FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Memoirs and Papers of Sir Andrew Mitchell, K.B._, Envoy

Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary from the Court of Great

Britain to the Court of Prussia, from 1756 to 1771. By ANDREW BISSET,

of Lincoln's Inn, Barrister-at-Law. 2 Vols. Chapman & Hall, London.

HOURS IN SPAIN.

The neglect of Spanish literature is perhaps, after the decay of

Spanish power, the most striking instance of the precarious tenure

of greatness that modern history can supply. Various causes have

contributed to this result; none more powerfully perhaps than that

ecclesiastical domination which included all that could embellish and

exalt our nature in the sphere of its malignant activity, and after

poisoning the sources of material prosperity--after making the river,

the forest, and the mine useless to their possessors--after turning

the land of corn, and wine, and oil into a wilderness--extended its

destructive conquest to the informing soul of its inhabitants, and to

the ruin of commerce added the extermination of thought itself.

There were many causes which contributed to the triumph of this

influence in Spain. The long war against the Moors, carried on with

such unequalled pertinacity, and terminated by such complete success,

could hardly fail to prolong and exasperate the feelings of religious

antipathy, and to make the bigotry, which so many generations had

identified with patriotic feeling, precious and venerable to their

descendants. And as in France it must for many centuries have been

the great object of every true patriot to fortify and to consolidate,

at the sacrifice even of constitutional principle, the central power

which alone could protect her from invasion, and prevent her from

being reduced to the state of wretched insignificance to which a

minute subdivision of power into petty principalities had degraded

Germany,--so in Spain, national pride mingled itself with religious

principle; the hostility of race combined with the hatred of sect;

and if the latter made the former furious, the former made the last

implacable. The Saxon submitted to the Norman. But the Spaniard, under

circumstances far less favourable to resistance, never for one moment

abandoned his hostility to the Moor. Again, when Louis the Fourteenth

had been compelled by adverse fortune to surrender the cause of his own

grandson, the Spanish peasant, without resources, without commerce,

without fleets, without armies, adhered with inflexible fidelity to

the cause he had once embraced, and in spite of Blenheim and Ramilies

and Oudenarde--in spite of Marlborough, Eugene, and Peterborough--kept

the sovereign of his affections on the throne;-and finally, when the

rest of Continental Europe quailed before the first of conquerors, the

spirit which had triumphed at Almanza and Granada showed itself once

more to be invincible, and taught mankind the memorable lesson that

"all was not lost" where hatred was immortal, and the determination of

resistance not to be overcome. Such a nation must leave an imperishable

mark in history. As, however, these elements of pride and bigotry

acquired an ascendency in the Spanish character, it gradually sank into

a sullen apathy of unsocial indolence, which its declining influence

and repeated mortifications tended materially to confirm. Shut up

behind the barrier of the Pyrenees--living only in the past, consoling

itself by the recollections of former grandeur for the consciousness

of actual insignificance and decay; the slave of priests, the victim

of kings--it clung to habits unknown in the rest of Europe, and to

feelings with which all sympathy had long since passed away. The

language, which in the sixteenth century had been spoken in every

court of Europe, was unknown--the writers, whom the giant intellects

that surrounded the throne of our Elizabeth had studied with so much

care, were forgotten. In spite of her noble colonies, in spite of her

glorious dialect, in spite of writers more nearly approaching the

great models of antiquity in the exquisite perfection of style than

those of any modern country, in spite of a drama the wealth of which

was inexhaustible Spain ceased to have any influence on the progress

of human thought and action. Her vast empire was a corpse from which

life had fled. So complete was the ignorance of Spanish literature,

that Montesquieu said of the Spaniards, without incurring the charge

of having sacrificed truth to epigram, "Le seul de leurs livres qui

soit bon est celui qui a fait voir le ridicule de tous les autres:" a

singular proof of literary ingratitude in the countryman of Molière,

Corneille, and Le Sage--and a still more remarkable proof of the

fluctuation of national studies in a country where, scarce a century

before, ignorance of Spanish would have been looked upon as a proof of

the most barbarous rusticity.

In France, says Cervantes, there is no one man or woman who does not

learn Spanish. "En Francia, ni varon ni muger dexa de aprender la

lengua Castellana."

To the effect of this very circumstance the growing indifference to

Spanish literature may, in some measure, be ascribed. During the palmy

state of Spanish greatness, the Spaniard, finding his language, as the

French is now, the received organ of social intercourse throughout

Europe, seldom vouchsafed to study modern languages. Nor, indeed, were

such studies congenial to the taste and temper of that fastidious

and haughty nation. In earlier days, poetical traditions and popular

ballads had wandered across the Pyrenees. The songs of the Troubadours,

and the effusions in the tongue of Oc, had, by means of the kindred

dialect of Catalonia, exercised great influence over Castilian poetry.

But, towards the end of the fifteenth century, the connection between

French and Spanish literature was altogether interrupted: as the

language of Catalonia sank to the level of a mere provincial dialect,

the channel of communication was blocked up. The family relations

between the different members of the houses of Hapsburg and Bourbon

could not fill up the chasm which nature had placed between the

inhabitants of different sides of the Pyrenees, and which centuries

of almost incessant warfare had contributed to widen; and as the

provinces of Berne and Languedoc became scandalous as the seats of

heresy, everything that came from France was looked upon with aversion

and distrust. Still stronger and more insurmountable were the barriers

against English literature. He who will read the _Dragontea_ of Lope

de Vega, the most amiable of authors, and the ode of Gongora, _Al

armamento de Felipe segundo contra Inglaterra_, may form some idea of

the scorn and hatred with which the Spaniard, proud of his race, proud

of his victories, proud of his language, and, above all, tenacious to

madness of the unsullied purity of his faith, looked upon the piratical

English, twice apostates from the Holy See, who spoke a barbarous

dialect, unknown to the nations of the South, clogged with consonants

and monosyllables, incapable of sonorous cadences, and in every respect

the opposite of his own. Even at the present day, it is remarkable that

Southey--with all his faults, the best writer of English prose that

our age has produced--was deeply versed in Spanish literature; and in

spite of our acquisitions in physical science, a native of the South,

to whom his own beautiful dialect is familiar, might be forgiven when

he reads the clumsy prose and prosaic verse of the present day, if he

reflect with delight on the Ciceronian eloquence of Cervantes, and

the finished periods of Saavedra Faxardo. A Spanish artisan would be

ashamed to write like our learned men, or to speak like many members

of the House of Commons--so true and so universal is the doctrine of

compensation. In the year 1754, Velasquez assures us that there was in

Spain no single translation of an English author. But the aversion was

not reciprocal. In the days of our great Elizabeth, when the English

intellect was at a height from which it has ever since been travelling

downwards, Spanish novels and romances were diligently studied, and

perpetually translated. There is strong evidence to show that the great

dramatists of that day were not ignorant of the Spanish stage.

A translation, or rather an abridgment, of the _Celestina_, was printed

in London in 1530, and in 1580 the story was acted in a London theatre.

But as all our readers may not have heard--and many of them probably

have not read a line of the _Celestina_--we will, before we proceed

farther, explain the nature of this most remarkable--and if the age

when it was written be considered--this quite unequalled production.

The _Celestina_, or _Tragi-comedia di Calisto y Meliboea_, is the

title of a book which appeared at Salamanca in the year 1500. It is

named from the principal person, a procuress, who is the instrument

by which all the events that it describes are brought about. It is

the work of two authors. The name of the first, who wrote the first

act only, cannot certainly be determined. Some ascribe it to Juan

de Mena, and some to Rodrigo Cota. The language seems to prove that

the date of the first act cannot be much earlier than the end of the

fifteenth century, or than that of the twenty acts added to it by the

Bachelor, Fernando de Rozas, by whom the whole was published. The work

was received with universal, but, if its merit be considered, not with

excessive approbation. This is testified by the numerous editions which

succeeded each other with great rapidity, not only throughout Spain,

but in Venice, Milan, and Antwerp; and translations of it were eagerly

studied in France, England, Italy, and Germany. The great length of

the _Celestina_ proves that it never could have been intended for

the stage; but its influence on the dramatic literature of Spain has

been, nevertheless, considerable. For the language of the dialogue

is so exquisitely beautiful--the representations it contains are so

vivid--and the pathos of several passages so touching,--above all, the

characters are drawn with so much spirit and truth of colouring, that

it became the favourite model of the great Spanish dramatists of the

sixteenth century.

To enter into a detailed account of this beautiful composition would

be mere pedantry. It might, perhaps, be agreeable to an age which

receives with exultation and delight prose translations of the most

beautiful poetry, and places equestrian statues over archways; but it

must fill every one to whom the rudiments of taste are not absolutely

unknown--every one for whom eloquence and poetry are not merely a dead

letter--with unspeakable disgust. It would bear the same resemblance to

the original that a corpse does to the body animated by an informing

spirit. The plot is extremely simple. Calisto, a youth of high birth,

cherishes the most passionate love for the beautiful Meliboea. In order

to gratify his passion, he has recourse to Celestina, and by her arts

and love-potions, and intrigues, he at length accomplishes his object.

They meet at her house; and while

"Imparadised in one another's arms,"

the servants of Calisto quarrel, a conflict ensues, in which Celestina

loses her life. The law interferes, seizes upon the malefactors, and

condemns them to the gallows. The friends of the servants agree to

revenge their death. They beset the house, in which Calisto and his

beloved have met again. Calisto, who wishes to encounter them, is

slain. Meliboea, distracted with remorse and sorrow, and resolved not

to survive her lover, ascends a lofty tower, and, after informing

her parents of her errors, and of the death of him who shared them,

precipitates herself from its summit. Such is the outline of this

primitive effort of dramatic art, the eloquence of which is as various

and astonishing as the plot is simple and inadequate. There are

passages in it which may remind the reader of _Clarissa Harlowe_; and

it is very possible that it may have suggested hints to Richardson.

Bouterwek's remarks upon the _Celestina_ are trivial and insignificant.

"I may boldly say it, because I have seen it," says Stephen Gosson, in

1581, writing under the influence of those puritanical feelings which

were soon to play so conspicuous a part in our dramatic history, "that

the _Palace of Pleasure_, the _Golden Ass_, the _Æthiopian History_,

_Amadis of France_, and the _Round Table_, indecent histories in

Latin, French, Italian, and Spanish, have been thoroughly ransacked

to furnish the playhouses in London." Robert Green, the author of

_Friar Bacon_, one of the most eminent of Shakspeare's immediate

predecessors, tells us that he had travelled in Spain. There are

several expressions in Shakspeare which indicate an acquaintance with

Spanish literature--among others, the remarkable phrase, "this is

mischief malikin," which is evidently a corruption of "mucho malhecho."

The origin of the _Taming of the Shrew_ is Spanish. The alternate

rhymes of _Love's Labour_ Lost prove, beyond a doubt, a Spanish model.

The advice from Polonius to his son is said to be a literal translation

from a Spanish dramatist. The resemblance between _Twelfth Night_ and

an anonymous comedy, _La Española in Florencia_, is too striking to

be merely accidental. It is, indeed, most improbable that Shakspeare

who was acquainted with French, and has inserted in his works--in the

_Tempest_ for instance--several paraphrases of Montaigne, should have

been ignorant of Spanish, which was not only a more popular language,

but one which contained far more to reward and stimulate the labour of

the student. And here we may observe, that the prodigy of the Spanish

stage, Lope de Vega--the "monster of nature," as Cervantes calls

him, and certainly the most surprising instance of the combination

of facility and genius which the modern world has seen--was born on

the 25th November 1562, at Madrid, two years before Shakspeare. If we

pursue our examination of the influence of Spanish literature on the

English drama, we shall find a close resemblance between Fletcher's

beautiful play of the _Elder Brother_--which was mutilated to please

our barbarous grandfathers by Cibber,--and Calderon's _Two Effects

from one Cause_, (_De una Causa dos Efectos_;) the _Maid of the

Mill_, by Beaumont and Fletcher, and Lope's _Quinta de Florencia_;

Webster's _Duchess of Malfi_, and Lope de Vega's _Mayor Domo de la

Duquesa de Amalfi_. So the _Señora Cornelia_, a novel of Cervantes',

is the foundation of the brilliant play of the _Chances_. The third

scene of the third act of the _Little French Lawyer_, is taken from

the fourth chapter of the second part of the first book of Aleman's

_Guzman d'Alfarache_. _The Knight of the Burning Perkle_, shows that

_Don Quixote_ was commonly read in England. The _Spanish Gipsy_ of

Middleton and Rowley, and _Beggars' Bush_ of Fletcher, are taken from

the _Fuerza de la Sangre_, and _Gitanilla_ of Cervantes; and the plan

of _Love's Pilgrimage_ is borrowed from the _Dos Doncellas_ of the same

author. _The Spanish Curate_ is taken from the _Gerardo_ of Gonzalo de

Cerpedes; and _The History of Alphonso, or a Wife for a Month,_ is that

related by many Spanish writers of Sancho, the eighth King of Leon. To

this list may be added a remarkable passage in Milton's _Areopagitica_,

in which he alludes to Spanish poetry as we should allude to Manzoni

and Lamartine. "The villages also must have _their_ visitors, to

inquire what lectures the bagpipe and the rebec reads even to the gamut

of every municipal fiddler; for _these_ are the _countryman's_ Arcadias

and his Monte Mayors." In 1663 was printed, _The Adventures of Five

Hours_, from the Spanish comedy, _Los Empeños de Seis Horas_. Lord

Digby's _'Tis better than it was_ is taken from Calderon's _Mejor está

que estaba_. His _Worse and Worse_ from _Peor está que estaba_. His

_Elvira, or the Worst not always True_, from Calderon's _No siempre lo

Peor es Cierto_. There can be little doubt, as a careful and elaborate

writer, Shack, remarks in his instructive work on the Spanish stage,

that a more accurate inquiry than has yet been instituted into the

English drama, would lead to the conclusion, that many of the works

of Lope de Vega were familiar to the great writers of Elizabeth's

time; not, indeed, that it is contended, or that with any shadow of

plausibility it can be maintained, that the Spanish is the origin

of the English drama, or, indeed, that it ever exercised a decided

influence on the English stage. The rapid intrigue, the brilliant

accumulation of incidents, which the peasant of the South follows with

delight and ease in scenic representation, would confound and bewilder

the most educated classes of which a Northern audience is composed.

Let an English or German reader try the experiment of reading one of

Calderon's most agreeable plays, _Tambien, hay duelo en las Damas_,

which may be freely translated, "There may be Trust in Women," and see

whether, even in the quiet of his study, his brain does not grow dizzy

with the complicated intrigue that it describes.

The truth is, that both in Spain and England, the drama, at the period

of its greatest splendour, was drawn from the inmost sources of the

national character and genius. It spoke the language of the different

races amid which it appeared, and the peculiarities of each were

wrought into the stamina of its existence. Before that time, and while

it was seeking the track which it was to illuminate with such a flood

of glory, before the days of Shakspeare and Lope de Vega, its effects

had been feeble and unsuccessful. _Ferrex and Porrex_, _Ralph Royster_,

_ Doyster_, _Damon and Pythias_, bear, like the contemporary works of

Spanish and Italian authors, traces of the attempt to substitute, as

in the _Sophonisba_ of Trissino, a cold, stiff, and affected imitation

of ancient models for the appeal to those passions, and the image of

those manners, with which man has an unchangeable and an everlasting

sympathy. In the rude comedies of that day, as in the Spanish farces

in the middle of the sixteenth century, coarse buffoonery and the

realities of vulgar detail predominate. After this phasis, there may

be still observed, in the dramatists of the day, a want of power

to manage the materials which they had just begun to discover and

appreciate. In the plays of Green, as well as of Juan de la Cueva,

the sudden and inartificial incidents, the actions without a motive,

and the want of a regularly constructed plot, betray the authors'

want of experience and self-command. Marlow and Christoval de Vines

resemble each other in their love of what is horrible and extravagant,

and their use of a turgid and inflated diction. Neither in Peele,

Kyd, or Lily, in our country, nor in Arguesda, Artieda, or Cervantes,

(considered exclusively as a dramatist,) in the other, is any fixed,

systematic, matured, independent, national drama distinctly to be

traced. They were, however, the harbingers, in their respective lands,

of the meridian light which was fast travelling to its maturity of

splendour, and rejoicing as a giant to run its course. A lustre then

was shed over the Western skies, which more than rivalled the earlier

glories of the East. How did this come to pass? to what are we to

ascribe the surprising resemblance of dramatic literature, in so many

essential points, of Spain and England? this simultaneous outbreak of

genius, this selection of the same path, and this arrival at the same

goal--a goal which the utmost exertions of other modern nations have

never enabled them to come within sight of, much less to reach? What

is the seed of the noble and stately plant that shot up at once in

such prodigality of magnificence? Shall we content ourselves with the

cant of a romantic school, which, after it had wearied the Continent,

has, of course, been put forward as a great discovery by our wretched

sciolists, in explanation of this curious epoch in the history of the

human mind? Or shall we look to the national feelings, sympathies,

tastes, and legends, which the masters of the Greek, as well of the

Spanish and of the English drama, unveiled in their immortal creations

to the very depths? This is the true reason why these nations alone

possess a drama of their own--this is the reason which accounts for the

triumph of ancient as well as modern art--not an ambiguous and obscure

phrase, but a principle which must insure the originality of the drama,

so long as man is man.

If we pursue the comparison between the drama of Spain and England, we

shall find the period of its golden age far more circumscribed in the

latter than in the former. In the latter, it cannot be said to reach

beyond the time of Charles the First; and from the time of Shakspeare

its decline is visible. But in Spain, from the end of the sixteenth

to the beginning of the eighteenth century, during a period when

poetry was almost forgotten throughout the rest of Europe, the stream

of the Spanish drama held on its majestic course, supplied from an

ever-gushing fountain, and reflecting from its radiant surface all the

varieties of human life. If Shakspeare has reached the very summit of

all poetry, and a height to which no Spanish dramatist has ascended,

the interval which divides him from every other of his countrymen is

enormous. But the drama in Spain is not bound up with a single name,

or with individual genius; it can exhibit a galaxy of light, and many

constellations contribute to its lustre.

The starry host, of which Lope de Vega and Calderon de la Barca are the

Lucifers, far surpasses in numbers and splendour that which any other

country can exhibit; nor would the dull, brutal, stupid, hard-hearted,

and obscene ribaldry which (Congreve excepted) is the prevailing

characteristic of the popular writers of Charles the Second's time, and

especially of Wycherley, have been endured by the Spanish peasant for a

moment.

Christoval Suavey de Figueroa, who lived towards the end of the

sixteenth and about the beginning of the seventeenth century, was of

all enemies to the theatre of his day the most bitter and the most

implacable. The influence of the priesthood had been early turned

against the drama, especially on the grounds which had induced the

Catholic Church of all ages to oppose itself to the drama, but in

reality because the secular plays had superseded the rude and gross

religious representations from which they sprang in Spain, as well

as in France and England, and which had long been a principal means

by which the priests had preserved their influence over the vulgar.

Figueroa's animadversions are to be found in two works, one, the _Playa

universal de todas las Ciencias_, published at Madrid, 1615; the other,

_Advertencios utilissimas a la Vida humana_, Madrid, 1617. The writer

complains that the nourishment which the writers of plays furnish for

the diseased appetites of the vulgar is poisonous; and that, far from

intermixing with their levity any moral or instructive sentences, the

sole object of the writers is to provoke the laughter of the audience.

Hence men, who are scarcely able to read, venture to write comedies,

as is proved by the _Tailor of Toledo_, the _Weaver of Seville_, and

other instances of success equally disgraceful. "Hence it happens that

scandalous comedies, full of obscene language and trivial conceptions,

are represented on the stage, in which all respect for sovereigns is

trampled under foot, together with the rules of reason and morality. In

these pieces the valet speaks without shame, the maid without modesty,

and the old man without discretion."

In the _Pasagero_, which is a dialogue, the principal person says that

"if Plautus and Terence were now living they would be driven from the

stage, as a certain person, (Lope de Vega,) who considers himself

beyond all rule, has invented a particular kind of farce, as lucrative

as it is monstrous." But the exhortations of Figueroa were in vain.

The passion for writing plays, far from diminishing, increased with

tenfold fury, in spite of the Church and the critic, and even Philip

the Second's edict. Nor can it be denied that, amid the prodigious and

almost incredible mass of plays which increased with every year, some

were of a very moderate description. But the very worst were above the

level of the great majority of plays in other countries, and especially

in our own. It would be difficult to find a single play in the time of

Lope de Vega or of Calderon, in which some redeeming quality, happy

incidents, or fiery invective, or beautiful language did not appear.

Some of these writers, however, acquired an imperishable reputation. Of

these, Gabriel Tellez, who wrote under the name of Tirso de Molina, was

the most illustrious.

It may be quoted, as a proof of the profound disregard for Spanish

literature in Europe, that Bouterwek never mentions this extraordinary

dramatist; and that Schlegel, who affected such profound knowledge of

the Spanish drama, and whose remarks on Euripides and Molière are so

thoroughly unjust and absurd, has been to all real purpose equally

silent concerning him; though no man, not even Lope de Vega, or

Calderon himself, whom Schlegel praises (not because he was a great

poet, but because he was a bigoted Roman Catholic,), bears a stronger

impress of true Castilian genius, or is more identified with the drama

of his country. Gabriel Tellez was considerably younger than Lope de

Vega: he was born about 1570. Little is known of his life till he

became a monk at Madrid. He became a doctor of theology, and died in

1648, prior of the monastery at Soria. His comedies are second only, in

point of number, to those of Lope de Vega--a circumstance which makes

Schlegel's absolute omission of all but his very name, and perhaps of

that, the more unpardonable; and he was, besides, the author of many

other works--among others, of a defence of the national drama of Spain

against the champions of the unities. This was written twelve years

before _The Cid_ of Corneille, and therefore anticipated a controversy

to which we invariably assign a more recent, as well as a Gallic

origin. The following are extracts from this admirable vindication.

"The delightful interest excited by the drama, the skill of the actors,

and the succession of various incidents, make the time appear so

short, that no man, though the representation had lasted three hours,

would find aught to censure but its brevity. This at least was the

judgment of the unprejudiced--I mean of those who attend a dramatic

representation, not so much to find fault as to procure for themselves

a poetical gratification. The drones who do not themselves know how to

labour, but how to rob the industrious bees, could not indeed renounce

their nature, and plunged their stings, with a malignant hum, into

the honeyed treasures of genius. One says the piece is intolerably

too long; another says it is unseemly; a pedantic historian said

the poet should be chastised, because he has, against the truth of

Portuguese history, made the Duke Pedro of Coimbra a shepherd--though

he was in fact slain in battle against his cousin, King Alonzo, and

left no posterity. It is an affront to the house of Aveiro, and its

great duke, that the daughters of the last should be described as

reckless damsels, who, in defiance of all the laws of decency, turn

their garden into a scene of their licentiousness--as if the liberties

of Apollo were tethered to historical accuracy, and might not raise

the fabric of poetry on true historical foundations. In the mean time

there were not wanting defenders of the absent poet, who maintained

his honour, and struck to earth the argument of the envious censurers;

although besotted minds, who are in love with their own opinion,

and display their acuteness rather in the censure of others' works

than in any productions of their own, never will allow that they are

overcome.... Among many absurdities," says the critic to be refuted,

"it has most shocked me to observe the impudence with which the poet

has transgressed the limits assigned to their art by the inventors

of the drama; for though the action required by them is one which is

complete in twenty-four hours at the most, he has crowded months into

his play, crammed with love adventures; and even that time is not long

enough for ladies of rank and education to fall blindly in love with

a shepherd, to make him their secretary, and enable him to decipher

their real purpose amid the riddles with which it is expressed....

Moreover, I am at a loss to comprehend with what propriety a piece, in

which dukes and counts make their appearance, can be called a comedy."

So far the malignant censurer proceeds, when he is interrupted by Don

Alejo, the other speaker in the Dialogue. "I cannot assent to your

opinion, inasmuch as, setting aside the rule that, in common courtesy,

the guest is bound not to quarrel with the viands set before him, this

particular comedy does comply with the rules which still are valid;

and, in my opinion, which is common to all who are free from prejudice

with myself, the dramas actually represented in our Spain have a

great advantage over those of antiquity, although they depart from

the rules laid down by the creators of the stage. If they establish

this principle, that a play should only represent such transactions

as can by possibility be compressed within the space of twenty-four

hours--can there be a more flagrant absurdity than that a man in his

senses should, in so short a period, fall passionately in love with

a woman equally in possession of hers, and carry the matter on so

rapidly, that the love, which is announced in the morning, ends in a

marriage at night? Is that time enough to represent jealousy, despair,

hope--in short, all the passions and incidents, without which love is

a mere word, without any signification? These evils are, according to

the judgment of all persons competent to form an opinion, far greater

than those arising from the circumstance that the spectators, without

moving from their seats, see and hear things which must occupy several

days. For as he who reads a history of a few pages, informs himself of

events which have occurred in remote countries during many centuries,

even so may comedy, which is the image and representation of that on

which it is founded, in describing the events which befall two lovers,

paint in the most vivid colours all that can take place on such an

occasion; and as it is improbable that all these incidents should occur

in one day, may feign also for itself the longer time, of which it

stands in need. Not improperly has poetry been called a living picture;

and as the pencil represents on a few feet of canvass remote distances,

which cheat the eye with an appearance of reality, so must the same

privilege be conceded to the pen; and so much the rather, as the latter

is incomparably more energetic than the former, inasmuch as articulated

syllables are more intelligible than silent images, which can explain

thought by signs only. And if you object to me, that, under pain of

being esteemed presumptuous and ungrateful, we must obey the precepts

of the first inventors of the drama, I reply to you, that we owe them

indeed reverence for having triumphed over the difficulties which

belong to a beginning in any matter, but that we are bound to bring

what they have discovered to perfection; so that, without impairing the

substance, we may change the manner of proceeding, and improve it by

the lessons of experience.

"It were indeed a precious state of things if the musician, because

the inventors of music studied harmony of sound from the blows of the

hammer on the anvil, were at the present day to use the instruments

of Vulcan, and incur censure because they introduced a harp with

strings, and thus brought to perfection what originally was imperfect.

Herein it is that art differs from nature, because what the one has

established since the creation remains immutable--as the pear-tree

always produces pears, and the oak its acorns (for we shall not now

stop to consider the exceptions arising from soil and climate, and the

skill and graftings of the gardener); while in art, the roots of which

grow in the shifting qualities of men, use causes the most important

changes and modifications. What reason is there for surprise, then, if

comedy transgresses the rules of our forefathers, and, according to the

analogy of nature and of art, grafts the comic on the tragic, while

it combines these opposite kinds of poetry in a fascinating whole,

in which sometimes the serious characters of the one, sometimes the

ludicrous and playful characters of the other, make their appearance.

Moreover, if the pre-eminence of Æschylus and Menander in Greece, and

that of Terence and Seneca in Rome, were sufficient to make their

rules immutable, the excellence of our Lope de Vega, the pearl of

the Manzanares, the Tully of Castile, the phoenix of our nation, so

far surpasses these in the quantity as well as the quality of his

writings, that his authority is abundantly sufficient to weigh down the

doctrine I have cited; and as he has brought comedy to the perfection

and consummate refinement in which we now behold it, we must think

ourselves fortunate in having such a teacher, and zealously defend

his school of poetry against its passionate antagonists. For when he

says, in many passages of his writings, that he has deviated from the

rules of the ancients only out of condescension to the taste of the

multitude, this is only said from the modesty of his nature, and in

order that the malevolence of the ignorant should not ascribe that to

arrogance which is in fact aiming at perfection. But it is incumbent on

us who are his followers, for the reasons which I have enumerated, as

well as many others which I will not now allege, to look upon him as

the reformer of the new comedy, and to hold in honour modern writers as

more beautiful and more instructive than those of former ages." It is

difficult to conceive a more ingenious and solid defence of the Spanish

drama than Tellez has here put forward; and it is time to examine how

far his practice exemplifies his theory. Many of our readers will be

surprised to hear that Tirso de Molina, or Gabriel Tellez, is the first

author who brought Don Juan and the famous story of the statue-guest

upon the stage, under the title of the _Burlador de Sevilla_, or the

_Convidado de Piedra_. The name of the hero is Don Juan Tenorio. The

story still lives in the tradition of the people of Seville, in which

city the Tenorios were a distinguished race, though the name exists no

longer. It was one of the famous twenty-four, the "_veinti-cuatros_" of

Seville. The basis of the story is, that, after seducing the daughter

of the Comendador Ulloa, Don Juan killed the father, who was buried in

the convent of San Francisco. Don Juan's birth and connections placed

him above the reach of legal punishment; but the monks of San Francisco

contrived to get him within their walls, where they put him to death,

and propagated a rumour that Don Juan had gone to the chapel in which

the statue of the Comendador was placed, for the purpose of insulting

his memory, when the statue had seized him and precipitated him into

the infernal regions. Such is the legend on which rests _El Burlador

de Sevilla_. It became extremely popular in Spain, and even more so

in foreign countries. In 1620 it was transplanted to the Italian

stage. Three translations of it appeared in France, under the not very

happily chosen title of the _Festin de Pierre_; the first in 1659 by De

Villiers; the second 1661, by Dorimon; the third 1665, by Molière. In

Spain the same subject was dramatised by Zamora, in a play which still

keeps possession of the stage.

As a specimen, we subjoin a translation from one of his most amusing

plays, _The Pious Martha_, (_Martha la Piadosa_) in which long before

the Tartuffe, and in Spain, hypocrisy was exposed to ridicule. A

girl, in order to get rid of a rich and aged suitor, pretends to be

seized with a fit of piety, and an aversion to marriage. Her father,

after some little resistance, allows her to follow the bent of her

inclination without restraint, under pretence of visiting the sick

in hospitals. She contrives to obtain repeated interviews with her

favoured lover, who--the trait is thoroughly Spanish--has killed her

brother in a duel; and at last to procure admittance for him, under

the disguise of a palsied and penniless student, into her father's

house to teach her the Latin grammar. Some of the scenes are in the

highest vein of comedy:--one, where the student pretends to faint from

weakness, and her father desires her to hold him up, and bids him lean

upon her without scruple; another where the lady, having given vent to

her jealousy in a very vivid exclamation which her father overhears,

escapes from the detection of her hypocrisy by pretending that the

student has said it, and that she is repeating it in anger. The

expression is tantamount to "By heavens!" (_vive Dios_;) and the father

tells her she is too severe. The lover pretends that his feelings are

too much hurt for him to stay any longer in the house: the father

desires the daughter to appease him; and with wit equal to Molière,

the girl, in her father's presence, goes down on her knees before her

lover, and kisses his hand, which is the only condition upon which he

has said that he will remain.

_Martha._--Forgive me, brother,--stay.

_Felip._--Yes, if you kiss upon your knees my hand.

(_Martha kneels._)

_Martha._--This is an act to mortify the flesh.

_The Father._--What matchless virtue!

_Martha_, (_aside_.)--Were I to say the truth, the kiss was honey.

As a farther specimen of Molina's style, we subjoin the following

translation. The lover and his friend Pastrana, a man full of dry

caustic wit, are present at a bull-fight. The following dialogue

ensues:--

_Pastrana._--Think not to see me at the bull-fight here,

Unless indeed upon the platform perched,

Or looking from a window.

_Felip._--Friend Pastrana,

That is a woman's post, and not a man's,

Unless he's wool and water. Let us dare

What fate may bring us, so may we acquire

Perchance eternal blazon and renown.

_Pastrana._--No, brother; death sits on the pointed horn.

_Felip._--Talk not so fondly; but that well I know

Your lofty spirit and your courage tried,

I'd call it cowardice.

_Pastrana._--I give you leave.

Call my resolve by any name you please,

So long as we remain no longer here.

_Felip._--And can it be that you, who swallow men,

Now tremble at a beast?

_Pastrana._--'Tis true, indeed.

Wonder at my opinion as you may,

To fight with two men, or with three men, oft

Is valour rather than temerity.

Since courtesy or valour furnish means

Of safety--and much more the cunning art

Taught by Cararvza of the dextrous thrust,

Strait or oblique--the science of revenge.

Then one may say, if one is hardly pressed,

"Sir, my experience shows me, that your worship

Is an epitome of human valour;

So I will never haunt this street again,

Nor speak with Donna Mencia any more.

And if you will accept me as a friend,

My services attend you from this day."

Words soft as these control a gentleman--

Money the robber. If your foe be brave,

He must to greater pride and courage yield.

In short, there's always hope, however fierce

His wrath and keen his passion for revenge,

To soothe the fury of the incensed _man_,

If he be one whom gold or breeding win.

But when a _bull_ has rent your cloak to shreds,

And bellows at the shoulders of its owner,

In hot pursuit--then try your time--advance,

And whisper in the yelling monster's ear,

"Sir Bull, a gentle bearing sets off valour--

Put some restraint upon your boiling rage.

Indeed, that constant tossing of the head

Can only suit a madman or a fool."

And you will see the fruit of your advice.

Offer your friendship to him, turn your head,

You'll find the light at once shine through your back,

Through two clear holes, each half a yard in length.

But the most popular play of this great writer, and one which is always

received with the most rapturous applause, is _Gil de las Calzas

Verdes_, (_Gil of the Green Trousers_.) A lady has been abandoned

by her lover for a rich beauty of Madrid. She calls herself Don

Gil--follows him thither, dresses herself in male attire, of which the

green trousers are the most conspicuous part--torments him with letters

from the convent where he supposes her to be, describing her suffering,

her illness, and at last her death; interrupts his remittances,

destroys his credit, carries off his mistress, who falls desperately

in love with her; thwarts him at every turn; obliges him to believe

that he is really haunted by the ghost of her whom he has wronged; and

at last causes him to be arrested for her murder. The rage, amazement,

confusion, repentance and despair of the faithless lover are portrayed

in the most brilliant colours. Do what he will, mean what he will,

attempt what he will, Gil of the Green Trousers, though invisible, has

been beforehand with him. He goes to his bankers: the check is paid to

Don Gil of the Green Trousers. He endeavours to mislead his intended

father-in-law: the plot is unravelled by Don Gil of the Green Trousers.

He tries to soften his mistress: she raves of nothing but Don Gil

of the Green Trousers. As Don Gil is so successful with his green

trousers, other suitors of the Madrid lady dress in green trousers, and

assume his name in the dark under her window. There are at one time

four persons in the street, each calling himself Gil with the Green

Trousers. The faithless suitor of the true Gil is one of them. His

rival challenges him; but no sooner does the challenged see the fatal

garment, than his conscience smites him, and he addresses his furious

rival as the ghost of his injured mistress.

"O soul most innocent! by that sweet love

Which once thou cherished for me, and which now

Delights my memory, I charge thee, rest

My punishment, thy rigour, are complete

If haply to disturb my present love,

Thou hast assumed a body here on earth,

And at Madrid calling thyself Don Gil,

In such attire, and bearing such a name,

Dost meditate to wreak revenge on me,

* * * * *

O cease, blest spirit! from thy fierce pursuit."

The other lover, who hears this grotesque invocation, thinks it a mere

trick of his rival to escape a duel, and overwhelms him with every

epithet of abuse.

The play ends by the marriage of Don Gil with her fickle suitor.

We are almost ashamed to add, that this was the favourite play of

Ferdinand VII., and was ordered for him on all solemn occasions by

the municipality of Madrid. Without the refinement of Calderon or

Lope de Vega, Molina surpasses both in his verve and gaiety. His

satire is unlimited; it spares neither the authorities of earth,

nor the ministers of heaven--nay, it does not even spare the great

national amusement. Epigram after epigram is poured out upon every

object that attracts his notice; his brilliant and sparkling wit is

inexhaustible; and his "malice" as boundless as it is subtle. Of all

French writers, it has been said, by a very competent judge, that he

resembles Beaumarchais most closely; and however strange it may seem,

that the Spanish monk of the seventeenth century should bear so close

an analogy to the Parisian _bel esprit_ of the eighteenth, the remark

is undoubtedly correct. We have dwelt more especially on this writer,

because he is not well known in Europe, and because even Mr Ticknor, in

his accurate and valuable work on Spanish literature--a work we hail

both for what it proves, and for what it makes us expect, with the

greatest delight--has failed to do him complete justice. Shack seems

to us to have appreciated him more justly in his excellent and useful

dissertation. But our limits are exhausted for the present.

MODERN STATE TRIALS.[2]

PART II.

Impelled by motives which we own to be with difficulty effectively

justifiable, and which we must resolve into an overmastering anxiety

to behold how doomed human nature can confront terror-inspiring

circumstances, felt sufficient to palsy one's own soul, we found

ourselves, on Sunday morning, the 5th of July 1840, in the front seat

of the stranger's gallery in the Chapel of Newgate, in order to hear

the condemned sermon preached to Benjamin Courvoisier, and witness

the demeanour of one who was to be publicly strangled on the ensuing

morning, and in the ensuing evening buried within the precincts of the

prison. Callous must he have been who could witness the scene of that

morning without being profoundly affected. It was the house of God;

and yet, (with reverence be the allusion made,) in one sense, alas! a

_den of thieves_--of outcasts from society; whose laws they had, or

were charged with having, disregarded and openly violated. Some were

there under the pressure of violent suspicion--amounting to a moral,

soon to pass into a legal, certainty--of various kinds and degrees

of guilt: others bore the blighting brand of established crime, and

were suffering, or about to suffer, its penalty. With what feelings

would they enter the house of Him who is of purer eyes than to behold

iniquity--to Whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from

Whom no secrets are hid! Would any of that guilty throng take their

places there, brutally ignorant, indifferent, reckless, or desperate?

Would their polluted souls be swelling with ill-suppressed feelings

of impiety and blasphemy? Would any approach with broken and contrite

spirits, having been shaken, by the stern hand of offended human law

alone, out of a life's lethargy and insensibility? How would the holy

accents of warning, of expostulation, of mercy, of dread denunciation,

sound in the ears of those who were presently to fill that dismal

chapel--dismal, only from its locality, and the character of its

occupants? With what feelings would _one_ enter--the death-doomed--for

whom, and for whom alone, was reserved that solitary, central, ominous

black bench? who was so terribly far advanced in his passage from a

human tribunal to that of the dread Eternal!--on whose brow already

faintly glistened the dread twilight between here and hereafter,--the

black night of time breaking before the dawning of an eternal day!

They come! Yonder gallery, curtained off, is filling with the female

prisoners; no sounds audible but their rustling dresses, and perhaps a

half-choked sigh or sob. It is well, poor souls! that you are hidden

from the public gaze--from the rude eye of your male comrades in crime!

_They_ are now entering below, silent and orderly, the eye of the

governor upon them, as they are led by burly turnkeys and inspectors

to their appropriate places, classed as untried and convicted--the

latter according to their respective kinds and degree of punishment.

All, at length, are seated. What an assemblage! Almost all clad in

prison costume; many with sullen, determined countenances--others

with harassed features and downcast look--one or two exhibiting

unequivocally an air of insolent and reckless defiance--but all

conscious of the stern surveillance under which they sate. Alas,

_those boys!_ some already, others about to be, condemned--all gazing,

terror-struck, at the black seat in the centre!

The chaplain enters the desk immediately under the pulpit, which,

attached to the blank wall, faces the communion-table. _He_, also,

casts an ominous glance at the black bench before him, in the centre

of the floor, to which all faces are directed, amidst moody and

troubled silence. At length a door on the left is heard being unbolted;

a turnkey enters, followed by the great criminal--one whose name was

ringing in the ears of the public--one on whom every eye is instantly

fixed with sickening intensity. It is Courvoisier--the monster who, a

few weeks before, had barbarously murdered his sleeping lord!--He was

led to his seat, a glass of water being placed near him, in case of his

faintness, and on one side of him sate a turnkey. Courvoisier knelt

down; and then, a prayer-book having been given him, (which he held in

an untrembling hand,) took his seat, not far from the reading-desk,

covering his eyes for a few moments with his left hand. His demeanour

was signally calm and self-possessed, and his motions were deliberate.

He was a man about twenty-four years of age. His countenance wore such

an expression of pensive good-nature and docility, as rendered it a

consolatory reflection that he had unequivocally and spontaneously

confessed the fiendish act of which the law had pronounced him guilty,

and for which, under holy sanctions, it was on the morrow to take away

his life.[3] Yes--there he sate, where we had seen sitting, also, his

blood-stained predecessor Greenacre; and, moreover, Fauntleroy the

forger; also a young banker's clerk--a widowed mother's sole support,

her only child--for forging a trifling check. Alas, alas! how he wept

during the whole service!--but how calmly he behaved the next morning

on the gallows!

After gazing long and earnestly on the central figure in the gloomy

picture, our eyes were casually attracted by a very different

one,--that of a youth sitting on the steps of the altar, as though he

had been a privileged spectator. We regarded him as a friend of some

subordinate functionary of the gaol. He seemed a silly, vulgar, little

dandy, who had put on his very best clothes for the occasion. He looked

about eighteen or nineteen years old, and was of slender figure, and a

little under the average height. His hair was full and curly--displayed

in a very affected style. He wore a sort of second-hand blue surtout

with velvet collar, a black satin stock, a light figured waistcoat,

and light slate-coloured trousers--the latter a trifle too short, and

strained down by a pair of elongated straps, so as to reach as nearly

as possible to the brightly-polished boots. Beside him was a hat,

of which he seemed very careful, and smoothed it round delicately,

once or twice, with his hand. His eyes were quick, and inquisitive;

and he seemed to share the interest with which others contemplated

Courvoisier. Several times, during the service, his fingers passed

jauntily through his hair, as if to dispose it effectively round

his temples. A prayer-book was handed to him, to which he seemed

tolerably attentive; but during the sermon he was evidently more

occupied with his dress than the exciting and instructive topics of

the chaplain--frequently pulling off and putting on his gloves, and

arranging different portions of his dress, as though he feared they

did not sit upon him sufficiently becomingly. When, however, the

chaplain addressed himself personally, and with fearful solemnity,

to the murderer before him, the young occupant of the altar-steps

was roused into attention, and he listened a few minutes--his eyes

fixed now on the preacher, then on the condemned. When the service

was over, Courvoisier (whose demeanour had been throughout most

satisfactory--solemn, composed, and reverent) was beckoned out to

the door through which he had entered, and he obeyed, walking with

complete self-possession.--We had looked our last on him!--"Do you see

that young fellow on the altar-steps?--do you know who he is?" said

a gentleman who approached us for the purpose. "No; he seems a vulgar

little puppy," we exclaimed, "whoever he may be." "It is Oxford, who

shot at the Queen, and is to be tried this week!" was the reply; and

while we turned round to gaze at him, he was in the act of quitting the

chapel, holding his hat very carefully, and gazing towards the gallery

with an expression of cheerful inquisitiveness. Had it occurred to him

that, in all human probability, a week or two would behold _him_ an

occupant of the black bench just quitted by the murderer?

Yes! that was Edward Oxford, the little caitiff, first of a small

and ignominious series of similar ones, who had, on the preceding

9th of June, twice deliberately fired at his young Queen, as she was

driving, in fancied security, with her consort, up Constitution Hill,

and on each occasion apparently with ball! The following was his own

free-and-easy account of the matter, on being examined before the Privy

Council:--

"A great many witnesses against me. Some say I shot with my left,

others with my right. They vary as to the distance. After I had

fired the first pistol, Prince Albert got up, as if he would jump

out of the coach, and sate down again, as if he thought better of

it. Then I fired the second pistol. This is all I shall say at

present."

(Signed) "EDWARD OXFORD."

In the case of this young miscreant, (for it is difficult to speak

of him temperately,) however, was, within four days' time, to be

resolved a problem of unspeakable difficulty and moment, by such means

as the law of the country could command,--viz., responsibility or

irresponsibility for criminal acts, according to the state of mind

existing at the time of committing them. It is needless to affirm

that this is a question of public, permanent, universal interest;

one in which every individual, young or old, _may_ become personally

concerned; one which no humane jurist, practical or speculative,

can approach without lively anxiety; one worthy of frequent and

deep consideration by every one concerned in the administration of

criminal justice. To punish an individual utterly unconscious of the

difference between right and wrong at the time of committing the

alleged crime, shocks one's sense of natural justice, and confounds

all the principles on which it can be administered by man. How can we

hang a maniac who, in a paroxysm of madness, kills the keeper who was

endeavouring to soothe or to restrain him? Or one who shoots another

whom, under the veritable and sole influence of delusion, he believed

to be in the act of killing _him_, and that he was therefore acting

solely in self-defence? These are plain cases, as stated; but still

they require, of course, very clear proof of the facts from which the

law is to deduce a perfect irresponsibility for his acts. The subject

is one environed with immense practical difficulties, which are

often unexpectedly visible in applying apparently clear and correct

principles to simple combinations of fact. The most sagacious judges,

the most conscientious juries, have grievously miscarried in such

cases; some sending persons to the scaffold under circumstances far

weaker than those held by others demonstrative of irresponsibility,

and, consequently, demanding an acquittal. Many painful and dreadful

cases might be cited; but two shall suffice. In the year 1837, an

industrious, affectionate, poverty-stricken father strangled his four

children, avowedly to prevent their being turned into the streets.

They all slept in one room. Having strangled two, he left the room;

but, after meditating for some time, came to the conclusion that he

might as well be hanged for killing all four; on which he returned,

and strangled the other two--having shaken hands with them before he

did it! He then quitted the house, and went to a neighbour's, to whom

he did not mention what he had done; but on being apprehended the next

day, and taken before the coroner, he confessed the above facts. No

witness had ever observed a trace of insanity about him. The physician

to a lunatic asylum offered to prove that the prisoner's grandmother

and sister had been under his care, the latter for entertaining a

desire to destroy herself and her children--evidence which the judge

rejected; and under his direction the jury convicted, and he passed

sentence of death on the prisoner.[4] In the year 1845, a young servant

girl, quiet and docile, having taken a knife from the kitchen, on

some trivial pretence, went up to the room where her master's child

lay, and killed it. She then went downstairs, and told the horrifying

fact to her master. She was quite conscious of the crime she had

committed, and showed much anxiety to know whether she would be hanged

or transported. There was not the slightest tittle of evidence that she

had been labouring under any delusion; yet she was acquitted on the

ground of insanity![5] Can anything be more grievously unsatisfactory

than such a state of things as this, in the administration of the

criminal justice of the country? One of the causes which conduced to

such results was the too ready deference paid to speculative medical

men, professing to have made disordered intellects their peculiar

study, and who came forward, from time to time, confidently and

authoritatively pronouncing that such and such circumstances indicated

unequivocally the existence of "insanity," of "moral insanity," at the

time of the act committed. Nay, they would sit in court, listening to

a detail of facts, from which they would then enter the witness-box,

and authoritatively declare their opinion that, if such were the

facts, the prisoner was _insane_, and therefore irresponsible, when

the act in question was committed! Many held that the mere absence of

assignable motive indicated such insanity! and many, that the mere

committal of the particular act should be so regarded! Notions more

dangerous and monstrous cannot be conceived. Well might the late

Mr. Baron Gurney declare, "that the defence of insanity had lately

grown to a fearful height, and the security of the public required

that it should be watched."[6] There are two Trials contained in Mr

Townsend's first volume, which afford memorable illustrations of the

difficulty with which these questions are encountered in our courts

of justice. They are those of Oxford, for shooting at the Queen, and

of M'Naughten for the murder of Mr Drummond, the private secretary of

the late Sir Robert Peel. In both cases there were acquittals, on the

alleged ground of insanity; and we take leave to intimate that, in

our opinion, there should have been convictions in both. The escape

of the cold-blooded murderer, M'Naughten, who deliberately shot his

unsuspecting victim in the back, horrified and disgusted the public.

"It had not been anticipated," says Mr Townsend, "and created a deep

feeling in the public mind, that there was some unaccountable defect

in our criminal law. People of good sense appeared panic-stricken, by

this new danger, from venturing into the London streets; and called

upon the legislature to discover some preservative against the attacks

of insane passengers in public thoroughfares."[7] Indignation was

loudly expressed in Parliament. In the House of Commons, an honourable

Irish baronet moved for leave to bring in a bill to abolish the plea

of insanity in cases of murder, except where it could be proved that

the person accused was publicly known and reputed to be a maniac; and

he asked the House to suspend the standing orders to accelerate the

progress of his bill. His motion, however, found no seconder. A similar

casualty had befallen Mr Windham, in 1800, who, in the course of a

debate which ensued in bringing in a bill to meet such cases as that

of Hadfield, (who had just been acquitted, on the ground of insanity,

from the charge of firing at George III.,) suggested that an offender,

_even if insane_, should be subjected to some sort of punishment,

for the sake of example! On the same evening in which the attempt

of Sir Valentine Blake was made in the House of Commons, the matter

was discussed anxiously in the House of Lords, by Lords Lyndhurst,

Brougham, Cottenham, Campbell, and Denman. Lord Campbell expressed

the general feeling of the House, when he said--"There may be great

difficulty in convicting persons who are not in a state of mind to

be responsible for their actions; but it is monstrous to think that

society should be exposed to the dreadful dangers to which it is at

present liable, from persons in that state of mind going at large."[8]

At length, on the suggestion of the Lord Chancellor, (Lord Lyndhurst,)

it was agreed that the judges should be called upon to declare the true

state of the criminal law on this momentous subject; and five questions

were carefully framed for that purpose, and submitted to them for grave

consideration. The following are these questions and answers--both of

which, as containing a solemn and authoritative enunciation of the law

of the land, we shall present to our readers, whom we request to give

them a careful perusal, before proceeding to read what we have to offer

on the two trials above alluded to. We are the more anxious that they

should do so, because of the recent very remarkable case of Pate, who

struck her Majesty with a cane last summer; and whose case was dealt

with in strict conformity with the rules which follow:--

QUESTION I.--"_What is the law_ respecting alleged crimes committed

by persons afflicted with insane delusion, in respect of one or

more particular subjects, or persons:--as for instance, where, at

the time of the commission of the alleged crime, the accused knew

he was acting contrary to law, but did the act complained of, with

a view, under the influence of insane delusion, of redressing or

revenging some supposed grievance or injury, or of producing some

public benefit?"

ANSWER.--"Assuming that your lordships' inquiries are confined

to those persons who labour under such partial delusions only,

and are not in other respects insane, we are of opinion, that,

notwithstanding the party did the act complained of with a view,

under the influence of insane delusion, of redressing or revenging

some supposed grievance or injury, or of producing some public

benefit, he is nevertheless punishable according to the nature of

the crime committed, if he knew, at the time of committing such

crime, that he was acting contrary to law; by which expression we

understand your Lordship to mean the law of the land."

QUESTIONS II. and III. (1.)--"What are the proper questions to be

submitted to the jury, when a person alleged to be afflicted with

insane delusion, respecting one or more particular subjects or

persons, is charged with the commission of a crime (murder, for

example) and insanity is set up as a defence?"

(2.) "In what terms ought the question to be left to the jury,

as to the prisoner's state of mind at the time when the act was

committed?"

ANSWERS.--"The jury ought to be told, in all cases, that _every

man is presumed_ to be sane, and to possess a sufficient degree

of reason to be responsible for his crimes, until the contrary be

proved to their satisfaction; and that, to establish a defence on

the ground of insanity, it must be clearly proved that, at the

time of the committing of the act, the party accused was labouring

under such a defect of reason, from disease of the mind, as not to

know the nature and quality of the act he was doing; or, if he did

know it, that he did not know he was doing what was wrong. The mode

of putting the latter part of the question to the jury, on these

occasions, has generally been whether the accused, at the time of

doing the act, knew the difference between right and wrong--which

mode, though rarely if ever leading to any mistake with the jury,

is not, as we conceive, so accurate when put generally and in

the abstract, as when put to the party's knowledge of right and

wrong with respect to the very act with which he is charged. If

the question were to be put as to the knowledge of the accused,

solely and exclusively with reference to the law of the land, it

might tend to confound the jury, by inducing them to believe that

an actual knowledge of the law of the land was essential in order

to lead to a conviction, whereas the law is administered upon the

principle that every one must be taken conclusively to know it,

without proof that he does know it. If the accused was conscious

that the act was one which he ought not to do, and if that act was

at the same time contrary to the law of the land, he is punishable;

and the usual course, therefore, has been to leave the question

to the jury--whether the party accused had a sufficient degree of

reason to know that he was doing an act that was wrong; and this

course, we think, is correct, accompanied with such observations

and explanations as the circumstances of each particular case may

require."

QUESTION IV.--"If a person, under an insane delusion as to the

existing facts, commits an offence in consequence thereof, is he

thereby excused?"

ANSWER.--"The answer must of course depend on the nature of the

delusion; but making the same assumption as we did before--that

he labours under such partial delusion only, and is not in other

respects insane--we think he must be considered in the same

situation, as to responsibility, as if the facts with respect to

which the delusion exists were real. For example--if, under the

influence of his delusion, he supposes another man to be in the act

of attempting to take away his life, and he kills that man, as he

supposes, in self-defence, he would be exempt from punishment. If

his delusion were that the deceased had inflicted a serious injury

to his character and fortune, and he killed him in revenge for such

supposed injury, he would be liable to punishment."

QUESTION V.--"Can a medical man, conversant with the disease of

insanity, who never saw the prisoner previously to the trial, but

who was present during the whole trial and the examination of

all the witnesses, he asked his opinion as to the state of the

prisoner's mind at the time of the commission of the alleged crime,

or his opinion whether the prisoner was conscious, at the time of

doing the act, that he was acting contrary to law, or whether he

was labouring under any and what delusion at the time?"

ANSWER.--"We think the medical man, under the circumstances

supposed, cannot in strictness be asked his opinion in the terms

above stated; because each of those questions involves the

determination of the truth of the facts deposed to, which it is for

the jury to decide; and the questions are not mere questions upon a

matter of science, in which case such evidence is admissible. But

where the facts are admitted, or not disputed, and the question

becomes substantially one of science only, it may be convenient to

allow the question to be put in that general form, though the same

cannot be insisted on as a matter of right."

Such being the authoritative enunciation of the law by its legitimate

exponents, which superseded the necessity of legislative interference,

it is right to observe that it has by no means satisfied the professors

of medical jurisprudence, and the members of the medical profession.

One of them, Mr Taylor, has observed,[9] that the law here appears to

"look for a consciousness of right and wrong, and a knowledge of the

consequences of the act." This legal test "is insufficient for the

purpose intended: it cannot, in a large majority of cases, enable us

to distinguish the insane homicide from the sane criminal.... A full

consciousness of the illegality or wrongfulness of the act may exist

in a man's mind, and yet he may be fairly acquitted on the ground of

insanity.... There _are_ no certain legal or medical rules whereby

homicidal mania may be detected. Each case must be determined by the

circumstances attending it; but the true test for irresponsibility

in these ambiguous cases appears to be, whether the individual, at

the time of committing the act, had, or had not, _a sufficient power

of control to_ govern his actions. If, from circumstances, it can

be inferred that he had this power, he should be made responsible,

and rendered liable to punishment. If, however, he was led to the

perpetration of the act by an _uncontrollable_ impulse, whether

accompanied by deliberation or not, then he is entitled to an acquittal

as an irresponsible agent."[10] This doctrine is utterly repudiated,

however, by our judges, as will appear from two very decisive

instances. In directing the jury, in Pate's case, in July last, Mr

Baron Alderson thus somewhat sarcastically disposed of the dangerous

plea of "uncontrollable impulse."--"The law does not recognise such

an impulse. If a person was aware that it was a wrong act he was

about to commit, he was answerable for the consequences. _A man might

say that he picked a pocket from some incontrollable impulse; and in

that case the law would have an incontrollable impulse to punish him

for it!_" Another acute and eminent judge, Baron Rolfe, on a recent

occasion, in trying a boy aged twelve years, for deliberately and

cunningly poisoning his aged grandfather, thus gravely dispelled this

favourite delusion of the medical jurists.--"The witnesses called for

the defence had described the prisoner as acting from 'uncontrollable

impulse.' In my opinion, such evidence ought to be scanned by juries

with very great jealousy and suspicion, _because it may tend to the

perfect justification of every crime that may be committed_. What is

the meaning of not being able to resist moral influence? Every crime

is committed under an influence of such a description, and the object

of the law is to compel persons to control these influences. If it be

made an excuse for a person who has committed a crime, that he has

been goaded to it by some impulse, which medical men may choose to

say he could _not_ control, I must observe, that such a doctrine is

fraught with very great danger to society." This stern and sound good

sense prevailed; and the youthful murderer was convicted. We have

been thus full and distinct in explaining the wholesome doctrine of

our English law, because of its immense importance; and we desire it

to be understood, far and wide, especially by the medical profession,

that these fashionable but dangerous modern paradoxes, borrowed from

Continental physicians, concerning _the co-existence of moral insanity_

with intellectual sanity, will not be tolerated in English courts of

justice.

Let us now proceed to deal with the two remarkable cases of Oxford and

M'Naughten--the former of whom was placed at the bar of the Old Bailey

four days after the execution of Courvoisier.

It is unspeakably painful, and humiliating, and disgusting, to reflect

that our Queen, who has always shown a disposition to intrust herself

unreservedly among her subjects, should have been subjected to no

fewer than five public outrages--the last of which inflicted actual

injury on the royal person,--that of a lady, a young queen, ascending

the throne of this mighty empire at the age of eighteen!--outrages

in every instance perpetrated by despicable beings of the male sex,

properly characterised by Mr Townsend as "crazed knaves, or imbecile

monomaniacs." First came, on the 10th June 1840, Edward Oxford, aged

nineteen; then, on the 30th May 1842, John Francis, aged twenty; then,

on the 3d July 1842, John William Bean, a deformed stripling aged

seventeen; then, on the 19th May 1849, William Hamilton; finally--God

grant that the degraded series may never be increased!--on the 27th

June 1850, Robert Pate--alas! a gentleman of birth and fortune, and who

had recently borne her Majesty's commission!

We shall place our readers, briefly and distinctly, in possession of

the state of the law applicable to wilfully injuring, or attempting to

injure the royal person. Its progress is painfully interesting. The

attempt to inflict, and the actual infliction of such injury, are of

course high treason; both the trial and punishment being attended, till

recently, with all the solemn formalities of high treason as explained

in our last Number. This heinous offence comes under the first head

of the statute of treason, (25 Edward III. c. 2,) viz., "When a man

doth _compass or imagine_[11] the death of our Lord and King." By

"compass and imagine" is signified the purpose or design of the mind

or will, evidenced by an open or _overt_ act. On the 15th May 1800,

James Hadfield fired a horse-pistol, loaded with two slugs, at King

George III., as he was entering his box at Drury Lane Theatre.[12]

He was tried for high treason in the Court of Queen's Bench, and

defended by Mr Erskine with splendid eloquence.[13] He was acquitted

on the ground of insanity, committed at once to Bedlam, and died there

in January 1841, after forty years' incarceration. In the course of

his defence, Mr Erskine made an observation which led to an immediate

interposition of the legislature. In speaking of the state of the law

which interposed protective delay in cases of high treason, Mr Erskine

observed: "Where the intent charged affected _the political character_

of the sovereign, the delay, and all the other safeguards provided,

were just and necessary; but a mere murderous attack on the King's

person, not at all connected with his political character, seemed a

case to be ranged and dealt with like a similar attack upon any private

man."[14] On the 28th July in the same year, were passed statutes 39

and 40 Geo. III. c. 93, carrying out Mr Erskine's judicious suggestion,

by enacting that, where the overt act of this head of treason should be

the assassination of the King, or any direct attempt against his life

or person, whereby his life might be endangered or his person suffer

bodily harm, the _trial_ should be conducted in every respect like a

simple trial for murder; but, on conviction, the sentence should be

pronounced and carried into effect as in other cases of high treason.

On the same day was passed another statute--also occasioned by the

trial of Hadfield--that in all cases of trial for treason, murder, or

felony, if evidence be given of the prisoner's insanity at the time

of the commission of the offence, and he be acquitted, the jury shall

be required to find specially whether he was insane at the time of

committing the offence, and to declare whether they acquit on account

of such insanity; and if they do, the court shall order the prisoner to

be confined in strict and safe custody during his Majesty's pleasure.

Under the former of these two wholesome statutes were tried Oxford and

Francis, the latter being convicted of having fired a pistol against

the Queen, loaded with powder and "certain other destructive materials

and substances unknown;" on which sentence of death was pronounced by

Chief-Justice Tindal, as in other cases of high treason. He sobbed

piteously[15] on being convicted; but after two consultations of the

Cabinet had been held on his case, his life was spared, in contemptuous

clemency to the worthless offender, and in deference to the humane

feelings of her Majesty, and he was transported for life. Within

almost one month after this questionable act of mercy, her Majesty was

subjected to a similar outrage--a pistol being presented towards her,

by Bean, on Sunday, as she was going to the Chapel Royal. The pistol

was cocked, and the click of the hammer against the pan was heard, but

there was no explosion; and the pistol was loaded with only powder,

wadding, and one or two minute fragments (about the size of ordinary

shot) of pipe. He was tried for misdemeanour, and sentenced to eighteen

months' imprisonment in the penitentiary; Lord Abinger remarking, at

the conclusion of the trial, that "whipping at the cart's tail should

be the petty sentence in future." The public disgust and indignation

demanded some more effectual remedy to be provided for such disgraceful

cases, should any unhappily occur in future; and within a fortnight of

Bean's conviction--viz. on the 16th July 1842--was passed statute 5 & 6

Vict. c. 51, entitled "An act for providing for the further security

and protection of her Majesty's person;" and recites the expediency of

extending the provisions of statute 39 & 40 Geo. III. c. 93, to "any

attempt to injure in any manner whatsoever the person of the Queen,"

and of "making further provision by law for the protection and security

of the person of the sovereign of these realms." It then proceeds to

enact, that--

"If any one shall wilfully discharge or attempt to discharge, or

point, aim, or present, at or near to the person of the Queen,

any gun, pistol, or other description of firearms, or of other

arms whatever--whether the same shall or shall not contain any

explosive or destructive material; or discharge, or attempt to

discharge, any explosive substance or material near to the Queen's

person; or wilfully strike, or attempt to strike, or strike at the

Queen's person with any offensive weapon, or in any other manner

whatsoever; or wilfully throw or attempt to throw any substance,

matter, or thing whatsoever at or upon the Queen's person, with

intent to break the public peace, or whereby the public peace

may be endangered, or to alarm her Majesty; or if any person

shall, near to the Queen's person, wilfully produce or have any

gun, pistol, or other description of firearms, or other arms

whatsoever, or any explosive, destructive, or dangerous matter

or thing whatsoever, with intent to use the same to injure the

Queen's person or alarm her Majesty, the offender shall be guilty

of a high misdemeanour, and liable at the discretion of the Court

to be transported for seven years, or imprisoned with or without

hard labour for any period not exceeding three years; and during

such imprisonment to be publicly or privately whipped, as often and

in such manner and form as the Court shall direct, not exceeding

thrice."

This salutary statute (proposed by the late Sir Robert Peel) was

passed unanimously; Lord John Russell justly remarking, that "as the

offence to be punished was that of bad and degraded beings, a base and

degrading punishment was most fitly applied to it." Her Majesty enjoyed

a seven years' respite from the insufferable annoyance to which she had

been subjected--viz., till the 19th May 1849--when, about four o'clock

in the afternoon, as she was driving in an open carriage with three

of her children, a pistol was fired in the direction of the carriage

by "one William Hamilton, an Irish bricklayer." The pistol was fired

point-blank at the person of General Wemyss, one of her equerries, who

happened to be in the line of her Majesty's person. This stolid wretch

was tried on the 14th June ensuing, under the above statute, when he

pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to be transported for seven years.

Again, on the 12th of July last, it was rendered lamentably necessary

to call this statute into operation, and with the like effect as in the

preceding case: but we shall reserve our observations upon the case of

Pate till after we have completed what we have to offer on those of

Oxford and M'Naughten. We have just returned from an examination of

those two notorious persons in Bethlehem Hospital, and shall by and by

convey to the reader the result of our own careful observations, made

since the earlier portions of this article were committed to the press.

OXFORD'S CASE.

The judges who presided at the trial--which took place at the

Old Bailey, and lasted three days, (the 9th, 10th, and 11th July

1840)--were Lord Denman, Baron Alderson, and Justice Maule. The counsel

for the crown were--the Attorney and Solicitor Generals, (Sir John

Campbell and Sir Thomas Wilde), Sir Frederick Pollock, the present Mr

Justice Wightman, Mr Adolphus, and Mr Gurney; those for the prisoner

were the late Mr Sydney Taylor and Mr Bodkin. The indictment contained

two counts--respectively applicable, in precisely the same terms, to

the two acts of firing--charging that Oxford, "as a false traitor,

maliciously and traitorously did compass, imagine, and intend to put

our lady the Queen to death; and, to fulfil and bring into effect his

treason and treasonable compassing, did shoot off and discharge a

certain pistol loaded with gunpowder and a bullet, and thereby _made a

direct attempt against the life of our said lady the Queen_,"--in the

words of statute 39 and 40 Geo. III., c. 93, § 1. The trial, as already

observed, differed in no respect from an ordinary trial for felony;

and neither the Crown nor the prisoner challenged a single juryman.

"Oxford," says Mr Townsend, "stepped into the dock with a jaunty air,

and a flickering smile on his countenance; glanced at the galleries, as

if to ascertain whether he had a large concourse of spectators; and,

leaning with his elbow on the ledge of the dock, commenced playing

with the herbs[16] which were placed there before him. He kept his

gaze earnestly fixed on the Attorney-general during the whole of his

address, twirling the rue about in his fingers, and became more subdued

in manner towards the close of the speech."[17] The facts constituting

the outrage lie in a nutshell: The prisoner was seized instantly after

having discharged two pistols, as the Queen and the Prince-consort

were driving up Constitution Hill, in a low open carriage. He had been

observed, for some time before the approach of the royal carriage,

walking backwards and forewards with his arms folded under his breast.

As the carriage approached, he turned round, nodded, drew a pistol

from his breast, and discharged it at the carriage, when it was nearly

opposite to him. As it advanced, after looking round to see if he were

observed, he took out a second pistol, directed it across the other

to her Majesty, who, seeing it, stooped down; and he fired a second

time--very deliberately--at only about six or seven yards' distance.

The witnesses spoke to hearing distinctly a sharp whizzing sound "close

past their own ears." The prisoner, on seeing the person who had

snatched from him the pistols mistaken for the person who had fired,

said, "It was me--I did it. I give myself up--I will go quietly." At

the police-office he said, "Is the Queen hurt?" Some one observed,

"I wonder whether there was any ball in the pistol?" on which the

prisoner said, "If the ball had come in contact with your head, if it

were between the carriage, you would have known it." The witness who

spoke to these words appears, however, to have somewhat hesitated when

pressed in cross-examination; but he finally adhered to his statement

that the prisoner declared there were balls in the pistols. A few days

previously he had purchased the pistols for two sovereigns, about fifty

percussion-caps, a powder-flask, which, with a bullet-mould and five

bullets fitting the pistols, were found at his lodgings. He had also

been practising firing at a target, and, on purchasing the pistols,

particularly asked how far they could carry. The Earl of Uxbridge

deposed that, when he saw Oxford in his cell, he asked, "Is the Queen

hurt?" on which Lord Uxbridge said, "How dare you ask such a question?"

Oxford then stated that "he had been shooting a great deal lately--he

was a very good shot with a pistol, but a better shot with a rifle."

"You have now fulfilled your engagement," said the Earl. "No," replied

Oxford, "I have not." "You have, sir," rejoined Lord Uxbridge, "as far

as the attempt goes." To that he was silent. The most rigid search was

made to discover any bullets; but in vain. Two witnesses, gentlemen of

rank, and well acquainted with the use of firearms, spoke confidently

to having seen bullet-marks on the wall, in the direction in which

Oxford had fired; but the Attorney-general expressed his opinion

that the evidence was entitled to no weight, as probably mistaken;

declaring himself, however, positive that there must have been balls

in the pistols, but that the pistols had been elevated so high that

the balls went over the garden-wall. One of the witnesses said to the

other, immediately after seizing Oxford, "Look out--I dare say he has

some friends;" to which he replied, "You are right--I have." At his

lodgings were found some curious papers, in Oxford's handwriting,

purporting to be the rules of a secret club or society called Young

England; the first of which was, "that every member shall be provided

with a brace of pistols, a sword, a rifle, and a dagger--the two latter

to be kept at the committee-room." A list of members-_factitives_'

[sic] names were given. "Marks of distinction: Council, a large white

cockade; President, a black bow; General, three red bows; Captain,

_two red bows_; Lieutenant, one red bow." There were also found in

Oxford's trunk a sword and scabbard, and a black crape cap with _two

red_ bows--one of the "rules" requiring every member to be armed with

a brace of loaded pistols, and to be provided with a black crape

cap to cover his face, with his marks of distinction outside. Three

letters were also found in his pocket-book, addressed to himself at

three different residences, purporting to be signed by "A. W. Smith,

_secretary_," and to contain statements of what had taken place, or

was to take place, at the secret meetings of the society. They were

all headed "Young England," and dated respectively "16th May 1839,"

"14th Nov. 1839," and "3d April 1840." Oxford said he had intended

to destroy these papers in the morning, before he went out, but had

forgotten it. All these papers--the "rules" and letters--were sworn by

Oxford's mother to be _in his own handwriting_; and it should have been

mentioned that there was not a tittle of evidence adduced to show that

there were, in fact, any such society in existence, or any such persons

as these papers would have indicated; nor, up to the present moment,

has there been the least reason for believing that such was the case.

Thus closed the case for the Crown, undoubtedly a very formidable

one. No attempt was made by the prisoner's counsel--who appear to

have conducted the defence temperately and judiciously--to alter by

evidence the position of the proved facts; which, therefore, were

allowed to stand before the jury as almost conclusively establishing

the case of high treason. Mr Taylor, however, strongly impaired the

Attorney-general's notion that there had been in the pistols balls,

which had gone over the wall; because his own witnesses had spoken

decisively to the bullet-marks on the wall; yet no flattened balls had

been produced, after all the search that had been made. Mr Taylor,

therefore, inferred that the pistols had contained powder only: "a

great outrage, unquestionably, but still not the _treason_ charged."

There was, again, he contended, there could have been, no _motive_

for killing the Queen; and the idea of the Treasonable Society was

mere moonshine--a pure invention concocted by a lunatic--one who had

inherited insanity, and himself exhibited the proofs of its existence:

for Mr Taylor undertook to prove the insanity of Oxford's grandfather,

his father, and himself. The proof broke down as far as concerned

the grandfather, a sailor in the navy; for it was clear that his

alleged violent eccentricities had been exhibited when he was under

the influence of liquor. The insanity of Oxford's father was sought

to be established by his widow, the mother of the prisoner. If her

story, "told with unfaltering voice and unshaken nerve," were correct,

her husband had undoubtedly been a very violent and brutal fellow,

with a dash of madness in his composition. It is possible that the

mother, in her anxiety to save her son from a traitor's death on the

scaffold, had, by a _quasi pia fraus_, too highly coloured her deceased

husband's conduct. If this were not so, she had indeed been an object

of the utmost sympathy. He forced her to marry him, she said, by

furious threats of self-destruction if she did not: he burnt a great

roll of banknotes to ashes in her presence, because she had refused,

or hesitated, to become his wife. He used to terrify her, during her

pregnancies, by hideous grimaces, and apish tricks and gesticulations:

the results being that her second child was born, and within three

years' time died, an idiot. Her husband pursued the same course during

her pregnancy with the prisoner, and presented a gun at her head. The

prisoner had always been a headstrong, wayward, mischievous, eccentric

youth--subject to fits of involuntary laughing and crying. He was

absurdly vain, boastful, and ambitious; and wished his mother to send

him to sea, where he would have nothing to do but walk about the deck,

give orders, and by and by become Admiral Sir Edward Oxford! This was

the utmost extent of the _facts_ alleged in support of the defence of

insanity. The prisoner's whole life had been traced--in evidence--while

he was at school, and in three distinct services; and he had never

been confined, or in any way treated as mad. His sister spoke to his

going out on the day of the outrage, and detailed a conversation

evincing no symptoms of wandering. He used to have books from the

library--"The Black Pirate," "Oliver Twist," and "Jack Sheppard." On

leaving home that day, about three o'clock in the afternoon, he told

his sister that he was going to the Shooting Gallery to buy some linen

for her to make him some shirts, and to bring home some tea from a

particular shop in the Strand. A nur-sery-maid to whom he had written

a ludicrously-addressed letter a few weeks before, said, "I considered

him in a sound state of mind, but sometimes very eccentric:" than

which, no words were fitter to characterise the true scope and tendency

of all the evidence which had been offered to prove him insane. Of that

evidence, according to the genius and spirit, and also the letter of

English law, twelve intelligent jurymen were the proper judges, under

judicial guidance; and greatly to be deprecated is any attempt to

deprive them of their right, and their fellow-subjects--the public at

large--of the protection afforded by its unfettered exercise.

We therefore earnestly beg the reader to assume that he is given credit

for an average degree of intelligence, and only a moderate amount of

moral firmness--to imagine himself a juryman, charged with the solution

of this critical problem. We ask--On the facts now laid before you, do

you believe Oxford to have been no more conscious of, or accountable

for, his actions, in twice deliberately firing at the Queen, than would

have been a baby accidentally pulling the trigger of a loaded pistol,

and shooting its fond incautious mother or affectionate attendant?

If Oxford, instead of shooting at the Queen, had shot himself that

afternoon: would you, being sworn "to give a just and true verdict

_according to the evidence_," have pronounced him insane--totally

unconscious and irresponsible? Would you have declared him such, if

required to say _ay_ or _no_ to that question on a commission of

lunacy? Would you have declared his marriage, on that afternoon, null

and void, on the ground of his insanity? Would you have declared his

will void? or any contract, great or small, which he had entered into?

Would you have declared his vote, in a municipal or parliamentary

election, invalid? If he had committed some act of petty pilfering

or cheating, would you have deliberately absolved him from guilt on

the ground of insanity? Would you, in each and every one of these

cases, have declared, upon your oath, that you believed Oxford was

"_labouring under such a defect of reason, from disease of the mind,

as not to know the nature and quality of the act he was doing,--or,

if he did know it, that he did not know he was doing wrong_?"[18] We

entreat you to forget altogether the enormity of the offence imputed to

Oxford--an attempt to take the life of his Queen: dismiss it, and all

consideration of consequences, as a disturbing force, and address your

reason exclusively to the question last proposed. What would be your

sworn answer? We beg you also to bear in mind from whom has proceeded

the chief evidence in support of the defence of insanity--a mother,

seeking to rescue her son from the fearful death of a traitor; and that

the attempt to impugn his mental sanity is not made till after such a

terrible occasion has arisen for doing so. Had it been their interest

to establish _his sanity_, in order to uphold a will of his bequeathing

them a large sum of money, who sees not how all their evidences of

insanity would have melted into thin air, and the attempt to magnify

and distort petty eccentricities into such, have been branded as cruel,

unjust, and disgraceful?

But there came five doctors on the scene, and at their approach the

light of reason was darkened. These astute personages--mysterious

in their means of knowledge, and confident in their powers of

extinguishing the common sense of both judges and jury--came to

demonstrate that the unfortunate young gentleman at the bar was no

more the object of punishment than the unconscious baby aforesaid;

no more aware of the nature and consequences of the act which he had

done than is the torch with which a haystack is fired, or the bullet,

cannonball, or dagger with which life is taken away! But let them speak

for themselves--these wise men of Gotham--these confident disciples of

the "_couldn't help it_" school!

FIRST DOCTOR.--_Question_ by the prisoner's counsel and the

Court--"Supposing a person, in the middle of the day, without any

suggested motive, to fire a loaded pistol at her Majesty, passing

along the road in a carriage; to remain on the spot; to declare

he was the person who did it; to take pains to have that known;

and afterwards to enter freely into discussion, and answer any

questions put to him on the subject: would you, from those facts

alone, judge a person to be insane?"

_Answer._--"I should."

THE COURT.--"You mean to say, upon your oath, that if you heard

these facts stated, you should conclude that the person would be

mad?"

THE DOCTOR.--"I do."

THE COURT.--"Without making any other inquiry?"

THE DOCTOR.--"Yes!... If, as a physician, I was employed to

ascertain whether a person in whom I found these facts was sane or

insane, I should undoubtedly give my opinion that he was insane."

THE COURT.--"As a physician, you think every crime, plainly

committed, to be committed by a madman?"

THE DOCTOR.--"Nothing of the kind; but a crime committed under all

the circumstances of the hypothesis!"

As to the hypothesis proposed, the reader will not have failed to

observe how inapplicable it was to the proved facts. Oxford certainly

"remained on the spot" because he could not possibly have got away;

there being a high wall on one side, high park railings on the other,

and an infuriate crowd, as well as the Queen's attendants, on all

sides. He also certainly "declared he was the person who did it;" but

how absurd to deny what so many had witnessed?

SECOND DOCTOR.--He is asked the same question which had been

proposed to the first Doctor, with the addition of "hereditary

insanity being in the family" of the person concerned.

_Answer._--"I should consider these circumstances of strong

suspicion; but other facts should be sought before one could be

warranted in giving a positive opinion."

_Question_ by the Prisoner's Counsel.--"Are there instances on

record of persons becoming suddenly insane, whose conduct has been

previously only eccentric?"

_Answer._--"Certainly. Supposing, in addition, that there was

previous delusion, my opinion would be that he is unsound. Such a

form of insanity exists, and is recognised."

_Question_ by the Counsel for the Crown.--"What form of insanity do

you call it?"

_Answer._--"Lesion of the will--insanity connected with the

development of the will. It means more than a loss of control over

the conduct--morbid propensity. Moral irregularity is the result of

that disease. Committing a crime without any _apparent_ motive is

an indication of insanity!" ...

_Question_ by the Court.--"Do you conceive that this is really a

_medical_ question at all, which has been put to you?"

_Answer._--"I do: I think medical men have more means of forming an

opinion on that subject than other persons."

_Question._--"Why could not _any_ person form an opinion, from the

circumstances which have been referred to, whether a person was

sane or insane?"

_Answer._--"Because it seems to require a careful comparison of

particular cases, more likely to be looked to by medical men, who

are especially experienced in cases of unsoundness of mind."

THIRD DOCTOR.--"I have 850 patients under my care in a lunatic

asylum. I have seen and conversed with the prisoner. In my opinion

he is of unsound mind. I never saw him in private more than once,

and that for perhaps half-an-hour, the day before yesterday; and

I have been in court the whole of yesterday and this morning.

These are the notes of my interview with him:--'A deficient

understanding; shape of the anterior part of the head, that which

is generally seen when there has been some disease of the brain

in early life. An occasional appearance of acuteness, but a

total inability to reason. Singular insensibility as regards the

affections. Apparent incapacity to comprehend moral obligations--to

distinguish right from wrong. Absolute insensibility to the

heinousness of his offence, and the peril of his situation. Total

indifference to the issue of the trial; acquittal will give him

no particular pleasure, and he seems unable to comprehend the

alternative of his condemnation and execution: his offence, like

that of other imbeciles who set fire to buildings, &c., without

motive, except a vague pleasure in mischief. Appears unable to

conceive anything of future responsibility.'"

_Question_ by the Court.--"Did you try to ascertain _whether he was

acting a part_ with you, or not?"

_Answer._--"I tried to ascertain it as well as I possibly could. My

judgment is formed on all the circumstances together."

FOURTH DOCTOR.--To the same general question put to first and

second Doctor.--

_Answer._--"An exceedingly strong indication of unsoundness of

mind. A propensity to commit acts without an apparent or adequate

motive, under such circumstances, is recognised as a particular

species of insanity, called _lesion_ of the will: it has been

called moral insanity."

_Question._--"From the conversation you have had with the prisoner,

and your opportunity of observing him, what do you think of his

state of mind?"

_Answer._--"Essentially unsound: there seems a mixture of

insanity with imbecility. Laughing and crying are proofs of

imbecility--assisting me to form my opinion.... When I saw him, I

could not persuade him that there had been balls in the pistols--he

insisted that there were none. He was indifferent about his mother

when her name was mentioned. His manner was very peculiar: entirely

without acute feeling or acute consciousness--lively, brisk,

smart--perfectly natural--not as if he were acting, or making the

least pretence. The interview lasted about three quarters of an

hour."

LAST DOCTOR.--"A practising surgeon for between three and four

years. Had attended the prisoner's family."

_Question._--"What is your opinion as to his state of mind?"

_Answer._--"Decidedly that of imbecility--more imbecility than

anything: he is decidedly, in my judgment, of unsound mind.

His mother has often told me there was something exceedingly

peculiar about him, and asked me what I thought. The chief thing

that struck me was his involuntary laughing: he did not seem to

have that sufficient control over the emotions which we find in

sane individuals. In Newgate, he had great insensibility to all

impressions sought to be made on him. His mother once rebuked him

for some want of civility to me; on which he jumped up in a fury,

at the moment alarming me, and saying 'he would stick her.' I think

that was his expression."

Questioned by the Counsel for the Crown.--"I never prescribed for

the prisoner, nor recommended any course of treatment, conduct,

or diet whatever. I never gave, nor was asked for any advice. I

concluded the disease was mental--one of those weak minds which,

under little excitement, might become overthrown."

With every due consideration for these five gentlemen, as expressing

themselves with undoubted sincerity and conscientiousness; with the

sincerest respect for the medical profession, and a profound sense

of the perplexities which its honourable and able members have to

encounter in steering their course, when called upon to act in

cases of alleged insanity--encountering often equally undeserved

censure and peril for interfering and for not interfering--we beg

to enter our stern and solemn protest on behalf of the public, and

the administration of the justice, against such "_evidence_ of

insanity" as we have just presented to the reader. It may really be

stigmatised as "The safe committal of crime made easy to the plainest

capacity." It proceeds upon paradoxes subversive of society. Moral

insanity? Absurd misnomer! Call it rather "_im_moral insanity," and

punish it accordingly. Is it not fearful to see well-educated men

of intellect take so perverted a view of the conditions of human

society--of the duties and responsibilities of its members? Absence

of assignable motive an evidence of such insanity as should exempt

from responsibility! Inability to resist or control a motive to commit

murder a safe ground for immunity from criminal responsibility!--that

"criminal responsibility which," as the present Lord Chancellor, in

replying for the Crown in Oxford's case, justly remarked, "secures the

very existence of society."

Let us look at another aspect of this medical evidence given on this

memorable occasion. Doctor the _first_ pronounced his authoritative

decision solely on the evidence given in court: influenced, it may

be, by his having, many years before, been called in to attend the

prisoner's father when labouring under symptoms of poisoning by

laudanum. Doctor the _second_ gave merely speculative evidence,

without, as it would seem, having even seen the prisoner, and founded

solely on what passed at the trial. Doctor the _third_ never saw the

prisoner before the trial but once, and then for "_perhaps half an

hour_," on the first day of the trial, or the day before it! How potent

that half hour's observation! Doctor the _fourth_ saw the prisoner with

doctor the third, for "_perhaps three-quarters of an hour!_" Doctor the

_fifth_ was a practising surgeon of not four years' standing--owning

how "short a time he had been in practice." Let us only surrender our

understandings to this queer quinary, and we arrive at a short and easy

solution--very comfortable, indeed, for the young gentleman at the bar,

who is doubtless filled with wonder at finding how sagaciously they

saw into the thoughts which had been passing through his mind--the

precise state of his feelings, views, objects, and intentions, when he

fired at the Queen. But in the mean time we ask, can it be tolerated

that medical gentlemen should thus usurp the province of both judge

and jury? We answer, no! and shall place here on record the just

and indignant rebuke of Mr Baron Alderson to a well-known medical

gentleman, who had thus authoritatively announced his conclusion on the

recent trial of Robert Pate.