Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II

Stop – stop – stop – stop! – halloo, Pegasus! where the devil are you going to? Soho! softly; not quite so high if you please; much as you admire good humour, do, pray! stay a little nearer to the confines of this "visible diurnal sphere."

"Who are you? where do you come from? You have no right to be dealing out such fulsome panegyrics about good humour."

Yes, but I have, though; I am universally acknowledged to be the most good-humoured man on town. The pure blood of the Allwits, the Easymirths, and the Goodfellows, flows in my veins. I am heir to a large property in Merryland, and my residence is at Jollity Hall, a picturesque, romantic spot in the county of Greatlaughtershire. I intend to start at the next general election for the borough of Gaybright; when I shall bring in such a measure of reform as shall astonish all our modern menders of constitutions.

I have every right, then, to descant upon the merits of good humour; and I do so the rather because men do not sufficiently appreciate them.

Now I fully agree with Dr. Johnson in thinking that "good humour is the quality to which everything in this life owes its power of pleasing." It is the one great source from which spring all those innumerable streams of enjoyment that intersect, and refresh, and beautify the social and moral world. It is, like Fame, "the spur that the clear spirit doth raise" above the fogs, and the damps, and the vapours that so often hang over and darken this sublunary scene. It is the grand moral alkali that completely neutralizes the corrosive acerbity of all this world's cares and sorrows. It is a pure heavenly sunshine illumining the chambers of the soul; a coal from heaven's own golden hearth, that warms into a congenial and ever-during glow all the best and kindliest emotions of our nature.

How different, indeed, would be the condition of the world if a system of good humour were universally established! For what is it but the absence of good humour that is the cause of almost all the troubles of life? All the wars that have desolated the world spring from no other origin. Kings and rulers wanting good humour have fallen out, and whole nations have been set at loggerheads:

"Quicquid delirant reges plectuntur Achivi."

Now, if good humour universally influenced the actions of men, there would be none of these things; war would be at an end. General Evans might then attend to his parliamentary duties. The "mailed Mars" might "on his altar sit," but it would not be "up to the ears in blood." He might lay by his lance, and commence smoking the calumet of peace. Again, we should have no need of that noisy, brawling, troublesome class of men yclept lawyers, – for it is plainly from the absence of good humour that all the litigation in the world takes its rise. The gentlemen of the long robe might then leave silk gowns to their ladies, and transfer their pleading to some other court than a court of law. At all events, the world would be freed from their forensic displays, for men would be on such good terms with each other that there would be no need of law terms to set them right. And also, under a general system of good humour, we should be freed from all the turmoil and contention of politics. Tithes, and church-rates, and corporation bills, would no longer afford such scope for violent and angry declamation. Would not this be glorious? As for our physicians, they might shut up shop, for there is no such admirable conservative of the constitution as good humour, – it being generally admitted that all diseases take their rise from the prevalence of bad humour in the blood. These disciples of Galen, then, – these knights of the lancet, – might become philosophers, and study physics instead of physic; or they might devote themselves to analyse the faculties of the mind, and thus, instead of physicians, become metaphysicians.

But, indeed, the ramifications are so numerous, that it would not be easy to follow out and describe all the innumerable advantages that would result from the establishment of an universal system of good humour.

And thus we are enabled at once to explain what the poets have meant by the Golden Age. It was plainly nothing else than the reign of universal good humour. The proof is quite obvious. Gold is the most excellent of metals, – good humour is the most excellent of the qualities of the mind; and therefore, the analogy being so striking, the poets at once styled this happy period the Golden Age. And hence it is evident that good humour is the only true philosopher's stone.

"This is the charm by sages often told,
Converting all it touches into gold.
Content can soothe, where'er by Fortune placed:
Can rear a garden in the desert waste."

In this passage "content" is only another name for good humour. Cease, then, ye followers of the Hermetic art, cease toiling over your crucibles; good humour is the true moral alchemy that will really enrich and ameliorate mankind.

This, then, is the reform bill which I intend to introduce as soon as I have the honour of a seat in the house; a bill for striking out, arranging, devising, and establishing some plan by which good humour may be reduced to a system; so that henceforward it will be the cardinal principle of life, – the rule by which all the actions of men shall be guided, regulated, and directed. Let me but pass this; and then, my country! thy happiness is secured. Let us hear no more about the ballot, and universal suffrage, and all those Utopian schemes of our modern speculators. Let us have no more hunting after a visionary political optimism; good humour is the only one thing necessary to bring all our civil institutions to a state of complete perfection. "Give me," said Archimedes, "a point in extra-mundane space, and I will remove the solid earth from its foundations." "Give me," say I, "good humour, and I will uproot all miseries, and contentions, and quarrellings from the world." Away with all the nostrums of our moralists and philosophers! – good humour is the one sole, infallible panacea for all the ills of life. Misfortunes may lower, and disappointments may assail; but still the mind of the good-humoured man, like a Delos emerging from the deep, rises buoyant above them all. Hurrah, then, for an eternal, cloudless, bright, jovial, unsubduable good humour! Let us have nothing but good humour! Let a cheerful smile be for ever playing upon the happy faces of our lovely wives; let our children be born in good humour, and in good humour let them grow up; let the girls be taught to smile with their mother's smile, and the boys after the manner of their father; and thus we shall be taking the best way to establish and consolidate one vast, wide, universal empire of love, happiness, and joy!

SONG OF THE MODERN TIME

Oh how the world has alter'd since some fifty years ago,
When coats and shoes would really serve to keep out rain and snow;
But double soles and broadcloth, – oh, dear me! how very low
To talk of such old-fashion'd things, when every one must know

That we are well-bred gentlefolks all of the modern time!
We all meet now at midnight's hour, and form a glitt'ring throng,
Where lovely angels walk quadrilles, and ne'er do l'Eté wrong,
Where Eastern scents all fresh and sweet, from Rowland's, float along,

And the name of a good old country-dance would sound like a Chinese gong
In the ears of well-bred gentlefolks all of the modern time!
Young ladies now of sage sixteen must give their friends a rout,
And teach the cook and housemaid how to "hand the things about;"

And they must pull Ma's bedstead down, and hurry, scout, and flout,
To have a fine refreshment-room, and lay a supper out
Like well-bred, dashing gentlefolks all of the modern time!
And beardless boys, all brag and noise, must do "the thing that's right," —

That is, – they'll drink champagne and punch, and keep it up all night;
They'll shout and swear, till, sallying forth at peep of morning's light,
They knock down some old woman just to show how well they fight,
Like brave young English gentlemen all of the modern time!

At the good old hours of twelve and one our grandsires used to dine,
And quaff their horns of nut-brown ale, and eat roast-beef and chine;
But we must have our silver forks, ragouts, and foreign wine,
And not sit down till five or six if we mean to cut a shine,

Like dashing, well-bred gentlefolks all of the modern time!
Our daughters now at ten years old must learn to squall and strum,
And study shakes and quavers under Signor Fee-fo-fum;
They'll play concertos, sing bravuras, rattle, scream, and thrum,

Till you almost wish that you were deaf, and they, poor things! were dumb;
But they must be like young gentlefolks all of the modern time!
Our sons must jabber Latin verbs, and talk of a Greek root,
Before they've left off pinafores, cakes, lollipops, and fruit;

They all have splendid talents that the desk and bar will suit,
Each darling boy would scorn to be "a low mechanic brute;"
They must be well-bred college youths all of the modern time!
But bills will come at Christmas-tide, alas, alack-a-day!

The creditors may call again, "Papa's not in the way;
"He's out of town; but, certainly, next week he'll call and pay;"
And then his name's in the Gazette! and this I mean to say
Oft winds up many gentlefolks all of the modern time!

CAPITAL PUNISHMENTS IN LONDON EIGHTY YEARS AGO

EARL FERRERS

The sensation created in London by that which has now become no ordinary spectacle, – two public executions in the course of the last few months, – naturally leads the observant mind to contemplate the march of intellect in this great metropolis with respect to the shedding of human blood by judicial authority. It may be interesting to the general reader to lay before him the reflections thus suggested, together with some curious and minute descriptions of scenes witnessed within the last century.

The practice of Sus per Col, as described in legal abbreviations, or hanging, is the only mode of putting to death ("pressing to death" excepted) known to the law of England for all felonies short of high or petty treason. In cases of conspiracy against the state, traitors of rank were indulged with the privilege of being beheaded; but meaner offenders, besides other inflictions, were to suffer on the gallows. This distinction necessarily caused the punishment to be regarded as very ungenteel, if an expression of levity may be allowed; and, in consequence, no respectable person, or, at any rate, only here and there one, would choose to be hanged. Earl Ferrers, who was convicted of the murder of his steward in the reign of George the Second, petitioned that he might die by the axe. This was refused. "He has done," said the old king, "de act of de bad man, and he shall die de death of de bad man." The feeling of the monarch was good, but it was rather odd that a king should seem to think the punishment of treason, called by judges "the highest crime known to the law," an ennobling indulgence which ought not to be extended to a simple murderer.

One luxury, however, Lord Ferrers is reported to have secured for the last hour of his life, – a silken rope; but a more important deviation from the common mode, so far as abridgement of bodily pain is concerned, was made on that occasion, for then it was that what is now familiarly called the "drop" was first used. Till that period, to draw a cart from beneath the culprit, or to throw him from a ladder, by turning it round, after he had ascended to a certain height for the halter to be adjusted, had been the practice; but for the wretched peer a scaffold was prepared, part of the floor of which was raised eighteen inches above the rest, which, on the signal of death being given, became flat. The contrivance, however, did not very well succeed, according to the narrative left us by Lord Orford; which, from the remarkable circumstances it details of that memorable exit, and of the usages which then prevailed, is worth transcribing.

The crime for which the nobleman suffered was a most cruel murder. He had been through life a very depraved character. It was doubted if this were the only homicide he had committed; he had separated from his wife, and ill-used his mistress. He, however, met his fate with great firmness. "On the last morning," says Lord Orford in a letter, "he dressed himself in his wedding clothes, and said he thought this, at least, as good an occasion for putting them on, as that for which they were first made." The account proceeds: "Even an awful procession of above two hours, with that mixture of pageantry, shame, and ignominy, nay, and of delay, could not dismount his resolution. He set out from the Tower at nine, amidst thousands of spectators. First went a string of constables; then one of the sheriffs, in his chariot and six, the horses dressed with ribands; next, Lord Ferrers, in his own landau and six, his coachman crying all the way, – guards at each side; the other sheriff's chariot followed empty, with a mourning coach and six, a hearse, and the Horse-guards. Observe, that the empty chariot was that of the other sheriff, who was in the coach with the prisoner, and who was Vaillant the French bookseller in the Strand. How (exclaims Lord Orford to his correspondent) will you decypher all these strange circumstances? A bookseller, in robes and in mourning, sitting as a magistrate by the side of the earl; and, in the evening, everybody going to Vaillant's shop to hear the particulars. I wrote to him, as he serves me, for the account; but he intends to print it. Lord Ferrers, at first, talked on indifferent matters; and, observing the prodigious confluence of people, (the blind was drawn up on his side,) he remarked, 'they never saw a lord hanged, and perhaps will never see another,' One of the dragoons was thrown, by his horse's leg entangling in the hind wheel: Lord Ferrers expressed much concern, and said, 'I hope there will be no death to-day but mine;' and was pleased when Vaillant told him the man was not hurt. Vaillant made excuses to him for performing the duties of his office in person. 'For that,' said the earl, 'I am much obliged to you: I feared the disagreeableness of the duty might make you depute your under-sheriff. As you are so good as to execute it yourself, I am persuaded the dreadful business will be conducted with more expedition.' The Chaplain of the Tower, who sat backwards, then thought it his turn to speak, and began to talk on religion; but Lord Ferrers received it impatiently. However, the chaplain persevered; and said, he wished to bring his lordship to some confession, or acknowledgment of contrition, for a crime so repugnant to the laws of God and man, and wished him to endeavour to do whatever could be done in so short a time. The earl replied, 'he had done everything he proposed to do, with regard to God and man; and, as to discourses on religion, you and I, sir,' said he to the clergyman, 'shall probably not agree on that subject. The passage is very short; you will not have time to convince me, nor I to refute you; it cannot be ended before we arrive.' The clergyman still insisted, and urged that, at least, the world would expect some satisfaction. Lord Ferrers replied, with some impatience, 'Sir, what have I to do with the world? I am going to pay a forfeit life, which my country has thought proper to take from me; what do I care now what the world thinks of me? But, sir, since you do desire some confession, I will confess one thing to you; I do believe there is a God. As to modes of worship, we had better not talk on them. I always thought Lord Bolingbroke in the wrong to publish his notions on religion: I will not fall into the same error.' The chaplain, seeing that it was in vain to make any more attempts, contented himself with representing to him, that it would be expected from one of his calling, and that even decency required, that some prayer should be used on the scaffold, and asked his leave, at least, to repeat the Lord's Prayer there. Lord Ferrers replied, 'I always thought it a good prayer; you may use it if you please.'

"While these speeches were passing, the procession was stopped by the crowd. The earl said he was dry, and wished for some wine-and-water. The sheriff said, he was sorry to be obliged to refuse him. By late regulations they were enjoined not to let prisoners drink on their way from the place of imprisonment to that of execution, as great indecencies had been formerly committed by the lower species of criminals getting drunk; 'and though,' said he, 'my lord, I might think myself excusable in overlooking this order, out of regard to a person of your lordship's rank, yet there is another reason, which I am sure will weigh with you, – your lordship is sensible of the greatness of the crowd: we must draw up to some tavern; the confluence would be so great, that it would delay the expedition which your lordship seems so much to desire.' He replied he was satisfied, adding, 'Then I must be content with this;' and he took some pigtail tobacco out of his pocket. As they went on, a letter was thrown into his coach; it was from his mistress, to tell him that it was impossible, from the crowd, for her to get round to the spot where he had appointed her to meet and take leave of him, but that she was in a hackney-coach of such a number. He begged Vaillant to order his officers to try to get the hackney-coach up to his. 'My lord,' said Vaillant, 'you have behaved so well hitherto, that I think it is pity to venture unmanning yourself,' He was struck, and was satisfied without seeing her. As they drew nigh, he said, 'I perceive we are almost arrived: it is time to do what little more I have to do; and then, taking out his watch, gave it to Vaillant, desiring him to accept it as a mark of his gratitude for his kind behaviour; adding, 'It is scarce worth your acceptance, but I have nothing else; it is a stopwatch, and a pretty accurate one.' He gave five guineas to the chaplain, and took out as much for the executioner. Then giving Vaillant a pocket-book, he begged him to deliver it to Mrs. Clifford, his mistress, with what it contained, and with his most tender regards; saying, 'The key of it is to the watch, but I am persuaded you are too much a gentleman to open it' He destined the remainder of the money in his purse to the same person, and with the same tender regards.

"When they came to Tyburn, his coach was detained some minutes by the conflux of people; but, as soon as the door was opened, he stepped out readily, and mounted the scaffold. It was hung with black by the undertaker, and at the expense of his family. Under the gallows was a new-invented stage, to be struck from under him. He showed no kind of fear or discomposure, only just looking at the gallows with a slight motion of dissatisfaction. He said little, kneeled for a moment to the prayer, said 'Lord have mercy upon me, and forgive me my errors!' and immediately mounted the upper stage. He had come pinioned with a black sash, and was unwilling to have his hands tied, or his face covered, but was persuaded to both. When the rope was put round his neck, he turned pale, but recovered his countenance instantly; and was but seven minutes from leaving the coach, before the signal was given for striking the stage. As the machine was new, they were not ready at it: his toes touched it, and he suffered a little, having had time, by their bungling, to raise his cap; but the executioner pulled it down again, and they pulled his legs, so that he was soon out of pain, and quite dead in four minutes. He desired not to be stripped and exposed; and Vaillant promised him, though his outer clothes must be taken off, that his shirt should not. This decency ended with him: the sheriffs fell to eating and drinking on the scaffold, and helped up one of their friends to drink with them, while he was still hanging, which he did for above an hour, and then was conveyed back with the same pomp to Surgeons' Hall, to be dissected. The executioners fought for the rope; and the one who lost it, cried. The mob tore off the black cloth as relics; but the universal crowd behaved with great decency and admiration, as they well might, for sure no exit was ever made with more sensible resolution and with less ostentation."

The contrivance above described has caused the cart to fall into general disuse on such occasions. The change, however, was not suddenly effected. For many years after the death of Lord Ferrers, the triangular gallows at Tyburn maintained its ground, and, on execution-days, the cart passed from Newgate up Giltspur-street, and through Smithfield to Cow-lane; Skinner-street had not then been built, and the crooked lane which turned down by St. Sepulchre's church, as well as Ozier-lane, did not offer sufficient width to admit of the cavalcade passing by either of them with convenience to Holborn-hill.

For centuries the prevailing opinion had been, that executions ought to take place at a distance from the crowded part of the city. Anciently malefactors were put to death at The Elms in Smithfield, or rather, between Smithfield and Turnmill-street. But when the houses had increased, so as to encroach on the space which had long been kept open there, it was thought expedient to carry those appointed to die, farther off; and a spot was fixed upon, which received the name of Tyburn, near the beginning of Tottenham-court-road.[42 - This fact is not generally known; but a singular proof of the correctness of the above statement has recently been furnished. Within the last three months, the ground having been opened for the common sewer opposite Meux's brewhouse, by the end of Oxford-street, eight or ten, or more, skeletons were discovered. They were supposed to be the remains of suicides, who had been buried there, in the cross roads, under the old law against felo de se. One or two of them had perhaps committed self-destruction; but so many could hardly have been collected by the same act in one spot. It is much more probable that the bones there found were those of malefactors, who after execution had been interred under the gallows on which they suffered.] When Holborn had been built up to St Giles's, a farther removal was deemed necessary, and these tragic scenes were carried from one end of Oxford-street to the other, – from the beginning of Tottenham-court-road to the Tyburn of the present day.