penalty for errors as well as for crimes. Short
shrift was allowed the condemned in that cruel
age. Forty-eight hours was the lease of life
sealed for the condemned. Sometimes the
culprits were hurried forth from the dock,
shriven in haste if shriven at all, and hung
offhand by torchlight. A revenue was then made
by hiring windows and seats upon the roof to
those whom morbid fancy urged to witness "the
dance of death," or to hear "the last speech
and dying confession" of the doomed. Spectators
on the house-tops looked across the narrow
street, straight into the victim's eyes until the
executioner "drew down the cap," not whiter
than the face, and hid the features from the
spellbound gaze of men. Here at the scaffold foot
were placed the coffins and a cart. The bodies
lowered down were hurried through the streets
to Surgeons' Hall. Experiments in galvanism
could be performed more successfully if the
corpse were warm. Once, it was said, a
murderer half dissected was galvanised back to
life, and scared the surgeons who dreamed of
the scene at night. This tale was told at every
execution. A rope dangling from a projected
beam as the sun rose, told the outer world that
a man was to die that day. But the Law of
Mercy at last broke through this dreadful prison.
Nothing remains, now, of so many terrors but a
portion of the walls and the bases of the towers.
Close to these remains of Newgate, are the
Sessions House and the Commission Court. Over
the entrance to the former, hangs a balcony:
a light iron structure indeed, but the platform
of death. The hinges of the trap are rusty
now. A narrow doorway in the wall gave their
last exit to the criminals who passed from the
gloomy Press-room out into the sunlight, and
gazed for a moment upon a sea of upturned
faces far down below. Many years have passed
since an execution took place here, for the laws
now are very mild, and there is little deadly
crime in Ireland save Treason. Let us avoid
the steps and the shadow of the scaffold, and
pass under a modern Doric portico. The
Commission Court is within; but before we enter,
let us turn and look upon the crowd outside.

There is no feverish or excited multitude such
as you would expect if Fenianism had any root
in Ireland. Knots of men and idle boys and
girls gather here and there, speaking little.
They are all from the lowest class, and are
here because they have nothing to do elsewhere.
These knots part and break up before the
mounted police—light active men, who easily
keep a wide passage clear. The prisoners will
be brought into court by a passage in the rear,
where a strong guard preserves an open space.
Few attempt to trespass on the forbidden ground.
The victims of Fenianism, like those of the
plague, may be pitied, but few care to touch
them. While I look and wonder where are the
twenty thousand armed conspirators, there is a
slight movement among the people. A
suppressed cry is heard, and the troops take close
order. The sharp quick sound of cavalry rings
on the pavement. Mounted police—lancers—
more police—police on Irish jaunting-cars,
ready to jump off, on the instant—and then the
prison van: a long dark carriage this, gloomy
as a hearse, though bearing the cypher of the
Queen. The accused are brought out separately,
and enveloped in a cloud of police. You
see a line of heads moving slowly up to and
within the doorway, and that is all. No cheer
is raised, no sign of popular sympathy is given,
not even a prayer for a "good deliverance" is
uttered. The crowd come here, it is plain,
through curiosity, and not from any deeper feeling.
At the corners of streets a few stones are
thrown, once or twice, wildly at the police,
or a feeble execration is pronounced. But in
the precincts of the Commission Court there is
no manifestation even of pity.

I had seen the court, before the judges, jurymen,
counsel, witnesses, prisoners, and people
filled it. It is a cockpit of a place, wholly
inadequate for trials such as these. The floor is
parcelled out into minute spaces, separated by
divisions like a honeycomb. At the central
wall, under a canopy, the judges will sit;
immediately below are the places set apart for the
chief officers of the court; lower still is a long
table with the witness chair—the table is piled
with books, among which I recognise many
volumes of State Trials. Round this table are
ranged the counsel engaged, and a favoured few.
Facing the judges is the dock, into which a
passage leads from a strong room below. When
the words of the judge, "Remove the prisoner,"
are heard, he drops out of sight and is seen no
more.

And now steal in, by side-doors, unnoticed
before, officials connected with the court or
with the trials. There is a rustling of papers
on the table. Some one arranges the cushions
and footstools for the judges, and places pens
and ink ready. Then stream in, densely
packed, barristers, attorneys, jurymen, and the
public. Round the court there is a wall of
police; close to and behind the dock are many.
The "Crier" takes his stand in an elevated
pulpit on the right side of the table. He
carries a long black wand with a slit in the top,
by which papers and documents are fixed for
transmission from counsel to counsel, from
witness to jury, and from the crier to the
judges. The court is now oppressively crowded,
but a stranger would be impressed by the
business-like silence of the place. When the
accused appears, there is a slight stir and turning
of faces towards the dock, but no excitement
or expression of sympathy. In that
narrow dock once stood Theobald Wolfe Tone;
the two Sheareses, whose bodies, strangely
preserved, are shown in the ancient crypt
of St. Michan's church close by; Robert
Emmet; and other leaders of insurrectionary
movements. From generation to generation the
floor has been trodden by rebels doomed to death
or imprisonment. Only last year there stood
here facing the judges, many now expiating their
treason in Portland Prison. I wonder will this
alternation of crime and punishment ever end?