The String of Pearls (1850), p. 493

They dragged her out into Bell Yard, and then the shouts that the mob set up was truly terrific.
"Lights! Links!" cried a voice. "Let's show her the way!"
In a moment an oil-shop opposite to Mrs. Lovett's was plundered of a score or two of links, and being lighted with great rapidity from the solitary oil-lamp
that there stood in the middle of Bell Yard, they sent a bright lurid glare upon the sea of heads, that seemed so close they might have been walked upon all the
way to Fleet Street. Another shout echoed far and near, and then Crotchet took hold of one of Mrs. Lovett's arms, and Mr. Green hold of the other, and the cook and the other officers following, they all began slowly to make way through the mob.
"Let's get along with her," cried Crotchet. "I have her tight. She won't get away. Some of you get a good stout rope ready, and make a noose in it. We will hang her on the lamp-post at the top of the market. Bring her along. Make way a little. Only a little!"
Mrs. Lovett shrieked as she saw the sea of angry faces before, behind, and on all sides of her. She thought that surely her last hour was come, and that a far more horrible death than any she had ever calculated upon in her worst moments of depression, was about to be hers. Her eyes were blood-shot—she bit her under lip through, and the blood poured from her mouth—she each moment that she could gather breath to do so, raised a fearful shriek, and the mob shouted and yelled, and swayed to and fro, and the links were tossed from hand to hand, flashing, and throwing around them thousands of bright sparks, and people rapidly joined the mob.

CHAPTER CXIV.
THE COOK WAITS UPON SIR RICHARD BLUNT AND HEARS NEWS.

It took a quarter of an hour to reach the coach from the door of Mrs. [ Lovett's shop, a distance that in twenty steps any one might have traversed; and, oh what a quarter of an hour of horrible suffering that was to the wretched woman, whose crimes had so infuriated the populace, that with one voice
they called for her death!
The coach door was opened, and Crotchet pushed his prisoner in. Mr. Green, and the other officer and the cook, followed her.
"I will go on the box," said Crotchet.
"Very well," said Green, "but be mindful of your own safety, Crotchet."
"All's right. There ain't any more o' my sort in London, and I know I am rather a valuable piece o' goods. Has anybody got the rope ready for the lady?"
"Here you are," said a man, "I have one."
"You get up behind then," said Crotchet, "for of course you know we shall soon want you."
"Yes, I will. That's right! It's all right, friends. I am to get up behind with the rope. Here's the rope!"
"Three cheers for the rope!" cried somebody, and the cheers were given with deafening violence. What will not a mob give three cheers for—ay, or any number of cheers you like to name? A piece of poor humanity in tinsel and fine linen, called a king or queen—a popular cry—a murderess—a rope— anything will suffice. Surely, Mr. Crotchet, you know something of the people!
"Now," said Crotchet to the coachman, "are you as bold as brass, and as strong as an iron file?"
The coachman looked puzzled, but Mr. Crotchet pursued his queries.
"Will these 'osses, if they is frightened a bit, cut along quick?"