The Chronicles of Crime or The New Newgate Calendar. v. 2/2 / being a series of memoirs and anecdotes of notorious characters who have outraged the laws of Great Britain from the earliest period to 1841

It was not until subsequently to the delivery of these statements, that May was acquainted with the merciful consideration which his case had received.

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. The reverend 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 he could not possibly survive—it was believed, indeed, that the warrant of mercy had proved his death-blow. It was nearly a quarter of an hour before he 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 that they 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 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 he acknowledged he had committed many sins for which the Almighty might have justly 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.

On Sunday night the criminals retired to rest at an early hour, but their efforts to obtain sleep appeared to be vain. They frequently awoke, and entered into conversation with the persons 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 him by the ordinary, he 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 his father-in-law (Bishop) supported his family. No communication took place between him 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 in Bishop’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 palsied Lady Macbeth’s arm in a similar situation—namely, the feeling that the man whom he was about to dispatch, “resembled his father 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, the intended victim left the house in which he met these ruffians without any idea of his having been exposed to such great and imminent danger.

During a subsequent intermission of sleep, he wrote the following letter, addressed to Mr. Russell, the chaplain of the Penitentiary, in which prison he had once been confined for three years:—

Both prisoners rose at six o’clock in the morning, and were soon after visited by the reverend gentleman 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.

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, to which the strangers who had obtained admission to the prison were also admitted. The prisoners were soon after introduced by the sheriffs’ officers. Bishop entered first. That kind of stupor which had been 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 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. One of the under-sheriffs took a seat by his side, and, in a low tone, asked him whether he had anything more to confess. His answer was, “No, sir, I have told all.” The under-sheriff remained with him for a few moments, but the only answers which could be obtained from him were to the effect that he had nothing more to tell.

Williams was next introduced, and came up the room with the same short hasty step which was noticed at the time of his sentence. Since then, however, his whole appearance had undergone the most terrible alteration. That cunning and flippant air which was noticed in him on his trial had left him. His look, as he entered the press-room on Monday, was one of downright horror—every limb trembled as he approached the officer by whom he was to be pinioned, and his hands shook to that degree, that one person was obliged to hold them up while another bound them together. While submitting to this operation, he frequently ejaculated, “Oh, I have deserved all this and more!—oh, I have deserved all I am about to suffer!” One of the under-sheriffs now asked him whether he had anything more on his mind, or wished to make any further disclosure. He replied, “Oh no, sir, I have told all—I hope I am now at peace with God. What I have told is the truth.”

After the operation of pinioning had been gone through, at a few minutes before eight, the sheriffs, accompanied by their officers and the prisoners, proceeded towards the scaffold, the ordinary reciting part of the funeral service. Bishop moved on in the same gloomy and desponding manner which we have noticed. His appearance underwent no change as he approached the foot of the scaffold. Williams became more and more agitated as he advanced. Just as he came to the room which led out to the drop, he expressed a wish to see the Rev. Mr. Russell once more. That gentleman came forward, and while Bishop was being led out, seated himself near him. Mr. Russell said to him, “Now, Williams, you have another moment intervening between this and death; and, as a dying man, I implore you, in God’s name, to tell the truth; have you told me the whole truth?” Williams: “All I have told you, is true.” Mr. Russell: ‘But, Williams, have you told me all?” Williams, (still evasive): “All I have told you is quite true.” This was the last remark he made, and in a few moments he ascended the scaffold.

The scene without the prison was no less exciting than that which was passing within the jail.

The execution of these wretched and atrocious criminals attracted, as might have been expected, an immense assemblage to the spot, and every possible preparation had been made by the civil authorities for the purpose of mitigating the pressure of the anticipated crowd. The crowd, as early as one o’clock in the morning, had amounted to several thousand persons, and continued rapidly increasing. By five o’clock nearly two-thirds of the Old Bailey were filled with a dense mass of people. The continued buz 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. 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, in consequence of 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.

At daybreak there were not less than from thirty thousand to forty thousand persons assembled. The tops of the houses, lamp-posts, and every station from which the most distant view of the execution could be obtained was 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 had ever been witnessed on an occasion of the kind since the execution of Holloway and Haggerty, upwards of twenty years before. Notwithstanding the precautions taken by the city authorities to prevent accidents, several occurred. 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 forced down, and a number of persons of both sexes fell with it. The screams of the females, and the confusion that ensued, was truly alarming. Several persons were carried to the hospital, but no life was lost.

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

At eight o’clock the procession began to move from the Press-room, and the appearance of the executioner and his assistant on the scaffold indicated that the last awful ceremony was just at hand. A general cry of “Hats off!” took place, and in an instant the immense multitude were all uncovered. Bishop was first conducted on the scaffold, and his appearance was the signal for the most tremendous groans, yells, and hootings from all parts of the crowd. The wretched man came forward apparently unmoved by the dreadful reception he experienced. The executioner proceeded at once to the performance of his duty; and having put the rope round his neck, and fixed it to the chain, placed him under the fatal beam. A terrific cheer from the crowd proclaimed their satisfaction at the completion of the preparation for his exit to the other world; but still, though placed on the brink of eternity, and about to be launched into it amidst the execrations of his fellow-creatures, the miserable criminal betrayed scarce a symptom of fear. The same listless and sullen manner that had marked his conduct throughout appeared to be preserved by him to the last moment. Not a muscle seemed to be moved, not a limb to shake, though he remained, during the awful interval of two minutes that elapsed before Williams was brought forward, exposed to the indignant hootings of the multitude.

Williams next ascended the scaffold, on reaching which he bowed to the crowd, who returned his salutation with the most dreadful yells and groans. He appeared to labour under extreme anguish, and his demeanour altogether formed a complete contrast to that of his guilty associate. While the cap was being put over his eyes, and the rope adjusted by the executioner, his whole frame seemed convulsed by a universal tremor. The Rev. Mr. Cotton, having engaged the wretched men in prayer—in which Williams appeared to join fervently, wringing his hands and ejaculating aloud—gave the signal for the falling of the drop, when they were launched into eternity. Bishop appeared to die almost instantaneously, but Williams struggled for several minutes. The moment the drop fell, the crowd, which had been yelling all the time, set up a shout of exultation that was prolonged for several minutes.

The bodies having been suspended for the usual time, were cut down at nine o’clock. That operation was performed by the executioner amidst the shouts and cheers of the crowd, which still continued very great.

Immediately after a small cart drove up to the platform, and the bodies of the culprits were placed in it, covered with two sacks. The cart then moved on at a slow pace, followed by the sheriffs and city-marshal, and a large body of constables, along Giltspur-street, to the house of Mr. Stone, No. 33, Hosier-lane—the vast crowd yelling and making other discordant sounds as they proceeded. On reaching Mr. Stone’s house, it was with great difficulty the bodies could be removed from the cart, the crowd appearing anxious to get possession of them. The bodies were placed on a table, and in the presence of the sheriffs (in conformity with their duty), an incision was made in their chests, after which they withdrew. The bodies were removed the same night—Bishop to the King’s College, and Williams to the Theatre of Anatomy, in Windmill-street, Haymarket—to be dissected. They were publicly exhibited on Tuesday and Wednesday, at both places, when immense crowds of persons were admitted to see their remains.

The skeletons of the two criminals still adorn the museums of the schools, in which their bodies were dissected.

The case of the murder of a Mrs. Pigburn has already been alluded to in the course of this article, and it will be seen that, in the confession made by the two convicts, they admitted their participation in that crime. The statement made by them appears to be strictly correct, as it was fully borne out by Shields, the porter, in a statement which he made before the magistrates at Bow-street.

In consequence of this declaration Mrs. Williams, the wife of the prisoner, was taken into custody on suspicion of her having been concerned in the murder. From her statement, some curious circumstances were elicited as to the prisoners, and her own and her mother’s relationship to them. She said that Bishop was the son of a carrier, who lived at Highgate, and who, in the course of a long life, succeeded in amassing a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Bishop, who was at the time of the inquiry about forty years of age, was married to the old man as his third wife, and at this time there were several children living, amongst whom were John Bishop, the convict, and herself, who were half-brother and sister, being both the children of the old man, but by different mothers. At the death of old Bishop, it was found that, by his will, he had divided his property between his last wife, his children, and some other relatives: and the payment of 15s. per week was secured to his widow out of a portion of the estate, in which some of the relations had a reversionary interest. In less than six months after the old man’s death, his widow and his son married, and they had lived together ever since. She (then Rhoda Bishop), subsequently became acquainted with Williams, whose real name was Head; he had been bred a carpenter, but at this time followed the occupation of a glass-blower, and after a short courtship they were married (about two months before her husband’s apprehension on the charge of murder), she being then seventeen years of age. She denied that she was at all aware of the diabolical crimes which had been resorted to by her husband and her half-brother; and although she admitted that she had accompanied Shields on the occasion pointed out, she declared that she was not informed of the nature of the load which he carried.

Mrs. Williams was remanded for a week, but at the expiration of that time, there being no evidence to implicate her in the horrid affair, she was discharged.

We have only a few words to add, in reference to May, to close our notice of these most detestable criminals.

May (who was a tall, light-haired, and rather good-looking man, about thirty years of age) was 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 should come to him. He was brought up 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 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 greater 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.

We believe that there is no reason to doubt the truth of his assertions, that he had never been implicated in murder. He made a full confession of the habits and practices of persons engaged in his horrid trade, and his punishment was eventually commuted to transportation for life.

We have already alluded to the doubts which existed as to the ingenuousness of the confessions of the prisoners Bishop and Williams. The general suspicions which were entertained upon this subject, were still further excited by the publication of a report, that another confession had been made, in which the convicts had admitted their participation in upwards of sixty murders. We are inclined to believe that no such confession was actually made, although there is good reason to believe that the wretched malefactors concealed much of their guilt, while they admitted so much only as they knew must eventually be discovered. The idea that their confessions did not contain the whole truth, received confirmation from the circumstance of their denying that the remains found were those of the Italian boy. The evidence of the identity of the body was too clear to leave any room for doubt, and it is a remarkable fact that no information of the loss of such a boy (as they described) from Lincolnshire, ever reached the metropolis. Subsequently to the coroner’s inquest and before the trial, two poor people did arrive in London from Lincolnshire, who had lost a boy, and to whom the body of the Italian boy was shown; but, so far from recognizing it as their child, they said, that not only the hair, but the eyes were of a different colour. The whole object of the prisoners seems to have been to mystify the case so as to give them a chance of escape, and having set out with falsehood, they adhered to that course throughout. We have heard that some jealousy was entertained by certain individuals towards Mr. Corder, who conducted the prosecution, and who refused to avail himself of the professional assistance tendered him, and that some of these persons did not disguise their prophecies that the case would “break down,” and the prisoners escape for the want of proper evidence of identity. Even Bishop himself offered a bet, before the trial, that he would be safe, as it could not be proved that it was the Italian boy who had been found in his possession. It was not then known that, to meet this difficulty, the count for the murder of “a boy unknown” had been introduced; and when this fact was disclosed, all hope on the part of the prisoners and their jealous friends was abandoned. Mr. Corder received a deserved compliment from the judges for the admirable manner in which he had collected and arranged his evidence, notwithstanding, as he admitted to their lordships, he was “not indebted to any professional man in the progress of his labours.” This gentleman subsequently published a letter, urging conclusive reasons for the belief that it was the body of the Italian boy which was found; and, from the testimony of the surgeons who made the post mortem examination of the body, showing the utter falsehood of the statement of Bishop, “that he had been killed by suffocation in the well,” instead of by positive violence. The extravasated blood on the brain, and the effusion of blood in the spinal canal, obviously produced by external violence, were the best proofs that, in this respect, Bishop was deceiving his auditors: and, detected in one lie, little reliance could be placed on what followed. It appears, too, that Williams was present while Bishop was telling his story, and simply confirmed him in his narrative. Had they been called upon to make separate confessions, neither knowing what the other had said, some estimate might have been formed of the degree of confidence to be placed in their confession. But, as it was, we think the public are far from having got at the truth; and from the blunders and jealousies of the “officials,” we suspect much useful information upon this most dreadful subject was lost.

ELIZABETH ROSS.

EXECUTED FOR A “BURKING” MURDER.

The discovery of this murder took place in the month of November 1831, when a young woman, named Baton, made a statement at Lambeth-street Police-office, which induced a supposition that her grandmother, an aged woman named Elizabeth Walsh, had been unfairly dealt with. An investigation was ordered to be commenced by Lea, the officer, into the affair; and he succeeded in making discoveries which excited the strongest presumptions of the guilt of a woman named Cook, alias Ross, of the crime of murdering the old woman. Mrs. Walsh, it was elicited, was aged and decrepit, and was reduced to obtain a livelihood in the streets by the sale of bobbins, stay-laces, and other similar trifling articles. Mrs. Ross was known as a “cat-skinner,” and collector of hare-skins; and she lived with a man named Cook, in Goodman’s-yard, Minories, who had obtained an equally unenviable notoriety as a “body-snatcher.” Mrs. Ross, having become acquainted with old Mrs. Walsh, had been known to express a strong desire that she would go to lodge with her; but Mrs. Walsh, whose connections were somewhat respectable, had been repeatedly cautioned to have nothing to do with a person whose pursuits and associations were so disreputable. The poor old woman, however, was over-persuaded by the specious arguments of her wily friend; and at length, on the 19th of August 1831, she took up her abode with the supposed Mr. and Mrs. Cook, at their residence. Mrs. Cook occupied only one room, which formed the habitation of herself, her paramour, her son (a boy about eleven years old) and her new lodger. Mrs. Walsh was observed to go out only once after she took up her residence in Goodman’s-yard—and after that she was never seen alive. The circumstances of the case were thus far known when the grand-daughter of Mrs. Walsh made her statement to the magistrates; but the inquiries of Lea soon brought other facts to light, which amply proved the guilt of Mrs. Ross of the crime imputed to her. Lea, as a preliminary step, took Cook, Mrs. Ross, and their son, into custody; and, on Wednesday, the 2nd of November, they were conveyed to Worship-street Police-office. During the period which elapsed between the apprehension of the boy and his examination at the police-office, he was observed to be exceedingly agitated and uneasy. The master and mistress of the parochial school at Aldgate, which he had attended for two or three years, were, in consequence, sent for; and he made a statement to them upon the subject of the death of Mrs. Walsh, the substance of which he subsequently detailed before the magistrates.

On the same afternoon Cook and the female Ross were placed at the bar; and their astonishment, on perceiving that their own child was about to be admitted as a witness against them, was quite apparent.

The magistrate asked the boy if he was quite willing to make a full disclosure of what he knew as to the disappearance of the old lady, Elizabeth Walsh? And, having answered in the affirmative, he was sworn, and made the following statement:—He recollected the old lady, Elizabeth Walsh, coming to his father and mother at No. 7, Goodman’s-yard, Minories, about ten o’clock on a Friday morning. She brought some bread in a basket, a part of which she gave to him for his breakfast; she went away shortly afterwards, and returned about tea-time in the evening, when she, as well as his mother and himself, had some coffee; his father was not present at the time, though he was when she came in the morning; they had coffee about half-past nine on the same night for supper. He (witness) took part of it, and it made him sleepy, but not sick; the old woman also took some of it, and it seemed to make her drowsy, as she shortly afterwards stretched herself on his father and mother’s bed, and placed her hand under her head. She did not at the time complain of illness; on the contrary, she appeared in good health. Sometime afterwards he saw his mother go towards the bed, and place her right hand over the mouth of the old woman, and her left over her body [the boy here burst into tears, and said he was sorry to be obliged to state such things against his own mother]. When his mother placed her hand on the old lady’s mouth her arm fell down, and she lay flat on her back on the bed, and his mother continued to keep one hand on her mouth and the other on her person for at least half-an-hour; the old woman did not struggle much, but her eyes stared and rolled very much. He (witness) stood by the fire at this time, and his father, who was now in the room, stood looking out at the window; his father stood so all the time, and he was sure he never once turned round to see what was going forward, and that he had nothing to do with it. In about an hour afterwards his mother raised the body of the old woman from the bed, and carried it down stairs, but where to he did not know; the body was not undressed at the time; he and his father went to bed some time afterwards, and he could not say what time his mother returned, as he did not see her again on that night, after she left the room with the body in her arms. On the following morning he got up about seven o’clock; his father and mother were then up, and in the room; he had occasion, previous to going to school at eight o’clock, to go into the cellar to the privy, and while searching through the cellar for some ducks which he was told were there, he saw the body of the old woman in a sack, which was placed underneath the stairs; a portion of the head was out of the mouth of the sack, and the body appeared to be partly bent, and reclining against the stairs; there was sufficient light in the cellar for him to discern the colour of the hair on the head; it was partly grey and black, but he could not say whether or not the body was dressed or otherwise; the sack in which it was, was one belonging to a person named Jones, with whom his father worked; he had frequently seen it in their room, and he thought it was there on the night before. He went to school shortly afterwards, and never mentioned a word then or since about what had occurred, or his seeing the body in the cellar; on returning home at twelve o’clock in the day, he found his father beating his mother; he thought the cause to be, that the latter had been out drinking with a young woman, the grand-daughter of the old lady, who had called to inquire after her; his mother, he believed, while his father was beating her, called him a villanous murderer, but he had no recollection of her threatening to give any information of him. He (witness), after getting his dinner, went out to play, and did not come home until late; himself, his father, and mother supped together on the Saturday night, and at about ten o’clock his mother left the room; in about half-an-hour afterwards he was standing at the window, and saw her go past with the body in the sack on her shoulder; it was in the same state as he saw it on that morning, except that the mouth of the sack was tied; the body appeared to be partly bent.—[The female prisoner, in an audible voice, exclaimed, “Good God! how could I have borne a son to hang me!”]—The lad again burst into tears, and said he could not help it—that he was telling the truth. He then proceeded with his statement. He did not know at what time his mother had returned on Saturday night, as he and his father, who remained in the room, went to bed, and he was asleep when she came in; on the Sunday morning his mother told him that she had taken the body to the London Hospital. The boy here, as in many parts of his statement, said his father had nothing whatever to do in the business. The magistrates examined him very minutely as to what had taken place on the Friday night, and what conversations (if any) had taken place between his father, mother, and himself, previous to and after the horrid deed had been perpetrated. He said that no words or quarrel had taken place; the old woman and his father and mother were on good terms, and nothing particular had occurred during the evening, until his mother placed her hand, as he had before described, on the mouth of the old lady; nor did she say a word to him or his father while she so held her hand on her mouth. He recollected she had been saying something to him about taking the body to an hospital. He did not see his father lay a hand on the old woman.

The magistrates expressed some surprise that the prisoner should, for a whole day, leave the body in the cellar of the house, which was accessible to all the inmates; but this was satisfactorily explained by the landlady, who said, that in consequence of its being so dark, and so infested with rats, the lodgers very seldom indeed entered it.

This was the substance of the boy’s statement, and in many particulars it was distinctly and amply corroborated by the concurrent testimony of other witnesses. In some points, however, he was contradicted. It will be observed, that he stated that the body was carried away by his mother alone; but a man named Barry, whose evidence appeared to refer to the same transaction, declared that he had seen the boy in company with her, and assisting to carry the sack; while another negatived the possibility of the truth of one of his declarations—that his mother had carried the body in her arms, and with great facility—by stating that the deceased was a very tall woman.

The prisoners, upon the proofs which had been adduced, however, were remanded, and subsequent inquiries terminated in the production of further evidence of the guilt of Mrs. Ross. This consisted of the declarations of several persons that she had sold articles of clothing to them in Rag-fair, which were identified as having belonged to the deceased; and, more especially, that she had actually disposed of the stock-in-trade of the poor old woman. All exertions to discover the body of the deceased, however, proved unavailing; and, after several examinations, the prisoners, Edward Cook and Elizabeth Ross, were, on the 24th of December, committed for trial upon the charge of murder.

The intermediate occurrence of the case of Bishop and Williams, the details of which we have already described, and the violent alarm created in the public mind by the frequent reports of mysterious disappearances, and “burking” murders, excited a great degree of prejudice against these unfortunate prisoners, and it was not until the 6th of January 1832, that their case came on for final investigation at the Old Bailey. Ross was then indicted for the wilful murder of the deceased, while the charge made against her paramour, Cook, was that of having aided and abetted his fellow-prisoner in the commission of the offence.

Mr. Adolphus conducted the case for the prosecution, and Mr. Barry and Mr. Churchill appeared on behalf of the prisoners. The defence set up was,—Perjury on the part of the boy, and the possibility that Mrs. Walsh was still living, arising upon the non-discovery of her body. The jury, however, returned a verdict of “Guilty” against Mrs. Ross, but acquitted Cook.

The convict was immediately sentenced to be executed on the following Monday: her body to be given over to the surgeons for dissection.

On Monday, the 8th of January, the wretched woman was hanged, in pursuance of her sentence. After her conviction, as well as before, she persisted in the strongest declarations of her innocence. Her statement was, that she had left the old woman with Cook on the night of her supposed murder, and that having then gone out, she did not return for several hours. On her going back she was told that the old woman had quitted the house. She maintained an extraordinary degree of firmness of nerve; and, up to the last moment of her existence, continued uttering protestations that she was not guilty, and ejaculations of her misery at quitting her own country (Ireland) to be hanged. She mounted the scaffold without assistance, and was turned-off at the customary signal.

HENRY MACNAMARA.

TRANSPORTED FOR FELONY.

From the statement which was then made, it appeared that the prisoner had gone to the New Hummums on the previous Saturday night, and had requested to be accommodated with a bed. His appearance was such as to lead to a supposition that he was a person of respectability, and there was no hesitation in complying with his desire. His luggage, which consisted only of a carpet-bag, was conveyed to the apartment assigned to his use, and, having partaken of a handsome supper, with its concomitants, he retired to rest. The New Hummums, like its brethren under the piazza, was a hotel much resorted to by single gentlemen, or casual visitors to the metropolis; and, on the night in question, its accommodations were as much in request as usual. Major Hampton Lewis occupied a sleeping apartment on the floor beneath that in which the prisoner’s room was situated; and, on the same corridor, were four other bed-chambers, all of which were also in use. In the middle of the night, when the house was wrapt in quiet, Major Lewis was suddenly awoke by hearing some person in his apartment; and, on looking up, he saw a man, attired only in his shirt and trousers, as quietly as possible making his way towards the door, carrying off his gold watch, chain, and seals, and his purse in his hands. He jumped up and pursued the intruder, but did not succeed in catching him until he had reached the passage, when he seized him by the shirt and braces. The fellow struggled hard, and succeeded in extricating himself, and ran off up stairs; but the noise had by this time alarmed the other inmates of the house, and instant search was made for the thief. Every room was examined; and at last the constables, who by this time had been called in, arrived at that to which the prisoner had been conducted. They found him in bed; but, on their calling him up, they perceived that he still had his trousers on, and his braces and shirt were torn. The detached remnants of these articles were found, on examination, outside the door of Major Lewis’s room, having evidently been torn off in the scuffle; and the watch and purse of that gentleman were also discovered on the stairs leading to the corridor in which the prisoner’s apartment was situated. This was a chain of circumstances so conclusive, as denoting the guilt of the prisoner, that he was carried off in custody to the station-house. The uproar and confusion naturally created by a nocturnal event of so extraordinary a character, had, however, scarcely subsided, when four other gentlemen, who slept in the apartments adjoining that of Major Lewis, discovered that they too had been robbed. One gentleman missed a shirt-pin; another some English and French money, amounting to about 3l. 15s.; a third a loaded pistol, which he carried for his protection, and his purse, containing a considerable sum in gold and notes; while the rings and purse of the fourth had been purloined from his dressing-table. In a room opposite to that in which the prisoner had been placed to sleep, and which had not been occupied for several nights, the whole of these articles were found strewed indiscriminately about the floor, under the bed; and with them was also discovered a key, which, on examination, proved to fit the lock of the prisoner’s carpet-bag.

These were the circumstances which were proved in evidence on the day of the first examination of the prisoner; but the extraordinary nature of his proceedings in this case, struck the attention of the magistrate so forcibly, that he determined to remand him, in order that, if any other charges of a similar description existed against him, he might be made liable for them too. The prisoner was ordered, therefore, to be again brought up on the following Friday; and on that day a host of persons was in attendance, each more anxious than the rest to detail the circumstances of some robbery of which the prisoner had been guilty.

The evidence of the robberies at the New Hummums having been first gone into, and the prisoner having been ordered to be indicted upon three of them—at the prosecution of Major Lewis, Mr. Courthold, of Barking, in Essex, and a young gentleman named John C. Millenden, who had put up at the hotel on his way from Bordeaux, where his parents lived, to school—the other new cases were taken.

The first of these was preferred by a gentleman named Heath; and, from his evidence, and that of two other witnesses, it appeared, that at a late hour on the night of Friday, the 27th of April, the prisoner went to the Swan-with-Two-Necks, Lad-lane, and asked to be accommodated with a bed. His request was complied with, and he retired to his room, which was situated in a corridor built in the old-fashioned style, round the inn-yard, and which was near to that to which Mr. Heath had been previously shown. In the course of the night, Davy, the porter at the inn, was disturbed by the loud barking of the watch-dog; he went to him to quiet him, but the sagacious animal was aware that there was an intruder stirring upon the premises, and conducted Davy to a dark kitchen, or cellar, where he found the prisoner. He pretended to have come from his room for a necessary purpose, and was allowed to return to his apartment. Soon afterwards, however, he escaped over the balustrades of the corridor, and from the yard, leaving his boots behind him. On the following morning Mr. Heath discovered that his money had been stolen from his room in the course of the night. Both the porter, and a witness who had seen the prisoner quit the inn-yard, and had aided him in adjusting his cloak in the street, were able to speak positively to his identity; and he was committed for trial upon this charge also.

Many other cases were, at subsequent examinations, brought against him, which, however, were so similar in their character to those which have been already detailed that it would be useless to enter into their history or description. The prisoner was recognised as having been guilty of almost innumerable offences, within a very short period; and he was also identified by one of the keepers of Maidstone jail as having made his escape from that prison, where he had been sentenced to be confined for three months as a pickpocket.

On Monday, the 21st of May, the prisoner was tried at the Old Bailey upon the charges preferred against him, and verdicts of “Guilty” were returned. The crimes which he had committed rendered him liable to capital punishment; but the ends of justice, it was felt, would be amply satisfied by the permanent removal of this offender from the scenes of his former exploits, and from the opportunities of renewing his depredations.

Of a piece with the proceedings of this fellow, were those of a man who victimised nearly every hotel in every principal city or town in the kingdom, and who was universally known as “The man with the carpet-bag.” A carpet-bag was an article of such a nature as that it was unlikely that the intentions of any persons would be suspected merely on account of his carrying such a means of transporting his luggage. In the case of the person to whom this epithet was applied, however, the carpet-bag was employed for purposes far different from those for which it was customarily used. His habit was to enter that house which presented the most seemly and comfortable aspect, and having partaken of a hearty supper, he would convey his “luggage,” of which he always took the greatest care, to his apartment. In the morning it was invariably found that he had decamped, having generously left behind him the contents of his sack, which usually consisted of hay or straw, and a stray brickbat or two, and carried off in their place such portions of the bedclothes as he could conveniently stow away. The possession of a carpet-bag by a traveller was at one time looked upon by landlords and waiters as almost certain evidence of his being a swindler; and numerous are the occasions upon which such a supposition has created considerable inconvenience. The following letter, published in a newspaper of the period, happily hits off the miseries of a “man with a carpet-bag,” searching for lodgings. It was addressed—

“To the Editor of Bell’s Life in London.

“Sir,—As a stranger in this town, perhaps I shall be excused for addressing you on a topic which may prove amusing to some of your travelling readers, and prevent a series of mortifications to which, from the accidental circumstance of carrying a carpet-bag, they may be exposed. I arrived from Manchester on Monday afternoon last, having travelled the whole of the way outside of the coach. On alighting, I was as miserable as torpid circulation and pinching cold could make me. I had still energy enough left to give the guard and coachman their customary fee, and with my luggage, which consisted only of a carpet-bag, containing a change of apparel, and other matters, to set out in search of a tavern in which I was likely to enjoy the comforts of a good fire and a night’s lodging. You will ask why I did not at once take up my quarters at the White Horse, Fetter-lane, where the coach stopped, and which, I had been informed, affords excellent accommodation at a reasonable price? I answer, that I have always had an objection to the bustle of a coach inn; and, I may add, I fancied I could get cheaper quarters elsewhere. Whether I was justified in this conclusion I will not stop to argue; you must take the facts as they come. I turned into Holborn, and went into the first coffee-house which met my eye: I do not know the sign. On entering the coffee-room, I placed my carpet-bag on the table, and commenced freeing myself from the wrapper which surrounded my throat, at the same time ringing the bell for the waiter. A smirking chap soon entered, and casting a look at my bag, and then at me, asked me what I wanted? I replied, ‘A steak for my dinner, and a bed for the night.’ ‘I’m afraid we an’t got no bed to spare, sir,’ said he, ‘but I’ll go and ask missis;’ and then taking another look at me, and a second at my carpet-bag, out he flounced. I thought this uncivil, but had not long to wait before he returned; and with a sort of would-be knowing look, he informed me his missis hadn’t a bed to spare, but I might have a steak if I liked. ‘I don’t like!’ said I; and taking up my bag, off I went in no pleasant mood. I was not long before I discovered another house, into which I popped, and was met by a pretty girl in the passage. ‘Pray, my dear,’ said I, ‘can I have a bed here to-night?’ She eyed me from top to toe, and more particularly fixed her attention on my carpet-bag. ‘No, indeed, my dear,’ said she, laying a stress on the latter words, ‘you cannot, so you may walk yourself and your carpet-bag off.’ Well, thought I, that’s cool, at any rate, and I very soon took her advice. A third house was not far distant, and here again I made my entrance; but had not reached the door of the parlour, when a voice from the bar exclaimed, ‘Oh, here’s the fellow with the carpet-bag! Thomas, Thomas, come and show him out!’ and, sure enough, before I could ask a question, I was taken by the shoulders, and gently pushed into the street, with a polite intimation that they were ‘fly’ to the carpet-bag, and so I might ‘mizzle.’ Well, thought I, this is London politeness with a vengeance! but a lodging I must get, and on I went. The next house I approached looked clean and cheerful; and seeing the waiter standing at the door, I civilly asked him if they took in travellers? The fellow, who proved to be an Irishman, laughed, and replied, ‘Faith we do, sir, when we can.’ ‘Then, perhaps, you’ll take me in for the night?’ said I; ‘I have just got off the Manchester coach, and want my dinner and a lodging.’ Once more did I notice the particular attention paid to my carpet-bag. ‘Be asy, old boy!’ said the rascal, with a good-humoured grin; ‘though we take in travellers, we don’t mane to be taken in ourselves, so walk off with your four bones and your carpet-bag together;’ and, turning upon his heel, he marched into the passage, exclaiming to one of his companions, ‘The old codger with the carpet-bag has just been here, but it wouldn’t do.’ I now really began to be vexed, and indignant at this treatment. I pursued my course, however, to a fifth house. Here I was lucky enough to find a rousing fire in the parlour; and having, as I hoped for the last time, deposited my carpet-bag on a chair, I was about to ring the bell, when I was saved the trouble by the landlord, who, entering in a great pet, approached me without further ceremony, took up my carpet-bag, placed it in my hand again, and ordered me out of his house without delay. ‘I want a bed,’ said I. ‘Do you?’ said he; ‘then you’ll find one elsewhere, for you shan’t stuff your carpet-bag at my expense!’ and out he pushed me, in defiance of all my expostulations. Never was poor devil so incensed: I was completely at a loss to discover the cause of this treatment. It had now become dark, and my anxiety for a lodging became still greater. I resolved upon one more experiment, however, before I gave myself up to despair, and seeing a sixth house of a very tempting description, in I marched, and approaching a good-looking woman in the bar, I made my best bow, and asked her if I could be accommodated with my dinner and a lodging for the night? ‘Certainly, sir,’ said she, with a smile; and, in a loud tone, called William, the waiter, and Betty, the chambermaid. Both came in a trice; and the landlady, pointing to me, said, ‘This gentleman wants a bed and his dinner; show him into No. 2, Betty; and you, William, take the gentleman’s order for dinner? William and Betty hesitated, both scanning me and my carpet-bag more particularly, with as much surprise as if they had never seen two such objects before; and at the same moment putting their heads towards their mistress, I could just hear them whisper, ‘Carpet-bag!’ In an instant the smile of the hostess turned to a frown, and, without further explanation, she exclaimed, looking over the bar at the same time at my unfortunate carpet-bag, ‘No, sir; we have no room; it won’t do here;’ and for the sixth time was I sent forth on my adventures. I now became thoroughly enraged, but suddenly recollecting that, by law, victuallers are obliged to receive travellers, I resolved to be no longer trifled with, and, for the seventh and last time, entered a house in High Holborn, where, without ceremony, I walked into the coffee-room, threw my carpet-bag under the table, took off my great-coat, and desired the waiter to get me a beefsteak, oyster sauce, and potatoes. ‘Yes, sir,’ was the quick reply. The order was given to the cook in an audible voice—‘Nice rumpsteak, hoister sauce, and tators, for one!’ The cloth was laid, and in less time than I could have expected, I was discussing the merits of the viands laid before me. Good meat, thought I, requires good drink, and I ordered, in a breath, a pint of porter and a pint of sherry. ‘Yes, sir,’ said my attendant again, and with equal rapidity they were placed before me. The fellow, in turning round from me on this occasion, observed my carpet-bag under the opposite table. ‘Holloa!’ said he, ‘whose is this here carpet-bag?’ ‘ ’Tis mine,’ I replied. Had I confessed myself a kangaroo or a rhinoceros, I do not think I could have produced more astonishment than this admission, and I could observe him look round the room to the assembled guests, as if he expected them to join in his surprise. Still I had no suspicion that there was anything in my bag, or in my appearance, to attract extraordinary attention; so, without further reflection, I finished my dinner, and called for a pint of port. On this being brought in, I put the old question, ‘Can I be accommodated with a bed?’ ‘No, indeed, you cannot, Mr. Carpet-bag!’ said he, shaking his impudent face close to mine. This was past all endurance, and, with an oath, I exclaimed, I would not stir out of the house that night. ‘Won’t you, indeed!’ said he; ‘we’ll soon see that,’ and out he went. The persons in the room regarded me with side-long glances of doubt; but before I could make any remark upon what had occurred, in came Mr. Waiter with a policeman. ‘That’s him,’ said he, pointing to me. ‘That’s who?’ roared I with indignation; ‘what have you to say to me?’ The policeman, who seemed a decent fellow of his sort, begged of me not to be violent; he believed, he said, I had a carpet-bag? ‘I have,’ replied I; ‘and what then?’ ‘Only I should like to look into it, sir,’ said he. ‘I’ll be —— if you shall,’ retorted I. ‘Ha! ha!’ sniggered the waiter, ‘I thought how it would be.’ I now became perfectly outrageous, and demanded of the policeman if he took me for a felon? ‘No, sir,’ said he; ‘but the fact is, a man with a carpet-bag has been going round to the different taverns in town, plundering the landlords, and ‘a caution’ to this effect having appeared in the public papers, suspicion has arisen that you may be ‘the man with the carpet-bag,’ and I have been called in to ascertain the fact.’ The civility of the fellow, as well as the ludicrous, although vexatious, cause of all my wanderings, being thus explained, I could not but smile at my situation, but determined at once to justify my character. I gave him the key of the padlock, desiring him to open the bag, the contents of which I enumerated, concluding with the astounding declaration, that, last of all, he would find a canvas bag, containing one hundred sovereigns, and letters to certain persons, whose names I mentioned. The man was a little abashed, but, at my desire, made the search—found all as I described, to the minutest particular—apologized for his interference—and took his departure. The waiter also humbly begged pardon; the company laughed heartily at the recital of my mortifications; I got my bed, paid my bill, and the next morning proceeded to the house of a friend, where, had I gone in the first instance, I should have been saved the trouble of writing this letter for the express purpose of giving landlords ‘another caution,’—and that is, not to look, in future, so suspiciously on a traveller with a carpet-bag, unless upon some more cogent ground than mere surmise.