Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. It plucked shingles from the school building, threatening to shake them all loose one by one like rotting teeth. My will is executed, and placed in safe custody. Why should God give particular attention to such a prayer, when He had ignored all others? Certainly there was a trap somewhere. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. It was 1582.
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