Before coming to the year 1746, when the old fortress was the scene of the imprisonment and death of the Jacobite leaders of the rebellion of 1745, it will be necessary to enter at some length into the treatment of some obscure Scotch prisoners who, shortly before the great outbreak in Scotland, were put to death in the Tower. The story of the deaths of these unfortunate men has never appeared in any account of the Tower and its prisoners, and I am therefore all the more anxious to give as full an account as I have been able to find of that event. It was owing to the kindness of Mr Gardiner, who placed in my hands a pamphlet with illustrations of the time, describing the fate of the brothers Macpherson and Shaw, that I became aware of this tragic story.[6]

This triple execution, which, as I have said, took place shortly before the Jacobite rising in Scotland in the “’45,” may have had something to do with the strong feeling against the English Government which prevailed in the North; it was certainly one of those acts by which governments make themselves and their ministers odious. And the execution on Tower Green in 1744 may well have caused the unpopularity, not to say hatred, amongst the Scotch of the English Government.

The only reference I have been able to find to this event are two short passages in Hume and Smollett’s “History of England” (vol. xi. page 164), and the other in a letter from Horace Walpole to Sir Horace Mann (“Walpole’s Letters,” vol. i., Letter LXXIV.).

“King George was in Germany,” writes Hume, “the Duke of Cumberland, at the head of the British army, was employed in Flanders, and great part of the Highlanders were keen for insurrection; their natural feelings were, on this occasion, stimulated by the suggestion of revenge. At the beginning of the war, a regiment of those people had been formed and transported with the rest of the British troops to Flanders. Before they were embarked, a number of them deserted with their arms, on pretence that they had been decoyed into the service by promises and assurances that they should never be sent abroad; and this was really the case. They were overtaken by a body of horse, persuaded to submit, brought back to London, pinioned like malefactors, and tried for desertion; three were shot to death in terrorem, and the rest were sent to the plantations. Those who suffered were persons of some consequence in their own country, and their fate was deeply resented by the clans to which they belonged. It was considered a national outrage, and the Highlanders, who are naturally vindictive, waited impatiently for an opportunity of vengeance.”

So far, the historian upon the subject. This is the letter-writer’s account of the matter. “We are,” writes Walpole to Mann on the 19th May 1743, “in more confusion than we care to own. There lately came up a highland regiment from Scotland to be sent abroad. One heard of nothing but their good discipline and quiet disposition. When the day came for their going to the water-side, one hundred and nine of them mutinied, and marched away in a body. They did not care to go to where it would be equivocal for what King they fought. Three companies of dragoons are sent after them. If you happen to hear of any rising, don’t be surprised—I shall not, I assure you. Sir Robert Monroe, their Lieutenant-Colonel, before their leaving Scotland, asked some of the Ministry: ‘But suppose there should be any rebellion in Scotland, what shall we do for these eight hundred men?’ it was answered, ‘Why, there would be eight hundred fewer rebels there.’”

It seems to have been a scandalous act on the part of the Government to have drafted these Scottish soldiers to Flanders immediately upon their arrival in London, after they had promised that they should not be taken on foreign service. And the cruelly harsh treatment meted out to the deserters, and the execution of the three men, must have stirred up a strong feeling of hatred in Scotland against George the Second’s Government—a hatred which burst into open flame in the “’45.”

The next event in the history of the Tower is the imprisonment and execution of the Scotch Jacobite lords after the rebellion of 1745. For more than a score of years the old fortress had been free of political prisoners, and Tower Hill had seen no more executions. The blood of the “Rebel Lords,” as they were called, was the last that dyed the scaffold in England. These “Rebel Lords” were the Marquis of Tullibardine, the Earl of Cromarty, and Lords Kilmarnock and Balmerino. Tullibardine had already taken up arms for the cause of James in 1715, and when he was taken prisoner after the “’45,” was a broken-down, elderly man whose life was drawing to a close, and who was so feeble that, when the standard of Prince Charles was unfurled at Glenfinnan, he had to be supported by men upon either side whilst he held the flagstaff. His father, the Duke of Athol, had obtained leave from George I. to will his title and estates to his second surviving son, James, who succeeded to the dukedom in 1729. Tullibardine had meanwhile fled to France, but in 1719 made a desperate attempt to raise the clans at Kinsale. He was defeated by General Wightmore at Glenshiel, and a proclamation was issued for his apprehension, together with the Earl Marischal and the Earl of Seaforth. A reward of two thousand pounds was promised for the capture of any of these noblemen. During the next twenty-six years Tullibardine’s life was passed in France. On the 25th of July 1745, he landed with Prince Charles at Borodale, and, as it has been said, it was he who unfurled the Prince’s standard on the 19th of August at Glenfinnan.

After the defeat of the Pretender’s forces at Culloden, Tullibardine fled to Mull, but he was too broken in health even to attempt escape from the English troops sent out for his capture, and finally surrendered himself to Buchanan of Drumskill. Taken first to Dumbarton Castle, and then to Edinburgh, he was sent from the latter place to London by sea. On his arrival at the Tower, Tullibardine was in an almost dying state, and Lord Cornwallis, the Governor, was allowed by the following order, to send a Dr Wilmott to attend “the person formerly called Marquis of Tullibardine, a prisoner in your custody, from time to time as he shall desire during his indisposition, provided the same to be in the presence of you or the Lieutenant.” On the 9th of July this staunch Cavalier died in the Tower, thus escaping a public execution; he was only fifty-eight years old. He was buried in St Peter’s Chapel. William, Earl of Kilmarnock, who was head of the family of Errol, had fought at Culloden, and was taken prisoner with Lord Balmerino. These, together with the Earl of Cromarty, who had been captured at the castle of Dunrobin, in Sutherland, were brought to London by sea, the warrant which committed them to the Tower being dated the 28th of July.

The following letter from Mrs Osborn, the famous Dorothy Osborn’s great-niece by marriage, and a daughter of the first Lord Torrington, and wife of John Osborn, of Chicksands, in Bedfordshire, to her son, Sir Danvers Osborn, dated 9th December 1745, gives an interesting picture of the state of public feeling. She writes of the “most shameful panick” which had seized London on the news of the advance of the Scottish army. People were hurrying from their country houses for shelter in the capital, and bringing their plate with them wherever they could. This “panick” lasted for four days, and then came the news of the retreat from Derby northwards, and people went home again. She says: “The Prisoners come to the Tower a fryday, ’tis not yet clear if the Pretender’s brother is there. They have strong suspicion still, but the Ministry don’t choose to talk about it.” In the following June, Mrs Osborn writes from Kensington: “’Tis thought ’twill be August before the Lords can be try’d. After some forms are past, the Peers must have 20 days notice. Lady Cromarty is in town, has been at the Tower to enquire after her lord. She was at Williamson’s, and cryd most bitterly, but no one is suffered so much as to look up at the windows. They were all brought into Williamson’s, and from there one by one conducted to their apartments. No one knows where the other is, and they are kept very strict, since the King of France has ordered a most insolent Letter, and takes himself to be King of England to forbid us punishing the Rebels. Is the Prelates got off or not?” asks Mrs Osborn, adding rather cold-bloodedly: “I wish they could have been beheaded at Edinburgh, and not make such a long piece of work as the forms will do here.”

The trial of these “Rebel Lords” took place at Westminster Hall with much ceremonial. The Lord High Steward, Philip Yorke, Earl of Hardwicke, arrived from Ormond Street, attended by a train of gentlemen-at-arms, Black Rod and Garter King at Arms supporting him. He was received by the guard in Old Palace Yard, “by drums beating as to the Royal family.” The peers were in their robes, and the grand old Hall was filled to its utmost limits with a vast crowd of spectators. Horace Walpole, writing to Mann, says: “I am this moment come from the conclusion of the greatest and most melancholy scene I ever saw; you will easily guess it was the trial of the rebel Lords. As it was the most interesting sight, it was the most solemn and fine. A coronation is a puppet show, and all the splendours of it idle; but this sight at once feasted one’s eyes, and engaged all one’s passions. It began last Monday; the three parts of Westminster Hall were enclosed with galleries, and hung with scarlet; and the whole ceremony was conducted with the most awful solemnity and decency, except in the one point of leaving the prisoners at the bar amidst the idle curiosity of the crowd, and even with the witnesses who had sworn against them, while the Lords adjourned to their own house to consult. No part of the Royal Family was there, which was a proper regard for the unhappy men, who were become their victims. One hundred and thirty-nine Lords were present, and made a noble sight on their benches, frequent and full. The Chancellor was Lord High Steward, but though a most comely personage with a fine voice, his behaviour was mean, curiously searching for occasion to bow to the Minister (Henry Pelham) that is no Peer, and consequently applying to the other Ministers in a manner for their orders: and not even ready at the ceremonial. To the prisoners he was peevish; and instead of keeping to the humane dignity of the law of England, whose character it is to point out favour to the criminal, he crossed them, and almost scolded at any offer they made towards defence. Lord Kilmarnock is past forty, but looks younger. He is tall and slender, with an extremely fine person; his behaviour a most just mixture between dignity and submission; if in anything to be reprehended, a little affected, and his hair too exactly dressed for a man in his situation. But when I say this, it is not to find fault, but to show how little fault there is to be found. For Lord Balmerino, he is the most natural, brave old fellow I ever saw; the lightest intrepidity, even to indifference. At the bar he behaved like a soldier and a man; in the intervals of form with carelessness and humour. He pressed extremely to have his wife, his pretty Peggy, with him in the Tower. When they were brought from the Tower in separate coaches, there was some dispute in which the axe must go, old Balmerino cried, ‘Come, come, put it with me!’ At the bar he played with his fingers upon the axe, while he talked with the gentleman gaoler; and one day, somebody coming up to listen, he took the blade and held it like a fan between their faces. During the trial a little boy was near him, but not tall enough to see, he made room for the child, and placed him near himself. When the trial began, the two Earls (Kilmarnock and Cromarty) pleaded guilty, Balmerino not guilty, saying he would prove his not being at the taking of the Castle of Carlisle, as was said in the indictment. Then the King’s Counsel opened, and Serjeant Skinner pronounced the most absurd speech imaginable. Then some witnesses were examined, whom afterwards the old hero shook cordially by the hand. The Lords withdrew to their house, and returning, demanded of the judges whether, one point not being proved, though all the rest were, the indictment was false? to which they unanimously answered in the negative. Then the Lord Steward asked the Peers severally whether Lord Balmerino was guilty. All said, ‘Guilty upon honour,’ and then adjourned, the prisoner having begged pardon for giving them so much trouble. On Wednesday the prisoners were again brought to Westminster Hall, at about eleven o’clock, to receive sentence; and being asked what they had to say, Lord Kilmarnock, with a fine voice, read a very fine speech, confessing the extent of his crime, but offering his principles as some alleviation.”

The executions were fixed to take place on the 18th of August, the news being broken to Lord Kilmarnock by his friend, Mr J. Foster, a clergyman. When old Balmerino was told by the Lieutenant of the Tower, General Williamson, of the fatal day, he was at dinner with his wife (Margaret, daughter of Captain Chalmers). “Lady Balmerino,” writes Williamson, “being very much surprised, he desired her not to be concerned at it, his lady seemed very disconsolate, and rose immediately from table, on which he started from his chair, and said ‘Pray, my Lady, sit down, for it shall not spoil your dinner.’ ‘The brave old fellow,’ as Walpole calls Lord Balmerino, and with justice, turned upon the General, ‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘with your damned warrant you have spoiled my Lady’s dinner.’”

The following account of the execution of the Jacobite leaders is taken from the Gentleman’s Magazine for the month of August 1745, and appears to have been the most accurate and the most detailed:—

At six o’clock a troop of lifeguards, and 1000 of the footguards—being fifteen men out of each company, marched from the parade in St James’s park thro’ the city to Tower-hill, to attend the execution of the Earl of Kilmarnock and the Lord Balmerino, and being arrived there were posted in lines from the Tower to the scaffold, and all around it. About 8 o’clock the Sheriffs of London, and their under sheriffs and their officers, viz. six sergeants at mace, six yeomen, and the executioner, met at the Mitre Tavern in Fenchurch Street, where they breakfasted, and went from thence to the house, lately the Transport Office, on Tower-hill near Catherine’s Court, hired by them for the reception of the said lords, before they should be conducted to the scaffold which was erected about thirty yards from the said house.

At ten o’clock the block was fixed on the stage and covered with black cloth, and several sacks of sawdust up to strew on it; soon after their coffins were brought, covered with black cloth, ornamented with gilt nails, etc. On the Earl of Kilmarnock’s was a plate with this inscription, “Guliemus Come de Kilmarnock decollatur 18 Augusti 1746. Etat suae 42,” with an Earl’s coronet over it, and six coronets over the six handles; and on Lord Balmerino’s, was a plate with this inscription, “Arthurus Dominus de Balmerino decollatur 18 Augusti 1746. Etat suae 58,” with a baron’s coronet over it, and six others over the six handles. At a quarter after ten the Sheriffs went in procession to the outward gate of the Tower, and after knocking at it some time, a warder within asked, “Who’s there?” The officer without replied, “The sheriffs of London and Middlesex.” The warder then asked, “What do they want?” The officer answered, “The bodies of William, Earl of Kilmarnock, and Arthur, Lord Balmerino,” upon which the warder within said, “I will go and inform the Lieutenant of the Tower,” and in about ten minutes the Lieutenant of the Tower with the Earl of Kilmarnock, and Major White with Lord Balmerino, guarded by several of the warders, came to the gate; the prisoners were then delivered to the Sheriffs who gave proper receipt for their bodies to the Lieutenant, who as usual said, “God bless King George!” to which the Earl of Balmerino assented by a bow, and the Lord Balmerino said, “God bless King J——s.” Lord Kilmarnock had met Lord Balmerino at the foot of the first stairs, he embraced him, who said to him, “My lord, I am heartily sorry to have your company in this expedition.” Soon after the procession, moving in a slow and solemn manner, appeared in the following order:—

1. The Constable of the Tower.
2. The Knight Marshal’s men and Tipsters.
3. The Sheriffs’ Officers.
4. The Sheriffs, the prisoners, and their chaplains. Mr Sheriff Blachford walking with the Earl of Kilmarnock, and Mr Sheriff Cockayne with the Lord Balmerino.
5. The Tower Warders.
6. A guard of musqueteers.
7. The two hearses and a mourning coach.

When the procession had passed through the lines within the area of the circle formed by the guards, the passage was closed, and the troops of horse who were in the rear of the foot in the lines wheeled off, and drew five feet deep behind the foot, on the south side of the hill facing the scaffold. The lords were conducted into separate apartments in the house, facing the steps of the scaffold; their friends being admitted to them. The Earl of Kilmarnock was attended by the Rev. Mr Foster, a dissenting minister, and the Rev. Mr Hume, a near relative of the Earl of Hume; and the chaplain of the Tower, and another clergyman of the Church of England, accompanied Lord Balmerino; who on entering the door of the house, hearing several of the spectators ask eagerly “Which is Lord Balmerino?” answered smiling, “I am Lord Balmerino, gentlemen, at your service.” The parlour and passage of the house, the rails enclosing the way thence to the scaffold, and the rails about it, were all hung with black at the sheriff’s expense. The Lord Kilmarnock in the apartment allotted to him, spent about an hour at his devotions with Mr Foster, who assisted him with prayer and exhortation. After which Lord Balmerino pursuant to his request, being admitted to confer with the Earl, first thank’d him for the favour, and then ask’d, if his lordship knew of any order signed by the Prince (meaning the Pretender’s son) to give no quarter at the battle of Culloden! And the Earl answering No, the Lord Balmerino added, nor I neither, and therefore it seems to be an invention to justify their own murders! The Earl replied he did not think this a fair inference, because he was informed, after he was prisoner at Inverness, by several officers, that such an order, signed by George Murray, was in the Duke’s custody; “George Murray!” said Lord Balmerino, “then they should not charge it on the Prince!” Then he took his leave, embracing Lord Kilmarnock, with the same kind of noble and generous compliments, as he had used before, “My dear Lord Kilmarnock, I am only sorry that I cannot pay the reckoning alone; once more, farewell for ever!” His persone was tall and graceful, his countenance mild, and his complexion pale; and more so as he had been indisposed. He then returned to his own room. The Earl then, with the company kneeling down, join’d in a prayer delivered by Mr Foster; after which having sat a few moments, and taken a second refreshment of a glass of wine, he expressed a desire that Lord Balmerino might go first to the scaffold; but being informed this could not be, as his lordship was named first on the warrant: he appeared satisfied, saluted his friends, saying he would make no speech on the scaffold, but desired the minister to assist him in his last moments, and then accordingly with other friends, proceeded with him to the scaffold. The multitude who had long been expecting to see him on such an awful occasion, on his first appearing upon the scaffold, dressed in black with a countenance and demeanour, testifying great contrition, showed the deepest signs of commiseration and pity; and his lordship at the same time, being struck with such a variety of dreadful objects at once, the multitude, the block, his coffin, the executioner, the instrument of death, turned about to Mr Hume, and said, “Hume, this is terrible,” tho’ without changing his voice or countenance. After putting up a short prayer, concluding with a petition for his Majesty King George, and the royal family, in vindication of his declaration: in his speech, his lordship embraced and took a last leave of his friends. The executioner, who before had something administered to keep him from fainting, was so affected by his lordship’s distress, and the awfulness of the scene that, on asking his forgiveness, he burst into tears. My Lord bade him take courage, giving him at the same time a purse with five guineas, and telling him that he would drop his handkerchief as a signal for the stroke. He proceeded, with the help of his gentlemen, to make ready for the block, by taking off his coat, and the bag from his hair, which was then tucked up under a napkin cap, but this being made up so wide as not to keep up his long hair, the making it less caused a little delay; his neck being laid bare, tucking down the collar of his shirt and waistcoat, he kneeled down on a black cushion at the block, and drew his cap over his eyes, in doing which, as well as in putting up his hair, his hands were observed to shake; but either to support himself, or as a more convenient posture for devotion, he happened to lay both his hands upon the block, which the executioner observing, prayed his lordship to let them fall, lest they should be mangled, or break the blow. He was then told that the neck of his waistcoat was in the way, upon which he rose, and with the help of a friend took it off, and the neck being made bare to the shoulders, he kneeled down as before. In the meantime, when all things were ready for the execution, and the black bays which hung over the rails of the scaffold having, by direction of the Colonel of the Guard, or the Sheriffs, been turned up that the people might see all the circumstances of the execution; in about two minutes (the time he before fixed) after he kneeled down, his lordship dropping his handkerchief, the executioner at once severed the head from the body, except only a small part of the skin, which was immediately divided by a gentle stroke; the head was received in a piece of red baize, and, with the body, immediately put into the coffin. The scaffold was then cleansed from the blood, fresh sawdust strewed, and, that no appearance of a former execution might remain, the executioner changed such of his clothes as appeared bloody.

In the meantime Lord Balmerino was waiting for his own end with that imperturbable courage which never seemed to desert him. He talked cheerfully with his friends, and drinking a glass of wine, blithely asked them to drink to his “ain degrae ta haiven.” When the under-sheriff came to summon him to the scaffold the old lord interrupted him by asking how the executioner had done his work upon Lord Kilmarnock, and remarking that it was well done, turned to his friends and said, “Gentlemen, I shall detain you no longer,” immediately proceeding to the scaffold, “which he mounted with so easy an air as astounded the spectators.” He wore the uniform in which he had fought at the battle of Culloden, a blue coat turned up with red, with brass buttons, and a tie wig. Having walked several times round the scaffold, he bowed to the people, and going up to the coffin lying ready to receive his body, he read the inscription, saying, “It is right”; then he carefully examined the block which he called his “pillow of rest.” He required his spectacles to read the speech he had prepared, and “read it with an audible voice, which, so far from being filled with passionate invective, mentioned his Majesty as a prince of the greatest magnanimity and mercy, at the same time that, thro’ erroneous political principles, it denied him a right to the allegiance of his people.” This speech was duly handed over to the Sheriff, and when the executioner came forward to beg Lord Balmerino’s pardon, as was the custom, the staunch old nobleman said, “Friend, you need not ask me forgiveness, the execution of your duty is commendable!” Then he gave him three guineas, adding, “Friend, I never was rich, this is all the money I have now, and I am sorry I cannot add anything to it but my coat and waistcoat.” These he himself placed upon his coffin, together with his neckcloth, and putting on a plaid cap, declared that he died a Scotchman. He next bade farewell to his friends, and then looking down upon the crowd said to a gentleman who stood near him, “Perhaps some may think my behaviour too bold, but remember, sir, that I now declare it is the effect of confidence in God, and a good conscience, and I should dissemble, if I should shew any signs of fear.” As he passed the executioner he took the axe from his hand and felt the edge, and, returning it to the man, clapped him on the shoulder to encourage him. Turning down the collar of his shirt he showed the man where to strike, bidding him “do it resolutely, for in that would consist his kindness.” After giving the Tower warders some money, he asked which was his hearse, and ordered the driver to bring it nearer. “Immediately,” says the writer in the Gentleman’s Magazine, “without trembling, or changing countenance, he again knelt at the block, and having with his arms stretched out, said, ‘O Lord, reward my friends; forgive my enemies—and receive my soul,’ he gave the signal by letting them fall, but his uncommon firmness and intrepidity, and the unexpected suddenness of the signal, so surprised the executioner, that though he struck the part directed, the blow was not given with strength enough to wound him very deep; on which it seemed as if he made an effort to turn his head towards the executioner, and the under jaw fell and returned very quick, like anger and gnashing the teeth; but it could not be otherwise, the part being convulsed. A second blow immediately succeeding, the first rendered him, however, quite insensible, and a third finished the work. His head was received in a piece of red baize, and with his body put into the coffin, which, at his particular request, was placed on that of the late Marquis of Tullibardine in St Peter’s Chapel Church in the Tower, all three Lords lying in one grave.”

At the close of that year the brother of the ill-fated Earl of Derwentwater, Charles Radclyffe, was also executed on the same spot. He came very gallantly to the scaffold dressed “in scarlet trimm’d with gold, a gold laced waistcoat, and white feathers in his hat.” He was actually Earl of Derwentwater, his coffin in St Giles’s in the Fields bearing the inscription, “Carolus Radclyffe, Comes de Derwentwater, decollatur, 8 Dec. 1746, Ætis 53. Requiescat in Pace.” But although the Derwentwater estates had only been confiscated to the Crown for his life a clause in a later Act of Parliament directed that “the issue of any person attainted of High Treason, born and bred in any foreign dominion, and a Roman Catholic, shall forfeit his reversion of such estate, and the remainder shall for ever be fixed in the Crown, his son is absolutely deprived of any title or interest in the fortune of that ancient family to the amount of better than £200,000.” Charles Radclyffe, was the younger brother of James, Earl of Derwentwater, and with him had been taken prisoner at Preston, and condemned to death after trial and conviction. But he had been respited, and it was thought would ultimately have been pardoned, had he not escaped from his prison in Newgate. He went to France, and following the Pretender to Rome, was given a small pension by that prince, and this was literally all that he had to live upon. Later, he returned to Paris, and there he married the widow of Lord Newburgh, by whom he had a son. He came to England in 1733, but went back again to France and accepted a commission from Louis XIV., “to act as officer in the late rebellion.” But before he could reach Scotland on board the Esperance, he, his men, and several other Scotch and Irish officers were captured by an English vessel, and Charles Radclyffe ended his unfortunate career as intrepidly as he had lived it, on Tower Hill.

By this time the axe had almost done its work in England, and Tower Hill was to see only one more head laid upon the block—that of Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, who was the last of the Jacobite lords to be executed. Lord Lovat’s long life had begun in 1667, and it had been as wild and vicious as it had been lengthy. Like the Regent Orléans, he might very justly have been called a “fanfaron de vice.” In his youth he had lived in Paris, where he had become a Roman Catholic, if such a man as Lovat could be said to have any religion. He enjoyed what was probably a unique experience in that he was imprisoned both in the Bastille and in the Tower, for although there is no authority for saying that he was the only man who underwent imprisonment in the great State prisons of England and of France, on the other hand, there is also no authority for saying that he was not. He had been in the Bastille in 1702, on the charge of having betrayed a Jacobite plot to the English Government. Although not actually in arms during the “’45” rebellion, Lovat had kept up a correspondence with the Young Pretender; and this correspondence cost him his life. When captured at the Isle of Moran, after the Battle of Culloden, he was so infirm that he had to be carried to Edinburgh in a litter, and thence in the same way to Berwick, and so to London.

It was at the White Hart at St Albans that Hogarth met him, and there it was that great artist painted the admirable little full-length portrait of the old Jacobite, which is now in the National Portrait Gallery. Hogarth used to say that he painted Lovat as he sat counting up the numbers of the rebel forces on his fingers. The engraving of this portrait, taken by the artist himself, had an immense success at the time, the printing press being kept employed day and night, and for a considerable time Hogarth made twelve pounds a day by its sale.

Lovat arrived at the Tower on the 15th of August 1746, and according to the account given in the Gentleman’s Magazine for that month, came “in an open Landau driven by six horses, guarded by a party of Liguier’s Horse, and accompany’d in the Landau by an officer—as he passed through the streets he seemed very unconcerned, but coming on the hill, he turn’d his eyes towards the scaffold erecting for beholding the execution of the lords, and lifting up his hands, said, ‘A few days, and it will be my awful fate!’”

The whole aspect of Tower Hill, with the exception of the appearance of the old fortress and its outer walls, has been entirely changed since Lovat saw it with the huge scaffoldings being erected for the spectators of his companions’ executions—and for his own a few months later. The house into which they were led to await their death no longer exists. It occupied the north-east corner of Catherine’s Court, and was formerly the Transport Office. From a raised platform, which was flush with the scaffold, the Jacobite lords walked from the house, which stood immediately opposite to the spot where so many remarkable men have perished by the axe of the headsman. During the last few years the actual site of the scaffold has been marked by a tablet in the garden that now surrounds the place of execution, where the axe had done its work from the time of Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick, the son of the Duke of Clarence, to that of Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat. With the latter ended the long list of State executions on Tower Hill, which, during five centuries, had stained its soil with some of the noblest blood in the country.

On the 18th of December, Lovat was taken from the Tower to the House of Lords, where the articles of his impeachment were read to him. The best account of the trial is undoubtedly that contained in one of the many letters written by Horace Walpole to Sir Horace Mann. Writing on the 20th of March 1747, Walpole says: “I have been living at old Lovat’s trial, and was willing to have it over before I talked to you about it. It lasted seven days; the evidence was as strong as possible; and after all he had denounced he made no defence. The Solicitor-General (Sir William Murray), who was one of the managers of the House of Commons, shone extremely. The Attorney-General (Sir Dudley Ryder), who is a much greater lawyer, is cold and tedious. The old creature’s behaviour has been foolish, and at last indecent.

“When he came to the Tower, he told them that if he were not so old and infirm, they would find it difficult to keep him there. They told him they had kept much younger. ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘but they were inexperienced; they had not broke so many gaols as I have.’ At his own home he used to say, that for thirty years of his life he never saw a gallows but it made his neck ache. His last act was to shift his treason upon his eldest son, whom he forced into the rebellion. He told Williamson, the Lieutenant of the Tower, ‘We will hang my eldest son, and then my second shall marry your niece.’ He has a sort of ready humour at repartee, not very well adapted to his situation. One day that Williamson complained that he could not sleep, he was so haunted with rats, he replied: ‘What do you say, that you are so haunted with Ratcliffes?’ The first day, as he was brought to his trial, a woman looked into the coach, and said: ‘You ugly old dog, don’t you think you will have that frightful head cut off?’ He replied: ‘You ugly old ——, I believe I shall!’ At his trial he affected great weakness and infirmities, but often broke out into passions; particularly at the first witness, who was his vassal. He asked him how he dared to come thither; the man replied, to satisfy his conscience. The two last days he behaved ridiculously, joking, and making everybody laugh, even at the sentence. He said to Lord Ilchester, who sat near the bar: ‘Je meurs pour ma patrie, et ne m’en soucie guère.’ When he withdrew, he said: ‘Adieu, my Lords, we shall never meet again in the same place!’ He says he will be hanged, for his neck is so short and bearded that he should be struck in the shambles. I did not think it possible to feel so little as I did at so melancholy a spectacle, but tyranny and villany, wound up by buffoonery, took off all edge of concern.”

Thursday, April 9th, was the day fixed for Lovat’s execution, and shortly before he arrived on Tower Hill one of the scaffoldings built for the spectators of his execution, and which held nearly a thousand people, suddenly collapsed, eight or ten persons being killed outright, whilst many others had broken legs and arms. Whatever may be thought of the action of the Hanoverian Court in beheading the rebellious Jacobite lords, there is no doubt that a richly-deserved punishment was meted out to Lovat. Forty years before, at the last session of the Scottish Parliament, previous to the union of the two countries, Lord Belhaven had declared in a memorable speech, that Captain Fraser, as Lord Lovat then was, “deserved, if practicable, to have been hanged five several times, in five different places, and upon five different accounts at least, as having been a traitor to the Court of St James’s, a traitor to the Court of St Germains, a traitor to the Court of Versailles, and a traitor to his own country of Scotland; that he deserved to be hanged as a condemned criminal, outlaw, and fugitive, for his treatment of the widow of the late Lord Lovat’s sister. Nay, so hardened was Captain Fraser, that he erected a gallows, and threatened to hang thereon the lady’s brother, and some other gentlemen of quality who accompanied him, in going to rescue her out of that criminal’s cruel hands.” This was in 1706, and to judge by all accounts of Lovat’s career in the next forty years, he deserved to be hanged yet five times more, “if practicable.”

Lovat waked about three o’clock on the morning of his execution, and was heard to “pray with genuine emotion.” He was very cheerful, and having ordered his wig to be sent to the barber, “that he might have time to comb it out genteely, he sat down to a breakfast of minced veal,” ordering coffee and chocolate for his friends, whose health he drank in wine and water. When the Sheriff of London came to demand his body, he responded to the call with alacrity, saying, “I am ready”; and on his way downstairs accepted General Williamson’s invitation to rest in the Lieutenant’s room, and asked him in French if he could “take leave of his lady, and thank her for her civilities. But the General told his lordship in the same language that she was too much affected with his lordship’s misfortunes to bear the shock of seeing him, and therefore hoped his lordship would excuse her.” From the Lieutenant’s house, Lord Lovat was conveyed in the Governor’s coach to the Outer Gate, where he was delivered over to the Sheriffs, who took him in another coach to the house which had already served as the last resting-place of Lords Balmerino and Kilmarnock on the way to the scaffold. Here a room had been got ready for him, hung with black cloth and with sconces. At first his friends were denied admittance, but upon Lord Lovat applying to the Sheriffs, leave was granted. During the time of waiting Lovat thanked the Sheriffs for “their favours,” and desired that his clothes might be given up to his friends with his body, also asking that his head might be received in a white cloth, and put into the coffin. This was promised, as well as that the holding up of the head at the corner of the scaffold should be dispensed with. Lord Lovat was assisted up the steps of the scaffold by two warders, and looking round on the great multitude of people, exclaimed, “God save us! why should there be such a bustle about taking off an old grey head, that cannot go up three steps without three bodies to support it.” Then seeing that one of his friends looked very unhappy, he slapped him on the shoulder, saying: “Cheer up thy heart, man, I am not afraid, why should you?” Like old Lord Balmerino, he felt the edge of the axe, and examined his coffin, upon which was inscribed: “Simon Fraser Dominus de Lovat, Decollat April 9, 1747. Ætat Suae 80.” After repeating some lines from Horace and Ovid, according to the Gentleman’s Magazine, “he called his solicitor and agent in Scotland, Mr Wm. Fraser, and presented him with his gold-headed cane, and said: ‘I deliver you this cane in token of my sense of your faithful services, and of my committing to you all the power I leave upon earth,’ and then embraced him. He also called for Mr James Fraser, and said, ‘My dear James, I am going to Heaven, but you must continue to crawl a little longer in this evil world.’ And taking leave of both, he deliver’d his hat, wig, and clothes to Mr William Fraser, and desired him to see that the executioner did not touch them; he ordered his cap to be put on, and unloosing his neckcloth and the collar of his shirt, he kneeled down at the block, and pulled the cloth which was to receive his head close to him. But being placed too near the block, the executioner desired him to remove a little farther back, which, with the warders’ assistance, was immediately done; and his neck being properly placed, he told the executioner he would say a short prayer, and then give the signal by dropping his handkerchief. In this position he remained about half a minute, and then, throwing his handkerchief upon the floor, the executioner at one blow severed his head from his body, which was received in the cloth, and together with his body put into the coffin, and carried in the hearse back to the Tower, where it remained until four o’clock, and was then taken away by an undertaker, in order to be sent to Scotland, and deposited in his own tomb in the church of Kirkhill; but leave not being given, as was expected, it was again brought back to the Tower, and interred near the bodies of the other lords. Lord Lovat, in a codicil to his will, had ordered that all the pipers from John o’ Groats to Edinburgh were to play before his corpse, for which they were to have a handsome allowance, and though he did not expect this wish to be complied with, yet he said that he hoped that the good old women of his country would sing a ‘coronach’ before him.” The legend that Lovat’s ghost, in a monk’s dress, appeared during a tempest with its head under its arm, probably had its origin in this desire of his to have a great Scottish wake at his funeral, and also to his once having worn the dress of a Jesuit priest in one of his adventures at St Omer; of this there is a curious contemporary print.

Lord Cromarty was pardoned, owing to the exertions of his wife, who petitioned every member of the Privy Council, and had fallen in a swoon at the feet of George II. at Kensington, in the very act of presenting him with a petition for mercy. Her prayer was more graciously received by that sovereign than Lady Nithsdale’s petition had been by his father. It is said that a son born to Lady Cromarty about this time had the mark of an axe upon its neck.

The block, now in the Armoury of the Tower, is undoubtedly the one upon which Lovat was beheaded, and is declared to have originally been made for his execution. The axe which stands beside it was used to behead him, as well as the other Jacobite lords who suffered death in 1746, but whether it was used previous to these executions cannot be ascertained with any certainty.

Although Lord Lovat was the last person beheaded in England, a peer was hanged at Tyburn after being imprisoned in the Tower in the last year of the reign of George II. This was Lawrence Shirley, Earl Ferrers, who had murdered his steward, Johnson, in cold blood. Probably if this crime had been committed in these days Lord Ferrers would have benefited by a more merciful dispensation. That he had been insane on several occasions is certain, and he had been wilder and more reckless in his manner of life than could be accounted for by anything short of madness, his fits of wild rage clearly pointing to a disordered brain. He had married a harmless and amiable woman, the daughter of Sir V. Meredith, and she, unable to live with such a brutal husband as Ferrers proved himself to be, had obtained a judicial separation. Ferrers was wildly extravagant, and it was owing to his debts that the unfortunate lawyer, Johnson, who had been appointed by a special Act of Parliament to manage the Shirley estates, was made the steward of the property. Ferrers had repeatedly sworn that he would rid himself of this agent and steward, and having enticed him to his house, deliberately shot the poor man as he knelt begging for his life. Ferrers was arrested, and brought to the Tower under a guard of constables. A stranger procession than that of Lord Ferrers to his prison can scarcely be imagined. He was in his own carriage, a landau drawn by six horses, and was dressed in “a riding frock, wearing boots, and a jockey cap.” In this costume he appeared before the House of Lords in February 1760. He was imprisoned in the Middle Tower, two warders being in an adjoining room, whilst two sentries kept guard at the foot of the Tower stairs. There he remained for the two months which elapsed before his trial. On the 5th of May he was hanged at Tyburn, with all the pomp and circumstance that in those days clung to the death of a criminal if he were a nobleman. Being an Earl, Lord Ferrers was allowed to be strangled out of existence by a silken instead of a hempen rope, and although the sentence of his execution included the order that his body was to be dissected, the order was dispensed with.

Lord Ferrers was taken from the Tower in his own carriage, drawn by six horses, to the gallows. He wore a superb dress, a pale-coloured silk coat edged with silver lace, and was accompanied by grenadiers, and horse and foot guards, his carriage being followed by some of the coaches of members of his family, and his hearse, which was also drawn by six horses. The streets were so crowded to see this unusual sight, that it took the procession three hours to reach Tyburn from the Tower. Lord Ferrers went out of the world in a far more becoming manner than he had lived in it. He regretted, he said, not to have been allowed to be executed on Tower Hill, where his ancestor, the Earl of Essex, had been beheaded. If he actually made this remark, he could not have been aware that his ancestor had not been beheaded on Tower Hill, but within the Tower walls, on the Green. To judge by his portrait, painted by the French portrait painter, Andran, Lord Ferrers had a bullet-shaped head, and must have closely resembled the ordinary type of jockey when he appeared in his riding-boots and jockey cap before his peers at his trial.