A Book of Scoundrels | Page 9

branch; and each may claim the
credit due to a peculiar eminence. It is only thus that you may measure
conflicting talents: as it were unfair to judge a poet by a brief
experiment in prose, so it would be monstrous to cheapen the
accomplishments of a pickpocket, because he bungled at the
concealment of his gains.
A stern test of artistry is the gallows. Perfect behaviour at an enforced
and public scrutiny may properly be esteemed an effect of talent--an
effect which has not too often been rehearsed. There is no reason why
the Scoundrel, fairly beaten at the last point in the game, should not go
to his death without swagger and without remorse. At least he might
comfort himself with such phrases as `a dance without the music,' and
he has not often been lacking in courage. What he has missed is dignity:
his pitfalls have been unctuosity, on the one side, bravado on the other.
It was the Prison Ordinary, who first misled him into the assumption of
a piety which neither preacher nor disciple understood. It was the
Prison Ordinary, who persuaded him to sign his name to a lying
confession of guilt, drawn up in accordance with a foolish and
inexorable tradition, and to deliver such a last dying speech as would
not disappoint the mob.
The set phrases, the vain prayer offered for other sinners, the
hypocritical profession of a superior righteousness, were neither noble
nor sincere. When Tom Jones (for instance) was hanged, in 1702, after
a prosperous career on Hounslow Heath, his biographer declared that
he behaved with more than usual `modesty and decency,' because he
`delivered a pretty deal of good advice to the young men present,
exhorting them to be industrious in their several callings.' Whereas his
biographer should have discovered that it is not thus that your true hero
bids farewell to frolic and adventure.
As little in accordance with good taste was the last appearance of the
infamous Jocelin Harwood, who was swung from the cart in 1692 for
murder and robbery. He arrived at Tyburn insolently drunk. He
blustered and ranted, until the spectators hissed their disapproval, and
he died vehemently shouting that he would act the same murder again
in the same case. Unworthy, also, was the last dying repartee of Samuel
Shotland, a notorious bully of the Eighteenth Century. Taking off his

shoes, he hurled them into the crowd, with a smirk of delight. `My
father and mother often told me,' he cried, `that I should die with my
shoes on; but you may all see that I have made them both liars.' A great
man dies not with so mean a jest, and Tyburn was untouched to mirth
by Shotland's facile humour.
On the other hand, there are those who have given a splendid example
of a brave and dignified death. Brodie was a sorry bungler when at
work, but a perfect artist at the gallows. The glory of his last
achievement will never fade. The muttered prayer, unblemished by
hypocrisy, the jest thrown at George Smith--a metaphor from the
gaming-table--the silent adjustment of the cord which was to strangle
him, these last offices were performed with an unparalleled quietude
and restraint. Though he had pattered the flash to all his wretched
accomplices, there was no trace of the last dying speech in his final
utterances, and he set an example of a simple greatness, worthy to be
followed even to the end of time. Such is the type, but others also have
given proof of a serene temper. Tom Austin's masterpiece was in
another kind, but it was none the less a masterpiece. At the very
moment that the halter was being put about his neck, he was asked by
the Chaplain what he had to say before he died. `Only,' says he, `there's
a woman yonder with some curds and whey, and I wish I could have a
pennyworth of them before I am hanged, because I don't know when I
shall see any again.' There is a brave irrelevance in this very human
desire, which is beyond praise.
Valiant also was the conduct of Roderick Audrey, who after a brief but
brilliant career paid his last debt to the law in 1714.
He was but sixteen, and, says his biographer, `he went very decent to
the gallows, being in a white waistcoat, clean napkin, white gloves, and
an orange in one hand.' So well did he play his part, that one wonders
Jack Ketch did not shrink from the performance of his. But throughout
his short life, Roderick Audrey--the very name is an echo of
romance!--displayed a contempt for whatever was common or ugly.
Not only was his appearance at Tyburn a lesson in elegance, but he
thieved, as none ever