THE LAST DREAD PENALTY
For more than half a century I have taken a great interest in those who,
of malice aforethought, and after considerable pains, succeed in taking
the lives of others. I remember as if it were to-day the excitement that
arose when William Palmer was charged with the murder of John Parsons
Cook. For fifty years a vivid impression of all the events and episodes
connected with the remarkable trial of that remarkable man has remained
with me. I was then a boy of eleven, but Palmer was well known to the
boys of Rugeley, and to myself amongst them. Palmer attended church on
Sundays, when racing engagements allowed, and sat in his family pew,
fairly close to the schoolboys, of whom I happened to be one. He was
most particular about behaviour in church--not only his own, but that of
the schoolboys also. Even now I can see him coming into church with some
member of his family, with firm walk and clanging heel. I can remember
how he stood up to pray into his top-hat a lengthened prayer on entering
his pew. I remember, too, that his clothing was always black, and that
a crape mourning band was always in evidence on his hat, for funerals
were numerous in the Palmer family. But we lads thought nothing of the
funerals; but we knew that Palmer's eye was upon us, if we did not
behave discreetly in church; we knew he had more than once pulled the
ears of boys that misbehaved. We knew, too, that Palmer's mother had an
easily accessible garden, in which were plenty of juicy apples and
toothsome cherries.
Apart from his staid and correct manner at church, Palmer was a bluff,
hearty fellow, well known and well liked in our little town, where he
frequently doctored the poor for nothing; and it was always understood
that Palmer's brother George, a solicitor, was also equally ready to
give his services free of charge to the poor. It was only natural, then,
that the Palmers were liked in our town--for it was a very small town.
Grave faces, I remember, had been plentiful in Rugeley for some weeks
and things had been going on that we boys did not understand. We knew
the names of Palmer's horses, and felt any amount of interest in
Blinkbonny and Goldfinder; but we did not understand the gloom that had
settled on the town, for older people spoke with bated breath, and when
boys drew near the conversation ceased or the lads were driven away. We
knew the name of Palmer was whispered continuously. What did it all
mean? At length mystery, reticence, and whispered suspicions were
useless. Palmer had been arrested for the murder of John Parsons Cook,
whose body lay in our churchyard, and whose funeral we had witnessed.
Now the excitement began. Rugeley became almost the hub of the universe.
Strange people arrived from everywhere, and the quiet town became a
Babel.
I remember with what awe we gazed at Cook's grave after the body had
been exhumed and returned to its resting-place. We knew that some part
of the body had been taken away and sent to London for great men to
examine. We boys even discussed the ultimate destination of the parts
taken away, and wondered if they would ever get back to poor Cook. How
well I remember the exciting events of that long and dramatic trial in
London! Rugeley people were poor in those days, and newspapers were
dear, so we borrowed where we could, and lent to others when we
possessed. I read aloud the records of that trial to all sorts of poor
people, so I have cause to remember it. I prosecuted Palmer, and I
defended him; I was witness, and I was judge; I claimed a triumphant
acquittal, and I demanded his condemnation; I cross-examined the great
analyst, and even at that age began to learn something of the nature and
effects of strychnine. I thrilled with it all, but I believed Palmer to
be innocent, and in a measure I was proud of a townsman who could stand
up bravely against all the big men in London and show no fear. Oh, but
he was a brave man! He must be innocent! And when the trial was all
over, and Palmer was brought to Stafford to pay the penalty of his
crime, do I not remember how all the world rushed to Stafford to see him
hanged? Ay, I remember how people tramped all day through Rugeley to
Stafford, and how they stood all through the night in Stafford streets
waiting, waiting for eight o'clock the next morning. Yes, I remember it
all; and I remember, too, that the cherries in a certain garden
nevermore had any attractions! But I remember, too, that Palmer died
game, showing no fear, betraying no anxiety, with a good appetite to the
last and a firm step to the scaffold.
Surely Palmer was innocent, and was supported by the knowledge of his
innocence. Murderers had fearsome consciences; they were haunted by a
sense of their guilt, and by the eyes or the spirits of their victims.
So I felt and so I reasoned about murderers when I was a boy. I have
since those days had many opportunities of correcting my judgment, and
now I no longer believe that a bold, cool, collected behaviour, together
with the possession of a good appetite, is synonymous with innocence.
For I have seen enough to justify me in saying that a calm and brave
bearing is more likely to be indicative of guilt than of innocence. But
the public and certain portions of the press still translate callous
behaviour into a proof of innocence, and sometimes convert prisoners
into heroes.
No greater mistake could be made, for a prisoner's behaviour has nothing
do with to his guilt or innocence. On the whole, fear or distress are
far more likely to indicate innocence than they are to denote guilt.
This I believe to hold good of all prisoners, not only of those charged
with the capital offence. I have failed to observe in prisoners who
were undoubtedly guilty the furtive look that is supposed to be peculiar
to guilt. I have watched closely and have spoken confidentially to many
hundreds, but their eyes met mine as naturally as those of a child. I
have been compelled to the conclusion that not only is a bold bearing
consistent with the deepest guilt, but also that a natural bearing and a
childlike trustfulness are by no means to be taken as signs of
innocence. Of the behaviour of innocent people when charged with crime,
fortunately, we do not get many opportunities of observation; still, I
have seen some, and can bear testimony that they were a great deal more
confused, excited, and unreliable than prisoners who were undeniably
guilty. Such prisoners often contradict themselves, and sometimes depart
from the truth when attempting to defend themselves. It is palpable to
everyone that they feel their position, and fear the consequences. I
have seen such astounding coolness and presence of mind, coupled with
apparent candour and sincerity, among guilty prisoners that when I know
of a prisoner exhibiting these qualities I almost instinctively suspect
him. An innocent man, in his anxiety, may prevaricate through fear and
confusion; but the veritably guilty man is careful in these matters,
though he may be sometimes a little too clever.
The psychology of prisoners has, then, for years been a favourite study
with me, and a very interesting study I have found it. In my endeavours
to discover the state of mind that existed and caused certain prisoners
to commit serious crimes, I have sometimes discovered, almost hidden in
the dark recesses of the mind, some little shadow of some small thing
that to me seemed quite absurd, but which to the prisoner loomed so
large, so real, and so important, that he regarded it as a sufficient
justification for his deed. To myself the crime and the something in the
prisoner's mind appeared to have no possible connection, yet
unmistakably, if the prisoners were to be believed, they were cause and
effect. Now, from this kind of mania--for such it undoubtedly is--small
and ridiculous as it seems--and I have met it too often not to be
certain as to its existence--a double question is presented: What is the
cause of that little something in the prisoner's mind? and why has it
caused the prisoner to commit a certain action? I have never been able
to get any light upon these questions, but have had to content myself
with the knowledge that the mental equipment of that class of criminals
is altogether different to that of ordinary individuals. I am not here
speaking of a defined mania that dominates the life, stirs the passions,
and leads directly to the perpetration of a crime--cause and effect in
such a case are obvious, though, of course, the cause of the cause is
still obscure--but I am speaking of silly little somethings that float
about in certain minds, that refuse to be ejected, that entail much
misery and suffering, and finally crime. Possibly this state of mind may
be the outcome of indigestion, even as an extra severe sentence upon a
prisoner may be the outcome of indigestion in a judge: for it is quite
possible to suppose a case in which judge and prisoner suffered from a
like cause; but the one has committed a crime because of it, and the
other inflicts unmerited punishment because of it. Two things are very
clear to me: first, that our judges and magistrates ought to be in the
very best of health when performing their duties; secondly, that
pathological causes enter very largely into the perpetration of crime.
Ill-health may make a judge irritable and severe, and so distort his
judgment, and excuses are made for him; for it is whispered he is a
martyr to gout, indigestion, or some equally trying malady. If so, he
certainly ought not to be a judge, for health and temper are absolutely
necessary for one who has to administer justice and act as the arbiter
of other people's fate. But this excuse is not made for prisoners. Yet
in hundreds of cases it might honestly be made; for while they may not
have been influenced by gout or indigestion, they have been influenced
by pathological causes, and the two things are equal.
I am persuaded, after many years' close observation and many years'
friendship with criminals, that disease, mental or physical, is a
tremendous factor in the causation of crime. The "criminal class" is
often spoken of, and it might be supposed that there is a distinct class
of people to whom the appellation applies. My experience teaches me that
there is no "criminal class," but there are plenty of criminals. The low
forehead and the square jaw, the scowling eye and the stubbly beard, do
not denote criminality; the receding forehead, the weak eye, and the
almost absence of chin, do not indicate criminal instincts. Nothing of
the sort. All these things are consistent with decent living, a fair
amount of intelligence, and some moral purpose. On the other hand, a
well-built body, a well-shaped head, a handsome face, a clean skin, and
a bright eye are consistent with the basest criminality. Some of the
worst criminals I have met--real and dangerous criminals--were handsome
as Apollo. But there does exist a class--and, unfortunately, a very
large class--who have very limited intelligence, who appear to be
retrogressing physically, mentally, and morally, of whom a large
proportion commit various kinds of offences--not from criminal
instincts, but from stunted or undeveloped intelligence and lack of
reasoning power.
But I am digressing, for it is not my purpose in this chapter to speak
of criminals in general, but rather of those whom I have personally met
charged with murder, and who were convicted, some paying the full
penalty. These I want to consider more fully. From this list I must
eliminate man-slayers who had killed in the heat of passion or in a
drunken quarrel, for they were not murderers at heart. Their mental
condition was understandable, and their bearing while undergoing trial
is beside the question. Neither do I wish to include married or single
women who had killed their offspring at childbirth or soon after, for
they are outside my consideration. But I want to speak plainly about
those who had committed prearranged murders, and carried them out with
considerable skill.
In refreshing my memory about these, I find that they held several
characteristics in common:
1. Not one of them exhibited any sense of shame, no matter how
disgraceful the attendant circumstances.
2. Not one of them exhibited any nervousness or fear of the
consequences.
3. Those who admitted their guilt justified their actions, and appeared
to believe that they had done the right thing.
4. Those who denied their guilt, denied it with cool and positive
assurance, and denied it to the last with almost contempt, as if the
charge was more an insult than anything serious.
5. None of them betrayed the slightest sorrow.
6. Every one of them appeared of sound mind so far as reasoning powers
were concerned, for they were quite lucid, and remarkably quick to see a
point in their favour.
7. None of them were fully able to realize the position in which they
stood, as ordinary people must have realized it.
Of course, everyone will admit that the man or woman who can plan and
carry out a murder, whether that murder is likely to be detected or not,
is not, and cannot be, a normal person; but what we require to know is
where they depart from the normal, and how and why they depart from the
normal.
I would like to say that the particulars just given are the results not
only of my observation of prisoners when in the dock, but also of many
personal and private conversations with them. In a word, I do not
consider that any of these prisoners were thoroughly sane. It may be
said--it is often said--that in human nature "we find what we look
for," and there is truth in the saying; but when trying to understand
these people, I had not the slightest idea of what I was seeking. I knew
there must be some cause that led to the crime, something out of the
ordinary in their minds, but what it was and how to find it was more
than I could tell. So I have watched, have talked and listened. For
these prisoners were always ready to talk: there was no secrecy with
them, excepting with regard to the crime; otherwise they were talkative
enough. It takes some time and patience to discover whether or not in
people there is a suspicion of brain trouble. They appear so natural
that several lengthened conversations may be required before anything at
all is revealed. I trust that it will not be thought that I am betraying
confidences that poor wretches have given to me, for no prisoner, guilty
or innocent, ever confided in me without such confidences being
considered sacred; but as their cases are not of recent date, no harm
can be done, and possibly good may ensue, if I give some particulars
that I gained regarding their mental peculiarities. Being anxious to
ascertain how far my experience was confirmed by the experience of
others, quite recently I put a question to the chaplain of one of our
largest prisons, and whose experience was much greater than my own in
this particular direction. I asked him whether he had ever known anyone
who was about to suffer the death penalty for a premeditated and
cleverly contrived murder exhibit any sense of remorse, sorrow, or fear.
His answer was exactly what I expected--"that he had performed his last
sad offices for a considerable number of such prisoners, and that he
had discovered neither fear nor remorse in any of them; with one
exception, they all denied their guilt." I want it to be perfectly clear
that I am speaking now about murderers who committed premeditated crimes
that had been cleverly carried out, impromptu murders not being
considered.
I now propose to give a sufficient number of examples to prove my point.
In a poor street within two hundred yards of my own door I had
frequently seen a beautiful boy of about four years old. His appearance,
his clothing, his cleanliness, and even his speech, told unmistakably
that he was not belonging to the poor. I knew the old people that he
lived with, and felt quite sure that it was not owing to their exertions
that he was so beautifully dressed and kept so spotlessly clean, for
they were old, feeble, and very poor. But the old people had a daughter
living with them, and it was the daughter who had charge of the child,
for the little fellow was a "nurse-child." Good payment must have been
given for the care of the child, for it was the only source of income
for the household. The foster-mother was devoted to the boy, and he
reflected every credit upon her love and care. Many times when I have
met them I have spoken a cheery word to the little fellow, never
dreaming of the coming tragedy, or that I should meet his real mother
and discuss his death with her. The dead body of a boy between four and
five years of age had been discovered in the women's lavatory of a North
London railway-station. Without doubt the child had been ruthlessly
murdered. His head had been smashed; his face was crushed beyond
recognition. A calcined brick lay close by the body, and had evidently
been used for perpetrating the deed. No other trace of the murder was
forthcoming, and the body was taken to the nearest mortuary. Meanwhile
the foster-mother and her aged parents were mourning the loss of the
bonny boy, for the boy's mother had taken him from them that he might
begin his education in a boarding-school for young children at Brighton.
They had learned to love the child, and now he was gone. The old people
missed him sadly, and the nurse-mother wept for him. The house seemed so
dull without him. The murder occurred on a Saturday. On one of the early
days of the ensuing week a neighbour chanced to tell the nurse-mother
that she had read in a Sunday paper about the discovery of a child's
mangled body at a North London railway-station, and also that the body
remained unidentified at the mortuary. Although the nurse had not the
slightest suspicion--for on the Saturday morning she had accompanied the
boy and his mother to London Bridge, where tickets had been taken for
Brighton, and the nurse had seen them safely on the correct platform and
the train waiting--yet the loss of her nurse-child had so affected her
that she wept as her neighbour told her of the newspaper account, and
they went together to the mortuary, which was some miles away, to see
the "other little dear." It was some years before the nurse recovered
from the shock she sustained on her visit to the mortuary, for the
mangled and disfigured body was that of her late charge--her "dear
Manfred." I question whether even now she has recovered, for several
times I know that she has been ill, and sometimes when I have been sent
for, she seemed likely to lose her reason, the one and only thing that
occupied her mind being the tragic discovery of her dear boy's maimed
body. But the child's mother undoubtedly went to Brighton on that
particular Saturday afternoon. She intended to go to Brighton, not for
the purpose of placing her child in a school, but for another purpose by
no means so praiseworthy, yet for a purpose that was esteemed by her a
sufficient justification for the murder of the child. She had lured a
young man into a promise to spend the week-end with her at Brighton, and
some reason had to be found and given for her visit. Placing the child
in a suitable school seemed a sufficient reason, so the nurse was
instructed to get the boy's clothing ready and accompany her to London
Bridge. This was accordingly done, and the nurse returned home, fully
believing that the boy and his mother were on the way to Brighton. But
the mother did not go to Brighton by that train. She allowed it to go
without her, and when the nurse was safely away she left the platform,
saying that she had missed it, but would return and go by a later train.
She then took a bus for Broad Street Station, there taking a return
ticket for Dalston, where she alighted. The lavatory in question was on
the platform, consequently she did not pass the ticket-barrier. After
accomplishing her object with the brick I have referred to, and which
she had carried in her reticule all day for the purpose--for she had
taken it from the garden of the house where she lived--she returned to
Broad Street, giving her correct ticket up, and then on to London Bridge
and Brighton early enough to meet the young man, who was about half her
own age, and who spent the week-end with her.
I have given briefly the particulars of this gruesome affair because
they lead up to the mental conditions of the murderess. It will be
noticed that the murder was skilfully contrived beforehand; that the
object to be gained was indulgence with a young man but little more than
half her age; that within a few hours of killing her own boy she
smilingly met the young man as if nothing had happened. All these things
are extraordinary, but when to these some particulars regarding the
murderess are added, the character of the whole affair becomes more
extraordinary still. She was a governess, clever and exceedingly well
educated, with scientific accomplishments. She was about thirty-six
years of age, by no means soft or voluptuous in appearance, but with a
hard, strong cast of face. She was doing well in a pecuniary sense, and
her friends were also in good circumstances.
In considering the case, the first thing that strikes me is that when a
woman of her character, standing and appearance gives birth to an
illegitimate child, at an age when girlhood has long passed, there is an
absolute departure from the normal, there is something wrong. I need not
give any details of her trial, only to say the facts I have given were
fully proved, and to add that she was found guilty, sentenced, and
hanged.
It is of her bearing and demeanour that I wish to speak. Of course, she
protested her innocence; any other person might be guilty, but it was
absurd to hint that she was guilty. Yet she betrayed no indignation. To
her it was Euclid over again, with _quod erat faciendum_, as the result
of the problem. She was cool, alert, and fearless; she showed no
emotion, no anxiety, no feeling. The killing of a sheep could not have
been a matter of less importance to her than was the murder of her own
child. Such was her demeanour at the inquest and at the police-court
proceedings, and this attitude she maintained to the end.
In her private conversation with me she was clear, animated, and
apparently calm and frank. I never saw the least symptoms of
nervousness, and her eyes met mine as naturally and unconcernedly as if
the charge she had to meet had not the remotest connection with herself.
Her last words to me were: "When I am discharged, I shall invite myself
to tea with Mrs. Holmes and yourself, for I am supported by the thought
that you firmly believe in my innocence." I had never told her this, for
I had not discussed her guilt or innocence. She had talked to me, and I
had listened, putting a question occasionally to her. I could believe no
other than that she was verily guilty, but I did not tell her so--I had
no right to tell her so--but I listened and waited for an admission that
would throw some little light upon the state of her mind, and give me a
faint idea of the cause that led her to plan and execute the terrible
deed. This she did, and I am persuaded that she took away the boy to
furnish her with some excuse for spending the week-end at Brighton. I
leave it to others to decide upon her sanity, though personally I am
charitable enough to think she was insane. It is certain that she was
animated with fierce passion; it is also certain that in other respects
she was cold as an iceberg. For the death of her beautiful boy, whether
she was guilty or innocent of it, never troubled her for a moment. Does
a lust for blood accompany an excess of the other passion in a woman of
her temperament and characteristics? This I do not know, but I have no
doubt that wiser people do know. At any rate, with hands that had
cruelly battered the life out of her own child, and while the blood of
that child was still hot upon them, she welcomed her male friend. I
profess that I find some comfort in the belief that she was insane. Had
her insanity been just a little more obvious, she might have escaped the
death penalty and ended her days in a criminal lunatic asylum.
But I do not think the question of her sanity was ever raised. He would
have been a bold man that raised it, in the face of her accomplishments
and self-control. Some day we shall, perhaps, apply different methods to
test sanity than those now employed, and we shall look for other
symptoms in diagnosis than those we look for now. The most dangerous
madness is not that which is patent to everybody--the wild or vacant
eyes, the inconsequent or violent speech, the manifest delusions, and
the inability to conduct one's own affairs. These are simple enough; but
the possessors of these characteristics are often harmless to the
community. But when the madness is half madness, and is covered with a
show of reason, it is then that danger is to be feared.
In the case I am now about to give insanity was just a little more
apparent, though I do not think it was more real. But its manifestation
was of sufficient magnitude to prevent capital punishment.
A young woman whose character was beyond reproach, and whose ability and
business aptitude gave the greatest pleasure to her employer and his
wife, was engaged as the manageress of a department in a drapery and
millinery shop in North London. She had been in the situation for some
months, and perfect confidence existed between the different parties.
One hot Sunday afternoon she suddenly awoke from an afternoon nap with
the conviction that she had been criminally assaulted by her employer.
The fact that she was in her own room with the door fastened did not
weigh with her at all. She declared that her employer was the guilty
person. The fact that he and his wife spent the afternoon out of doors
was nothing to her. Possessed with this extraordinary idea, she left
London at once for a town on the South Coast, where her brother lived.
Her brother appears to have accepted her statement without question or
demur, and to him the delusion became as real as to his sister. He armed
her with an exquisitely made and very formidable dagger, and provided
himself with an equally dangerous pistol and cartridges. Thus armed,
they came to London--he to take vengeance upon the man who had
dishonoured his sister, she to point out the man, and to be ready with
the dagger if the pistol failed to take effect. The brother did not
fail, for he shot the man dead. Now that vengeance was satisfied, the
couple were again harmless, for neither brother nor sister attempted to
do any more injury. They were arrested, and gave up their arms willingly
enough. They declared that they had done the deed, and that they
intended to kill the man; that they procured the weapons and came to
London for the express purpose. They claimed to be perfectly justified
in their joint action. This attitude they maintained before the court,
for when asked if they wished to put any questions to the witnesses, "Oh
no!" was the reply. "Of what use would they be? We did it; we are glad
that we did it. The consequences do not matter." There was quite a
little dispute between the sister and brother. He declared that as he
killed the man he alone was entitled to the glory and the punishment;
but the sister declared that it was done at her request, and also that
she was prepared to kill if her brother had failed. Both were found
guilty, and both were committed to a criminal lunatic asylum. Yet they
had every appearance of being thoroughly sane; their manner, their
speech, their reasoning powers, and everything appertaining to them,
savoured of clear reason, their delusion alone excepted. If that
delusion had not been so manifest, undoubtedly they would have been
hanged. There seems to me to be no point from which a line can be drawn
to divide insanity from sanity. At present we have but clumsy,
uncertain, and very speculative methods of deciding upon a prisoner's
sanity--methods that must often result in the punishment, if not the
death, of the prisoners who suffer from some kind of mental disease. I
am inclined to believe that the more all traces of madness are hidden by
clever murderers, the stronger is the probability of that madness
existing, for the very essence of cunning is employed in hiding it. They
will cheerfully contemplate the executioner's rope rather than be
considered mad. The brother and sister to whom I have referred would
have cheerfully accepted the death penalty in preference to committal to
a lunatic asylum. In one of my conversations with the brother, I
suddenly asked him: "Have any of your relations been detained in lunatic
asylums?" He was quite ready for me, and he replied: "I am as sane as
you are; and if you are ever placed in a similar situation to mine, I
hope you will prove as sane as I have."
The more I think over the two cases--one woman found sane and hanged,
the other declared insane and sent to a lunatic asylum--the more I am
convinced that equal justice has not been done. Probably the madness in
both women proceeded from the same cause, and it is clear that neither
of them had the slightest compunction about shedding blood.
I will deal briefly with my next case, and of a truth there is not much
to be said. He was a clerk about twenty-six years of age. He had married
a decent young woman, for whom he had made no provision other than a
loaded pistol. He had no home and no money, excepting a few pounds that
he had embezzled, and with this he had paid the marriage expenses. With
his last few shillings he hired a cab; drove, accompanied by his wife,
from place to place, in pretence of finding a home for her; and,
finally, while still in the cab, he did the deed for which he had
prepared--he shot her. He made no attempt to escape; he offered no
reason for his deed; he was quite satisfied with his action; and when
before the court he was absolutely unconcerned. I had several
conversations with him, and as he had publicly owned to the deed, there
was no harm in my assumption of his guilt. I said to him: "Tell me why
you did this cruel deed?" He said: "I don't consider it a cruel deed.
What else could I do? You would have done the same." Argument, of
course, was out of the question, but I did venture to express the hope
that I might not have done what he had done, when he again replied: "You
think so now; but if you had to do it, you would do it!" And this frame
of mind he maintained to the end--for he was hanged.
I do not say that he ought not to have been hanged, for it is difficult
to point out in what other way he could have been dealt with; but so
long as insanity is considered a sufficient reason for preventing the
death penalty, I do say that every possible means should be taken to
test a prisoner's sanity before a final decision is arrived at; and,
further, that the appearance of positive sanity is under such
circumstances an indication of insanity. Every criminal, in addition to
murderers, ought to be subjected to a careful and prolonged scrutiny
and mental examination by experts. The cost would not be great, and I am
fully sure the results would compensate if the expense was great.
Prisons ought to become psychological observatories, and be made to
furnish us with a vast amount of useful information. There are so many
things we ought to know, and might know if we would only take pains to
know. It might be that the information obtained would make us sad and
excite our fear; it might be that our pity would be deeply stirred, and
that we should have a whole army of human beings upon our hands, for
whom we might feel hopeless and helpless. But we have these even now,
and for them imprisonment or hanging is a ready and simple plan that
suffices us! But ought they to suffice in these enlightened days? I
think not. At any rate, we ought to gather knowledge. With knowledge
will come power, and with power better methods of dealing with erring or
afflicted humanity. For the days will surely come when the hangman's
rope will be seldom in requisition; when all the unhealthy and
demoralizing publicity attaching to a murder trial will be a thing of
the past; when criminals will not be made into public heroes, because of
the speculative and perhaps equal chances of life or death; when morbid
and widespread sentiment will not be created by public appeals to the
Home Secretary; and, perhaps best of all, when diseased minds will be no
longer influenced by the unhealthy publicity of the details pertaining
to a death sentence to commit the other crimes for which no motives have
been apparent.
Since writing the above chapter, the following appeared in the daily
papers of August 5, 1908:
"Thomas Siddle, a bricklayer, was yesterday executed at Hull for
the murder of his wife in June last. The crime was a particularly
callous one. Siddle was to have gone to prison for not paying his
wife's maintenance under a separation order. On the day, however,
he visited her, and after some conversation savagely attacked her
with a razor. _Before his execution_ the prisoner _ate a hearty
breakfast, and smiled at the warders as he walked firmly to the
scaffold._"