Far more dreadful were some cases which engaged the tender heart of Silas. A young man, named Coleman, was tried for an aggravated assault on a young woman. The young woman herself declared that Coleman was not the man; but he had enemies who pressed apparent circumstances against him, and urged them on the young woman, to induce her to change her opinion. She never wavered; yet, singular to say, he was convicted and executed. A short time after the real criminal was discovered, by his own confession; he was also tried, condemned, and executed, and the perjured witnesses against poor Coleman sentenced to stand in the pillory.
But one of the most pitiful and dreadful cases in Silas Told’s experience was that of Mary Edmondson, a sweet young girl, tried upon mere circumstantial evidence, and executed on Kennington Common, for the supposed murder of her aunt at Rotherhithe. She appears to have been most brutally treated; the mob believed her to be guilty, and received her with shocking execrations. Whether Silas had a prejudice against her or not, we cannot say; it is not likely that he had a prejudice against any suffering soul; but it so happened, he says, as he had not visited her in her imprisonment, so he entertained no idea of seeing her suffer. But as he was passing through the Borough, a pious cheesemonger, named Skinner, called him into his shop, tenderly expressed deep interest in her present and future state, and besought him to see her; so his first interview with her was only just as she was going forth to her sad end.
Silas shall tell the story himself: “When she was brought into the room, she stood with her back against the wainscot, but appeared perfectly resigned to the will of God. I then addressed myself to her, saying, ‘My dear, for God’s sake, for Christ’s sake, for the sake of your own precious soul, do not die with a lie in your mouth; you are, in a few moments, to appear in the presence of the holy God, who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity. Oh, consider what an eternity of misery must be the position of all who die in their sins!’ She heard me with much meekness and simplicity, but answered that she had already advanced the truth, and must persevere in the same spirit to her last moments.” Efforts were made to prevent Told from accompanying her any farther, and the rioters were so exasperated against her that Told seems only to have been safe by keeping near to the sheriff along the whole way. The sheriff also told him that he would be giving a great satisfaction to the whole nation, could he only bring her to a confession. “Now, as we were proceeding on the road, the sheriff’s horse being close to the cart, I looked up at her from under the horse’s bridle, and I said, ‘My dear, look to Jesus.’ This quickened her spirit, insomuch that although she had not looked about her before, she turned herself round to me, and said, ‘Sir, I bless God I can look to Jesus—to my comfort.’”
Arrived at the place of execution, he spoke to her again solemnly, “Did you not commit the act? Had you no concern therein? Were you not interested in the murder?” She said, “I am as clear of the whole affair as I was the day my mother brought me into the world.” She was very young, she had all the aspects of innocence about her. The sheriff burst into tears, and turned his head away, exclaiming, “Good God! it is a second Coleman’s case!”
At this moment her cousin stepped up into the cart, and sought to kiss her. She turned her face away, and pushed him off. She had before charged him with being the murderer—and he was. When subsequently taken up for another crime, he confessed the committal of this. Her aunt had left to Mary, in the event of her death, more money than to this wretch. The executioner drew the cart away, and Mary’s body—leaning the poor head, in her last moments, on Silas’s shoulder—dear old Silas, her only comfort in that terrible hour—fell into the arms of death. But he tells how she was cold and still before the cart was drawn away.
But perhaps a still more pitiful case was that of poor Anderson, who was hanged for stealing sixpence: he was a labouring man, and had been of irreproachable character. He and his wife—far gone with child—were destitute of money, clothes, and food. He said to his wife, “My dear, I will go out, down to the quays; it may be that the Lord will provide me with a loaf of bread.” All his efforts were fruitless, but passing through Hoxton Fields, he met two washerwomen. He did not bid them stop, but he said to one, “Mistress, I want money.” She gave him twopence. He said to the other, “You have money, I know you have.” She said, “I have fourpence.” He took that. Insensible of what might follow, as of what he had done, he walked down into Old Street: there, the two women having followed him gave him in charge of a constable. He was tried, sentenced to death, and for this he died. “Never,” says Told, “through the years I have attended the prisoners, have I seen such meek, loving, patient spirits as this man and his wife.” Told attended him to execution, and sought to comfort the poor fellow by promising him to look after his wife; and most tenderly did Told and his wife redeem the promise, for they took her for a short time into their own home. Told obtained a housekeeper’s situation for her, and she became a creditable and respected woman. He bound her daughter apprentice to a weaver, and she, probably, turned out well, although he says, “I have never seen her but twice since, which is many years ago.”
Our readers will, perhaps, think that it is time we drew these harrowing stories to a close; but there are many more of them in this brief, but most interesting, although forgotten autobiography. They are recited with much pathos. We have the story of Harris, the flying highwayman; of Bolland, a sheriff’s officer, who was executed for forging a note, although he had refunded the money, and twice afterwards paid the sum of the bill to secure himself. A young gentleman, named Slocomb, defrauded his father of three hundred pounds; his father would not in any way stir, or remit his claim, to save him. Told attended him and thought highly of him, not only because he expressed himself with so much resignation, but because he never indulged a complaint against him whom Told calls “that lump of adamant, his father.” With him was executed another young gentleman, named Powell, for forgery. Silas Told also attended that cruel woman, Elizabeth Brownrigg, who was executed for the atrocious murder of her apprentices. And of all the malefactors whom he attended she seems to us the most unsatisfactory.
We trust our readers will not be displeased to receive these items from the biography of a very remarkable, a singularly romantic and chequered, as well as singularly useful career. References to Silas Told will be found in most of the biographies of Wesley. Southey passes him by with a very slight allusion. Tyerman dwells on his memory with a little more tenderness; but, with the exception of Stevens, none has touched with real interest upon this extraordinary though obscure man, and his romantic life and labours in a very strange path of Christian benevolence and usefulness. He was known, far and near, as the “prisoners’ chaplain,” although an unpaid one. He closed his life in 1778, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. As we have seen, John Wesley appropriately officiated at his funeral, and pronounced an affectionate encomium over the remains of his honoured old friend and fellow-labourer.