This desultory chapter may be brought to a close by an interesting item regarding Mrs. Docherty, the last victim of the West Port murderers, to which publicity was given by the Glasgow Herald shortly after the conclusion of the trial. “The poor woman Sally Docherty or Campbell,” it was stated, “was well known amongst the inhabitants of the Old Wynd, Glasgow, about two years ago, where she kept a lodging-house for indigent people. She was a thin-faced woman, generally wore a red duffle-cloak, and had, of course, experienced a great deal of hardships in the station of life to which she was habituated. At the period alluded to, she had a son, a shoemaker, and a young man for a husband, of the name of Campbell. The last time she appeared in the Glasgow police office was as the complainer against this fellow, who is still living, for demolishing all the crockery, and pulling down her grate from the fire-place.” It was in search of the son mentioned in this notice that Mrs. Docherty went to Edinburgh, where she met with a death the violent nature of which was not inconsistent with the sad life she had lived. But it is a remarkable fact that while the murder of this poor woman was the crime which led to the discovery of the dreadful conspiracy in which Burke and Hare were engaged, and to the execution of the former, the popular mind speedily lost hold of the fact, and oral tradition in many parts of the country—in the city of Edinburgh itself—even to this day, has it that Burke suffered the last penalty of the law on the scaffold for the murder of Daft Jamie.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Burke’s Spiritual Condition—The Erection of the Scaffold—The Criminals Last Hours—Scene at the Execution—Behaviour of the People.
The hour for the closing scene of the Burke and Hare tragedy was now almost come, and Burke, to all appearance, seemed to regard his approaching fate with composure. He is even reported to have declared that had a pardon been offered him he would have refused it; but, if the story is true, it is more likely that the firm conviction that a pardon would not be granted had as much to do with the remark as any sentiment of resignation. It was simply a case of bowing before the inevitable. And so far as the outward affairs of religion were concerned the condemned man was very attentive, though it could not be said that he looked forward to eternity with hope, or, if he did, he kept his feelings very much to himself. A large section of the people, always inclined for dogmatic discussion on religious matters, found full scope for their critical powers in the consideration of Burke’s spiritual state. The rank and unbending Calvinists argued that a new spiritual birth was, under the circumstances, if possible—and on that point they were doubtful—not at all probable; while the Armenians, with a wider theology, thought in the words of the Paraphrase:—
“As long as life its term extends,
Hope’s blest dominion never ends;
For while the lamp holds on to burn,
The greatest sinner may return.”
Theologians, however, could discuss as much as they liked, but it was never certain whether Burke’s spiritual state was such as to give reason for hope.
The execution, it has already been seen, was fixed to take place on Wednesday, the 28th January, 1829, and to this event the people had looked forward with a ghastly satisfaction. Indeed, so high did public feeling run that the authorities deemed it prudent to remove Burke from Calton Hill Jail to the lock-up in Liberton’s Wynd at four o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, the 27th January, the day before the execution. This was absolutely necessary, as, had the removal taken place at a time when the people were about, or were expecting it, the probability was that, instead of undergoing a judicial execution, Burke would have been torn to pieces by an infuriated mob. The long confinement in prison had not changed his appearance much. He was given a black suit in which to appear on the scaffold, and this afforded him some consolation. Shortly after noon on the same day, preparations were begun at the place of execution in the Lawnmarket. Strong poles were fixed in the street, to support the chain by which the crowd was to be kept back, and on this occasion the space was considerably larger than usual. The work progressed, witnessed by a large crowd, which gradually swelled in size, as the excited people came to see the erection of the structure that was to work legal vengeance on a hated murderer. As the night went on, and the work approached completion, the rain fell heavily, but the crowd, notwithstanding, showed no diminution; and whenever any important part of the erection was finished they raised an approving cheer. About half-past ten o’clock the frame of the gibbet was brought to the spot, and its appearance was the signal for a tremendous shout. It was quickly put in its place, for the men did their work with a grim satisfaction, and when all was completed, the crowd, as a contemporary newspaper put it, “evinced their abhorrence of the monster Burke, and all concerned in the West Port murders, by three tremendous cheers; and these were heard as far away as Princes Street.” This was about two o’clock in the morning, and, wet and dismal though it was, those anxious to see Burke suffer for his crimes were beginning to take up their places. Closes and stairs were quickly packed by intending sight-seers, who preferred to remain outside all morning than run the risk of being disappointed by arriving late. By seven o’clock the vicinity of the scaffold was occupied by one of the densest crowds until that time witnessed on the streets of Edinburgh—from 20,000 to 25,000 persons were calculated to be present—many of the best people in the city being among them. Every window giving a view of the place of execution had been bought up some days previous, the price paid varying, according to the excellence of the view, from five to twenty shillings. “The scene at this time,” said the writer already quoted, “was deeply impressive. No person could without emotion survey such a vast assemblage, so closely wedged together, gazing on the fatal apparatus, and waiting in anxious and solemn silence the arrival of the worst of murderers.”
Matters, meanwhile, had been going on quietly inside the prison. Burke had, during the day, been visited by the Rev. Messrs. Reid and Stewart, two priests of the Roman Catholic Church, and the Rev. Messrs. Porteous and Marshall, Protestant ministers, and he received their spiritual consolations calmly, but without much apparent benefit, though he lamented his connection with the murders to which he had confessed. He slept soundly the greater part of that night, and rose about five o’clock on the Wednesday morning. Shortly after wakening he held up his hands, and remarked, with an earnestness that struck his attendants, “Oh, that the hour was come which shall separate me from this world!” This was thoroughly dramatic, but whether it proceeded from a weariness of this life and a hope for a better, can never be known. An incident even more dramatic, but similar in character, occurred shortly afterwards. He had been placed in irons shortly after his condemnation, and he now expressed a desire to be freed from them. The men proceeded to knock them off, and the fetters fell with a “clank” on the floor of the cell. “So may all my earthly chains fall!” exclaimed Burke. These remarks, whatever his spiritual condition, showed that he was a man, however debased by a terrible course of wickedness, of considerable education and natural refinement. About half past six o’clock the two Catholic clergymen who had been so attentive to him arrived at the lock-up, and for half an hour he was closeted with Mr. Reid. Then he entered the keepers room, and sat down for a short time in an arm-chair by the side of the fire, deeply immersed in thought—that his meditations were saddening was apparent by the heavy sighs that came now and then from his breast. He was at last fairly in the presence of death; but the law was more merciful to him than he had been to his victims—he was given time to prepare for the awful change, but they were hurled in the midst of their sins, drunken and unrepentant, into eternity. Bailies Small and Crichton had meantime entered the jail, and the two priests commenced the last religious exercises. The condemned man joined in the devotions with apparent fervour, and he seemed much affected by the exhortation to “confide in the mercy of God.” After that he retired to an adjoining apartment, but on the way he was met by Williams, the executioner, who accosted him in an unceremonious manner. Burke waved him away, remarking, “I am not just ready for you yet,” but Williams followed him, and set about the work of pinioning. The criminal submitted to the operation without a movement, and simply remarked that his handkerchief was tied behind. When this was done he accepted a glass of wine which was offered him, and on putting it to his lips he looked around, and gave his last toast—“Farewell to all my friends!” For a few minutes he talked with the Protestant ministers, and then the magistrates, dressed in their official robes, re-entered the room, with their rods in their hands. Burke, seeing the end had now come, expressed his gratitude to the magistrates, and especially to Bailie Small, for their kindness to him, and also to the prison and lock-up officials. The solemn procession then formed, and marched out of the jail to the scaffold.