8th January 1872
Reference Numbert18720108-117
VerdictGuilty > unknown

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117. JOHN SELBY WATSON (67), was indicted for the Wilful Murder of Anne Watson, at Stockwell, in the county of Surrey. He was also charged, on the Coroner's Inquisition, with the like offence.

THE HON. GEORGE DENMAN , Q.C., with MESSRS. POLAND and BEASLEY conducted the Prosecution; and MR. SERJEANT PARRY, with the HON. A. THESIGER,conducted the Defence.

GEORGE GREENHAM . I am in the Metropolitan Police Force—I understand the making of plans—I have prepared and produce a plan showing the position of the rooms at No. 28, St. Martin's Road, Stockwell—on the ground floor, as you enter, the drawing-room is on the left, and the dining-room on the right, with a small school-room at the back—on the first floor, there is a front bedroom and a dressing-room behind; also a library in front, and a smaller bedroom behind it.

ELEANOR MARY PYNE . I am now living at New Cross—I am twenty years of age—I was in the service of the prisoner and his wife not quite three years—while I was there a sister of mine was in the service as well—she left last Christmas twelve months, 1870—from that time I was the only servant there—no one lived in the house but I and my master and mistress—he was formerly head-master of the Stockwell Grammar School; he ceased to be so some where about the time my sister left—my master and mistress used at first to occupy the same bedroom; that was the front bed-room on the first floor—they ceased to occupy the same bedroom at the commencement of the hot weather in last year—my mistress then slept in the room behind the library, on the first floor—she dressed in the room that Mr. Watson slept in, the front bedroom—at the back of that bedroom there is a dressing-room; there is also a room called the library on that same floor—I used to attend to all the rooms on that floor, excepting the one that Mrs. Watson slept in—She attended to that herself—I only went

into it once or twice during the two or three months she slept there—I don't remember how recently before Sunday, 8th October, I had been in it—on Sunday morning, 8th October, my master and mistress went out together rather earlier than the usual church time—they came back rather later than usual—I should think it was about 1.45 o'clock—that was their dinner hour at that time—I had prepared dinner in the dining-room on the ground floor; that is the room on the right, as you come into the house—Mrs. Watson took off her bonnet and things, and they sat down to dinner—I attended to them—they had no wine for dinner, they had some after dinner—I am not certain what wine it was—after dinner they went up stairs into the library; the wine was up there, and they had some dessert—I do not remember seeing them again—it was between 2 and 3 o'clock when I left them in the library—up to that time I had not noticed anything in their manner or demeanour to attract my attention—they usually lived on very friendly terms, they were generally very quiet—I went out that afternoon, about 4 o'clock—I let myself out—before I went out I had prepared the tea in the dining-room—5.45 was their usual time for taking tea—when I returned, at 9 o'clock, I knocked at the door, and Mr. Watson let me in, and he said my mistress had gone out of town and would not be home till to-morrow—I don't remember his saying anything more then—I went into the dining-room, and he came in with me—I noticed that the tea things had not been touched; I looked at them, and he said "We have not taken tea"—he said nothing more—I passed some remark, a word or two—I forget now what it was—I asked him if he would take some supper, and he said yes, he would take a little bread and cheese—it was usual for him to take supper—he then went up stairs into the library—I went down to the kitchen and took off my things, and took some bread and cheese up into the dining-room—I then went up stairs to settle the bedrooms as usual—I went into Mr. Watson's bedroom—I don't remember going into the library that night—I did not notice anything about the bedroom different to what I had left it—that was the front bed-room—I did not sec Mr. Watson then, he was taking his bread and cheese in the dining-room—I had told him it was ready, and he went down stairs and had his supper in the dining-room—I saw him again at 10 o'clock that night, he came out of the library as I was going up to bed, he opened the door and said "This stain on the floor is port wine your mistress has spilt, in case you might wonder what it was I have told you"—I could not see any. stain then, it was under the carpet as you are walking into the library, at the side of the door, under the door—he also pointed to the next room door, the small bedroom at the back of the library, and said "Do not go to that door, your mistress has locked it"—I said "No," and went up to bed—that was all I saw that night—I looked at the door as he spoke, and I did see no key in the door; there was usually a key in that door, outside, I think—I did not expect my mistress was going out of town—on the following morning, Monday, I got my master's breakfast in the dining-room—I am not certain if it was that day or on the Tuesday that he said my mistress would not be home for a day or two—I don't know how he came to say that—I did not ask him any question—I wanted some candles, and I said to him, if she would not be home till dark I should want some candles out, and it was upon that he said that she would not be home for two or three days—he did not say where she had gone—my master went out on the Monday, and he had his meals as usual—he went out on

the Tuesday—I almost forget, now, the times at which he went out—he said on the Tuesday that he was going out, and would not be home all night—it was after dinner that he said that—he had been out before dinner—he went out after he had said that—he went out about three times after that—I went out in the afternoon to try to find somebody to sleep there; but I was not able to get anyone—I told him at night that I was unable to get anybody, and he said that I should have to remain by myself—I went down stairs, and waited to see if he would go out, but he did not go; I remained up till about 11 o'clock, when he called me over the stairs—he was standing on the staircase, the first flight from the hall—he said "If you should find anything wrong with me in the morning, step for Dr. Rugg"—I said "Are you ill, sir?"—he said "I may require medicine in the morning;" nothing further took place—I went down stairs, and he went up stairs, to bed, as I supposed; I did not see him after he went from the stairs; it must have been after 11 o'clock when he went to bed—on the Wednesday morning I came down about 6.45—near 8 o'clock I went to the door of his room; I knocked at the door, and Mr. Watson answered me; he was dressing himself, I could hear—it was not quite 8.30 when he came down stairs—he went out, before breakfast, for about ten minutes; he breakfasted as soon as he came in—after breakfast he went out again, between 10 and 11 o'clock—he came back about 11 o'clock; I think he went up to the library; I don't remember his passing any remark at that time—between 11 and 12 o'clock he called me, I saw him in the hall; he said "If I should be ill before dinner, go for the dinner"—I said "Yes"—he said nothing more; he went up stairs—some time after, I heard a groaning—I should not think it was an hour after, about half an hour, or more, I should think—I was in the drawing-room and the groaning came from overhead, in the front bed room—I went up to my master's bedroom, he was lying in bed, undressed—I spoke to him, but he was unconscious, he did not know me—I went for the doctor at once—I left him in the house by himself—before I went for the doctor, I noticed three papers in the chair, and a small phial on the drawers, and there was a glass on the chair by the side of the bed—I took up one of the papers, this is it; I took it up, thinking it might be some message for the doctor, and read it—it is in my master's writing (Read: " For the servant, Ellen Pyne, exclusive of her wages. Let no suspicion fall on the servant, whom I believe to be a good girl.") That was sealed; a 5l. note was enclosed in it—I don't think the "No. 3" was on it when I opened it; I don't remember seeing it, it might have been there—I went out and fetched Dr. Rugg—I had known him before, he had been to the house before to attend my sister, who was ill—he went into my master's bedroom, and he afterwards went out and fetched the police—I went into the room afterwards, and spoke to my master; I spoke to him once or twice before he answered me; then I asked him if he was cold—he said "Yes," and I put something more on the bed—when the police came I went into the library with them—I showed them some marks there; there were some splashes about the window, which I supposed to be wine that had been splashed about, I mean on the library window—I think I first noticed those marks on the Tuesday, I had cleaned the window—the marks were by the side of the skirting; I did not touch them; I don't remember any being on the glass—I did not see any other marks in that room—I did not notice the furniture; I did not notice the chair—I had not done anything to the carpet before that, I

had only done the fire-place—I did not see the body of my mistress that day, I did afterwards—one quarter's wages was nearly due to me at this time; it would be due that day month that my mistress died, that would be 8th November—I did not know that my master had any pistols; the pistol in the possession of the police I had never seen in my master's possession, I did not know where it was kept—this paper, headed "For the surgeon," is in my master's writing—this letter in Latin was left on the library table, I saw it found—I remember seeing that paper on Tuesday, on the table; I saw it on the Wednesday as well—it is my master's writing—the police afterwards showed me some clothes, and a shirt—they were my master's; they looked like the clothes he used to wear.

Cross-examined by MR. SERJEANT PARRY. I asked my master whether he was cold, and he answered me, he said "Yes," and J put something on the bed; that was some time after I had seen him in a state of unconsciousness, when he could not answer me—the doctor had then been and seen Mr. Watson; it was about an hour after—I never saw any pistols in my master's possession, I never saw them till they were found by the police—I was the first that went to the drawer and saw them there—I think somebody told me they had been found in the drawer, and I went and saw them; I am not certain, but I think I was the first person that found them—I called the attention of one of the policemen to the fact that I bad seen some pistols in that drawer—it was in Mr. Watson's dressing-room, the drawer of a chest of drawers—it was shut; it was unlocked, I could open it easily and look—there was nothing to prevent anyone opening the drawer and looking into it—I had been in the habit of attending to my master's dressing-room, putting it to rights in the morning; that was a part of my duty—I had access to it constantly; if I had been curious I might at any time have seen these pistols, but I never opened the drawer till that day—this Latin paper was left on the library table, the corner of it was put under a book, I think, or something was across it—it was placed so that you could read the writing; it was open—I noticed it, and looked at it, but I could not read it—that was on the Tuesday morning—I had never noticed it there before—this is a large house—the school-room is a good-sized room, not very large—I was in Mr. Watson's service when they had boarders, two young gentlemen, two years ago—I think they left just before he left the grammar school, that must have been as far back as Christmas, 1870—I knew that he had then ceased to be master of the grammar school; before that he used to go to the school every day—up to that time they had kept two servants—my sister left on account of illness, and they had only one servant afterwards, that was myself, I was the only servant—I was in the habit of attending upon my master and mistress at their meals, breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper—latterly I did all the work of the house, except my mistress's bedroom—it was in the hot weather that they first ceased to sleep together, about July—the reason of their ceasing to sleep together was the hot weather, and then my mistress attended to her own bedroom; she said I had enough to do, and she would help me—sometimes she would behave to me with great kindness, sometimes she was hasty—my master always behaved to me with great kindness; I considered him to be a kind-hearted gentleman—I never noticed any quarrelling, or any angry feeling between them, while I was attending upon them—they always appeared to me to live happily and comfortably together—Mrs. Watson always seemed to have her own way, that is all I know—they

always appeared to live happily and comfortably together—my master was a very reserved man; I may have noticed it more by their being so quiet, by their not having much company; there was no company at all—after their meals they used to sit together in the library; that was their common practice—when I went up there Mr. Watson was always either reading or writing—I did not observe that more latterly, after he left the school; his habits were always of a studious character—I always thought him very industrious in his writing and reading—he used to sit up till 11o'clook—there was a good deal of method in the house, everything was very punctual—I think he was generally in the habit of writing or reading up to the time that he went to bed—they went to church on Sunday, 8th October; they went earlier than they used to go—I did not hear them say where they went to church—I know Emmanuel Church—that is not their usual church—I think it is rather further from the house than their usual church; that might account for their going a little earlier—Mr. Watson was sometimes absent on a Sunday, doing duty—when he was at home on Sunday he was always in the habit of going to church with his wife; they used to go together, once a day.

Re-examined. It was about an hour after I first noticed him in an unconscious state that he said he was cold—he had on the same bed-clothes as usual—at that time of year they would not be very many—I made the bed; there was an under blanket, a pair of sheets, and a top blanket, I think, and a counterpane—when I saw the pistols in the drawer I did not move them—I went down to Sergeant Giddings, and told him—the pupils my master had went to the school every day, and boarded at his house.

Q. Did you notice anything at all different in his demeanour and behaviour, during these days that you Have spoken of, from what you generally saw? A. I have tried to think, but I do not think there was any difference that I can think of.

DR. GEORGE PHILIP RUGG . I am a doctor of medicine, living and practising at Stockwell Villas, Clapham Road—I know Mr. Watson—I have known him for years as the head master of the Grammar School, at Stockwell—I have not attended him professionally, but on one occasion I attended the sister of the last witness, who was a servant with her, and who left at Christmas—I have an impression that the last time I saw Mr. Watson was the day before the transaction in question—I did not speak to him—I was on the opposite side of the way—whether it was that day or two days before, I don't know, but I saw him that week—on Wednesday, 11th October, I was called to Mr. Watson's house, about 11.30—I was fetched by the servant Payne—when I got there I found the prisoner in bed; he was unconscious, breathing heavily, with difficulty—his eyes were turned up, there was a cold clammy perspiration on him, and he had a weak, soft, compressible pulse, an intermittent pulse—I thought he was labouring under an attack of epilepsy first—he was probably a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes in that unconscious state—Pyne put three letters into my hand—one was addressed "For the surgeon"—it was sealed with an adhesive envelope, this is it. (Read:" I have killed my wife in a fit of rage to which she provoked me; often, often has she provoked me before, but I never lost restraint over myself with her till the present occasion, when I allowed fury to carry me a way Her body will be found in the room adjoining the library, the key of which I leave with the paper. I trust she will be buried with the attention due to a lady of good birth. She was an Irish-woman.

Her name was Anne"). The key was enclosed in that paper—there was something scratched out, and I asked Mr. Watson what it was; but he did not enter into it at all, in fact I had my doubts at the time whether he was married or not, from that being scratched out, and I asked him the question afterwards, and he said he was married, certainly; but he did not tell me what it was that he had scratched out—I have the envelope, it is addressed "For the surgeon"—this was also one of the papers handed to me, it is marked "Statement for such as may care to read it" on the envelope—that was not sealed—(read: "Statement for such as may care to read it. I know not whose business it will be to look to my property, or my little possessions will be, my books and furniture. My only brother was living, when I heard of him, five or six years ago, in America, at 82, Grand Street, Williamsburgh, and a niece with him. He is my heir, if still alive. I know not if I have any other surviving relatives. One quarter's wages will soon be due to my servant, and I should wish the sum to be more than doubled for her, on account of the trouble which she will have at the present time, and the patience with which she has borne other troubles. In my purse will be found 5l. 10s. I leave a number of letters, many of them very old, with which I hope those who handle them will deal tenderly. The books are a very useful collection for a literary man. The two thick quarto MS. books, marked P and Q, might be sent to the British Museum, or might possibly find some purchaser among literary men, for whom they contain many valuable notes and hints. Among the other MS. is a complete translation of "Valerius Flaccus" in verse, which I think deserves to be published. Messrs. Longman and Co. also have in their hands for inspection 4 vols. of manuscript, containing a complete history of the Popes from the foundation of the Papal power to the Reformation. There is also ready for the press a tale entitled "Hercules." I leave, too, in the bookcase, several books of extracts and observations marked with the letters of the alphabet, the oldest being that I believe marked M, and the most recent that marked There is an annotated copy of the "Life of Porson," with a book of addenda and a copy of the "Life of Warburton," with a few annotations and a book of addenda. There will be found, in loose sheets, in the press at the side of the fireplace in the library, a complete translation of Beranger's songs, with the exception of "Mes Derniers Chansons." Some of these have been printed. The house is to be vacated at the half-quarter. For the rent to Michaelmas I have sent a cheque to-day. There will be some small bills, but when all claims are satisfied there will be a considerable sum left, besides what will arise from the sale of books and furniture. I have made my way, in the world so far as it has been made, by my own efforts. My great fault has been too much self-dependence, and too little regard for others. Whatever I have done I have endeavoured to do to the best of my ability, and have been fortunate, I may say, generally, but with one great exception. In the paper-cases lying about and elsewhere will be found some MSS. which have been used, and others intended for literary purposes.") I found out Mrs. Watson's room from the servant—I opened the door with the key and went in—it was the bedroom at the back of the library—I found Mrs. Watson dead, huddled up in one corner of the room—she was covered over with a blanket—I examined her, to see what was the cause of death, and I found several wounds on the scalp, and a fracture of the bone—there was blood on the floor, and her gown was covered with blood, saturated with blood—there was a good deal on the floor—I can't

say how much, it was congealed, and the clothes all saturated—the body was stiff—she must have been dead a day or two at least, on account of the congealed blood and the stiffness of the body—death was no doubt caused by the fracture of the skull by some blunt kind of instrument—a horse-pistol was shown to me the next day at the station—the wounds I saw were most likely to have been produced by such an instrument as that—the body was dressed in the ordinary female dress, she had a gown on—I saw six wounds at that time—subsequently, at the post-mortem examination, we discovered eight on the scalp—there was one large fissure of the skull—I did not notice the hands, or the arms, or the legs at that time—I did not disturb her—I knew there would be a postmortem examination, therefore I deferred it till then—on the post-mortem examination we round eight wounds on the scalp, there was a fissure of the skull which extended from the top of the skull right to the base; the bones of the skull were all loosened, and there were several other abrasions and slighter wounds about the body, there was extravasation of blood at the base of the brain, and there was also an extravasation of blood into the peritoneum from a vessel there—there were no other marks that were likely to arise from the injury—there were several marks on the arms and hands, they were mostly abrasions—I could hardly think they could be caused by a struggle—I could hardly perceive that—there were no marks on the legs—there was a mark on the hip—there were slight marks about that portion of the body—the principal were on the scalp—I afterwards returned to Mr. Watson's room, where I found a glass of this description and a bottle, which were on a chair beside his bed—this phial was on the chest of drawers, it was half full—it holds two drachms; there was a slight drain in the glass, scarcely a drain, apparently the same kind of liquid that there was in the bottle—I did not examine it then—I could only tell by sense of smell at that time, and I had a very severe cold, therefore I went to the chemist's to discover whether he had purchased poison, and he smelt it for me—that was Mr. Lewis, another chemist—I found it to be prussic acid—I was away about five minutes when I went to Mr. Lewis—I then came back again, and went into Mr. Watson's room, he was recovering his consciousness, but he was talking in an incoherent way—I spoke to him—I told him that I knew he had taken poison, and I also knew it was prussic acid, and that he had been to the chemist's that morning to purchase some—he did not make any remark at that time, that I remember—I asked him where he had purchased the prussic acid, and he told me then privately, he said he did not wish anyone to know it, he said he did not wish to get the chemist into trouble, and he told me where he had purchased it—I sent for a policeman, and I told him what I had done—I told him there was a policeman in the next room, that he would be given into charge, that he must be aware what it was for—he did not make any reply to that, he simply put up his arms and made an exclamation of that sort, "Ah," but he did not make any remark—I left him then in charge of the police—I returned afterwards—I thought he was not in a fit state to be removed at that time, he had scarcely got over the dose of poison—I returned afterwards; at least I was sent for by the police—the police surgeon was there; he wished to see me, to know if he was in a fit state to be removed—we examined the flooring and the spots of blood, in company with the police, the chair in the library, and the woodwork about the window—the window frames were spattered with blood—the prisoner told

me he had taken prussic acid the night before, but he had not taken a sufficient dose, or he supposed so—it was at the time that I was speaking to him about prussic acid that he said that—that is all, that I remember, that took place between us in reference to prussic acid—Dr Pope and I agreed that he could be moved, and he then got up to dress himself; that was about 4 o'clock—the police were present while he was dressing—there was no very particular conversation—he called for a particular pair of boots, which he said fitted him, that he felt easier with them, and he directed my attention to an oyster-shell that was on the chest of drawers in his dressing-room, or on the wash hand-stand; he said "A curious thing"—he said very little, he was a man that never said very much—he said "A curious thing that, I picked it up"—I examined it, and said it was a curious thing; it was rather a remarkable shell, it was covered with cercules, a sort of calcareous matter made by a worm, a sort of coral—nothing more passed, except the observations he was making while he was dressing, with regard to brushing his hair and that—he seemed to be very particular about himself before he went away; he wished to be shaved—his manner seemed frivolous to me, considering the position in which he was placed—I don't remember any further conversation that took place at that time; by-the-bye, I did mention to him that he should have a solicitor, and I mentioned Mr. Eraser's name, as being an old pupil of his—he said he did not think it was any use, the deed was done—he consented to my calling on Mr. Fraser, which I did afterwards, and he is the gentleman who is now conducting the defence—he asked the police to deal gently with him, and to get the matter over as quickly as they could—he did not quite seem to understand that he was to be removed to the police-station; he asked why he could not remain where he was; that was when he was in bed—I don't recollect anything more—I next saw him at the police-station, in the evening, after that, and I told him I had called on Mr. Fraser, but he was out, the servant said he would be home about 10 o'clock, and he would be there in the evening—he said he did not suppose he would come.

Cross-examined. I have known Mr. Watson for many years as head master of the Grammar School at Stockwell—he bore the character of being a gentleman of great learning and classical attainments, and of being a kind and humane man—I always understood that he was very punctual in the performance of his duties as head master of the school—I had never attended him, or had much personal intercourse with him; he has not had much illness, I believe—I had often met him in the street, and three or four months previously I met him at a luncheon, at King's College distribution of prizes—he did not know me at first, he was very absent—he was a very reserved man, and very self-absorbed—when I was called in to see him in this unconscious state, I have no doubt that he had taken poison for the purpose of committing suicide—in my opinion he had taken a dose that might have proved fatal—his skin was clammy, he had the appearance of a man who was seriously suffering from the effects of prussic acid—he was unconscious quite a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes after I saw him—that would be an effect producible by prussic acid—it has not a narcotic effect; in such a case we arouse the patient, if possible—I did my utmost to call him back to life—he told me that he had taken prussic acid the evening before—he told me that he intended to commit suicide, but there was not enough of it, and he had purchased more that very

morning, in order to carry out his intention of suicide—if he had purchased prussic acid ten or twelve months before, it would lose its strength, it is highly volatile, the strength evaporates; if he had purchased Scheele's acid twelve months before, and then taken it, it would not have had its effect, it would lose its effect in that time—when I found him returning to consciousness I made inquiries, and found that he had taken prussic acid, when I found him able to understand what I said to him—I really can scarcely recollect what I first said to him, except that I asked him what he had taken—I told him I knew what he had taken—I did not, at that time, tell him that he would he arrested on this charge, not till the policemen came; I told him that they were there—I told him that I knew he had taken prussic acid, before he told me—I told him the police were there to take him, and he knew what the occasion of it was, and he threw up his arms and said "Ah!" or something to that effect—it was just about that time that I suggested to him about a solicitor—his answer was "The deed is done"—he seemed perfectly indifferent—I asked him whether there was any insanity in his family; that was afterwards, at the police—station, in the evening—he said no, he could not say much, for his father and brother were the only two members—he said "My brother was quite sane, but I can't say so much for my father"—at the time he called my attention to the oyster-shell he knew that he was charged with murder, and that the police were in his house; he was getting ready to go—he was particular about brushing his hair and putting on particular boots—at that time he seemed perfectly oblivious to the crime he had committed; he did not allude to it; he conducted himself as if nothing of the sort had occurred—he wanted to shave himself; he said, to the police—officer, why could not he shave—the officer did not allow him to do it—the policemen were in the room at the time—I don't know that I can recollect the exact language he used about the oyster, he simply drew my attention to it as a great curiosity, and I examined it—he did not tell me how he bad got it; I rather avoided speaking to him at that time—I asked him afterwards, at the police—station, in the evening, if he had had anything on his mind particularly, and if his means were bad or limited—he said he had sufficient, but that his means were getting exhausted—he said that losing the grammar school had affected him very much, that he had become very much depressed and despondent; that he had been promised another appointment, but it had fallen to the ground—I don't quite remember the expression that he was afraid, at his age, he should not be able to get any appointment—those remarks seemed perfectly genuine, as really exhibiting the state of his mind, owing to the loss of the school—his age is sixty—seven, I understand—most of the wounds on the scalp of the deceased were severe wounds; they indicated very great violence—the other marks on her person were recent—they might be the result of bloQ.; they were abrasions, or scratches, not the same character as those on the skull—the eight on the scalp were those that were important; they indicated extreme and unusual violence, almost the ferocity of violence—in the course of my experience the disease of insanity has come under my study, with other diseases—insanity is as much a disease as any other known to me as a professional man—it is always treated as a disease, to be cured if possible, and if not to be cured, the patient to be prevented from doing harm if he is liable to do so—there is a well-defined form of insanity called melancholia—I should say it was rocognised

by every medical man—a sudden shock or calamity falling upon a man would most certainly have a tendency to produce despondency and depression, which might ultimately result in melancholia—a person suffering under that disease is liable to sudden outbursts and paroxysms of madness—in such a condition he has not the reasoning power which would enable him to distinguish right from wrong, or to understand the nature and quality of the act that he commits, at the time that he commits it; that is my judgment—it is consistent with my experience that after the fit of madness is over they may resume almost their normal state—it is similar to a case of epilepsy; a person may be perfectly well after an attack of epilepsy—I thought Mr. Watson was suffering from epilepsy at the time I saw him—homicidal mania and suicidal mania are recognisable diseases, they very frequently go together; an insane desire to destroy either one's self or somebody else—I have not the slightest doubt that this gentleman attempted to commit suicide by poisoning himself—in forming a judgment as to whether a person was labouring under insanity or no, an attempt to commit suicide would be a fact that I should take into consideration, and in forming a judgment whether a patient were a homicidal maniac or no, the fact of attempting to commit suicide would be an element in my consideration—I have seen the prisoner since; I saw him in Horsemonger Lane Gaol—he then complained to me of having suffered from despondency since he had lost his school and could not obtain employment elsewhere—I don't recollect his saying that at his great age it was almost hopeless to expect that he could ever get any other appointment; he complained that he had been in a despondent state—he said "I wish I had consulted you before"—there are many cases on record of insane persons having sought a lunatic asylum themselves; from my reading I have known of several such instances—the prisoner did not make any allusion to suicide when I saw him at Horsemonger Lane Gaol, he did at the Police Court, previously; he told me that he had contemplated suicide twelve months ago, or rather, I asked him did he contemplate suicide when he purchased the prussic acid, twelve months ago—he did not give me a direct answer—he said he was always of a desponding temperament; he thought he might require it; that was the first that he had taken, the day preceding that on which I saw him, and which he had kept by him for twelve months—the ferocity and violence with which a murder is committed would be a very important element in considering the state of mind of the patient—from what I observed on the post-mortem, the wounds must have been committed with great ferocity—I have heard the whole of the evidence up to this point.

MR. SERJEANT PARRY proposed, upon this, to ask the witness his opinion of the prisoner's state of mind at the time he committed the act. The question was objected to by the learned Judge, and after being modified in its form, was ultimately put as follo Q.: "From what you have observed in this case, and from the intervie Q. and conversations you had with the prisoner, and from the facts that have come to your own knowledge in the case, are you or are you not of opinion that at the time he committed this act he was in a sound or unsound state of mind?" MR. DENMAN submitted that the question could not be put, it referred to the state of the prisoner's mind at a time when the witness was not present, and in order to ascertain what it was at that time, the witness must necessarily direct his mind, not only to the effect of the intervie Q. he himself had, but to other circumstances deposed to by other witnesses, and thus he would he asked to give his opinions upon the very point which it was the province of the Jury to decide. MR. JUSTICE BYLES decided that the question could not be put). In my judgment the prisoner was labouring under great mental depression before he committed this act—after my intervieQ. and conversations with the prisoner, my opinion was, at the time I saw him, that he was suffering from simple melancholia with maniacal excitement—at the time I saw him on the Wednesday, when he was arrested, I believe that he was suffering from the same complaint, simple melancholia with a tendency to maniacal excitement—from my intervieQ. with him, and my own observation, I believe now that he is not in a sound state of mind—I have no doubt that the loss of his appointment was the principal cause of the melancholy and depression, although I should imagine that he had always been of a melancholic temperament.

Re-examined. The last time I examined him, was at Horsemonger Lane Gaol, about six weeks ago, or it might be more, before he came to Newgate—I believe he was then under the medical care of Dr. Waterworth—I did not see him in the presence of Dr. Waterworth—I saw him on every occasion at the Police Court, three times, and once at Horsemonger Lane; except when I saw him at King's College, I had not spoken to him for a year, beyond meeting him in the street and saying "How do you do?"—when I saw him on 11th October, we had some conversation—there was no question that I asked him then to which he did not give a rational answer, he was rational then—he was very morose, he scarcely would answer a question—he said he had prepared a statement for me and he hesitated whether he should give it me or not—I had noticed on previous occasions that he was a person of a somewhat morose demeanour—there was nothing on any of the occasions to show that he did not appreciate and understand the nature of what was going on, in the way of questions put to him, or the business that was then going on.

Q. What are the facts upon which you rely at these intervieQ. thattook place, to induce you to suppose that he was labouring under any form of insanity? A. His manner altogether was peculiar, he would scarcely answer a question—he did not answer a question directly—he seemed desponding, and there was that sort of manner about him which is common in melancholia—I do not remember any question in particular that I asked him which he was unwilling to answer—there was a general unwillingness to answer questions—that applies to the occasion of 11th October as well as the subsequent intervieQ.—he did not volunteer the remarks about his means being gradually exhausted, and his loss of the grammar school, and so on, they were simply answers to my questions—it was not given as a continuous statement, but in answer to several questions put by me—he showed no difficulty in understanding the questions themselves, or in bringing his memory to remember the facts—I think that an attempt to commit suicide is of itself evidence of insanity—I do not mean that every person that attempts to commit suicide is insane, nor would I say that every despondency or depression is a token of unsoundness—many persons are despondent and depressed to a very considerable extent, without there being any insanity about them.

Q. Should you say that any murder committed with ferocity was an evidence of insanity on the part of the person who committed it? A. That would depend entirely on the extent of the ferocity; I should take that in connection with other things, not of itself, certainly not—it very often is an evidence of insanity, but I would not say it was in every case—I knew

on the 11th that he was charged with committing this murder—I had seen the body—in the opinion I give, as to his having been insane at the time I saw him, I do not take into account as the principal fact, the murder itself—if there had been no murder I should not have said there were indications from which I should pronounce clearly that he was insane on the 11th—it is a very difficult question to answer—I could not reply to that question quite, because his manner was certainly very peculiar, if he had not committed a murder I still should have thought his behaviour very strange indeed—my remark has nothing to do with the prussic acid—I speak without the prussic acid, because he was talking incoherently from the effects of the prussic acid before he recovered his senses—I attribute that incoherency to the prussic acid at that time, within half-an-hour after I saw him—I found my opinion of his insanity at that time upon his general manner—I really cannot recall any particular thing he said or did; it was his general manner altogether—I think his saying that he had done the deed showed that he was perfectly callous—hi did not wish to have anyone to defend him—I think that was a sign that he was not in his right senses—he seemed to be perfectly indifferent what would be the result of it to him—that of itself did not strike me as an indication of insanity, but that, with other things, I think, would show that he was not quite sound—from his general demeanour, the whole facts that I have mentioned, taken together, I did not consider him in his right mind at the time—I did not then consider him so—the prussic acid would be one fact—the simple statement that he had done the deed would not be one, but the manner in which it was said—he seemed to be perfectly indifferent—I should lay stress upon the fact of his calling attention to the oyster shell as proof of his indifference—I cannot recall anything else at present—in the evening, at the police-station, we had a conversation about his having lost the school—that conversation would not indicate insanity, but the fact of his having lost the school, and the circumstances in which he was placed, would form my opinion as to his state of mind—it would make it probable that he would have that state of depression which I believe existed—I had no reason to doubt that he was accurately stating the facts—I think he would be quite capable of doing any act of business down to the time when he committed the act—persons subject to melancholia are at other times quite intellectual—it does not interfere with the intellectual qualities.

GEORGE DAVIS (Police Inspector W). On Wednesday, 11th October, I went into the room where Mrs. Watson was lying dead—that was the first room I entered—Dr. Pope went in with me, Dr. Rugg came shortly afterwards—I saw the dead body in the corner—there were smears of blood about the room which appeared to have been done from her clothing, which was saturated with it—on the landing between that room and the library, I saw a stain which appeared to be blood, that was outside the library door, about three or four inches from it—I had to remove the carpet—I found blood in different parts of the library, on the sides of the window, the window—frame, the wood—work, also on the wire-blinds, several small spots, and also on the back part of a large arm-chair—I then went into the dressing-room—I there found a pair of trousers, which I produce, and a waistcoat was handed to me by Dr. Pope in that room—there were stains on them which appeared to me to be blood—I am now speaking of the trousers—I showed them to Dr. Pope—there were stains down the front of the waistcoat, which appeared to be blood—I showed

those also to Dr. Pope—I also found a pair of drawers in the dressing-room, they have marks of the same sort on the knee and inside the thigh—I also found there this sponge, it had a reddish stain on it, and also some long white hairs—it appeared to have been washed out—I then went into the room in which the prisoner was in bed; he was at that time able to understand—that was about 3.40—I told him that I should take him into custody for killing and slaying his wife on the previous Sunday—he made no reply then—he asked me where I should take him to—I said to the Brixton police—station—I then asked him for the shirt and coat that he was wearing on the previous Sunday—he said "What for, what do you want them for?"—he afterwards said the coat was hanging up in the next room—I found it, and produce it—there were a great quantity of marks on it which appeared to be blood, down the front and the sleeves, they appeared to have been wiped with something—I remained with him while he dressed, and then conveyed him in a cab to the police—station—I was present in the dressing-room while he was combing out his hair there—he dressed in his bedroom partly, and he went into the dressing-room to comb his hair—I took him to the police—station, where I charged him with the wilful murder of his wife—I asked him his wife's Christian name as I was unacquainted with it—he said Anne—the Charge was entered in the usual way—he made no reply, with the exception, when the sergeant was speaking to him, when I told him the name Anne, he only put down Ann, and I called the sergeant's attention to the fact, and said Anne, end the sergeant said "Annie," and the prisoner said "Anne," he corrected him—he wanted to know whether he could have anything brought him—I said yes, anything he required, if he put it down on paper, I would send for it—he gave me a list, I produce it—he wrote it himself. (Read: "Mattrass, two or three blankets, counterpane, pillow, clean cravat, clean collar, boot hooks, hair-brush, some slices of cold beef, b. k. f."—When I came to b. k. f. I could not understand it, and he said it was bread, knife and fork—I told him he could have anything with the exception of the knife and fork, and he had nearly all these things supplied to him—when I said he could not have the knife he said" What is the good of the bread and meat; what am I going to eat it with"—I told him his servant could make some sandwiches, and he said that would do very well—next day, the 12th, I was sent for to the house—I was shown a drawer in the dressing-room by Sergeant Giddings—I opened it, and saw in it five pistols, the one produced, and four others—I examined this one, and saw what appeared to be a stain on the wood work at the side of the trigger—that was one of the largest pistols—there were two others not quite so large as this, and two smaller ones—it was a stain of a reddish colour, similar to blood—it has been scraped off for the purpose of the analysis—I noticed a stain of a similar colour on the butt end, a portion of it is remaining now—the wood—work of the handle was split in three places, lengthways, and across in two places—Giddings had seen it before me—the other pistols were rusty and dusty, and apparently had not been handled for some years I should think, and there was dirt in the drawer—I afterwards brought away the piece of Latin that has been produced—that was on the Sunday following—I saw it the day I first entered there, but did not remove it—I also found a pair of boots and some rope, the rope was in the library—it is new rope, nearly twelve yards, wrapped in brown paper, also a new hammer, there was no appearance of the hammer having been used, it was perfectly new, wrapped in brown

paper, and the size marked on it; also an old hammer that had been in use for some time—there were no marks on that.

Cross-examined. The trousers, coat, and other things were hanging up on pegs in the dressing-room in the ordinary way, a light coat over the coat, and the trousers hanging by the side of it—I did not find the shirt—the drawers were in a clothes-basket in the same room, with other dirty clothes, a cravat, I think, and two handkerchiefs—the four pistols that were left were old rusty pistols—this is also an old one—it has a brass barrel (the others had steel barrels), and a flint lock, not in use now—it was in a drawer full of rubbish.

GEORGE HAZELL (Police Sergeant W 18). On Wednesday, 11th October, I was called to the prisoner's house by Dr. Rugg—I went up stairs, and saw the body of Mrs. Watson in the room on the first floor—I afterwards went into the prisoner's bedroom—it was about 12.45 when I got to the house—I saw the prisoner in bed, and told him he must consider himself in custody for the murder of his wife—he said "I suppose so, don't be violent"—I told him no violence would be used—he then turned on the other side, and said "I am ill"—Dr. Rugg was there at the time—I left Dr. Rugg to attend to him—I afterwards made a search at the house, on the following Sunday, the 15th, I examined a chest of drawers in the dressing-room, and in the bottom drawer I found this shirt; both the wristbands appear to have been cut off—there were marks on the sleeves that appeared to be blood—there was a quantity of shirts and clean linen in the drawers—this shirt was under some other clean linen—the drawer was not locked—there was a lock to it.

Cross-examined. There are stains now on the shirt, that I can easily see.

JOHN HUEY (Police Sergeant W 11). On Wednesday, 11th October, I went with Hazell to 28, St. Martin's Road—I found Dr. Rugg at the door; he beckoned me into the house, and I went in, and went up stairs into the room where the body of a woman was—Dr. Rugg went in first, Hazell next, and I last—I did not observe how the body was covered—it was dressed, no cap or bonnet on, shoes or slippers—the hair was very much disarranged,—after leaving the room I went into the library with Dr. Rugg, and there saw the servant Pyne—I then went into the prisoner's bedroom with Dr. Rugg and Hazell—he was in bed—Hazell told him he might consider himself in custody for the murder of his wife—I understood the prisoner to say "Don't be loud about it"—it was either "Don't be violent," or "Don't be loud," I could not be certain, but I understood him, to say "Don't be loud about it"—whilst I was in the room Inspector Davis came in, and Dr. Rugg—there were a few boys outside, I heard them talking—Mr. Watson asked me if there were many outside—I said there was not, a few boys had collected round—he raised himself up in the bed, and moved his body about, as it were, to catch a glimpse of them through the window—the Venetian blinds were down—I was left with him while Sergeant Hazell went and gave information at the station—I was there alone with him whilst he was dressing—he asked me if I had any objection to his shaving before he went to the police—station—I said "Yes, I have a very strong one"—when Dr. Rugg came in he told him that I had objected to his shaving, and Dr. Rugg said that was quite right—his dog was on the landing, barking, at the time, and he called him by name, "Snap," and kept snapping his fingers for the dog to come into the room, but the dog did not come in.

THOMAS GIDDINGS (Police Sergeant W R 3). On Thursday morning, 12th

October, I was at the prisoner's house—in consequence of what the servant said I went to a drawer in the prisoner's dressing—room, and there found three pistols—I did not touch them—I sent for Inspector Davis, and showed them to him.

EDMUND POPE . I am surgeon to the W division of the police—on Wednesday, 11th October, I went to 28, St. Martin's Road, Stockwell—I found Inspector Davis there—I went up into the prisoner's bedroom—I found him there in bed—Dr. Rugg had been there before me—I asked the prisoner how he felt now—he said better than he hoped or expected to be—I sent for Dr. Rugg, and then went into the room in which the dead body was—I found it in the crouching, huddled up position which has been described—I have this morning had pointed out to me a deal box, which is in Court—I think, with a little compression, the body could have been stowed away in that box—Dr. Rugg and I went together into the room, and examined the glass that was there—I mean the glass that had been drunk from—I waited there until I formed an opinion that he was fit to be moved, and I then authorised Inspector Davis to remove him—Davis said he should apprehend him on a charge of murder, and after doing so I asked him if he would tell him where the coat was which he had worn on that day, as he wished to have it—Mr. Watson objected at first to say where the coat was—he said he did not wish an exhibition made of it—he said "What do you want it for?"—I can't say the exact words—that was the purport of what he said—I left the room almost immediately after that—I afterwards saw him at the station—I heard what passed about his wife's name, and so on, which has been spoken of by the witness—the charge was read over to him—he made no reply—during the whole of that time I saw nothing which led me to come to the conclusion that he was a person of unsound mind—I saw him in the cell that same evening—I then had a conversation with him—I asked him if he required anything, if he had been attended to—he said he had had a cup of tea, that he wanted something to eat—on that occasion I did not notice anything at all about him which indicated that he was of unsound mind—I afterwards made a post mortem examination with Dr. Rugg.

Cross-examined. Those were the only times I saw him—when he said "If you wish to make an exhibition of the coat I decline to tell you," I understood him to mean an exhibition before the public—I don't think he meant Madame Tussaud's, or anything of that kind—perhaps it was an odd phrase to use—it did not strike me as particularly odd—I consider he understood the reason the coat was required for, that it was required for the purpose—I have heard that the coat was found hanging up in the dressing-room—I was not aware of that fact when he said that—my opinion now and then would be different—it was a frivolous objection, a stupid sort of thing certainly.

Re-examined. He did not say it at all like a man who did not know what he was doing—he knew perfectly well what he was saying.

DR JOHN MUTER . I am director of the South London School of Chemistry and Pharmacy in Kennington Road—on 20th October I received from Dr. Rugg, in presence of Inspector Davis, two bottles and a glass—this is one of the bottles, and this is the glass—I examined them—the bottle was about half full, it contained a drachm of hydrocyanic acid or prussic acid—this other bottle also contained a small quantity—one bottle was about half full of prussic acid, its strength was 1.08, and a further

fraction, or 1.09 percent.—that is not Scheele's strength—Scheele's acid is variable, it spoils by keeping, it is generally supposed to be twice the strength, it has been known from 3 to 5 percent., it is an uncertain preparation—the bottle was marked "Hydrocyanic acid of Scheele's strength, minimum dose"—they were both alike in strength—there was no chemist's name on the label—in the glass I found no trace of anything; it was not tobe expected on the 20th, on account of the volatile nature of the poison—I received some clothes from Inspector Davis—I examined the coat, it had 132 stains of blood on the outside, chiefly on the left arm and left breast, and twelve stains on the inside—the arm appeared to have been wiped, but in some places there was a clot—there were ninety-five stains of blood on the trousers, and four stains on the drawers—the shirt had very few stains—the wristbands had been cut off—the sleeves had been washed, and when I applied a very delicate test to the place, I found a trace of blood—the waistcoat had about twenty—six stains—they were all round the buttons, and it seemed as if it had been wiped down; but in one direction the stains were just as they had fallen—I found on the sponge, human hair and colored matter, and woollen red and blue, which might have come from a carpet—the sponge was saturated with blood—the longest hair was 9 3/4 in long, light colored, some of it approaching grey.

Cross-examined. Prussic acid is highly volatile; if opened for a short time the strength goes away to some extent, and if it is exposed to light even it goes away, even with a cork—I made the analysis two days after the 20th—I received it from Inspector Davis and Dr. Rugg; they were both together—the minimum dose of Scheele's acid, and which would produce death, would depend upon its strength, it is such an uncertain preparation—I never knew a sample bought at a druggist's shop to be of full strength—if this had been of full strength, I should not have liked to take a drachm of it—the bottle contained two drachms—supposing it to be of full quality, a drachm would be fatal, in my opinion.

Re-examined. A drachm of the proper strength would be fatal, but this is only one point, 9, which is less than the pharmacopoeia—it causes death by acting on the heart; it stops the action of the heart, and it is a poison acting both on brain and heart, but principally on the heart—I never saw a person suffering under it; I am an analytical chemist.

CHARLES TURNER . I am a trunk—maker, of 219, Clapham Road—on Monday, 9th October, about 12.45, the prisoner came and said he wished to see some trunks—I showed him some—he said they were not quite the thing, he wanted more of a packing—case—I said we could make him one—he was anxious to have it immediately, and asked me how long it would take—he wanted it made 2 ft. 9 in. long, 2 ft. 3 in. wide, and 1 ft. 9 in. deep—he did not, at that time, actually order it, but he was so anxious to have it directly that I thought he was going to try elsewhere, and I suggested that if he let me know by 2 o'clock, I would let him have it next day by that time—he went away, and came back the same day at 1.45, and said he had decided to have the case made—I took the size from him down on paper as he gave it to me, and said "This will be a very large size, Sir; have you any idea of the size it will be?"—he said "Yes, that must be the size"—I suggested whether it would not be better for him to put the matter together that he wished to put into it, and let me measure it, as it was possible I could get it into a lesser space; but he said "No, that must be the size"—I made the case, but did not send it home—this is it

(produced)—he came on Tuesday, about 2 o'clock, and said "Do not send me that case in, but I will pay for it"—he handed me a 10l. note, from which I took 25s., the value of the case, and handed him the change, or rather I laid it down on the counter and he picked it up, with very great indifference, as it struck me at the time—I said "Do I understand that I am to hold the case until I hear further from you?"—he said something in reply which I could not understand, but I inferred that he meant yes—the case was in my shop at the time the police inquiry took place.

Cross-examined. I noticed a great change in his appearance from Monday, he appeared as a person would who had suddenly fallen into some trouble—I have known him as a customer for several years past—I live very close to him—he had been a customer on several occasions—I did not notice his depression, except on the Tuesday when he came, about 2 o'clock—I knew of his character in the neighbourhood as head master of that school, that it stood very high indeed, and that he was a gentleman of very considerable intellectual attainments—I know that he was dismissed; I understood that the school was broken up—he bore a character generally such as a gentleman bears in the neighbourhood where he is living, not merely for talent, but for humanity and kindness—I had not a son at his school.

Re-examined. I am next door to the post-office, and he used to bring parcels of printed matter in to me because he would not trouble them to weigh them—that had happened a few weeks before—he then appeared to be in his usual state, and on the Monday also.

JOHN. FELLS . I am a chemist, carrying on business at 89, Clapham Park Road—I have known the prisoner twenty years—on Wednesday morning, 11th October, nearer 11 o'clock than 10, I think, the prisoner came in and said he required some prussic acid, and that he should prefer it strong, Scheele's kind—he said he wanted it for medicinal purposes—I advised him not to have Scheele's acid at all, because of its very variable strength, it was not to be depended on—he said he should prefer Scheele's, and I let him have two drachms in a phial like this (produced)—this is a two-drachm phial—this other is the original bottle from which it was taken—on 3rd September, 1870, I sold him the same quantity, two drachms.

Cross-examined. Scheele's acid has been very much prescribed by medical men, but there is a growing decrease; it is not so much prescribed as it used to be, on account of its varying strength—Scheele's prussic acid is supposed to be a strong acid; it should be five percent., but is seldom more than four, sometimes only two—I have known the prisoner twenty years—this purchase was made on Wednesday, 11th October, about 10.30 in the morning—he had not come to me before that morning when he went out before breakfast—I had sold him some on 3rd September, twelve months before—I have got the date in my pocket-book—the impression on my mind is that Mrs. Watson came with him, but I cannot speak positively on that point—I have never heard him spoken of but with the utmost deference and respect—I have always heard of his character as that of a humane and kindly—disposed man, and I always found him spoken of with great esteem as a scholar and a gentleman.

Re-examined. I have known him twenty years—there was no variation whatever in his manner on this morning, he was quiet and gentlemanly, as he had always been before.

Thursday, January 11th.

ANN TULLEY . I am now housekeeper to Messrs. Johnson & Son, of Cursitor Street, Holborn—my husband and I lived at the Grammar School, Stockwell, with the prisoner and his wife, he as drilling master, and I as housekeeper—my husband says we lived there five years—we left ten years ago, since when I have been in the habit, from time to time, of paying visits to Mr. and Mrs. Watson—I went there on Sunday, 8th October—I got there, as near as I can say, about 5 o'clock—I rang the door-bell—no one answered it, but I heard a traffic about inside; I thought it was Mrs. Watson, and that the servant was busy—I heard a sound of tramping about, and after a bit I heard Mrs. Watson's voice—I could not tell what she said just then—I rang the bell a second time, and then heard Mrs. Watson say "There is somebody at the door;" she said that three times continuously—no one came, and I rang a third time—Mr. Watson then opened the door, and said "Oh, it is only Mrs. Tulley"—he let me in, and went into the dining—room and told Mrs. Watson, in a slow tone, "Mrs. Tulley"—Mrs. Watson came out to me, and said "How do you do, Mrs. Tulley?"—I said "Quite well, thank you, Ma'am," and she asked me into the drawing—room, and when I got inside, Mr. Watson stood in the hall, at the drawing—room door, for a moment or so—after a bit he came into the drawing-room—Mrs. Watson said "The servant is out, Mrs. Tulley"—Mr. Watson said "Only every other Sunday," and Mrs. Watson repeated "Only every other Sunday"—she said "I am so frightened, Mrs. Tulley"—"Are you, Ma'am," I said—she said "I am afraid of somebody getting over the back"—" What, over the garden wall?" I said—she said "Yes"—Mr. Watson was at the door at that time—he came into the room, and sat on the same side of the drawing—room as I was, opposite Mrs. Watson, and he asked me how my husband was, and how we were getting on—I said we were quite well, and my husband was doing very well—he said "Have Johnson & Son got as many hands on as they generally have?" (they are my employers; it is a large firm, they have different branches)—I said "Yes, Sir, they are at work day and night, by times; they give a large salary to clever writers"—I told him that they had a part portion taken at the Exhibition, and a great many page boys and young women in the business, selling catalogues—he was very pleased about Johnson & Son's doing well—I forgot to mention the first words, that he was very cross; I thought, when I first came to the door, that he would not ask me in—after the conversation he seemed pleased—I could see a deal in his manner from what he had been towards me, but during the conversation his manner was what it had usually been—I thought he was very fidgetty, sitting—I heard nothing more of the slightest importance said by him while I was in the room—I got up to go, and made my obedience to Mr. and Mrs. Watson, and thanked them for past favours to me and my husband, and he got up and returned it in the most kind and polite manner, and said they would be always glad to hear of our welfare; that is, my husband and I, I believe—I went out into the hall, and Mr. Watson went out—I said "Pray don't come to the door, Sir," as I did not want to give him trouble; so he stood close to the dining-room and drawing-room, and as I turned on the step to close the door I made my obedience to him, and he returned it with a very cross face—he made a bow as I was on the step—as near as I can tell you, I

stopped in the house half an hour, or upon it; I got there about 5 o'clock, and left about 5.30, as near as I can recollect.

Cross-examined. I had been at the grammar school some years—I told the prisoner that Johnson's employed a great many clever writers in hopes that he should go and ask for some business there—I knew him to be clever and out of employment, and it occurred to me to say so—Johnson & Son printed the catalogue of the last International Exhibition—it occurred to me, as a matter of kindness, to mention it to him, he being out of employment, that they employed a great many clever writers—I suppose he had no idea that I meant the information for him—Mrs. Watson did not say anything about that, she was very silent—the prisoner did not shake hands with me, but he thanked me for my words, for what I said—I have been always in the habit of calling on the families I lived with, and seeing how they were getting on—I had not been there for a year and four months—they were not in the library, they were down stairs in the drawing-room—Mrs. Watson was not up stairs when I first went in, she was in the dining-room, and Mr. Watson went to the door and said in a solemn manner, "It is Mrs. Tulley"—she came out into the hall to me—there is a house next door on one side, but not on the other, and a garden behind, and I call it a garden in front too.

Re-examined. I mean that there is another house touching it.

CHARLOTTE JANE HALL . I live at 87, London Road—the house 28, St. Martin's Road, Stockwell, belongs to me—Mr. Watson has occupied it six years last Midsummer—the rent was sixty guineas—I did not know Mr. Watson personally—I never saw him till I saw him here—in October 1870, I received this letter, I know it to be his writing—I have corresponded with him, and received rent from him—(Read: "October 27th, 1870. Dear Madam—I have received Mr. Duett's note, and shall be prepared to receive him according to his notice, on Saturday next. It will be convenient if he calls before half-past twelve. Circumstances have occurred which render it necessary for me to give you notice that you must be prepared for my quitting this house at Midsummer next. It may be possible, if you should find a desirable tenant before that time, I may be able to leave it sooner, but I shall be able to speak more confidently on the subject in January next, and I shall be obliged if you will acknowledge this notice.")—Mr. Duett is my agent—I sent an answer, and on 19th May, 1871, I received this letter, which is in the prisoner's writing—" May 19th, 1871. Mrs. Hall. Madam. I did not say anything to your agent when he last called about the rent, my movements being uncertain, and expecting to remove at or about Midsummer next. Still, not being decided as to leaving at Midsummer, I should ask, if I could stay beyond that time, would you allow me to go on another quarter? Please understand that I may leave at Midsummer or not, but it will be a convenience to know that I can stay another quarter if I have occasion to."—I answered that letter, and gave my consent to his leaving at any time at a quarter's notice—on 23rd May, I received this letter—"May 23rd, 1871. Mr. Watson presents his compliments to Mrs. Hall, and begs to thank her for her note of yesterday, giving him permission either to leave at Midsummer or to remain until the following Michaelmas, as may suit his convenience."—On Monday morning, 25th September, I received this letter from him, the 23rd was on Saturday—" September 25th, 1871. Dear Madam. I called at your place, to-day to speak about our continuance in this house, but had not the

good fortune to find you at home. I had fully expected to leave it before this time, but uncertainty as to our movements has still detained us. I have been looking out for several weeks for a suitable place to which I may remove, but I have not been able to fix upon one. I have something in view in one or two directions, but, whatever we decide, I think it will be impossible we can clear the house before quarter-day. Under these circumstances I was going to ask of you to show us an indulgence for a time. It has occurred to me that, as the house must be unoccupied for a quarter to be done up, you would not be particular as to our staying a little beyond the stated time. Of course, I don't want to put you to inconvenience, or to be encroaching. An early answer will oblige."—I answered that letter, and afterwards received this—"September 28th, 1871. Dear Madam. I am obliged for your accommodation respecting your house. I hope to be away before the half-quarter. As to the board, I should not like you to put it up; but I will let you know about my intended movements as early as possible."—On Wednesday morning, 11th October, I received this letter by the first post—it is written by the prisoner—it enclosed his own cheque for 15l. 15s.—"October 10th. Mr. Watson has the pleasure of enclosing to Mrs. Hall the amount of the quarter's rent, ending at Michaelmas last."—I paid away the cheque to Mr. Duett, my agent, and afterwards gave the receipt to Mr. Fraser, the prisoner's solicitor—the day after I received that letter, I heard of this melancholy transaction.

Cross-examined. He was in the habit of paying his rent before to my agent, Mr. Duett, who lived near me, but he had property on the same estate, and when he called on Mr. Watson he used to call for mine—all the letters but the last have the year on them.—I never received a similar scrap of paper to that from him before—he was very methodical in his habits, and very particular—I thought it very strange that he should write in that way—he had always written in a more methodical way, with the address and "Dear madam"—I thought it very strange and very unlike his usual habits—he was always formal in his observance of the usages of society—I never saw him.

Re-examined. This contained a cheque—the other letters are all of some length, referring to a matter which was to be settled.

HENRY GRAY . I am secretary to the Stock well Grammar School, and have been so nearly sixteen years—on 30th September, 1870, I gave the prisoner notice as to the termination of his engagement—this is a copy of it. "Stockwell Grammar School. September 30th, 1870. Dear Sir. In conformity with the annexed resolution, which was unanimously adopted at a meeting of the committee held last evening, I hereby give notice that they will not require your services after the expiration of the present term.—I am, yours faithfully, Henry Gray, Secretary." (Copy of resolution). "That the secretary be instructed to inform each of the present masters that owing to the continuous falling off in the number of pupils, and the consequent insufficiency of the income to meet the current expenditure, the committee feel themselves most reluctantly compelled to give notice to each of them that their services will not be required after the expiration of the present term, with a view to such a revision of the general conduct of the school as may hereafter appear to the committee to be expedient." The prisoner remained head-master until the Christmas—the school had fallen off very much in the preceding two years, or rather the number of boys had fallen off—we got no new boys for two years nearly—the prisoner sent a written

answer to that in return, dated 17th October, which I handed to Mr. Fraser—it was written some time after the notice, because he knew that there would be a meeting of the committee immediately after the 17th, and he wrote accordingly—it is a representation on his part to be laid before the committee—(This was dated October 17th 1870, from the prisoner to the committee of the school, stating that their resolution had taken him greatly by surprise, as he thought that, considering the long time he had conducted the school, and the way in which he had endeavoured to maintain, its character and excellence, the committee would have allowed him some communication with them, after which he might, if necessary, have tendered his resignation; he complained that the notice was accompanied by no expressions of concern, or any single word to soften it, and stated that, so far from any accusation having been brought against him, the committee had in the previous July congratulated the proprietors on the "untiring exertions of the highly talented head master.". He enquired what he had done during the last few months to cause the committee to withhold all confidence from him, and requested to be allowed to tender his resignation,)—The parts of that letter which are underscored were so when it was written—he was in the habit of underscoring his letters—that is, the part about the untiring exertions of the highly-talented head-master—no accusation of misconduct had been brought against him in any way—during the time of his being headmaster of the school a few complaints have been made against him—a complaint is an accusation in one sense—there has been no accusation whatever made against him by the committee—as secretary, I had constant opportunities of observing the general manner and demeanour of the man—there was nothing to distinguish him from other people in regard to his general demeanour—he was rather more reserved than some people, but nothing remarkable. I have seen appearances of ebullition of temper, but I never saw an outbreak of temper. I saw him within about a fortnight of the time this event occurred, within a few days, more or less—I casually met him in an omnibus, and conversed with him for half-an-hour nearly; we rode together—I noticed then nothing in his demeanour from what I noticed when he was master of the grammar school, but it struck me that he had aged a great deal since he had left the school.

Cross-examined. This is a proprietary school managed by a committee of gentlemen, of which I am secretary—the prisoner received instructions from time to time—if anything arose, the committee would be consulted, and Mr. Watson would act according to those instructions—1844 was the time he was appointed head master—he had not been in the school before that—I was not secretary at that time, but I know, from the minutes, that there were several other candidates, and that he was selected—he is a gentleman of considerable attainments and learning—his habits were very methodical and regular; always formal—his general manner and way of doing everything was rather formal—he had a minimum salary of 300l., with a capitation of 4l. 4s. per annum for each boy above the seventieth—as a rule the average number, up to the last four years, has been between 90 and 100—that is for the five or six years preceding 1869, but in 1869 and 1870 the numbers fell off very much—there was an average of between 90 and 100 pupils, sometimes more and sometimes loss—that would give him 100l. a year extra, nearly; his income has often touched 400l.—he occupied a house of his own—at the time of the notice the numbers had fallen to fifty-one—they had fallen to sixty the previous year—none of the

masters were dismissed, they simply had notice that their services would not be required—they were dismissed with notice, but not in disgrace; I take dismissal to mean disgrace—the masters all had notice at the same time—the school is being carried on now, and has been ever since—I know that Mr. Watson married about a year after he became head master; I cannot say exactly how soon—his having aged a great deal appeared by his more stooping manner, and increased weakness in his voice, and less energy of manner—I did not notice that his hair was whiter—the appearance of age struck me gradually from the time he left the school—I did not notice that his leaving the school made a great impression on his mind, but I observed his ageing—he made a proposal to the proprietors to take the school of them—this is it. (This was dated November 30th, 1870, from the prisoner to the proprietors of the school, in which he very fully reviewed the state of its finances, and proposed that the proprietors might relieve themselves from all existing and future liabilities by allowing the school to pass into other hands, and offered to negociate for the lease of the premises, for the sum at which it was valued in the late "Report of the Committee to the Proprietors" and to relieve the proprietors from all liability from the next Christmas.) That negociation fell through, it was not responded to by the committee; they thought the amount he offered was not large enough—they did not absolutely repudiate it, but considered that the terms were not good enough for them to accept—the prisoner was permitted by the committee to take boarders, who were pupils at the school—in 1867 the pupils presented him with a silver salver, I think it was in July, after he left the school—this address (produced) was presented to him by the pupils, and a purse of guineas, to which I gave something, but I never saw the result of the collection—at that time the school was in a very flourishing condition indeed—these letters (produced) are in the prisoner's writing.

Re-examined. When the pupils came below seventy he got no capitation fee, but he still got a fixed sum of 300l., that was the minimum.

WILLIAM LONGMAN . I am a member of the firm of Messrs. Longman, publishers, of Paternoster Row—I have known the prisoner about sixteen or seventeen years—I received this letter from the prisoner, at least, my firm did, when I was out of town—I afterwards received it—it was answered by one of the firm—it is in Mr. Watson's writing—(This was dated 22nd August, 1871, and was a request to Messrs. Longman to look at a MS., entitled "A History of the Papacy," in two octavo volumes.)—I afterwards received this other letter dated August 24th, 1871—(This stated that the prisoner had forwarded his "History of the Papacy" to Messrs. Longman.)—The manuscript of that is in our possession still—there is no other work of that nature that I am aware of—this (produced) is the manuscript—unquestionably it is a work of very great labour—I have no exact means of knowing within what time that work was accomplished, but I rather think he had been engaged on it for some time—it was completed probably about the time he wrote to me—I entertained the idea of publishing it—we told him we had taken it into consideration, we had not come to any decision as to publishing it—no such decision was conveyed to him, either for or against it, it stood over—I think I have known Mr. Watson sixteen or seventeen years fully—we have published three works for him—one was the "Life of Porson," the other was the "Life of Warburton," and the other was a book called "The Sons of Strength," I think—he was undoubtedly a man of considerable learning and attainments—I am not aware of a publication

in 1844—I am only aware of those three—I am acquainted with other publications besides my own—I don't recollect that Mr. Pickering published for him—I don't know of a poem in seven books on the subject of geology—I am aware that he translated a great number of classical works for Mr. Bohn—I believe those books are in sale—they are a kind of school book, Sallust, Xenophon, and so on, Florius, three vols. of Xenophon, Cornelius Nepos, Cicero's "Brutus," Pope's "Iliad," with notes, and other rhetorical works—the "Life of Porson "and the "Life of Warburton "was in 1863—I don't know that he also published through Mr. Tegg—he was a very methodical man, rather one of the old school—I have no other manuscript works of his in my possession—he has not offered me any others recently, or spoken to me about any others—this (produced) is a "Biographical History of the Papacy" from the beginning—I forget how late he carried it, without referring—I am not aware that he also published the lives of Cobbett and Wilkes in Blackwood.

Re-examined. There is no statement made in that letter about the literature of the Popes that is not according to the fact—it is all quite correct—I think the last work we published for him was "Warburton's Life"—that was in 1863—they were speculations of ours—the "Life of Warburton "was a book which was read—it was tolerably successful—a book showing a great deal of research and learning, and showing knowledge of history and of the biography of times of which it speaks—I have not myself studied the manuscript of the Popes—I have not personally passed any judgment upon it—it would not have been a work, supposing we had undertaken to publish it, for which we should have given a considerable sum of money, on the ground that his other works had only had a moderate degree of success.

COURT. Q. Did he realise much by them? A. No, there was only one book upon which he realised anything, and that was quite a trifle—I think that was the "Life of Warburton"—I believe it was something under 5l. his share of the profits—the other books were not successful.

GEORGE DAVIS (re-called). I found a purse in the prisoner's bedroom—it contained 5l. 10s. in gold, and some postage stamps.

DR. THOMAS HENRY WATERWORTH . I am M.D. of Aberdeen University, and a member of the R.C.S. of London—I am also surgeon at the Horsemonger Lane Gaol—the prisoner was brought there on 12th October—I saw him on the 13th, and after that frequently, almost daily, up to about 14th November—I conversed with him from time to time, and endeavoured to form a judgment as to his condition of mind—I could find nothing indicating any amount of insanity about him—my judgment was that he was of perfectly sound mind—I have not seen him to converse with him since he left the gaol, nor been present when others have done so.

Cross-examined. I made myself acquainted with all the facts relating to the case—he was in Horsemonger Lane Gaol I believe from 13th October till about 14th November—he was under my care during that time—he was depressed and weak when he first came in—I gave him some slight stimulants—he was depressed in his mind, and weak in his body—he did not tell me that he had been depressed and despondent for some time; I asked him—he was rather averse to answering my questions—I can't say whether he took any dislike to me—I could not tell by his manner or demeanour that he did not wish for my company or conversation—I believe his manner was the same to me as to others in the gaol—I believe his manner was the same to all—somewhat reserved, very reserved—he recovered,

from my treatment, after a time—he was better when he went away than when he came into the gaol, but he was still weak and depressed; he had not actually recovered—he had sleepness nights; he said so, I had no reason to doubt him—I treated him for that—I gave him morphia—he was to take it in small doses.

Q. Did he, while in Horsemonger Lane Gaol, attempt suicide by taking a larger quantity of morphia than he ought? A. He secreted some draughts, he did not take it, because he was prevented—he secreted some with that intention, but I was vigilant, and it was abortive—that would not at all alter my judgment in this matter—the restlessness and sleeplessness at night were from the act that he had committed—they are symptoms of a disturbed brain—that continued some two or three weeks—he was not taking morphia during the whole of that time—he took it for about ten days, I think, I can't say positively—I did not treat him medically for anything else—I believe his sleeplessness had not entirely gone before he left—I thought it was the consequence of the deed he had committed; that was my judgment—I think the morphia did not bring him sleep—that was not extraordinary—if he had been an ordinary patient and under no undue irritation of the brain, the doses of morphia I gave him might not have been sufficient to procure sleep—morphia will not always produce sleep—it very often does, and very often does not—it is given for that purpose—I gave it him for no other purpose—I treated him for nothing else during the time he was there.

Re-examined. Taking into account all that has been put to me as to the facts that I observed, I still say that I saw nothing indicating insanity—the symptoms I observed and to which my attention has been called are symptoms that I observe in persons in gaol charged with crimes, who are perfectly sane—ammonia was the stimulant I gave him—that is a stimulant to the nerves and system generally—it is a medicine which I give to patients who are suffering from depression, without reference to their state of mind—I do not think there was anything peculiar in his manner besides being reserved—when I say that restlessness and sleeplessness are symptoms pf a disturbed brain, I mean that any one who has met with any serious event of any kind, may possibly have sleepless nights from disturbed brain, the brain would become disturbed from any extraordinary event which had occurred to them—I don't mean by a disturbed brain a diseased brain—I have been medical attendant of the prisoners at Horsemonger Lane Gaol about six or seven years.

DR. EDGAR SHEPHERD . I am a member of the Royal College of Physicians, and a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, and professor of trachelological medicine of King's College—I am medical superintendent of the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum, and have been so upwards of ten years—that is one of the lunatic asylums for the county of Middlesex—there are 2050 patients there, male and female—I have seen the prisoner since he has been in custody—I have had four intervieQ. with him in Newgate; I think the first was on 17th November, the second on 20th November, then I saw him again on the 29th, and again on 11th December—from those intervieQ., and the conversations which took place, I think he was of sound mind.

Cross-examined. I think he was of sound mind when I saw him—I was requested by the Government to examine him, with Dr. Begley, the resident physician at Hanwell—we examined him together, but I saw him on one

occasion myself, without Dr. Begley—I saw him three times with Dr. Begley, and once by myself—insanity is a disease of the brain—it is recognised by me as a disease, just as any other disease to which humanity is liable—I hope that the great object of my life is to cure it if I can—I know Dr. Blandford, by name, as a gentleman of reputation in the profession—I know Dr. Maudsley, by name, and personally also; he is also a gentleman well known in the profession, who has devoted a great deal of his life in studying the disease of insanity, and writing upon it—there is a recognised form of insanity called melancholia—it is a disease that has been brought about by some sudden calamity, such as loss of fortune or status—a person labouring under melancholia is liable to outbursts of madness, during which crimes are committed—in such an outburst of madness, under certain forms of intense melancholia, the reasoning powers are entirely gone—it would very much depend upon the intensity of the disease, whether such a person would be a fit subject for confinement; it is a disease that varies very much in intensity—an outburst of that kind is generally sudden, if it has been preceded by other Symptoms—I don't think an outburst of that intense kind is sudden, without some previous indications of insanity—I am not by any means prepared to say that persons labouring under melancholia are liable, upon provocation, however slight, to an outburst of maniacal fury; I am prepared to deny it as a positive fact—provocation would certainly act with more force on a person who might be liable to an outburst of this kind than upon an ordinary and rational man—a person labouring under melancholia might be liable to an outburst of madness, and after that outburst was over recover comparative sanity; that is very common—as to suicide being an indication of insanity, it would depend very much on the form of suicide—suicide is unquestionably a very common accompaniment of melancholia; homicide also, but less common—such a patient has homicidal and suicidal tendencies—the meaning of melancholia is extreme despondency and depression—repeated attempts at suicide would be an element that I should take into consideration in judging whether a person was insane or not; a certain form of committing suicide—I will explain what I mean by that: the forma of suicide committed by the insane are intensely Clever and crafty, and contain, as a rule, no element of clumsiness about them; for instance, no insane person attempting to commit suicide would, in my judgment, tell another that he might be ill at a certain time following—I am explaining under correction, of course; I was only anxious to make clear what I meant—madness by no means signifies an utter want of design—madmen sometimes, both before and after the commission of a great crime, have exhibited considerable craft and cunning—that has been within my observation; in fact, it is very often what we have to guard against in patients we are entrusted with—I don't think that absence of remorse for a crime is a sign of insanity at all—I am sure it is consistent with sanity; it is also consistent with insanity—it is common in the insane to exhibit an absolute indifference to a great crime, although it is consistent with sanity; it is consistent with both.

Re-examined. There is a recognised form of insanity called meloncholia—from what I saw of the prisoner, there were undoubtedly signs of depression, which are consistent with melancholia; they are also consistent with perfect sanity—I did not see anything else about him, unless it was depression, that I should consider a symptom of melancholia—in the case of a

person who had committed a crime under the influence of melancholia I should expect to find other symptoms than the act itself, as indications of insanity—I should expect to find some other indications of insanity besides the act of violence—I think it is possible that if a person suffering under the influence of melancholia were to commit a homicidal act, that two or three hours after the act he should be conversing rationally and show perfect possession of memory and faculties as though there were no melancholia on him at all—undoubtedly a person would be very much depressed after a great crime of this kind, or of any kind, whether sane or insane—in the case of a sudden outburst of violence under the influence of melancholia, I should expect to find indications of insanity before the act itself took place—I would go so far as to say this, I do not think there is any case on record of an impulsive act of insanity involving homicide, in a person who has never given any evidences of insanity before—there are always very striking premonitory symptoms—a person might be liable to such an outburst and afterwards recover sanity—it is a matter of great uncertainty what time ought to be allowed for that, depending very much on individual temperament—some persons would subside rapidly and very quickly, and other persons would take some time to recover—I think a person might commit a homicidal act under the influence of melancholia, and be conversing and conducting himself as a rational person, in all respects, as a sane person would do, within an hour or two after the act—indications before the act are more important than indications after the act—I don't think that an act of this kind could be committed without very manifest symptoms beforehand, but it might be committed without any manifested symptoms after—the acting and behaving rationally after the act would not form any indication to my mind as to whether it was an act of madness or of sanity—I can conceive nothing more improbable than that an insane person should give notice that a doctor would be required, shortly before intending to commit a suicidal act—it is entirely at variance with my experience and judgment of insane persons—there is nothing more improbable than that a patient would give previous notice of what he was going to do.

DR. WILLIAM CHAPLIN BEGLEY . I am M.D. of Dublin University—I am also a member of the Royal College of Physicians, and of the Royal College of Surgeons—I am the medical attendant at the Hanwell Lunatic Asylum—I have seen the prisoner on four occasions—I don't remember the dates—the first was in November last—I conversed with him freely—on the first and second intervieQ. he was very coherent, but very reticent and reserved, somewhat sullen—on the third he was much less so, and on the fourth he was actually garrulous, and wandering from subject to subject, and there was a degree of mirth about him, which I could not explain—he was talkative, and went on from subject to subject with a degree of levity that I thought inconsistent with his position, and could only be accounted for by some mental infirmity—I can't recollect the date of that interview—I don't recollect the dates of any of them—I think the first and second were in November, but I am not positive—I saw him in Newgate—he talked about a great number of subjects connected with classical literature, and about various other matters; but there was an inconsistency and incoherency—I can't remember an instance, but he went from one subject to another with great rapidity and great volubility—I encouraged him to talk—I wished him to talk—he generally spoke on the subject of classical literature—I don't think he talked about anything else—he mixed the subjects

up together—he began a new subject before he had finished an old one—sometimes he finished his sentences, and sometimes he left off in the middle of them—Dr. Shepherd and Mr. Gibson were present on that occasion, and they both went away, and I saw him by myself, and also with them—I think the incoherence and inconsistency I mention took place when Mr. Gibson was present—I think he had the same opportunities of observing it as myself, as far as I remember, and Dr. Shepherd also, I think—on the three first occasions on which I saw him there was a great amount of depression; great dejection—those are appearances which are consistent either with sanity or insanity, in a man who had suffered a severe loss, or who had committed a great crime, and the want of that at the fourth interview deeply impressed my mind—he had not been under my medical treatment—I never saw him till I saw him there, and knew nothing of him.

Cross-examined. I have been at the Hanwell asylum about thirty years altogether, ten of them as an assistant, and twenty as superintendent of the male department—I was there part of the time under the celebrated Dr. Conolly—I was an assistant to him—I have 703 patients under my care to-day—I have the male side—I did not form an opinion when I first saw the prisoner that he was of unsound mind, neither on the first or second occasion; at the third I wavered, and at the fourth I fully made up my mind that he was not right, that he was a person of unsound mind—I could not account for a departure from so long and blameless a life as his was said to have been, except on the ground of aberration—on the fourth occasion I made up mind, or nearly so, that he was not of sound mind—that was my final opinion.

Re-examined. I made my mind up from what I saw of him on that occasion, coupling the third and fourth intervieQ. together; on the third he was not so sullen, if I may say so, not so morose as before, and he was more cheerful, which was more incompatible in my mind with the position in which he stood, except on the ground of being of unsound mind.

COURT. Q. What do you mean when you say "of unsound mind? A. That is the usual term applied now to persons called lunatic or insane—I have no explanation to give of it, I don't wish to adhere to that word more than any other—I will adopt the word insane if it be preferred.

JOHN ROWLAND GIBSON . I have been surgeon of the gaol of Newgate sixteen or seventeen years—I am a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons and a Licentiate of the Apothecaries' Company—the prisoner was brought there on 14th November last, I have had him under my charge, medically, from that time to this—from the time I first saw him I have paid particular attention to the state of his mind in order that I might be able to form a judgment of it—I have seen him every day, and sometimes more frequently, and conversed with him at every interview—I am not quite sure whether Dr. Begley did not see him for a short time alone; but I was present at all the intervieQ. spoken to, and heard the conversations—I was present long enough to hear a good deal of the conversation that passed between the prisoner and Dr. Begley, and I also conversed with him on that occasion—I saw him at each of the four intervieQ. with Dr. Begley, but he might have gone in alone for a short time when we were standing there; I think he did—I have always found him rational; and I should say remarkably self-possessed—I did not at any time observe any incoherence or inconsistency in the answers that he gave—sometimes he was more depressed than at others, and I may say at times his conversation has almost approached cheerfulness—there was nothing in

my treatment of him, or in the medicines that I gave him, that would have accounted for a greater amount of cheerfulness at one time than another—I did not medically treat him, except as occasion might require, a dose of opening medicine, I did not give him tonics—I saw nothing between one visit and another to indicate anything like insanity; I think the depression from which he suffered was nothing more than one would expect from a person placed in the position in which he was—it was a sort of depression which from my experience I have found in the case of sane persons as well as insane.

The following Witnesses were called for the Defence.

WILLIAM JOSEPH FRASER . I am solicitor to Mr. Watson—I produce a certificate of his baptism, showing that he was baptized in Crayford Church, in the year 1804—I produce also his marriage certificate, at St. Mark's Church, Dublin, on 2nd January, 1856, to Annie Armstrong—I also produce a gold medal—he was gold medallist of the Dublin University—I also produce certain letters written by Mr. Watson to Miss Armstrong before the marriage—the first letter is December 4th, 1844—there are five or six—I found these letters in Mrs. Watson's bedroom, tied up in her satin gown—(The letters were read as follo Q.:—" 12, New Park Road, Stockwell, Surrey, Wednesday, December 4th. Madam. I must entreat you to pardon the liberty which I take in addressing to you this note. You have known me only from having seen me some years ago at Mrs. Curran's, in Marlborough Street, when I was attending the College; you may, perhaps, have forgotten me, but I still recollect you. I am now in orders, and head master of the Proprietary Grammar School here. When I know that you have received this I should wish to say something more, if you will allow me to write to you a second time. I need not beg of you to favour me with an immediate reply, for I am sure you will have the kindness and politeness to do so. I have the honour to be, Madam, with the highest esteem and respect, your very obedient servant, J. S. Watson. To Miss Armstrong."—" December 9th. Madam, I have to thank you for your obliging letter, which I received this morning. I knew nothing of you when I saw you at Mrs. Curran's, but that you were a lady who had lost her fortune. That you have since been doing what you mention I was aware. You were always regarded by me as a lady of great excellence. Had I been able soon after leaving college to establish myself as I wished, I had it in my mind to make you a proposal of marriage. It may now be too late. Nor should I, however you may receive this intimation, wish you to consider that I have done so until we have again met. In the meantime, I may give you some little notion how I am situated here. Though I have the title of head master, I cannot say that I have all the emolument which J could desire attendant on it. My income is something more than 300l. a year, but without a house. I may perhaps in time find some means of increasing it a little. Boarders, by the condition of my appointment, I am not allowed at present to take; but that is a restriction which I may possibly get removed at length. The neighbourhood of London I like, and there are greater facilities for adding to income near town than in the country. I am of very humble birth, and have been obliged to make my way in the world by my own efforts. I have a few relatives living in an humble station, but none that would interfere with my domestic affairs. This is sufficient for me to say at present. I have to beg your indulgence for having said so much. Whatever you think of this, you will, I am sure, oblige me at once with the straight forward

answer of a woman of sense. Believe me to be, Madam, with the most perfect esteem, your very obedient servant, J. S. Watson.")—"December 13. Madam. I had the pleasure of receiving your very sensible letter just now. I have only time to write a few lines in reply. As you do not discourage me, I will say that I think it possible that I may cross over to Dublin about Christmas for a few days. I shall have but a fortnight at my disposal, and should not be able to leave this place before to-morrow week. Will you have the kindness to write on the receipt of this, and say whether, in the event of my coming, I might be allowed to see you where you are now residing? I am certain that I can have but little personal attraction in your eyes, and perhaps you will think that any alterations which may have taken place in my appearance since you saw me has not been for the better. You do not appear displeased with my prospects, but when I reflect that there is nothing—or very little—but prospect (for I have not been settled here long enough to lay by anything, having received my appointment only last July), I am almost afraid to venture. I am living in apartments, because I cannot afford to take a house; and yet I cannot but think that, with a person of your (as I judge) staid, quiet, and domestic habits, there would be no fear. Believe me to be, Madam, very faithfully and obediently yours, J. S. Watson." "Saturday. Madam I have just received your second (that is, third) letter. Pray write to me as often as you please, without entreating my pardon for doing so. To what I said yesterday I would just add that I write to you as if you were pretty much your own mistress, as at your age and with the travels which you have experienced through the world, it may be expected that you are. I believe that you are residing with a relation, but whether you have any relations in England, especially in London, with whom it would be to any purpose for me to communicate, I have not the least notion. I think it well to say that my mother is alive, and (with a sister) will probably for some time look to me for a little assistance. I have also two brothers in 'the valleys of life,' but, having been early separated from my parents, and brought up by a grandfather, and put into quite a different track in the world, I maintain but little connections with my relatives except by occasional letters. All that I should deduct from my own income would not be more than 50l. a year, which would still leave, if the school continues to flourish, more than 300l. for a consort and myself. My fixed salary is 300l., with 4 guineas a year on every boy above 71, and there have been 90 in the school this quarter. It is a very populous and increasing neighbourhood, and a school of the kind is much wanted in it, so that I trust all will go on well. They are all at present day boys. My hours of work are from nine till twelve, and from two till five, with one or two half-holidays in the week, and a month of freedom at Midsummer. This Christmas I hoped to get three weeks, but I can only get a fortnight. I do not know whether you have any conception what a proprietary grammar school is, but the management of the funds and so on is in the hands of a committee of proprietors, who have a control over me so far as to see that I do not break the rules. I should conceive that your parents are both dead, and that you have no brothers or sisters, or that, if you have any, they are at a distance from you. I have not forgotten the game at draughts, in which you did me the honour of beating me. Believe me to be, very faithfully and obediently yours, John Selby Watson." "Wednesday. Dear Madam. I have just had the pleasure of receiving your letter of Monday.

I have written so much in the last note which I sent, but which you had probably not received when you wrote, that I need only, I think, be brief at present. I do not know Dr. Connor, nor would it, perhaps, be of any use for me to say anything to him until we have met, after which I may be happy to make his acquaintance. Do not think that you need to say much about your family to me, who am of no family. I hope to be in Dublin by Sunday or Monday next, but a fortnight's absence from home is the utmost that I can command. What you say concerning your taking lodgings makes me believe that you must have much of that independence of spirit which I always supposed you to possess. You have told me that your hand shook, but not why. Trusting that I shall find you well when I have the pleasure of seeing you, yours, I remain, most sincerely, John Selby Watson." Friday. Dear Madam. As to being 'angry' with you, as your humour is to express it, that, I trust can never happen. I am very glad that you have written so often. I do not see what purpose it would serve to write to your aunt, as I said before, with respect to your cousins, until we have seen each other. You say that you have something to communicate to me, personally, more fully than you think proper to write, and it had struck me that in your last letter—to say nothing of what you have expressed before—you speak with much emphasis of having had much to annoy you, and of being of great anxiety of mind. Now I earnestly beg of you, that if you have had anything more particularly than mere labour for a subsistence to trouble you—if anything has happened to you to lie heavy upon your mind—if anything has been either done by yourself, or said or done by others, to cause you vexation and throw you into despondency, you will when we meet tell me honestly and fully what it is. It is long since I saw you, certainly more than seven years, and I know not, at least know but imperfectly, how, during that period, your time has been passed. It will be difficult to make me believe that it has been spent otherwise than honourably to yourself, and I should have hoped that the result would have been self-satisfaction and cheerfulness of mind. Forgive me, dear Miss Armstrong, that I write this; you have only to burn it, and give me an answer when I have the happiness of meeting you, for it will be a happiness to me, what-ever you say to me, to see once more that dear face which I once so much admired, and which I thought—and think now—far above anything to which I had or have any personal pretensions to aspire. I have no right, in the present stage of our acquaintance, to write thus freely to you, but you must pardon me. I know something of the world, and I know what unpleasant things you, as you have been living, may have been exposed to; but I again say to you that I entreat you not to conceal anything from me, but to tell me any which you have to tell as freely and as fully as you would tell the friend in whom you most trust either of your own sex or the opposite. Of anything which you may have to tell you will find me a most lenient judge, for I have too many faults of my own not to be an easy censor of those of others. I said that I admired you, yet I have been unfaithful to your image in my memory. I will tell you when we see each other. This will be another thing which you will have to forgive. 'From the sublime to the ridiculous there is but one step.' A fool of a hairdresser has cut my hair too short. You must guess why I care about this. Believe me that all the liberties which I have taken in writing thus to you have been taken with the warmest regard to yourself, a regard which, I hope, will never be diminished, but that I shall still be always yours sincerely,

J. S. W." "Will you accept my second offer, dearest? With love. This riband in exchange for the other. J."—I also produce a list of Mr. Watson's published works and manuscripts, made out by me from the manuscripts—this is the list of MSS. and published works in detail, they are of a very miscellaneous character.

Cross-examined. I was a pupil of Mr. Watson, at Stock well School, from 1856 to July 1861—I am his attorney, but have not been so in any business before this—I occasionally wrote to him, but only visited them at their house this time last year, when the school was under consideration—he did not consult me professionally—I was a proprietor of the school—among the MSS. I have found there is a translation of Valerius Flaccus—I found all the things mentioned in his letter addressed "To all whom it may concern"—I also found some letters written to Mrs. Watson, at different periods during their married life—I have not gone through them all.

REV. COLLETT BAUGH . I am a clergyman of the Church of England, and rector of Chatsfield, Kent—in September last my curate was absent temporarily, and I communicated with Mr. Ingram, who keeps a register of clergymen to do temporary duty, to get a clergyman to take my curate's place—I was not in very good health then, and not equal to duty at all; certainly not to doing whole duty, two full services—Mr. Watson was recommended to me, and I communicated with him, and received a letter from him, stating that he would come and take part of my duty—the letter is lost—it was in September, 1871, just one month before the murder was committed—I had not known or heard of Mr. Watson before—the duty I intended him to perform was very likely none at all; it would depend upon how I felt on Sunday morning—he came down on Sunday morning, and I had not then made up my mind what part of the service I would ask him to take—he was rather nervous when I met him in the vestry, but nothing to remark particularly—nothing occurred in church which would throw any light upon his state of mind—he said one prayer in the morning-service, which is not generally used; a prayer for all sorts and conditions of men, but it was a mistake, which might occur to any man—he was very weak and weary, and listless—I should have asked him to take part in the Communion service, but his voice was so dreary and listless that I preferred taking the whole myself, though it was Sacrament Sunday—at the conclusion of the service I walked home with him—my house is about a quarter of a mile from the church—I soon found that he was labouring from extreme depression of mind or body, or both, which showed itself in a gloomy silence, which continued throughout the day, and a total want of interest in any subject whatever, or in anything which was going on about him—I endeavoured during lunch to interest him in conversation; both I and my wife endeavoured to try to get him to talk, but I do not think he originated a single observation himself, and in answer to any remark or question of mine he replied wholly in monosyllables, "Yes," or "No"—this depression of manner continued during the day—it seemed to me that it was an effort for him to speak—there was no afternoon service; an evening service at 6.30, I think, or 6 o'clock—in consequence of what I observed in Mr. Watson, his depression and listlessness, I told him, after luncheon, that I thought that I was quite as equal as he was to preaching, and therefore I would take the sermon myself, and I did—he read the prayers—I observed the same weakness of voice—after the evening service, he returned to the rectory and dined with us—there was no change at all

in his manner during dinner—I endeavoured to try and enliven him by asking him to-drink a glass or two more wine than I might generally do; it did not have the least effect upon him, his manner still continued dejected and depressed to the greatest degree—he seemed very feeble, and in consequence I ordered my carriage to take him down to the station, which, on Sunday, I should not generally have done—it is a mile from my house to the station—I did not remark any access of cheerfulness at any time during the day—the only time at which I saw the slightest approach to a smile was when I paid him his fee, I think—I don't know that I paid him a little more, I might—from what I observed in him during the whole day, I formed an opinion as to the state of his mind, but I don't, know that the opinion I formed was a correct one—not knowing anything of Mr. Watson's antecedents, I believed him to be much older than I believe he is, and I attributed the extreme depression, and vacuity of mind and manner, to natural decay—I thought he was worn out with old age—that was the opinion that I formed at that time, and I expressed it at that time.

Cross-examined. I thought he might be eight or ten years older than he really was; I should have guessed him about seventy-eight—I did not know what his age was—he simply behaved as an old man—I thought he was an old man suffering from the infirmities of old age—that is the only occasion on which I ever saw him—there was nothing whatever irrational in the little conversation we had; what he said was perfectly rational—his answers were rational, although very short—this is a country district—we did not discuss anything—he declined anything like conversation.

ANN WALL BAUGH . I am the wife of the last witness—I remember Mr. Watson coming to my husband's rectory on 3rd September—he read prayers at the morning service—his manner was exceedingly feeble and weak—there was no particular difficulty in getting through them; it seemed extreme weakness—I was at luncheon with him and my husband—his manner was perfectly quiet; he scarcely uttered anything during the whole time—I tried in every way to induce him to talk, quite without success—I remember taking him up stairs before lunch—I remarked that he was exceedingly feeble, so feeble that I feared he would fall—he scarcely raised his head during luncheon, and his eyes were closed nearly the whole day also—there was a discussion about how the evening service should be conducted; it was doubtful how it should be performed, what part my husband should take—Mr. Watson suggested that I should read the lessons—I said I was sorry there was no one who could read the lessons for him, and he said that I could read them myself—he seemed in earnest—he seemed to have great difficulty in getting to church in the evening; that was the 6 o'clock service; it was before dinner—he read in the same feeble manner at the evening service—he read the prayers and the lessons—from the opportunities I had of observing him that day, I thought he was very much older than he appears to be; he appeared to be crushed, completely crushed, as if he had had some great sorrow—his conduct and manner made a considerable impression on my mind, and my husband and I communicated with Mr. Fraser, Mr. Watson's solicitor.

Cross-examined. That was after we heard of this event—I had never seen Mr. Watson before, or since—I remarked to my husband that he was very feeble, and to my friends; not to Mr. Watson—I heard my husband say that he thought he was quite as equal to preach as Mr. Watson was—that was before the discussion took place as to who should read the lessons

in the evening—he did not appear to be sulky or morose; he seemed completely crushed, simply unable to take interest in anything—he was very reserved, generally answering "Yes," and "No," to every question that was asked—I tried all I could to get him to converse—I was going to have a school treat, and I endeavoured to interest him in that school treat, not to get him to come, but to get him to talk, and about the country generally—I found that he knew several places that I knew very well, and I endeavoured to make him talk upon those subjects—I asked him whether he knew this or that place, and I could not get him to talk about it—my husband does, part of the duty each Sunday, but he is a great invalid—he has a very powerful voice, and his curate has also, so that I noticed the difference, very decidedly, between Mr. Watson's voice and that of my husband and the curate—I believe he had a sermon all ready to preach, if necessary.

Re-examined. The curate generally does the whole of the service when my husband is ill.

HENRY ROGERS . I reside at Beulah House, South Stockwell Road—I am proprietor of the Beaulah Laundry—I have resided there twenty years—for about ten years of that time, Mr. Watson lived next door but one to me, but our grounds adjoined at the bottom—I knew Mr. Watson by general reputation and by sight—he bore the reputation of being a very great classical scholar, and being a very excellent master of the Proprietary Grammar School, and a great writer—his ordinary walk and manner were quite familiar to me for twenty years—on Saturday, 7th October, last year, I was walking in the Clapham Road—I met Mr. Watson, he was walking towards Kennington, and I was walking the contrary way—it was about 11 o'clock, or a little before—when I was about seven or eight yards distant from him, I happened to cast my eye upon him, and his eyes were staring—they appeared fixed on me in a very staring manner—I kept my eye on him, and when he came within about a yard or a yard and a half from me, I was walking on the side I ought to walk, and he met me, he came in front of me, his eyes still fixed on me, and when about that distance, from a yard to two yards, he threw his umbrella under his arm, and made a noise in his throat, like groaning, or growling rather; a deep heavy noise in his throat; at the same time he made a gesture with his arm three or four times (he must have known me, because we lived very near together for years—he was not in the habit of speaking when he met me—I never spoke to him but once, about seventeen years ago) after he passed me, I turned round, he repeated it again after he passed me—as he passed me his eyes did not follow me, he did not keep his eyes on me, he looked straight forward, so it was evident to me that he was not looking at me—I remarked his manner for the first time about three months before the unfortunate occurrence; that would be about July—I met him twice in one day in Stockwell, and his eyes were then cast upwards, and his lips were moved rapidly; of course I thought at the time that he was making devout ejaculations to the Almighty, when I saw him cast his eyes upwards and his lips moving I naturally thought that, but a week or two after that I met him again, and his eyes were very different, stared so, stared very much, he had a vacant look in his eyes—I noticed it for about eight or nine weeks before the occurrence, and as many times, eight or nine times; I met him eight or nine times before the murder, in about as many weeks, and I noticed the same staring manner in his eyes—I had never seen anything like that before 1871—I have seen him about every week for twenty years—when I

saw those expressions which I have spoken of, I thought that his mind was going.

Cross-examined by MR. DENMAN. I think I saw him the week before the 7th October—I should say that I have noticed these appearances of staring seven or eight times, or more than that—I first noticed it about two or three months before the unhappy occurrence—on the 7th October, as he came towards me, he looked hard at me, his umbrella was put under his arm—he made three motions with his clenched hand, like the act of striking with it—I had not noticed anything of that kind on the former occasions—it was about 11 o'clock on Saturday, the 7th—I first saw an account of his being taken into custody, on the Thursday following—I was in the country at the time, near Staplehurst, and in going on the railway, I read it in the paper, and I wrote home to my wife the same evening, and made reference to the circumstances—I communicated to Mr. Fraser the following day—on the following Saturday, Mr. Fraser heard that I had written to my wife about it, and he called on me and asked me what I had observed, and I told him exactly—that was in October last—I think Mr. Fraser took down that statement for the purposes of the case about a fortnight after—the transaction made a very great impression in the neighbourhood—I formed the judgment when I saw him, that his mind was going.

COURT. Q. Have you in your possession the letter you wrote to your wife? A. No—I am sorry my wife lost it, we have looked for it, and I deeply regret that she has lost it.

Friday, January 12th.

REV. JOSEPH WALLACE . I am vicar of St. Andrew's, Stockwell—the prisoner and his wife have had sittings at my church for about the three last years—I have known the prisoner more than ten years, and saw him very frequently to speak to—no man could have a higher character for kindness and humanity—on 3rd November I visited him in Horsemonger Gaol—he asked me to go—I had been before—I did not communicate with his advisers—I was with him about three-quarters of an hour—I first of all observed that he had quite forgotten that he had sent for me, and when he did begin to talk it seemed to me that his conversation was in intelligence very unlike what I had heard from him before; as, for instance, at the beginning he said that he thought if he had opened his mind to me before, perhaps he might have taken a different course—I observed also that he did not continue long talking on one subject, which was very unlike what had been usual with him; he passed rapidly from one subject to another without much connection—that was not his habit at all, formerly—as an illustration, he spoke about the inquest, "that horrible inquest," and in the middle of the conversation about it he said "They won't let me shave here"—I observed also what struck me as a singular absence of remorse for his fault, for his crime, which was strange in a man of religious habits; he was full of anxiety and trouble, but it was all about the dismantling of his house, so that he should have no place to go back to, and the sale of his library—he said that he was very hardly dealt with—I mentioned that the Bishop had highly commended a Latin letter which he had written to him, and he said "Here is a man who the Bishop of Winchester can highly commend, and they have shut him up in a place like this"—he was laying out a plan for writing an essay on the union of Church and State, and he did not know how he should do it without his books, and he hoped the authorities of the gaol would help him in the matter—it was

for a competition prize essay which somebody proposed—he did not seem conscious of any peril that he was in; he always spoke of it as a thing which would soon pass away, as in that case when he said he was sorry he should not have a house to go back to—I wrote a letter to Mr. Fraser immediately after that interview.

Cross-examined. I have known him ten years—I have assisted at the examination of his school and he came to my house—we did not discuss matters of business, but ordinary conversation—I examined his school, that was a matter of business—since he ceased to be master of the Grammar School, he came to me on two or three occasions to ask me to help him to obtain an appointment—he came last at the end of July, I was absent from home in August and part of September—I cannot recollect how lately, before July, I had seen him, but, I should say, more or less once a fortnight—at that time he appeared to be depressed from the loss of the school—he had not exactly spoken of it as a loss, but as leaving him open for other employment; I should hardly say that he has been depressed on those occasions, but disappointed and uneasy—I do not think I noticed that he was low spirited—I went three times to Horsemonger Lane Goal—I have been telling you what occurred only on one occasion—the first time I only saw him through a grating in the door, and we had not an opportunity of conversing—I do not know that I lay more stress on the second time but it was after that I communicated with the lawyer—all the facts I have spoken of took place on the second occasion—on the third occasion I had a conversation with him but nothing occurred to throw any additional light on the state of his mind, he still repeated his complaints as to the sale of his library and his house, but it was a shorter interview—I am not sure whether he talked about his trial, but he used language and expressions which led me to know that he contemplated being tried for the offence—he did not speak to me of the probability of his being acquitted, beyond what I have said, that he seemed to assume it—he did not say that he expected to be acquitted—he spoke about Mr. Fraser and about the case being in his hands—I went to him voluntarily the first time, and the second time in consequence of a letter—I do not know what I have done with that letter, it was two lines—I put it in the waste paper basket, most likely—he spoke of his letter which the Bishop of Winchester had praised as one written before, about six months before his being there, not since—he was in a large cell, with plain walls—there was a bed and a chair—two other prisoners were there—after a while I asked him what he asked me to come for—I said "Why did you send for me, Mr. Watson?"—each of his sentences was complete—besides the horrible inquest and the Latin letter, and about taking a different course, and not letting him shave, and the essay—he conversed about his library—there were also detached sentences, there must have been, to fill up the time—he asked where Broadmoor was, that is the asylum where criminal lunatics are confined—he did not tell me why they had not permitted him to shave—I understood that the prize-essay had been advertised before this offence, but I do not think he had been at work on it before.

Re-examined. I forget who began the conversation about Broadmoor, but it was in reference, of course, to his prospects—that was on 3rd November, at Horsemonger Lane—I did not write or give any further information to Mr. Fraser after the third interview—I did not observe anything on the third occasion beyond what I did on the second.

ROBERT COLMAN HALL . I am a tea-dealer, and live at Pembroke Lodge, Brixton—I had a boy in the school at Brixton, under Mr. Watson, and in the beginning of 1871 I had occasion to call on him respecting my son—I had known him seven years, and I noticed a very great difference in his demeanour and manner on that occasion, to what I had noticed before—he seemed depressed and lost, and said he was about leaving the school, after so many years—I noticed at the time to my wife that he seemed depressed at the time—the interview lasted perhaps ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, and I had ample opportunity of forming a judgment as to whether he was depressed or not.

Cross-examined. I went to him because the gentleman who my son was going to, in Mark Lane, said that he should like to have a letter from the clergyman.

COURT. Q. What do you mean by "lost?" A. He seemed low, and he hardly knew what he was speaking about at times—he seemed to me as if he was worried at leaving the school, and he said he had been treated badly—that is all the explanation I give of the word "lost"—he seemed remarkably low.

HENRY MAUDSLEY . I am M.D. of the University of London—I have paid great attention to the disease of insanity, and have written a work on the physiology and pathology of mind—I was lecturer at St. Mary's Hospital, on the subject of insanity—I was at one time resident physician of a lunatic asylum at Manchester, where there were usually 100 patients of the middle classes—I visited the prisoner first on 27th November, for the purpose of ascertaining, if I could, the state of his mind—I was with him for an hour, and conversed with him during that time, and at the end of the interview formed the opinion that he was not of sound mind—that was the conclusion I came to—I believe he is suffering from melancholia, the symptoms I observed in him were such as in my opinion would follow an attack of melancholia—I found that his age was sixty-seven or sixty-eight, and in a person of that age melancholia would have greater effect and force than in a younger person—I heard Dr. Shepherd examined, and I agree with him in the main in the description he gives of melancholia, but there were certain other points—a person suffering from melancholia is liable to outbursts of mad violence, and while those outbursts prevail his mind is diseased; gone; his reason is in abeyance, and he is nearly unconscious of what he is doing; his mind decidedly deranged—after such an attack of disease the mind sometimes regains comparatively its tone; that is a matter in which I agree with Dr. Shepherd entirely—the mind may be restored within an hour after such an attack, decidedly in some cases, and before the very act itself he might appear calm and comparatively rational—I mean by comparatively, that his conversation would be coherent and rational—in the course of my experience I have known patients suffering from this disease, and who have exhibited violence under it—it is a disease accompanied by dangerous propensities; it is not so much homicidal as suicidal—I concur with Dr. Shepherd; if I was called to a patient who had exhibited both homicidal and suicidal propensities, that would form a very strong element, in my judgment, that he was of unsound mind—supposing a person is labouring under melancholia, a slight provocation, or a provocation of any kind, will have a powerful effect in exciting the disease within him—I know that, as a cause of melancholia, a violent shock to the mind, owing to a sudden calamity, has occurred, no doubt; melancholia makes a

progress to its height, and then it may decline—it is months lurking in the brain—it usually comes on gradually—supposing a patient exhibits great depression immediately after sustaining some loss, and the depression continued, that would be an element in my judgment that his mind was gradually getting unsound—the length of time would vary very much in different cases and different temperaments—old age would decidedly be less likely to combat such depression—one of the symptoms of melancholia is self-absorption—a patient may be in his right mind both before and after an attack of madness—after the paroxysm of violence was over he might appear sane, and he might be so—melancholia is a disease which yields to curable treatment; it depends very much on the age of the patient; I take the element of great age into account—callousness, and apparent indifference to the nature of the crime committed by a patient labouring under melancholia is a thing upon which I should form a judgment; it is very common after an act of violence done in a state of insanity—the prisoner exhibited callousness and indifference in the interview I had with him—it frequently happens that an act of violence committed by a person of unsound mind is much more extreme than it would be if he were a sane person—in judging whether a person is of sound mind or not, I should take into consideration the nature of the act committed, and the circumstances under which it was committed—I should form a regular diagnosis of the disease, as I should in any other, and inquire into the history of the patient, the circumstances under which he had lived, and so on—if he had never exhibited any symptoms of violence, unkindness, and inhumanity before, that would be an element of consideration—I remember the questions you put to Dr. Shepherd with reference to suicidal acts on the part of patients labouring under melancholia—I don't agree with him in the answers which he gave—suicide by an insane person may be entirely impulsive, as well as crafty—I understood Dr. Shepherd to say it was not so in such cases—persons suffering from melancholia are sometimes aware that they are liable to homicidal and suicidal propensities—I have had experience of it in some cases—I had a patient of my own who told me that he would do it unless we took care of him, and it ended by his doing it—he was under certificate as an insane person, and under the charge of attendants—the instance of Charles Lamb and his sister is a well-known instance—that was homicidal madness, Miss Lamb killed her father—method and design is very commonly exhibited by the insane, and the concealment of an act is very frequent; I mean of an act committed whilst in a state of insanity—he employs means of concealment which he imagines will have the effect—I was very much impressed, at my interview with the prisoner, at the entire indifference which he displayed with regard to the crime, and the position in which he was placed.

Cross-examined by MR. DENMAN. I am sorry to say there are a great many omissions in my work which has been referred to—melancholia is a form of madness distinct from melancholy in the ordinary sense of the word—it is a morbid, that is to say, a diseased state of mind, which is a morbid aggravation of ordinary melancholy—I should not call simple depression of itself a diseased state of mind; to a great extent, it certainly might be melancholia—the characteristic of melancholia, by which I mean the disease melancholia, is in its early stage profound depression, without anything more, as far as the mental symptoms are concerned—in judging whether depression amounted to melancholia, the fact of whether it was

founded on reasonable grounds or not should be taken into consideration—a person who had suffered great disappointment or loss might be very greatly depressed, and that might be a cause of melancholia—my experience is in all the cases that have come under my personal observation, I have always found some evidences of insanity before the crime or the violence, but I wish to qualify that observation by saying that there are cases recorded by the highest authorities in which no such symptoms are to have been observed—the homicidal impulse must have preceded the homicidal act—I object to adopting the term homicidal impulse as a disease by itself—I hold it to be but a symptom of the disease, like other symptoms—I adopt the expression "impulsive insanity" as a subdivision of the general term of what we call "affective insanity," affecting the passions, feelings, and propensities—a sudden offence of a homicidal character committed under the influence of melancholia would not fall under the head of impulsive insanity—I believe you are examining me from my book, so, perhaps, I may be allowed to explain that it would fall under the division in that book of "melancholia simplex"—that is one of the varieties of affective insanity—" melancholia simplex "might exist without any act of homicidal violence, but it is exactly in that form of mental disease which we call melancholia simplex that homicidal and suicidal acts are especially apt to occur—I have already said that in my experience I have never known a case without premonitory symptoms, but that cases have been recorded—the case of Miss Lamb, I think, was an exceedingly sudden case—it was after the murder that she desired to be restrained—the murder was done suddenly, at the first outbreak of her insanity—she had several subsequent attacks during the rest of her life, and it was during those subsequent attacks that that occurred to which Mr. Sergeant Parry has alluded—I would not undertake to say that there was no evidence of insanity in her case before—I am not sufficiently familiar with the case to know whether there were premonitory symptoms or not—I think at the time I saw Mr. Watson in Newgate, if I had put the question to him whether the act which he had committed was wrong, he would have said it was a wrong act—I believe that he was perfectly conscious that he had done a wrong act—that was the only occasion on which I saw him, on 27th November—the interview lasted about an hour—I have not said that the homicidal tendency from melancholia usually comes on gradually—the melancholia comes on gradually, the homicidal impulse is a sudden act, very much like a convulsion—the depression leading to melancholia, I think, does come on gradually generally, and it increases gradually, if the disease is increasing—it goes on in intensity until some outburst—it varies very much—a melancholic patient may be one day comparatively well, and next day he may be deeply depressed, and so week by week there are variations—it may vary according to the bodily state of health—when I say the prisoner appeared indifferent, I mean that he really did not seem to realise the quality of the act, and the terrible nature of the position in which he was placed in consequence—I pointed out to him the nature of the act, and what it really implied, and its possible consequence; he knew that perfectly well, but his tone and manner was one of such indifference that a man might have had if he had been speaking of an act that really did not seriously concern him—he did not say anything to me about wishing he had sent for a medical man before—he spoke about his wife—I asked him about the events that had immediately preceded the crime, and he said very much as

he said in that letter that was read yesterday, that she was rather of a hasty temper, she said something angrily to him, and he was provoked—he did not tell me what she had said to him—he said that he had struck her on the head with a pistol—I asked him about it, and he said it was one that he had inherited from his grandfather, that he had always had by him—he did not say whether it was in his hand at the time, or whether he fetched it—he said that he had had in the course of his life quarrels of that kind.

Re-examined. I am still of opinion that he was of unsound mind when I saw him—it was impossible for me to judge from that interview as to how long he had been labouring under insanity—it must have been some time—I mean it must have been a question of two or three months—I should think not a question of days, or of weeks, or hours, or minutes, but of months.

COURT. Q. Melancholia, as I understand you, is not always a hopeless thing, it yields to curable treatment, depending very much on the age of the patient. What is the curable treatment you allude to? A. Placing the patient under proper care, and giving him the necessary medicines, employing his mind, and diverting him—supposing there had been an absence of the usual employment of the mind, that would, no doubt, be an unfavourable condition.

DR. GEORGE FIELDING BLANDFORD . I am a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians—I have, for about sixteen or seventeen years, entirely devoted my time and attention to the study of insanity—I have written a book upon "insanity and its treatment"—I am lecturer on psychological medicine at the school of St. George's Hospital, I am also visiting physician at Blackland's and Otto House lunatic asylums, private asylums of the late Dr. Sutherland, one is for ladies the other for gentlemen—I have, in company with Dr. Maudsley, examined Mr. Watson—I agree with Dr. Maudsley that there is a well known form of insanity called melancholia—when a person of advanced age becomes insane, that is, very often, the form of insanity which attacks him, more often perhaps than any other form—when a very self-absorbed and reserved man becomes insane, that may be the form of madness which it takes—a sudden shock, such as loss of fortune, or position, may bring it on; it has a particular tendency towards suicide, and also in a certain number of cases combines homicide, suicide in the majority of cases—persistent attempts at suicide would be an element in considering whether a patient was insane or not—the first symptom of melancholia is an alteration in the general demeanour and character, and appearance very often, of the individual, that alteration being, generally speaking, accompanied with marks of depression, both mental and bodily—an alteration to any extent after a considerable shock, the person ageing considerably, would arouse suspicions and cause consideration of the person's condition, in the mind of a medical man; I mean an alteration, not only in appearance, but in the general bearing and mental condition—there is very often a stage of alteration before there is anything which one could call absolute insanity—sleeplessness is one of the symptoms of disturbed brain in almost all forms of insanity—if I found that sleeplessness did not yield to treatment by morphia, and continued for weeks, I should think it a very serious symptom—in such a disease I think one ought to gain every possible information that one can concerning a patient, the antecedents of his own, life, and the antecedents of his family—if he developed homicidal tendencies, the mode in which the act was committed, and the amount of violence

used, might also be an element in considering his state of mind—after a homicidal act is committed, indifference, or the absence of remorse, is very frequent in insane patients—I saw Mr. Watson on 27th November, I was with him about an hour in the gaol of Newgate—I came to the conclusion that he was of unsound mind then—I should say it was certainly not an affair of a few days or even weeks, but I could not state any limited time—I was in Court yesterday—I heard the evidence of Mr. and Mrs. Baugh and Mr. Henry Rogers—the symptoms desorbed by them were such as in my experience I have observed in some patients suffering under melancholia.

COURT. Q. Assuming those statements to be true, are they indicative of insanity? A. They are; they tend to show a certain form of insanity, melancholia.

Cross-examined by DBKMAK. I would not give a man a certificate of insanity upon the mere statement of such facts as Mr. and Mrs. Baugh and Mr. Rogers deposed to—I only saw the prisoner on one occasion, on 27th November, in company with Dr. Maudsley, Mr. Gibson and Dr. Rogers—Dr. Rogers was engaged by Mr. Fraser to see him with me, he had seen him previously—Mr. Gibson asked a question occasionally, be did not take a lending part in the conversation; he was present at the whole time of my examination, and saw all that passed on the part of the prisoner.

Q. You have said that suicide is an indication of insanity; would an attempt at suicide after a homicide be as strong an indication of insanity as an attempt at suicide without any attempt at homicide? A. I think one must look at the whole of the facts of the case before one could give an opinion upon it; so far as I can give a medical opinion upon it, I don't think it would make any difference, it is really a question I can hardly answer—in the case of an ordinary individual who had committed a murder there might of course be a motive for suicide, which would not exist in the case of a person who had not committed a murder; I did not know whether you were putting the question to me in connexion with insanity, that was my difficulty in answering—in the case of an ordinary individual committing suicide, it would depend to a considerable extent upon whether there had or had not been a homicide previously committed—when I gave the original answer as to suicide, I was thinking of insane patients—I said that suicide would be an element in forming a judgment whether a person was insane or not—I don't know whether I spoke of the absence of remorse for a crime especially in connexion with melancholia, it is a sign in insanity generally, they very often seem perfectly indifferent to having committed it—there was a good deal said in the conversation with the prisoner with reference to the crime—his whole manner indicated anything but sorrow for it—the impression that he gave me was that he regretted that the whole circumstance had occurred, but he did not appear to exhibit anything like remorse for it—I am not sure whether I asked the question—I think something was said about the act, whether the exact expression was, whether he was sorry for it or not, I am not quite certain; I think something was said to that effect, I can't recollect the exact words of his answer, but the impression he gave me was, as I have said, that he regretted that the whole occurrence had happened, but he seemed indifferent to it as regards any special feeling of remorse; he did not burst into tears or anything of that sort, very far from it; there was a degree of one might almost say cheerfulness about the way in which he talked of it, which struck me particularly—I should imagine that he knew the object of our visit—I am not certain whether he

knew that I came at Mr. Fraser's instigation—Mr. Fraser was not present—I won't be positive whether I told him so or not, or whether Dr. Maudsley did—I don't think I did—Dr. Maudsley and I are well acquainted—I assisted him in the book that has been referred to, I looked over some of the sheets—I have written a book on the same subject—I have expressed dissatisfaction with the law as laid down by the Judges on the question of the knowledge of right and wrong—I have said "Such questions are totally irrelevant and beside the issue, which is, was he of unsound mind when he committed it?"—I agree that in cases of homicidal impulse under melancholia, or any form of madness, there is almost always, if not quite always, evidence of general mental derangement before the act, but I would add "supposing there are opportunities for observing it," because it very often happens that insanity may have existed, but there may have been no opportunities of recognising it by those who are capable of recognising it—I think I state that also in my book—it would be true to say that of fifty-two cases referred to by an emminent authority, Dr. Gray, there was manifest insanity in all.

COURT. Q. By manifest insanity you mean evidence of insanity, independent of the act and prior to the act? A. No, I don't know whether Dr. Gray says: "prior to the act," I don't think he does—he had them under his observation in the asylum.

MR. DENMAN. Q. I will read the passage, in case you may wish to qualify it: "On examining the recorded examples of homicidal impulse with all the cases to which the theories of impulsive insanity are cheifly applied, we shall find that in almost all that are reported in such detail as to be worthy of notice; and many are not, there was or had been general mental derangement; of the fifty-two cases reported by Dr. Gray, there was manifest insanity in all. I quote from Caspar. Marc has collected eight cases of socalled homicidal mania; there is however not one among them in which general mental disease did not indubitably exist"—There is a good deal more to the same effect, and you end by saying: "In many cases there would be no need to have recourse to the theory of impulsive insanity, many cases so called are cases of patients suffering from melancholia." Do you wish to qualify that passage in any way? I have read it in order that you may see I am not quoting it against yourself. A. I don't think I have anything to qualify in it—I do not consider this is a case of impulsive, insanity.

Re-examined. There is nothing there that shakes the opinion that I have given to-day in this case—The following passage was read to the witness:—" But in a Crown case you are asked if the prisoner knew what he was doing when he committed the crime, and if he knew right from wrong, and such questions, which are totally irrelevant and beside the issue, which is, was he of sound mind when he committed it; I shall have to refer to this again, but I mention it here in as much as the proof of insanity in criminal cases must be stronger than in others, and this must be borne in mind by all of us who may be called upon to give evidence." I have borne that in mind in giving my evidence to-day.

COURT. Q. You have described how melancholia comes on; what is the cure for it, besides medicine? A. I should say that treatment in a quiet place and seclusion, from anything worrying or disturbing, good food and regularity of living and hours, regular employment which may distract the mind from the morbid thoughts upon which it rests—the sudden cessation

of employment which had existed before would undoubtedly have an effect in aggravating the disease; a sudden change in the habits of a man's life.

DR. JOSEPH ROGERS . I am a physician, of Scotland, a member of the College of Surgeons, and of the Apothecaries' Company—I have been in the profession nearly thirty years—I was for twelve years in charge of the infirmary of the Strand Union—in the course of my practice I have made insanity a study, and made myself acquainted with it—I have seen a great many cases, and certified to a great many insane persons before the Magistrate—that was a part of my duty; they have been persons who came into the hands of the police for some criminal offence—I have had the opportunity of seeing the prisoner five times; once in Horsemonger Lane Gaol, and four times in Newgate—I agree with what Dr. Maudsley and Dr. Blandford have stated—from my observation of the prisoner at those five visits I believe him to be of unsound mind.

Cross-examined by MR. POLAND. The form of insanity he is suffering under is melancholia—I first saw him on 11th November—Mr. Fraser, the prisoner's solicitor, requested me to go and see him—I have known Mr. Fraser since he was a child—I practice in Dean Street, Soho, and Mr. Fraser lives opposite to me—he asked me to go and see Mr. Watson, knowing from my previous position that I had seen a great deal of insanity—he was suffering from melancholia—that is very different to low spirits—a person may be low-spirited and yet in sound health—a person who has melancholia has something the matter with his brain, in addition—the prisoner had not any delusions that I noticed—it would be a difficult thing to describe the difference between extreme low spirits and melancholia, because in melancholia you have an exaggeration of extreme low spirits—a man who is low-spirited may pass on into melancholia, and he may pass out of it—the difference between melancholia and low spirits is as I tell you; low spirits may arise from a transient affection of the mind, perhaps arising from a disordered state of body, or a transient trouble, which the mind is strong enough to resist; but melancholia is a disease where the mind has given way; there is some defect of the brain structure, or something of that kind—the first thing that I noticed about the prisoner was this, I put him in a good light, in the cell at Horsemonger Lane Gaol, and I watched his countenance while talking to him, and I noticed that he had a dazed appearance of the eye when his countenance was at rest—he was lost—there was an expressionless appearance about his countenance, a lost look about the face when the countenance was at rest—he showed, as the other witnesses have said, great indifference to the condition of things, a singular indifference—I don't mean that he was hopeless as to the result of the trial—I will give you an instance of what I mean—I was talking to him about the affair generally, with a view of leading him on to make some remarks, and in the midst of it he saw a piece of flue on his trousers, or something, and he put his hand and picked it off, and jumped up and gave himself a shake down in a manner that struck me as very singular in a man I was talking to—I should have looked at it as a piece of rudeness in an ordinary individual, but in his particular case I looked at it as really evidence of a want of mind—he was guilty of what I considered irrational conduct in that one act that I have spoken of—then there was another thing, he told me he thought he was entitled to consideration for what he had done in the past, which certainly appeared to me to be a very irrational thing, seeing that he had only kept a school—my treatment for melancholia would be to

send the patient away from the place where he had become the subject of it; to make a radical change in his habits; to give him an opportunity of amusement, if it were a lady I should encourage her to dance, if a gentleman I should try to give him some musical amusement.

Q. If a man were suffering from low spirits or melancholia, from loss of employment, in consequence of the badness of trade, for instance, would not the best treatment be to find him a situation? A. That would depend on the condition into which he had merged—if he had become a decided melancholic, you must get him well before you put him into a situation, or he would bring you into discredit—I referred to the crime itself—he said that something was said to him and he became angry, and did what he did—he did not say what it was that was said to him; something was said to him by his wife which made him angry, and then he did the deed, I think it was he said—I subsequently heard what he did it with—I can't tell whether he told me before—I was present at three examinations, where it came out, and therefore, whether it came to me direct or not I can't say—it was not at that examination, certainly—I did not ask him where he got the pistol from, but it was asked in my presence, and the remark was made that it had belonged to his grandfather—he did not say where he had fetched it from, or how he had got it—I saw him four times in Newgate—Mr. Gibson, the surgeon, was present each time, and the third time I saw him Dr. Shepherd drew my particular attention to the difficulty he had in collecting his thoughts—he did not tell me anything of the circumstances that occurred after he had committed the deed—in a light and frivolous manner he told me, at Newgate, how he attempted to commit suicide in Horsemonger Lane Gaol; and it so struck me, the light and frivolous way in which he told me the story, as if it in no way referred to himself, that I put to him what appeared to me this crucial question: "How could you, as a Christian minister, dare to rush into the presence of your God, unprepared," and he said, "There is no prohibition against suicide, the law only applies to murder"—I thought that, coming from a clergyman, was not an evidence of sanity, quite the reverse—I did not auk him what it was his wife had done or said that made him angry; it was asked in my presence, and he made no answer—I believe he shook his head; I am not certain—he may have said "I can't say"—I think he said something of this kind, that she had provoked him on previous occasions, and that they had had quarrels—he stated that in his paper—I am in a difficulty about whether he said it then or not, because I saw him so many times; whether he said it to me, or in my hearing, I can't say—I heard a remark of the kind, certainly—I forget the exact words—it was something to the effect that she had irritated him at various times, and he had restrained himself; he said he had lost control over himself on this occasion—he may have said he was in a passion; I don't recollect that he made use of that word—he did not say that at first, after the committal of the deed, he did not know what to do—I did not refer to his attempting to commit suicide on the Tuesday night—I never once referred to it, that I am aware of; there was no conversation about it—I was leading on to that, to ask him about it—I don't remember a separate conversation with reference to the suicidal attempt on the Tuesday night—yes, by-the-bye, now I do remember that some questions were put by Mr. Gibson with reference to the prussic acid he had taken, and he said that he thought that prussic acid was so strong that any dose of it would kill him—I don't remember that anything was said in my

presence by him as to his attempt at suicide on the Tuesday night—I did ask him a question about the box—I think I said "What did you want the box for?" or "How did you come to order the box?" and he shrugged his shoulders and said something to the effect that it was not for the purpose that was assumed—I did not speak to him about his trial—I said nothing to him individually as to whether he was to be defended on the ground of insanity—the two Crown physicians, when they attended at Newgate, intimated to him the purpose for which they had come—he made an observation to me about Broadmoor, at Newington—I asked him what put that idea into his head—I forget the exact purport of the observation, but he made some observation about Broadmoor—he told me voluntarily, I believe, that the chaplain over there had mentioned something to him about being sent to Broadmoor—the idea never crossed my mind—nothing further was said about it—I dropped the question—I thought it was not a proper one—the prisoner did not say anything about his being confined in the asylum at Broadmoor, if he was acquitted on the ground of insanity—I tell you I dropped the conversation, I thought it was improper—he never said a word to me about his trial, that I am aware of.

Re-examined. There was not the slightest evidence that he was not answering the questions put to him as well as he could—there was not the slightest indication of any desire to withhold anything that he was capable of answering—it was undoubtedly well-known at Horsemonger Gaol and at Newgate, that the medical men were there for the purpose of examining as to the state of his mind—when we were all there examining he was made aware of that fact—I don't generally inform the patient of my object in examining him—I do sometimes—in this instance the Crown physicians told him distinctly what they had come about—my opinion is not at all altered by any of the questions that have been put to me as to the condition of the prisoner's mind—I still believe him to be of unsound mind.


Strongly recommended by the Jury to the mercy and clemency of the Crown on account of his advanced age and previous good character.

Prisoner. I only wish to say that the defence which has been maintained in my favour was a just and honest one.


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