In these days of suffragettes women imitate and strive for equal privileges with men. In 1773 the position was apparently reversed, for the _Westminster Gazette_ of that date says: “The men imitate the women in almost everything, perfumes, paint, and effeminate baubles engross most of their time, and learning is now looked on as an unworthy attainment.” CHAPTER VIII EARLY CHRONICLES OF TYBURN Of all the fashionable folk who roll by in their carriages from the West-end to Hyde Park, and enter by the gates at Marble Arch to join the gay throng, so full of life and animation; of all the hurrying populace who pass in omnibuses or on foot towards Bayswater, or turn the sharp corner where the traffic flows in an unceasing stream up the Edgware Road,—how many, I wonder, ever pause at the three cross roads to give a moment’s thought to the fact that this was Tyburn? How many among them are even aware of the fact? This is the blackest spot in all the wide extent of the Metropolis,—the most tragic, if not the most historical, spot in all England. Memories of the illustrious dead,—sacrificed to the ambitions, jealousies, and vindictive hatred of monarchs in a ruder age, hallow that quiet space on Tower Hill where the heads of so many statesmen and warriors, nobles and bishops, rolled in the sawdust. That is marked off by a little square of bricks surrounded by railed-in gardens—a pleasant patch of green amid the tall warehouses which crowd upon it on all sides, save where the gaunt grey walls of the fortress rise. [Illustration: The Marble Arch (formerly Tyburn) at three o’clock in the morning.] The execution ground within the Tower, beneath the shadow of the little church of St. Peter-in-Chains, calls to mind only some of the most sympathetic names in history; gentle Anne Boleyn, the heroic Countess of Salisbury, and the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey. Tyburn has other associations. Martyrs have perished here, bigots have suffered, Society has found its victims, and punishment has been dealt out for villainy and crime in its most unattractive forms. Such sensational fame as the place may claim rests upon the exploits and end of Jack Sheppard, Jonathan Wild, “Sixteen-Stringed Jack,” and the ghastly indignities heaped by Charles II. upon the bodies of Cromwell and the regicides. Few will recognise the old “Tyburn Road” in modern Oxford Street, with its huge drapery and furniture emporiums, and the attractions which bring so large a part of the populace to shop there. A century and a half ago this was a country road, along which the two-wheeled, springless carts passed from Newgate with their escorts of sheriffs, officers, and marshalmen conveying condemned men to execution.