Dr----.--"From all I have heard to-day, and from my personal

observation, I am satisfied the prisoner is of unsound mind."

BARON ALDERSON.--"Be so good, Dr ----, as not to take upon yourself

the functions of both the judge and the jury. If you can give us

the results of your scientific knowledge in this point, we shall be

glad to hear you; but while I am sitting on this bench, _I will not

permit any medical witness to usurp the functions of both the judge

and the jury_."

It fell to the lot of Sir Thomas Wilde to reply for the Crown, in

Oxford's case, as in that of Frost; and he discharged the responsible

duty with his usual clearness and cogency. As to the facts,

irrespective of the question of insanity, a single sentence disposed of

them.

"What would be the condition of society--exposed as we all are to

such attacks, and the infliction of death by such means--if, with

the evidence of previous preparation of the means; the use of balls

and pistols; inquiries as to the effect of their discharge, and

whether the party was hurt, coupled with admission, incidental and

direct, of the fact that balls were in the pistols: what would be

the state of society, if evidence like this left an assassin the

chance of escape merely because the balls could not be found?"

And, with this terse summary of the proved facts before our eyes, we

ask a question of our own: What overwhelming evidence of insanity would

not an intelligent and honest juryman require, to refer such a case to

the category of criminal irresponsibility?

Sir Thomas Wilde vigorously and contemptuously crushed under foot the

mischievous sophistries of the medical evidence.

"If eccentric acts were proof of insanity, many persons who

were wrenching knockers off doors, knocking down watchmen, and

committing similar freaks, _were laying up a stock of excuses for

the commission of crimes_!"

"The trick of laughing suddenly, without cause, was so common, that

if this were token of imbecility the lunatic asylum would overflow

with gigglers!"

"The prisoner had all along displayed a morbid desire to be talked

about; and the letters and documents produced had been written with

that feeling and object. A criminal should not be permitted to

write out for himself a certificate of lunacy!"

"Was his making no attempt to escape, a proof of an unsound mind?

If he _had_ made such an attempt, it would have been a great proof

of madness! He was surrounded on all sides by the multitude. He

took such a reasonable view of his situation, as to see that he had

no chance of escape, and gave himself up quietly!"

"The prisoner had been allowed the unrestrained use of firearms and

powder, and was well acquainted with their fatal effects on human

life. Would his mother have _trusted a madman with them_? and left

her mad son in the same house with her daughter?"

"The medical men went to Newgate _pre-disposed and pre-determined

to see a madman_."

"Suppose the prisoner unfeeling, violent, indifferent to his

own fate, and preferring notoriety to any other consideration:

what evidence did that supply of his being in a state of moral

irresponsibility?--that moral irresponsibility which secured the

very existence of society."

All this surely sounds like an irresistible appeal to good sense.

Lord Denman directed the jury with corresponding clearness and

decision, and also in full conformity with the views of the

Solicitor-general, and with the subsequent annunciation of the law by

the judges.[19]

"If you think the prisoner was, _at the time_, labouring under any

delusion which prevented him from judging of the effects of the act

he had committed, you cannot find him guilty. He might, perhaps,

have been labouring under a delusion affecting _every_ part of his

conduct, and not directed to one object alone: if that were so at

the time of his firing, he could not be held accountable for it.

But if, though labouring under a delusion, he fired the loaded

pistols at the Queen, knowing the possible result--though forced

to the act by his morbid love of notoriety--he is responsible, and

liable to punishment."

"There may be cases of insanity, in which medical evidence as to

_physical_ symptoms is of the utmost consequence. But as to _moral

insanity_, I, for my own part, cannot admit that medical men have

at all more means of forming an opinion, in such a case, than are

possessed by gentlemen accustomed to the affairs of life, and

bringing to the subject a wide experience."

"The mere fact of the prisoner's going into the park, and raising

his hand against the Queen, is not to be taken as a proof of

insanity--particularly if we suppose that he is naturally reckless

of consequences. It is a mark, doubtless, of a mind devoid of right

judgment and of right feeling; but it would be a most dangerous

maxim, that the mere enormity of a crime should secure the

prisoner's acquittal, by being taken to establish his _insanity_.

Acts of wanton and dangerous mischief are often committed by

persons who _suppose_ that they have an adequate motive; but they

are sometimes done by those who have no adequate motive, and on

whom they can confer no advantage. A man may be charged with

slaying his father, his child, or his innocent wife, to whom he is

bound to afford protection and kindness; and it is most extravagant

to say that this man cannot be found guilty, because of the

enormity of his crime!"

The jury, thus charged with the principles of a humane and sound

jurisprudence, retired, and after three quarters of an hour's absence

returned with this special verdict: "We find the prisoner, Edward

Oxford, guilty of discharging the contents of two pistols; but whether

or not they were loaded with ball has not been satisfactorily proved

to us--_he being of unsound mind at the time_." In other words, "We

find that he did not fire a pistol loaded with ball because he was not

of sound mind!" They were sent back, with a mild intimation that they

had not sufficiently applied their minds to the true question--viz.,

Did the prisoner, ay or no, fire a pistol _loaded with ball_ at the

Queen? The foreman, "We cannot decide the point, because there is no

satisfactory evidence produced before us, to show that the pistols

were loaded with bullets." They retired, to return with a verdict of

"'Guilty,' or 'Not Guilty,' on the evidence." After an hour's absence

they finally brought back their verdict, "Guilty, he being at the time

insane!"

_Lord Denman._--"Do you acquit the prisoner, on the ground of

insanity?"

_Foreman of the Jury._--"Yes, my Lord; that is our intention."

_Lord Denman._--"Then the verdict will stand thus: 'Not Guilty, on

the ground of insanity.' The prisoner will be confined in strict

custody, as a matter of course."

"The prisoner," says Mr Townsend,[20] "walked briskly from the bar,

apparently glad that the tedious trial was over."

Upon the whole matter we are of opinion,--_First_, That there was

very satisfactory evidence that the pistols were loaded with ball,

and that the jury ought to have found their verdict accordingly.

_Secondly_, If they remained of opinion, to the last, that there was

no satisfactory evidence on this point, they ought unquestionably to

have pronounced the prisoner Not Guilty, independently of any question

as to the prisoner's state of mind. In Scotland, the jury would,

in such a case, have returned a verdict of _Not Proven_; but in

England, deficient evidence--_i. e._ such as leaves the jury finally

in doubt--is regarded as leaving the charge unproved, &c., requiring

the verdict of Not Guilty. _Thirdly_, The defence of insanity utterly

failed, and the evidence offered in support of it was scarcely worthy

of serious consideration. _Lastly_, It is possible that the verdict was

given--though by men anxiously desirous of acting with mingled mercy

and justice--under a condition of mental irresolution and confusion,

and with a deficiency of moral courage. The jury either shrank from

the fearful consequences of a verdict of Guilty, on a charge of

high treason, and yet feared to let the prisoner loose again upon

society; or there was a compromise between those who believed that

there _was_, and there was _not_, sufficient evidence of the pistols

having contained bullets; and also between those who were similarly

divided on the subject of the prisoner's sanity. Thus stood, thus

stands, the case; and Oxford has ever since been an inmate of Bedlam:

though Mr Taylor, to whose work on _Medical Jurisprudence_ we have

already referred, and who is a decided and able supporter of that

theory of "moral insanity" to which we, in common with all the Judges,

are so strongly opposed, admits expressly that, with the exception

of M'Naughten's case, "there is perhaps none on record, in English

jurisprudence, where the facts in support of the plea of insanity were

so slight as in that of Oxford."[21]

M'NAUGHTEN'S CASE.

The case of Daniel M'Naughten, which was tried at the Old Bailey about

two years and a half after that of Oxford--viz., on the 3d and 4th

March 1843--cannot be approached without a shudder, as one recalls the

direful deed for which he was brought to trial--the assassination of

Mr Drummond, whom the murderer had mistaken for the late Sir Robert

Peel! To a candid philosophical jurist, this case is one of profound

interest, and of considerable difficulty. The abrupt interposition of

the presiding judge, the late Chief-justice Tindal--a step very unusual

on such an occasion, and especially so in the case of that signally

patient and cautious judge--occasioned much remark at the time, and a

general, if not almost universal expression of regret that he had not

allowed a case of such magnitude to run on to the end, and so have

afforded the jury the vast advantage of hearing that consummate lawyer

Sir William Follett's commentary upon the case, set up in behalf of

the prisoner. The unexpected issue of this dreadful case led, as has

been already explained, to Parliamentary discussion, and a solemn

declaration by the assembled judges of England of the true principles

applicable to such cases. We shall not examine the proceedings as

minutely as in the case of Oxford; but we shall endeavour to enable the

thoughtful reader to apply to the leading facts the rules of law laid

down by the Judges for the conduct of these critical investigations.

He can then form an opinion as to what might have been the result, if

those principles had been strictly adhered to, and the case had gone on

to its legitimate conclusion. It will be borne in mind that, as stated

at the close of our account of Oxford's case, even Mr Taylor treats

the case of M'Naughten as an acquittal proceeding on facts, alleged in

support of the defence of insanity, "as slight as those in Oxford's

case!"

Mr Drummond, the private secretary of the late Sir Robert Peel, then

prime-minister, was returning alone to his residence in Downing Street,

having just quitted Drummond's banking-house at Charing Cross, in

the afternoon of Friday, the 20th January 1843, when a man (Daniel

M'Naughten) came close behind him, and deliberately shot him in the

back with a pistol which he had been seen to take from his left

breast. While Mr Drummond staggered away, and the man who had shot him

was seen quickly, but deliberately, taking another pistol from his

right breast with his left hand, cocking it, and then transferring

it to his right hand, he was tripped up by a police officer; and a

desperate struggle occurred on the ground, during which the pistol

went off--providentially without injuring any one. M'Naughten strove

to use his right arm against the officer, but was overpowered, the

pistols taken from him, and he was led to the station house. As he

went, he said, "_He_" [or "she"--the witness was uncertain which word

was used] _shall not break my peace of mind any longer_." On being

searched, a banker's receipt for £745, two five-pound notes, and four

sovereigns, and ten copper percussion caps fitting the nipples of

the pistols which he had discharged, were found on his person; while

bullets exactly fitting the barrels were discovered at his lodgings.

The unfortunate gentleman who had been thus assassinated, died after

great suffering, on the 25th January. He had borne a strong personal

resemblance to the late Sir Robert Peel; and it was beyond all doubt

that it had been Sir Robert Peel whom M'Naughten thought he had shot,

and had intended to shoot. On the ensuing morning, when asked if he

knew whom he had shot, he replied, "It is Sir Robert Peel, is it not?"

and on being reminded that what he said might be given in evidence, he

replied quickly, "_But you won't use this against me?_" He had shortly

before said that, when brought before the magistrate, he would "give

a reason, a short one," for what he had done; and also observed, that

he was an object of persecution by the Tories--that they followed him

from place to place with their persecution." He appeared calm; and gave

a correct and connected account of his recent travelling movements. He

was the natural son of a turner at Glasgow, from which, some months

previously, he had come to London, and had then paid a short visit to

France. Down to the moment of his committing this appalling act, he

had been a man of rigorously temperate habits; and no one with whom

he lodged or associated, entertained the slightest suspicion that his

reason was in any way affected--though he appeared peculiarly reserved,

and even sullen, which his landlady had attributed to his being out

of a situation and poor; for though punctual in his small payments,

he was frugal even to parsimony. She had no idea that he possessed

so large a sum as £750. During the previous fortnight, he had been

observed loitering so suspiciously in the neighbourhood of Sir Robert

Peel's private and official residences as to challenge inquiry, which

he parried by casual observations. In the month of November previously,

he had remarked to a companion, on being shown Sir Robert Peel's house

in Whitehall, "D----n him! Sink him!" or words to that effect. His

other remarks were perfectly rational, and his companion entertained no

notion "that his mind was disordered." The following two documents in

his handwriting, dated in the May and July preceding the murder, are

very remarkable, as indicating great caution, shrewdness, and thrift on

the part of the writer. The first was addressed to the Manager of the

Glasgow Bank, and is as follows:--

"GLASGOW, _23d May 1842_.

"Sir,--I hereby intimate to you, that I will require the money, ten

days from this date, which I deposited in the London Joint-Stock

Bank through you. The account is for £745. The account is dated

August 28th 1841, but is not numbered! As it would put me to some

inconvenience to give personal intimation, and then remain in

London till the eleven days' notice agreed upon has expired, I

trust this will be considered sufficient.

"Yours &c.,

"DANIEL M'NAUGHTEN."

Two months afterwards--viz., in July--he purchased the fatal pistols of

a gunsmith near Glasgow, giving him very precise directions as to their

make; and on the 19th of July replied to the following advertisement,

which appeared in the _Spectator_ newspaper of the 16th of July:--

OPTIONAL PARTNERSHIP.--"Any gentleman having £1000 may invest

them, on the most advantageous terms, in a very genteel business

in London, attended with no risk, with the option, within a given

period, of becoming a partner, and of ultimately succeeding to the

whole business. In the mean time, security and liberal interest

will be given for the money. Apply by letter to B. B., Mr Hilton's,

Bookseller, Penton Street, Pentonville."[22] #/

M'Naughten's answer, which here follows, cannot be too closely

scrutinised, and its general tone and tendency too anxiously weighed,

by a dispassionate judicial mind, regard being had to the evidence

hereafter to be adverted to, with reference to the alleged condition of

the writer's mind, long previously to, at, and after the date of the

letter.

"GLASGOW, _19th July 1842_.

"SIR,--My attention has been attracted to your advertisement in the

_Spectator_ newspaper, and as I am unemployed at present, and very

anxious to obtain some, I have been induced to write, requesting

you to state some particulars regarding the nature of the business

in which you are engaged. If immediate employment can be given

or otherwise, what sort of security will be given for the money,

and how much interest? I may mention that I have been engaged in

business on my own account for a few years, am under thirty years

of age, and of very active and sober habits.

"The capital which I possess has been acquired by the most vigilant

industry, but, unfortunately, does not amount to the exact sum

specified in your advertisement. If nothing less will do, I will be

sorry for it, but cannot help it; if otherwise, have the goodness

to write to me at your earliest convenience, and address, D. M. N.,

90, Clyde Street, Anderton's front land, top flat."[23]

He went to London during the same month; appears to have gone for

about a fortnight to France, returning to Glasgow; went a second time

to London in September, and resided there, in the lodgings which he

had formerly occupied, down to the day on which he shot Mr Drummond.

His landlady accurately described his habits, and stated that "she

never thought him unsettled in his mind;" and, on the very morning of

the fatal day, "did not observe anything about his manner." Such was

the tenor of all the evidence offered for the prosecution--some of it

stretching back to the years 1840, 1841, when he attended anatomical

lectures in Glasgow. A Writer to the Signet, who also attended them,

and the physician who lectured, expressly declaring that they had never

seen anything in him to indicate "disordered mind," or that "he was not

in his right senses."

The following was the statement which he made and signed, when examined

on the charge at Bow Street. This document, like the preceding, is

worthy of great consideration.

"The Tories in my native city have compelled me to do this. They

follow and persecute me wherever I go, and have entirely destroyed

my peace of mind. They followed me into France, into Scotland, and

all over England: in fact, they follow me wherever I go. I cannot

get no rest for them night or day. I cannot sleep at night, in

consequence of the course they pursue towards me. I believe they

have driven me into a consumption. I am sure I shall never be the

man I formerly was. I used to have good health and strength, but

I have not now. They have accused me of crimes of which I am not

guilty; they do everything in their power to harass and persecute

me; in fact, they wish to murder me. It can be proved by evidence.

That's all I have to say."[24]

On Thursday the 2d February--that is to say, exactly a fortnight after

the murder--M'Naughten was arraigned at the Old Bailey. When called

upon, in the usual manner, to say whether he was Guilty or Not Guilty,

he remained silent, with his eyes directed steadily towards the bench.

At length, on being authoritatively required to answer, he said, after

some hesitation, "I was driven to desperation by persecution." On being

told that he must answer, "Guilty," or "Not Guilty," he replied that he

was guilty of _firing_. On this Lord Abinger interposed, "By that, do

you mean to say you are not guilty of the remainder of the charge--that

is, of _intending to murder Mr Drummond_?" The prisoner _at once_

said, "Yes;" on which Lord Abinger ordered a plea of Not Guilty to be

recorded. It appears to us that there is great significance in what

passed on this occasion.

An application was then made to postpone the trial, on affidavits

stating that, by the next session, matured evidence could be adduced

to show the insanity of the prisoner when he shot Mr Drummond. The

Attorney-general (Sir Frederick Pollock) at once humanely assented

to the application, and it was granted; as also ample funds out

of the £764 found on the prisoner, to prepare effectively for the

defence. Let us here pause for a moment, to contrast the treatment

which M'Naughten--whose undisputed act had filled the whole country

with horror and indignation--received on this occasion, with that

experienced by his predecessor Bellingham, thirty years before,

whose case very closely resembled that of M'Naughten in some fearful

points. We can with difficulty record calmly that Bellingham's

counsel, fortified by strong affidavits of the prisoner's insanity,

and that witnesses knowing the fact could be brought from Liverpool

and elsewhere, applied in vain for a postponement of the trial, the

Attorney-general of that day barbarously, and even offensively,

opposing the application, which was consequently at once overruled.

Within seven days' time Bellingham shot Mr Percival, was committed,

_tried_--if it be not a mockery to use the word--convicted, and

executed. On Monday, the 11th May 1811, Bellingham shot his unfortunate

victim, and on that day week (Monday, the 18th May 1811) the assassin's

dead body lay on the dissecting-table! This vindictive precipitancy

affords an awful contrast to the noble temper in which M'Naughten's

application was entertained by the Attorney-general, the judge, and the

justly-excited country at large. It supplied the eloquent advocate,

(the present Solicitor-general, Sir Alexander Cockburn) who was

subsequently retained by the prisoner, with a potent weapon of defence,

of which he failed not to make effective use. It is not too much to

say, that all who can concur in the acquittal of M'Naughten must regard

Bellingham as judicially murdered. We concur heartily with M'Naughten's

advocate in the remark, that "few will read the report of Bellingham's

trial without being forced to the conclusion that he was either really

mad, or, at the very least, the little evidence which alone he was

permitted to adduce, relative to the state of his mind, was strong

enough to have entitled him to a _deliberate and thorough investigation

of his case_."[25]

On Friday, March 3d, M'Naughten took his trial before the late

Chief-justice Tindal, the late Mr Justice Williams, and Mr Justice

Coleridge. The prosecution was conducted by the late Sir William

Follett, then Solicitor-general, and the prisoner defended by the

present Solicitor-general, then Mr Cockburn, Q. C. Nothing could exceed

the temperate and luminous opening statement of Sir William Follett,

who, in our judgment, laid down the rules of English law, applicable

to the difficult and delicate subject with which he had to deal, with

rigorous propriety.

"If you believe," said he, "that the prisoner at the bar, at the

time he committed this act, was not a responsible agent--that, when

he fired the pistol, he was incapable of distinguishing between

right and wrong--that he was under the influence and control of

some disease of the mind which prevented him from being conscious

that he was committing a crime--that he did not know he was

violating the law both of God and man--then, undoubtedly, he is

entitled to your acquittal. But it is my duty to tell you that

nothing short of _that_ will excuse him, upon the principles of

the English law. To excuse him, it will not be sufficient that

he laboured under partial insanity upon some subjects--that he

had a morbid delusion of mind upon some subjects, which could not

exist in a wholly sane person; that is not enough, _if_ he had

that degree of intellect which enabled him to know and distinguish

between right and wrong--if he knew what would be the effects

of his crime, and consciously committed it; and if, with that

consciousness, he _wilfully_ committed it."

The witnesses for the prosecution established a case, if unanswered,

of perfect guilt; the facts of the assassination were indisputable,

and the evidence of the prisoner's sanity cogent in the extreme. Mr

Cockburn addressed the jury at very great length, and in a strain of

sustained eloquence and power, his object being to persuade the jury

"that the prisoner was labouring, at the time of committing the act,

under a morbid[?] insanity, which took away from him all power of

self-control, so that he was not responsible for his acts. I do not put

this case forward as one of total insanity; it is a case of delusion,

and I say so from sources upon which the light of science has thrown

her holy beam." Those who have read what has gone before concerning

Oxford's case will appreciate this observation of Mr Cockburn, and

gather from it his adoption, for the purpose of that defence, of the

theory of moral insanity, which he enforced and illustrated by many

striking and brilliant observations, calculated to produce a deep and

strong impression on the minds of the jury, such as required the utmost

exertions of Sir William Follett in reply, and finally of judicial

exposition to efface, if fallacious--or modify to any extent rendered

necessary by inaccuracy or exaggeration. Ten witnesses, all of them

from Glasgow, were called, for the purpose of establishing the fact

that the prisoner had, for some eighteen months previously to January

1843, appeared to labour, and had continually represented himself as

labouring, under a persuasion that he was the victim of some such

indefinite, mysterious, and incessant persecution as he spoke of in

his statement before the magistrate at Bow Street. We are bound to say

that the force of this testimony--coming chiefly from persons above all

suspicion, and in a superior rank of life--is irresistible as to the

existence of such an insane delusion down to the time of his quitting

Glasgow. Not a witness, however, gave evidence of his exhibiting that

tendency after his last return to London, before his shooting Mr

Drummond. The only mention of Sir Robert Peel's name was by one of

these ten witnesses, a former fellow-lodger of the prisoner's, who told

him, in July 1842, that he had heard Sir Robert Peel speak in the House

of Commons; preferred his speaking to that of Lord John Russell and Mr

O'Connell; and said "he thought Sir R. Peel had arrived at what Lord

Byron said of him--that 'he would be something great in the state.'"

Mr Cockburn asked the witness, "Did you ever, on that or any other

occasion, hear him speak at all disrespectfully of Sir Robert Peel?"

_Answer._--"Certainly not." One or two witnesses spoke to singularities

of demeanour as early as the years 1835 and 1836. One of his landlords,

in the former year, got rid of him as a lodger, "for one reason, in

consequence of the infidel doctrines he maintained, and the books of

such a character which he was in the habit of reading." One witness,

who had succeeded him in his business, remonstrated with him, towards

the end of 1842, about his notions as to being persecuted, telling him

it was all imagination--that there were no such people as he supposed.

He said that, "if he could once set his eyes on them, they should not

be long in the land of the living," and became shortly afterwards very

much excited. Sometimes he said he was "haunted by a parcel of devils

following him." His landlady, seeing the brace of pistols which he had

in September, just before his return to London, said--"What, in the

name of God, are you doing with pistols there? He said 'he was going

to shoot birds with them.' I never saw the pistols after that." He

told the Commission of Police that the "persecution proceeded from the

priests of the Catholic chapel in Clyde Street, who were assisted by a

parcel of Jesuits." In August 1842, he told the same witness that "the

police, the Jesuits, the Catholic priests, and Tories, were all leagued

against him."

Mr Cockburn having thus "laid a broad foundation," says Mr Townsend,

"for medical theories, _upon them_ was built, by the nine physicians

and surgeons who confirmed each other's theories, a goodly

superstructure of undoubted insanity. Had the workings," continues Mr

Townsend, sarcastically, "of the troubled brain been as distinctly

visible to the eye, as the labours of bees seen through a glass

hive, they could not have held the fact to be more demonstratively

proved. Positive beyond the possibility of mistake, and infallible as

theologians, they explained all that might appear without the aid of

science inexplicable; and proved, as if they were stating undoubted

facts, an irresponsible delusion."

One of the physicians attested his conviction, from an interview with

the prisoner shortly before his trial, "as a matter of certainty, that

M'Naughten was not responsible for his acts!" Well may Mr Townsend add,

"By an excess of lenity, the counsel for the prosecution allowed these

scientific witnesses to depart from the ordinary rules of evidence,

_to give their own_ conclusions from the facts proved, and usurp the

province of the jury."[26] After going through the evidence (if the

word can be used with propriety under such circumstances) of the

other medical gentlemen, Mr Townsend observes, "Each physician and

surgeon, as he stepped into the witness-box, seemed anxious to surpass

his predecessor in the tone of decision and certainty; each tried to

draw the bow of ---- (mentioning the first physician who had been

called, and who was also called in Oxford's and Pate's case, in which

latter he was rebuked by Baron Alderson,[27]) and shoot, if possible,

still farther into empty space." And this gentleman, Dr----, had

asserted, under cross-examination by Sir William Follett, "his positive

conviction that he could ascertain the nicest shade of insanity!

that the shadowy trace of eccentricity, dissolving into madness,

could be palpably distinguished!"[28] The last of these confident

personages then was permitted to make this extraordinary statement:

"I have not the slightest hesitation in saying that the prisoner is

insane, and that he committed the offence in question whilst afflicted

with a delusion under which he appears to have been labouring for a

considerable length of time!!!"

We feel constrained to say that this appears to us, in every way,

monstrous.

"Nine medical witnesses," significantly observes Mr Townsend, "had

now spoken, with a wonderful unanimity of opinion, _and the court

surrendered at discretion_."[29]

If such a course is to be allowed again in a court of justice, what

security have any of us for life, liberty, or property?

Chief Justice Tindal here interposed, to ask Sir William Follett

whether he was prepared with evidence on the part of the Crown to

combat that of the medical witnesses,--

"Because, if you have not," said the Chief Justice, "we think we

are under the necessity of stopping the case. Is there any medical

evidence on the other side?"

_Sir William Follett._--"No, my Lord."[30]

_Chief-Justice Tindal._--"We feel the evidence, especially that of

the last two medical gentlemen who have been examined, and who are

strangers to both sides, and only observers of the case, to be very

strong, and sufficient to induce my learned brothers and myself to

stop the case."[31]

After this authoritative intimation from the court, in a capital

case, in favour of the prisoner, it would have been obviously to the

last degree inexpedient for the Solicitor-general, in his position

of peculiar and great public responsibility, to "press for a verdict

against the prisoner."[32] After, therefore, intimating distinctly and

respectfully to the jury, that, "after the intimation he had received

from the bench, he felt that he should not be properly discharging

his duty to the Crown and the public, if he asked them for a verdict

against the prisoner," he withdrew, in deference to "the very strong

opinion entertained by the Lord Chief-Justice, and the other learned

Judges present," that the evidence, especially the medical evidence,

sufficed to show that the prisoner, when he shot Mr Drummond, was

labouring under insanity. "_If_ he were so," added Sir William Follett,

with a pointed reservation of his own opinion, "he would be entitled

to his acquittal." He intimated, however, distinctly, that he adhered

to "the doctrines and authorities" on which he had relied in opening

the case, "as being correct law; our object being to ascertain whether

the prisoner, at the time when he committed the crime, was--_at that

time_--to be regarded as a responsible agent, or whether all control

over himself was taken away. The learned judge, I understand, means to

submit that question to you. I cannot press for a verdict against the

prisoner, and it will be for you to come to your decision."

The Chief-Justice then briefly addressed the jury, offering to go

through the whole evidence, if the jury deemed it necessary, which _he_

"thought to be almost unnecessary;" adding--

"I am in your hands; but if, in balancing the evidence in your

minds, you think that the prisoner was, at the time of committing

the act, capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, then

he was a responsible agent, and liable to all the penalties which

the law enforces. If not so--and if, in your judgment, the subject

should appear involved in very great difficulty--then you will

probably not take upon yourselves to find the prisoner guilty. If

that is your opinion, then you will acquit the prisoner. If you

think you ought to hear the evidence more fully, in that case I

will state it to you, and leave the case in your hands. Probably,

however, sufficient has now been laid before you, and you will say

whether you want any further information."

_Foreman of the Jury._--"We require no more, my Lord."

_Chief-Justice Tindal._--"If you find the prisoner not guilty, say

on the ground of insanity; in which case proper care will be taken

of him."

_Foreman._--"We find the prisoner not guilty, on the ground of

insanity."

We repeat emphatically our deep respect for the late Chief-Justice

Tindal, and for his brethren who sate beside him on this momentous

occasion; and we also acknowledge the weight due to the observation of

Mr Townsend, that "none can form so correct an estimate of the facts

proved, and their illustration by science, as those who actually saw

what was going on; and the three able Judges who presided seem to have

been fully impressed with the conviction that the prisoner ought not to

be considered amenable to punishment for his act, being insensible, at

the time he committed it, that he was violating the law of God and man."

And, again, "It is far more just and merciful to take care alike of the

accused and of society, by confining in secure custody the doubtfully

conscious shedder of blood, than to incur the fearful hazard of putting

to death an irresponsible agent."[33] Nevertheless, we concur in the

unanimous opinion of the five law lords, expressed in their places

in Parliament--the Lord Chancellor, Lord Brougham, Lord Cottenham,

Lord Denman, Lord Campbell--that it would have been better to let the

trial proceed regularly to its conclusion. The whole facts of the case

demanded, not less than the theories of the medical witnesses, that

thorough sifting, and the application of that masterly and luminous

practical logic, which both the Solicitor-general and the Chief-Justice

were so pre-eminently capable of bestowing. If, after such a dealing

with the case, an acquittal on the ground of insanity should have

ensued, who could have gainsaid it? At present, see what a candid and

scientific writer on medical jurisprudence--as we have several times

observed, a strong favourer of the notion of moral insanity--has felt

himself compelled to place permanently on record,[34] with reference to

the acquittal of M'Naughten.

"When we find a man lurking for many days together in a particular

locality, having about him loaded weapons--watching a particular

individual who frequents that locality--a man who does not face

the individual and shoot him, but who coolly waits until he has an

opportunity of discharging the weapon unobserved by his victim or

others--the circumstances appear to show such a perfect adaptation

of means to ends, and such a power of controlling his actions, that

one is quite at a loss to understand why a plea of irresponsibility

should be admitted, except upon the fallacious ground that no

motive could be discovered for the act--a ground, however, which

was not allowed to prevail in the case of Courvoisier, Francis, and

the perpetrators of other atrocious crimes. Observe the lively

sense of his danger, and of his rights and interests, as an accused

person, exhibited by M'Naughten almost immediately after committing

the act--when, fearful lest an inadvertent admission should be

given in evidence against him, he said to the officer[35]--'_But

you won't use this against me?_' Note the matter-of-fact astuteness

with which he attended to his pecuniary interests in May and July;

the total absence of any evidence of the existence of his delusions

during his last sojourn in London; the presence of such proof of

careful, deliberate, and too successful perpetration, as to time,

opportunity, and means; his expression in November towards Sir

Robert Peel--'D----n him!' But, above all, is to be noted the time

when he first gives utterance to anything directly and cogently

favouring the notion on which his life depended--his insane

delusion with regard to Sir Robert Peel--viz., after he had been

for some time incarcerated in Newgate, and when he knew that he

was being examined by a physician, in order to ascertain what had

been his state of mind at the time in question! Dr Munro has there

recorded it.[36] He said--'Mr Salmond, the Procurator-Fiscal, Mr

Sheriff Bell, Mr Sheriff Alison, and _Sir Robert Peel_, might have

put a stop to this system of persecution if they would!' ... 'We

_were afraid of going out after dark for fear of assassination_:

that individuals were made to appear before him like them he had

seen in Glasgow.' ... 'That _he imagined the person at whom he

fired at Charing Cross_ to be one of the crew--a part of the system

that was destroying his health. He observed, that, _when he saw

the person at Charing Cross at whom he fired_, every feeling of

suffering which he had endured for months and years rose up at once

in his mind, and that he conceived that he should obtain peace by

killing him.'"

Surely it would have conduced--especially in the painful excitement

of the public mind on the subject at the time--to the satisfactory

administration of justice, if it had been allowed Sir William

Follett--without his being placed in the insidious position of

appearing to press unduly against a prisoner being tried for his

life--to combine and contrast these various circumstances, as he, of

almost all men, could have best combined and contrasted them. The jury

should have had their minds solemnly and authoritatively directed to

the question, for instance, whether this last observation of M'Naughten

made to Dr Munro was a spontaneous, genuine indication of utterly

subverted mental faculties, continuing from the moment of his shooting

Mr Drummond; or an effort of anxious astuteness to give effect to

the suggestion which he may have believed would save his life. And,

moreover, this and other circumstances should have been accompanied

by a direction to the jury, in accordance with that of Lord Denman in

Oxford's case,[37] and with the following canon, subsequently laid

down by the Judges in their answer to the first question proposed by

the Lord Chancellor[38]--viz., "That notwithstanding the party did the

act with a view, under insane delusion, of _redressing_ or _revenging

some supposed grievance or injury_, he is nevertheless punishable,

if he knew at the time that he was acting contrary to the law of the

land." Could M'Naughten be again tried on this charge, this is the

precise question which would be left to the jury. Mr Alison, in his

_Principles of the Criminal Law of Scotland_,[39] thus lays down the

rule applicable to such cases, in commenting on that of Bellingham:--

"Unquestionably, the mere fancying a series of injuries to have

been received will not serve as an excuse for murder--for this

plain reason, that, supposing it true that such injuries had been

received, they would have furnished no excuse for the shedding of

blood. On the other hand, however, such an illusion as depriving

the pannel of the sense that _what he did was wrong_ amounts to

legal insanity, though he was perfectly aware that murder in

general was a crime."

Responsibility more awful than is devolved upon all parties to the

judicial investigation of this question can scarcely be imagined.

A deliberate and thorough investigation of every--even the

minutest--circumstance adduced, guided steadily by correct legal

principles, is demanded imperiously by justice. Difficult--almost

hopeless--as may be the attempt to grope into the turbid mind of a

madman, to ascertain its true condition at a given moment of time, the

attempt _must_ be made, a decision _must_ be pronounced--distinguishing

between real and simulated imbecility or madness--between irresponsible

insanity and responsible eccentricity. These are questions, we repeat,

of infinite importance, of great difficulty; and the interests of the

entire community, and of individual members of it, demand a steady

adherence to the principles of a humane and enlightened jurisprudence.

Recent dreadful instances have served to remove several sources of

dangerous error, in dealing with these cases of criminal jurisprudence.

No one dare now infer madness from the mere _absence of motive_, and

from the _very enormity of the act committed_; nor accord immunity

to the fancied victim of "_uncontrollable impulse_." That is, at all

events, a point gained in favour of society. In England, at all events,

we sternly repudiate this last sickly and spurious theory, which would

place the innocent and virtuous entirely at the mercy of the most base

and ruffianly impulses of our fallen nature. It would relax all the

bonds of self-restraint, and afford a premium on the indulgence of

ungovernable passions.

The recent lamentable case of Robert Pate affords a valuable

illustration of the truth of these remarks; and Mr Baron Alderson's

charge to the jury not only conduced to the firm administration of

justice in the particular case, but was calculated to be of great and

permanent public service, by dispelling the morbid and mischievous

notions which have latterly prevailed, and exhibiting expressively the

stern simplicity and common sense of English law. On the 27th June

last, a gentleman, who had only recently sold his commission in the

10th Hussars, and was residing as a gentleman of fortune in London,

suddenly struck her Majesty on the forehead a violent blow with a

cane, which actually caused blood to flow! He could give no account

of his reason for committing this unmanly and infamous outrage; but

the defence set up for him was, simply, uncontrollable impulse; and

evidence was adduced certainly showing him to be of a very eccentric

character, and actuated by strange whims and delusions. He was tried

on the 12th July last at the Old Bailey, before Baron Alderson, under

statute 5 and 6 Vict. c. 51, § 2.[40] The indictment contained three

counts, charging him with striking the Queen "with an offensive

weapon--that is, a stick," with intent (1st) to injure her person;

(2d) to alarm her; (3d) to break the public peace. Again came the

doctors--one speaking of "some strange sudden impulse, which he was

quite unable to control;" and the other confidently pronouncing the

prisoner to have been insane. The jury convicted the prisoner on the

first and third counts, which the Judge told them had been clearly made

out by evidence, discarding the defence of insanity; and the following

was the summing-up of Mr Baron Alderson, in strict accordance with the

principles laid down in 1843 by the Judges[41]:--

"The law throws on the prisoner the _onus_ of proving that, at the

time the offence was committed, he was in an unsound state of mind;

and you will have to say, after hearing my explanation of the law,

whether this has been made out to your satisfaction. In the first

place, you must clearly understand that it is not because a man is

insane that he is unpunishable: and I must say, that _upon this

point there exists a very grievous delusion in the minds of medical

men_. The only insanity which excuses a man for his acts is that

species of delusion which conduced to, and drove him to commit,

_the act alleged against him_. If, for instance, a man, being under

the delusion that another man would kill him, killed that other,

for, as he supposed, his own protection, he would be unpunishable

for such an act; because it would appear that the act was done

under the delusion that he could not protect himself in any other

manner: and there the particular description of insanity conduced

to the offence. But, on the other hand, if a man has a delusion

that his head is made of glass, that will be no excuse for his

killing a man. He would know very well that, although his head were

made of glass, that was no reason why he should kill another man,

and that it was a wrong act; and he would be properly subjected to

punishment for that act. These are the principles which ought to

govern the decision of juries in such cases. They ought to have

clear proof of a formed disease of the mind--a disease existing

before the act was committed, and which made the person accused

incapable of knowing, at the time he did the act, that it was a

wrong act for him to do. This is the rule which I shall direct you

to be governed by. Try the case by this test. Did this unfortunate

gentleman know, at the time, that it was wrong to strike the

Queen on the forehead? Now, there is no doubt that he was very

eccentric in his conduct; but did that eccentricity disable him

from judging whether it was right or wrong to strike the Queen?

Is _eccentricity_ to excuse a man for any crime he may afterwards

commit? The prisoner is proved to have been perfectly well aware of

what he had done immediately afterwards, and in the interview which

he had had since with one of the medical gentlemen, he admitted

that he knew perfectly well what he had done, and ascribed his

conduct to some momentary uncontrollable impulse. The law does

not acknowledge such an impulse, if the person was aware that it

was a wrong act he was about to commit; and he is answerable for

the consequences. A man might say that he picked a pocket from

some uncontrollable impulse; and in that case, the law would have

an uncontrollable impulse to punish him for it. What evidence

is there, then, in this case to justify you in coming to the

conclusion, that when the prisoner struck the Queen he did not know

it was a wrong act--in fact, that what he was doing was wrong?--[Mr

Baron Alderson then read over the whole of the evidence for the

defence, commenting upon it as he proceeded.]--That the prisoner is

an object of commiseration is quite clear; and that he should also

have been taken better care of is equally true: but the question

you have here to decide is, Are you satisfied that, at the time,

he was suffering from a disease of the mind which rendered him

incapable of judging whether the act he committed towards the Queen

was a right or a wrong act for him to do? If you are not satisfied

of this fact, you must say that he is guilty; but if you think he

was not aware what he was about, or not capable of distinguishing

between right and wrong, you will then say that he is not guilty,

on the ground of _insanity_."

If the case of M'Naughten had been thoroughly tried out--if the medical

witnesses, above all, had been checked, and restrained within their

proper province, as they were by Baron Alderson--and if the summing

up by the Chief-Justice had been in accordance with that of Baron

Alderson in Pate's case--we do not venture to say what would have been

the result: but whatever it might have been, it would have satisfied

the country. Whether, at the moment when M'Naughten took out his

long-prepared pistol, and, after a fortnight's watching, fancied he

had found Sir Robert Peel, and deliberately shot his victim in the

back--whether M'Naughten was, at that awful moment, insanely ignorant

of what he was doing--utterly unaware that he was doing wrong--is a

question which there exist no longer any human means of determining;

but it is open to us to examine the principles applicable to such an

investigation in a court of criminal justice.

Upwards of seven years have elapsed since the trial of M'Naughten,

and upwards of ten years since that of Oxford; and both of them are

at the present moment inmates of Bethlehem Hospital. Since commencing

this article, we have been permitted, through the courtesy of the

acute and able physician to whom the superintendence of that important

institution has been for some years intrusted, to see and converse with

the two persons with whose fate we have herein so anxiously concerned

ourselves. Neither knew of our going; and we were accompanied by the

gentleman in question.

M'Naughten was standing in the courtyard, dressed in the costume of

the place, (a pepper-and-salt jacket and corduroy trousers,) with

his hat on, knitting. He looks about forty years old, and in perfect

health. His features are regular, and their expression is mild and

prepossessing. His manner is tranquil. Usually he wears his hat

somewhat slouched over his eyes, and sidles slowly away from any one

approaching him, as if anxious to escape observation; but on this

occasion he at once entered into conversation with our companion,

calmly and cheerfully, and afforded us a full opportunity of watching

him. Had we seen him casually elsewhere, and as a stranger, we should

have thought his countenance indicative of a certain sort of cheerful

quiet humour, especially while he was speaking; but to us it seemed

certainly to exhibit a feeble intellect, shown chiefly by a faint

flickering smile, even when he was speaking on the gravest subjects.

When asked what had brought him where he was, he replied, "_Fate_."

"And what is fate?" "The will of God--or perhaps," he added quickly,

"of the devil--or it may be of both!" and he half-closed his eyes, and

smiled.--[The reader will bear in mind what was deposed at the trial,

as to his infidel tendencies.[42]]--When told that Sir Robert Peel was

dead, he betrayed no emotion, nor exhibited the slightest interest.

"One should have thought that, considering what has happened, you would

have felt some interest in that gentleman." He looked rather quickly

at the speaker, and said calmly, with a faint smile, "It is quite

useless to talk to me on _that_ subject: you know quite well I have

long and long ago made up my mind never to say one word about it. I

never have, and I never will; and so it would be quite childish to put

any questions."[43] ... "How are you, M'Naughten?" He slightly sighed,

and said, "I am very uncomfortable. I am very ill-used here; there is

somebody [or something] always using me ill here. It is really too

bad! I have spoken about it many, many times; but it is quite useless.

I wish I could get away from this place! If I could just get out of

this place, and go back to Glasgow, my native place, it is all I would

ask for: I should be quite well there! I shall never be well or happy

_here_, for there is always some one ill-using me here." "Well, but

what do they do to you?" "Oh," shaking his head, and smiling, "they

are always doing it; really it is too bad." "Who are they?" "Oh, I am

always being ill-used here! My only wish now is, to get away from this

place! If I could only once get to Glasgow, my native place!" This

is the continual burthen of his song. It is needless to say that his

complaints are altogether unfounded: he is treated with the utmost

kindness consistent with his situation; and, as he has never exhibited

violence nor ill-behaviour, it has never been necessary to resort to

personal coercion, with one exception. Two or three years ago, he

took it into his head that, as he could not get away, he would starve

himself; and he persevered for such a length of time in refusing all

kind of food that he began to lose flesh fast. At length he was told by

the physician that, since he would not eat voluntarily, he must be made

to eat; and it was actually necessary to feed him for a considerable

time mechanically, by means of the stomach pump. Under this treatment

he presently regained his flesh, in spite--as it were--of himself; and

at length suffered himself to be laughed out of his obstinacy, and has

ever since taken his food voluntarily. He seemed himself to be tickled

by a sense of the absurdity of which he was guilty. Not a doubt of

his complete insanity was entertained by my acute companion, who has

devoted much observation to the case. Shortly after we had quitted

him, and were out of his sight, he put away his knitting, placed his

hands in his jacket pockets, and walked very rapidly to and fro, his

face bent on the ground; and he was apparently somewhat excited.

Whatever may have been the state of M'Naughten at the time to which our

inquiries have been directed in this article, we entertain little, if

any doubt, that he is now in an imbecile condition.

Oxford was in another part of the building, standing alone, at the

extremity of a long corridor, gazing through a heavily-grated window,

towards the new Houses of Parliament. His hat was on; he was dressed

like M'Naughten, and his jacket was buttoned. We scarcely recognised

him, owing to the change of his dress. He is fond of attracting the

notice of anybody; and conversed about himself and his offence in

the most calm and rational manner conceivable. He has lost much of

his hair--a circumstance which he appeared somewhat to regret--for

the front of his head is bald; but he looks no older than his real

age, thirty. He is mortally weary of his confinement, and says he

has been terribly punished for "his foolish act." "_Foolish!_" we

exclaimed--"is _that_ all you can say of your attempt to shoot her

Majesty?" He smiled, and said, "Oh, sir, _I_ never attempted to shoot

her; I never thought of such a thing. I aimed at the carriage-panels

only." "Then why did you put balls in your pistols?" "I never did,"

he replied quickly. "I never dreamed of such a thing. There were no

balls." "Oh, then you have not heard of the discovery that has just

been made--eh?" "Discovery--what?" "The bullets." "Oh, there have been

more found than ever _I_ used at least; for I assure you I never used

any!" "What made you do what you did?" "Oh, I was a fool; it was just

to get myself talked about, and kick up a dust. _A good horse-whipping

was what I wanted_," he added, with a faint sigh. These were his very

words. "Should you have done it, if you had thought of coming _here_?"

"No, indeed I should not; it has been a severe punishment!... I dare

say public opinion says nothing about me now; I dare say it thinks I

have got what I very well deserve--and perhaps I have; but possibly if

I were put quietly out of the way, and sent abroad somewhere, public

opinion might take no notice of it." He has taught himself French,

Italian, and German, of which he has a fair knowledge. He also used

to draw a little, and began to write a novel; but it proved a sorry

affair, and, being discouraged, he threw it up. "Do you recollect

hearing the condemned sermon preached to Courvoisier?" "Oh, yes, very

well. It was a most excellent sermon." "Did Courvoisier seem to attend

to it?" "Oh yes, very much; and he seemed very much affected. It was

certainly a very appropriate sermon; I liked it much." "Did not you

think that it might soon be your fate to sit where he was?" "What, in

the condemned seat?" "Yes." "Oh, no; that never occurred to me. I never

expected to be condemned for high treason. Some gentleman--I forget

who he was--said I should be transported for fourteen years. I thought

that was the worst they could do to me; for I knew I had never meant to

do any harm, nor tried to do it." "Yes; but the judge and jury thought

very differently." "Oh, I was very fairly tried; but I never expected

to be brought in _mad_. I was quite surprised at _that_, for I knew I

was not mad, and I wondered how they were going to prove it." We asked

him if he had ever seen _us_; to which he replied, gazing steadily,

"Yes, I think I have--either at the Privy Council, or in Newgate

Chapel." "Where did you sit on the Sunday when the condemned sermon

was preached to Courvoisier?" "I sate on the steps near the altar."

"How were you dressed?" "Oh, a blue surtout, with velvet collar;" and

he proceeded to describe his dress almost exactly as we have described

it at the commencement of the article. He exhibits considerable

cleverness: whatever he does, whether in playing at fives, or working,

(_e. g._ making gloves, &c.) he does far better than any one else, and

shows considerable tact and energy in setting his companions to work,

and superintending them. He admits that he committed a very great

offence in having done anything to alarm the Queen, and attributes

it entirely to a mischievous and foolish love of notoriety. He said,

"I thought it would set everybody talking and wondering;" but "never

dreamed of what would have come of it--least of all that I was to be

shut up all my life in _this_ place." ... "That list of conspirators,

and letters from them, that were found in your lodgings--were they not

real?" "Oh, no," he replied, with rather an anxious smile, "all mere

sham--only nonsense! There was never anything of the sort!" "Then, why

did you do it?" "It was only the folly of a boy; I wasn't nineteen

then--it was very silly no doubt." "And their swords and dresses, and

so forth--eh?" "Entirely nonsense! It was a very absurd joke. I did

not think it would come out so serious. I did not _appreciate_ the

consequences, or I never would have done it." The word "appreciate" he

used with a very marked emphasis.

We entertain no doubt whatever of his perfect sanity; _and, if so_, as

his crime was great, so his punishment is fearful.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] _Modern State Trials_: Revised and Illustrated, with Essays

and Notes. By WILLIAM C. TOWNSEND, Esq., M.A., Q.C., Recorder of

Macclesfield. In 2 vols. 8vo. Longman & Co. 1850.

[3] How must the following verses in the Psalms of the day have

effected him, if the wretched being were not too bewildered to

appreciate them!--"Turn thee unto me, and have mercy upon me, for I am

desolate and in misery. The sorrows of my heart are enlarged; O bring

thou me out of my troubles. Look upon my adversity and misery, and

forgive me all my sins."--Ps. xxv. 15, 16, 17. "O shut not up my soul

with the sinners, _nor my life with the blood-thirsty_."--Ps. xxvi. 9.

If the murderer's heart did not thrill when these last words were read

out by the chaplain, with fearful distinctness, it must have been the

only one that did not.

[4] He was subsequently respited, owing to the zealous interference of

some medical men, who succeeded in satisfying the Secretary of State of

the prisoner's insanity. See TAYLOR'S _Medical Jurisprudence_, p. 792.

[5] Ibid. p. 803-4.

[6] Rex _v_ Reynolds. Taylor's _Med. Jurisp._ p. 801.

[7] Vol. i. p. 320.

[8] Townsend, vol. i. p. 46.

[9] _Medical Jurisprudence_, p. 794, 3d edition. This is, in our

opinion, the best book extant on medical jurisprudence.

[10] Ibid. p. 798.

[11] "Is it not extraordinary," asked the learned Mr Barrington,

(_Observations on the Ancient Statutes_, p. 270,) "that the life of an

Englishman prosecuted by the crown should continue to depend upon the

critical construction of two absolute French words?" (fait _compasser_

out _imaginer_ la mort nôtre seigneur le roi.) There is practically no

force in these remarks, made nearly a century ago, as the words have a

perfectly defined and recognised legal signification, and which is that

mentioned above.

[12] His Majesty's noble demeanour--calm, courageous, and dignified--on

that agitating occasion, has always been justly applauded. The audience

was of course highly excited; and Mr Sheridan composed, on the spur of

the moment, the following addition to the National Anthem. It was sung

by Mrs Jordan thrice that evening:--

"From every latent foe,

From the assassin's blow,

God shield the King!

O'er him thine arm extend;

For Britain's sake defend

Our father, prince, and friend--

God save the King!"

[13] Sir William Follett, (then Solicitor-general,) in addressing the

jury in prosecuting M'Naughten, alluded to the speech of Mr Erskine as

one of the most eloquent and able speeches, probably, that was ever

delivered at the bar.

[14] Adolphus's _Hist. of England_, vol. vii. p. 277.

[15] Townsend, vol. i. p. 104.

[16] At the Old Bailey, _rue_ is placed plentifully on the ledge of the

dock: whether in capital cases only, we do not know. The monster Maria

Manning furiously gathered the rue that lay before her, and flung it

amongst the counsel sitting at the table beneath her!

[17] Townsend, vol. i. p. 113.

[18] Opinions of the Judges, _ante_, p. 549.

[19] _Ante_, p. 549.

[20] Townsend, vol. i. p. 150.

[21] _Medical Jurisprudence_, p. 801.

[22] Townsend, p. 337.

[23] Townsend, vol. i. p. 338.

[24] Ibid. p. 345.

[25] We have heard high authorities strongly disapprove of the

conviction and execution of Bellingham; and it certainly appears

impossible to reconcile with true principles of jurisprudence the

different fates awarded to Bellingham and M'Naughten, supposing the

facts to be as alleged in each case. A military officer, present at

the execution of Bellingham, and very near the scaffold, told us that

he distinctly recollects Bellingham, while standing on the scaffold,

elevating one of his hands, as if to ascertain whether it were raining;

and he observed to the chaplain, in a very calm and natural tone and

manner, "_I think we shall have rain to-day!_"

[26] Townsend, vol. i. p. 398.

[27] _Ante_, p. 559.

[28] Townsend, vol. i. p. 396.

[29] Ibid. p. 400.

[30] It is said that the two physicians selected by Government to

examine the prisoner, in company with those who did so on behalf of

the defence, did not differ from them in opinion; and Mr Cockburn

taunted Sir William Follett with not having called them, though they

sate beside him in court. By that time Sir William Follett might have

seen, during the progress of the trial, sufficient to make him distrust

medical evidence altogether, come from whom it might!--Ibid. p. 378.

[31] Ibid. p. 400.

[32] Ibid.

[33] Townsend, vol. i. p. 325.

[34] Taylor's _Medical Jurisprudence_, p. 799.

[35] _Ante_, p. 562.

[36] Townsend, vol. i. p. 395.

[37] _Ante_, p. 560.

[38] _Ante_, p. 549.

[39] P. 658.

[40] _Ante_, p. 552.

[41] _Ante_, p. 549.

[42] _Ante_, p. 565.

[43] This he has always said, and has adhered to his resolution.

ANNA HAMMER.[44]

The literature of Germany at last shows signs of revival from the

torpor consequent on the late political convulsions, and the Leipzig

book-catalogue for Michaelmas 1850 is far more promising than any

of its predecessors since the revolutions of 1848. Out of a number

of meritorious German books that have recently come before us, we

have been much interested by the first instalment of a series of

_Zeitbilder_--sketches of German social and political life during the

second quarter of the present century. _Anna Hammer_ is certainly the

best we have seen of the numerous German novels of a political tendency

published within the last two years. Its object is the exposure, in

the course of a fictitious narrative, of the oppression and injustice

which, in many German states, the people have long endured; of the

wanton insolence of the military and aristocracy, the servility and

corruption of the courtiers and placemen, and the frequent tyranny of

the sovereigns. The book is a picture of misrule; and if, here and

there, high colouring may be suspected, on the other hand most of the

abuses shown up are but too real and notorious. It is written with

temper and moderation, and points to redress of grievances and to

constitutional government--not to subversion and anarchy. The author

is no experienced novelist, nor does he pretend to that character;

but he writes with a thorough knowledge of his subject, and also

with much spirit and dramatic effect, preferring short sentences and

pointed dialogue to the long-winded paragraphs and tedious narrative

common amongst the romance-writers of his country, to whom he has

evidently preferred for his models those of France and England. We

augur favourably of this escape from the trammels of custom, and hope

to see the example followed by others. In the present instance, the

result has been a very lively tale, more than one of whose chapters

would stand alone as detached and independent sketches of German life.

Annexed to the tolerably intricate plot, are episodical scenes, the

actors in which are dismissed without ceremony when they have fulfilled

the purpose of their introduction--this purpose being the exhibition

of the character and peculiarities of the classes they typify. Thus,

for instance, of the persons in the second chapter of the novel we hear

no more until the third volume; of some of them nothing is seen until

the closing scene of all, when they appear--without, however, being

dragged in--to figure in the final group on which the curtain falls.

There is certainly a want of art in the construction of _Anna Hammer_;

but this is in some degree atoned for by vividness and character, much

rarer qualities with German novelists. An idea of its merits will be

best conveyed by extract, for which it is well adapted by its abundant

incident and desultory nature. We commence with the opening pages, a

graphic sketch of garrison life.

On a warm April afternoon, three cavalry officers were seated together

in the only inn of a small German town. Two of them sat at the table.

One of these had one leg crossed over the other; his companion had

both legs stretched out at full length before him. The third sat at

the window. All three were smoking; two of them cigars, the third a

huge meerschaum pipe. All three were silent. He whose legs were crossed

played with his spur, and spun the rowel till it rang again. Number

Two gazed at his great pipe, and at the clouds that he puffed from it.

Number Three looked through the window at the clouds which the wind

drove across the sky.

A weary life is that of cavalry officers in small garrisons. One

hour of the twenty-four is passed in the riding-school; another in

drilling recruits; a quarter of an hour is consumed in inspection of

stables--and then the day's work is done, and all the other hours are

before them, vacant, but heavy as lead. Only one squadron is there;

it comprises, at most, but four or five officers. These were at the

military school together. Their subjects of conversation--horses and

dogs, women, and the army-list--are long since worn out. The nearest

garrison is too remote for friendly visits. With non-commissioned

officers, discipline and etiquette forbid their association. The

little town affords them no society. The small, quiet, and often

narrow-minded family circle of burghers and officials shuns intimacy

with the officers. They meet them at the tavern and bowling-alley, and

at the club, if there is one: in public places, with their wives and

children, they do not willingly consort with them; and in their houses

they receive them not. There are certainly a few noble families in the

neighbourhood; but these are not all sociable; and those who would

gladly be hospitable have been too much so, and can be so no longer.

Now and then comes an invitation to a shooting party--but there is no

shooting in April.

The three officers--all lieutenants and young men, of graceful figures

and energetic countenances--sat for a long while still and silent. The

postman entered the low-roofed apartment. He laid upon the table the

latest newspaper from the capital, and departed, without a word. The

officers neither moved nor spoke. At last one of them stretched out his

arm and took up the paper, slowly, almost mechanically; the two others

gave no heed. The former glanced over the paper,--beginning at the last

page, with the deaths, marriages, and advertisements. In a few minutes

he had got to the end--that is to say, to the beginning--and he threw

the paper lazily upon the table.

"Nothing new!" said he, gaping; and again he twirled his spur-rowel.

"As usual!" said his neighbour.

The third took no notice.

For a while longer they sat mute and motionless, till the cigars were

finished, and the meerschaum-bowl smoked out. Fresh cigars were then

lighted, and again the pipe was filled. At the same time the officers

rose from their seats, and took a few steps through the apartment.

"Slow work!" said one.

"Damned slow!" replied another. The third looked wearily at his boots.

Then they all three relapsed into their seats and their silence.

The sun set. Its last rays illumined the shifting masses of cloud,

which piled themselves up into fantastical forms, displaying rich

variety of tint. It grew dark in the dingy tavern-room. The clouds from

the great meerschaum could scarcely be discerned. The ennui increased.

A waiter brought in two dimly-burning tallow candles, and placed them

upon the table. The ennui did not diminish.

The tramp of horses was heard without. It came down the street, in the

direction of the tavern. The countenances of the three officers became

animated.

"Can it be the captain back already?" cried one, half surprised.

"Impossible; though he rode like the very devil, he could not be back

for another hour."

"But there are two horses, an officer's and his servant's; I know it by

sound of hoof."

The third officer looked round at the two speakers. "It is not the

captain," he said positively. "The captain's black charger has a

lighter tread. Yonder officer's horse goes heavily."

They all rose and went to the window. Two horsemen rode slowly up the

street; one at an interval of a few paces behind the other.

"By Jove! an officer and his servant!" said one of the lieutenants.

The other nodded assent.

"Who can it be? Whither can he be going?"

None could answer the questions.

The foremost rider drew rein before the house. "Is this an inn?"

demanded he through the open door. Host, waiter, hostler, all stumbled

out together.

"May it so please you!" replied the host, humbly.

Meanwhile the officer's servant had ridden up and jumped from his

horse. The officer also dismounted. The hostler would have taken his

bridle. The officer pushed him back so roughly, that he staggered and

fell. "Clown, how dare you touch my horse?"

The servant took the bridle from his master, and gave the unfortunate

hostler a kick in the rear as he rose to his legs.

"Does your lordship propose to remain here?" inquired the innkeeper, in

a tone of deep submission.

The officer answered not. He patted his horse on neck and shoulder.

Then he turned round to the host and said, briefly and imperiously, "A

room!"

The three officers within doors looked at each other with increasing

astonishment.

"Do you know him? Who is he?" asked one of them.

He was unknown to all of them.

"He wears the uniform of our regiment!" remarked another.

"That is unaccountable," said the third, shaking his head.

"The horse is nothing extraordinary: a mere campaigning beast."

"You would have him knock up his best chargers, I suppose? They have

ridden far. The horses show that."

The room door opened.

"Be so obliging as to step in here for a short time," said the

innkeeper. "Your apartment shall be got ready immediately. Here you

will find some gentlemen comrades."

The stranger officer entered. He was a tall, slender, and yet powerful

man, with features delicately chiselled, and an air of insolent

superciliousness in his whole bearing and appearance. He greeted the

occupants of the room with engaging courtesy.

"Ah! comrades!" said he, "I have the honour to introduce myself--Prince

of Amberg! I am transferred to your regiment--to this squadron. I

recommend myself to your friendship and good fellowship!"

The senior of the three officers continued the introduction: "Von der

Gruben; Von Martini; my name is Count Engelhart. We are delighted to

make a good comrade welcome." They shook hands.

"May I inquire," said Prince Amberg, "where the captain is, that I may

report myself to him? Duty before everything."

"The captain is on an excursion in the neighbourhood, to visit an

acquaintance," replied Count Engelhart. "We expect him back in about

an hour. He will alight here. I am senior lieutenant of the squadron,"

added he, smiling.

"Then, meanwhile, I report myself to you," replied the Prince.

With a slight smile upon their faces, the two officers interchanged

military salutes.

"Excuse me, for a short half-hour," said Prince Amberg. "After four

days' fatiguing ride, I feel the necessity of attention to my toilet.

_Au revoir._" And he left the room.

Whilst the Prince embellished his elegant person, the trio of

lieutenants laid their heads together to conjecture the causes that had

brought him, the model courtier, the butterfly guardsman, the pet of

the court ladies, the most brilliant ornament of the court circle, from

the attractive capital to their tedious country garrison. The change

was too disadvantageous for it possibly to be the consequence of his

own caprice or inclination. On his reappearance he volunteered, over a

bowl of champagne punch, the desired information. He was in disgrace

at court, in consequence of a trifling indiscretion. One of his new

comrades immediately guessed what this was. Martini remembered to have

seen in the newspaper an account of a scandalous frolic in a public

garden, where a number of young officers of aristocratic families

had grossly insulted the wives and daughters of the citizens. But

Martini's mention of this incident was the signal for the laughter of

his friends, who jeered him for his simplicity, and scouted the idea of

a nobleman falling into disgrace because he had made free with a few

prudish plebeians. A similar affair that had occurred at a masquerade,

and which was attended by circumstances of gross indecency, was also

treated as an excellent joke. If they could not divert themselves

at the expense of the bourgeoisie, Prince Amberg said, what became

of the distinction of ranks? The matters in question had furnished

high amusement to the whole court: the ladies had laughed heartily

behind their fans at the transgressors' glowing descriptions of the

consternation and scandal they had caused; and the reigning prince,

whom Amberg irreverently designated as "the old gentleman," took no

heed of the matter, nor of the muttered discontent of the insulted

burgesses. No; his disgrace was certainly for a trifling offence, but

not for such harmless drolleries as these. At church, one day, he

had ventured to remark to a lady of the household that she held her

prayer-book upside down. The lady, who would fain have passed for a

devotee, taxed him with impertinence, and with taking her perpetually

for a butt; the pious portion of the court took up the matter, talked

of irreligious levity in holy places, and the upshot of the whole was

his condemnation to exile in country quarters.

Meanwhile arrivals took place at the inn. The officers' attention

was excited by the entrance of a slender, sickly-looking youth of

nineteen or twenty, bearing a knapsack and a harp, and accompanied

by a dark-eyed maiden of fifteen. These were Bernard Hammer and his

sister Anna. The first glance at the young girl's blooming countenance

suggested to the profligate Amberg a plan of seduction. Whilst he

paid his court to Anna, Martini and Gruben took off the brother's

attention, plied him with punch, professed sympathy and friendship, and

inquired his history and that of his family. Bernard and his sister,

it appeared, were not itinerant musicians, as their humble garb and

pedestrian mode of traveling had led the officers to believe. Their

father, a skilful professor of music, had taught them to play upon the

harp, and Anna, grateful for the seemingly disinterested kindness of

Prince Amberg, did not refuse, weary though she was, to gratify him by

the display of her skill. Meanwhile the others questioned her brother.

"My story will be very short," said the Young man. "We are three in

family. My eldest sister was married young to a worthy and prosperous

man, and by this union the happiness of all of us seemed insured.

Suddenly she experienced a terrible affliction--"

He paused. "Well?" said Von Gruben, encouragingly. The youth opened his

lips to continue.

"Bernard!" exclaimed his sister in a warning voice. She had ceased

playing, and, amidst the flatteries and compliments of the Prince, her

first glance was for her brother. Her quick ear seemed to have caught

his words. Or had she a presentiment of what he was about to say?

The brother started, and the words he was on the point of uttering

remained unspoken.

Von Gruben's curiosity, previously feigned, was now strongly excited.

"You were about to say--?" he observed. Martini's attention had been

attracted by the maiden's exclamation. He, too, approached Bernard, who

quickly recovered himself, and continued.

"My brother-in-law," he said, "is lost to my unhappy sister. She has

no longer a husband. Spare me the details. They would be too agitating

for myself and my little sister. His daughter's grief hurried my

father to his grave. It bound his children the closer together. My old

infirm mother, my poor sister with her child, and I, have since then

lived inseparable, supporting ourselves by the labour of our hands. My

sister works with her needle; I draw patterns for manufacturers and

embroiderers. Unfortunately, my sister's health has lately given way,

and therefore have I now been to fetch home Anna, who has hitherto

dwelt with a distant relative. She will take charge of our little

household, and nurse our old mother, now nearly bed-ridden."

"Much misery, great cause for grief, is there not, my dear Gruben?"

said Martini, twisting his mustache. Then filling the glasses, he drank

with Martini and the stranger. Count Engelhart sat motionless behind

the punch-bowl, smoking his great meerschaum pipe.

Bernard Hammer's great ambition was to become a painter. He was an

enthusiast for art. Whilst his perfidious entertainers kept his glass

constantly full, and riveted his attention by their conversation and

generous promises, Prince von Amberg, by dint of infernal cunning and

of artifices whose real object the simple-minded girl--as yet scarcely

emerged from childhood--could not even remotely suspect, inveigled

Anna from the apartment. Her departure was unperceived by her

brother. Presently, in a lull of the conversation, a scream was heard,

proceeding from the upper part of the house. Bernard started up in

alarm. The officers would fain have persuaded him to remain, alleging

a squabble amongst the servants, when just then the cry was repeated.

This time there was no mistaking the sound. It was a woman's voice, its

shrillness and power doubled by terror, screaming for aid.

"My sister!" cried Bernard Hammer, and with one bound he was out of

the room. Several persons--the host, the hostess, and other inmates of

the house--were assembled in the corridor. They looked up the stairs,

and seemed uncertain whether or not to ascend. Young Hammer rushed

through them, and sprang up stairs. A door was violently pulled open.

His sister darted out, her countenance distorted and pale as a corpse.

"Wretch! monster! Save me!" she shrieked. Close behind her came Prince

Amberg. He appeared quite calm, although his finely-cut features were

slightly pale. A supercilious smile played upon his lips.

Anna Hammer flew into her brother's arms. "Save me, Bernard," she

cried. "The wretch, the fiend!" She shook like a leaf. Prince Amberg

would have passed on, but Bernard let his sister go, and confronted him.

"Sir!" he cried, "what have you done to my sister? What insult have you

offered to the child? Answer for yourself! Give me satisfaction!"

The Prince laughed. "Satisfaction! Ask the little strumpet herself what

ails her."

"Strumpet! Sir, you stir not hence!" And he grasped the Prince fiercely

by the breast. Amberg would have shaken off his hold. The uniform

coat was torn in the struggle, and Bernard received a blow in the

face from his adversary. But it seemed as if the sickly youth were

suddenly endowed with superhuman strength. He seized the Prince with

both hands, and shook him till the strong vigorous officer almost lost

consciousness. Then he threw him down upon the ground.

The other officers had followed young Hammer, and came hurrying up

stairs. They tore him from above the panting Prince.

"Knave! clown!" And Gruben and Martini struck at him with their fists.

"Befoul not your fingers with him," said Count Engelhart. "Leave him to

the men." And he pointed to a group of soldiers, now assembled at the

stair-foot.

"You are right, comrade; the fellow is like a mad dog. It is out of his

power to disgrace our uniform."

Then the officers seized the young man, and with their united strength

threw him down stairs.

"Men! there is the strolling musician who dares assault your officers."

The soldiers received Bernard as he fell headlong down the staircase,

and dragged him forth with shouts of savage joy, shutting the

house-door behind them. The officers returned to their bowl of

cardinal, Prince Amberg previously changing his torn uniform. The

people of the house looked at each other in silence.

Anna Hammer had remained for a short time in a state of total

unconsciousness. She came to herself just as her brother was pushed

down the stairs. With a shriek, she flew after him. But she was too

late. The soldiers were already forth with their prize, and in vain she

shook the door, which was held from without.

In the street there arose a wild tumult; a chorus of shouts and curses,

blows and screams.

Notwithstanding her terrible anxiety, the young girl's strength was

soon exhausted by her fruitless efforts to open the door. She turned

despairingly to the host and hostess. "For the love of God's mercy,

save my poor brother! The savages will kill him. He is so weak, so

suffering!"

The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders. "What can we do against the

military?" he said.

"For the sake of my poor old mother!" implored the maiden. "For my

sister's sake! He is our sole support! Without him we perish! And he is

so good, so noble!"

The hostess went away, as though unable longer to support the spectacle

of the poor girl's despair. Her husband shrugged his shoulders

repeatedly. "The soldiery are too powerful. Often the officers

themselves cannot restrain them."

The noise outside increased. The voices grew louder and the cries

wilder--the scuffle more violent. Nothing could be distinguished of

what was going on. Suddenly, above the riot and tumult, young Hammer's

voice predominated. In a tone of heartrending agony and despair:

"Help!" he cried; "they are murdering me!"

There followed a violent fall upon the pavement, and a wild huzza

shouted by many voices. Then all was still as death.

"They have murdered him!" shrieked the maiden. "They have murdered my

brother!"

She burst into the room in which the officers sat, and threw herself at

the feet of the first she saw. "Save, save! Oh, for heaven's love, save

my brother!"

"My little girl," quoth Lieutenant Martini in a tone of quiet

jocularity, "it strikes me you are not at all wanted here."

Just then the loud and cheerful notes of a post-horn resounded in front

of the house, and a carriage stopped at the door.

"A carriage at this late hour! Quite a day of adventures, I declare!"

yawned Count Engelhart.

The house door was heard to open. A few seconds later, that of the

public room was thrown wide, and a lady in an elegant travelling-dress

was ushered in by the host. She was tall, rather full than slender in

person, and apparently about five-and-twenty. Her complexion was fresh,

her eyes were lively. Her air and bearing were those of the first

society.

On her entrance Prince Amberg sprang from his seat in astonishment.

"Frau von Horberg! Your ladyship, what an unhoped-for pleasure!"

"You here, Prince!--how unexpected a meeting!"

Anna Hammer rose to her feet. The thought of a last possible chance

of succour and mercy flashed through her soul when she saw that the

stranger was acquainted with the prince. Throwing herself before her,

she clasped her knees. "Oh, most gracious lady," implored she, "have

compassion on my poor brother: say one word for him to the gentleman,

that he may free him from the soldiers' hands."

"Will the little toad be gone!" exclaimed Prince Amberg, stepping

forward. Then, turning to the lady--"A harp-player, an impudent

stroller, who has been making a disturbance here with her brother."

"Ah, fie!" cried the lady, and pushed the young girl from her with a

sort of loathing--not with her hand, but with her foot.

Anna Hammer stood up. Feelings of inexpressible grief and bitterness

crowded upon her young heart. At that moment she felt herself no longer

a child. One hour's events had converted her into a woman. She cast a

glance of scorn at the lady, at the officer. Then she silently left the

room. She crossed the empty entrance hall, and passed through the open

door into the street. Here all was still; not a living creature was

to be seen. An icy wind blew. She sought around. A moonbeam, forcing

its way through the scudding clouds, revealed to her a dark form lying

along the side of the street. She approached this object. It was her

brother; he was covered with blood, and did not stir. She threw herself

upon his body. He still breathed.

Poor, unhappy sister!

At that moment an officer rode up. He drew bridle at the tavern door,

dismounted, gave his horse to the orderly who followed him, and entered

the house.

In the public room sat Prince Amberg, conversing with the lady in the

familiar tone of old acquaintanceship. On the officer's entrance he

sprang from his chair, buckled on his sabre in a twinkling, clapped his

dragoon helmet upon his head, and stepped forward with all the rigid

decorum of military discipline. "Captain, I report myself--Lieutenant

Prince Amberg, appointed to your squadron!"

Habitual readers of German novels will assuredly deem _Anna Hammer_ a

great improvement on their usual ponderous style--a decided step in

the right direction. Whatever its faults, it has a vivacity not common

in German works of fiction. The above extracts, the beginning and

end of the first chapter, although sketchy, and hurried, and reading

as if written at a scamper, without much artistical finish, are very

effective, and exhibit touches of acute observation and quiet humour.

We like novels that at once plunge the reader into action and bustle,

and crowd the stage with characters. Explanatory introductions and

parenthetical explanations are alike odious. The author of _Anna

Hammer_ avoids both, and carries out his plan and shows off his

personages by dialogue and incident. We have already remarked on his

propensity abruptly to discard characters, whose careful introduction

led the reader to expect their reappearance. Thus we thought to have

again met with the three smoking lieutenants, but it seems they served

their turn in the single chapter in which they are held up as examples

of the brutality and depravity of their class. They are left to their

pipes and their ennui, to their dull German newspaper, and their duller

country inn. Even Prince Amberg, the profligate favourite of the

equally profligate heir to the crown, is brought forward but once more,

under mysterious circumstances, whose explanation is left in great

measure to the reader's imagination. Madame von Horberg plays a rather

more important, but still a subordinate part in the story, whose chief

interest turns upon the courage and self-devotion of Anna Hammer. We

shall not trace the plot in detail, which would spoil the interest to

those who may read the book. Before glancing at its general outline,

we proceed to further extract, and for that purpose need not go beyond

the second chapter, which is in itself a little drama of considerable

interest. It is entitled--

THE EJECTMENT.

It was early upon a bright morning. The farmer's servants had long

betaken themselves, with plough, and harrow, and horses, to their

labour in the fields. The women had swept and cleaned hall and kitchen,

and were dispersed at their work--some in the garden, digging and

planting, others in the wash-house, or in the rooms where provisions

for the winter were stored. The cows in the great stable had already

been milked, and received their fresh fodder. At an early hour the

farmer had exchanged his jacket for a coat, taken hat and stick, and

gone out: he had not yet returned.

The mistress of the house went round the extensive tenements, to see

if all were in order. She was a tall, robust, vigorous woman, about

forty years old, fresh and comely, and still handsome, although that

morning her countenance was grave and anxious, and her eye had an

uneasy glance. She inspected the kitchen, looked at the hearth, the

kettles, the ash-tub, the stock of wood for the day, the potatoes,

which were peeling for the midday meal, the shining array of pots and

pans. Then she went, followed by the kitchen-maid, into the adjacent

larder, and gave out meat and bacon for dinner. Thence she betook

herself to the dairy, and here there was a gleam of satisfaction in

her eye; but on leaving the room, as she gave one more glance at the

numerous brown bowls with their rich white contents, it faded away,

and was replaced by earnestness, almost by grief. From the dairy she

went to the spacious barn. It was so clean swept that a needle might

have been found on the floor. On either hand was a stable; to the

right for the horses, to the left for the cows. The former was nearly

empty; the animals were at work in the fields, with the exception of

some broodmares, which lay on clean straw with their foals beside them.

The cowhouse had more occupants. The white, brown, black and brindled

beasts stood in long rows at their cribs, smooth, shining, and well

fed, and munched the sweet-smelling hay. They all knew the housewife:

she patted them all in turn, although she did not, as was her wont,

speak caressingly to them, but went silently from one to the other.

Pleasure at the full and prosperous aspect of the stable struggled in

her features with some secret cause of grief.

Above the stables were a number of rooms; these contained the

provisions of hemp, flax, and yarn, and, above all, great store of

snow-white linen, from the coarse house linen up to the finest damask.

The sturdy farmer's wife had already set foot on the stairs, to ascend

and feast her eyes with her treasure; but she hastily turned away, back

into the kitchen, and thence into the farm-yard.

The farm-yard was large and roomy. On the one side stood the

farm-buildings; in their centre, separated from them by tolerably wide

intervals, was the snug farm-house, with its walls of dark bricks, and

its roof of bright red tiles, with green shutters to the windows, and

vines trailing over its southern and eastern sides. On either hand

were sheds for carts, sledges, ploughs, and other farm implements.

Opposite to the farm-house, in a smiling little garden, stood a smaller

dwelling, of even pleasanter aspect than its neighbour. This house,

then uninhabited, was to be the residence of the present owners of

the farm, when increase of years should induce them to resign its

management into the more vigorous hands of their children. Judging from

the robust aspect of the farmer's wife, that day was yet far distant.

A thick forest enclosed the farm on three sides. On the fourth, garden

and pasture and arable land stretched out in all directions, as far as

the eye could reach. The underwood in the forest was already bursting

into leaf, and the lofty beeches here and there put forth tender green

buds. The knotty branches of the huge oaks were still gray and bare.

Not far from the farm-house, where the ground rose a little, stood a

long table of white deal, surrounded by green branches, and canopied

by the spreading limbs of an elm. Near at hand were groups of

walnut-trees, and a few chestnuts, budding into white and pink blossom;

and a little farther five or six venerable oaks, which seemed to have

stemmed the storms of centuries, and to have witnessed the building

and decay of more than one farm-house, the growth and decline of many

generations.