THOMAS BEDWORTH was born in the year 1764, in the parish of
Bloxidge, Staffordshire. His parents were of honest
reputation and industrious habits, and could well afford to
instil into his mind the principles of a good education; but to
this he was obstinately averse, and they not being firm in their
purpose, he successfully opposed every attempt that was made to
furnish him with that knowledge of good and evil, without which
he fell a sacrifice to the consequences of sensual indulgence,
and expiated a crime, conceived in jealousy and stimulated by
intoxication, on the scaffold of Newgate.
Arriving at the age of fourteen years, he was placed as
an apprentice in the town of Walsall, in Staffordshire,
near Birmingham, to learn, with a respectable tradesman there,
the art of bridle, bit, and stirrup making. In the year
1782, his father having died, and the term of his apprenticeship
being expired, he went to Birmingham, where he was
employed a considerable time. Being of an unsettled
disposition, however, he left that place, and went to
London, where he soon afterwards obtained employment in
the manufactory of Mr. Rowley, of Prince’s Street,
Drury Lane, where he remained until the year 1795.
At this period, and during his residence in London, Thomas
Bedworth was united in marriage, to Mary, the daughter of
Mr. Bainer, a respectable tradesman in St. Anne’s,
Soho, but, again becoming restless in his mind, he left London,
and having gone a distance into the country, he, in an unguarded
moment, enlisted into the Fifeshire Fencibles, then
commanded by Colonel James Durham. With this
regiment, he visited most parts of Ireland and Scotland, as well
as this country, but finally left the regiment in 1803. In
the course of this period his wife continued with him, and they
had three children.
After Bedworth’s discharge from the army, he left his
wife with his friends, at Walsall, and went to Birmingham,
whither, however, she followed him. In a short time,
Bedworth went to London, in search of work, and entreated his
wife to remain in the country, and there await his success.
She consented, and he had not arrived many days in town, when he
obtained employment from Mr. Birch, of Rupert Street,
Haymarket. Here, however, he had not long been engaged,
when, unfortunately for Bedworth, his employer failed, and he
immediately formed the resolution of going to sea.
In the year 1804 he entered the Navy, and in the course of his
service suffered many hardships, and was in several severe and
celebrated engagements with the enemy. But, however the
last sanguinary act of his checquered life may have stained his
character, he had at least the reputation of being a good seaman,
and it was also his pride, at the moment of his narrating these
facts, that he had faithfully performed his duty to his
country. He continued in the service until the year 1813,
and at that period received his discharge, and was made an
out-pensioner of Greenwich Hospital.
It was now his melancholy fate to learn, that, instead of
joining his long-absent partner, and spending the remnant of his
days in domestic peace, a widely different lot awaited him.
His wife, the partner of his bed and the parent of his
children, had, during his absence, formed an illicit acquaintance
with another man, to whom she was actually married, and
had three children during her unlawful union.
Bedworth’s horrid reflections, in consequence of
this discovery of his wife’s unfaithfulness, distracted his
mind; and the very means he adopted as a consolation, became a
train of circumstances tending to the commission of the crime,
which, with bitter tears, he repented, and atoned for by an
ignominious death.
In time, his mind became more calm, and he seriously bethought
himself of settling into regular habits, which a seafaring life
had deranged, and subsisting upon his pension, and by his
industry. He once more, therefore, obtained employment in
his own trade, but, to his irretrievable mishap, became
acquainted with Elizabeth Beesmore. This unfortunate
woman, who was also married, was the sister of his own
wife. Her husband, John Beesmore, had grossly
neglected her, as well as a child, which remained in her
care: he had not only denied her and her infant the necessaries
of life, but had also declared his determination of never more
residing with her, or even in the neighbourhood where she might
be. Her case naturally excited the unhappy Bedworth’s
commiseration, and he took advantage to complain of the conjugal
infidelity and baseness which his own wife, her
sister, had manifested towards himself. The
similarity of their situations induced a sympathy in
Bedworth’s mind; common acquaintance ripened into a kinder
intimacy, and he ultimately became attached to her.
Bedworth then proposed that she should place herself and her
child under his protection, and that they should consider each
other as a wedded couple. With this offer she complied,
and, while she solemnly swore to unite her fate with his, and
never to hold communication with her husband, but to be faithful
to Bedworth, as his wife, he as sacredly pledged himself to be a
husband to her.
Thomas Bedworth and Elizabeth Beesmore, thus connected,
lived together until the month of April, in the present year,
1815, being a space of about two years and two months. At
this period, John Beesmore, the woman’s husband, who
had hitherto been employed in the town of Wedgbury, in
Staffordshire, came to London. He discovered the retreat of
his discarded wife, and contrived to communicate to her and
Bedworth, a repetition of his formerly-expressed
determination not to cohabit with his wife, and also an assurance
that he would not disturb the connection which she had formed
with Bedworth. She also, at this critical
period, took occasion to renew her vows of attachment and
fidelity to Bedworth, whom she justly represented as
having saved herself and child from starvation.
In a short time, however, the affairs of John Beesmore,
the husband, became unfavourable; he was out of
employment, and he applied to his wife to afford him pecuniary
assistance from the earnings of Bedworth. This, after some
hesitation on her part, she complied with, and Bedworth
made the discovery, that his little property was daily wasting
upon a man, whose neglected wife and child he had supported, whom
she herself had most solemnly renounced, and in whose fortunes or
misfortunes, she had sworn never to interest herself.
Here commenced a dreadful spirit of jealous bickering and hate
between the unhappy Bedworth and Elizabeth
Beesmore. Unable to endure the insults offered to his
feelings, by the renewed acquaintance of Beesmore and his
wife, Bedworth determined no longer to be the means of her
husband’s support. He abandoned the society of the
deceased, and took a private lodging. His heart was
agonized, his mind distracted, and Elizabeth Beesmore
discovered him in his retreat, in this state, and visited
him. She herself was in a very distressed
condition—she renewed her sentiments of affection towards
him, and trusted he would yield her some assistance. A
multitude of conflicting thoughts now agitated his mind at this
meeting. It is difficult to say whether pity, jealousy, or
indignation, was most predominant. At length he took
compassion on her. She had some refreshment with him, he
gave her some money, and she departed.—Her renewed
protestations of regard towards him, he considered as the mere
affectation of attachment: his mind became hourly more unhappy,
and he at length flew for relief to that source of treacherous
consolation, the gin-shop. For many days he remained
in an unsettled state of mind, neglecting his work, and
occasionally visiting Elizabeth Beesmore, in a state of
intoxication.
On the 19th of June, he called on Elizabeth
Beesmore, at an early hour in the morning, but not much in
liquor.—On this occasion she received him not only with
coolness, but contempt. She informed him, tauntingly, that
she was about to live again with her lawful husband, and
desired that he would not again come to disturb her, or the house
in which she was. He answered her coolly, that it was not
his intention to disturb her, he only wished to disturb
himself, and would immediately leave her, and proceed to
the only enjoyment he had left, namely liquor. He
then took his leave, and, having drank to excess, retired to his
lodgings, and went to bed.
On
awaking the next morning, the 20th of June, his mind was on the
rack: besides, the powerful effects of the former day’s
intoxication, jealousy, and indignation deprived him of
reason. In this state of distraction, he walked up and down
his room, and at length formed the horrible resolution of
murdering Elizabeth Beesmore, the cause of his
distress.—With this intention, having furnished himself
with a shoemaker’s knife, which he found in the house where
he resided, he put it in his pocket, and proceeded to her
lodgings, in Short’s Gardens, Drury Lane. On
his way thither, he met with a woman who worked at her needle
with the deceased, and they went to a public-house, and drank gin
together.—After parting with her, he went elsewhere and
drank a quantity of beer, so that, by the time he reached
Elizabeth Beesmore’s apartments, he was in a state
of inebriety.—She, upon his arrival, perceiving his
situation, prevailed upon him to go to bed, and, during the time
he lay there, she sent for gin several times, of which he
drank freely. In the course of the morning, her son came
into the room and struck and insulted him several times, while on
the bed, which aggravating Bedworth exceedingly, she
ordered her son to quit the room. Soon after he had gone,
Bedworth rose with an intention of leaving the house, but
found that his coat and shoes had been taken away while he was
asleep. These he asked for, but she refused to let him have
them, and he left the house without them, and went to an
adjoining public house and had more gin.—He soon returned
to her apartments, and she prevailed upon him to drink some tea,
into which also she infused some gin.
At this period, Bedworth’s mind was dreadfully
unsettled, and he once more laid down upon the bed, but the
irritation of his feelings would not let him rest. In a
short time he again rose and peremptorily demanded his shoes and
coat. These Elizabeth Beesmore gave him, and
strongly advised him to go home without delay, and go to bed, in
order to attend work the following morning. He left the
room, and she followed him down stairs, where they had some
conversation. She returned up stairs, for the purpose of
bringing him an apron and a handkerchief, and, upon her again
descending the stairs, he told her he wished to speak with her in
the kitchen.—She replied, she must first put on his
handkerchief, which, having done, they retired to the
kitchen. Each remained for a moment in mute
anxiety.—The unhappy woman, however, broke the pause, by
clasping her right arm round his neck and embracing him, at the
same time saying, with much agitation, “O my dear
Bedworth!” These were her last words,
uttered in the last minute of her life. She kissed him
during his conflict between jealous passion and strong affection:
his injured regard and her perfidy rushed upon his
mind; her deceptive embrace maddened him: whilst her kiss was
warm upon his cheek, he suddenly drew the knife from his right
hand pocket, and, as he supported her head with his left arm, he,
by one rapid and determined cut, across her throat,
nearly severed her head from her body!—She fell
lifeless, to the ground, without a groan!
Scarcely had he raised his hand from the bloody deed, when
remorse seized him. He instantly meditated
self-destruction, but as instantly, imagining a possibility of
escape, he abandoned that intention.—“Thanks be to
God,” said the unhappy criminal, as he related the
intention that he had momentarily indulged, “I was not
permitted to do this, and thereby deprive just vengeance of its
retribution.”—He put the bloody knife in his pocket,
whilst he looked at the blood rushing from her throat, and
quitted the house.
Bedworth’s first steps of flight were
directed into Spa-fields, where he remained until dark, and then
returned into town.—Passing over London
Bridge, he, for the first time, bethought himself, that some
of the blood of his victim might be upon his clothes. He
therefore examined his dress, but found that all parts had
escaped, except his apron, which he pulled off, and tossed
through the ballustrades of the bridge, into the Thames. He
then wandered through the Borough, over Blackfriars
Bridge, and afterwards over Westminster Bridge, and
thus roving about, he, by day-light, the following morning,
reached the Regent’s Park, where he threw the knife
into the Canal. From the Regent’s Park he pursued his
way to Hampstead, where he passed the whole of that day
about the fields, and where he also determined to pass the
night.—About eleven o’clock, while in a hay-field,
where he had betaken himself to rest, he was suddenly disturbed
by the deep groaning of one, as in great agony, whose voice was
exceedingly like that of the deceased, and he passed the
remainder of the night in much disquietude and alarm.
Early on the following morning, he pursued his route toward
St. Albans, and thus spent the remainder of the day.
At night he once more fled, for a hiding and resting place, to
the fields, where having laid down, he was disturbed by a
dreadful noise, similar to that which he had heard the night
before. This was now accompanied by the voice of the
murdered woman, who emphatically said, “Oh
Bedworth! Bedworth! what have you
done?” The address was followed by other
expressions, complaining bitterly of having been hurried into
another world, and particularly these words: “You have
deprived me of all the happiness of this life.”
He was so far persuaded of the reality of this visitation,
that, “in the name of God,” he entreated the horrible
phantom “to go to rest and leave
him!”—Unable to sleep, he arose at an early hour,
still wandering, and returned towards London.
It was the time of the general illuminations for the late
battles, and Bedworth, entering the city about nine
o’clock in the evening, traversed the streets, to divert
his distracted imagination, by gazing at the lights. Thus
wandering about, he retired to Smithfield, in order to pass the
night in one of the sheep-pens. Here, however, he had
scarcely laid himself down, when the murdered woman appeared
to him with a dreadful noise, and bitter exclamations!
His entreaties and prayers were, on this occasion also, most
earnest, that she would “commit herself to rest,
and cease to torment him!”
Unable to rest, he arose from the earth, left the sheep-pen,
and walked towards Islington, in which place, and at
Highgate, he spent his time until the following evening,
and once more returned to London, again viewed the
illuminations in the city, and again wandered about, until
half-past twelve o’clock, when he directed his course once
more towards Islington and Highgate. No new
scene, however, or course which he pursued, could lighten the
load of his crime, or chase away the guilty horrors which pursued
him. On this night, while walking up Highgate Hill,
the murdered woman again stood before him!
Imagination may paint, if it can, the horrible feelings of
Bedworth at this moment. She walked with him,
side by side, until they reached the other side of the
hill, and then taking the hand of the miserable man,
placed it upon her severed throat, and groaned and mourned
deeply!—Driven to despair, he fled into a field,
where he threw himself down upon his face on some hay, hoping to
elude at least the sight of his ghostly pursuer. Such,
however, was the consequence of guilt, that he felt her lying
by his side and crouching against him!
After spending the whole of the last-mentioned day and the
next night in indescribable horror, without being able to
leave this situation, he again came into London, on the
following morning; and—it would be incredible, if it were
not true—he actually applied at the Justice
Room, Guildhall, for a “walking
pass” to Wolverhampton! Such was the fact, and
being told, upon application, that he must come the next day, he
retired for that night into the fields near Islington,
where his rest was rather less disturbed than before. The
next morning he again applied at Guildhall for a
pass, but, after a strict examination, as to who he was,
and where he last slept, he was ordered to go before the
Magistrates at the Public Office, Queen
Square. This he instantly did, and having there
undergone the usual enquiries, he actually succeeded in obtaining
a pass! At the moment the whole town was in alarm at
the atrocity of the murder, when Police Officers
were in pursuit of him, and placards were posted in every
direction, describing his person and dress minutely, and offering
a reward for his apprehension; at this moment he applied to the
Police Office for his pass, and obtained it from the
Magistrates themselves, without being suspected!
Possessed of his pass, Bedworth set out for his native
country. He slept the first night in Kentish Town,
and the next morning pursued his journey towards Coventry,
receiving at each town, through which he went, the relief to
which his pass entitled him. He arrived in Coventry,
on Monday, the 3d of July, and slept there the same night.
The following morning he pursued his route to Meridan,
about twelve miles from Coventry and six from Birmingham.
From thence he went back to Coventry, where he
again slept, and, on the 5th arrived at
Horseley.
During
these travels and retravels, conscience was still crying
vengeance, and though he, for a while, flattered himself, that he
could familiarise himself with the horrors of his mind, if not
eventually stifle them, he still anticipated the dreadful
expiation of his life, for the murder he had
committed. Terror, shame, and remorse were the conflicting
passions which accompanied him in his escape; but the violence of
these having in a great measure subsided, reflection assumed a
more rational seat in his breast, and now it was that he began to
look with a steadier eye upon the deed he had perpetrated.
From Horseley, Bedworth once more returned, on
the 5th July, to Coventry, but his compunctions, while on
his way to the latter place, had become so alarming and
irresistible, that he finally resolved to surrender himself to
justice.
For this purpose, on the morning of the 6th, he went before
the Mayor of Coventry, and made a full confession of his
guilt. The candour and ingenuousness with which he related
his horrible tale, occasioned doubts of its truth in the mind of
the Magistrate, who, with much humanity, supposed it might be the
imagined story of a perverted intellect. He was, however,
put into confinement, and, proper enquiries being made, was
forwarded, in custody, to London, and arrived at the Bow Street
Police Office, on the 11th of July. Here he confessed,
fully, before Mr. Nares, the
Magistrate, the murder of which he had been accused, and, in the
presence of others, signed his confession.
In concluding his narrative, which has been related with the
strictest accuracy, from his own lips, the unfortunate culprit
added, “I have now been most justly condemned, for this
foul and barbarous murder, and after surrendering my forfeited
life to public justice, I have only to look to that awful moment,
when I shall meet my Heavenly Judge, whose merciful pardon I hope
for and implore, through the merits of Jesus Christ, the
Redeemer.—Amen!”
The Trial of Thomas Bedworth
took place on Friday morning, the 15th of
September.—Mr. Justice Heath,
Sir S. Le Blanc, Mr. Justice Bailey, and the Common Serjeant were on the Bench.
The facts which were adduced in evidence were not so strong,
although they in some measure confirmed the truth of the
foregoing confession. The best evidence that could be given
by the few witnesses who were examined, went to a presumption
that Bedworth effected the bloody deed with a razor, and
it was so stated in the indictment.—This, however, did not
prove to be true; but Mr. Justice
Heath, in summing up, observed, that this was immaterial,
in point of law;—the charge implied being, that the
prisoner had done the act with a cutting or sharp
instrument.
Throughout the trial Bedworth manifested a good deal of
agitation; but this the Editor ascertains to have arisen in
consequence of the evidence of two women, who made, as he
supposed, some misstatements, as to time, on the day
whereon the murder had been committed. Indeed, such was the
effect of these trivial inaccuracies upon his mind, that he
twice solemnly addressed the court, calling upon God to
witness, that the women had forsworn themselves in this
respect.—This conduct was mistaken, by the
court, as an attempt to deny his guilt.—But the fact
was otherwise, and the whole tenor of his conduct in prison, from
the time of his surrender, in July, as well as his confession,
furnish the best proofs to the contrary.
The trial did not last an hour, and Mr. Justice Heath having charged the Jury, the
latter almost unhesitatingly returned a verdict of—Guilty.
The wretched man was then asked by the clerk of the peace,
what he had to offer in an arrest of judgment by the
court—to die according to law.
The prisoner replied, in much agitation, “nothing beyond
the false swearing of the women.”
The Recorder being
absent, a short explanation then took place upon the bench,
as to the passing of the sentence. Mr. Justice Heath, who tried the prisoner,
declining to perform that duty, and the Common Serjeant expressing a wish to evade
the painful task, never having been called upon to execute
it. It was however, at length, settled that the Common Serjeant should pronounce the sentence of
death, and, in doing so, he addressed the prisoner to the
following effect:—
“Thomas Bedworth,—After a
painful investigation of the crime which has been laid to your
charge, a humane and impartial jury of your country, hearing the
evidence adduced against you, as well as your own voluntary
confession, have thought it their duty to find you Guilty of the horrid crime of MURDER!
“We see that, in all ages of the world, a terror has
been held out against those persons whose ferocious and unbridled
passions have led to the shedding of innocent blood, and that the
life of the guilty has been demanded in retribution—a
retribution however which scarcely atones for the foul
deed. This is exactly the situation in which you are at
present awfully placed, but it is sincerely to be hoped, that the
motive which induced you to make a full and unreserved confession
of your guilt, arose from devout and serious reflections upon
that eternity to which you are fast hastening. Your
appearance in this court, to day, before the bar of man, may have
for a moment drawn you aside from that truth you had hitherto
asserted, and induced you to attempt a denial of it, yet I do
most charitably hope, that as you had been led to disclose the
weight of your sin and guilt, as read to us this day, so you will
now reflect upon the dreadful consequences of that
confession, and turn, with full purpose of heart, to
serious repentance and prayer. And let me inform you, that
the repentance you are called upon to evince, is not a mere
sorrow for the consequence that would await our crime, but a
sincere and hearty sorrow for this and other crimes which you
have committed, and for which you must shortly give an
account.
“It is now my painful duty to acquaint you, that your
time in this world is of very short duration, but you have the
consolation to know, that it is not too short, or too late for
repentance, and for pouring out your soul, to your Maker, in
supplication and prayer, before you are called to appear at his
awful tribunal. The mercy that is thus held out to you, you
ill deserve, as, in a moment of jealous rage, you hurled into
quick eternity, the wretched victim of your passion and
lust—sent her to her dread account, without a moment for
repentance of her numerous sins—without even time to
implore the mercy of her God, for the base and guilty connection
she had formed with you!
(Here the prisoner lifted his eyes towards Heaven,
struck the bar with his hand, and, bursting into
tears, bowed assent to the remark.)
“I have now only to beseech you that, as
soon as you leave that bar, you fall before God, on your bended
knees, and, with thorough sorrow and conviction, implore that
mercy you so much require. In your prayers you will be
assisted by a pious man, who will zealously aid your applications
to Heaven. Fly to him for his advice, his assistance, and
prayers—you need them all—and let the conduct of your
future hours, in this life, be so devoted, as to prepare you,
through the mercy of the Redeemer, for that awful eternity which
shall shortly receive you.
“There is now nothing left for me, but to pronounce upon
you the dreadful sentence of that law, which you have so grossly
violated, which is:—that you, Thomas Bedworth, be taken from hence,
to the place from whence you came, and from thence,
on Monday morning next, to a place of execution,
where you shall be hanged by the neck until you are
dead.—Your body will then be delivered over to the
surgeons, for dissecting and anatomising, according
to the statute. And may the Lord God Almighty, through
the merits and intercession of the Redeemer, have mercy
upon your soul!”
The prisoner heard his sentence with great firmness, but, at
the conclusion, seemed deeply affected, and wept bitterly.
After regaining a moment silent at the bar, he assumed an air of
resignation and, respectfully bowing to the Court, retired.
He cordially shook hands with some females and others, as he
passed to one of the condemned cells, where he evinced a
resignation and calmness, in every respect suitable to the death
he was to die. Soon afterwards the Rev. Mr. Cotton,
the ordinary, in virtue of his office, visited him, and in
the evening he was called on by one or two religious characters,
who had serious conferences with him. He continued constant
and fervent in prayer throughput the night, except at those times
when, exhausted by weakness and strong feeling, he sunk
occasionally to rest. At intervals he related some
extraordinary circumstances of his varied life, which were taken
down in writing from his lips. He was asked to give a full
relation by the respectable officer of the prison, to whom
he afterwards completely detailed it, but he for the present
excused himself, by saying that the number of persons, religious
and otherwise, who were visiting him, prevented him from
delivering it, then, as he wished.
Saturday was spent by him chiefly in devotional
exercises, and in receiving the kind and charitable visits of
religious characters. Throughout the whole of this day and
night, he displayed great piety, a repentant disposition, and
strong faith in the mercy of Heaven.
On Sunday morning, Bedworth sent a message to
the ordinary, entreating permission for the
“convict school boys” to come near his cell,
and join him in singing a hymn. This was of course complied
with, and they repeated their singing, at his request, on Sunday
evening, when he joined the children, and expressed himself much
happier by this social act of devotion.—The number of
youths who united their voices in these gloomy vaults amounted to
about thirty, and such sounds, floating through the dreary
passages, might well have been supposed to impress, not only the
criminal, but the children themselves, with edifying
thoughts. The Rev. Mr. Cotton remained several hours
with Bedworth, on Sunday evening, and his labours were
succeeded by two gentlemen, who were dissenters, one of whom
remained with him throughout the night. On this occasion he
was reminded of his promise to completely detail his
narrative and confession, previously given in these pages,
which he did with perfect composure, with an apparently entire
recollection of the events of his life. Having done this,
he continued incessantly in prayer and religious
conversation. He sang with his companion two or three
hymns, and he repeated, and sang with great fervour, the Hymn
beginning,
“Jesu, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,” &c.
As the
morning dawned, Bedworth conversed with much animation, and
amongst other things, asked his friend, whether he thought the
populace would assemble in any great number to witness his
ignominious death? Being answered that it was likely there
would be many, he remarked, “I would that the poor
creatures would remain at home, and pray for ME, if not for THEMSELVES.”
At six o’clock on Monday morning, the
ordinary again attended Bedworth in his cell, and
continued with him in prayer, until half-past seven, when one of
the sheriffs also visited him. After remaining with him
some moments, the latter retired to assist in the necessary
preparations, and Bedworth was again left in prayer with
his companion. The crowd, now assembled to witness the
execution, was very considerable; though certainly it did not
amount to half, perhaps not one-third of the number
collected upon the occasion of the extraordinary execution of the
unfortunate Elizabeth Fenning.
At about three minutes before eight o’clock,
Mr. Newman arrived at the Justice room, in the Old Bailey,
to announce the time. The High Sheriff, Mr. Leigh,
and the two Under Sheriffs, Messrs. Leigh and
Rooke, proceeded to the cell of the criminal.
Bedworth walked forth with uncommon firmness and
resignation, and, with a countenance open and serene, advanced
towards Mr. Sheriff Leigh, whom he cordially shook by the
hand. He very much facilitated, by his activity and
presence of mind, in knocking off his own irons, after which he
walked with composure towards the executioner, who bound his
arms, and tied his halter round his body. He then requested
one of the officers to give to a fellow-prisoner, his pair of
leggings, or leathers, to protect the flesh from
excoriation by the fetters, and with them his remembrance and
prayers. After expressing his deep sense of his sinful
life, and the crime for which he was about to die, and expressing
strong hopes of mercy and pardon hereafter, the dead bell tolled,
and he moved on, in the customary procession, to the
scaffold. The ordinary prayed with him whilst they
passed through the dreary avenues, Bedworth walking with a
firm, undaunted step, and bowing, in silence, to all whom he
observed within the dreary passage. On the scaffold,
he manifested the same firmness, but directed his eyes
imploringly towards heaven, while the executioner made his fatal
preparations: the ordinary continued a few moments in
prayer with him, and, the awful signal being given; he was
launched off, in the act of fervent supplication.
Just Published by W. HONE, 55,
Fleet Street,
La Pie Voleuse.—Price Sixpence.
THE NARRATIVE of THE MAGPIE; or the Maid of Palaiseau,
being the History of THE MAID AND THE MAGPIE, founded upon the
circumstance of an unfortunate Female having been unjustly
sentenced to Death, on strong PRESUMPTIVE EVIDENCE.
With a PREFACE, and
curious ANECDOTES.
*** This most interesting
Story, as it is dramatised, has been put into
Narrative. On the performance of the Maid and the Magpie at the Theatres, it was represented
amidst unanimous and repeated shouts of applause, and,
“many incidents were seized on by the audience, who thought
proper to apply them to the case of ELIZA
FENNING.”—Anti-Gallican Monitor,
September 3, 1815.
