Quiet and brave, as he has been through his long trial, the man in the dock rises to his feet when his judges return. Courage is stamped on the strong, deep lines of his face, though the face is white as his soft ruffles, or as the snowy vest that lies beneath his russet coat. Coming forward, he listens calmly while they declare him guilty, bowing to the Bench. A thrill runs through the court when the foreman pronounces the dread word, but, though all hearts are throbbing with pain, one fond hope rises in every breast—that the power of a gracious king will rescue this erring genius from a shameful death. Also, the poor servant himself thinks first of his royal master; for as he is conducted back to loathsome Newgate, he tells the friends around him that, although he has been the victim of persecution, he can perceive a beam of mercy. Alas, he could not know his sovereign!
A week later the dreary session draws to a close, and Ryland is brought up again, and alone, before the rest of the convicts, to hear his sentence. Calmly and bravely he bears this ordeal like the last. Already two petitions have been presented at Windsor—one the day after he was condemned, the other on the thirtieth of the month. It is supposed that he will be kept alive for a while, since he has begged that his life may be preserved a little longer, not for his own sake, but that he may finish some plates for the benefit of his wife and children. Even the heart of royal George may have been touched by the piteous request. So the prisoner spends the gloomy days in toiling at his task, scraping the copper sheets with his stipple-graver, literally dying in harness. Nor is it inadequate work, for when his printer is allowed to bring him the proofs he is able to murmur with satisfaction, “Mr Haddrill, my task is finished!” Yet two pictures after all are left incomplete, one of which Bartolozzi, to whom he sends to beg the favour, and who owes him as a master of his craft so much, promises to take in hand, while jovial William Sharp polishes the other. For King George, when pressed once more to spare the poor artist because of his great genius, replies sternly—“No; a man with such ample means of providing for his wants could not reasonably plead necessity as an excuse for his crime.” Material logic, worthy of the man!
On Friday, the 29th of August, dawns the fatal morning. Before nine o’clock the outer Press Yard is overflowing with sight-seers; but because of Governor Akerman’s humane order, none are allowed within the smaller court to disturb the last moments of the unhappy sufferers. Presently the iron-studded door of the lodge is flung open, and Sheriff Taylor, bearing his wand of office, enters the prison to demand the bodies of his victims. Then through the expectant crowd the turnkeys slowly force a path, and down this narrow lane the malefactors walk one by one with hideous clank of fetters. On his knees beside a block of stone a creature with punch and hammer deftly rids them of their chains. Five times the strident blows echo through the vaulted walls, while as many unhappy wretches pass into the hands of the hangman’s lacqueys, busy with their bonds and cords. Last of all comes a slim, graceful figure, clad in a suit of mourning with white ruffles and silver shoe-buckles, unencumbered by chains, walking as unconcernedly as though he were a spectator of the scene. A shudder runs through the throng as all eyes rest upon the gifted artist, who, as he passes on, quietly salutes those friends whom he chances to recognise. With a respectful bow the Sheriff advances and leads the prisoner to the lodge, away from the crowded quadrangle.
“Don’t tie Mr Ryland too tight,” he commands the attendants as they fasten the cords.
“Never mind, sir,” is the quiet answer; “they give me no uneasiness.”
All the time he chats calmly to those around, bearing himself in this, as through all other scenes to the end, as a brave heart and a gentleman. Then the clatter of arms is heard outside, for the City Marshal is bringing up his troop. A moment later the door is thrown back, and from the steps a stentorian voice bellows aloud, “Mr Ryland’s coach.” With brisk, easy steps he passes out into the street, closely followed by the attendant Ordinary. Suddenly he springs forward, and in an instant a tiny girl has thrown her little hands around his pinioned arms, while he kisses her passionately—his own daughter, the child of sin. Tenderly they induce him to hasten the agonising farewell, but his steel-clad soul is steadfast and unshaken. Tearing himself away, he hurries on with a firm tread.
Then the procession moves forward. A strong company of Sheriff’s men and City Marshal’s constables leads the way, parting the dense surging mob for the progress of the official chariots and the black mourning-coach that follows next in line. Another carriage, in which sits one Lloyd, an ex-housebreaker turned psalm-singing penitent, comes after that of Ryland, and then the pair of loathsome carts with four more miserable victims. No cant or cowardice marks the bearing of the poor artist. Unlike the conventional hypocrite of such a time, his lips do not move in response to the exhortations of white-banded Ordinary Villette. No prayer-book rests in his fingers. Having made his peace with God, he does not deign to humour the prejudices of man. Unjustly, they are sending him to a cruel death. Why should he appear to worship in the fashion they have chosen? Thus, while the procession moves onward, his calm, inscrutable face gazes upon the scene that passes before his eyes.
An amazing spectacle, this eighteenth-century march to Tyburn, revealing as completely as the roofless city of romance the human animal taken unawares. No braver picture of dauntless courage ever has been displayed in battlefield than the serene victim, tied and bound, who is drawn along slowly to his shameful death. Though the deep toll of St Sepulchre’s passing bell may beat in cruel blows against his heart, as he moves past the old church at whose font his brothers and sisters were given their Christian names, there is no tremor visible to the thousands who gloat upon his form. Down the slopes of Snow Hill runs the quick, eager whisper, for the eyes of all seek but one man, “Which is Mr Ryland?” And the careless murmur swells into a louder key, “There he is in the coach—that is he—that is Ryland”—the heartless babble of a multitude of savages. Thicker and thicker teems the concourse, as the procession crawls over the bridge and up Holbourn Hill, swollen like a black, turgid river by streams that flow from haunts of filth and foulness—the sweepings of the slums. Thieves, cut-throats, hoarse drunkards, and shrill strumpets join in the delirious march with the loud, mad tread of a thousand clattering feet.
Thus they move onward. Within the sable coach the smug Ordinary is mumbling scraps of Holy Writ pertaining to the time and place, the valley of the shadow of death. In response, a hundred ribald oaths and loathsome jests are pealing all around. Within the sable coach the poor ecstatic housebreaker is piping a quavering hymn, his joints shaking in palsy, his eyes, which gleam in horrible whiteness, raised to the skies. All around, the hands of a hundred thieves are busy at work as they tramp along in this march to the grave. Beyond Chancery Lane the wide thoroughfare seems to pass into a new world. Although the street echoes still to the tread of ten thousand squalid footsteps, high up on either side, at the windows or in the narrow balconies, wealth and beauty take their part in the mighty spectacle. Sweet, pale faces look down, while soft, heaving bosoms press the casements. Beings who might soar amidst the stars are sunk in the mire—all compelled by the haunting, irresistible tramp rolling onward in the march of death.
Yet the footsteps never pause. Forward still, winding through St Giles, the highroad to Tyburn opens to the view. There is no halt now for the Lazar-house bowl, nor would those fettered men in the carts wish to quaff it. Huddled together in the first, the three are babbling supplications; prone and fainting, a half-dying creature is stretched within the last. In front, the hysterical housebreaker is swaying like a drunkard on the seat of his coach, still quavering forth his piteous hymn. Only the artist, whose carriage leads the way to the shambles, gazing calmly around with grave, stony face, will have no truck with the cant of humanity. For his thoughts are far distant, fleeing from the mighty roll of footsteps till they soften to his ears like the murmur of muffled drums. All around him are visions of bygone days. Yon narrow road that is pouring forth its human torrent leads to Soho, where, with the gentle Gwynn, he used to visit the gilded palace of Therese Cornelys, or that other Carlisle House, the fencing-school of splendid Angelo. Down that long street is Golden Square, but there is no pretty Miss Angel to weep for him. And far away, beyond the distant horizon, lies the palace of his king, but before it there is reared the gaunt, frightful spectre of the triple tree.