The Lord have mercy on your souls!
Past twelve o'clock!
THE BELLMAN.
All you that in the condemned hold do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die.
We may imagine, if we pause a moment, with the fearful story of that historic prison in our minds, the condemned men, merrymaking up to the last and receiving curious and dissolute visitors in their imprisonment, having their reckless carousing broken in upon by that awful message, and halting a moment, with an icy terror striking in upon their nerves, to realise that this, then, was the last chapter in their lives. We are not to suppose, however, that these solemn words, ordained by the excellent Robert Dowe, made a lasting impression on those for whom they were intended. The passing citizen, or the honest tradesman lying wakeful in his bed, probably was more deeply impressed. The criminals themselves, as the long story of them through the dreadful centuries shows, were mostly callous. They had, the larger number of them, long over-passed the dread of death; and even with those who were afraid, it was by tradition a point of honour to take that last journey to Tyburn as gaily as though they were the central figures in some merrymaking, instead of going to their own shameful extinction. Indeed, the populace expected no less, and while they were ready to applaud the highwayman, who made his exit in gala costume, and with something that might pass for wit on his lips, and were eager for the honour of shaking him by the hand, they were not backward with curses, stones, and mud when some poor devil, unnerved, or perhaps even penitent, broke down and was drawn, a miserable object, to the gallows.