On the first morning after his removal from the Lock-up-house to the condemned cell, which, in the Calton Jail, is under the women’s cells, and adjoining the stair which leads to them, he mentioned to the jailor who attended him, that he had heard a woman lamenting, and inquired if it would be Hare’s wife. He was informed that it could not be she, as she was confined in a distant part of the house. He asked, if there were any women in the same quarter,for he was sure that it was a woman he heard mourning. The jailor then told him that it must have been his own wife, who was kept among the women for protection. “Is the place convenient,” he said. The jailor answered, “That it was quite near.” “Poor thing,” he relied, “she has lost her only earthly provider.” On the evening before M‘Dougal left Edinburgh, she called at the jail with Constantine Burke, both requesting to see Burke, and upon this being denied them, M‘Dougal sent a message, informing him that she wanted money. He sent all that remained of his money, and a common old watch, to her. He has since expressed great affection for her, and a strong desire to see her before he suffers.
Shortly after he came to the jail, it was observed by some one that he would receive absolution from the priest, which would make all right. He answered in a serious tone, “that there was only one absolution for sin, and that it had already been made.” Any account of the spiritual conversion of a great criminal has frequently been complained of by many, under the supposition that it has a tendency to encourage sinners to continue in their iniquity, in the hope that a tardy repentance may place them in a state of grace at last. We question much the justice of their conclusions. Men engaged in a career of crime do not reason in this way, nor reason at all upon the subject; and, though they did, it would require great hardihood in a fellow-sinner to endeavour to deprive them of “the hope set before them in the Gospel.” Though we certainly do not imagine that these objectors would for a moment contemplate fettering the operation of the Spirit. We, at the same time, hold the opinion, that the utmost caution should be used in promulgating such accounts, and that the state of mind of the individual should be thoroughlysifted and rigidly inquired into before a conversion be announced. It is with some pain, therefore, that we have heard it given forth that Burke has become a true penitent. Happy should we have been had we been enabled to proclaim that “the wicked had forsaken his ways, and the unrighteous man his thoughts,” and glad should we still be to learn that it was so; but truth compels us to state, that no symptom has hitherto occurred to warrant such a conclusion. We know well that he has expressed contrition for his misdeeds, but we fear that it is rather sorrow for punishment having overtaken him, than a sense of the magnitude of his sin against God; and as for saying that he has sinned, a man who has committed fifteen cold-blooded murders, if he speaks on the subject at all, can scarcely say any thing else. He is said to be perfectly resigned to his fate, and to express himself quite calmly on the subject. We believe it all. He is a man of that stamp that would resolutely bring himself to suffer calmly what he could not avoid. As to his announcing that he would not now accept of pardon though it was offered to him, it appears to us to be a mere fiction. We would not wish to speak irreverently upon such a solemn subject, but surely we may be allowed to say, that conversion to the faith of the Gospel, and to a firm belief in the truths of Christianity, does not and ought not to bring along with it a predilection for being hanged; that while it alone prepares a man for death, it also capacitates him for worthily continuing in life. We fear if Burke has made use of such an expression, it can only be accounted for by wrong-headedness or hypocrisy. He must know well that a pardon is not likely to be granted, and if it were, that his consent would not be asked; and any observations upon the subject may therefore be spared. We repeat that we shall be happy to be assured that we are mistaken in theview we have taken of his state, but there is much fear that though a melancholy it is a just one.
Since his conviction he has been very strictly watched, lest he should find means to destroy himself, though he has never shown the slightest inclination to do so. A man sits with him night and day, and to those engaged in this duty, as well as others who are necessarily employed about him, he has been very communicative and garrulous.
As illustrative of the freedom with which he converses with those who are about him, we may mention an instance which, were it not for the melancholy and awful situation in which he is placed—standing on the brink of eternity—would bear an irresistibly ludicrous aspect. His mind seemed to have been engaged in a train of reasoning upon some subject, and at last he gave vent to it by saying, that he thought he was entitled to, and ought to get, the five pounds from Dr. Knox, which was still unpaid, on the body of the woman Docherty. It was observed to him, that Dr. Knox had lost by the transaction, as the body was taken from him. He replied, “That was not my business: I delivered the subject, and he ought to have kept it.” It was then said to him, that if the money was paid, Hare ought to get half of it. He pondered a little upon this view, and then answered, “No; that Hare had cleared himself by becoming king’s evidence, and he thought that he had justly forfeited his share of it, and that all the five pounds should go to him.” It turned out that his anxiety for the five pounds proceeded from a desire to appear in a reputable manner on the scaffold. “Since I am to appear before the public,” he said, “I should like to be respectable. I have got a tolerable pair of trousers, but have not a coat and waistcoat that I can appear in; and ifI get the five pounds I would buy them.” Though it is not likely that he will receive the money, his wish will be gratified in respect to the clothes,—a topic which he has frequently adverted to. We understand that the priest who attends him has provided him with what he desires; and if he had not done so, the Magistrates would have supplied the want.
His disease has now got worse, and gives him great uneasiness. In consequence of the surgeon’s request some change has been made on his food, and in addition to the meagre diet formerly hinted at, a little soup has been allowed him daily. This day, (Tuesday) he will receive the sacrament according to the rites of the Romish church. He was removed to the Lock-up-house previous to the awful ceremonial of a public execution, at five o’clock this morning.
Since his condemnation, all intercourse with him has been strictly prohibited, except by those whose duties required their attendance, or the authorities who might wish to see him upon public business; or, finally, those who had, from their situation, the privilege of theentrée, and could extend the same privilege to a few of their immediate friends; but, with the exception of their visits, they seem to have been actuated by the laudable desire, that the unhappy man should not be annoyed from motives of curiosity, and the public has been rigidly excluded. Still a sufficient number found their way into his cell, to harass and tease him about confessions; and to be rid of the annoyance, as it is stated, he addressed a letter to the Lord Provost, requesting that a professional gentleman, whom he named, might be allowed access to him, for the purpose of, once for all, giving through him an authenticated confession, which might satisfy the public mind.
The public authorities appear all along to have been actuated by a decided reluctance to disclose to the public any thing connected with these transactions beyond what must necessarily appear on the regular trials; and in doing so, we have no doubt have been anxious to secure to official persons the exclusive knowledge of such circumstances as might be necessary for the ends of justice, as well as, in their opinion, to prevent the public mind being unnecessarily excited.
The Lord Provost stated to the Council, that they were perhaps aware that a written application had been made to him,signedby Burke, the individual at present under sentence of death, for permission to be visited by a Writer in town, to whom he was desirous of making some disclosures regarding the crimes with which he had been connected, and that, acting upon the advice of the Lord Advocate, he had deemed it right to refuse the application in question.—That advice had been given by the Lord Advocate in a letter, which, of course, was not written with the view of publication; but as much misrepresentation had gone abroad regarding the matter, the Lord Provost deemed it right that the letter should be laid before the public, that they might know the true grounds on which the request had been refused. His Lordship further stated, that he had waited upon Burke, and explained to him the reason for refusing access to the individual whom he had mentioned in his letter, and by whom that letter was written, though it was certainly signed by Burke—when the unfortunate man mentioned to the Lord Provost, that he was perfectly indifferent as to the matter, and that he did not conceive that the narrative of his life, which the personalready mentioned had wished to prepare for publication, was of a nature calculated to interest any one. The Lord Advocate’s letter is of the following tenor:—
“Edinburgh, January 15, 1829.“My Lord Provost—I had the honour to receive your Lordship’s letter of yesterday’s date, transmitting a communication to you from William Burke, which is herewith returned.“Your Lordship is perhaps not aware that, on the 3d instant, Burke intimated to the Sheriff, through the Governor of the Jail, that being harassed by inquiries, he wished once for all to make a full confession of every thing he could say in regard to the atrocious transactions in which he had been engaged, to the end that he might afterwards be allowed to remain undisturbed, and apply his mind to things fitted to his situation. In consequence of this communication, the Sheriff, on that same day, repaired to the jail, and took from Burke a full and voluntary confession, which was drawn up in the shape of a declaration, consisting of 19 pages. This declaration is now in my possession, and I sometime ago sent a copy of it to the Secretary of State.“It appears to me of importance both to the individual himself, and to the public, that no second statement, which might be contradictory of, or inconsistent with, the first, (so solemnly and deliberately given) ought now to be impetrated from this man by irresponsible parties, with the avowed object of its publication; and that the proper answer for your Lordship in return is, that Burke having himself most properly already selected such a mode of making his confession as was best calculated to secure itsaccuracy, and to render it truly authentic, no deviation from that mode of proceeding can now be sanctioned; but that the Sheriff will wait upon Burke, for the purpose of reading over to him the confession made on the 3d current, and that that magistrate will then take down whatever additions or alterations Burke may desire to have made upon it.”“I have the honour, &c.(Signed)“Wm. Rae.”“Right Honourable the Lord Provostof Edinburgh, &c. &c. &c.”
“Edinburgh, January 15, 1829.
“My Lord Provost—I had the honour to receive your Lordship’s letter of yesterday’s date, transmitting a communication to you from William Burke, which is herewith returned.
“Your Lordship is perhaps not aware that, on the 3d instant, Burke intimated to the Sheriff, through the Governor of the Jail, that being harassed by inquiries, he wished once for all to make a full confession of every thing he could say in regard to the atrocious transactions in which he had been engaged, to the end that he might afterwards be allowed to remain undisturbed, and apply his mind to things fitted to his situation. In consequence of this communication, the Sheriff, on that same day, repaired to the jail, and took from Burke a full and voluntary confession, which was drawn up in the shape of a declaration, consisting of 19 pages. This declaration is now in my possession, and I sometime ago sent a copy of it to the Secretary of State.
“It appears to me of importance both to the individual himself, and to the public, that no second statement, which might be contradictory of, or inconsistent with, the first, (so solemnly and deliberately given) ought now to be impetrated from this man by irresponsible parties, with the avowed object of its publication; and that the proper answer for your Lordship in return is, that Burke having himself most properly already selected such a mode of making his confession as was best calculated to secure itsaccuracy, and to render it truly authentic, no deviation from that mode of proceeding can now be sanctioned; but that the Sheriff will wait upon Burke, for the purpose of reading over to him the confession made on the 3d current, and that that magistrate will then take down whatever additions or alterations Burke may desire to have made upon it.”
“I have the honour, &c.
(Signed)“Wm. Rae.”
“Right Honourable the Lord Provost
of Edinburgh, &c. &c. &c.”
It is difficult, however, to see how “it is of importance to the individual himself, and to the public, that no second statement, which might be contradictory of, or inconsistent with, the first,” should be given. To us it seems of great importance, that all he is willing to confess ought to be received and given to the public. So far from his wishing to remain undisturbed, it is at his own request conveyed in a letter, signed with his name, that that permission for the gentleman to visit him was asked; and his second statement could only be important, in as much as it differed from the one previously given to the Sheriff. It could only be with a view of giving a fuller account, and more minute in its details, that he was desirous of being troubled further in the matter. It is not an impossible supposition, that the declaration the Sheriff received is altogether a tissue of lies; and is the immaculacy of it still to be upheld, and all correction denied, because it would be contradictory of, or inconsistent with, the former document? Neither does it seem to us, that the avowed object of its publication makes any difference. It is only in as far as this object is concerned that the public cares a straw upon the subject. And if the Sheriff’s document isnot intended to be immediately published, but is to be shut up in the archives of his office, until some future Sir Walter Scott grubs it out, and weaves for other generations a romance of thrilling interest out of the horrifying confessions of Burke, the public perhaps would have been as well pleased had all this official activity been spared.
We cannot believe that these very respectable functionaries can feel in common with those who use the silly cant, that the public mind may be contaminated by an account of his crime. The public mind has been, and is strongly excited. Some information the public requires, and will get, and it surely is better to have a correct and authentic statement than garbled and exaggerated reports. Were it a detail of the clever tricks of an ingenious and adroit rogue, there might be some colour for the above opinion; but no one is likely to be so enraptured with Burke’s narrative as to engage in such a revolting trade in imitation of him.
But while their Lordships have been deliberating upon this subject, and ultimately resolving that he should not be allowed to give an account to any but themselves, the poor man has been confessing all the time; and it is well known that several have had access to him, whose mouths cannot be stopped, and whose pens have not been idle. We are assured that not one, but several “authentic confessions of Burke” will be made public; and we have reason to know, that a duly authenticated one will appear, whether the Lord Advocate’s be published or not. Whatever is interesting, our readers may rely upon receiving.
For the present, with the exception of the following“confessions” which first appeared in the Caledonian Mercury, and which, we are assured, are perfectly authentic, we will leave the unfortunate man until the last act in the singular drama of his life closes.
The information from which the following article is drawn up, we have received from a most respectable quarter, and its perfect correctness in all respects may be confidently relied on. In truth, it is as nearly as possible a strict report, rather than the substance, of what passed at an interview with Burke; in the course of which the unhappy man appears to have opened his mind without reserve, and to have given a distinct and explicit answer to every question which was put to him relative to his connection with the late murders.
After some conversation of a religious nature, in the course of which Burke stated that, while in Ireland, his mind was under the influence of religious impressions, and that he was accustomed to read his catechism and his prayer-book, and to attend to his duties, he was asked, “How comes it, then, that you who, by your own account, were once under the influence of religious impressions, ever formed the idea of such dreadful atrocities, of such cold-blooded, systematic murders, as you admit you have been engaged in—how came such a conception to enter your mind?” To this Burke replied, that he did not exactly know; but that becoming addicted to drink, living in open adultery, and associating continually with the most abandoned characters, he gradually became hardened.
He was then asked, how long he had been engaged in this murderous traffic. To which he answered, “From Christmas 1827 till the murder of the woman Docherty in October last.” “How many persons have you murdered, or been concerned in murdering, during that time? Were they thirty in all?” “Not so many; not so many, I assure you.” “How many?” He answered the question; but the answer was, for a reason perfectly satisfactory, not communicated to us, and reserved for a different quarter.
“Had you any accomplices?” “None but Hare. We always took care, when we were going to commit a murder, that no one else should be present—that no one could swear he saw the deed done. The women might suspect what we were about, but we always put them out of the way when we were going to do it. They never saw us commit any of the murders. One of the murders was done in Broggan’s house, while he was out, but before he returned the thing was finished, and the body put into a box. Broggan evidently suspected something, for he appeared much agitated, and entreated us ‘to take away that box,’ which we accordingly did. But he was not in any way concerned in it.
“You have already told me that you were engaged in these atrocities from Christmas 1827 till the end of October 1828; were you associated with Hare during all that time?” “Yes. We began with selling to Dr. —— the body of a woman[4]who had died a natural death in Hare’s house. We got ten pounds for it. After this we began the murders,and all the rest of the bodies we sold to him were murdered.”
“In what place were these murders generally committed?” “They were mostly committed in Hare’s house, which was very convenient for the purpose, as it consisted of a room and a kitchen. Daft Jamie was murdered there. The story told of this murder is incorrect. Hare began the struggle with him, and they fell and rolled together on the floor; then I went to Hare’s assistance, and we at length finished him, though with much difficulty. I committed one murder in the country by myself.[5]It was in last harvest. All the rest were done in conjunction with Hare.”
“By what means were these fearful atrocities perpetrated?” “By suffocation. We made the persons drunk, and then suffocated them by holding the nostrils and mouth, and getting on the body. Sometimes I held the mouth and nose, while Hare went upon the body; and sometimes Hare held the mouth and nose, while I placed myself on the body. Hare has perjured himself by what he said at the trial about the murder of Docherty. He did not sit by while I did it, as he says. He was on the body assisting me with all his might, while I held the nostrils and mouth with one hand, choked her under the throat with the other. We sometimes used a pillow, but did not in this case.”
“Now, Burke, answer me this question—Were you tutored and instructed, or did you receive hints from anyone as to the mode of committing murder?” “No, except from Hare. We often spoke about it, and we agreed that suffocation was the best way. Hare said so, and I agreed with him. We generally did it by suffocation.” [Our informant omitted to interrogate him about the surgical instruments stated to have been found in his house; but this omission will be supplied.]
“Did you receive any encouragement to commit or persevere in committing these atrocities?” “Yes; we were frequently told by Paterson that he would take as many bodies as we could get for him. When we got one, he always told us to get more. There was commonly another person with him of the name of Falconer. They generally pressed us to get more bodies for them.”
“To whom were the bodies so murdered sold?” “To Dr. ——. We took the bodies to his rooms in —— ——, and then went to his house to receive the money for them. Sometimes he paid us himself; sometimes we were paid by his assistants. No questions were ever asked as to the mode in which we had come by the bodies. We had nothing to do but to leave a body at the rooms, and go get the money.”
“Did you ever, upon any occasion, sell a body or bodies to any other lecturer in this place?” “Never. We knew no other.”
“You have been a resurrectionist (as it is called) I understand?” “No. Neither Hare nor myself ever got a body from a churchyard. All we sold were murdered save the first one, which was that of the woman (man)who died a natural death in Hare’s house. We began with that: our crimes then commenced. The victims we selected were generally elderly persons. They could be more easily disposed of than persons in the vigour of health.”
Such are the disclosures which this wretched man has made, under circumstances which can scarcely fail to give them weight with the public. Before a question was put to him concerning the crimes he had been engaged in, he was solemnly reminded of the duty incumbent upon him, situated as he is, to banish from his mind every feeling of animosity towards Hare, on account of the evidence which the latter gave at the trial; he was told, that, as a dying man, covered with guilt, and without hope, except in the infinite mercy of Almighty God, through our blessed Redeemer, the Lord Jesus Christ, he, who stood so much in need of forgiveness, must prepare himself to seek it by forgiving from his heart all who had done him wrong; and he was most emphatically adjured to speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, without any attempt either to palliate his own iniquities, or to implicate Hare more deeply than the facts warranted. Thus admonished, and thus warned, he answered the several interrogatories in the terms above stated; declaring, at the same time, upon the word of a dying man, that every thing he had said was true, and that he had in no respect exaggerated or extenuated any thing, either from a desire to exculpate Hare, or to spare any one else. The unhappy man is, moreover, perfectly penitent, and resigned to his fate. He never deluded himself with any hopes of escape or of mercy; and he is now accordingly preparing himself for confession,and for receiving absolution, by a perusal of such books as his spiritual guides have put into his hands, and by listening with the most devout attention to their religious instructions. He fully acknowledges the justice of his sentence; nay, he considers it in some measure as a blessing, the certainty of his approaching fate having brought back his mind to a sense of religion, from which it had been long estranged. At first he expressed deep regret that Hare, whose guilt he conceives as of a still deeper dye than his own, should have escaped the vengeance of the law; but by the exertions of his spiritual monitors, who have been indefatigable in their efforts to impress him with a strong sense of the dreadful enormity of his own guilt, as well as to bring him to a right frame and temper of mind, he no longer gives expression to such feelings, and now only breathes a wish to die at peace with all mankind. As often as the subject of the late trial is mentioned, however, he never fails to assert that Hare perjured himself in the account he gave of the murder of the woman; repeating the statement we have already given, that, so far from sitting by, a cool and unconcerned spectator of the crime, Hare actively assisted in the commission of it, and was upon the body of the woman co-operating with himself in his efforts to strangle her.
We are now drawing near a termination of the earthly career of the wretched man who has lately occupied so large a place in the public mind. At the time that his atrocities were first brought to light, a deep and generalsensation of horror and astonishment was produced. The fresh disclosure of new crimes which were announced from day to day, kept alive this feeling, until at last it was wound up to a pitch of interest which can scarcely be imagined. All classes seemed actuated by a common feeling of indignation against the ruffians who could perpetrate such enormities; while the disappointment of the public, that the vengeance of the law had hitherto overtaken only one of the murderous gang, was strongly expressed. There was manifested, at the same time, great satisfaction that one at least of the miscreants had not also escaped his merited fate; and, as the time appointed for his execution drew near, an universal interest was exhibited to learn the progress of the preparations, and the state of mind of the unhappy man. The magistrates and authorities, however, seem purposely to have adopted a line of conduct calculated directly to disappoint the very natural anxiety so unequivocally exhibited; and up to the moment when he appeared on the scaffold, all knowledge of what was passing was withheld, and all access to the condemned cell or to the Lock-up-house denied; while those, whose duty required that they should be brought in contact with Burke, were repeatedly cautioned against divulging such intelligence as their situation might enable them to obtain. So rigidly was this injunction enforced, that one of the turnkeys in the Calton-hill jail, an individual who was very generally respected in his station, and who, we believe, heretofore conducted himself with much propriety, has, notwithstanding his previous character, been dismissed for revealing some of the secrets of the prison-house.
In despite, however, of all this well-preserved mystery, some particulars of the last hours of the doomed man havetranspired, and we now are enabled to lay before our readers an account, as complete as it can be made, of the awful ceremony which terminated his mortal existence.
At four o’clock on the morning of Tuesday the 27th, (the day previous to that appointed for the execution), Burke was taken off thegad, and conveyed in a coach from the Calton-hill Jail to the Lock-up-house in Libberton’s Wynd. The time was purposely fixed at this unusual hour to prevent any annoyance from the crowd, which would undoubtedly have assembled had it been delayed to a later time of the day. From this cause, the only persons present, and indeed the only individuals acquainted with it, except the coachman, were Captain Rose and one of his assistants. The criminal was strongly ironed, and secured with shackles of unusual magnitude and strength.
He maintained on this trying occasion, both immediately before leaving the jail, and during the time he was in the coach, the same composure of mind which he has displayed ever since his conviction.
On reaching the Lock-up-house, he was supported into it in a state of extreme exhaustion; so much so, as to lead some who witnessed it to imagine that the gallows might still lose its deserved victim, by his death taking place before the next morning.
In the course of the last day of his existence, his composure or insensibility still continued unshaken, exceptingwhen the dead-clothes, a suit of sables, were presented to him. On receiving them he exhibited deep emotion, and by his own confession he felt it. We have mentioned before that his thoughts had been frequently occupied about the dress he was to appear in. He remained perfectly unmoved, with the exception of this transient indication, throughout the rest of the day. In the course of the day, he was visited by the Rev. Messrs. Reid and Stewart, Catholic priests, and the Rev. Mr. Marshall, whom he requested to attend him to the scaffold, as well as the Rev. Mr. Porteous, which he promised to do. He said to those in attendance that he had committed no more murders than those which were comprised in the declaration he made to the sheriff since his conviction. For two or three nights previously, he had enjoyed sound sleep, and it is extraordinary that such was his state of dogged tranquillity, that his rest was sound and unbroken, for five hours, from Tuesday night to Wednesday morning. This, we believe, has however been observed to be frequently the case with criminals on the evening previous to execution.
At length, he manifested some impatience for the arrival of the time when he was to leave this world. In the course of the night, he said with much apparent earnestness, “Oh that the hour were come which is to separate me from the world!” About half-past five o’clock on Wednesday morning, he expressed a desire to be relieved from his chains, complaining much of the weight of them. This desire was readily complied with. He held out his leg to the smith employed to perform this service, and when the fetters fell from his limbs, he exclaimed, turning up hiseyes towards Heaven, “So may all earthly chains fall from me!”
About half-past six o’clock, the two Catholic clergymen (the Rev. Messrs. Reid and Stewart) entered the Lock-up-house: The former immediately waited upon the criminal in his cell, and was absent for a considerable time with him.
At seven Burke walked with a firm step into the keeper’s room, followed by his confessor; and at this moment no appearance of agitation or dismay was discernible in his countenance or manner. He took his seat on an arm chair at the side of the fire, and twice or thrice he was remarked to sigh heavily. There were present at the time Bailies Child, Crichton, and Small, and one or two official persons besides; who were shortly afterwards joined by the Reverend Mr. Marshall and Mr. Porteous, chaplain to the Calton-hill Jail. Before the latter gentleman arrived, however, Burke and his spiritual assistants of the Catholic persuasion had commenced their devotions; he engaged in them with much apparent fervour. The Reverend Messrs. Reid and Stewart followed up their prayers with some serious exhortations. In the course of these devout and pious admonitions, Mr. Reid used the words, “You must trust in the mercy of God;” upon which the unhappy wretch heaved a long, deep-drawn suspiration, or rather suppressed groan, which too plainly betrayed the anguish and despair that lurked about his heart. He seemed to have a secret feeling that he was too deeply sunk in crime to be entitled even to hope in the infinite mercy of Heaven: his mind acknowledged the truth of the observation,while his guilty and perhaps awakened conscience bade him doubt of that mercy being extended to him.
What is somewhat singular, he exhibited no emotion on the executioner making his appearance. After this portion of his religious exercises had been gone through, he was on his way to an adjoining apartment, when he was accidently met by Williams, who stopped him rather officiously; upon which he said, “I am not ready for you yet.” The executioner followed him, and in a very short time both returned, Burke with his arms tightly pinioned behind his back, but without any change in his demeanour. While Williams was discharging this part of his duty, no conversation took place; indeed he rather appeared disinclined to hold conversation with any.
He was then invited to take a glass of wine, which he accepted of, and before putting it to his lips, bowing to the company, he drank “Farewell to all present, and the rest of his friends.” He then entered into conversation for a few minutes with Mr. Marshall and Mr. Porteous upon religious subjects. The Magistrates, Bailies Crichton and Small, who had previously gone out, now appeared in their robes, with their rods of office, and Burke took the opportunity, before he went forth to meet his doom, of expressing his gratitude to the Magistrates generally, and particularly to Bailie Small, for the kindness he had experienced from them, as well as from all the public authorities. He likewise made similar acknowledgments to Mr. Rose, the Governor of the Calton-hill Jail, Mr. Fisher, the Deputy-Governor, and Mr. and Mrs. Christie, who have the charge of the Lock-up-house, for their unremitting and kind attentions.
Precisely at eight o’clock, Burke was upon his feet, as if eager to have the ceremony proceeded in, and immediately after the melancholy procession began to move towards the scaffold. He was supported by the two Catholic priests, more from the difficulty of walking, owing to the circumstance of his arms being pinioned than from any inability, or any faltering in his steps. When proceeding up Libberton’s Wynd, he seemed perfectly cool and self-possessed, turning from side to side, and conversing with the Rev. Messrs. Reid and Stewart, and the Rev. Mr. Marshall. In crossing from the Lock-up-house to the postern entrance in Libberton’s Wynd, to where the pathway was wet from the rain and thaw of the morning, he was observed picking his steps with the greatest care. When he arrived at the head of Libberton’s Wynd, his face had an expression of wistfulness and anxiety, as if he were uneasy and uncertain of his reception from the mob, and he hurried on with his eyes half closed, eager apparently to bring the fatal scene to a speedy close.
We will now advert to what was passing in the mean time out of doors. Here fortunately no individual “dressed in a little brief authority” could interfere, to prevent all the circumstances from being transacted under the public eye, or from the press, causing the knowledge of them to be widely extended far beyond even the countless multitudes who thronged and blocked up the High Street.
On Tuesday many anxious spectators were collectednear the ordinary place of execution at the head of Libberton’s Wynd, and the thoroughfare was kept up, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, during the whole day. The preparations commenced at an early hour in the forenoon. Holes were dug in the pavement for the reception of the upright posts, and a space surrounding the place which it was intended the scaffold should occupy, was enclosed with strong posts and chains, to prevent the crowd breaking in upon the scaffold. At ten o’clock on Tuesday night, the ceremony of setting up the scaffold commenced. Its progress was watched by a great many eager beholders, although the rain still continued at intervals to pelt upon them. The din of the workmen and clanging of the hammers were mingled with the shouts which were raised by the assembled populace, whenever an important piece of the erection was completed, while the torches used, shedding a lurid glare on the black apparatus and dusky countenances of the workmen, added greatly to the wildness and interest of the scene. When all was finished, and the fatal beam placed transversely upon the perpendicular one, and its dark outline visible through the dim light, three tremendous cheers were given. To show the feeling of the working classes, we may mention, that notwithstanding the reluctance that is invariably exhibited among the operatives of the carpenter employed to set up the apparatus for an execution is such, that lots have to be cast for those workmen in the employment who are to fulfil the disagreeable task. On this occasion, one and all volunteered their services, and performed the work with a gusto and alacrity which would have been astonishing in an ordinary case. It was completed about two o’clock in the morning, and shortly after that hour the people dispersed, some few having delayed their departure until theywitnessed the fitting and adjusting of the rope. It was afterwards removed, and replaced shortly before its services were required.
Long before this time the closes and stairs near the spot were blocked up by those who had resolved upon securing a good view, by remaining all night on the ground. The inclemency of the weather drove them to any shelter that could be obtained, and morning found them in the comfortless lairs they had chosen overnight.
A constant bustle was also kept up by the arrival of those individuals, who either from favour or for money, had procured the conveniency of a window in the vicinity. Many gave considerable sums for this accommodation, and such was their desire to avail themselves of their good fortune in securing them, that they spent the night in the apartment.
The streets were nearly perfectly quiet throughout the morning after the erection of the gibbet; the heavy and almost incessant rain must have contributed greatly to prevent any very early assemblage. As the morning advanced, however, groups were seen hastening to their windows, or taking their station in as favourable a place as they could fix upon for properly witnessing the approaching event.
About five o’clock the people began again to assemble and take their station, principally in front of the gallows, and above it towards the Castle Hill, while large parties of policemen and patrole successively arrived, and were judiciously posted in a strong line in front of the railing which kept off the crowd. The space left free was larger than is usually reserved upon such occasions. The Police actedunder the conduct of Captain Stewart and his Lieutenants. Their services were not in a solitary instance required except it might be to prevent the great pressure of the vast multitude from bursting the barrier; indeed the mob were in perfect good humour, and instead of their usual animosity against the police officers being displayed, in futile attempts to annoy or retard them in the execution of their duties, one and all of the immense assemblage would willingly have done any thing in their power to aid the officers and further the arrangements.
From six to seven o’clock a great concourse thronged every avenue to the High Street, and the numbers pouring, almost rushing into it from every quarter, gave the immediate vicinity a very busy and animated appearance. Among the arrivals, there were many whose appearance betokened that they did not belong to the usual class who attend such scenes. In this number were included many well dressed ladies, who by and bye made their appearance at the windows of the lofty and sombre looking lands in the Lawnmarket, as well as those of the county buildings, and gave an unexpected variety to the picturesque scene. We understand that windows commanding a view of the place of execution were eagerly inquired after, and engaged at prices varying according to their locality, from five to thirty shillings each, while some who had engaged a window retailed a view at the rate of half a crown a head. The great numbers who were constantly arriving up before seven o’clock seemed principally to disperse themselves in this manner, as no very sensible addition was made to the mass up to this hour.
About six o’clock the weather had become less inclement, and though it was a cold raw disagreeable morning, theshowers were only partial and less violent than they had been during the night. After seven o’clock, when the rain almost entirely ceased, the crowd became rapidly larger and more dense, and about eight o’clock the area contained between the West Bow and the Tron Church, presented an aspect of such an immense and closely wedged mass of human beings—such a living and moving sea of uncountable multitudes as could very seldom be witnessed, and we should suppose has never been known on a similar occasion, or perhaps on any other in the city, excepting perhaps at the king’s visit. All along the street the people were packed more closely than could have been conceived, and as far as the eye could reach, every vantage ground that could command a view was thickly studded. In the immediate neighbourhood of the scaffold, looking downwards, the crowd presented a dark appearance from the great proportion of males who composed it, but few females, much under the number that usually attends on similar scenes were present. Farther out, however, where the pressure was not so great, the usual proportions of the sexes seemed to be more nearly maintained. Some few females were sprinkled even in the most dense parts of the crowd, and their screams and unavailing efforts to extricate themselves, sometimes gave a painful interest to their appearance. We noticed one boy who was with great difficulty preserved from being trampled under foot. Another unlucky youth had by some chance got elevated above the heads of the crowd, and cut a grotesque figure as sprawling on the top of the mass, he was tossed by its movements from side to side; at last he was cast up against the houses and secured a more stable station on a lamp iron. At the movement of any part of the mob, a correspondent and simultaneous motion seemed to be imparted to it in nearly all its parts, and some actioncontinually happening, imparted an appearance of a vast substance continually waving to and fro.
The numbers collected at this time have been computed at from twenty to thirty thousand individuals; we were disposed at first to consider this calculation excessive, but, upon consideration, we are inclined to believe that the amount has been under rather than overrated. Any idea of counting is quite out of the question, and guessing by the appearance in such a case, is nearly equally fallacious. The only way that tolerable accuracy can be obtained, is by calculating the superficial extent of the space occupied by the crowd.
We believe that we are not far wrong in assuming, that the High Street, from the West Bow to the Tron Church, is about three hundred yards in length, and averages about thirty yards in breadth. This would give for the superficial contents of the area, nine thousand square yards. The people did not quite extend to the Tron Church, but they were higher than the West Bow, and some standing on the Castle Hill; and taking the number in Bank Street, and those pushed out of the line in front of the Advocates’ Library, and into closes and stairs, and throwing off one thousand square yards, as an ample compensation for the deficiency about the church, there is still left eight thousand square yards. The mean density cannot be taken at less than four individuals to the square yard,—indeed, from the close packing for a considerable way round the scaffold, we are convinced that this is rather under than over the mark. This computation will give thirty-two thousand persons standing on the streets. We imagine that it is reckoning within the number when we calculate five thousand additional for the crammed windows, and those adventurousindividuals who occupied the house tops. In all, we arrive at the enormous number of thirty-seven thousand persons. We do not give this calculation as strictly correct. It cannot under these circumstances be so, but we believe that it is nearer the truth than any guess, and that the whole number approximated more nearly to forty thousand souls than to thirty-five thousand.
This immense multitude presented certainly nothing of the appearance of having come for the purpose of witnessing a sad solemnity, and differed very widely in demeanour from that which is usually exhibited by the spectators of an execution. In ordinary cases, a great degree of sympathy for the sufferer is usually manifested, and even in the worst a respectful and solemn deportment is observed, as if it was recognised that they were met upon a melancholy occasion. In this it was totally different. Every countenance bore an expression of gladness that revenge was so near, and the whole multitude appeared more as if they were waiting to witness some splendid procession or agreeable exhibition. Rude jokes and puns were bandied about, and any opportunity for fun and frolic to while away the time was immediately seized upon. Even the disagreeable and almost suffocating pressure was borne with equanimity, and the glances that were cast at St. Giles’ clock rather betokened an impatient desire to glut their vengeance by the spectacle of the arch-fiend’s death-struggles, than an anxiety to be released from their uncomfortable situation.
Eight o’clock at last struck solemnly, and commanded universal attention; all eyes were directed towards the scaffold. It now remains for us to describe what took place there, and
We left thecortegeproceeding up Libberton’s Wynd, the windows of which were also filled with spectators. When Bailies Crichton and Small, who were foremost in the procession, reached the top of the wynd, and were observed by that part of the crowd who were in a situation to see them, a loud shout was raised, which was speedily joined in by the whole mass of spectators. When the culprit himself appeared ascending the stair towards the platform, the yells of execration were redoubled, and at the moment that he came full in view, they rose to a tremendous pitch, intermixed with maledictions, such as “the murderer!Burkehim! choke him, hangie!” and other expressions of that sort. The miserable wretch, who looked thinner and more ghastly than at his trial, walked with a steady step to the apparatus of death, supported between his confessors, and accompanied by the Rev. Messrs. Marshall and Porteous, and seemed to be perfectly cool and self-possessed.
When he arrived on the platform of the scaffold, his composure seemed entirely to forsake him, when he heard the appalling shouts and yells of execration with which he was assailed. He cast a look of fierce and even desperate defiance as the reiterated cries were intermingled with maledictions, such as we have already described. His face suddenly assumed a deadly paleness, and his faculties appeared to fail him. Deafening cries of “hang Hare too,” “where is Hare?” “hang Knox,” were mingled with the denunciations against Burke.
His appearance betrayed considerable feebleness, whether from disease or emotion we cannot say.
He was dressed in the suit of black that we have already noticed, which was rather shabby in appearance. The coat had been made for a man of a much larger size, and from the looseness gave a look of weakness to his person. His appearance was that of a short man, narrow about the shoulder and chest; this proceeded from the dress, as he was really a well formed muscular man. His head was uncovered, and his hair, which was of a light sandy colour approaching nearly to white, along with his dress, gave somewhat of a reverend aspect to him. The resemblance to the portrait which was given in our third number, was universally acknowledged by those who were around us, and we cannot give a better idea of the man at this time to those who did not see him than by referring to it, allowing for the colour of the hair, the cadaverous hue, and some alteration which disease, confinement, and the murderer’s fare, had produced. He wore a white neckcloth, and boots which seemed to have lain uncleaned for a length of time in some damp place until they had become mouldy.
It was precisely five minutes after eight o’clock when they ascended the scaffold. Having taken his station in front of the drop, he kneeled with his back towards the spectators, his confessor on his right hand, and the other Catholic clergyman on his left, and appeared to be repeating a form of prayer, dictated to him by one of these reverend persons; the position called forth new shouts and clamours of “stand out of the way,” “turn him round.” Mr. Marshall, in the meanwhile, offered up a fervent supplication to Heaven in his behalf. The bailies, and other persons on the platform, stood round and joined in the devotions, with the exception of Williams the executioner, and his assistant, who kept their station all the time at the back of thedrop. During the prayer a partial silence was obtained, although there was still considerable confusion and uproar, which Bailie Small in vain endeavoured to repress, by turning repeatedly and waving his hand. Mr. Marshall’s prayer occupied exactly five minutes, when he and the others, excepting the Catholic clergyman, retired from around him, Burke and the priests still continuing to kneel. His prayers seemed to be very fervent, and he mentioned to one of the priests, that he died in the full assurance that he would be saved through the mediation of our Saviour.
When he arose from his kneeling posture, he was observed to lift a silk handkerchief on which he had knelt, and carefully put into his pocket. He then cast his eyes upwards towards the gallows; and took his place on the drop, the priest supporting him, though he did not seem to require it from any bodily weakness. There was some hesitation displayed in his manner, as if loath to mount; one of the persons who assisted him to ascend, having rather roughly pushed him to a side, in order to place him exactly on the drop, he looked round at the man with a withering scowl which defies all description. While the executioner, who was behind him, was proceeding with his arrangements some little delay took place, from the circumstance of his attempting to unloose the handkerchief at his breast. Burke, perceiving the mistake, said, “the knot’s behind,” which were the only words, not devotional, uttered by him on the scaffold, and the only time he spoke to any one excepting the priests.
When the hangman succeeded in removing the neckcloth, he proceeded to fasten the rope round his neck, which he pulled tightly, and after adjusting it, and affixing it to thegibbet, put a white cotton night cap upon him, but without pulling it over his face.