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Authors: Allan Massie
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appropriate; played, that is to say, the part that circumstances asked him to play.
The Scotsman reported that his conduct from the time of the trial was `devout and penitent’. That was the proper attitude for the condemned; a certain co-operation from them being desirable if executions are to be conducted with due dignity. His father paid him a visit. The interview was `most affecting’. David expressed satisfaction to an attendant that `his mother was dead, as, if she had been living, his ignominious fate would have broken her heart’. That was exactly the right sentiment. The following day, a Tuesday, he was taken in a chaise to the lock-up house, and, during the journey, `he kept his eyes intently fixed on his Bible’. On the Wednesday morning, two bailies and the three ministers accompanied him in procession to the scaffold. `His appearance was firm and unshaken, and his countenance exhibited a degree of mildness astonishing to those acquainted with the daring hardiness of his characters and exploits. The calm serenity was changed to an expression of grief, and he even shed a few tears on hearing an expression of sorrow involuntarily burst from a few women assembled in Liberton’s Wynd to catch a glimpse of his tall slender person.’
That may have been a nervous moment for the authorities who were properly anxious that all should go off smoothly, especially that there should be no repetition of the disgraceful scenes that had attended Johnston’s execution. However, David quickly recovered. His behaviour on the scaffold was henceforth all that they could wish. After singing part of Psalm 130 -‘More than they that for morning watch my soul waits for the Lord’ - and listening to Mr Grey’s `fervent impressive prayer, he shook hands with ministers and magistrates, bidding them farewell in a most affectionate manner’. He then mounted two or three steps of the platform but descended again to deliver his admonitory words to the people. At last he took his station, prayed a few minutes more, gave the signal and `was launched into eternity’.
`He was decently dressed in black. The crowd assembled on this occasion was immense. Everyone present appeared to be deeply impressed with the awful exhibition. The people stood uncovered the whole time.’ With these words The Scotsman ended its report of proceedings.
It had all gone off very well. David had played his part admirably with wholly decorous complaisance, and the authorities could reflect with satisfaction that the majesty of the law had been proclaimed, and an awful warning offered to evil-doers. After all the justification of public executions was just that: Voltaire, referring admittedly to a higher social sphere, had summed it up after the execution of Admiral Byng:
`In England they shoot an admiral from time to time, to encourage the others.’
The publication of the autobiography a few days later caused some to have second thoughts. `The publication is likely to do more harm than good’, said The Scotsman pontifically. `Despite the end he had come to (and despite its dignified and co-operative manner, they might have added) we fear it will rather stimulate the bad to greater exertion in crime than awaken their minds to repentance.’ No doubt there was something in the complaint. Certainly the autobiography went some way to correct the impression of penitence that the execution had produced. No one could read Davy’s account of his exploits without being aware of the fun and excitement he had experienced in those few years, and it is of course possible that some readers might conclude that with a little bit more luck and prudence there was no reason why so entertaining a career should be cut thus abruptly short. At the same time such admonitions as the book contained rang feebly in comparison. As The Scotsman put it, `those who have done wrong frequently, and still more, those who do wrong habitually, are averse from reflection. They know it to be
The Scotsman reported that his conduct from the time of the trial was `devout and penitent’. That was the proper attitude for the condemned; a certain co-operation from them being desirable if executions are to be conducted with due dignity. His father paid him a visit. The interview was `most affecting’. David expressed satisfaction to an attendant that `his mother was dead, as, if she had been living, his ignominious fate would have broken her heart’. That was exactly the right sentiment. The following day, a Tuesday, he was taken in a chaise to the lock-up house, and, during the journey, `he kept his eyes intently fixed on his Bible’. On the Wednesday morning, two bailies and the three ministers accompanied him in procession to the scaffold. `His appearance was firm and unshaken, and his countenance exhibited a degree of mildness astonishing to those acquainted with the daring hardiness of his characters and exploits. The calm serenity was changed to an expression of grief, and he even shed a few tears on hearing an expression of sorrow involuntarily burst from a few women assembled in Liberton’s Wynd to catch a glimpse of his tall slender person.’
That may have been a nervous moment for the authorities who were properly anxious that all should go off smoothly, especially that there should be no repetition of the disgraceful scenes that had attended Johnston’s execution. However, David quickly recovered. His behaviour on the scaffold was henceforth all that they could wish. After singing part of Psalm 130 -‘More than they that for morning watch my soul waits for the Lord’ - and listening to Mr Grey’s `fervent impressive prayer, he shook hands with ministers and magistrates, bidding them farewell in a most affectionate manner’. He then mounted two or three steps of the platform but descended again to deliver his admonitory words to the people. At last he took his station, prayed a few minutes more, gave the signal and `was launched into eternity’.
`He was decently dressed in black. The crowd assembled on this occasion was immense. Everyone present appeared to be deeply impressed with the awful exhibition. The people stood uncovered the whole time.’ With these words The Scotsman ended its report of proceedings.
It had all gone off very well. David had played his part admirably with wholly decorous complaisance, and the authorities could reflect with satisfaction that the majesty of the law had been proclaimed, and an awful warning offered to evil-doers. After all the justification of public executions was just that: Voltaire, referring admittedly to a higher social sphere, had summed it up after the execution of Admiral Byng:
`In England they shoot an admiral from time to time, to encourage the others.’
The publication of the autobiography a few days later caused some to have second thoughts. `The publication is likely to do more harm than good’, said The Scotsman pontifically. `Despite the end he had come to (and despite its dignified and co-operative manner, they might have added) we fear it will rather stimulate the bad to greater exertion in crime than awaken their minds to repentance.’ No doubt there was something in the complaint. Certainly the autobiography went some way to correct the impression of penitence that the execution had produced. No one could read Davy’s account of his exploits without being aware of the fun and excitement he had experienced in those few years, and it is of course possible that some readers might conclude that with a little bit more luck and prudence there was no reason why so entertaining a career should be cut thus abruptly short. At the same time such admonitions as the book contained rang feebly in comparison. As The Scotsman put it, `those who have done wrong frequently, and still more, those who do wrong habitually, are averse from reflection. They know it to be
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