The best literary argument against capital punishment that I know
‘Gentlemen, good gentlemen,’ cried the abject creature, grovelling down upon his knees, and actually prostrating himself upon the stone floor: ‘Governor, dear governor—honourable sheriffs—worthy gentlemen—have mercy upon a wretched man that has served His Majesty, and the Law, and Parliament, for so many years, and don’t— don’t let me die—because of a mistake.’‘Dennis,’ said the governor of the jail, ‘you know what the course is, and that the order came with the rest. You know that we could do nothing, even if we would.’
‘All I ask, sir,—all I want and beg, is time, to make it sure,’ cried the trembling wretch, looking wildly round for sympathy. ‘The King and Government can’t know it’s me; I’m sure they can’t know it’s me; or they never would bring me to this dreadful slaughterhouse. They know my name, but they don’t know it’s the same man. Stop my execution—for charity’s sake stop my execution, gentlemen—till they can be told that I’ve been hangman here, nigh thirty year. Will no one go and tell them?’ he implored, clenching his hands and glaring round, and round, and round again—’will no charitable person go and tell them!’
‘Mr Akerman,’ said a gentleman who stood by, after a moment’s pause, ‘since it may possibly produce in this unhappy man a better frame of mind, even at this last minute, let me assure him that he was well known to have been the hangman, when his sentence was considered.’
‘—But perhaps they think on that account that the punishment’s not so great,’ cried the criminal, shuffling towards this speaker on his knees, and holding up his folded hands; ‘whereas it’s worse, it’s worse a hundred times, to me than any man. Let them know that, sir. Let them know that. They’ve made it worse to me by giving me so much to do. Stop my execution till they know that!’
The governor beckoned with his hand, and the two men, who had supported him before, approached. He uttered a piercing cry, ‘Wait! Wait. Only a moment—only one moment more! Give me a last chance of reprieve. One of us three is to go to Bloomsbury Square. Let me be the one. It may come in that time; it’s sure to come. In the Lord’s name let me be sent to Bloomsbury Square. Don’t hang me here. It’s murder.’
They took him to the anvil: but even then he could he heard above the clinking of the smiths’ hammers, and the hoarse raging of the crowd, crying that he knew of Hugh’s birth—that his father was living, and was a gentleman of influence and rank—that he had family secrets in his possession—that he could tell nothing unless they gave him time, but must die with them on his mind; and he continued to rave in this sort until his voice failed him, and he sank down a mere heap of clothes between the two attendants.
Charles Dickens, Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the riots of 'eighty
The "riots of 'eighty" were anti-catholic popular demonstrations against removal of some of the legal disadvantages of Roman Catholics. Bizarrely two of the rioters (who were not hanged) make it into the National Archives Black History Project. Fanny Burney gives an eye-witness description of the riots.
posted by Brituncula @ 1:17 PM
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