by Coventry Patmore.
Originally published in Douglas Jerrold's Shilling Magazine (Punch) vol.2 #8 (Aug 1845).
No. 1.—The Murderer's Sacrament.
A Fact.
I.
To nations, as to men, are guides
From Heaven offered. Outward things
For those hold what, for these, abides
In private mental whisperings.
Fate guides not realms;—with guiding facts
Themselves unto themselves are fate.
Hear, England! God, whose words are acts,
Hath spoken much with thee of late!
One message, like most others, sent
In these last days, died all unheeded:
None knew or cared for what it meant;
Yet was its warning not unneeded!
It told as whence to dread the storm
Which now begins to gleam and mutter;
And pointed paths to true reform,
In fact's strong phrase, which I re-utter:
II.
All night fell hammers—shock on shock;
With echos Newgate's granite clanged:
The scaffold built, at eight o'clock
A man was brought out to be hanged.
Then came from all the people there
A single cry that shook the air,
A single cry, that turned to storm
Of yells and noises multiform,
Where each, with mad gesticulations,
Rivalled the rest in execrations;
Mothers held up their babes to see,
Who spread their hands and screamed for glee;
Here a girl from her clothing tore
A rag to wave with, and joined the roar
In shrieks, and singing, and savage jests,
Tossing about her naked breasts;
There a man, with yelling tired,
Paused, and the culprit's crime inquired;
A sot, below the doomed man dumb,
Bawled bis health in the world to come;
These blasphemed, and fought for places;
Those, half-crushed, cast frantic faces
To windows, where, in freedom sweet,
Others enjoyed the wicked treat.
At last the show's great crisis pended;
Struggles for better standings ended;
The rabble's lips no longer curst,
But stood agape in horrid thirst;
Thousands of breasts beat horrid hope;
Thousands of eye-balls, lit with hell,
Burnt one way all, to see the rope
Unslacken as the platform fell.
The rope flew tight! and then the roar
Burst forth afresh; less loud, but more
Confus'd and affrighting than before.
A few harsh tongues for ever led
The common din—the chaos of noises,
But ear could not catch what they said.
—As, when the realm of the damn'd rejoices
On winning a soul to its will,
That clatter and clangor of hateful voices
Sickened and stunned the air, until
The dangling man was dead and still.
The show complete, the pleasure past,
The solid masses loosened fast;
Each went his way, or lagg'd behind,
As fitted best his need or mind:—
A thief slunk off, with ample spoil,
To ply elsewhere his daily toil;
Two foes, who had disputed places,
Went forth to fight, with murderous faces;
A baby strung its doll to a stick;
A mother praised the pretty trick;
Some children caught and hanged a cat;
Some friends walked on in pleasant chat;
Some, heavy-paced and heavy-hearted,
Whose dinners were to earn, departed,
Much envying those who'd means to stay
At gin-shops by, and "make it a day;"
Others cursed loud their fortune ill,
Whose callings forced them from their fill
Of that day's feast—"Twere worth a crown
To stop, and see them cut him down!"
III.
What wrought this riddle in a land
With hosts paid, well and willingly,
For preaching love, and manners bland,
And perfect Christianity?
What left that lack of light, which, when
One sinner stood a mark to others,
Made him so boldly judged by men,
Whose presence there proclaim'd them brothers?
For callous and malicious hearts
Are murderers in the sight of heaven,
Though place and time that fit the parts
They wait to play be never given.
What sent those men and women there
To see that soul-astounding sight?
What made those eager faces wear
A frightful joy, instead of fright?
Joy, net that joy in what is just,
Which dwells in breasts without a stain;
But that abominable lost,
Which battens on another's pain.
Why come so oft such jubilees?
"Ah!" sighs the lazy statesman, "Why?"
To these, and questions such as these,
Did God that very day reply:
III.
"There to be hang'd till you are dead!"
The man had heard it, had been led
Again to prison, and had heard
The preacher preach God's holy word—
Too late; for, by his fear abused,
The phrase of all seem'd all confused;
And this seem'd all that all men said—
"There to be hang'd till you are dead!"
They bade him kneel before the board
Which bare the Supper of our Lord;
The preacher took the bread and wine,
And preach'd of that repast Divine,
The efficient Body and Blood:
—The "body and blood!" A sudden flood
Of scarlet light lit up his cheek,
And though, just then, no tongue did speak,
A clear, loud voice close by him said—
"There to be hang'd till you are dead!"
Kneeling passively, by the board
Which bare the Supper of our Lord,—
Our Lord, of whom he had never heard,
Until the judge's final word
Had shut the gateways of his soul,—
He ate the bread, received the cup,
And, for the first time, looking up,
A glance st each and all he stole,
And cried, from custom's old control,
"Here's to your healths, good gentlemen!"[1]
Nodding around.—All started then;
For the iron tongue of the death-bell swung,
Mix'd with the doom'd man's words, and said—
"There to be hang'd till you are dead!"
But soothed at heart, by sight of one
Who heeded sorrow more than wrong,
And sought him whom the rest did shun,
And gave him wine to make him strong,
He rose, and, turning, all the while,
An ignorant, appealing smile
Towards that kindly-spoken preacher,
Who came too late to be his teacher,
Aware of the place to which he led,
He follow'd him, with willing tread,
There to be hang'd till he was dead!
1. This is the "Fact" referred to in the title; and, as it did go the round of the papers at the time, it seemed necessary to state that it occurred last year, prior to the execution of a man named Ward, for child-murder.