Chronicles of Newgate, Vol. 1: From the twelfth to the eighteenth centuryGriffiths, Arthur
History
Chronicles of Newgate, Vol. 1: From the twelfth to the eighteenth century
Griffiths, Arthur
Criminals -- Great Britain; Newgate (Prison : London, England); Prisons -- England; Punishment -- Great Britain
Oneby spent the days before execution, in 1729, in fruitless efforts
to get relations and friends to use their influence in obtaining
pardon for him. But he was so overbearing that his relations would not
visit him in Newgate, and his friends, if he had any, would not stir a
finger to help him. His last moments seem to have been spent between
laughing at the broad jokes of his personal gaoler, who now never
left him, one John Hooper, afterwards public executioner,[268:1] and
fits of rage against those who had deserted him in his extremity. He
was further exasperated by a letter from an undertaker in Drury Lane,
who, having heard that the major was to die on the following Monday,
promised to perform the funeral "as cheap and in as decent a manner as
any man alive." Another cause of annoyance was the publication of a
broad sheet, entitled "The Weight of Blood, or the Case of Major John
Oneby," the writer of which had visited the prisoner, ostensibly to
offer to suppress the publication, but really as an "interviewer" to
obtain some additional facts for his catchpenny pamphlet. The major
was so indignant that he laid a trap for the author by inviting him to
revisit Newgate, promising himself the pleasure of thrashing him when
he appeared, but the man declined to be caught. On the Saturday night
before execution Oneby, learning that a petition had been presented and
rejected, prepared to die. He slept soundly till four in the morning,
then calling for a glass of brandy and writing materials, he wrote his
will. It was brief, and to the following effect:
"Cousin Turvill, give Mr. Akerman, for the turnkey below stairs, half
a guinea, and Jack Hooper, who waits in my room, five shillings. The
poor devils have had a great deal of trouble with me since I have been
here." After this he begged to be left to sleep; but a friend called
about seven: the major cried feebly to his servant, "Philip, who is
that?" and it was found that he was bleeding to death from a deep gash
in his wrist. He was dead before a surgeon could be called in.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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