Chapter 5

When the three prisoners were placed at the bar, the names of the jury were called over; and on being asked whether they had agreed to their verdict, they answered that they had.

The question was then put to them, as to each of the prisoners, and they returned as their verdict, that John Bishop, Thomas Williams,aliasHead, and James May, were severallyGuiltyof murder.

The verdict was received in court with becoming silence; but in a moment it was conveyed to the immense multitude assembled outside, who evinced their satisfaction at the result by loud and continued cheering and clapping of hands. To such an extent was this expression of the popular feeling carried, that the windows of the court were obliged to be closed, in order that the voice of the Recorder might be heard in passing sentence.

The prisoners were then severally called upon to say why sentence of death and execution should not be pronounced upon them; but none of them availed themselves of this opportunity of saying anything.

TheRecorderthen proceeded to pass the awful sentence of death upon them, but was for some moments again interrupted by the renewed shouts of the populace from without. Silence having been restored, the learned Judge proceeded. He began by eulogizing the patient and diligent attention bestowed on their case by the jury, whose verdict was just recorded; and of that jury he might state, what he often had occasion to remark of juries in that box, that nothing but the most satisfactory evidence, and a conviction of the solemn obligation they owed to their Maker and to their country, could induce them to pronounce a verdict which was toconsign some of their fellow-men to a disgraceful death. He fully concurred in the verdict they had pronounced, which was supported by the most conclusive evidence.

The prisonerBishop.—By false evidence, my Lord.

The learnedRecorderwent on, and addressing himself to the prisoners, observed, that he would not encroach, by any lengthened remarks, on the very short time that was to intervene between their sentence and their appearance in the presence of their Creator. A month had now elapsed since their first committal for this crime, and he hoped that that time had been employed by them in looking back on their past lives,—on the horrible agony which they had inflicted on the feelings of so many of their fellow-men,—and on the dreadful outrage on human nature of which they were now convicted. But, however they might have spent the time past, he earnestly adjured them, by their hopes of mercy, to lose not an instant of the few hours which yet remained to them, in constant prayers to Almighty God for pardon through the merits of their Redeemer. After pointing out to them the spiritual assistance which would be afforded to them in prison, the learned Judge concluded by passing upon each of them the sentence of the law, which was, that each of them be hanged on the following Monday morning, and their bodies be delivered over for dissection and anatomization.

The prisoners heard their sentence, as they had heard the verdict, without any visible alteration in their manner. They stood at the bar, as if expecting that something more would be added. When ordered to be removed, May raised his voice, and, in a firm tone, said, 'I am a murdered man, gentlemen, and that man (pointing to Bishop) knows it.'

The prisoner Williams said, 'We are all murdered men.' He then addressed himself to one or two of the witnesses at the side bar, and said, that before three months they would suffer for the false evidence they had given against him.

Bishop made no observation, but retired from the bar even more absorbed by his awful situation than he had appeared before.

The prisoners were then removed, and in a short time after the crowd outside the court dispersed.

From a momentary forgetfulness on the part of the Recorder, when passing sentence of death upon Bishop, Williams, and May, these wretches nearly escaped the additional judgment of dissection. The Recorder, in the usual manner, had ordered them to be hanged on the following Monday, and was passing on to the end of his address, 'and the Lord have mercy upon your souls,' when Mr. Justice Littledale whispered to the learned gentleman, who then stopped short in the concluding sentence, and ordered their bodies to be given up for dissection.

On Saturday night, when the prisoners were removed each to his cell, attended by his watchman, the person who was placed over Williams saw him grow anxious and uneasy; towards midnight his agitation increased, and the vigilance of his keeper became more marked. Williams observed it, and said, 'Don't be frightened, sir, I am not going to do anything wrong, but I wish to ease my mind. Let me see the Governor.' Mr. Wontner was then called from his bed, and the Rev. Mr. Cotton, the Ordinary, was also in attendance in a few minutes.

When these gentlemen came into the cell, Williams looking at them steadfastly for a moment or two, burst into tears and said, 'Gentlemen, I wish to unburden my mind; I know I am guilty, and I ought to suffer the utmost punishment of the law; Iam a murderer, I confess it, but the witnesses were all mistaken as to its being the Italian boy.' He was then urged to relieve his mind as calmly and as coolly as possibly; and, after a strong effort, during which the mental agony which he endured was dreadful, he made a statement, of which the following is the substance:—

On Thursday the 3d of November, he was in the neighbourhood of Smithfield, when he saw a boy, whom he had often observed before, assisting in driving cattle to the market. This boy was about fourteen or fifteen years of age, and exactly corresponded with the description given of the Italian boy. He enticed him from the cattle, and took him to the Fortune of War public-house, and sent for Bishop, who was waiting at another public-house in the neighbourhood for the purpose of receiving communications from him (Williams) as to anything he might do. Bishop came, and they took the boy home to Nova Scotia Gardens, giving him some soup and potatoes by the way. When they got him there, they set him to play with Bishop's children until near dusk, when they gave him some rum, and he became stupified. They (Bishop and Williams) then took him into the garden, and on the way threw him down, and, pushing his head into the water-barrel, sunk into the ground (as already described) held him until he was suffocated. They then conveyed the body back to the house, 'kept it snug' till the next day, when May was applied to, to assist in disposing of it. May had nothing to do with the murder of that boy.

Here the statement concluded. Williams seemed greatly relieved after making his confession, and went to bed and slept soundly.

The Rev. Mr. Williams, according to his promise, also visited Bishop in his cell. The culpritappeared to be aware of his approaching dissolution, and though firm as when he appeared at the bar before the Court at the Old Bailey, yet he appeared to be anxious to make a communication in favour of May. Bishop observed, that as he had no hopes of mercy here, he did not wish an innocent man to suffer for his crimes, and he declared that May was not concerned in the murder of which he had been convicted. He said he was ready to make a confession of the murders in which he had participated. After some hesitation, he admitted that he had been concerned in the commission of three murders, viz.—that of the Italian boy, the murder of Frances Pigburn, and of a drover, a boy who had come to London with cattle from Lincolnshire, which boy the witnesses on his trial had sworn was the Italian boy, to the best of their belief, though he had disposed of that body before.

Bishop's Cottage

Bishop entered into a minute description, most horrible in its details, of the mode by which he had perpetrated the inhuman murders, and then made the following confession:—

Newgate, December 4.'I, John Bishop, do hereby declare and confess, that the boy supposed to be the Italian boy was a Lincolnshire boy. I and Williams took him to my house about half-past ten o'clock on the Thursday night, the 3d of November, from the Bell in Smithfield. He walked home with us. Williams promised to give him some work. Williams went with him from the Bell to the Old Bailey watering-house, whilst I went to the Fortune of War. Williams came from the Old Bailey watering-house to the Fortune of War for me, leaving the boy standing at the corner of the court by the watering-house in the Old Bailey. I went directly with Williams to the boy, and we walked then all three to Nova Scotia Gardens, taking a pint of stout at a public-housenear Holywell-lane, Shoreditch, on our way, of which we gave the boy a part; we only stayed just to drink it, and walked on to my house, where we arrived at about eleven o'clock. My wife and children, and Mrs. Williams, were not gone to bed, so we put him in the privy, and told him to wait there for us. Williams went in and told them to go to bed, and I stayed in the garden. Williams came out directly, and we both walked out of the garden a little way, to give time for the family getting to bed; we returned in about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, and listened outside at the window to ascertain whether the family were gone to bed. All was quiet, and we then went to the boy in the privy, and took him into the house; we lighted a candle, and gave the boy some bread and cheese, and after he had eaten, we gave him a cup full of rum, with about half a small phial of laudanum in it. (I had bought the rum the same evening at the Three Tuns, in Smithfield, and the laudanum also in small quantities at different shops.) There was no water or other liquid put in the cup with the rum and laudanum. The boy drank the contents of the cup directly in two draughts, and afterwards a little beer. In about ten minutes he fell asleep on the chair on which he sat, and I removed him from the chair to the floor, and laid him on his side. We then went out and left him there. We had a quartern of gin and a pint of beer at the Feathers, near Shoreditch church, and then went home again, having been away from the boy about twenty minutes. We found him asleep as we had left him. We took him directly, asleep and insensible, into the garden, and tied a cord to his feet to enable us to pull him up by, and I then took him in my arms, and let him slide from them headlong into the well in the garden, whilst Williams held the cord to prevent the body going altogether too low in the well. He wasnearly wholly in the water of the well—his feet just above the surface. Williams fastened the other end of the cord round the paling to prevent the body getting beyond our reach. The boy struggled a little with his arms and legs in the water, and the water bubbled for a minute. We waited till these symptoms were past, and then went in doors, and afterwards I think we went out, and walked down Shoreditch to occupy the time, and in about three-quarters of an hour we returned and took him out of the well, by pulling him by the cord attached to his feet: we undressed him in the paved yard, rolled his clothes up, and buried them where they were found by the witness who produced them. We carried the boy into the wash-house, laid him on the floor, and covered him over with a bag. We left him there, and went and had some coffee in Old-street-road, and then (a little before two o'clock on the morning of Friday) went back to my house. We immediately doubled the body up, and put it into a box, which we corded, so that nobody might open it to see what was in it, and then went again, and had some more coffee at the same place in Old-street-road, where we stayed a little while, and then went home to bed—both in the same house, and to our own beds, as usual. We slept till about ten o'clock on Friday morning, when we got up, took breakfast together with the family, and then went both of us to Smithfield, to the Fortune of War. We had something to eat and drink there, and after we had been there about half an hour, May came in. I knew May, but had not seen him for about a fortnight before. He had some rum with me at the bar, Williams remaining in the tap-room. May and I went to the door, I had a smockfrock on, and May asked me where I had bought it; I told him "in Field-lane;" he said he wanted to buy one, andasked me to go with him; I went with him to Field-lane, where he bought a frock at the corner shop; we then went into a clothes-shop in West-street to buy a pair of breeches, but May could not agree about the price; May was rather in liquor, and sent out for some rum, which we and the woman in the shop drank together; May said he would treat her because he had given her a good deal of trouble for nothing. We then returned to the Fortune of War, and joined Williams, and had something more to drink; we waited there a short time, and then Williams and I went to the west end of the town, leaving May at the Fortune of War. Williams and I went to Mr. Tuson's, in Windmill-street, where I saw Mr. Tuson, and offered to sell him a subject, meaning the boy we had left at home. He said he had waited so long for a subject which I had before undertaken to procure, that he had been obliged to buy one the day before. We went from there to Mr. Carpue's, in Dean-street, and offered it to him in the lecture-room with other gentlemen; they asked me if it was fresh; I told them, yes; they told me to wait. I asked them ten guineas, and, after waiting a little, a gentleman there said they would give eight guineas, which I agreed to take, and engaged to carry it there the next morning at ten o'clock. I and Williams then returned to the Fortune of War; we found May in the tap-room, this was about a quarter before four o'clock in the afternoon; we had something to drink again, and I called May out to the outside of the house, and asked what was the best price given for "things"—he said he had sold two the day before for ten guineas each, I think. I told him I had a subject; he asked what sort of one; I said, a boy about fourteen years old, and that I had been offered eight guineas for it: he said if it was his, he would not take it; he could sellit where he sold his for more. I told him that all he could get above nine guineas he might have for himself; we agreed to go presently and get a coach. I and May then went to the bar, had something more to drink; and then, leaving Williams at the Fortune of War, we went and tried to hire a cab in the Old Bailey; the cab-man was at tea at the watering-house, and we went in and spoke to him about a fare, and had also tea there ourselves. Whilst we were at tea, the cab-driver went away, and we found him gone from the stand when we came out; we then went to Bridge-street, Blackfriars, and asked a coachman if he would take such a fare as we wanted; he refused, and we then went to Farringdon-street, where we engaged a yellow chariot. I and May got in, drove to the Fortune of War, and (Williams joining us by the George, in the Old Bailey, on our way) at the Fortune of War we drank something again, and then (about six o'clock) we all three went in the chariot to Nova Scotia Gardens; we went into the wash-house, where I uncorded the trunk, and showed May the body. He asked, "How are the teeth?" I said I had not looked at them. Williams went and fetched a brad-awl from the house, and May took it and forced the teeth out: it is the constant practice to take the teeth out first, because, if the body be lost, the teeth are saved. After the teeth were taken out, we put the body in a bag and took it to the chariot; May and I carried the body, and Williams got first into the coach, and assisted in pulling the body in; we all then drove off to Guy's Hospital, where we saw Mr. Davis, and offered to sell the body to him; he refused, saying that he had bought two the day before of May. I asked him to let us leave it there till the next morning; he consented, and we put it in a little room, the door of which Mr. Davis locked. Williams was, duringthis, left with the chariot: I told Mr. Davis not to let the subject go to any body unless I was there, for it belonged to me, and May also told him not to let it go unless he was present, or else he should be money out of pocket; I understood this to mean the money paid by May for our teas at the Old Bailey, (about four shillings) and the coach fare, which we had agreed with the coachman should be ten shillings. May had no other interest or right to the money to be obtained for the body, except for such payment, and for what he could get above nine guineas, as I had promised him. May paid the coachman ten shillings on our leaving the hospital, but before we discharged the coach, May and I ran to Mr. Appleton, at Mr. Grainger's school, leaving Williams with the coach. We offered the subject to Mr. Appleton, but he declined to buy it, and May and I then joined Williams, discharged the coach, and went to a public-house close by, and had something to drink. After this we got into a coach in the Borough, and drove again to the Fortune of War, where we had something more to drink; this was about eight o'clock in the evening. We all three stayed there about one hour, and then went out, got a coach in Smithfield, and went towards Old-street-road, stopped in Golden-lane with the coach and drank something, and then on to Old-street. At the corner of Old-street (the Star corner) May got out of the coach and said he was going home, and I and Williams drove to the corner of Union-street, Kingsland-road, where we got out and paid the coach-fare out of money lent us by May (he having advanced to each of us three shillings). We then walked home, and went to bed that night as usual. We had agreed with May on his leaving us to meet him at Guy's Hospital at nine o'clock the next morning (Saturday). I and Williams went ateight o'clock on Saturday morning to the Fortune of War, where we met Shields, the porter, and engaged him to go with us over the water to carry a subject. I asked him to go to St. Bartholomew's Hospital for a hamper which I had seen there; he refused, and I fetched it myself. We had a pint of beer there, and I, and Williams, and Shields, went to Guy's Hospital, Shields carrying the hamper. We met May there. Williams and Shields went to a public-house, whilst I and May went to Mr. Appleton, and offered him the subject again. He again refused to buy it, stating that he did not want it. May and I then joined Shields and Williams, and had some drink, and then left them again, crossed the water in a boat to the King's College, where we inquired of Mr. Hill, the porter, if he wanted a subject; he said he was not particularly in want, but would speak to Mr. Partridge, the demonstrator. Mr. Partridge came, and asked what the subject was. May said, 'a male subject.' Mr. Partridge asked the price. May said, 'twelve guineas.' Mr. Partridge said he could not give so much, and went away. Mr. Hill asked us to stay a few minutes whilst he went after Mr. Partridge, to speak to him again. Hill returned, and said Mr. Partridge would give nine guineas. May said, 'he would be d—d if it should go under ten guineas.' He was in liquor, and on his moving a little way off, I took the opportunity of saying to Hill, that he should come in at nine guineas. I told May, directly after, that I had sold it for nine guineas, and that I would, out of it, pay him what I had of him, and give him something besides. We then got into a cabriolet, and went back to Williams and Shields, at the public-house, where all four had some beef-steaks and beer, and afterwards went to Guy's Hospital, packed the body in the hamper, and put it on Shields' head, tellinghim to take it to the King's College, where he went, Williams and Shields walking, and I and May riding part of the way in a cab. On reaching the King's College we carried the body into the theatre, and then into a little room, where we took the body out. Mr. Hill looked at it, and asked what it died of. May answered, that he did not know, and it did not concern him. Mr. Hill asked how a cut, which was on the forehead, came. I told him that it was done by May throwing it out of the sack on the stones, which was the truth. Hill told us to remain in the other room, and he would bring in the money. We went into the other room, and waited for some time, when Mr. Partridge came to us, and showed me a fifty pound note, and said he must go and get it changed, for he had not sufficient money without; and he pulled out his purse, and counted three or four sovereigns. I said he might let us have that, and he could give us the remainder on Monday. He said no, he would rather pay it altogether, and went away. We waited some time, when the police-officers came, and took us into custody.'John Bishop.''Witness,Robert Ellis.'

Newgate, December 4.

'I, John Bishop, do hereby declare and confess, that the boy supposed to be the Italian boy was a Lincolnshire boy. I and Williams took him to my house about half-past ten o'clock on the Thursday night, the 3d of November, from the Bell in Smithfield. He walked home with us. Williams promised to give him some work. Williams went with him from the Bell to the Old Bailey watering-house, whilst I went to the Fortune of War. Williams came from the Old Bailey watering-house to the Fortune of War for me, leaving the boy standing at the corner of the court by the watering-house in the Old Bailey. I went directly with Williams to the boy, and we walked then all three to Nova Scotia Gardens, taking a pint of stout at a public-housenear Holywell-lane, Shoreditch, on our way, of which we gave the boy a part; we only stayed just to drink it, and walked on to my house, where we arrived at about eleven o'clock. My wife and children, and Mrs. Williams, were not gone to bed, so we put him in the privy, and told him to wait there for us. Williams went in and told them to go to bed, and I stayed in the garden. Williams came out directly, and we both walked out of the garden a little way, to give time for the family getting to bed; we returned in about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, and listened outside at the window to ascertain whether the family were gone to bed. All was quiet, and we then went to the boy in the privy, and took him into the house; we lighted a candle, and gave the boy some bread and cheese, and after he had eaten, we gave him a cup full of rum, with about half a small phial of laudanum in it. (I had bought the rum the same evening at the Three Tuns, in Smithfield, and the laudanum also in small quantities at different shops.) There was no water or other liquid put in the cup with the rum and laudanum. The boy drank the contents of the cup directly in two draughts, and afterwards a little beer. In about ten minutes he fell asleep on the chair on which he sat, and I removed him from the chair to the floor, and laid him on his side. We then went out and left him there. We had a quartern of gin and a pint of beer at the Feathers, near Shoreditch church, and then went home again, having been away from the boy about twenty minutes. We found him asleep as we had left him. We took him directly, asleep and insensible, into the garden, and tied a cord to his feet to enable us to pull him up by, and I then took him in my arms, and let him slide from them headlong into the well in the garden, whilst Williams held the cord to prevent the body going altogether too low in the well. He wasnearly wholly in the water of the well—his feet just above the surface. Williams fastened the other end of the cord round the paling to prevent the body getting beyond our reach. The boy struggled a little with his arms and legs in the water, and the water bubbled for a minute. We waited till these symptoms were past, and then went in doors, and afterwards I think we went out, and walked down Shoreditch to occupy the time, and in about three-quarters of an hour we returned and took him out of the well, by pulling him by the cord attached to his feet: we undressed him in the paved yard, rolled his clothes up, and buried them where they were found by the witness who produced them. We carried the boy into the wash-house, laid him on the floor, and covered him over with a bag. We left him there, and went and had some coffee in Old-street-road, and then (a little before two o'clock on the morning of Friday) went back to my house. We immediately doubled the body up, and put it into a box, which we corded, so that nobody might open it to see what was in it, and then went again, and had some more coffee at the same place in Old-street-road, where we stayed a little while, and then went home to bed—both in the same house, and to our own beds, as usual. We slept till about ten o'clock on Friday morning, when we got up, took breakfast together with the family, and then went both of us to Smithfield, to the Fortune of War. We had something to eat and drink there, and after we had been there about half an hour, May came in. I knew May, but had not seen him for about a fortnight before. He had some rum with me at the bar, Williams remaining in the tap-room. May and I went to the door, I had a smockfrock on, and May asked me where I had bought it; I told him "in Field-lane;" he said he wanted to buy one, andasked me to go with him; I went with him to Field-lane, where he bought a frock at the corner shop; we then went into a clothes-shop in West-street to buy a pair of breeches, but May could not agree about the price; May was rather in liquor, and sent out for some rum, which we and the woman in the shop drank together; May said he would treat her because he had given her a good deal of trouble for nothing. We then returned to the Fortune of War, and joined Williams, and had something more to drink; we waited there a short time, and then Williams and I went to the west end of the town, leaving May at the Fortune of War. Williams and I went to Mr. Tuson's, in Windmill-street, where I saw Mr. Tuson, and offered to sell him a subject, meaning the boy we had left at home. He said he had waited so long for a subject which I had before undertaken to procure, that he had been obliged to buy one the day before. We went from there to Mr. Carpue's, in Dean-street, and offered it to him in the lecture-room with other gentlemen; they asked me if it was fresh; I told them, yes; they told me to wait. I asked them ten guineas, and, after waiting a little, a gentleman there said they would give eight guineas, which I agreed to take, and engaged to carry it there the next morning at ten o'clock. I and Williams then returned to the Fortune of War; we found May in the tap-room, this was about a quarter before four o'clock in the afternoon; we had something to drink again, and I called May out to the outside of the house, and asked what was the best price given for "things"—he said he had sold two the day before for ten guineas each, I think. I told him I had a subject; he asked what sort of one; I said, a boy about fourteen years old, and that I had been offered eight guineas for it: he said if it was his, he would not take it; he could sellit where he sold his for more. I told him that all he could get above nine guineas he might have for himself; we agreed to go presently and get a coach. I and May then went to the bar, had something more to drink; and then, leaving Williams at the Fortune of War, we went and tried to hire a cab in the Old Bailey; the cab-man was at tea at the watering-house, and we went in and spoke to him about a fare, and had also tea there ourselves. Whilst we were at tea, the cab-driver went away, and we found him gone from the stand when we came out; we then went to Bridge-street, Blackfriars, and asked a coachman if he would take such a fare as we wanted; he refused, and we then went to Farringdon-street, where we engaged a yellow chariot. I and May got in, drove to the Fortune of War, and (Williams joining us by the George, in the Old Bailey, on our way) at the Fortune of War we drank something again, and then (about six o'clock) we all three went in the chariot to Nova Scotia Gardens; we went into the wash-house, where I uncorded the trunk, and showed May the body. He asked, "How are the teeth?" I said I had not looked at them. Williams went and fetched a brad-awl from the house, and May took it and forced the teeth out: it is the constant practice to take the teeth out first, because, if the body be lost, the teeth are saved. After the teeth were taken out, we put the body in a bag and took it to the chariot; May and I carried the body, and Williams got first into the coach, and assisted in pulling the body in; we all then drove off to Guy's Hospital, where we saw Mr. Davis, and offered to sell the body to him; he refused, saying that he had bought two the day before of May. I asked him to let us leave it there till the next morning; he consented, and we put it in a little room, the door of which Mr. Davis locked. Williams was, duringthis, left with the chariot: I told Mr. Davis not to let the subject go to any body unless I was there, for it belonged to me, and May also told him not to let it go unless he was present, or else he should be money out of pocket; I understood this to mean the money paid by May for our teas at the Old Bailey, (about four shillings) and the coach fare, which we had agreed with the coachman should be ten shillings. May had no other interest or right to the money to be obtained for the body, except for such payment, and for what he could get above nine guineas, as I had promised him. May paid the coachman ten shillings on our leaving the hospital, but before we discharged the coach, May and I ran to Mr. Appleton, at Mr. Grainger's school, leaving Williams with the coach. We offered the subject to Mr. Appleton, but he declined to buy it, and May and I then joined Williams, discharged the coach, and went to a public-house close by, and had something to drink. After this we got into a coach in the Borough, and drove again to the Fortune of War, where we had something more to drink; this was about eight o'clock in the evening. We all three stayed there about one hour, and then went out, got a coach in Smithfield, and went towards Old-street-road, stopped in Golden-lane with the coach and drank something, and then on to Old-street. At the corner of Old-street (the Star corner) May got out of the coach and said he was going home, and I and Williams drove to the corner of Union-street, Kingsland-road, where we got out and paid the coach-fare out of money lent us by May (he having advanced to each of us three shillings). We then walked home, and went to bed that night as usual. We had agreed with May on his leaving us to meet him at Guy's Hospital at nine o'clock the next morning (Saturday). I and Williams went ateight o'clock on Saturday morning to the Fortune of War, where we met Shields, the porter, and engaged him to go with us over the water to carry a subject. I asked him to go to St. Bartholomew's Hospital for a hamper which I had seen there; he refused, and I fetched it myself. We had a pint of beer there, and I, and Williams, and Shields, went to Guy's Hospital, Shields carrying the hamper. We met May there. Williams and Shields went to a public-house, whilst I and May went to Mr. Appleton, and offered him the subject again. He again refused to buy it, stating that he did not want it. May and I then joined Shields and Williams, and had some drink, and then left them again, crossed the water in a boat to the King's College, where we inquired of Mr. Hill, the porter, if he wanted a subject; he said he was not particularly in want, but would speak to Mr. Partridge, the demonstrator. Mr. Partridge came, and asked what the subject was. May said, 'a male subject.' Mr. Partridge asked the price. May said, 'twelve guineas.' Mr. Partridge said he could not give so much, and went away. Mr. Hill asked us to stay a few minutes whilst he went after Mr. Partridge, to speak to him again. Hill returned, and said Mr. Partridge would give nine guineas. May said, 'he would be d—d if it should go under ten guineas.' He was in liquor, and on his moving a little way off, I took the opportunity of saying to Hill, that he should come in at nine guineas. I told May, directly after, that I had sold it for nine guineas, and that I would, out of it, pay him what I had of him, and give him something besides. We then got into a cabriolet, and went back to Williams and Shields, at the public-house, where all four had some beef-steaks and beer, and afterwards went to Guy's Hospital, packed the body in the hamper, and put it on Shields' head, tellinghim to take it to the King's College, where he went, Williams and Shields walking, and I and May riding part of the way in a cab. On reaching the King's College we carried the body into the theatre, and then into a little room, where we took the body out. Mr. Hill looked at it, and asked what it died of. May answered, that he did not know, and it did not concern him. Mr. Hill asked how a cut, which was on the forehead, came. I told him that it was done by May throwing it out of the sack on the stones, which was the truth. Hill told us to remain in the other room, and he would bring in the money. We went into the other room, and waited for some time, when Mr. Partridge came to us, and showed me a fifty pound note, and said he must go and get it changed, for he had not sufficient money without; and he pulled out his purse, and counted three or four sovereigns. I said he might let us have that, and he could give us the remainder on Monday. He said no, he would rather pay it altogether, and went away. We waited some time, when the police-officers came, and took us into custody.

'John Bishop.'

'Witness,Robert Ellis.'

'I declare that this statement is all true, and contains all the facts, as far as I can recollect. May knew nothing of the murder, and I do not believe he suspected that I had got the body except in the usual way, and after the death of it. I always told him that I got it from the ground; and he never knew to the contrary until I confessed it to Mr. Williams since the trial. I have known May as a body snatcher four or five years, but I do not believe he ever obtained a body except in the common course of men in that calling, by stealing from the graves. I also confess that I and Williams were concerned inthe murder of a female, whom I believe to have been since discovered to be Fanny Pigburn, on or about the 9th of October last. I and Williams saw her sitting, about eleven or twelve o'clock at night, on the step of a door in Shoreditch, near the church. She had a child, four or five years old, with her, on her lap. I asked why she was sitting there. She said she had no home to go to, for her landlord had turned her out into the street. I told her that she might go home with us, and sit by the fire all night. She said she would go with us; and she walked with us to my house, in Nova Scotia Gardens, carrying her child with her. When we got there, we found the family in bed; and we took the woman in and lighted a fire, by which we all sat down together. I went out for beer, and we all partook of beer and rum (I had brought the rum from Smithfield in my pocket). The woman and her child lay down on some dirty linen on the floor, and I and Williams went to bed. About six o'clock next morning I and Williams told her to go away, and to meet us at the London Apprentice, in Old-street-road, at one o'clock; this was before our families were up. She met us again at one o'clock at the London Apprentice, without her child. We gave her some halfpence and beer, and desired her to meet us again, at ten o'clock at night, at the same place. After this we bought rum and laudanum at different places, and at ten o'clock we met the woman again at the London Apprentice. She had no child with her. We drank three pints of beer between us there, and stayed about an hour. We should have stayed there longer, but an old man came in, whom the woman said she knew; and she said she did not like him to see her there with anybody; we therefore all went out. It rained hard, and we took shelter under a doorway in the Hackney-roadfor about half an hour. We then walked to Nova Scotia Gardens, and Williams and I led her into No. 2, an empty house, adjoining my house. We had no light. Williams stepped out into the garden with the rum and laudanum, which I had handed to him. He there mixed them together in a half-pint bottle, and came into the house to me and the woman, and gave her the bottle to drink. She drank the whole at two or three draughts. There was a quartern of rum and about half a phial of laudanum. She sat down on the step between two rooms in the house, and went off to sleep in about ten minutes. She was falling back; I caught her, to save her fall, and she lay with her back on the floor. Then Williams and I went to a public-house, got something to drink, and in about half an hour came back to the woman. We took her cloak off, tied a cord to her feet, carried her to the well in the garden, and thrust her into it headlong. She struggled very little afterwards, and the water bubbled a little at the top. We fastened the cord to the palings to prevent her going down beyond our reach, and left her, and took a walk to Shoreditch, and came back in about half an hour; we left the woman in the well for this length of time, that the rum and laudanum might run out of the body at the mouth. On our return, we took her out of the well, cut her clothes off, put them down the privy of the empty house, carried the body into the wash-house of my own house, where we doubled it up, and put it into a hat-box, which we corded, and left it there. We did not go to bed, but went to Shields' house, in Eagle-street, Red-lion-square, and called him up; this was between four and five o'clock in the morning. We then went with Shields to a public-house near the Sessions House, Clerkenwell, and had some gin, and from thence tomy house, where we went in and stayed a little while, to wait the change of the police. I told Shields he was to carry that trunk to St. Thomas' Hospital. He asked if there was a woman in the house who could walk alongside of him, so that people might not take any notice. Williams called his wife up, and asked her to walk with Shields, and to carry the hat-box which he gave her to carry. There was nothing in it, but it was tied up as if there were. We then put the box with the body on Shields' head, and went to the hospital, Shields and Mrs. Williams walking on one side of the street, and I and Williams on the other. At St. Thomas' Hospital I saw Mr. South's footman, and sent him upstairs to Mr. South to ask if he wanted a subject. The footman brought me word that his master wanted one, but could not give an answer till the next day, as he had not time to look at it. During this interview, Shields, Williams, and his wife, were waiting at a public-house. I then went alone to Mr. Appleton, at Mr. Grainger's, and agreed to sell it to him for eight guineas; and afterwards I fetched it from St. Thomas' Hospital, and took it to Mr. Appleton, who paid me five pounds then, and the rest on the following Monday. After receiving the five pounds I went to Shields, and Williams and his wife, at the public-house, where I paid Shields ten shillings for his trouble, and we then all went to the Flower Pot, in Bishopsgate, where we had something to drink, and then went home. I never saw the woman's child after the first time before mentioned. She said she had left the child with the person she had taken some of her things to, before her landlord took her goods. The woman murdered did not tell us her name; she said her age was thirty-five, I think, and that her husband, before he died, was a cabinet-maker. She was thin, rather tall, and very much marked with thesmallpox. I also confess the murder of a boy, who told us his name was Cunningham. It was a fortnight after the murder of the woman. I and Williams found him sleeping, about eleven or twelve o'clock at night, on Friday, the 21st of October, as I think, under the pig-boards in the pig-market at Smithfield. Williams woke him, and asked him to come along with him (Williams), and the boy walked with Williams and me to my house in Nova Scotia Gardens. We took him into my house, and gave him some warm beer, sweetened with sugar, with rum and laudanum in it. He drank two or three cups full, and then fell asleep in a little chair, belonging to one of my children. We laid him on the floor, and went out for a little while and got something to drink, and then returned, carried the boy to the well, and threw him into it, in the same way as we had served the other boy and the woman. He died instantly in the well, and we left him there a little while, to give time for the mixtures we had given him to run out of the body. We then took the body from the well, took off the clothes in the garden, and buried them there. The body was carried into the wash-house, and put into the same box, and left there till the next evening, when we got a porter to carry it with us to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where I sold it to Mr. Smith for eight guineas. This boy was about ten or eleven years old, said his mother lived in Kent-street, and that he had not been home for a twelvemonth and better. I solemnly declare that these are all the murders in which I have been concerned, or that I know anything of; that I and Williams were alone concerned in these, and that no other person whatever knew anything about either of them, and that I do not know whether there are others who practise the same mode of obtaining bodies for sale. I know nothing of any Italian boy, and was never concerned in, orknew of, the murder of such a boy. There have been no white mice about my house for the last six months. My son, about eight months ago, bought two mice, and I made him a cage for them. It was flat, with wires at the top. They lived about two months, and were killed, I think, by a cat in the garden, where they got out of the cage. They were frequently seen running in the garden, and used to hide in a hole under the privy. I and my wife and children saw one of them killed by a cat in the garden whilst we were at tea. Until the transactions before set forth, I never was concerned in obtaining a subject by destruction of the living. I have followed the course of obtaining a livelihood as a body-snatcher for twelve years, and have obtained and sold, I think, from five hundred to one thousand bodies; but I declare, before God, that they were all obtained after death, and that, with the above exceptions, I am ignorant of any murder for that or any other purpose.'John Bishop.''Witness,Robert Ellis,Under-Sheriff.'

'John Bishop.'

'Witness,Robert Ellis,Under-Sheriff.'

'I, Thomas Head, alias Williams, now under sentence of death in Newgate, do solemnly confess and declare the foregoing statement and confession of John Bishop, which has been made in my presence, and since read over to me distinctly, is altogether true, so far as the same relates to me. I declare that I was never concerned in, or privy to, any other transaction of the like nature—that I never knew anything of the murder of any other person whatever—that I was never a body-snatcher, or concerned in the sale of any other body than the three murdered by Bishop and myself—that May was a stranger to me, and I had never seen himmore than once or twice before Friday the 4th of November last—and that May was wholly innocent and ignorant of any of those murders in which I was concerned, and for one of which I am about to suffer death.'Thomas Head.''Witness,R. Ellis,'Newgate, December 4, 1831.''The above confessions taken literally, from the prisoners, in our presence,'T. Wood, }}Under-Sheriffs.'R. Ellis, }

'Thomas Head.'

'Witness,R. Ellis,'Newgate, December 4, 1831.'

'The above confessions taken literally, from the prisoners, in our presence,

In regard to this confession of Bishop, we may be allowed to offer a few cursory remarks, and particularly as we have, on another occasion, laid before the public the confessions of Holloway, two of which were given, as he himself expressly declares, for the express purpose of misleading the judicial authorities of the country, with the avowed aim of saving the life of his guilty accomplice, and in which, with shame be it spoken, he too well succeeded. A voluntary confession of a criminal, standing almost at the foot of the scaffold, ought to be received with the utmost degree of caution and distrust; but in the case of the confession of Bishop, the most singular feature of the case is, that part of it has actually been believed and acted upon, whilst another part is wholly rejected, and declared to be false, although no documentary evidence has been brought forward to prove it such. In regard, however, to confessions in general, it really appears to us, that every magistrate, who has a prisoner to examine, thinks it his duty to set himself, with all his skill, to prevent the discovery of the truth from the only person, who, although he may strive to disguise, knows completely the facts of the case. This custom has no sanction in law,is repugnant to common sense, and contrary to the practice of all other nations, whose criminal codes are, generally speaking, in a more perfect state, and are certainly much more humane than our own. A man charged with an offence ought not to be compelled to confession by the promise of pardon; but is there no difference between this and actually urging him to silence against his will, as a method of escape, though he may have committed the offence? We are really sick of reading examinations, every part and portion of which are made up of injunctions to the accused, to do and say nothing whatever that can by any possibility injure his chance of eluding justice. The following, in our opinion, ought to be the practice:—All hints of advantage to the accused from confession—all recommendations to confess being cautiously abstained from; what he has to say, or chooses voluntarily to say, should be received in silence, and no obstruction thrown in his way; and, after all, what do these confessions amount to? They are but too frequently a tissue of falsehood and truth, calculated to mislead the jury, and cast a doubt upon the positive facts of the case. In all cases of confession, however, after conviction, the circumstances under which the confession is given should be particularly taken into consideration before any decisive opinion is formed as to its falsity or truth. From the nature of these circumstances a clue may be obtained to the motive which prompts the individual to make the confession, and on which depends, in a great degree, its claim to our credibility and confidence. The motive which prompted Bishop to make his confession could not have had any relationship with the hope of its saving him from an ignominious death; and it is not rational to believe that a man, under his circumstances,would make a confession for the mere purpose of deceiving, when he must have been fully conscious to himself, that not the slightest benefit could accrue to him. In the confession of Bishop there is an evident attempt to shake the verdict of the jury, to throw a doubt upon the administration of justice, and to agitate the public mind, and, as such, we would receive it with the utmost distrust; but the most striking peculiarity of the case is, that the main circumstances of it are corroborated by an accomplice, who could not have been actuated by any flattering motive to confirm the testimony already given, and who was actually ignorant at the time of the exact tenor of the circumstances detailed in the confession as given by Bishop. The confessions of Williams and Bishop were given to different individuals, in different places, but nearly at the same time, the chief question then to be decided is, had any previous agreement been entered into between these individuals as to the nature of the confession which they were to make? for unless such agreement had been entered into, the statement put forth by one of them, and corroborated in every particular by the other, supposing no previous collusion to exist, is certainly entitled to a great share of our belief. It is certain that the confession of Bishop made a very strong impression on the public mind, and to qualify the effect of it, Mr. Corder put forth a written statement to the public, which will be given in another part of the work; and the aim of which was to demonstrate, that the last words of Bishop and Williams were false. The whole gist of Mr. Corder's statement rests on the following syllogism:—

Bishop confesses to the murder of a Lincolnshire boy,No Lincolnshire boy has been missing;Ergo—No Lincolnshire boy has been murdered.

Bishop confesses to the murder of a Lincolnshire boy,

No Lincolnshire boy has been missing;

Ergo—No Lincolnshire boy has been murdered.

Bishop, however, does not confess to the murder of the Italian boy, but he says, that the corpse which was taken, as it may be said, upon him, was not that of Carlo Ferrari, but of a Lincolnshire youth, who had been entrapped into their snares, as described both by Bishop and Williams. It must be also remarked, that the identity of the body of the Italian boy was never fully established; in fact, the chief witness who was brought forward to depose to the fact, declared positively that he could not swear it was the body of Carlo Ferrari, but thatit was very like it. If we examine the majority of the confessions made by convicted criminals, we shall generally find them destitute of all truth. The confession of Fauntleroy was a confession of beinginnocentof almost all the forgeries he had committed; and it is rather remarkable, that the chief murderer of Mr. Steele, upwards of thirty years ago, wasJohn Holloway, and the most just verdict which was pronounced against him and his accomplice, Owen Haggarty, was attempted to be invalidated after their execution, on account of the confession made by the latter. A variety of opinions still exists in regard to the truth of Bishop's confession; but we shall here close our remarks, with the brief observation, that we do not perceive what right, in a Protestant Church, either priest or magistrate has to urge a convict to make a confession; for we are convinced, that if a confession before conviction be of little worth, the confession afterwards is almost universally false.

There was, however, one circumstance connected with the confession of Williams, which subjected the worthy Ordinary of Newgate to public animadversion; and, subsequently, to an examination of his conduct before the Court of Aldermen.

It appears, that whilst Williams was making hisconfession to the Rev. Mr. Williams, of Hendon, the Rev. Ordinary stepped in, and put an end to all further disclosure from the mouth of Williams, which act was construed into one of supererogation on the part of Mr. Cotton, incompatible with his clerical character, and at variance with the promotion of the ends of justice. This circumstance was brought before the public in the following letter, addressed to the editor of a morning paper:—

'Sir,'Can you inform me by what authority the Rev. Mr. Cotton interposed to suppress the confessions of the two murderers? Were they, in consequence, better qualified to receive from him that spiritual instruction which he professes to give, or had he any other motive by which his conduct was actuated?'I am, Sir, your obedient servant,James Stone.'Dec. 10.'

'Sir,

'Can you inform me by what authority the Rev. Mr. Cotton interposed to suppress the confessions of the two murderers? Were they, in consequence, better qualified to receive from him that spiritual instruction which he professes to give, or had he any other motive by which his conduct was actuated?

'I am, Sir, your obedient servant,James Stone.

'Dec. 10.'

This letter produced the following one from Mr. Under-Sheriff Wood, addressed to the Editor of the same paper:—

'Sir,'I read in your paper this morning a letter signed "James Stone," requesting to be informed "by what authority the Rev. Mr. Cotton interposed to suppress the confessions of the two murderers." That letter is dated December 10, but has not the address of the writer. Will you be so obliging as to furnish it to me, in order that the Sheriffs may ascertain upon what authority it was written, and whether there is any foundation for the imputation it is intended to convey? Till then, itmust be obvious to Mr. Stone that he cannot receive an answer.'I am, Sir, your obedient servant,'Thomas Wood, Under-Sheriff.'Little St. Thomas Apostle, Dec. 12.'

'Sir,

'I read in your paper this morning a letter signed "James Stone," requesting to be informed "by what authority the Rev. Mr. Cotton interposed to suppress the confessions of the two murderers." That letter is dated December 10, but has not the address of the writer. Will you be so obliging as to furnish it to me, in order that the Sheriffs may ascertain upon what authority it was written, and whether there is any foundation for the imputation it is intended to convey? Till then, itmust be obvious to Mr. Stone that he cannot receive an answer.

'I am, Sir, your obedient servant,'Thomas Wood, Under-Sheriff.

'Little St. Thomas Apostle, Dec. 12.'

By the letter of Mr. Wood, he seemed to intimate that the Sheriffs were disposed to institute a solemn inquiry into the conduct of the Ordinary. If, however, they could suppose that person capable of acting the monstrous part imputed to him, surely they would not have wanted such aid as the unknown letter-writer could be expected to supply, in order to induce them to bring his merits before the proper authorities. At all events, it was no very handsome compliment paid to the worthy Ordinary.

In explanation, however, of the conduct of Mr. Cotton, the following letter appeared in the same paper, and on the same day, as that of Mr. Under-Sheriff Wood:—

'Sir,'By way of elucidation, relative to the letter inserted in your paper of this day, demanding by what authority the Rev. Mr. Cotton interposed to suppress the confessions of the two murderers, and signed "James Stone," I beg to inform you, that whilst the Rev. Mr. Williams, of Hendon, was listening to the confession of Williams the murderer, Mr. Cotton went into the cell, and called out, "Come, come, Mr. Williams, what is all this about? I suppose you want to extract confessions with a view to publish them: let me converse with the criminal." Upon this unexpected and extraordinary interruption by the Ordinary, the Rev. Mr. Williams retired to another part of the room, andwas much astonished. I am, Sir, your obedient servant,'A Reader.'Paul's Chain, Dec. 12.'

'Sir,

'By way of elucidation, relative to the letter inserted in your paper of this day, demanding by what authority the Rev. Mr. Cotton interposed to suppress the confessions of the two murderers, and signed "James Stone," I beg to inform you, that whilst the Rev. Mr. Williams, of Hendon, was listening to the confession of Williams the murderer, Mr. Cotton went into the cell, and called out, "Come, come, Mr. Williams, what is all this about? I suppose you want to extract confessions with a view to publish them: let me converse with the criminal." Upon this unexpected and extraordinary interruption by the Ordinary, the Rev. Mr. Williams retired to another part of the room, andwas much astonished. I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

'A Reader.

'Paul's Chain, Dec. 12.'

Now there were but very few persons present when Williams is said to have been engaged in his confessions, and, of course, the writer of it could have been easily ascertained; but the publicity which had been given to the transaction induced the Court of Aldermen to institute an inquiry into the conduct of the Rev. Ordinary, and after a most minute investigation, he was fully exonerated from all the blame which had been imputed to him.

It may be here necessary to epitomize some parts of the confessions of Bishop and Williams, as it was on account of the concurrent testimony of those two individuals that a respite for May was ultimately obtained.

Bishop, during his interview with the Rev. Mr. Williams, had confessed to the commission of three murders, and he was proceeding to detail the particulars of a fourth, in which a black man, a negro, was the victim; and he was about to give the names of other parties who were implicated with him in the last-mentioned murder, when the interruption of the Rev. Ordinary already alluded to took place; nor could Mr. Williams, in the course of that interview, induce the convict to resume the thread of his narrative. The confessions, however, of Bishop and Williams both went to exculpate May from any participation in any of the murders. They both declared that May did not see the body, supposed to be the Italian boy, till the Friday evening, the day after the murder; they denied that their next door neighbour, Woodcock, could have heard anyfootsteps or scuffling, as he had described in his evidence; and they asserted, that, after hocussing the boy with laudanum in rum, he became as dead as a log. In that state they carried him to the well in the yard, and held his head under the water, till they were sure that he was completely suffocated. Previously to going into the yard for the above horrid purpose, they both took off their shoes.

They added, that, during the whole affair, there was no person in the lower part of the house, but themselves, Bishop and Williams, they having some time previously sent their wives to bed. The prisoners also denied the correctness of the medical testimony given on the trial. It will be remembered that the death of the boy was described in evidence, as having been occasioned by a blow inflicted during life on the back of the neck; whereas the prisoners asserted, that this appearance of a supposed deadly injury was occasioned by the twisting of the neck to force the corpse into the trunk, immediately after it was brought from the well. They also said that extravasation of blood, such as that described by the surgeons, always occurs when a body is thus doubled up while it is warm. Having received these confessions, and having heard the most solemn declarations from May of his innocence, the Rev. Mr. Williams and Mr. Wontner immediately waited upon Mr. Justice Littledale and Baron Vaughan, who had been present on the bench whilst the prisoners were tried by Lord Chief Justice Tindal, and who were still engaged in trying cases at the Old Bailey. On hearing the statements made by Mr. Wontner and the Rev. Mr. Williams, Baron Vaughan felt inclined to suggest to Chief Justice Tindal, the propriety of recommending that a respite should be granted to May. Mr. Justice Littledale believed, on the contrary, that the verdict was correct in the case ofMay, as well as those of Bishop and Williams, and that the law ought to take its course. The Rev. Mr. Williams and Mr. Wontner then waited upon Mr. Chief Justice Tindal at his residence, and upon communicating to him the statements which they had previously laid before Baron Vaughan and Mr. Justice Littledale, the Chief Justice said, he would, as early as possible, see the Home Secretary on the subject. This learned judge appeared to agree in opinion with Baron Vaughan. It was next ascertained that Lord Melbourne was not in town; but as a Cabinet Council was to be held at two o'clock on Sunday afternoon, no doubt was entertained that his lordship would attend officially, and that shortly previous to that hour, the Chief Justice would have an opportunity of conferring with him on the facts of this extraordinary case.

During the whole of Saturday, the sheriffs, under-sheriffs and several other official persons were decidedly opposed to any mitigation of the punishment of May, and indeed to any delay of his execution; and it was expected that the applications that were being made on his behalf would be frustrated by the positive opinions and predilections of some influential individuals. But on Sunday morning the sheriffs visited all three of the prisoners in succession; and the under-sheriffs, who are very intelligent men, were engaged between three and four hours in taking down the statements of the convicts; the consequence was, we understand, that the opinions of both sheriffs and under-sheriffs underwent a decided change, as to May being implicated in the crime of murder. They were consequently desirous thathissentence should be mitigated. The result of all these investigations was, that on Sunday afternoon, at half-past four o'clock, aRESPITEduring his Majesty's pleasure arrived at Newgate for May, andhis sentence was commuted to transportation for life.

Shortly after the arrival of the respite at Newgate, Dr. Cotton and Mr. Wontner went to the room in which the three prisoners were confined for the day. The rev. gentleman opened the paper, and began to read it aloud. The most anxious attention was paid to its contents by all the prisoners; but the interest manifested by May, who must have known that the fate of his miserable companions was sealed, but had felt that there was still hope for him, was quite painful to witness. His agitation was dreadful; but no sooner had Dr. Cotton repeated the words, 'that the execution of the sentence upon John May shall be respited during His Majesty's most gracious pleasure,' than the poor wretch fell to the earth, as if struck by lightning. His arms worked with the most frightful contortions, and four of the officers of the prison could with difficulty hold him. His countenance assumed a livid paleness—the blood forsook his lips—his eyes appeared set, and pulsation at the heart could not be distinguished. All persons present thought that he could not possibly survive; it was believed, indeed, that the warrant of mercy had proved his death-blow.

Mr. Wontner and Dr. Cotton, who have of course witnessed many scenes of dreadful agitation during their experience among capital convicts, declare that they never before beheld any human being so fearfully affected. It was nearly a quarter of an hour before May was restored to the use of his faculties. At last, when recollection returned, he attempted to clasp his hands in the attitude of thanksgiving, but his limbs shook so violently that he found even that was impossible. His lips moved, but nothing but inarticulate sounds came from his tongue. The parties present soothed him with assurances thatthey knew what he meant to say, and with earnest entreaties that he would calm himself, and not attempt to speak. When restored to something like composure, May poured forth his gratitude to God, and his thanks to the humane gentlemen who had interested themselves in his behalf. He then explained, that when the reverend ordinary commenced reading the warrant, he thought that all hope was at an end—that the ceremony was to signify to him that he must die—the sudden revulsion of feeling, when he heard the words we have quoted, caused him to swoon. He added, that on learning that he was to be spared, he felt as if his heart had burst in his bosom. He declared most solemnly, now that he was out of jeopardy, as he had done before, that he had nothing to do with the murder for which he had been condemned to die. He had never been concerned—either directly or indirectly—in any murder; but acknowledged he had committed many sins for which the Almighty might justly have left him to suffer on this occasion. He hoped now to lead a better life, and to evince his gratitude to God by sincere repentance.

It will hardly be credited that Bishop and Williams beheld this awful scene with an indifference approaching to apathy. The dreadful agitation of their less guilty associate seemed to have no effect upon them, though it was remarked that the contortions of May must have brought to their recollections the struggles of some of their murdered victims.

May (who is a tall, light-haired, and rather good-looking man, about thirty years of age) is the natural son of a barrister, who formerly had chambers in the New Inn. His mother was a laundress in the chambers; she was particularly fond of her son, and when he was about twelve years of age she used to lead him about, fearful that any harm shouldcome to him. He was educated at a boarding-school, and received a tolerable education; he wrote an excellent hand, and at the age of fourteen he was employed in a professional gentleman's office, at No. 10, in the New Inn; but he was always of a wild, roving disposition, and whenever he could get away from his duties he was associating with the worst of characters about Clare-market. This appeared to be his sole delight until he neglected the office altogether, and was consequently discharged. He had at the same time some good friends, who felt an interest in his welfare, but nothing could induce him to break off with his associates; and instead of remaining a clerk, which he was well adapted for, he took a liking to be a butcher. The first place he got was at Mr. Roberts's, in Clare-market, with whom he lived some time: he afterwards lived with Mr. Price, in the same market; but he never remained long in one place. At last he took up the trade of a 'body-snatcher;' and in order to carry on the business with the greatest facility, took a lodging in one of the houses in Clement's-lane, Strand, the back of which looks into the burying-ground, situated in Portugal-street, at the rear of St. Clement Danes' workhouse. Here he commenced business, and was very successful; but like many others, flushed by success, he could not keep his own secret, and would brag of the number of bodies he had got out of the burying-ground at the back of his lodgings of a night, and what sums he had sold them for. He at first made no secret of his profession, and considered it meritorious, till at last he found that he was detested and despised by every person. He then left that part of the town, and got acquainted with Bishop and his associates. May was always considered a lively, interesting fellow, fond of jokes, and ready for anymischief; but his disposition was not naturally cruel, and no person who knew him a few years ago could believe that he would be the accessary to take away the life of the humblest individual. May's mother is dead, but we believe his father is still living.

Williams was in custody not long since, charged with breaking into a house in a court situate near the Hackney-road, and stealing the corpse of a widow's son, a youth of sixteen or seventeen, who had died a day or two before. The poor woman had left her home for a short time only, and on her return found the corpse had, in the mean time, been stolen. Some of the female neighbours then recollected that while they were standing in the court shortly before, a man passed them with a basket containing something which smelt very offensively, and occasioned them to look particularly at the man, although they had no suspicion, until the alarm was given, that he was carrying off the corpse of the widow's son. A pursuit was immediately commenced, but without success. From the description given, however, a policeman apprehended Williams on the following morning, and he was identified by the females as the man whom they had seen near the house with a basket as stated. No trace of the body, nor of the manner in which it had been disposed of, could be discovered, nor any further evidence obtained, and, after an examination before a magistrate, the prisoner was discharged upon a recognizance. Williams was born at Highgate, and was apprenticed to a bricklayer; dissipation, however, led him to abandon his business and to become the associate of thieves; his conduct nearly ruined his mother; and after he had been repeatedly in custody on various charges of felony, about six year's since he was apprehended in Shoe-lane, selling acopper which he had stolen, and was convicted at the Old Bailey, and sentenced to seven years' transportation. Subsequently he was sent to the Penitentiary, which he left a few months since; and he then became a resurrectionist, and continued that horrid profession until apprehended. We understand he had only been married seven weeks previous to his apprehension.

The father of Bishop was a worthy and industrious man, who for some years kept an errand-cart between Highgate and London. On the 8th of November, 1816, he was unfortunately run over by one of Pickford's vans, the wheels of which passed over both his legs, and crushed them so dreadfully that amputation was necessary. He did not long survive the operation. The estimation in which he was held was evidenced by the fact, that immediately upon his decease the inhabitants of Highgate subscribed upwards of three hundred pounds for the relief of the family. He left his widow far advanced in pregnancy. The money thus subscribed was placed in the hands of trustees, to be dispensed to the family as occasion might require. It was soon discovered that the objects of this liberal benevolence were unworthy of the exertions that had been made in their behalf, for the widow of the deceased and her son-in-law scrupled not to live together openly as man and wife. The money, however, had been raised for them, and the trustees who had no power to withhold it, were pestered with applications until the family had secured the whole. A great portion of it went into the hands of the widow, the son, and the daughter, who is now the wife of Williams, alias Head.

The conduct of both Williams and Bishop on the day previous to their execution was an intermixture of hardened indifference, and that agonizingrestlessness which harrows up the soul of the criminal as the hour of his execution approaches.

Both the convicts slept during Sunday night, but awoke at intervals, and conversed with the officers of the jail appointed to watch them. Occasionally they entered into religious observances, but generally were averse to them. Once, when the person who sat up with Williams proposed to read to him some extracts out of religious books left with him by the Ordinary, Williams roughly declined the proposal, saying, 'I had religious talk enough during the day—I will have none of it to-night.' He then entered into conversation with the officer upon the subject of the offence for which he was going to suffer. He solemnly assured him that, up to the time of his marriage, he had never had any connexion with resurrection-men, and even added, that it was not until his wedding-night that he had any idea that Bishop got his livelihood by that horrible trade. He told the officer that on that night, shortly after he had got to bed, his wife conjured him not to have anything to do with the snatchers. This led to inquiries on his part, which terminated in a full disclosure, by his wife, of the practices by which her brother-in-law supported his family. No communication took place between himself and Bishop on the subject till some time afterwards, when he was suddenly thrown out of work. Bishop then gradually disclosed to him his mode of life, and asked him to become a partner in the trade. Williams assented. He then became a regular resurrection-man; but being tired with the difficulties and dangers of the trade, he proposed to Bishop, that, instead of disinterring, they should murder subjects. He was then asked what led him to make such a proposal; and his reply was, 'The recollection of what Burke had done at Edinburgh.'

After some other facts, tallying with those inBishop's account, he stated that on the Sunday after the murder of the woman Pigburn, they attempted to Burke a man whom they accidentally lured into their power. The laudanum, however, which they had mixed with his liquor was not strong enough, as Bishop said, to stupify him beyond resistance, and he was, therefore, allowed to escape, partly from a fear of his struggles, and partly from Bishop's arm being palsied by a similar feeling to that which palsiedLady Macbeth'sarm in a similar situation,—namely, the feeling that the man whom he was about to despatch 'resembledhisfather as he slept.' Still bent on their murderous trade, they endeavoured, on the following Tuesday, to get another subject by the same means. Again was the laudanum inefficient; and in this case, as in the former, both the intended victims left the house in which they met these ruffians, without any idea of their having been exposed to such great and imminent danger.

Two men were appointed to sit up with each of the criminals during Sunday night. About half-past twelve o'clock, Williams, who had evinced during the evening a great degree of restlessness and feverish anxiety, became somewhat calmer, and said, 'I shall now go to bed for the last time.' He first threw himself upon his knees, and prayed for some time fervently, and then undressing himself, went to his couch, but continued in conversation with the men for more than an hour, during which time he wrote a note, of which we give a copy, addressed to the Rev. Mr. Russell, the chaplain to the Penitentiary, where he (Williams) was confined for about three years.

'Newgate, Dec. 4th, 1831.'Mr. Russell,—If you will be kind enough to let my brother prisoners know the awful death which Ishall have suffered when you receive this, it will, through your expostulations, prevent them from increasing their crimes when they may be liberated; and tell them bad company, and drinking, and blasphemy, is the foundation of all evil. Give my brotherly love to them, and tell them never to deviate from the paths of religion, and to have a firm belief in their blessed Saviour. Give my love to John Edwards, John Justin, and John Dingle, and receive the prayers of the unfortunate and guilty'Thomas Head.'

'Newgate, Dec. 4th, 1831.

'Mr. Russell,—If you will be kind enough to let my brother prisoners know the awful death which Ishall have suffered when you receive this, it will, through your expostulations, prevent them from increasing their crimes when they may be liberated; and tell them bad company, and drinking, and blasphemy, is the foundation of all evil. Give my brotherly love to them, and tell them never to deviate from the paths of religion, and to have a firm belief in their blessed Saviour. Give my love to John Edwards, John Justin, and John Dingle, and receive the prayers of the unfortunate and guilty

'Thomas Head.'

Both prisoners rose at six o'clock in the morning, and were soon after visited by the rev. gentlemen who had before attended them. Williams, at times, appeared fervent in his devotions, and prayed earnestly; but at intervals he would pause, and seem as if his prayer was hopeless; again he would resume his prayer, and clasp his hands in great agony. Bishop also prayed; but he by no means showed the same fervour as his companion. There was a listlessness in his manner approaching to indifference, not merely to religion, but to everything passing around him. At one time, when urged on the subject of his hope of forgiveness, he said, he did hope and trust for mercy through Jesus Christ. He added, that he fully deserved what he was about to suffer, but that his case would be desperate, if some greater mercy were not extended to him in the world which he was about to enter.

We should here mention a fact, that has been communicated to us on highly respectable authority, that on Sunday, besides the Rev. Mr. Cotton and another gentleman, there were two clergymen present with the convicts. The two clergymen were instructing the men on doctrinal points, which Mr. Cotton thought unnecessary. He therefore advisedthat the prisoners should retire into different corners of the room, and pray silently to God. Mr. Cotton found it necessary to give this advice twice. On both occasions the men withdrew as desired, fell on their knees, prayed for a short time, and then burst into tears. Before this, both prisoners seemed agitated to a degree which it was most distressing to witness. As they prayed they became more composed. The Rev. Mr. Russell, and another clergyman, were with the prisoners early on Monday morning, and remained with them up to the time of their being removed into the press-room.

The applications made on Sunday to the sheriffs, by the nobility and gentry, to allow them admission to the interior of the prison to witness the preliminaries of the execution were beyond all precedent.

Many applications were also made for admission to the condemned sermon. None, however, was preached. In the case of murderers this solemnity is not granted. The tolling of the prison-bell, which adds so much to the horrors of a common execution, by sounding the knell for the dead in the ears of those about to die, was also dispensed with. We never heard that any sufferer complained of the omission. We have seen many who were not murderers deeply affected by the funeral honour or compliment thus paid to them on their way to the scaffold.

During the whole of Saturday and Sunday, the lord-mayor and sheriffs, assisted by the city marshals, Messrs. Brown and Cope, were busily engaged in adopting precautions to guard against the possibility of accident at the execution. All the officers of the various wards in the city were ordered to attend; and besides the usual force of the city police, a large body of special constables were sworn in. An extra number of heavy barriers were erected inthe Old Bailey, immediately contiguous to the space on which the gallows stands, at short distances, so as to prevent the crush of the multitude as much as possible; and the same precautions were adopted at either end of the Old Bailey, at the end of Newgate-street, Giltspur-street, and Skinner-street.

All the constabulary force received orders from the city marshals to assemble at five o'clock in the morning, and to take the stations appointed for them.

During the afternoon of Sunday groups of persons were congregated in different parts of the Old Bailey. Towards evening the crowds increased, and by midnight great numbers were assembled, who actually remained all night on the spot, in order to secure places near the scaffold on the following morning. The occupiers of houses, from the windows of which a view could be obtained of the execution, exhibited placards, announcing various prices for seats according to the proximity of the domicile to the spot, and though it was generally stipulated that such seats could not be kept for parties after six o'clock in the morning, they were eagerly sought for and secured at a guinea per seat and upwards. So much as ten guineas was given for a single window, and all these seats were occupied by those who had engaged them, at so early an hour as five o'clock, upon a cold, cheerless, and most uninviting morning. Shortly after midnight the gallows was brought from the yard, and the workmen proceeded to erect it in the usual place, opposite the debtors' door of Newgate. A large space around it was barricadoed to keep off the crowd, and the inside of that space was subsequently nearly filled by constables and marshalmen.

The crowd, as early as one o'clock, amounted to several thousand persons, and continued rapidlyincreasing. By five o'clock nearly two-thirds of the Old Bailey were filled with a dense mass of people. The continued buzz among the multitude at this time, the glare of light from the torches that were used for the purpose of enabling the workmen to proceed with their labours, and the terrific struggles among the crowd, altogether presented a scene which those who witnessed it will not soon forget. As the dawn of day approached, and with it the fatal hour that was to consign the wretched criminals to their well-merited fate, all the streets leading to the Old Bailey were thronged with people, chiefly of the working classes, hastening to the spot. Constant streams of population were pouring into the Old Bailey till they formed, around the scaffold and at the corner of every street from whence even a distant or a faint view could be obtained, a vast lake of life. Amongst the immense assemblage might be noticed several females, most of them of thatcastewhose attendance on such an occasion might be naturally expected, but some of them, we regret to state, of a class that decency, if not humanity, should have kept away from a scene so revolting to those delicate sensibilities that generally characterize females.

When the fatal drop was stationed in its usual place, it was observed that three chains were suspended from it. As soon as Mr. Wontner, the governor of Newgate, heard of it, he ordered an officer to remove one of them, May having been respited. This was done, and although it was then dark, it was instantly communicated throughout the vast assemblage, and a general cry of 'May is respited' was uttered. The announcement did not seem to excite much surprise, although a few individuals expressed their disapprobation by yelling and hooting.

About half-past six o'clock a body of city police, amounting to about two hundred men, came up the Old Bailey, but the crowd was so dense at this time that it was found impossible for them to proceed to their station, which was at the foot of the gallows. After several ineffectual attempts to pass on, it was arranged that they should be allowed to go through the prison. Several persons seized this as a favourable opportunity, by presenting constables' staves, to pass themselves off as belonging to the police; but Mr. Browne, the marshal, suffered no one to pass whom he did not recognize either as belonging to the city police or as special constables. The pressure in the immediate neighbourhood of the scaffold was tremendous, in spite of the barriers; and many persons exhausted with fatigue, as early as seven o'clock, rescuing themselves with difficulty from the throng, were heard to exclaim, as they passed the outskirts of the mob, 'Thank God, I have got away!' Many who thus quitted the scene with torn clothes, and faces streaming with perspiration, had remained on the spot for hours. Indeed, the avenue from the house of Mr. Cotton, the ordinary, to the house of Mr. Wontner, the governor of Newgate, was so completely blocked up at an early hour, that Mr. Cotton, and another clergyman who accompanied him on his last visit to these unhappy convicts, were unable to force their way through the crowd, and could only obtain admittance into the prison by making adetourto the other end of the Old Bailey, and by entering it through the iron railings around the New Court.

As day began to break we had an opportunity of surveying the crowd from the top of Newgate, and we should think that at that time there were not less than from thirty thousand to forty thousand persons assembled. The tops of the houses, lamp-posts, andevery station from which the most distant view of the execution could be obtained, were by this time occupied. In fact, from one end of the Old Bailey to the other, was one dense mass; and the streets in the neighbourhood, although not a glance could be had of the platform or the proceedings, were, from an early hour, rendered impassable by the throng of persons hurrying towards the scene of execution. The assemblage was the largest that has ever been witnessed on an occasion of the kind, since the execution of Holloway and Haggarty, upwards of twenty years since, when some fourteen or fifteen persons were trampled to death in the crowd. The following fact will convey some idea of the extent and densely-congregated state of the crowd on Monday,—namely, that even so far as St. Sepulchre's church, in Skinner-street, several individuals, whose screams for relief had induced the people to raise them up, were passed over the heads of their neighbours for some dozen yards before they could obtain a resting-place.

Notwithstanding the many precautions taken by the city authorities to prevent accidents, we are sorry to say that several occurred; and though no lives were lost, we fear that some of the injuries that were sustained were of a very serious description. At the end of Giltspur-street, immediately opposite the Compter, a very heavy barrier was erected across the road for the purpose of counteracting the immense pressure of the mob, which in that direction extended to Smithfield. This barrier was fastened to two uprights, that were placed two feet in the ground, by iron hooping, which was by no means of sufficient strength for the immense weight of the timber to which it was attached. The consequence was, that at the moment the culprits were visible on the gallows, the barrier was forceddown, and a number of persons of both sexes fell with it. The screams of the females, and the confusion that ensued, were truly alarming. One female of very respectable appearance, with her husband, were most dreadfully injured, the barrier having fallen upon their chests, and others of the mob pressing upon them. A city constable was also under the barrier, which rested on his abdomen, and his cries were most deplorable. In this dreadful situation did the sufferers remain for some minutes. A cry of 'Stand back; for God's sake, stand back!' was raised, but all was of no avail, and people in all directions were trampling upon each other.

At length some of the officers from the Compter came out, and with the assistance of several other officers, a space of ground was obtained, and the individuals were rescued from their perilous situation and carried to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where they were promptly attended to by Mr. Birkett, the dresser to Mr. Vincent, the principal surgeon, who had been in attendance all night to receive any accident that might be brought in. Before nine o'clock, every bed in Colston-ward was occupied by persons who had been injured at the moment the barrier gave way, and many of them most seriously so.

As the hour of eight approached, the anxiety of the multitude became more intense, and every eye became directed towards the door through which the wretched criminals were to be led to the scaffold.

At half-past seven o'clock, the Sheriffs, accompanied by the Under-Sheriffs and several gentlemen to whom they had given permission to be present, entered the prison. The Sheriffs immediately proceeded to the condemned cells, where Mr. Wontner, the Governor, delivered the prisoners up to them for execution. The Sheriffs then proceeded to the Press-room, in which the strangers who had gotadmission to the prison were also admitted. The prisoners were soon after introduced by the Sheriffs' officers. Bishop entered first. That kind of stupor which we already noticed when the verdict of the jury was pronounced, was still more strongly upon him. He advanced in rather a drooping manner, his eye fixed on the ground. His step was slow without being firm, and his whole bearing was rather that of a man unconscious of, than of one indifferent to, the dreadful scene through which he was about to pass. He had got more than half way to the upper end of the room before he looked around; when he did, a kind of half-suppressed groan escaped him, as from one who was for a moment roused to a quick sense of an approaching violent death. But it was only for a moment, for at once he seemed to relapse into his former stupor: his eye was again bent on the ground, and he moved mechanically up to the officer, who stood ready to tie his hands, and stretched forth his arms, the wrists being closely pressed together. When that part of the preparation was concluded, he turned round and allowed his arms to be pinioned. This done, he took his seat at a side-bench without uttering a word. There were many persons in the room who seemed to think that this calm and quiet manner showed great firmness, but if they had seen him before, or watched him more closely, they would have perceived that there was nothing of real firmness in the man. His eye was sunk and heavy, and seemed to shrink from the gaze of those around him. It was for the most part fixed on the ground. One of the Under-Sheriffs took a seat by his side, and in a low tone asked him (we understood) whether he had anything more to confess. His answer was, 'No, Sir, I have told all.' The Under-Sheriff remained with him for a fewmoments, but the only answers we could hear from him were to the effect that he had nothing more to tell.

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