s swung from the cart in 1692 for murder
and robbery. He arrived at Tyburn insolently drunk. He blustered and
ranted, until the spectators hissed their disapproval, and he died
vehemently shouting that he would act the same murder again in the same
case. Unworthy, also, was the last dying repartee of Samuel Shotland,
a notorious bully of the Eighteenth Century. Taking off his shoes, he
hurled them into the crowd, with a smirk of delight. 'My father and
mother often told me,' he cried, 'that I should die with my shoes on;
but you may all see that I have made them both liars.' A great man dies
not with so mean a jest, and Tyburn was untouched to mirth by Shotland's
facile humour.

On the other hand, there are those who have given a splendid example of
a brave and dignified death. Brodie was a sorry bungler when at work,
but a perfect artist at the gallows. The glory of his last achievement
will never fade. The muttered prayer, unblemished by hypocrisy, the jest
thrown at George Smith--a metaphor from the gaming-table--the silent
adjustment of the cord which was to strangle him, these last offices
were performed with an unparalleled quietude and restraint. Though he
had pattered the flash to all his wretched accomplices, there was no
trace of the last dying speech in his final utterances, and he set an
example of a simple greatness, worthy to be followed even to the end
of time. Such is the type, but others also have given proof of a serene
temper. Tom Austin's masterpiece was in another kind, but it was none
the less a masterpiece. At the very moment that the halter was being put
about his neck, he was asked by the Chaplain what he had to say before
he died. 'Only,' says he, 'there's a woman yonder with some curds and
whey, and I wish I could have a pennyworth of them before I am hanged,
because I don't know when I shall see any again.' There is a brave
irrelevance in this very human desire, which is beyond praise.

Valiant also was the conduct of Roderick Audrey, who after a brief but
brilliant career paid his last debt to the law in 1714.

He was but sixteen, and, says his biographer, 'he went very decent to
the gallows, being in a white waistcoat, clean napkin, white gloves, and
an orange in one hand.' So well did he play his part, that one wonders
Jack Ketch did not shrink from the performance of his. But throughout
his short life, Roderick Audrey--the very name is an echo of
romance!--displayed a contempt for whate