The Proceedings of the Old Bailey

 

1775.   AUGUSTUS DALMAS was indicted for the wilful murder of   Sarah Eleanor M'Farlane; he was also charged by the Coroner's Inquisition, with the like offence.

MR. SOLICITOR-GENERAL, with MESSRS. BODKIN and CHAMBERS, conducted the Prosecution.

  WILLIAM PARKINS . I am a goldsmith, and live at No. 8, Albion-terrace, King's-road, Chelsea. On Monday, the 29th of April, about half-past ten o'clock at night, I was going across Battersea-bridge, from the Surrey, to the Chelsea side—there is a toll-house at each end—I passed through that on the Surrey side, and immediately after I crossed the road, about twenty paces from the toll-house, and looked over the balustrades into the water, I heard a cry from the other side of the bridge, as if somebody was hurt—it was, "Oh dear, oh my!"—I looked in the direction from whence the cry came, and saw a woman coming over the bridge, towards the Surrey-side, not directly towards me, but towards the end I was standing on—she ran on the opposite side of the road to me, but on seeing me, she crossed directly to me, and laid hold of my hand—she was exclaiming then, "Oh dear, oh dear!"—she said, "Will you be kind enough, Sir, to take me to the toll-house?"—I said, "What for, my good woman, what is your object in going to the toll-house?" for she was very unsteady, and reeled as if she was tipsy—I thought she was tipsy at the time—she said, "Oh dear, oh dear!" and said, "somebody has cut me, Sir"—I held her hands firm, for she felt as if she was felling—she turned round, saw the toll-collector, and ran from me direct to him, which was about twenty paces—it was the toll-collector on the Surreyside, from which I had come—I looked at my hand, and by the light saw that it was covered with blood—I immediately went to the collector, where the woman was then standing, and said to him, "What is the matter with this woman; she says somebody has cut her, and look at my hand?"—at that time she was falling, and she was laid down on the ground—there were two women there—I stood looking at her, and perceived a great quantity of blood close to her shoulder—I knelt down, looked at her, and saw the back part of her neck was cut—during that time the alarm had been given, and several persons had come around me—I was kneeling down at that time—when I saw the wound, I said, "Good God, the woman's throat is cut"—a person said, "It is Mrs. M'Farlane"—I do not know who it was—it was some person in the crowd at the back of me, and I heard another voice say, "Then Dalmas has done it"—some gentlemen came round from the Swan Tavern, and Mr. Freeman and Mr. Mullens each said he would go for a doctor—they ran away for the doctor—two policemen came up, and I said to one of them, who was leaning over me, "Why don't you go and give information on the other side of the bridge?"—he replied he could not leave till the doctor came—I saw another policeman, and said, "It is no use two of you being here"—I said, "My God, the woman will bleed to death before assistance

comes"—I said that so as to be heard by her—she was then removed to the passage of the Swan Tavern, which was close by, and while lying there, I said again, that she would bleed to death, that she was dying—she appeared to me to be dying—I saw Langton, the officer, there then, and Mr. Gosling stooping over her—he is the landlord of the tavern—Langton knelt down and addressed some question to her—she was then lying on her back, bleeding profusely—before that I had heard her say nothing but "Oh dear"—I cannot say positively how long she lived after the question was put to her, but I should think about five minutes, not more than that—Mr. Gosling did not in my hearing say anything with respect to her state, before the policeman put the question to her—nor had any person besides myself said anything in her hearing about her state.

Cross-examined by MR. WILKINS. Q. Did you notice the sort of hat Mr. Mullens had on? A. Yes, a broad-brimmed hat—he ran from the Surrey side to the Chelsea side—I did not notice that he cried "Police" as he went over the bridge—he had on a dark coat—it might be black or blue.

COURT. Q. Is Mr. Mullens here? A. I have seen him outside.

  WILLIAM GOSLING . I am landlord of the Swan Inn, Battersea. The deceased was brought to my house on the night of the 29th of April—several persons came to the house at the same time—she was laid down on her back in the passage—she appeared to be in a very low and almost dying state—four or five persons, near enough for her to hear them, said that she was dying, or that she would bleed to death before we could get assistance—I saw Langton there—he stooped down over her—I stooped down with him, and heard what passed—Langton requested me to listen to what was said—she died about five or six minutes after I knelt down—when the persons about her made use of the expressions I have stated, the appeared to me to be sensible—she looked up in our faces when we stooped over her, and answered what the policeman requested.

Cross-examined. Q. Did you hear some one say, "If yon don't get assistance she will bleed to death?" A. Yes—that was almost immediately before Langton put the question to her.

COURT. Q. Why do you say she understood what was said to her? A. We thought so by her answers.

  FREDERICK LANGTON (police-constable V 36.) I heard some one calling "Police"—I ran to the bridge, and found the deceased, wounded—I assisted in carrying her to the Swan—I knelt down and saw her throat was cut—there was a handkerchief in the wound in the neck, and in carrying her it dropped out—when I got into the passage, I knelt down to the deceased's mouth—I do not recollect that I applied the handkerchief to her neck while I was speaking to her—she appeared at that time as if she was dying—when the was lying at the toll-house, a gentleman named Parkins said, in my hearing and in hers, "Good God, Langton, remove her directly, do not let her die here"—several others who were standing round said the woman must die they thought—that was said both before and after she was removed to the Swan—it was said in her hearing, before I put any question to her—they said she was dying—they said it in her hearing, both before her removal and after—I was looking at her countenance, both at the toll-house and in the passage of the public-house—she looked at me when I knelt down to her in the passage, and appeared as if she wanted to say something to me—I think she heard those expressions of the certainty of her death—I observed nothing in her countenance then, except that she looked at me as if she wanted to say something—I put four questions to her, and obtained an answer to each, from her—she lived about five or six minutes after I put the last question to her—she appeared to talk low but distinctly—I heard every word she uttered—she appeared at if the was faint—I

think her voice was not quite so loud at the last question as it was at the first—I was kneeling down over her.

Cross-examined. Q. Did you hear anybody say, that if they did not fetch help she would die? A. No, nobody said so in my hearing—I and Mr. Gosling were close together in the passage—I was closer to the woman than Mr. Gosling at the time I put the questions—I and he were together in the passage.

MR. BODKIN. Q. You were going to say Mr. Gosling was somewhere? A. He was standing on one side and I on the other—I was on the right, the side of the wound, and, after the deceased had answered the first question, I asked Mr. Gosling to pay attention to what the woman said—he then came nearer.

  THOMAS HALL . I am a toll-collector on the Surrey side of Battersea bridge. On the 29th of April, about half-past ten at night, I was at the door of my toll-house—I know Mr. Parkins—I noticed him pass by me towards Chelsea—I came out, and soon after that, a woman came to me from that end of the bridge—Mr. Parkins was not with her at the moment—he came immediately afterwards—I knew her to be Mrs. M'Farlane, the deceased—she said, "Oh dear, oh dear" when she first came up, and when she first saw me, and then again when I went up to her to assist her she repeated the same words, and said, "See how I have been ill used on the bridge"—she wished me to take her home—finding her in a weak state, I took her into my toll-house, and she was afterwards taken to the Swan—I had seen Mrs. M'Farlane about eight o'clock that evening—the prisoner's youngest daughter was then with her—I do not recollect her name—she was going over the bridge towards Chelsea, with the girl—I know a person of the name of Cook—I saw him rather better than a quarter of an hour, (I should think,) after she had come up to me—after she had been carried to the Swan—she was on the Surrey side of the bridge, on the bridge side, on the other side of the gate—Cook was on the bridge.

Cross-examined. Q. How long had you known Mrs. M'Farlane? A. About seven or eight years—she was reputed to be pretty well off in the world, to the best of my knowledge—she did not very frequently come over the bridge in the evening—latterly whenever I have seen her it has been with one or other of the prisoner's daughters—sometimes she would come over the bridge alone in the evening—on the following morning, I denied that I had seen Cook—the reason I did so was because I did not know his name—he is a coalporter, I believe, at Chelsea—a cry of "Police" was raised—persons might run over on the other side of the bridge crying "Police"—I did not hear it myself—I did not see any one running over towards Chelsea, crying "Police."

COURT. Q. You were giving some reason why next morning you thought you had not seen Cook? A. I had known him personally seven or eight years, but did not know his name—I was asked if I had seen Cook, and I said "No," not knowing his name.

  FRANCES SCOTT . I am housekeeper to Mrs. Dolly, who lives in Bolton. place, Upper Church-lane, Chelsea. The prisoner's daughter, Augusta, came into Mrs. Dolly's service on the 29th of April last, at half-past eight o'clock in the evening—Mrs. M'Farlane came with her—I did not know Mrs. M'Farlane at that time, but a person came in that name—I do not remember how she was dressed—she remained about a quarter of an hour—she left about a quarter to nine—she appeared in good spirits and health—I did not have much conversation with her—we laughed and joked as she went out—at the time she went out, I observed a man walking near the house—I did not observe whether Mrs. M'Farlane joined him or not.

COURT. Q. Did that person appear to be walking about like a man waiting? A. Yes.

  THOMAS LINES (police-constable V 5.) On the 29th of April, I was on

duty near Bolton-place—I know the house of Mrs. Dolly, No. 9, in that place—I noticed a man walking in front of Mrs. Dolly's house, from twenty minutes till a quarter to nine—it was five minutes, to the best of my opinion—whilst he was walking up and down, the woman walked out of Mrs. Dolly's house, crossed the foot-path, and went into the road, and the man who was walking in front, crossed and met her—they went, arm-in-arm, together, towards the Queen's Elms—I noticed the man's person—I looked very narrowly at him—the prisoner is the man—the woman wore a coloured gown, and a dark shawl with a coloured border—I took no further particulars—she seemed a smart made woman, respectably dressed—I did not see her face, for they walked in a different direction to where I stood—the man was dressed in black—he had on a black hat—the brim might be considered a little broad, but it was nothing particular, but what, in my opinion, suited a man of his age.

  ELIZABETH SHIPLEY . On Monday, the 29th of April last, I was barmaid at the Stag tavern, in the Fulham-road, it is about half a mile from Bolton-place—from five to ten minutes past nine that night, the prisoner came into the tavern—he had a lady with him—I had seen him several times before, and whenever he came, he was always in the same lady's company—they stood at the bar, as near as I can recollect, about five minutes—they had a quartern of gin and cloves, and stood while they drank it—I did not see in what direction they went when they left—she was a middle-aged, genteel-looking woman—on that night she had on a straw-bonnet and a light gown—she was of the middle size as to height.

Cross-examined. Q. They appeared to be very friendly together? A. Yes.

  MARY ANN WILLIAMSON . I live at the toll-house, at Sand's-end, Fulham. On the 29th of April, about twenty minutes to ten at night, I was near Battersea-bridge, on the Chelsea side, and saw a man and a woman standing at the foot of the bridge on the Chelsea side—I should know that man again if I saw him—I have seen him since at Wandsworth—the prisoner is the man—the woman wore a light dress, a dark shawl, and a straw or tuscan bonnet—the prisoner wore a dark surtout coat, and his hat was unusually broad—they were standing still at about the foot of the bridge—they continued standing there from five to six minutes—I left them and went towards Sand's-end, Fulham—that would be away from the bridge—I left them standing there.

Cross-examined. Q. I believe you are not positive, as to the man, at all? A. I cannot swear—I saw his face sideways—I do not recollect that I said to the policeman, in the first instance, that I did not see his face at all—I will not swear I did not say so—the brim of the hat was very broad—I say it was twenty minutes to ten, because it struck ten just as I arrived at home, and I had not quite half a mile to go—they were standing on the Chelsea side of the bridge, at the corner of the toll-house—I had never seen the man before to my knowledge—I know they stood there five or six minutes, from the time I was standing there myself—I was waiting for a female friend—she did not come.

  RICHARD PARSONS . I keep the William IV. beer-shop, King's-road, Chelsea, not quite a quarter of a mile from Battersea-bridge. On Monday, the 29th of April, I remember a man and woman coming to my house, from about a quarter to ten to a quarter or twenty minutes after—I cannot speak to a few minutes—I think they had a pint of porter—they drank it at the bar—on the Sunday after I was shown the body of the deceased, it struck me from the side-face that it was the same person—the woman paid for the beer—they were strangers to me—I heard of the death of Mrs. M'Farlane on the following morning—I had no other strangers come to my house that night, that I recollect—I did not know the man—I took notice of him that night—not particular notice, sufficient, as I thought I should know him again—I

saw the prisoner at Wandsworth, on the Saturday, I think—he was in the court among the people—I recognised him as the person that was in my house that night, but I did not know then that the person I pointed out was the prisoner—I pointed out a person that was among others, and they told me afterwards that he was the prisoner—that is the man I pointed out—(looking at him)—I believe he is the same person that came that night with the woman and drank at the bar—I described his dress at the time—he was dressed in a dark waistcoat and coat, rather buttoned up, and had got his hands either in his trowsers or coat pockets—he had rather a broad-brimmed hat—I should term it something of a Frenchman's hat—it struck me so.

Cross-examined. Q. So you should think it was a Frenchman's hat, should you? A. Why I should term it something of that appearance—I have heard that Mr. Dalmas is a Frenchman—I do not know that he has lived in England all his life—he had not light trowsers on—I think he had dark trowsers on—on my oath, to the best of my recollection, they were dark—I cannot say whether I told the policeman, when I first attempted a description of him, that I believed he had light trowsers on—when they first came to ask about the persons coming to my house, I did not know they were inquiring anything respecting this party—to the best of my belief he had no great coat—I told the policeman in the first instance that I could not tell whether he had a great coat or not—I believe I also told the policeman I did not know whether he had any whiskers, or not, and that I only saw his side face—I saw his side face, the left side.

MR. BODKIN. Q. What is the name of the policeman you have been asked about? A. The first that came was the inspector—that was on the Friday after the Monday on which this happened—they came and asked me if I had any recollection of any persons—I then gave a description of the man and the woman—at that time I knew nothing of the prisoner, or of his being a Frenchman, or anything about it.

MR. WILKINS. Q. Did you say a word about its being a Frenchman's hat in the first instance? A. Not at first.

  ELIZABETH MENGALL . I am a dress-maker, and live in Church-street, Chelsea. On Monday night, the 29th of April, I was standing outside the White Hart, in Duke-street, Chelsea—the waiter of the White Hart was standing outside also—it was from twenty minutes to half-past ten o'clock, as near as I can recollect—I saw a man and woman pass by the side of me—they crossed the road by the butter-shop opposite—while they were passing I heard the woman say she could not stop out to-night—I noticed her dress—she had a white straw bonnet, dark shawl, and a light dress, with a boa—it was a beautiful moonlight night, and the gas-lamps in the butter-shop were so very light, I could see anything—her shawl had a border about this depth—I cannot say how the man was dressed—he had a dark frock coat on, and rather a broadish brimmed hat—they appeared genteel persons to me, as they passed—about two o'clock on the following morning, Tuesday, I saw the deceased at her house, and recognised her as a person I had formerly known as a person who had worked for my mistress—I did not recognise her the night before, when she passed by—it is seven or eight years ago, or it may be eight or nine, since she worked for my mistress—when I saw her next morning she had on the same dress as the person I saw pass on the previous night—I saw her face that night—I never saw the prisoner before to my knowledge—I saw him at the police-court, Wandsworth—I think it was on the Saturday following—I think he was at the bar, but I cannot say now—I was able to say that he was the man I had seen on the Monday night previous—he is the man—I only saw his right side face on the Monday night—they crossed over to the butter-shop—following the direction in which they were going would lead

to Battersea-bridge—I went as far as the corn-chandler's, near the bridge, and I saw them as far as the first lamp-post on the bridge—they were twenty yards from the foot of the bridge when I lost them—they had not passed the toll-house—they were about twenty yards from the bridge when I lost sight of them, twenty yards from the toll-house—another lady and gentleman who came out of the White Hart—it was Mr. and Mrs. Messenger—they also went over the bridge, about ten minutes after I had seen these two persons.

  EDMUND ROGERS . I am waiter at the White Hart. On the night of the 29th of April, I was standing with Mengall outside the door—I recollect seeing a man and woman pass—I did not know either of them—I have not seen either of them since, so as to recognise them—as they passed, there was a word said about going there to-night—the man said, "Will you go there to-night?—the woman said, no, she could not go, she could not stop out to-night, or something of that sort—they walked on—Mengall followed them—she went up the street—the woman had a lightish gown on, and a light-coloured straw bonnet, (I think a straw-coloured,) a dark shawl, and light-coloured boa—the man had a dark dress—I cannot say whether it was blue, black, or what—I did not observe his hat—it was a black hat, I believe—I observed nothing particular about it.

  REBECCA SEWARD . I live in Duke-street, Chelsea. On Monday, the 29th of April, about half-past ten o'clock, I was coming down Beaufort-street, which leads into Duke-street—there are railings there that join the toll-house of the bridge—the White Hart is in Duke-street, but further from the bridge—when I got into Duke-street, I noticed a man and woman turning from Beaufort-street into Duke-street; the woman had a light dress on, a dark shawl, and a light bonnet—I could not see much of the man—I was turning round the corner, going down Beaufort-street turning into Duke-street—I went down Duke-street towards the White Hart—I had occasion to pass where these persons were standing—as I passed them, I heard the man say to the woman, in a loud voice, "And so you won't"—that was all I heard said—as I passed on, they continued standing together, near the rails of the bridge—this was pronounced in a loud tone, I thought in anger.

  WILLIAM EVANS (a boy) I live at Chelsea. On the night of the 29th of April last, about twenty-five minutes to eleven o'clock, I was on the Surrey side of Battersea-bridge, just at the end of the public-house, which is about ten yards, I think, from the foot of the bridge—while I was standing there, I saw a man and woman standing on the crown-arch, which is about the middle of the bridge—in a minute or two after I had noticed them standing there, I heard a faint scream—I was then looking another way—I thought it was the scream of a woman—it led me to look towards where I had seen the man and woman standing, and I saw the woman running from the top of the bridge towards the toll-house, towards the Battersea side, where I was, and I thought she said, that a man had cut her throat—that was when she got to the toll-house—I went up to the toll-house, when I saw her there—I did not observe the man at all, when she was running towards the toll-house, after I heard the scream—the scream appeared to come from the bridge, where the man and woman were—I believe one gentleman came off the bridge through the toll-house, after I heard the scream—I do not know whether he stopped there, or what he did—I ran off for a doctor directly—I noticed that the woman had on a white bonnet and a dark shawl when I came to the toll-house—I did not notice the dress of the persons when I saw them standing on the crown of the bridge.

Cross-examined. Q. It was a beautiful moonlight night, was it not? A.

Yes, I could see the man and woman very distinctly from where I was standing—the moment I heard the scream I looked to that spot—I saw no man there then—the gentleman that came over the bridge had a frock coat on, a Taglioni, and a broad-brimmed hat.

Q. Did he come running over the bridge? A. I was not looking at him—I was looking at the woman—I went for a doctor—I went over the bridge, and round Duke-street—I ran as hard as I could run—I did not see any persons run in the same direction—I know Mr. Mullens—I did not see him go up Duke-street—I ran faster than any of the rest—I was the first one that went there—I ran as far as the old church at Chelsea—I did not call "Police" as I ran along—I saw a young man at the stable close by the old church—he asked me what I wanted, I told him—I do not know who he was, I have never seen him since—there was nobody there but that young man that I saw—I went to Dr. Bartlett's, opposite the new pier—I did not come back with a doctor—I saw three doctors start off.

MR. CHAMBERS. Q. Did you use the expression, you were not looking, when this person in the frock coat passed over the bridge? A. Yes—I was looking when the two persons were on the bridge—when the woman was lying at the toll-gate I was not looking—I was looking at the woman—I do not know the gentleman that had the broadish brimmed hat and the Taglioni coat on—he was at the toll-gate—he was talking, I do not know what he said; it was while the woman was lying there—he staid there as long as I did—I left him there when I went for a doctor.

  RICHARD MESSENGER . I am an engineer. At the time of the murder I lived next door to the White Hart; but I have since removed—I do not know the name of the street. On the night this occurred, I crossed Battersea-bridge from the Middlesex side, to the best of my knowledge, from twenty minutes past ten o'clock to half-past ten—I am not positive to the time—my wife was with me—we walked on the left-hand side of the bridge from the Middlesex side—I noticed a man on the bridge, as I went over, he was standing still; on the same side that I walked—he was as near the first lamp, after entering the bridge, as possible—the lamp is rather better than the length of this court from the toll-house—he was standing looking over the balustrades into the water—he turned round as we passed, and I saw his face, but not sufficient to recognise him again—he had a dark surtout coat on—that is the only article of dress I can swear to—after passing him, when I got to the end of the bridge, I saw a woman lying on the ground, exactly in front of the toll-house at the other end of the bridge—it was the deceased.

Q. Now was there any other person on the bridge, from the time you entered it on the Middlesex side, till you arrived at where you found the deceased lying, except the man you passed? A. Not any, with the exception of two men with a cart containing two dead horses, they were going towards the Surrey side, the same as myself—it followed us on the bridge and passed us, and we repassed it before reaching the other end—the two men were in the cart—it came up to us just at the time we got to the man—I did not observe it stop—it might have stopped to wait for the toll-man to let them through; but when I was outside the gate, on the Surrey side, the cart was inside on the bridge—when we came up to the deceased, the cart was inside on the bridge—she was lying outside of the bridge, on the Surrey side, in front of the toll-house—the cart had not arrived at the place where the woman was lying—it had arrived at the gate, but was not through—I did not notice the little boy Evans—I was dressed in a round coat, white trowsers, and a light waistcoat, I think—it was a round cut-off velvet coat.

Cross-examined. Q. Is that the hat you had on? A. Yes—I have now a frock-coat on—I did not notice that the man I saw looking over had light

trowsers on—the only article I can speak to was a frock-coat—he was leaning over, looking at the water.

MR.BODKIN. Q. Did you and your wife stop at all during your progress over the bridge? A. Not till we arrived at the deceased.

MRS. MESSENGER. On the night of the 29th of April, I passed over Battersea-bridge with my husband—I saw a man on the bridge—to my recollection he wore a frock coat, and I thought the brim of his hat unusually broad—I did not observe whether he had light or dark trowsers—I saw no other person standing or walking on the bridge until I got to the toll-house—I merely passed over with my husband.

Cross-examined. Q. Did you not express an opinion to the policeman that you thought his trowsers were light? A. No.

  JAMES COOK . I am a coal-porter, and live in Danvers-street, Chelsea—it is near Battersea-bridge—it runs into Duke-street. On the night of the 29th of April, I was standing near Chelsea church—the carman Timms was with me—no other person at that time—it was about twenty-five minutes to eleven—while standing there, I saw a man running in the direction from the bridge, and calling "Police! police!" in a tone of voice, as if he was very much agitated—he went up Church-lane, or Church-street—I was not standing in Church-lane—I was in Duke-street—Duke-street and Church-lane join each other—I saw him return almost momentarily, and he said, "There is a woman that has cut her throat on the bridge"—I cannot say which way he went then—I left him immediately, and went towards the bridge—I saw a policeman—the man had on a dark frock-coat to the best of my recollection—nothing else that I remember—he had a hat on that was broad-brimmed, and he wore it much over his forehead—I afterwards saw a person whom I believe to be the same, at Wandsworth police-station—that was on Saturday the 11th of May, I think—I saw him standing among other people, and recognized him—it was the prisoner—I believe him to be the same man—he is the person I singled out from among the crowd at Wandsworth, and I believe him to be the person I saw that night.

COURT. Q. Was he standing with others at the time, or by himself? A. With others.

MR. SOLICITOR-GENERAL. Q. How many other persons do you suppose there were about him, at Wandsworth? A. Perhaps sixty.

Cross-examined. Q. Did you go before the coroner? A. No—the name of the policeman I gave information to is Wells—I think I saw him outside here—I did not tell him I had seen a man running, nor anything about it, more than that there was a woman on the bridge that had cut her throat—I did not see any little boy—I did not stay a minute after I heard this intelligence—the person who had the broadish brimmed hat had it pulled down over his face—I had never seen him before in my life, to my knowledge—there were not two other persons besides me and Timms—there were two other persons ran with me from the church to the bridge, but not with Timms—when the man came back from running up Church-lane, there were two other persons at the corner of Church-street—I do not know them—I had never seen them before, to my knowledge—the man cried "Police!" as if he was agitated very much, in a very low tone of voice—I do not know which way he took after that—I left him under a lamp-post at the corner of Church-lane—I saw the prisoner thirteen days after—he was not surrounded by many policemen when I saw him at Wandsworth, to the best of my recollection—I think there were one or two policemen around him—I do not know their names—I am sure he was not between two policemen—there was one, perhaps, three persons off him—I had had no talk with any policemen before I went into the room—I will swear that—no further than my evidence given at the bar—I had not been

talking with them about my evidence before I went into the room—I had no talk with any policeman before I went into the room, only as far as my evidence was concerned—I had as far as my evidence was concerned—that was not with one of the policemen that was standing near the prisoner when I went into the room—one of those policemen was not by when I had the conversation with the other policeman—I think I could identify a person thirteen days after whom I had seen with a broad brimmed hat slouched over his eyes—I am sure I could—if I was to see a man full in the face, I could identify him after that—I was quite sober that night—Timms was not quite sober—I and he had not been drinking together—I had been to supper with my mother—we supped about nine o'clock—I left my mother's about half-past ten—we had a pint of porter at supper between three of us, that was all—the person went perhaps ten yards up Church-lane—it leads to Queen's Elms—there is a turning out of Church-lane, to the left, that leads into Danvers-street—I have seen Mr. Mullens since then—at least I have seen a man who, I have been given to understand, was Mr. Mullens.

MR. SOLICITOR-GENERAL. Q. Is Mr. Mullens the person who called "Police! police!" in the way you have described? A. No—I saw this person full in the face—there was a gas lamp near, hanging from the old church-yard—I was standing close by it—it was a light night, moonlight.

  JOHN TIMMS . I am a carman, and live at 10, George-street, Chelsea. On the night of the 29th of April I was at the corner of Church-lane, near the old church, Chelsea, close to the stable where my horses are kept—Cook was there with me—he was standing in the road—I did not see a man come from the bridge—I saw a man come down Church-lane—he called "Police! police!" and said a woman had cut her throat on Battersea-bridge—he then went along the waterside—not towards the bridge, but the other way—I did not take notice of his person at all—he had a surtout coat on, I believe; a frock coat, you might term it—it was between ten and eleven o'clock—it struck ten when I was in the King's-road, it took me a quarter of an hour to come home, and I had been home some time before I heard the man repeat these words.

Cross-examined. Q. How long had you been standing with Cook when you saw the man come running down Church-lane? A. It might be two or three minutes—I cannot say exactly how long—it might be longer—I did not take particular notice—it might perhaps be four or five minutes—I cannot exactly say—he called "Police!" pretty loud, so loud that I could hear him—he was about nine or ten yards from me—I stood in the dark, and Cook stood in the light—the man was against the church wall when I heard him—he made a stop when I heard him speak, and I saw and heard no more of him after that—I had not been with Cook before, that evening—I did not observe any other person, because I turned myself round to attend to my master's business.

MR. BODKIN. Q. How long did the man stop at the wall? A. Not a moment.

  WILLIAM BEADLE . I live at Chelsea. On Monday, the 29th of April, at twenty minutes to eleven o'clock at night, I was passing the Cricketers public-house a few yards from Chelsea old church, going towards it—I met a man—as he came near the Cricketers, he was hasting, it was not exactly a walk or a run—there were some girls assembled by the Cricketers, which seemed to impede his progress, and he immediately commenced calling for the police—I noticed his dress—he had on a dark frock coat, and dark trowsers—I did not notice his hat at all—I should say he was about my height, about five feet six inches—the prisoner is the person—the first time I saw him again was at Wandsworth, at the second examination, on a Saturday, about thirteen days afterwards.

Cross-examined. Q. How does it happen that you never gave your evidence before? A. I do not know—I was summoned before the Coroner's Inquest—I did not give evidence—the superintendent of police told me I was not wanted—I am a baker—not a master baker—I live at No. 12, Cheyne-row—I have lived there rather better than two years—I believe the person I saw that night had a hat on—I cannot positively swear he had—I did not notice anything particularly besides his dress—I had seen him frequently before, I believe, but not to know him—on the night in question I noticed nothing particularly but his dress.

MR. CHAMBERS. Q. Where had you seen him frequently? A. I have been near Battersea-bridge for the last five or six years, and have seen him pass before the door, as a mere casual passer by, in the daytime—I did not know his name.

COURT. Q. Did you observe his face when you saw him that night? A. I did not take particular notice of his face, only his side face—from seeing his side face I believe he was a person whose person I was familiar with, by seeing him go by.

  MARY ANN NUNN . I live at No. 17, Montpelier-square, Brompton, I know the prisoner's daughter, Charlotte Dalmas—on the night of the 29th of April she was living at the next house to us, No. 18—in the course of that night I saw the prisoner—I knew him before—it was from ten minutes to a quarter past eleven o'clock—I cannot say what distance Montpelier-square is from Battersea-bridge—I have never walked the distance—I saw him standing opposite our window on the night of the 29th—his daughter was with him—she came from the next house to where he was standing, opposite our window—I saw him go past the railing—it appeared to me as if he had knocked at the railing—when she met him she appeared to me to be very much flurried—he took hold of her hand—he was talking to her—they were talking together—that was all I saw—I observed nothing more than that.

Q. What do you mean by the word flurried? A. Why she stood as if she seemed rather flurried—I did not hear anything from her—I did not observe their faces—they had their backs turned to me—I could not see their faces—I did not observe the prisoner do anything after he had talked to his daughter in this way—he walked away afterwards, and she went towards her own house—I did not observe him much—he had his back turned to me the whole time, therefore I cannot say in what state he seemed—his back was not turned to me when he tapped at the railing—I saw him go by the house first—his back was not towards me then—it was afterwards—I did not look at his face—I did not observe his appearance at all.

Cross-examined. Q. Was your sister Louisa present at the time? A. Yes—I had the same opportunity of seeing that she had.

  LOUISA NUNN . I live in Montpelier-square. I recollect being with the last witness at the window—she is not my sister—I do not recollect the date—I have seen the prisoner—I saw him that night, I should say from ten minutes till a quarter-past eleven o'clock, as near as I can recollect—I know his daughter—I have been in the habit of seeing her—she then lived at the next house to ours, but she does not now—when I first noticed the prisoner he was standing with his daughter at his side, on the same side of the street as my house, immediately opposite my parlour window, on the same pavement—they appeared to be conversing together for it might have been two or three minutes, I cannot say exactly—I heard her shriek, and I did not like the look of his appearance at all—he appeared as if he had been doing something—it was something extraordinary—I did not go up to the window myself till I heard her shriek—the last witness was there before me—they continued together after the shriek, it might be three or four minutes, I cannot tell exactly—he appeared to

whisper something to her, and she appeared to me to stand aghast at the moment—she called out, "Oh, father, father"—I heard her say that—I saw him leave her—he seemed to go away in a very hurried manner—he had hold of her hand, and said he would come next morning at half-past seven—she said, "No, seven"—he said, "Very well, seven," and he seemed to dart off in a very great hurry.

Cross-examined. Q. Pray are you engaged in literary pursuits? A. No—I am not a novel writer—I have no occupation—I am independent—the other young lady lives with me—she is a relation of my second husband—he is not living—her sight is good, and her faculties—she hears perfectly well—she is a young lady of perfectly respectable character, and of undoubted veracity.

  SARAH ANN MILES . I live with my father and mother, at No. 4, Chapel-place, Brompton. The prisoner lodged with us—he came on the 4th of Nov., last year, and continued there up to the 29th of April last—he occupied the back-room second floor as a bed-room, and sitting-room as well—he was at home in the early part of that night—he went out the last time at nine o'clock—he had a latch key—he had slept out of the house between the 4th of Nov. and the 29th of April—sometimes he would go out on Saturday, and not come back till Tuesday or Wednesday—the last time that he did so that I remember was at Easter—I know that he went out at nine o'clock on the 29th of April, because I know his footstep so well—there is another lodger on the same floor, but that man had got a paralytic stroke, and was lame, so that in going down stairs there was a halt, and his step was very heavy—I know the step of the one from the step of the other.

Cross-examined. Q. Then the prisoner was at home at nine o'clock that evening, was he? A. As near as I can tell—I do not know the time exactly—it was about nine—I have no reason to know that he was in difficulties about money.

COURT. Q. Did you ever see him in his lodgings after that evening? A. No—I did not know of his intention of going away.

  CHARLES MILES . I am shopman to an ironmonger, and am landlord of the house in Chapel-place, where the prisoner lived. He had a latch-key to let himself in—on the night of the 29th of April I came home from my employment about half-past nine o'clock—there was then no candle on the stairs—I occupy the ground-floor—in the course of the night the policeman came to my house—I should think it was past twelve o'clock—how much I cannot say—there was nothing on the stairs then—I saw no candlestick on the stairs—Nash, my lodger, put one into my hand—the candle was alight—that was at the time the policeman came—I have other lodgers, Henry Stillwell and his wife, Mary Nash, and a person named Ewell—I should think Montpeliersquare is about three minutes' walk from my house—I should say the candle was three parts burnt down—it appeared as if it had not been lighted long, as the snuff was very short—the candlestick was my property—Dalmas used it—it was generally kept in his room—I had not seen the candle and candlestick there when I came home at half-past nine—I did not see the prisoner that evening at all—I did not see him in my house after that—he had not mentioned his intention of leaving his lodging.

Cross-examined. Q. Had he not on several occasions before, left his lodgings for two or three days without expressing any intention of doing so? A. Yes—I do not know that there were any executions out against him at that time—I cannot say that I know it now—I do not know that he was in difficulties about money—Ewell is now in St. George's Hospital—the policeman went to him—Stillwell and his wife are here.

COURT. Q. Had you gone to bed before the policeman came? A. Yes,

I think I went to bed about half-past ten—there was no candle on the stairs then.

  HENRY STILLWELL . On the 29th of April I lodged at Mr. Miles's house—in the course of that night I did not light any candle that was in the prisoner's room, or know of its being done by anybody.

Cross-examined. Q. What is Ewell? A. A coachman—I was not at all intimate with Dalmas—I do not know anything about his money matters.

MR. BODKIN. Q. Do you know whether Ewell was in the house that night? A. Not to my knowledge—I was gone to bed when the policeman came—I neither saw or heard anything of the prisoner in the house that night.

  FRANCES STILLWELL . I am the wife of the last witness. I was at home on the 29th of April—I went to bed about half-past nine—I did not light any candle that was usually kept in the prisoner's room—I know nothing about it.

  MARY NASH . I lodge in Mr. Miles's house. I remember the night the policeman came there—I was in bed when he came—I got up—I cannot be positive whether I gave Mr. Miles a lighted candle, or whether I did not—I found one at the foot of the last flight of stairs—the first pair from the passage—there is one floor above that—the stairs lead to the first floor—I found it on the stairs of the ground-floor—three yards, or three yards and a half from the door of the house—I know nothing myself about the lighting that candle, or placing it there—I did not know the other lodger, Ewell—I knew there was a lodger, but did not know his name.

COURT. Q. Was it on the policeman's coming that you got up and found the candle? A. Yes.

  CHARLES MILES re-examined. I went to bed about half-past ten or a quarter to eleven o'clock—Ewell, one of my lodgers, is in the hospital—he was at home that night—he had gone to bed before I did—I got up when the policeman came—Ewell was not disturbed—he continued in his room—if the prisoner or any one else came in with a latch-key, there were Lucifer matches generally in the room to light a candle with—I did not see Ewell go to bed—he generally went straight up to bed when he came home—I know he was in bed—I had not seen him at all after he came in—I am not certain whether I did not open his room door that night when the police came—I cannot swear he was in the house when I went to bed.

S. A. MILES re-examined. I remember the night the policemen came—I did not see them—I went to bed from half-past ten to a quarter to eleven—I do not know whether Ewell was in the house when I went to bed.

  FREDERICK LANGTON re-examined. About twelve o'clock on the night of the 29th of April, I went to No. 4, Chapel-place, Montpelier-square, Brompton, the house of Mr. Miles—the second pair back room was pointed out to me as Dalmas's room—I searched it, and found these letters there—I marked them "A. B. C."—I found them loose on the table, with a note apparently written by Miss Dalmas—this is marked by me, "D"—this paper was outside it.

MR. MILES re-examined. The second pair back room, which the officer searched, was the room of Dalmas.

  JOHN ROBERT DAVIS . I am assistant to Mr. Wells, pawnbroker, Broad-street, Bloomsbury. I produce a dress-coat and handkerchief pledged by the prisoner in the name of "John Mott, of Compton-street," on the 30th of April, about the afternoon, to the best of my belief.

Cross-examined. Q. Where is your shop? A. No. 49, Broad-street, Bloomsbury—they are both in the state in which they were pawned.

  ELLEN GIBSON . I am unmarried. I am the sister of Mrs. M'Farlane—her name was Sarah Eleanor—she lived at No. 13, Bridge-road, Battersea—I saw her at a little after one o'clock on the day she met her death—she was then standing at her own door, as well as I ever saw her in my life, and in good spirits—I saw no more of her till I saw her lying in the passage of the Swan—I know the prisoner too well—I have known him by sight for the last eighteen years—I have lived a neighbour by him for the last six years—I lived next door to him for a year and a half—he has been paying attentions to my sister for the last few months—the last time I saw him in her company, was on the 9th of April—I know his handwriting.

MR. WILKINS. Q. Have you seen him write? A. I have received a letter from him, and should know his writing in a moment—I cannot say that I have seen him write.

MR. BODKIN. Q. Did you say you have received letters from him? A. On one occasion I received a letter from him—I never answered it—he after-wards asked me why I did not answer it—I believe these letters to be his handwriting—(looking at several)—I have seen these letters before—(looking at the three found at the prisoner's lodging)—I am sure these are his writing.

  WILLIAM M'FABLANE . I am sixteen years old, and am the son of the late Mrs. M'Farlane—I know the prisoner—about a fortnight before my mother's death he gave me a knife to sharpen—it had four blades, two pen blades, one larger, and a sort of a file—I sharpened the large one, and returned it to him on the 20th of April.

  ELLEN GIBSON re-examined. I believe this other letter to be the prisoner's handwriting.

  WILLIAM CUMMING (police-constable D 3.) On the morning of the 4th of May I was on duty at the Marylebone station—about one o'clock that morning the prisoner came to the station—I did not open the door to him—I was acting inspector—he was introduced to me—he said, "My name is Augustus Dalmas"—I said, "Stop, my man"—I took up the route book, looked at it, and saw that the description given of him there corresponded—I said, "There is a very serious charge against you, and whatever statement you may make to me, I will repeat to the Magistrate, before whom you will have to appear"—he said, "I wish to surrender myself to you; I am haunted to death by the reports in the newspapers; they are all wrong: Mrs. M'Farlane accompanied me with my daughter to her situation; we had some gin and cloves at the Stag public-house about nine o'clock at night; I did not cross the bridge at all; we had some strong observations on family affairs; she said my children were rather ungrateful to her; if anything should happen to my daughter she should never admit her into her house again. My daughter Charlotte is the only witness that spoke the truth"—I think that was all he said—he said Mrs. M'Farlane did not cross the bridge at all, that she walked to the toll-gate—I searched him, and found a glove, spectacle-case, and a duplicate of a black dress-coat, pledged at Mr. Wells's, No. 49, Broad-street, Bloomsbury, in the name of John Mott.

Cross-examined. Q. I believe you are not quite sure whether he said his daughter Charlotte or Augusta? A. No—I examined his clothes and everything about him.

  RICHARD TAYLOR (police-constable D 203.) I was on duty at the station-house when the prisoner came there—I had been with the route, and as I knocked at the door the prisoner followed me in—he inquired for the inspector on duty—I introduced him to Sergeant Cumming—some short time after he was placed in a cell there, and I was put with him—he said he saw in the

papers that the Commissioners in Scotland-yard would not spare any expense or trouble in taking him—he said, "I thought I would not give them any more trouble; I intended to have gone there, but I suppose you will send them word I am here"—I took some bread and cheese out of my pocket, and asked him if he would take some—he did not eat it—he said he was so much agitated in mind about this affair to-night, that he could not eat anything—he said he thought it would be better for him to give himself up, than to be taken; and if there was a reward offered, he should have chosen his man to give himself up to—that was all that passed about the affair—I was placed there to prevent his doing any mischief to himself.

  THOMAS BICKNELL . I am superintendent of the B division of police. On Tuesday morning, the 30th of April, I went to Mrs. M'Farlane's; and, among other papers, found this, marked No. 6.

  WILLIAM DANIEL ANDREWS . I am a brother of the deceased. I saw her clothes—her boa was of a greyish colour, as near as I can recollect—it was in such a state I did not like to see it, it was saturated with blood, and I destroyed it—I burnt the bonnet—it was white straw, as near as I can recollect, but disfigured with blood.

COURT. Q. What was her age? A. Forty-five, and I think, three months and a fortnight.

  FREDERICK LANGTON re-examined. I have the gown—it was given into my possession by Inspector Shepherd, at the house of Mrs. M'Farlane—I also produce two shawls, which I found in the house, a pair of boots, and apron—one shawl has a narrower border than the other.

Cross-examined. Q. Do you know whether there are any executions out against Dalmas at this time? A. No, I do not.

  DR. WILLIAM CONNOR . I live at Battersea. On the 29th of April I was called to go to the Swan—I went, and saw Mrs. M'Farlane—she was dead when I arrived—I examined her—her death was caused by an incised wound on the right side of her neck—there is no doubt of that—I should think it could not have been inflicted by herself, from the situation and direction of the wound, and from the manner in which the skin of the lower extremity of it was divided—it was not cut through completely, but scored.

The following letters, found in the possession of the deceased, addressed to her, and proved to be in the prisoner's hand-writing, were read:—"Monday, 15th Jan., 1844. To the woman that I adore, and will adore to the last hour of my existence—Sarah, beloved Sarah. In the name of God have pity upon your unhappy Augustus. I waited yesterday morning in the greatest anxiety in the hope of seeing you with me at the altar of God, according to your promise. This morning I intended to watch for you at Queen's Elms, but you sending me word by Caroline that you would call on me at eleven o'clock, made me stop at home; did you do that on purpose? It is now four o'clock, and I shall not stir from Queen's Elms till I have seen you; but if you should evade me, pray send me word by Augusta before twelve o'clock to-morrow, where and at what time I am to meet you in the evening. See you I must, if it cost my life—that life which is entirely in your hands, and at your commands, next to God. Beloved, truly beloved Sarah,—do not abandon your Augustus."

No. 6.—"Friday evening, 12th April, 1844. Beloved Sarah,—It is now past seven o'clock—I have an appointment at half-past with Dr. Morrison. Not having seen anything of Augusta, I forward this by post, to say that Caroline sat up last night to make the three caps, one for you and two for Augusta. I should have brought them over this evening, but am afraid the rain would spoil them. Pray send Augusta for them to-morrow before four o'clock, and

let me know at what hour I am to meet you in the evening. There is also a small parcel which Caroline has left here for Augusta. I hope you have got on well this day with your work, and that you will have done in good time to-morrow afternoon, that I may have the happiness of enjoying your company for an hour, before you surrender Augusta to her place. God bless you, my dear beloved Sarah—your ever faithful husband,

A. DALMAS. "

"Tuesday, 16th April, 1844. My dearest Sarah,—I have no one now to come and inform me how you are; how wretched it makes me. I suppose you spent a happy evening yesterday, while I was pining in my now desolate garret. O my Sarah—if you knew how unhappy I felt, I think you would almost have been tempted to come and see me, even at the late hour at which you came home. What a miserable day again I have to pass. Pray, my dearest Sarah, shorten the dull hours of my solitude, and come and see me as early as you possibly can—as early as your good heart will prompt you. Come and take a cup of coffee with your Augustus—your devoted Augustus and faithful husband. I shall expect you from four to five o'clock, for your interview with Dr. Morrison will, I know, be the means of saving me, and insuring my future welfare, by being able to possess you. How proud I shall be then to say to my ungrateful children, "Here is the woman that saved your father's life"—I suppose you are aware what makes me so unhappy this day—if not, look at the date of this letter, the 16th. I fully expect a letter from your sister Caroline to-morrow morning, as I requested it as a particular favour, as you would spend the evening with me. God bless you, my beloved Sarah. God bless you again, my adored woman. Your ever faithful and affectionate husband,

A. DALMAS. "

"Thursday afternoon, 18th April, 1844. Dearest and beloved Sarah,—I have not recovered from the shock the news you brought me last evening gave me. I did not say much to you for fear of increasing the lowness of spirits in which I found you; but the nervous grasp with which I pressed your hand while at chapel, must have let you know what was passing in my agitated bosom. Bitterly did I reflect and repent the rash step I took on the 9th of August last, as by this time, with perseverance, you and I might have been happy. The idea of your being obliged to turn your house into a lodging-house for common men, breaks my heart. Is there nothing else you can do? The idea of an unprotected woman to be surrounded and have to wait upon a parcel of fellows, drives me mad. The continued hatred of your sister Ellen towards me also afflicts me to the highest degree; a woman who I never injured in any way, but always respected, and would have been proud to call my sister. She was partly the cause of my leaving my home, and I do really believe will not be satisfied till she sees me dead; on her head their will be my death, and I shall leave to Providence the care of punishing her for her inveterate and undeserved enmity to me. Excuse me, my adored Sarah, if my feelings force me to write thus; but you have no idea what pangs I endure when I reflect upon what has passed for the last nine months. Do not fail to meet me and Caroline at chapel on Sunday. Poor girl, I thought she would have fainted when I told her of your troubles; she would have gone over to you this evening, but the little boy is so poorly she cannot leave him in the evening. Do not be shy at Mr. Morrison when you see him on Sunday. I merely told him, that you had acted as a mother to my children, and how happy I should be to have such a woman as you for my partner, if ever it pleased God to put me in a situation to offer you my hand. I inclose a letter I received from your Caroline. You will inform me on Sunday what I am to say to her in my next. I suppose William will call on

me by eight o'clock on Saturday evening; I shall wait at home for him. Perhaps you will send me a few shillings by him, in case the weather should be bad on Sunday, which I pray God will not be the case, for I long to join my prayers to yours, for our future welfare and happiness. Should Dr. Morrison write to you, or make any further inquiries, pray let me know immediately. I shall call on him on Saturday morning. I hope, my beloved, you have been able to keep up your spirits, and gone on pretty well with your work; to-morrow evening you will be enjoying yourself, perhaps while I am pining. Can I call at Higgins's for you if so let me know. Why don't you get Mrs. Rock to write to me if you cannot spare time, yet a line from your own hand would be such a consolation to your unfortunate Augustus. Try, my dearest, to find a few minutes to spare to write yourself, if it is only one line, signed by my beloved Sarah; I shall preserve it as a treasure. Do not forget the broach and the book on Sunday. God bless and protect you, my beloved Sarah—my only friend. Pray for your affectionate husband, "A. DALMAS."

"Monday afternoon, April 21, 1844.—My beloved, adored Sarah, Remember you gave me your blessing and forgiveness on parting this morning, therefore do not harbour a reproach against your Augustus, but still love him as he loves you. My unfortunate Augusta leaves her situation to-morrow evening—can you still act as her mother, and give her shelter until she recruits her health and obtains a situation as nursemaid? she can take care of your house, and do all you require her to do, to assist you and keep your house in order; pray do not abandon her. Will you be kind enough to meet me at seven o'clock to-morrow evening, at Trafalgar-square, to receive her in your care, and see what her mistress will allow her for what she has done. My poor heart is broken at the idea of seeing such a young girl so unfortunate. I have something on my mind which I want to divulge to you, in case anything should happen to me, therefore pray attend to this solemn appeal of mine to meet me to-morrow at seven o'clock precisely. Your unfortunate AUGUSTUS DALMAS. "

"Tuesday evening, 23rd April, 1844.—My Sarah,—This is the first time you sent me a cross message, and I hope it will be the last. You told me you had forgiven me, and gave me your blessing. Why, then, should you now send me such a message that you are very cross with me? Augusta has money to pay you for her temporary stoppage at your house, as I think Caroline will require her assistance in the nursery, or get her a situation near her, therefore do not be angry. You always told me that Augusta should never want a friend as long as you had a home for her, but whatever you do for her will be fully rewarded. See you I must; therefore send me word by Augusta to-morrow morning, when and where with the least inconvenience to you. Although you sent me such a cross message, I am still your affectionate husband, A. DALMAS. Relent, relent."

The three following letters were those found on the table at the prisoner's lodging.

A—"To Mrs. M'Farlane, Bridge-road, Battersea, Surrey.—Read with attention the last sentiments of a man who did once love you to perdition, whom you have ruined, and now grossly insulted, and call Mr. Kiss my * * Infernal Millwood! monster in woman's shape!—you have now thrown off the mask, and shown yourself in your true colours; an abandoned profligate prostitute of the lowest order. I know all your artful deceptions. You are little aware who watched you when you were carrying on your criminal intercourse with your paramour. You used to send my daughters up stairs, and under pretence of bringing the tea-kettle on the wash-house fire, you artfully examined

the passage and the stairs to see that no one was listening or watching, then locked yourself in the back chapel room, and prostituted yourself for hours together. You have dishonoured the names of your father and husband, and have the effrontery to boast of it. Well might the gardeners, when they used to pass your dwelling, say, "This is the house of that b—old wh—M'Farlane, who used to live in the gardens; she keeps a chapel and a brothel." I was so infatuated, I would not believe any of those reports, but am now fully convinced; indeed your obscenities with me, and your repeated pollutions of my person ought to have opened my eyes, but under a spell, I mistook your profligacy for affection. All you wanted was to satisfy your obscene propensities, and enjoy yourself at my expense, and when you found all the money gone, like other prostitutes, you laugh at me for a fool, and insult me in the most disgusting language, fit only for a Westminster wh; but you shall not go unpunished. I write by this very post to Mrs. Talk, and others of your family, and disclose the whole of your profligate conduct. You—to dare to say that you have done anything for my family; they never had an ounce of bread from you but what you charged them the price of a loaf. You have shamefully robbed them and me. You directed your thief of a son to enter in the book double the amount of whatever they had. You have lived upon my money for the last four months, and you never rendered an account. Where did you get the money to pay for your son's shoes, but in my purse? Did you not charge me for Sophia's expenses down to Derby, when you had more than the amount sent you by Miss Graham and Mrs. Woolf? Did you not have the meanness to charge the 3s. 6d., which your paramour, Meredith, deducted from the linen-draper's bill? when you had so much money of mine in your hands, you would not even allow poor Augusta a penny for medicine, while you was launching me into all sorts of extravagance, in supplying you with gin, &c., &c. Instead of a virtuous woman, I found in you a cursing, swearing, blaspheming, gin-drinking prostitute, who will go with the lowest fellow, provided he can treat you—a woman of the most vulgar and dirty, lazy habits—who blushes at nothing—call to her son, in the presence of my daughter, to fetch the p—p—, and squat and ease herself before him—and O, horrid! allows that son, seventeen years old, to sleep with her, when she is aware of his having obscene books and pictures in his possession. Infamous woman, these are the actions for which you ought to be horse-whipped out of Battersea; and wherever you go, there ought to be a post and a lantern with the words, 'Beware of a prostitute.' Simpson had often told me that you were a bad lot altogether, and that you were one of the most artful prostitutes in Battersea, but I was fool enough not to listen to him. Monster, you have obtained your wishes in bringing me to my grave—you are my murderess. I shall haunt you during your life, and when I meet you in hell, will torment you to eternity—you will wither and die a miserable old wretch. Miserable man that I am, to have placed my affections on such a prostitute and monster; but my children will revenge me I hope, and make you restore all you have robbed them of, and give an account of my money. You have lived for years by your prostitution, and obtaining possession of the unfortunate property. Well might you, with your two days' work, wear nothing but silk stockings and French shoes, and lull yourself in bed till nine o'clock, while my poor unfortunate children were obliged to do your dirty work. You and that old b—d, Rock, dare to call my daughter a wh—; look how she works, and that will be at once a complete denial of all you artfully tried to insinuate in my mind against her; but she has found friends, who will punish you for what you have done to her. I have informed her of all your

obscene actions with me—your debauchery and profligacy; and you may rest assured she will revenge me. I send this letter unsealed, on purpose that it may be read at the post-office, and that all Battersea may know what a profligate wh—you are. The letter to Mrs. Talk is also left unsealed for the same purpose; independent of which, I left a paper on my table which shall appear in the papers, that you may not have a chance of escaping the opprobrium and the scorn you so richly deserve, and prevent other miserable beings from falling into your snares. Go, wretched wh—, and carry on your trade fairly at Wapping, amongst your companions, and don't assume again the cloak of religion to hide your profligate conduct. Complete the education of your worthy son—he cannot have a better tutoress in the art of iniquity; you can make him fit for anything, and prepare his way to the gallows. Love, jealousy, and despair—all your works, have brought me to complete madness—my pen curses you—yet, in my dying moments, my poor heart still loves you. Farewell for ever.—A. DALMAS. "

B—"To Mrs. Talk, near the Bridge, Battersea, Surrey. Madam,—That consummate prostitute, M'Farlane, is a dishonour to the name and to your family, and it is high time you should be acquainted with her profligate conduct. She has carried on an illicit intercourse for some years with a married man—that profligate Meredith, the nephew of Mr. Breeze, the linendraper, at Kensington. With all her cunning she could not prevent my children from discovering her licentious libertinism; and yet this is the woman that I unfortunately did love—fatal is the hour I ever admitted her in my house; but under the mask of hypocrisy she resolved my ruin. She had hardly closed the eyes of my dying wife, than, by the most lascivious caresses, she created the fatal feelings which have now brought me to perdition. She made a secret entrance from hers into my house, that she might have access at any hour, without being perceived by her sister Ellen. Alarmed at the progress of the fatal passion she was to artfully raising in my bosom, I resolved to fly from the scene, and accordingly abandoned my home, family, and business, with the full intention of destroying myself; but the recollection of a faithful and affectionate daughter, who was hastening home from America, prevented me; she met me at Liverpool, and persuaded me to come back to London, where, on my arrival, that Millwood, M'Farlane, came to meet me. She invited me to her house, where she renewed her lascivious caresses, professed the most ardent affection for me, saying that since the death of her husband she had never loved any one like me; she readily accepted me as her future husband, and induced me to publish the banns in Kensington church, and our marriage was actually fixed for the 16th of Jan. last. Meanwhile she had received a large sum of money for me, which she wanted me to give to her son, to set him up in some business; however, having received some hints that she was carrying on an illicit intercourse with that profligate, Meredith, I hesitated; she then made up her mind to rob me of part of the money, and make me spend the remainder in debauchery with her, play-going three times per week, suppers, gin-drinking, coaches, cabs, omnibuses; nothing stood in the way. She then began to amuse herself, as she calls it, in exciting the passions to an unnatural degree by acts of the grossest indecencies, and repeated pollutions of my person, exposing her bosom for me to suck her breast, and all sorts of obscenities that can be practised in the brothel; stopping with me till one and two o'clock in the morning; had me at her house on the Sundays, and while prayers were offering to God below, was amusing herself in her libertinism with me, sending word down to Mr. Baker that she was very poorly. You now know the cause of her absence from chapel. Ask at the toll-gate at what

hour she used to come home in the morning; interrogate my children, for even their presence did not stop her from her indecencies. Finding my money going fast, I wanted once more to fly from such a den of infamy, and, under pretence of having some business in Paris, asked her to let me have 10l. of my money: but no, that was not her game; she would not see me depart till she had quite done with me. Alarmed at my awful situation, I began to make repeated inquiries, and found all my suspicions well founded, that every one of the Battersea gardeners knew her to be a common prostitute. I taxed her with her illicit intercourse with Meredith, and she had the unblushing effrontery that she should still carry it on; and to prevent her sister from observing when he comes, she meets him at that old bawd's, Mrs. Rock. What will you think when I inform you of her allowing her son, seventeen years old, to sleep with her, when she admitted to me herself that he had in his possession obscene books and pictures; and when she comes home, even in the presence of my youngest daughter, calls out to Bill to bring her the po, and squats herself before him. Horrid! Will you after this look upon that infamous woman as your sister? Impossible. Having now given up the chapel, she intends to turn her house into a brothel, by taking none but single men lodgers. What a miserable and unfortunate man I have been to put my affections in the power of such a vulgar prostitute. Now that she has completed my ruin, she most grossly insults me, and even to my daughter calls me Mr. Kiss my * * *. Could I have expected more disgusting language from a Westminster wh—? Heartless wretch! When, last Sunday week, she kept me in debauchery till four o'clock in the morning at her house, I informed her that my mind was in that state that I should cut my throat; she very coolly said, "Don't do it here, it will make such a mess." Can you any longer allow that infamous prostitute to dishonour your maiden name, and allow her to call you sister? She has driven me mad—mad—mad; she has murdered me! A. DALMAS. "

C—"To my unfortunate family—Be it known, that infernal prostitute, M'Farlane, of No. 13, Bridge-road, Battersea, that second Millwood, has brought me to perdition; she has robbed me and my family under the mask of affection; she has led me into all sorts of debauchery: her profligate and illicit intercourse with that married man, Meredith, the nephew of Breeze, the linen-draper, of Kensington, at the very time she had offered to become my wife, has made me come to the determination of committing suicide. I have been adoring a common prostitute, who now insults me in the most revolting manner. To have been mad enough to put my affection on a swearing, cursing, blaspheming, gin-drinking washerwoman and a wh—, has turned my brain; I can live no longer: let the world know her, and may this prevent other victims from falling into her infernal snares. A. DALMAS. My unfortunate children, my unfortunate family! Farewell Caroline; farewell Charlotte; farewell Sophia; farewell Augusta; farewell for ever: that Millwood M'Farlane has murdered me. A. DALMAS. Avenge my death."

GUILTY . Aged 50.— DEATH .

Before Mr. Recorder.