latter only temporarily quitted his house. During the subsequent imprisonment of Greenacre, he appeared to be little anxious for the spiritual consolation of the reverend gentleman, who was the ordinary of the jail. He occasionally employed himself in the perusal of religious works, but was generally engaged in writing, although the result of his labours in this respect were, as we have already stated, usually burned. In the conversations which he had with the official persons, by whom he was visited, he complained loudly of the prejudices which had been excited against him by the circulation of a great many false accounts of circumstances which had occurred in his early life. He particularly referred to an allegation which had been made, of his having murdered one of his children, of which Mrs. Gale was the mother; and he asserted, and Mrs. Gale corroborated the truth of his declaration, upon her being separately questioned, that the child had died a natural death; although he admitted that he had disposed of it, by placing it at the door of a Mr. Dale, in Rupert-street, Haymarket, by whom it was sent to St. James’s Workhouse, where it lived for nine months.
On Wednesday, the 26th of April, the case of Greenacre was reported to his majesty by the Recorder, and the following Tuesday, the 2d of May, was fixed for the execution. The intelligence was on the same evening conveyed to the prisoner, but he seemed to have made up his mind to the impossibility of there being any mitigation in his punishment, and was unmoved. He declared that he cared nothing for death, although he was sacrificed to the prejudices of the world; but he shuddered at the thought of quitting life with the brand upon him of a wilful murderer. He maintained that he had committed no murder, and that he was to blame for nothing except the mutilation of the body of the deceased. At his meeting now with the ordinary, he declined his spiritual assistance, and said that he could find no relief in anything but inward prayer.
On the following Sunday the condemned sermon was preached in the chapel of the jail by Dr. Cotton, and the most intense anxiety was exhibited on the part of the public, to procure admission to this ceremony. Greenacre throughout the service conducted himself with much propriety, and repeated the responses with accuracy and precision. During the sermon, however, in which he was spoken of as a murderer, he appeared to be much incensed; and on his being subsequently visited by the worthy ordinary, he complained of the application of that term to him, and not without warmth, he declared, that he thought the observations which had been made might have been spared. Subsequently, however, he resumed his wonted composure, and he appeared to receive the attentions of the clergyman with more satisfaction. On Monday night he was requested to join the ordinary in partaking of the sacrament, but he declined to do so; and in the course of a conversation which passed upon the subject, he asserted, that although he believed that the Saviour was a very good man, he placed no credit in the assertion that he was the Son of God. To further questions which were put to him, he said that he believed in the existence of a Deity, and in a future state of rewards and punishments, but that he had no doubt that he should be happy, for that the sufferings through which he had passed in life were a sufficient atonement for any faults of which he had been guilty. On Monday night he slept soundly for several hours; but about four in the morning he arose and dressed himself, and indited several letters. He had completed these by seven, and at that hour he partook of some refreshment, and now, for the first time since he had entered Newgate, he was observed to shed tears. As the hour of eight approached his agitation increased, but he remained absorbed in silent meditation. Upon the appearance of the usual officers he submitted with calmness to the operation of pinioning; and this being completed, he requested as a favour, that he might not be long exposed to the gaze of the multitude without. The last words which he uttered conveyed a request that his spectacles might be given to Sarah Gale; and then, unheeding the remarks of Mr. Cotton, he joined the procession to the scaffold.
The exterior of the jail meanwhile presented a wondrous scene of confusion. The mob had begun to collect as early as ten o’clock on the night before, and at day-break on Tuesday morning, every spot was occupied from which a glimpse of the scaffold could be obtained. At four o’clock the erection of the scaffold was commenced; and the appearance of this instrument of death, as it was wheeled from the prison-yard, was hailed with three cheers of deafening applause. The same terrible welcome was given, at a subsequent period, to the transverse beam when it was raised above the platform; and again to the executioner, when he came forward to fasten the deadly halter on the chain which is suspended from it. The pressure of the crowd as the hour of execution approached became terrific; and many persons were carried from it, exhausted by their exertions. At a quarter before eight the bell of St. Sepulchre’s Church began to toll, and from that moment the screams and groans occasioned by the pressure from the two extremities of the crowd towards the centre were perfectly appalling. When the executioner again presented himself on the scaffold, however, to see that all the preparations were complete, every feeling seemed to give way to that of curiosity; but it became evident that there was a sensation in that immense assemblage, which would express itself in clamorous exultation as soon as ever the wretched criminal appeared, to atone for the blood which he had so unrelentingly shed. No sooner did those officers who usually precede the criminal to the place of execution, become visible, than it burst forth with a loud, deep, and sullen shout of execration against Greenacre, even before that miserable wretch came under the terrible ordeal of their indignant glance. As soon as he mounted the scaffold, the populace again exhibited their detestation of the bloody atrocity of which he had been convicted, by setting up a wild hurrah of approval of the retaliation which he was about to endure under the hands of the ministers of justice. He placed himself at once in the hands of the executioner, who was thus enabled to complete the final preparations for his death with unprecedented rapidity. The ordinary then read the commencing verse of the burial-service, and before it was concluded the bolt was withdrawn, Greenacre fell, and the vengeance of the law was accomplished. In two minutes from his first appearance on the platform he ceased to be a living man. One grasp of his hands was observed on the rope reaching its full tension,—nothing more, and then all but the relentless shout of the multitude, was still. In a few minutes afterwards the mob began to disperse; but a large concourse of persons remained until nine o’clock, when the body was cut down amidst a yell of triumph, which will live long in the memory of those who heard it. On the same night the body of the criminal was buried within the precincts of the jail, near to those of Thistlewood and others, who had been executed for high-treason.
Gale, it may be observed, during the latter part of her imprisonment, previously to the time of the execution of her late paramour, fell into a state of great despondency. She had been informed that an interview with Greenacre could not be permitted; and this, combined with the certainty of his death, and her apprehensions as to her own fate, reduced her to a state of the greatest mental weakness. The wretched woman, after some delay produced by the applications of her friends in her behalf, was, on the 26th of June, removed from Newgate to the Hulks, from whence eventually, accompanied by her child, she was transported.
Having now related the particulars of this atrocious case, we shall proceed to lay before our readers the sketch which Greenacre himself published of his life, during the period of his incarceration. It was in the following terms, and, as will be seen, was written before his trial.
“Having furnished my counsel and legal advisers with every true and particular statement of my case, I conceive it to be my necessary duty towards myself, my family, and a reflecting public, to pen a brief outline of my history, in the hope of counteracting the vindictive feeling and public prejudice which have been excited against me, through falsehood and exaggerated statements that have appeared in the public newspapers, and which it is my duty to refute, by immediately committing this narrative to paper, to prove to the world that I am not that bloody-minded character which is reported of me, to the prejudice of my character in the minds of those persons in whose hands my life is placed.
“I am not immaculate; neither am I without many sins of commission and omission; but that truth may appear, and that justice may be done to my name when I am no more, should the prejudice of my jury prevail over the extenuating facts of my case, I proceed to state the circumstances of my life.
“I was born in 1785, in Norfolk (at a village called Westwinch, two miles and a half from Lynn, we believe), of honest and industrious parents, who were farmers. I only, of a large family, relinquished the business of a farmer, and was put into business in the grocery line, in the parish of St. George, in the Borough, by my own parents, at the age of nineteen. From the moment I became a landlord, no tenant of mine ever questioned the kindness of my disposition; I have been many years in the possession of three cottages, which I built in Jane-place, Old Kent-road, and have had many tenants, but never distrained upon any of them for rent, but have always taken pleasure in assisting them in any difficulty, and have often, very often, given up to them their back rents or arrears that unavoidably happen to poor persons in cases of sickness, and the want of employment. I had also eight cottages in Bowyer-lane, Camberwell, but I never once distrained upon a tenant in my life, but have absolutely felt all the sympathy of a near relative, when my claim for rent has been met by an apology through sickness, in times of accouchment, and other causes of distress. I can with perfect safeness say, that of these eleven cottages, and those two in Carpenter’s-place, I never distrained upon a poor tenant in my life.
“Now, as regards my domestic history, I will just refer to a few demonstrations of my disposition and general character, as a husband, a father, and a respected friend. I have been a man of affliction, in losing three amiable companions, with whom I always lived in the most perfect harmony. It may be added, that I was no fortune-hunter in these cases; but I always sought after the prospects of my issue, by forming an alliance where my children might reap the advantages of their mother’s dower on the death of their parents; and I have much consolation in finding that my children, by each of my wives’ parents, are amply provided for by legacies. Before I pass over this trait in my character as a husband and a father, the scandalous reports of my enemies make it necessary to refer to the deaths of my wives. The first was the daughter of Charles Ware, of the Crown and Anchor Tavern, Woolwich, to whom I was married at the age of nineteen; my wife eighteen. I was then in business in the grocery line, by the assistance of my own parents, who were farmers in Norfolk. My wife died suddenly of a putrid sore throat. She was attended by that eminent physician, Dr. Blackburn, who, and whose assistants, admonished me not to go near my wife to receive her breath; but such being the result of my feelings, that I could not resist the force of affection, and there are many persons now living who can bear testimony to the fact, I took the complaint, and it nearly cost me my life. I engaged a respectable woman as housekeeper, who, as nurse and housekeeper, has since been in my service at intervals for a period equal to thirteen years, and who is now living. My next wife was the daughter of Mr. John Romford, a considerable land-owner in Essex. By this lady I also had two children. This wife died of a brain fever, brought on by exerting herself, I believe, riding on horseback, whilst on a visit at her own relations; and having an infant at the time, her milk was affected by the fever, which caused her death. Mr. Culthred, now residing in the Borough, attended her. My old housekeeper, who nursed my wife at each accouchment, now became my housekeeper again. I continued a widower fifteen months, and married Miss Simmonds, of Long-lane, Bermondsey, with whom I also lived in harmony and affection up to the time I went to America (May 1833). This amiable companion, with whom I had arranged to come after I had provided a home for her, died in London, of the cholera, about three weeks after my departure. By this wife I had seven children, two only of whom are living. My old housekeeper always attended as nurse to all my wives, and upon all occasions of sickness, making a period of near thirteen years. As a sober and affectionate husband, no person living can deny but this has uniformly been my character. I have always abhorred a public-house, and the babble of drunken men. The society of my books, and wife, and children, have always been to me the greatest source of delight that my mind could possibly enjoy.